Текст книги "Privileged Lives"

Автор книги: Edward Stewart

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 35 (всего у книги 37 страниц)

Cardozo was thinking that it had taken one scared immature drug-addicted girl to do what no policeman, no court could ever have done, to make Billi von Kleist pay in kind for the pain and murder he had strewn, to ensure that he would never twist or take another life.

“I loved him.” She was staring at the corpse, leaning down to touch the lapel of the robe. “I still …”

She was beginning to nod out. Silent tears were tracking down her cheeks. The tear from the right eye was already at her chin and the tear from the left was only halfway to her mouth.

Cardozo wondered why that was, why one tear was faster than the other, what force in the universe decided things like that.

Her head dropped. Cardozo caught her before she could hit the floor. He eased her back onto the sofa. “You’re going to be okay,” he soothed.

She had passed out. He had no idea how the hell he was going to get her out of this. A flying carpet was all he needed.

55

THE PRINT MAN FINISHED dusting and the photographer finished taking pictures and the men from the M.E.’s office zipped Baron Billi into a body bag. They filed out of the loft, leaving the chalk outline of a dead man in the floor.

Cardozo phoned Ted Morgenstern. “Get down here to Lew Monserat’s loft. Cordelia Koenig has killed Baron Billi von Kleist. You’re going to defend her.”

Twenty minutes later Ted Morgenstern identified himself to the sergeant guarding the crime scene. He stalked into the apartment with the confidence of a predator.

“Where’s my client?”

“In the hospital. Have a seat.”

There was an edge of command to Cardozo’s voice. Ted Morgenstern’s face betrayed a rush of irritation, but he sat.

Cardozo pushed buttons on the VCR, and the TV set bathed the room in ghostly voices and images.

Morgenstern did his best to stay frosted, and when the tape had run he put on an air of smug, lighthearted adventure. “Who made that tape? The police? It’s inadmissible.”

“Baron Billi von Kleist made it. Kleist’s last tape.”

Morgenstern’s face was calculating. “Can you prove that?”

“I can prove the baron had a habit of giving sex-and-torture parties and taking candid tapes of them. There are seven years of tapes right here in the closet.”

Something changed. Morgenstern’s eyes were on Cardozo and there was the first flicker of fear in them. A thread of excitement moved in Cardozo’s body and he was almost ashamed of it.

“Some of the tapes are going to interest you, Counselor. You star in them.”

Ted Morgenstern had started to rise from the sofa but now he sank back again.

Cardozo ran a two-minute selection from the tapes—enough to give Morgenstern a taste.

Morgenstern was ashen and shaking. “Those tapes aren’t relevant,” he said.

Lucinda MacGill came out of the bedroom, carrying a videocassette in each hand. “The tapes are relevant, Counselor,” she said. “Anything found on the scene of the crime is relevant and admissive. People of New York versus Cudahy, 1953. Upheld by the Supreme Court, 1958.”

Ted Morgenstern looked as though he’d been slammed in the stomach with a baseball bat. “Are those the only copies?”

“There are dupes,” Cardozo said.

Morgenstern was sitting there, dead. “The police have them?”

“The cops don’t know the dupes exist. They don’t even know the originals exist.”

“Who has the dupes?”

“I do. In a bank vault.”

Ted Morgenstern closed his eyes.

“I’ve been thinking about Cordelia’s defense,” Cardozo said. “You know how I think you should handle it? Offscreen. Like in the Downs case and the Devens case. You flashed Jodie Downs’s medical file at his parents. They didn’t want it made public and they accepted a plea bargain and Loring got off. Seven years ago, Cordelia Koenig caught the clap from Baron Billi. You had Devens catch himself a dose. You flashed the medical records at the Vanderwalks, they saw a connection between her gonorrhea and his. They weren’t going to let that get into the newspapers, so they let Devens walk. Are you following me, Counselor?”

“Not exactly.” The resolve had drained out of Morgenstern’s voice.

“People take your suggestions. With your clout you can get the D.A. to accept a plea of justifiable manslaughter.”

“Excuse me,” Lucinda MacGill interrupted. “Why not head this off at the coroner’s office and go for accidental death?”

Her balls took Cardozo’s breath away.

“With accidental,” she said, “there’ll be a hearing, no charges, no trial, and the existence of the tapes won’t even need to be known.”

Ted Morgenstern sat there cracking his knuckles. “It’ll mean calling in a few favors. But accidental is definitely the way to go.”

“Okay,” Cardozo said. “In exchange for accidental in the Von Kleist killing, you get Baron Billi’s tapes.” He felt a strange elation. He had never thought he would be holding the power to influence events, to make the world jump like a trained dog as the Ted Morgensterns and the Vanderwalks and the D.A.’s of New York routinely did. But for the first time in his life he held that power, and it was more potent than a loaded magnum and more addictive than a jeroboam of crack.

Morgenstern rose and walked to the window and stared at police and reporters swarming down in the street. “And what do you want for the duplicate tapes?”

“That’s simple. Baron Billi’s groupies get visas to Paraguay and they have till Saturday to use them.”

“You’re joking.”

“Here’s another laugh. Sir Dunk turns his wife’s estate over to the AIDS foundation.”

Cardozo phoned Jodie Downs’s parents from the precinct. Lockwood Downs answered.

“Jodie’s death wasn’t simple murder,” Cardozo said. “Claude Loring was working for other people. We just caught them.”

It took Lockwood Downs a moment to speak. “I wasn’t expecting this. Meridee and I had just about given up hope that anyone would ever pay.”

“These people are going to pay.”

“I’m sorry. I don’t mean to sound ungrateful. I just don’t know what to say.”

“You don’t have to say anything. I just wanted you to know.”

“Thank you for keeping on it, Lieutenant. We both thank you.”

Sixty seconds later Cardozo told Babe everything, not attempting to sweeten any of it. The telephone receiver pressed the silence of her shock into his ear.

“Where have they taken Cordelia?”

Cardozo gave Babe the address of the hospital. “Look,” he said, “I know it sounds like the end of the world, but worlds are ending every day and it’s not always such a bad thing. Other kids have gotten off drugs. Cordelia can do it. Just remember I’ll be there beside you.”

“Will you, Vince? Be beside me?”

Vince Cardozo, he asked himself, what the hell are you doing?

He realized he was in love with her, dreaming of some kind of happily ever after that just didn’t exist. He and Babe Devens were from two different planets on opposite sides of the sun.

He thought about that and decided, just for today, to forget happily ever after.

“Yeah. I’ll be right beside you,” he said. “Meet you at the hospital. Fifteen minutes.”

He hesitated, then decided he had time to make one last call. It was Terri’s lunch break. She’d be home. He dialed and his daughter answered on the fourth ring.

“Remember that day we got called away from the beach? I’m going to make it up to you.”

“Daddy, you don’t have to make anything up to me.”

“I want to. How about this weekend? Would you like to go swimming?”

“It’s too cold.”

“It’s not too cold in the Virgin Islands. I have three days off. What do you say? No way the precinct can beep me in Saint Thomas.”

“I love you, Daddy.”

“I love you too, and that’s not an answer. Do we have a date?”

She was silent only a moment. “You twisted my arm. It’s a date.”

Turn the page to continue reading from the Vince Cardozo Mysteries

for Jackie Farber,

Stowe Hausner, and Steven Hollar—

who made the difference

ONE

SOMETHING WAS WRONG. LEIGH Baker kept hearing voices. The goose-down pillows in their Porthault cases that had begun the evening under her head were now lying on top of her, like a barricade, and she had to push them aside to see.

The Levolors were angled against whatever light the sky had to offer, but her time sense told her it was night. She stared a long moment at the light that beaded the perfume bottles and silver-backed brushes on the dressing table. Her eye followed the light to its source, the TV screen.

She recognized the man who did the weather wrap-up on Fox Five. The remote was lying on the little painted papier-mâché table beside her bed, on top of Vogue and Vanity Fair. She reached for it. Her fingertips touched the highball glass. An unthinking reflex brought the glass to her lips.

Slivered ghosts of ice cubes slid beneath her nose. The liquid had a brownish color and it smelled like Johnnie Walker and diet Pepsi. It flowed over her tongue without any flavor. To avoid spilling she drained the glass before setting it back down.

She patted her pillows into a fresh headrest behind her. She picked up the remote and pressed the Off button. The image on the TV screen collapsed into a white lozenge that sputtered and decayed into darkness.

She laid her head back and closed her eyes.

Even with the TV off she still heard those voices and she could not drop off to the state where she wanted to be, that oceanic feeling of floating nothingness.

At the sound of a latch clicking she opened her eyes again.

Light floated in from the living room, and a teenage girl stood silhouetted and slim in the doorframe. Taking fast, shallow breaths, Leigh’s daughter came into the bedroom with gingerly steps, as though she were walking on someone else’s legs.

Leigh pushed herself to sitting. “What is it? Nita, what’s wrong?”

The girl’s face was a blank surface. She worked her throat, worked her jaw, trying to force words out. Nothing in her expression changed, but suddenly her eyes looked as if they were full of icicles and a terrible little cry came out of her. “What does it mean?”

“What does what mean, darling?”

Like a comet flicking its tail, Nita turned and tore out of the bedroom and across the darkened living room, through the French window and out onto the terrace.

Leigh touched one foot down onto the floor and then the other. She tested her standing muscles. They seemed to work, though she listed a little to the left and she knew right away that she needed another drink.

Now she tested her walking muscles. They were slow to answer her head’s commands, but they took her to the bedroom door.

And then Nita’s voice: “No!”

It seemed to Leigh that something flew across the terrace, low and fluttering. She blinked and it took her mind a moment to process the image. A white dress. White arms. White legs. Nita.

For a moment light and shadow alternated like flashes of a strobe. And then silence pooled. Too much silence. It was as though a magician had waved a wand and made the white rabbit disappear. There was no white dress. No white arms. No white legs. No Nita.

“Nita,” Leigh whispered. “Where are you?”

A knot twisted inside her stomach. She closed her eyes, fighting back nausea. I will not vomit, she told herself.

When the spasm passed, she opened her eyes. Through the open French window moonlight spilled down onto the terrace in a wash of white stillness. Relief took her. There was no one there.

I was imagining it.

She moved into the living room.

I need a drink.

She turned on a light. The room was done in soft grays and deep greens—peaceful colors. Three dozen red roses with a note from her director had been placed in a tall crystal vase near the bar. She had the impression that the scene was being projected onto a 360-degree wraparound screen.

At that moment a wave of Nita’s perfume floated past her.

She didn’t move. She stayed exactly where she was, sniffing, listening.

“Nita?”

The silence and that faint trail of sweetness drew her toward the open French window. Her body had to fight a path through a wall of medication. Everything seemed twisted around, wrong. She stepped onto the terrace.

It took her eyes a moment to adjust to the moonlight.

Potted plants and dainty tables and chairs came into focus. She caught the trail of perfume again, and it drew her across the terrace to the low wall.

She stood there, looking out. She saw things with eerie, drugged precision. The town-house facades across the garden all glowed with the dead light of the moon.

A breeze ruffled the little boxwood bushes that the gardener had spaced along the low section of the wall. She saw that several of the branches had been freshly snapped off.

She moved a toppled chair aside. She stood a long moment staring over the waist-high wall. She slowly swung her gaze down to the garden five stories below. It was like staring down into a pool from a high diving board. The trees and the parallel dark rows of green hedge all seemed to be rippling on dark water.

A body lay directly below, splayed out across the flagstone path. White dress. White arms. White legs.

Leigh doubled forward. Disbelief physically took her. A sickening whoosh of bile and booze and half-digested diet Pepsi flooded her mouth. She could feel vomit rushing up and out of her.

Some instinctive residual sense of decorum told her to get to the john. She turned and shoved a garden chair out of the way and ran stumbling and puking back toward the living room.

A young man stood half crouched against the wall. She collided with him and stared with a hand over her mouth.

He sprang up to his full height, well over six feet, and there was something about his panicky eyes that made her think she might have to fight him.

“I didn’t mean to,” he whimpered.

“No, I know you didn’t.” Leigh kept her voice soft, nonconfrontational. She edged past him toward the open French window.

He made no move to stop her.

She darted into the living room and in the same movement swung the French window shut behind her. Her heart was banging in her chest. She fumbled her hand around the key and twisted it, and then she ran to the phone and snatched up the receiver and punched 911.

SIX WEEKS BEFORE THE TRIAL the woman who was prosecuting the case phoned Leigh and said the defense had unearthed new evidence. “Could you be in my office tomorrow morning at ten?”

Leigh wore her black-on-black Chanel. In the limo, riding to the meeting, she took twenty milligrams of prescribed Valium and twenty of unprescribed Dexedrine that her husband had left on his side of the bathroom cabinet.

At ten after ten, on the fourth floor of the State Supreme Court Building, the prosecutor introduced her to a small, stocky gray-haired woman wearing a plain black cotton dress. “Miss Baker, I’d like you to meet Xenia Delancey—the mother of the accused.”

Leigh did not take the hand that Xenia Delancey offered.

“Miss Baker,” Xenia Delancey said, “I’m a mother too.”

“We have nothing to say to each other,” Leigh said.

“On the contrary.” The defense attorney placed a small leather-bound book on the conference table. He invited Leigh to read it.

The book, Leigh discovered, was a diary. She opened it. Most of the pages were blank. Where there was writing she recognized it as Nita’s. The forty or so hand-written pages covered the last forty days of her daughter’s life. Days of drugs and sex and recklessness.

“This is a forgery,” Leigh said. “Nita never did these things.”

“Miss Baker, I understand that you loved your daughter.” The prosecutor spoke with an unashamed Queens Irish accent. Words sounded tough in her mouth. “I understand that the diary comes as a shock to you. But I’ve prosecuted six date-kill cases, and I can tell you from trial experience, young girls are sexual beings and they often do confide their sexual activities to a secret diary.”

“Maybe, but this diary is a fake.”

“The jury will have to decide that,” the defense lawyer said.

“They’re putting this forgery into evidence?” Leigh said. “They’re allowed to do that?”

“Yes, they’re allowed to do that.” The prosecutor drew in a long breath and let it out in a deeply troubled sigh. “But Mrs. Delancey has an offer to make.”

“You tell the state to accept a lesser plea,” Xenia Delancey said. “I’ll tell my boy’s lawyer not to use this diary.”

“What kind of lesser plea?” Leigh said.

“Negligent manslaughter,” the defense attorney said.

“At best,” the prosecutor said, “the state can make a case for involuntary manslaughter.”

“It was murder.” Leigh heard herself speak before she’d even realized what she was going to say. It was a flat statement of fact, with no emotion in it whatsoever. “I saw him push her.”

The prosecutor whirled. Her glasses flew off her nose, and her blond hair spun out like a tossed skirt. After a moment she picked her glasses up from the floor and put them back on.

The muscles in the defense attorney’s jaw worked slowly. “Miss Baker didn’t depose that she saw her daughter killed.”

“I’m deposing it now,” Leigh said.

“In other words,” the defense attorney said, “you’ve been suppressing evidence for the better part of a year?”

“I was willing to forgive the man my daughter loved—because I believed he hadn’t intended to kill her.” Leigh could feel the defense attorney’s gaze on her, dubious, puzzled, probing for truth and for falsity. “But that diary, that forgery, is an act of pure malicious calculation. I have no intention of forgiving now.”

“She’s lying,” Xenia Delancey said.

“Mr. Lawrence,” the prosecutor said, “would you and Mrs. Delancey be good enough to wait in the hallway for a moment?”

The defense attorney grumbled and stood and motioned Xenia Delancey to come with him.

Leigh and the prosecutor sat alone at the cigarette-scarred conference table. The prosecutor’s glance nailed Leigh through half-tinted lenses. “What did you see exactly?”

I wish I’d had time to prepare this, Leigh thought. And then she remembered what Stella Adler used to say in acting class: Who has time for sense memory? Improvise!

For the next two minutes Leigh improvised.

“You realize,” the prosecutor said, “if you change your testimony, the defense will accuse you of lying. They’ll attack you, not just on the stand but in the media.”

“I realize that.”

“The attacks will be personal, they’ll be savage, they’ll reflect on your character, your habits, your morals, your marriages, your movies, your lovers, and, above all, on your use of medications, mood changers, and liquor.”

Leigh understood that the prosecutor had sized her up and was strongly advising her to reconsider. But she had no intention of reconsidering. She had given her daughter very little in life, and she was determined that Nita would at least receive justice in death. “I realize all of that.”

The prosecutor held up the leather-bound book. “Whether this diary is a forgery or not, the defense will use it to attack and destroy your daughter. They’ll use it to create sympathy for Jim Delancey. He stands a good chance of going free. Are you willing to take that chance?”

Leigh nodded. “I’m willing. Absolutely.”

The prosecutor stood motionless, staring at her. “Miss Baker, I hope you’ll excuse my frankness, but in all honesty I have to tell you something.”

Christ, Leigh wondered, have I gone too far?

“Thanks to your courage I believe we have a chance of nailing Delancey.” The prosecutor shook Leigh’s hand. Then she crossed swiftly to the door and flung it open and leaned triumphantly into the corridor. “Mr. Lawrence, Mrs. Delancey, would you come back, please? We’re not taking the plea.”

Xenia Delancey looked at Leigh with her mouth closed so tightly that her lips made a line like a fresh scar. “You’re making a stupid mistake,” she said. “The world is going to know what your daughter was.”

“And maybe,” Leigh said, “they’ll learn what your son is.”

SIX WEEKS LATER Leigh Baker entered a packed, hushed courtroom and crossed in front of the jury to take the stand.

She had fortified herself today with thirty milligrams of Valium and thirty of Dexedrine, fifty percent more than her usual morning dose. She had washed the medicine down with a two-ounce shot glass of vodka.

She had never, despite fourteen years as a performing actress, felt less sure of the effect she was about to make. She was wearing a navy Galanos with Barbara Bush pearls. Her mouth was dry, her skin on fire, her heart thumping so hard she couldn’t hear anything else, and the light in the courtroom seemed to dip in rhythm to each heartbeat that rocked her.

Dear God, she prayed soundlessly, just get me through this and I swear I’ll never break another contract, I’ll never sleep with another man I’m not married to, I’ll never take another drink or drug.

“How many abortions did you procure for your daughter?” the defense attorney asked.

Leigh jumped to her feet. “That’s a lie.”

The judge directed her to answer the question.

Leigh sat. “Nita never had an abortion.”

“Did you always give your daughter cocaine for Christmas?”

Leigh looked out at the courtroom. From the front row of the spectators’ section, Xenia Delancey watched her with slit-eyed hatred.

“You’re lying again,” Leigh said.

The judge directed her to answer the question.

“Nita didn’t take drugs.”

“How many lovers did you share with your daughter?”

“You’re lying and you’ve lied from the start of this trial.”

“Objection.”

“Every word you’ve said, every question you’ve asked, every glance and shrug you’ve directed at the jury has been an attempt to defame my daughter.”

“Objection.”

“Sustained. Witness will limit her response to the question.”

Leigh had a panicky sense that the walls of the courtroom were slanting in on her.

“How many lovers,” the court stenographer read from the trial record, “did you share with your daughter?”

There’s got to be a way to answer this, she thought.

“My daughter and I loved many people in common. We never shared a lover. The only lover Nita ever had is the man who took her virginity, and he’s on trial here today.”

“Objection.”

“Jury will disregard the witness’s response.”

But they didn’t disregard it. Thirty-two days after the trial began, following seven hours’ deliberation, the jury of seven men and five women found James Delancey guilty as charged.

“We did it, toots!” Leigh’s husband sang out. They celebrated the verdict by sending the chauffeur to score eight grams of coke and four boxes of David’s macadamia chocolate chip cookies.

Four days after the verdict, at three-thirty in the afternoon, California time, two bodyguards didn’t exactly walk her and didn’t exactly carry her but somehow managed to stand her up in front of the crisp, sober, smiling redheaded nurse at the admissions desk. Fortified with what she swore to God would be her last eight vodkas ever, Leigh Baker picked up a squirming pen and signed herself into the Betty Ford Clinic.