Читать книгу Presumed Guilty - Тесс Герритсен, Tess Gerritsen - Страница 6

CHAPTER THREE

HE TRULY was the ugliest dog on earth.

Miss Lila St. John regarded her pet with a mixture of affection and pity. Sir Oscar Henry San Angelo III, otherwise known as Ozzie, was a rare breed known as a Portuguese Water Dog. Miss St. John was not quite clear as to the attributes of this particular breed. She suspected it was some sort of geneticist’s joke. Her niece had presented the dog to her— “to keep you company, Auntie”—and Miss St. John had been trying to remember ever since what that niece could hold against her. Not that Ozzie was entirely without redeeming value. He didn’t bite, didn’t bother the cat. He was a passable watchdog. But he ate like a horse, twitched like a mouse and was absolutely unforgiving if you neglected to take him on his twice-daily walk. He would stand by the door and whine.

The way he was doing now.

Oh, Miss St. John knew that look. Even if she couldn’t actually see the beast’s eyes under all that fur, she knew what the look meant. Sighing, she opened the door. The black bundle of fur practically shot down the porch steps and took off for the woods. Miss St. John had no choice but to follow him, and so off into the woods she went.

It was a warm evening, one of those still, sweet twilights that seem kissed with midsummer magic. She would not be surprised to see something extraordinary tonight. A doe and fawn, perhaps, or a fox cub, or even an owl.

She moved steadily through the trees in pursuit of the dog. She noticed they were headed in a direct line toward Rose Hill Cottage, the Tremains’ summer camp. Such a tragedy, Richard Tremain’s death. She hadn’t particularly liked the man, but theirs were the last two cottages on this lonely road, and on her walks here she had occasionally seen him through his window, his head bent in concentration at his desk. He’d always been polite to her, and deferential, but she’d suspected much of it was automatic and not, in any sense, true respect. He’d had no use for elderly women; he simply tolerated them.

But as for young women, well, she’d heard that was a different story.

It troubled her, these recent revelations about his death. Not so much the fact of his murder, but the identity of the one accused. Miss St. John had met Miranda Wood, had spoken to her on several occasions. On this small island, in the dead of winter, only green thumb fanatics braved the icy roads to attend meetings of the local garden club. That’s where Miss St. John had met Miranda. They’d sat together during a lecture on triploid marigolds, and again at the talk on gloxinia cultivation. Miranda was polite and deferential, but genuinely so. A lovely girl, not a hint of dishonesty in her eyes. It seemed to Miss St. John that any woman who cared so passionately about flowers, about living, growing things, could simply not be a murderess.

It bothered her, all that cruel talk flying about town these days. Miranda Wood, a killer? It went against Miss St. John’s instincts, and her instincts were always, always good.

Ozzie bounded through the last stand of trees and shot off toward Rose Hill Cottage. Miss St. John resignedly followed suit. That’s when she saw the light flickering through the trees. It came from the Tremain cottage. Just as quickly, it vanished.

At once she froze as an eerie thought flashed to mind. Ghosts? Richard was the only one who ever used that cottage. But he’s dead.

The rational side of her brain, the side that normally guided Miss St. John’s day-to-day existence, took control. It must be one of the family, of course. Evelyn, perhaps, come to wrap up her husband’s affairs.

Still, Miss St. John couldn’t shake off her uneasiness.

She crossed the driveway and went up the front porch steps. “Hello?” she called. “Evelyn? Cassie?” There was no answer to her knock.

She tried to peer in the window, but it was dark inside. “Hello?” she called again, louder. She thought she heard, from somewhere in the cottage, a soft thud. Then—silence.

Ozzie began to bark. He danced around on the porch, his claws tip-tapping on the wood.

“Oh, hush!” snapped Miss St. John. “Sit!”

The dog whined, sat, and gave her a distinctly wounded look.

Miss St. John stood there a moment, listening for more sounds, but she heard nothing except the whap-whap of Ozzie’s tail against the porch.

Perhaps she should call the police. She debated that move all the way back to her cottage. Once there, in her cheery little kitchen, the very idea seemed so silly, so alarmist. It was a good half-hour drive out here to the north shore. The local police would be reluctant to send a man all the way out here, and for what? A will-o’-the-wisp tale? Besides, what could there possibly be in Rose Hill Cottage that would interest any burglars?

“It’s just my imagination. Or my failing eyesight. After all, when one’s seventy-four, one has to expect the faculties to get a little screwy.”

Ozzie walked in a tight circle, lay down and promptly went to sleep.

“Good Lord,” said Miss St. John. “I’m talking to my dog now. What part of my brain will rot next?”

Ozzie, as usual, offered no opinion.

The courtroom was packed. Already, a dozen people had been turned away at the door, and this wasn’t even a trial, just a bail review hearing, a formality required by law to be held forty-eight hours after arrest.

Chase, who sat in the second row with Evelyn and her father, suspected the proceedings would be brief. The facts were stark, the suspect’s guilt indisputable. A few words by the judge, a bang of the gavel and they’d all be out of there.

And the murderess would slink back to her cell, where she belonged.

“Damned circus, that’s what it is,” growled Evelyn’s father, Noah DeBolt. Silver haired and gravel throated, at sixty-six he was still as formidable as ever. Chase felt the automatic urge to sit up straight and mind his manners. One did not slouch in the presence of Noah DeBolt. One was always courteous and deferential, even if one was an adult.

Even if one was the chief of police, Chase noted, as Lorne Tibbetts stopped and politely tipped his hat at Noah.

The principals were settling in their places. The deputy D. A. from Bass Harbor was seated at his table, flipping through a sheaf of papers. Lorne and Ellis, representing half the local police force, sat off to the left, their uniformed spines ramrod straight, their hair neatly slicked down. They had even parted it on the same side. The defense attorney, a youngster wearing a suit that looked as if it cost twice his annual salary, was fussing with the catch on his leather briefcase.

“They should clear this place out,” grunted Noah. “Who the hell let all these spectators in? Invasion of privacy, I call it.”

“It’s open to the public, Daddy,” said Evelyn wearily.

“There’s public, and then there’s public. These people don’t belong here. It’s none of their damn business.” Noah rose and waved for Lorne’s attention, but the chief of police’s brilliantined head was facing forward. Noah glanced around for the bailiff, but the man had disappeared through a side door. In frustration, Noah sat back down. “Don’t know what this town’s coming to,” he muttered. “All these new people. No sense of what’s proper anymore.”

“Quiet, Daddy,” murmured Evelyn. Then, fuming, she muttered, “Where are the twins? Why aren’t they here? I want the judge to see them. Poor kids without a father.”

Noah snorted. “They’re full-grown adults. They won’t impress anyone.”

“There. I see them,” said Chase, spotting Cassie and Phillip a few rows back. They must have slipped in later, with the other spectators.

So the audience is in place, he thought. All we need now are the two main players. The judge. And the accused.

As if on cue, a side door opened. The ape-size bailiff reappeared, his hand gripping the arm of the much smaller prisoner.

At his second glimpse of Miranda Wood, Chase was struck by how much paler she appeared than he remembered. And how much more fragile. The top of her head barely reached the bailiff’s shoulder. She was dressed unobtrusively, in a blue skirt and a simple white blouse, an outfit no doubt chosen by her attorney to make her look innocent, which she did. Her hair was gathered back in a neat but trim ponytail. No wanton-woman looks here. Those lush chestnut highlights were carefully restrained by a plain rubber band. She wore no jewelry, no makeup. The pallor of those cheeks came without the artifice of face powder.

On her way to the defendant’s table she looked once, and only once, at the crowd. Her gaze swept the room and came to rest on Chase. It was only a few seconds of eye contact, a glimpse of her brittle mask of composure. Pride, that’s what he saw in her face. He could read it in her body language: the straight back, the chin held aloft. Everyone else in this room would see it, too, would resent that show of pride. The brazen murderess, they’d think. A woman without repentance, without shame. He wished he could feel that way about her. It would make her guilt seem all the more assured, her punishment all the more justified.

But he knew what lay beneath the mask. He’d seen it in those eyes two days before, when they’d gazed out at him through a one-way mirror. Fear, pure and simple. She was terrified.

And she was too proud to show it.

* * *

From the instant Miranda walked into the courtroom, none of it seemed real. Her feet, her legs felt numb. She was actually grateful for the firm grip of the bailiff’s hand around her arm as they stepped in the side door. She caught a kaleidoscopic glimpse of all those faces in the audience—if that’s what you called a courtroom full of spectators. What else could you call them? An audience here to watch her performance, an act in the theater of her life. Half of them had come to hang her; the other half were here to watch. As her gaze slowly swept the room she saw familiar faces. There were her colleagues from the Herald: Managing Editor Jill Vickery, looking every bit the sleek professional, and staff reporters Annie Berenger and Ty Weingardt, both of them dressed à la classic rumpled writer. It was hard to tell that they were—or had been—friends. They all wore such carefully neutral expressions.

As her gaze shifted, she took in a single friendly face in the crowd—old Mr. Lanzo, her next-door neighbor. He was mouthing the words I’m with you, sweetie! She found herself almost smiling back.

Then her gaze shifted again, to settle on Chase Tremain’s stony face. The smile instantly died on her lips. Of all the faces in the room, his was the one that most made her feel like shrinking into some dark, unreachable crevice, anywhere to escape his gaze of judgment. The faces beside him were no less condemning. Evelyn Tremain, dressed in widow’s black, looked like a pale death’s mask. Next to Evelyn was her father, Noah DeBolt, town patriarch, a man who with one steely look could wither the spirit of any who dared offend him. He was now aiming that poisonous gaze at Miranda.

The tug of the bailiff’s hand redirected Miranda toward the defendant’s table. Meekly she sat beside her attorney, who greeted her with a stiff nod. Randall Pelham was Ivy League and impeccably dressed for the part, but all Miranda could think of when she saw his face was how young he looked. He made her feel, at twenty-nine, positively middle-aged. Still, she’d had little choice in the matter. There were only two attorneys in practice on Shepherd’s Island. The other was Les Hardee, a man with experience, a fine reputation and a fee to match. Unfortunately, Hardee’s client list happened to include the names DeBolt and Tremain.

Randall Pelham had no such conflict of interest. He didn’t have many clients, either. As the new kid in town, he was ready and willing to represent anyone, even the local murderess.

She asked softly, “Are we okay, Mr. Pelham?”

“Just let me do the talking. You sit there and look innocent.”

“I am innocent.”

To which Randall Pelham offered no response.

“All rise for His Honor Herbert C. Klimenko,” said the bailiff.

Everyone stood.

The sound of shuffling feet announced the arrival of Judge Klimenko, who creaked behind the bench and sank like a bag of old bones into his chair. He fumbled around in his pockets and finally managed to perch a pair of bifocals on his nose.

“They brought him out of retirement,” someone whispered in the front row. “You know, they say he’s senile.”

“They also say he’s deaf!” shot back Judge Klimenko. With that, he slammed down the gavel. “Court is now in session.”

The hearing convened. She followed her attorney’s advice and let him do the talking. For forty-five minutes she didn’t say a word as two men, one she barely knew, one she knew not at all, argued the question of her freedom. They weren’t here to decide guilt or innocence. That was for the trial. The issue to be settled today was more immediate: should she be set free pending that trial?

The deputy D.A. ticked off a list of reasons the accused should remain incarcerated. Weight of evidence. Danger to the community. Undeniable flight risk. The savage nature of the crime, he declared, pointed to the defendant’s brutal nature. Miranda could not believe that this monster he kept referring to was her. Is that what they all think of me? she wondered, feeling the gaze of the audience on her back. That I’m evil? That I would kill again?

Only when she was asked, twice, to stand for Judge Klimenko’s decision did her attention shift back to the present. Trembling, she rose to her feet and gazed up at the pair of eyes peering down at her over bifocals.

“Bail is set at one hundred thousand dollars cash or two hundred thousand dollars secured property.” The gavel slammed down. “Court dismissed.”

Miranda was stunned. Even as the audience milled around behind her, she stood frozen in despair.

“It’s the best I could do,” Pelham whispered.

It might as well have been a million. She would never be able to raise it.

“Come on, Ms. Wood,” said the bailiff. “Time to go back.”

In silence she let herself be escorted across the room, past the gazes of all those prying eyes. Only for a second did she pause, to glance back over her shoulder at Chase Tremain. As their gazes locked she thought she saw, for an instant, a flicker of something she hadn’t seen before. Compassion. Just as quickly, it was gone.

Fighting tears, she turned and followed the bailiff through the side door.

Back to jail.

“That will keep her locked away,” said Evelyn.

“A hundred thousand?” Chase shook his head. “It doesn’t seem out of reach.”

“Not for us, maybe. But for someone like her?” Evelyn snorted. The look of satisfaction on her flawlessly made-up face was not becoming. “No. No, I think Ms. Miranda Wood will be staying right where she belongs. Behind bars.”

“She hasn’t budged an inch,” said Lorne Tibbetts. “We’ve been questioning her for a week straight now and she sticks to that story like glue.”

“It doesn’t matter,” said Evelyn. “Facts are facts. She can’t refute them.”

They were sitting outside, on Evelyn’s veranda. At midmorning they’d been driven from the house by the heat; the sun streaming in the windows had turned the rooms into ovens. Chase had forgotten about these hot August days. In his memory, Maine was forever cool, forever immune to the miseries of summer. So much for childhood memories. He poured another glass of iced tea and handed the pitcher over to Tibbetts.

“So what do you think, Lorne?” asked Chase. “You have enough to convict?”

“Maybe. There are holes in the evidence.”

“What holes?” demanded Evelyn.

Chase thought, my sister-in-law is back to her old self again. No more hysterics since that day at the police station. She looked cool and in control, which is how he’d always remembered her from their childhood. Evelyn the ice queen.

“There’s the matter of the fingerprints,” said Tibbetts.

“What do you mean?” asked Chase. “Weren’t they on the knife?”

“That’s the problem. The knife handle was wiped clean. Now, that doesn’t make a lot of sense to me. Here’s this crime of passion, see? She uses her own knife. Pure impulse. So why does she bother to wipe off the fingerprints?”

“She must be brighter than you think,” Evelyn said, sniffing. “She’s already got you confused.”

“Anyway, it doesn’t go along with an impulse killing.”

“What other problems do you have with the case?” asked Chase.

“The suspect herself. She’s a tough nut to crack.”

“Of course she is. She’s fighting for her life,” said Evelyn.

“She passed the polygraph.”

“She submitted to one?” asked Chase.

“She insisted on it. Not that it would’ve hurt her case if she flunked. It’s not admissible evidence.”

“So why should it change your mind?” asked Evelyn.

“It doesn’t. It just bothers me.”

Chase stared off toward the sea. He, too, was bothered. Not by the facts, but by his own instincts.

Logic, evidence, told him that Miranda Wood was the killer. Why did he have such a hard time believing it?

The doubts had started a week ago, in that police station hallway. He’d watched the whole interrogation. He’d heard her denials, her lame explanations. He hadn’t been swayed. But when they’d come face-to-face in the hall, and she’d looked him straight in the eye, he’d felt the first stirrings of doubt. Would a murderess meet his gaze so unflinchingly? Would she face an accuser with such bald courage? Even when Evelyn had appeared, Miranda hadn’t ducked for cover. Instead, she’d said the unexpected. He loved you. I want you to know that. Of all the things a murderess might have said, that was the most startling. It was an act of kindness, an honest attempt to comfort the widow. It earned her no points, no stars in court. She could simply have walked past, ignoring Evelyn, leaving her to her grief. Instead, Miranda had reached out in pity to the other woman.

Chase did not understand it.

“There’s no question but that the weight of the evidence is against her,” said Tibbetts. “Obviously, that’s what the judge thought. Just look at the bail he set. He knew she’d never come up with that kind of cash. So she won’t be walking out anytime soon. Unless she’s been hiding a rich uncle somewhere.”

“Hardly,” said Evelyn. “A woman like that could only come from the wrong side of the tracks.”

Wrong side of the tracks, thought Chase. Meaning poor. But not trash. He’d been able to see that through the one-way mirror. Trash was cheap, easily bent, easily bought. Miranda Wood was none of those.

A car marked Shepherd’s Island Police pulled up in the driveway.

Tibbetts sighed. “Geez, they just won’t leave me alone. Even on my day off.”

Ellis Snipe, spindly in his cop’s uniform, climbed out. His boots crunched toward them across the gravel. “Hey, Lorne,” he called up to the veranda. “I figured you was here.”

“It’s Saturday, Ellis.”

“Yeah, I know. But we sort of got us a problem.”

“If it’s that washroom again, just call the plumber. I’ll okay the work order.”

“No, it’s that—” Ellis glanced uneasily at Evelyn. “It’s that Miranda Wood woman.”

Tibbetts rose to his feet and went over to the veranda railing. “What about her?”

“You know that hundred thousand bail they set?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, someone paid it.”

“What?”

“Someone’s paid it. We just got the order to release her.”

There was a long silence on the veranda. Then, in a low voice laced with venom, Evelyn said, “Who paid it?”

“Dunno,” said Ellis. “Court says it was anonymous. Came through some Boston lawyer. So what do we do, huh, Lorne?”

Tibbetts let out a deep breath. He rubbed his neck, shifted his weight back and forth a few times. Then he said, “I’m sorry, Evelyn.”

“Lorne, you can’t do this!” she cried.

“I don’t have a choice.” He turned back to the other cop. “You got the court order, Ellis. Let her walk.”

“I don’t understand,” said Miranda, staring in bewilderment at her attorney. “Who would do this for me?”

“A friend, obviously” was Randall Pelham’s dry response. “A very good friend.”

“But I don’t have any friends with that kind of money. No one with a hundred thousand to spare.”

“Well, someone’s putting up the bail. My advice is, don’t look a gift horse in the mouth.”

“If I just knew who it was—”

“It’s been handled through some Boston attorney who says his client wishes to stay anonymous.”

“Why?”

“Maybe the donor’s embarrassed.”

To be helping a murderess, she thought.

“It’s his—or her—right to remain anonymous. I say, take it. The alternative is to stay in jail. Not exactly the most comfortable spot to be in.”

She let out a deep breath. “No, it isn’t.” In fact, it had been horribly bleak in that cell. She’d spent the past week staring at the window, longing for the simple pleasure of a walk by the sea. Or a decent meal. Or just the warmth of the sunshine on her face. Now it was all within reach.

“I wish I knew who to thank,” she said softly.

“Not possible, Miranda. I say, just accept the favor.” He snapped his briefcase shut.

Suddenly he irritated her, this kid barely out of braces, so smart and snazzy in his gray suit. Randall Pelham, Esquire.

“The arrangements are made. You can leave this afternoon. Will you be staying at your house?”

She paused, shuddering at the memory of Richard’s body in her bed. The house had since been cleaned, courtesy of a housekeeping service. Her neighbor Mr. Lanzo had arranged it all, had told her the place looked fine now. It would be as if nothing had happened in that bedroom. There would be no signs of violence at all.

Except in her memory.

But where else could she go?

She nodded. “I—I suppose I’ll go home.”

“You know the drill, right? Don’t leave the county. Bass Harbor’s as far as you can go. Stay in touch at all times. And don’t, I repeat don’t, go around discussing the case. My job’s tough enough as it is.”

“And we wouldn’t want to tax your abilities, would we?” she said under her breath.

He didn’t seem to hear the comment. Or maybe he was ignoring her. He strode out of the cell, then turned to gaze at her. “We can still try a plea bargain.”

She looked him in the eye. “No.”

“That way we could limit the damage. You could walk out of here in ten years instead of twenty-five.”

“I didn’t kill him.”

For a moment Pelham returned her gaze. With a shrug of impatience, he turned. “Plea bargain,” he said. “That’s my advice. Think about it.”

She did think about it, all afternoon as she sat in that stark cell waiting for the release papers.

But as soon as she stepped out of the building and walked, as a free woman, into the sunshine, all thoughts of trading away even ten years of her life seemed unimaginable. She stood there on the sidewalk, gazing up at the sky, inhaling the sweetest air she’d ever breathed in her life.

She decided to walk the mile to her house.

By the time she came within sight of her front yard, her cheeks were flushed, her muscles pleasantly tired. The house looked the same as it always had, shingled cottage, trim lawn—which someone had obviously watered in her absence—brick walkway, a hedge of hydrangea bushes sprouting fluffy white clouds of flowers. Not a large house, but it was hers.

She started up the walkway.

Only when she’d mounted the porch steps did she see the vicious words someone had soaped on her front window. She halted, stung by the cruelty of the message.

Killer.

In sudden fury she swiped at the glass with her sleeve. The accusing words dissolved into soapy streaks. Who could have written such a horrible thing? Surely none of her neighbors. Kids. Yes, that’s who it must have been. A bunch of punks. Or summer people.

As if that made it easier to dismiss. No one much cared what the summer people thought. The ones who lived on the island year round—those were the ones whose opinions counted. The ones you had to face every day.

She paused at the front door, almost afraid to go in. At last she reached for the knob and entered.

Inside, to her relief, everything seemed orderly, just the way things should be. A bill, made out by the Conscientious Cleaners Company, lay on the end table. “Complete cleaning,” read the work order. “Special attention to the master bedroom. Remove stains.” The work order was signed by her neighbor, Mr. Lanzo, bless him. Slowly she made a tour of inspection. She glanced in the kitchen, the bathroom, the spare bedroom. Her bedroom she left for last, because it was the most painful to confront. She stood in the doorway, taking in the neatly made bed, the waxed floor, the spotless area rug. No signs of murder, no signs of death. Just a sunny bedroom with plain farmhouse furniture. She stood there, taking it all in, not budging even when the phone rang in the living room. After a while the ringing stopped.

She went into the bedroom and sat on the bed. It seemed like a bad dream now, what she’d seen here. She thought, If I just concentrate hard enough, I’ll wake up. I’ll find it was a nightmare. Then she stared down at the floor and saw, by the foot of the bed, a brown stain in the oak planks.

At once she rose and left the room.

She walked into the living room just as the phone rang again. Automatically she picked up the receiver. “Hello?”

“Lizzie Borden took an ax and gave her mother forty whacks. When she saw what she had done, she gave her father forty-one!”

Miranda dropped the receiver. In horror she backed away, staring at the dangling earpiece. The caller was laughing now. She could hear the giggles, cruel and childlike, emanating from the receiver. She scrambled forward, grabbed the earpiece and slammed it down on the cradle.

The phone rang again.

She picked it up.

“Lizzie Borden took an ax—”

“Stop it!” she screamed. “Leave me alone!”

She hung up and again the phone rang.

This time she didn’t answer it. In tears, she ran out the kitchen door and into the garden. There she sank into a heap on the lawn. Birds chirped overhead. The smell of warm soil and flowers drifted sweetly in the afternoon. She buried her face in the grass and cried.

Inside, the phone kept on ringing.