Tahoe Chase (An Owen McKenna Mystery Thriller) (23 page)

“Yes, I suppose that word would apply.”

“In addition to the retainer, did you offer a bonus if the result was successful?”

Bob swallowed again. I could see that he was considering the implications of telling the truth versus obfuscating it. “We told Mr. Cavett that he would be paid ten thousand dollars if Mr. Rorvik voted for the development. That is standard procedure with lobbyists, only a much smaller payout than is traditional in these situations.”

“Like putting a gerbil in front of a greyhound,” I said. “Smaller than a bunny rabbit, but it produces the same prey drive.”

Bob looked over at Pretty Girl. She appeared indifferent.

I stood up. “I might be calling you for more information. I’ll need your number.”

“I don’t give out my private number.”

“Which is why I had to break in here.”

Bob thought about it. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a card, and handed it to me. “I’ve done nothing wrong, committed no crime.”

“Right,” I said. “You are a paragon of moral fiber.”

Diamond stood up. He and I walked down the starboard aft stairway to the tender deck, and left.

“A paragon of moral fiber?” Diamond said as we headed up Bob Hinton’s lawn.

“New phrase I learned. Sounded pretty good, huh?”

“Yeah,” Diamond said.

“Bob knew we were bullshitting him about the Canyon Brotherhood,” I said as we got into Diamond’s patrol unit.

“Yeah. But he also knew that we’re onto Benjamin bringing Ned cash. He’s smart enough to understand how that would look to a jury.”

“You think there’s any possibility that they hired Ned to take out Rell and Manuel and Jillian?” I asked.

“If he knew that Jillian was rooting for the other team, maybe that would be enough to send Ned after her. So, yeah, the possibility exists. More likely that Ned got the brilliant idea himself, though. Probably thought it was a great way to earn the ten thousand bonus.”

“Makes sense,” I said.

Diamond drove me back to Jennifer’s mausoleum, where I picked up Street and Spot.

THIRTY-SEVEN

That night Street had one of her stress dreams. They are infrequent, but when they happen, the pattern is regular. She whimpers while she turns back and forth. She grabs the sheets and twists them into knots, and she attempts a mangled, strangled cry of fear.

Long ago, I learned that my impulse to wake and comfort her is not always the right thing to do, because the interruption causes her dream to stay with her for hours or even days.

When the next nightmare struck, I sat on my hands and gritted my teeth and winced at every sound she made. In time, the dream passed, and she settled back into a calm sleep. The next morning, she awoke in a cheerful mood and betrayed no hint of the stress from the middle of the night.

So when she started up the bad sequence this night, I clenched my jaw, made my hands into fists, and waited it out.

When morning came, she was not cheerful.

“You seem in a dark mood,” I said. “Anything I can help with?”

“No, thanks. I just had a bad dream.”

“Are you okay now?” I asked.

“I’ll be fine. It’s just that certain childhood memories sometimes come back. I guess you never completely put these things to rest.”

I wasn’t sure what to say. “Simone’s situation reminds you of your brother.”

Street looked at me and nodded. The pain in her eyes was obvious. “I’m plagued by the if-onlys. If only my brother had been gone that night my dad came home late. If only my dad had just beat on me instead of my younger brother. If only my brother had run out the door the moment he saw that my dad was in a black mood. If only my dad had been one of those no-show dads. We’d have been infinitely better off if we’d never had a dad at all. The memory of my brother still hurts a great deal.”

Street had never spoken much about it. I think she wanted me not to attach such dark thoughts to her.

“You once told me that the talk therapy helped,” I said.

She shrugged. “You spend enough hours talking to a shrink, it helps, yes. But I found the promise of therapy to be overblown. Speaking for myself, no amount of talking can make the wounds heal beyond raw scars. And some therapists made it worse. The one who said I needed to forgive my dad in order to find comfort was the worst. His arrogance still burns. Maybe others can forgive. But the beating-death murder of your own son is an evil that I can never forgive. I can understand showing mercy to him, not wanting him to die with pain. I believe in the notion of getting on with life, of accepting that evil things happen, that justice fails us in those moments. But to pardon the perpetrator? To cease to feel resentment for the murder of my brother? Not possible. He took the life of an innocent boy, and he did it with malice and viciousness. I will resent it always.”

“And Ned is doing a similar thing with Simone,” I said.

“Yeah. And with many of these men, it never ends. I think that’s what terrifies me about Simone. She’s going to die by that man’s hands. I can tell. It might not happen for some time, but the pattern is clear. He hates the world, and he channels that hate into Simone.”

“I’ve tried to get her to leave him,” I said, “but she won’t hear of it. She says she’ll be dead the moment she tries to leave. It sounds like Rell Rorvik also tried to convince her to leave. From what Joe Rorvik told me, the South Lake Tahoe Police offered to help find Simone a safe house. I haven’t spoken to Mallory about it, but I know he would help. The women’s center is very active and offers the exact kind of support that she needs. But Simone still has to decide to try. Unfortunately, she believes that any move in that direction will write her death sentence. And there are uncountable examples of domestic violence deaths that suggest the truth of her fear.”

“If she did decide to leave him and press charges,” Street said, “what do you think her chances would be?”

“Hard to say. I would try to stay in contact with her and be a liaison between her and the police. I could help see her through the turmoil and stress during Ned’s prosecution. But it all gets down to her resolve. It takes a great deal of staying power for abuse victims to live in hiding and not communicate with anyone who could inadvertently reveal their location. Just testifying at the trial is too much for many, knowing that their abuser is flashing them the look that means he’s going to kill them the first chance he gets. In the case of Ned, he’s a particularly powerful and evil abuser. Having spent time in prison, he’s likely to think that if he has to go back inside, he may as well kill her first. A good lawyer can often get such a person out on bail. All Ned would need to do is track her down before he’s convicted and locked up.”

Street stared into her coffee. “It doesn’t look good, does it?”

“It never does,” I said. “But a possible severe result from her leaving and pressing charges is – at least to my way of thinking – a much better option than the certain severe result that will come from staying with him. She’s already experienced terrible beatings. Any number of them might have been fatal if his hand had struck her ear and temple or her throat instead of her jaw. Likewise, his punches to her body could have killed her if he’d hit just over her heart or caught her abdomen in a way that would rupture internal organs. He’s smart enough to strike the big muscles or to use open-handed blows that bruise and hurt but don’t kill as long as they are well-aimed.”

Street winced at the image, and I was immediately sorry that I’d spoken of details.

“I have a question I want to ask,” I said, “and I understand if your answer is no.”

Street looked at me and made a little nod.

“I wonder if you’d sit down with Simone. Let her know that you understand abuse, that you survived abuse.”

“I only survived because I ran away,” Street said.

“Exactly. If you told that to Simone, it might make a huge difference. I think she’s a classic victim in that she feels powerless. She thinks she’s the only person around who has to endure this. She’s embarrassed about it and is afraid to talk about it.”

Street thought about it. “How do you think I should approach her?”

“I’d go to the café where she waits tables. If you sit in her section, you’d have at least a little opportunity to talk to her. Beyond that, you would know a hundred times better than I would what approach might work best. If you think it would serve the situation, you can of course tell her that you’re my girlfriend and that you know about her situation.”

“Let me think about it.” Street sipped coffee.

I thought back to my childhood, which was blissfully free from abuse. I grew up never even imagining that men could ever beat on children or women. The time that I was first exposed to it was a disappointment larger than nearly any I had experienced growing up.

“Do you think she’s working today?” Street asked.

“I don’t know. I’d be afraid to call the restaurant to find out because word might get to her and make her run. Best to just show up and hope to catch her shift. When I saw her there before, it was morning, so she likely works the morning shift.”

“I think I’ll go give it a try. But it is a little scary.”

“Because of the memories it conjures up,” I said.

“Yeah.”

I gave Street a hug. “Thank you for the effort. You want me to drive you? Wait for you in the car?”

“No. I think I better do this by myself.”

That afternoon, I went to Joe’s and gave him a full report. I hoped that Joe would think my meeting with Bob Hinton of RKS Properties was progress, but I don’t think he was fooled.

That night, I went to bed feeling like I’d gotten nowhere. Since Joe had called me, two people had died, Simone had endured multiple beatings, and I still had little idea of what was going on.

THIRTY-EIGHT

The next morning my office phone rang at 11 a.m. I answered.

“Owen!” It was Street, breathless. “Owen, my God, Simone’s been hurt! Ned beat her up. I called nine-one-one!”

“Where is she?”

“They took her to the hospital. I followed. I’m in my car, outside the Emergency Room.”

“Where is Ned?” I asked.

“I don’t know. The police went into his house with him. Maybe he’s still there. Or maybe he’s nearby watching me.”

“The police didn’t arrest him?”

“I don’t know. It was my fault for being here!” Street nearly shouted in my ear.

“What happened?”

“I went and talked to Simone at the restaurant. She told me things. You let me know that her situation was very bad. But it was even worse than I thought based on what you said. After a short while, she said she had to go home. I feared for her life, so I followed her home and got out and spoke to her before she could get into her house. Just then, Ned came home. He shouted at me, then dragged Simone into the house. In a moment, I heard her screaming, over and over. So I called nine-one-one.

“The police came to their house. Ned came out and acted very concerned. He told them that Simone had fallen and hit her head. I spoke up and said that he dragged her into the house and beat her. So the police asked me if I was inside, if I’d seen him beat her. Of course, I said no. But I told them that I’d seen him grab her arm and drag her inside and that her screams started immediately.”

“Did Ned get a good look at you?” I asked.

“Yes. Now you think I’m in danger, don’t you?”

“Maybe,” I said. “I’ll come down to the hospital and find you. Promise me that you won’t get out of your car until I get there?”

“I won’t.”

“Check your door locks?”

“They’re locked,” Street said.

“Be there in a few,” I said. I hung up.

I trotted down the stairs and out the door with Spot. I ran under the scaffolding, stepping on something hard and painful. I looked down, kicked away another errant bolt, and ran to the car. I dialed the South Lake Tahoe PD as I drove away. I was breaking the law, but I thought the law needed to know about Ned Cavett’s abuse more than it needed me not to talk and drive.

Two transfers later, I had Mallory on the phone.

“Commander,” I said, “I just got a call from Street about a domestic with Ned Cavett beating on Simone Bonnaire. Did your boys arrest him?”

“We’re holding him, waiting on word of whether she’ll agree to press charges.”

“You don’t have probable cause?”

“Look, McKenna, you and I both know that he beats on her. But no, we don’t have probable cause. No one witnessed the beating. Just like all the other beatings. Street heard a scream, nothing more. When my officers got there, the man said Ms. Bonnaire fell, and the woman nodded agreement. My boys know that was bullshit. But if the woman won’t agree to cooperate, we’ve got nothing. If we charged him with assault with no probable cause or any witnesses who will testify, then any two-bit counsel with a fake law degree could get him off.”

“Street said she’s still in the hospital,” I said.

“Pro’bly.”

“Will you consider putting an officer at her hospital door when you let Ned go?”

“If I can’t arrest him, on what basis could I give her protection? I’m short staffed, anyway.”

“It’s a stakeout on the suspicion that the perpetrator will show up at the hospital. Crime prevention, duty to keep the peace.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” he said.

I got to Third Street, took a left, headed toward the hospital. I went around back, saw a patrol unit not far from Street’s VW beetle. I parked nearby. Street got out as I got out.

“No sign of Ned?” I asked.

She shook her head.

We walked together into the ER door.

“Wondering if Doc Lee is in,” I said to one of the nurses at the counter.

“Hardest working doc in town,” she said. “Seems like he’s always in. But he’s busy.”

“Can you please tell him that Detective McKenna would like to talk to him when he gets a chance?” The logical inference that I was part of official local law enforcement was false in specific but accurate in general principle.

The woman looked at me, no doubt trying to decide if she should follow protocol and tell me that he couldn’t be interrupted. But there was always the possibility that I might have some special pull with the doctor.

The woman picked up a phone, pressed some buttons, waited, then spoke. She hung up.

“Please wait,” she said.

Ten minutes later, Doc Lee came out. He ushered us down a hall and into a small office. “You’re calling about Simone Bonnaire,” he said.

“Yes. How is she?”

“Shaken, upset, and bruised. Her facial injuries look bad, but, by great luck, are not severe. There is no fracture and no significant swelling. The facial bones range from very fragile to very strong. The man struck her hard with an open hand across the top of her forehead. He knows how to inflict the maximum pain without breaking bones. The blow split her skin and gave her a major bruise. But the bone is strong.”

“A good place to hit someone if you don’t want to break the skull,” I said.

Doc Lee pointed to his own forehead. “If you are well in from the temporal ridges, here, and substantially above the supraorbital process and glabella, here, then the bone is very strong.” He pointed farther back behind the crest of his forehead. “Of course, you have to stay forward of the coronal suture.”

“Of course,” I said.

Doc Lee made a wan smile. “She is a diminutive woman. Change the nature of how he hit her just a bit, and she could die from such a blow.”

Street grimaced.

“In addition to her head bruising, she also has a major bruise on her upper arm as if her boyfriend had tried to crush it in his grip and dragged her by it.”

“There is no doubt that her injuries didn’t come from a fall?” I said.

“Correct. But it is visceral knowledge only. Technically, this kind of blunt force facial trauma could happen any number of ways. Were I in court, I’d be forced to admit that she could have gotten a similar injury from any number of accidents, in a car for example. The arm injury could come from a range of trauma as well.”

“What’s her prognosis?” Street asked.

“She’ll be sore for several days, somewhat at the bruised area but possibly more so in her neck as she appears to have sustained a Grade One whiplash. Minor, but worth watching.”

“When can she go home?” Street asked.

“I’d like to keep her under observation for the next twenty-four hours. If there is no additional pain or swelling, she can go home. The poor girl doesn’t have insurance, so she indicated to me that she is worried about the cost. No reason to keep her longer than necessary.”

“May we see her?”

Doc Lee nodded.