The Betrayed (14 page)

Cassian sat still in his chair. He wanted to say something, but it felt somehow like interrupting her would cut short the wellspring of information.

“He started tearing her clothes off as he beat her; first with his fists, but then at some point he switched to using the handle of a broken golf club that must have been lying around. Liz never really talked to me about it until this winter, when we started to get closer for the first time. She said that when he was beating her and tearing at her clothes, he kept screaming, ‘You wanna get fucked? There, now you’re fucked!’ And then he raped her.” Cassian’s eyes widened, and she nodded. “Yeah, I guess all the beating turned him on,” she said.

“That’s sick,” Cassian noted with a quiet, seething anger in his voice.

“You haven’t heard the worst part,” Sydney said. “At some point during all of this, Amanda came home.”

“And saw all this happen?”

Sydney nodded. “She’d forgotten her sleeping bag or something like that, and she’d walked back across the street from her friend’s house to get it. Apparently she came in and saw what was happening. She started screaming and picked up a metal poker from the fireplace and attacked Leighton while he was still on top of Liz. They left that night, and I don’t think Amanda has seen or spoken to her father since.”

Cassian shook his head. “Jesus, this girl’s gone through hell a couple of times, huh?”

“She’s had it rough,” Sydney agreed. “But she’s tough. She’s got a lot of both Liz and my mother in her—for good or bad.”

“Why didn’t your mother want you to tell us all this the other night?”

Sydney shrugged. “I don’t know. I’m pretty sure my mother tried to convince Liz to work things out with Leighton—‘for the good of the family’—and she and Liz got into a huge fight. I think Liz blamed my mother for pushing her into the marriage in the first place.” She looked at Cassian as she tried to explain her mother’s behavior. “I also think it’s just still difficult for my mother to admit that everything in Liz’s life wasn’t perfect.”

Cassian shook his head. “It’s still information that we should have been given at the outset of the investigation.”

“I know. That’s why I’m telling you now.” She hesitated, looking at him with trepidation. “Do you think Leighton could have done this?”

“From the sounds of things, he could be capable of something like this. It’s not a significant leap from beating and rape to murder.” He shook his head. “We’ll have to have a talk with him, obviously, but it looks far more likely right now that Jerome Washington’s our man. The whole MO fits his pattern, and, like I said, we’ve got his fingerprint at the scene.”

Sydney picked up her empty beer bottle and threw it into the trash. For a moment, she seemed lost, as if there was something she wanted to do, but she couldn’t figure out what it was—like when you walk into a room and realize that you’ve forgotten what you were looking for. “God, it’s frustrating. It just seems so ...I don’t know, random. If it had been Leighton—or maybe someone she’d written an article about— I think I’d have an easier time with that. At least then there would be someone to hate, and as angry as I’d be, at least her murder would make sense to me. But this feels almost more like she was just at the wrong place at the wrong time. That probably sounds crazy.”

Cassian set his water on the endless polished granite in front of him and regarded her in earnest. “You and your family—and especially your niece—are going to go through a wide, bizarre range of emotions over the next few weeks and months. None of it’s crazy. It’s all a part of dealing with this type of extreme trauma.”

She was studying his face, and it made him self-conscious again. “You don’t talk the way I’d expect a cop to talk.”

He smiled unsteadily. “I’m not sure how to interpret that.”

She tilted her head. “Neither am I.”

The moment stretched on and his self-consciousness deepened. At last, he cleared his throat. “I should be going,” he said. “I just wanted you and your family to know where we were on all this.”

The words seemed to snap Sydney out of the trance she’d fallen into. “I appreciate that,” she said. “And I’m sure my mother will, too.” Again there was silence between them, though briefer. Then she continued. “I’ll walk you out.”

He followed her to the front door. “Thank you for the water,” he said as she opened the door.

“No problem,” she replied.

He stepped out onto the front porch and began heading down the steps. Then he stopped and reached into his jacket pocket. He pulled out a business card and handed it to her. “That’s my phone number at the station house,” he said. “My cell number is on the back. If you or Amanda or even your mother find that you’re having trouble dealing with all this, give me a call and I can hook you up with some great people to talk to at various victims’ services outfits.” He looked at her. “They can really help.”

He wanted to say more, but nothing came to him. After a moment of standing there on the steps in silence, she nodded at him and he nodded back. Then he turned and headed back down the stairs without another word.

L
EE
S
ALVAGE SAT
in his dingy office on Eleventh and Q, eyeing the bottle of bourbon on his desk. The window to the first-floor of
fice was crusted over, which was fine with him, given the crappy neighborhood. He could have afforded better digs, but his current environs were more conducive to his line of business.

Besides, he thought, once he finished this job, he could retire to wherever he wanted. There was a time when he wouldn’t have thought of giving up his gig, but time and booze had sucked much of the bloodlust from him. He was still in reasonably decent shape, and was one of the best in the business, but something had changed. He still felt no guilt at the things he was required to do, like killing Peter King, but he felt no excitement either.

He held the phone to his ear as he fought the siren song of the Old Crow only inches away. He moved his free hand from the bottle and ran it through his wispy blond hair, just to keep it occupied.

“What the hell was she doing at Barneton’s office?” his client was demanding, as though Salvage had sent Sydney Chapin there himself.

“Not sure,” he replied. “She works at the law school, so it’s possible that it was work-related.”

“Is that what you think is likely?”

Salvage picked at his ear. “No.”

“Is it possible that the visit was personal in the more traditional sense of the word?” the client asked. “You’re aware of Barneton’s reputation with women, I assume.”

“Of course,” Salvage acknowledged. He toyed with the notion and dismissed it. “I don’t think she’s the type to fall for Barneton’s shtick—particularly two days after her sister’s murder.”

“What was she doing there, then?” The client was growing more and more distressed, which annoyed Salvage. He deserved better than this shit. On the other hand, he was used to it. People only came to him when they were desperate; only those in panic mode were willing to spend the kind of money required to retain his services. He provided a buffer between them and whatever unpleasantness they needed taken care of.

“Again, I don’t know. It’s possible she found out that her sister met with Barneton on the day she died. It could be a simple matter of curiosity.”

“Curiosity is exactly what we’re looking to avoid.”

“The police think they’ve got their guy in Jerome Washington,” Salvage pointed out. “That’s the important thing.”

“For the moment, yes, that’s true,” the client agreed. “But we can’t afford any further poking around into our affairs.”

“Understood.” Salvage hesitated. “Do you want me to have someone take care of the girl to be on the safe side?”

“No. It would look suspicious if she was killed right after her sister. That would only raise new questions.”

“There are ways to make it look plausible. No one would question it.”

The client considered this for a moment, but remained unmoved. “We’ll revisit that as an option if it becomes necessary in the future, but for right now, I just want her watched. And Mr. Salvage?”

“Yeah?”

“I want you personally involved from now on. I had no idea you were going to farm out the Elizabeth Creay matter to Mr. King, and I’m not pleased. The fewer people involved, the better.”

“You don’t have to worry about Mr. King anymore. Besides, if I have to handle everything myself, it’ll cost you more.”

The client laughed bitterly. “Do you think I care about cost? This cannot be allowed to go any further. If it appears she’s moving in a direction that would cause any significant risk, I give you complete discretion to handle the matter as you see fit.”

Salvage reached out and ran his fingers down the bottle lovingly. “Understood,” he replied. Then he hung up the phone and stretched out in his chair as shouting erupted outside, followed by gunshots.
Just get through this job
, he reminded himself,
and you’re in the clear.

J
ACK
C
ASSIAN AWOKE
the following Monday feeling restless. The investigation into Elizabeth Creay’s murder seemed stalled. Washington’s alibi, though shaky, seemed to be holding, and they hadn’t been able to tie him to anything stolen from Creay’s apartment. If nothing moved the investigation any closer to a solid case against Washington they would probably have to start chasing down other angles, an option none of the higher-ups in the department seemed anxious to exercise.

Sydney Chapin’s revelations about Liz’s ex, Leighton Creay, had highlighted the most likely second suspect in their search for the killer, but they were still getting pressure from above to run out everything with Jerome Washington before turning to anyone else. If something didn’t break soon, he and Train would have no choice but to confront Leighton with the infor
mation Jack had learned from Sydney.

Sydney was a remarkable woman in many ways, he reflected as he lay in bed contemplating the week ahead of him. She was attractive, to be sure, but there was something more to her than just her looks. Something besides her appearance that made her different—a depth and intelligence that accentuated her outward appearance and made her looks irrelevant. He stretched against the sheets and pillows. Well, not
irrelevant
, he thought as he smiled to himself.

He was sure that he’d felt something between them the previous Friday evening when he’d visited her mother’s house. The way she’d looked at him went beyond the occasional transference those touched by tragedy experienced toward those who helped them cope through the trauma. He wondered whether he could invent an excuse to see her again. It would be transparent, he knew, and arguably inappropriate, but he was tempted nonetheless. He felt the sheets acutely on his body as he thought about her.

The phone rang, shaking him loose from his daydream. He reached over and grabbed the receiver. “What?” he said sharply.

“Have we abandoned all efforts at improving our phone manners?” Train’s voice came through the phone.

“I was just lying here feeling good about myself for the first time in a while, and you had to go and interrupt it,” Cassian grumbled.

“Is there a young lady there feeling good about you, too?”

“Unfortunately not,” Cassian admitted. “But that doesn’t make the moment any less special.”

“It should,” Train pointed out. “In any case, the moment’s over.”

“What’s up?”

“We’ve got a cold one, lying off a path in Rock Creek Park up here near the Twenty-eighth Street entrance.”

Cassian looked at his watch.
Six-thirty.
He wondered how it was that Train always seemed to get this type of information so early in the morning. “Okay,” he said. “I’ll meet you there in a couple of minutes.”

z

Cassian pulled his battered motorcycle up onto the curb at Twenty-eighth Street between two squad cars that were parked in front of the entrance to the park. He nodded and flashed his badge to the officer who was standing sentry on the sidewalk, guarding the pathway that led down to the creek.

“Train here?” he asked the patrolman. Everyone knew who Train was; at his size, he was difficult to miss.

The cop nodded. “Got here a couple of minutes ago. He’s down the path to the right,” he said.

Cassian ducked under the police tape that had been strung across the park’s entrance and started down the path. A few hundred yards along, he spotted Train talking to Deter. His partner beckoned him over. Cassian could see several techni
cians picking their way carefully through the bushes to the left of the path, toward the creek, where he assumed the body had been discovered.

“I’m just getting the rundown,” Train said. “You wanna walk through what you’ve told me, to get our sleepy friend here up to speed?”

“Sure,” Deter replied. He moved them over toward the bushes. “We’ve got a very deceased white male, probably in his early forties, shot at least three times from behind. Two shots hit just under the left clavicle, and one entered the back of his skull. Either very professional or very lucky. Any of them could have been fatal—we’ll have to wait for the autopsy to be sure which one did the job.”

“Any idea who our unfortunate friend might be?” Cassian asked.

Deter shook his head. “No wallet, no papers, no nothing. We’re assuming for the moment that it’s a basic robbery. Judging from the condition of the body, I’m guessing he’s been here for three or four days. He’s well dressed, so somebody’s probably already missed him either at work or at home. I’m sure we’ll pull something from the recent missing persons reports, and that will help identify him. Our best bet is that he was just taking a walk in the park one night last week and the local welcome wagon came up behind him.” Deter made a gun with his fingers, his thumb pointing upward like a hammer. “Pop! Pop! Pop! The perp then takes his wallet and whatever else the guy might have had with him, and rolls him into the bushes.”