The Deceiving Look (Shepard & Gray), page 12
Blackbird sat up and clasped his hands together. “Your boss talked up witness protection and how Tommy couldn’t get anywhere near me. He’s so full of shit he’s got it coming out of his ears. Tommy can reach me anywhere.”
“Then why flip?” Solomon asked.
“It’s better than nothin’.”
Realization dawned on him. “You were supposed to take me out, but you saw this as your chance to get out of the club. If you actually killed me, they wouldn’t have cut a deal with you.”
Blackbird spread his arms on the back of the couch and leaned back again, his grin returning as he tilted his head slightly and watched Solomon.
“What happened?” Solomon asked.
“Tommy’s on his way out, man. Comanche is taking over the club. And me and him, we got some beef that go way back. It ain’t gonna be settled by anything but a bullet, and I ain’t trying to end up in no grave at thirty-five,” Blackbird said.
“So, what’s the plan? Be hidden away somewhere until it’s time to testify?”
“New name, new identity, new job. Maybe I’ll even pick me up a little housewife and play the good neighbor. Shit, maybe I’ll even go to church,” Blackbird replied with a shrug.
Solomon shook his head. “You won’t live that long.”
“We’ll see,” Blackbird said nonchalantly.
Solomon pushed a toy that was by his feet on the carpet with his cane. “Tommy’s hated me for a long time. Why’d he try to take me out now?” he asked.
“Who the hell knows? Maybe he thinks this might be his last chance before they take him out, too.”
“What about the suicide? Was that you too?”
“What suicide?” Blackbird replied, his expression genuine.
Just then, the door to the victim interview room opened and the tall, broad-shouldered deputy from down the hallway entered, a look of anger in his eyes. Before he could say anything, Solomon rose and said, “Glad you’re here, Deputy. Been waiting for you. He’s all yours now. Feel free to call me back in later if you need.” He moved past the deputy quickly and looked back into the room at Blackbird, who winked at him before Solomon turned away and headed down the hall.
Solomon sat in a booth at the restaurant, staring out the windows as he waited for Billie to arrive. The restaurant was on a hill near the Public Safety Complex. The sun was setting, casting a warm glow over the city.
When Billie finally joined him, he had already placed their order and didn’t notice how late she was.
“So what happened?” she said after sitting down.
Solomon sighed and explained, “Tommy’s on his way out of the club. But this sniper doesn’t play well with Comanche, who’s next in line, so he thinks he has a better chance in witness protection with Roger.”
“That seems unwise.”
“That’s putting it mildly. I know Roger. The best way to afford witness protection for a DA is to bring in a federal agency like the FBI or DEA, but Roger’s too arrogant to do that. He’ll want all the press for himself and try to arrange witness protection alone.”
The waitress brought their food, tacos, and they began to eat.
“So how are you doing?” Solomon asked, changing the subject.
“Considering that I almost got shot this week, I’m holding up pretty well,” Billie replied.
Solomon apologized for not responding to her text earlier. Billie brushed it off, saying, “It’s okay. I just had a strong reaction. I’m sure the judge will throw this out.”
“Not necessarily. There’s a gap in the law in Utah. If someone files a protective order or stalking injunction against someone, you can’t file the same in return. But the law doesn’t include filing one if you have the other type filed against you. You have a stalking injunction against him, so it’s not entirely impossible that a court may grant him a protective order. But you’re right, they rarely do it because it’s against the interests of justice. Still, I think I should handle the hearing for you.”
“Are you sure?”
Solomon took a bite of his taco. “If you’d rather have someone else handle it, I understand.”
“You’re the best lawyer I know. There’s nobody else I’d rather have there with me.”
Solomon got a slight blush in his cheeks. He took a bite of taco and wiped his lips with a napkin before continuing. “So, what happened with Dax? I couldn’t have guessed this is how he would end up in a million years.”
She took a small bite of her taco before pushing the plate away and leaning back in her seat. “I’m not entirely sure what happened. I mean, there were little hints along the way, things he would do that made me pause and think. But I never could have imagined this. He told me, calmly and with a straight face, that he was going to put a bullet in my head and then turn the gun on himself so we could be together. He meant it, Solomon. It wasn’t just a scare tactic. He really believed it was the only way for us to be together.” She sighed. “Did you work with many stalkers when you were a social worker?”
Solomon nodded. “He’s what we call a love-scorned stalker,” Solomon said, before taking another bite of taco. “There’re six types of stalkers, and unfortunately, his type is the most volatile. They can develop something called erotomania, where they believe that the person they’re stalking is in love with them. I’ve had cases where the victim would come home and the stalker would be there, cooking dinner and acting like they’re married.”
“So he’s just psychopathic, then?” she asked.
Solomon shook his head. “Most stalkers aren’t psychopaths, but they often have other personality disorders like malignant narcissism or borderline personality. But what’s really scary about stalkers is their pathology. They live in a fantasy world where there are no rules. Most women are more afraid of being stalked by a stranger, and that makes sense, but stalkers who are known to the victim are far more dangerous. You’re doing the right thing by taking all these precautions.”
She hesitated. “I . . . spoke with him.”
“Seriously? Why?”
“I thought if I could reason with him . . . but it’s not him. He’s not the man I knew anymore.” She shook her head, looking desperate. “The precautions are just Band-Aids. He’s already violated the stalking injunction more times than I can count and is in a revolving door at the jail, but as soon as he’s released, it starts all over again. Incarceration doesn’t scare him.”
“You should come stay with me,” Solomon said. “He wouldn’t be able to get to you at my house. Your house is too easy for him to break into, even with the deputies outside.”
“Are you asking me to move in with you?” she asked with a chuckle.
“I’ve got ten bedrooms. Might as well start filling them up with beautiful women,” Solomon joked. “I’m not kidding about the offer, though. I don’t want you to be afraid in your own home.”
“I appreciate it, but I won’t let him scare me out of my own house.”
Solomon wiped his lips with a napkin as he glanced over at a nearby booth where a couple sat quietly eating. “It’s an open offer,” he said.
“Thanks.” She glanced down to the tacos with a look of disgust and pushed them farther away from her. Solomon noticed the puffy, red eyes and knew she’d been crying.
“How are you doing with all this?” she asked.
He let out a long breath. “What if I’m wrong, Billie? What if Dennis’s suicide had nothing to do with my mother or Tommy and it’s just a coincidence?”
Billie raised an eyebrow. “Do you really believe that?”
Solomon shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe cutting into your thighs is a more common way to commit suicide than we realized?”
Billie shook her head. “I doubt it. All the signs indicate that Dennis wasn’t on the verge of suicide.”
“Then the only other explanation is that Tommy really did try to take me out, and the suicides are linked somehow. If Blackbird was right and Tommy knows he’s on his way out, maybe this is his way of cleaning house. Dennis knew a lot about their operations, and so did Roger.”
“You don’t have to keep looking into this, you know. You can stop anytime.”
Solomon neatly folded his napkin, his fingers nervously twisting its edges. He pondered for a moment before speaking, his voice thoughtful. “Maybe it’s better not to know everything about your past.”
23
Roger Lynch sat alone in his office, surrounded by the hum of computers and the soft glow of monitors. He thought, with approval, about how the sleek, modern design of the space gave the impression of a high-end tech company rather than a government building. He glanced at the clock on his computer screen and sighed. He had nowhere to go, no one to go home to. His marriage was a sham, built on convenience rather than love. He wondered if his wife felt the same way, if she had married him only to escape her dysfunctional family.
As he exited his office, the jovial chatter of the deputies outside came to a sudden halt. They fell into step behind him as he made his way to the elevators, their silent presence a constant reminder that someone was trying to kill him.
The darkened parking garage loomed ahead, and Roger’s heart rate increased as he approached the spot where he had been attacked. He fought to keep his composure in front of his subordinates.
When he had unlocked his car, he thanked the deputies and got in. He pulled away, his eyes always glancing over the dark corners where someone could be hiding. Another defendant his office had prosecuted once attacked him, but he had been caught before he could do any real damage. A copy of The Catcher in the Rye had been found in the man’s car along with a gun, which he said he was going to use on the district attorney.
Near misses were common, but an actual attack, particularly one where it was clear the attacker was trying to kill him, were rare. Maybe even unheard of in a smaller county tucked away in the mountains of Utah. He had to admit it had rattled him more than he anticipated.
He pulled out of the complex and headed to the freeway entrance. Roger rolled down the window and let the cold night air whip his face. When he was a young man, he had wanted to be a racecar driver. His grandfather on his mother’s side had once set the land speed record in the 1960s out on the Salt Flats not far from Tooele.
It was a childish dream, and as his father had told him, a stupid dream, and Roger had promptly given it up. His father was a judge and expected his son to follow in his footsteps. But sitting on a bench casting judgment didn’t sound appealing to him. Being in front of a camera, though: there was something about it that sent a shock of electricity through him every time.
Some people would find it pathetic, he knew, but he didn’t care. There was no time in his life he felt more alive than when all the attention was focused on him.
As he pulled into his horseshoe driveway, Roger admired his massive home. The striking Spanish red tile roof and the numerous balconies on the second and third floors gave the house an air of opulence, reminiscent of the extravagant mansions that populated the upscale neighborhood of Beverly Hills.
The house was a perfect fit for Roger, who had always dreamed of living in a mansion that would inspire envy in others.
A small twitch of resentment went through him when he remembered the comment Solomon Shepard had made during the office Christmas party. Roger’s wife had insisted on hosting the event at their home, and as they looked around, Solomon had quipped that the house looked like something a Colombian drug lord would own. It had slightly bothered him, but the fact that his wife laughed and placed her hand gently on Solomon’s shoulder as she did so, giving Roger a quick glance, infuriated him.
Roger sat in his car for a moment, taking a deep breath before stepping out and making his way to the front door. As he entered, he found Mandy reclining on the couch, engrossed in the television. The spacious living room was surrounded by floor-to-ceiling windows, offering a breathtaking view of the lush woods that stretched out behind the house.
Roger’s eyes were drawn to the center of the room, where a large bearskin rug lay at Mandy’s feet. Her toes, adorned with perfectly painted white nails, curled and uncurled through the soft fur as she sipped from a full glass of wine, wrapped in a silk robe. The room was filled with the sweet aroma of the wine, and Roger could see an already half-empty bottle resting on the sleek marble coffee table in front of her.
“Could you at least not be drunk and in pajamas when I get home,” he said as he tossed his keys on the large dining room table past the kitchen.
“Oh sure,” she shouted from the front room. “How about I wear a gown and come to the door every night and take your briefcase and get your slippers?”
As Roger entered the living room, he stood for a moment, his hands sliding into the pockets of his expensive suit. Mandy was engrossed in the television, which blared a reality show about wealthy housewives in Miami. The sound of two women shouting at each other over some perceived slight filled the air. “You’ve been drinking a lot lately.”
“Okay, Dad.”
Roger felt a twinge of guilt as he watched Mandy take another sip of wine. He knew that she was drinking to numb the pain of their crumbling marriage, but he couldn’t deny that he was relieved by how it kept her docile and occupied. The Roman emperors had been wise in providing bread and circuses as distractions for their people, but Roger had found that wine was the best distraction for his wife. He could keep out of her hair, and she could keep out of his. It was a mutually beneficial arrangement, even if it wasn’t the ideal situation.
“I don’t suppose you made any dinner?” he asked hopefully. “I haven’t eaten all day.”
“I’m so sorry, my lord. I guess I must’ve forgot.”
“You know, you don’t have to be such a bitch all the time.”
Mandy let out a laugh, a sound that grated on Roger’s nerves. He could tell that she was enjoying the way she had gotten under his skin, reveling in the power she still held over him. He let out a long, exasperated breath as she took another sip of the wine, her cheeks flushed with the alcohol. Despite his contempt for her, he couldn’t help but acknowledge the stunning beauty that she possessed.
Her face was playful, a mischievous glint in her eyes that Roger knew all too well. She had always been a master at pushing his buttons, and he had fallen for it time and time again. It was no wonder that men fawned over her. She was a woman who commanded attention, turning heads wherever she went.
But even her beauty couldn’t make up for the emptiness that had taken root in their relationship. Roger wondered if there was any way to salvage what was left of their marriage, or if it was too late.
“What’s the matter, Roger? Don’t you want me?” she asked, teasingly. She loosened her silk robe, revealing her perfectly sculpted breasts and tanned stomach, with each abdominal muscle visible, protruding underneath her flawless skin. Roger couldn’t help but compare his own out-of-shape body to her toned physique, and he felt a pang of envy. But he told himself he would be in shape if all he had to do all day was work out and get drunk.
“How about it, Roger?” she said, pulling open her robe a little more. “How about you take me right now? Pull my hair back and kiss me and take me right here on the couch.”
The thought of being intimate with Mandy now repulsed him. Though he knew that any man would gladly trade places with him, he felt revulsion toward his wife. Through the years, she had become more and more abhorrent to him, a shadow of the woman he had fallen in love with.
Roger said, “Get some clothes on and I’ll order something. Maybe we can at least have a decent dinner together.”
After ordering some food, Roger retreated to his lavish bathroom and took a long, hot shower. Once he was finished, he changed into a comfortable Nike sweatsuit, the kind that he used to wear to the gym before his busy work schedule made it impossible to maintain a regular exercise routine.
He turned his attention to the medicine cabinet, where several amber pill bottles were lined up neatly. He opened each one carefully and took the pills, one by one. Most of them were for his abnormally high blood pressure, which had spiked since he stopped taking his antidepressants.
He made his way to the study, where the patio overlooked the sprawling neighborhood. The evening air was cool, and he poured himself a generous amount of whiskey from the well-stocked bar. He sank into the soft chair on the patio and took a long sip, savoring the smoky flavor.
As he drank, he gazed up at the starless sky, the only sound the quiet hum of the city in the distance. He inhaled deeply through his nose, the scent of whiskey mingling with the crisp night air, and exhaled slowly. A single thought kept crossing his mind: Is this all there is?
When he got too reflective, he shut down his thinking. There was no point to it.
A sharp snap echoed from the right of the patio, causing Roger to freeze in his seat. He strained his ears, trying to identify the source of the noise. Something heavy seemed to step on the twigs from the giant fir tree that Mandy had insisted on planting next to the house, to keep prying eyes away.
Roger stared intently at the bushes that encircled the house. “Hello?” he called out tentatively.
There was no response, except for the sound of a slight breeze rustling some bushes. Roger turned back to his drink, trying to ignore the unease that was starting to gnaw at his insides. He stared at the sky, lost in thought.
His mind swirled, and his headache pounded harder. At first, he thought it was just the whiskey, too much drink too fast. But the warmth in his belly didn’t dissipate, and his body began to feel heavy, as though it were being sucked into quicksand. He noticed the odd sensations in his hands and face, a not entirely unpleasant feeling, and realized that it was something else. Drugs.
Suddenly, the bush nearest the patio split open, and a dark figure burst out and leaped over the railing at Roger.
Roger tried to yell, to get the attention of the deputies he had assigned to monitor his house from across the street, but hardly any sound came out of him. His head was spinning, and he wasn’t sure if he was standing up or still lying down. Suddenly, the chair slipped out from under him, and he hit the wooden slats of the patio, feeling the cold wood against his hands. He tried to push himself up but felt something tight around his throat.
