Текст книги "Maximum Security"

Автор книги: Rose Connors

Соавторы: Rose Connors
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CHAPTER 4

Fox Hill Road is aptly named. A handful of estates enjoys expansive grounds here, and the fox population thrives on the smaller creatures who share the lush landscape—squirrels and rabbits, mostly, along with the occasional household pet. I hit the brakes to slow my old Thunderbird when a healthy-looking vixen with a thick red coat trots into the road ahead. I hit them harder and come to a complete stop when two kits emerge behind her, their noses to the ground, oblivious to my car’s approach.

The mother fox stands still in the middle of the road, like a traffic cop, and stares up at me while her young ones cross in front of her. She seems entirely untroubled by my presence. Once the kits reach the safety of the bushes, she saunters after them, in no hurry whatsoever. She pauses before taking cover, looks back at me, and seems to nod. A thank-you, maybe. In this part of town, even the foxes are well bred.

A mile farther down Fox Hill Road, the rolling green hills of Eastward Edge Country Club come into view. The club’s oceanside golf course is touted as one of the most prestigious—and scenic—in the world. In the summertime, well-heeled golfers enjoy exclusive use of these hills, their compact carts rolling along narrow paths like busy ants. But in the winter, when the club is dormant and its members have fled to kinder climates, all that changes.

After winter snowstorms, the locals claim these slopes. They come by the truckload with sleds, toboggans, and cross-country skis, their thermoses filled with coffee, hot chocolate, and brandy. When my son was younger, we’d spend entire days here each winter, surrounded by friends and neighbors, hurtling down white hills toward the icy blue of the winter ocean, then climbing back up to do it all over again. Inevitably, Luke’s lips would be near-purple, his fingers and toes on the verge of frostbite, before I could convince him to call it a day. Luke and his friends still make a beeline for Eastward Edge after every winter storm, but in recent years they’ve traded their toboggans and skis for snowboards. And that makes me a spectator.

Just beyond the golf course, Strong Island Road forks off to the left, leading to one of Chatham’s busy town landings, where fishermen of all stripes unload their catches. I bear right instead and stay on Fox Hill as it narrows and snakes along the water’s edge. I’ve never been on this portion of the road before. It’s no more than a sandy spit, and just when it seems that land is about to disappear completely, Easy Street opens up on my left. I hesitate for a moment, my stomach still questioning the wisdom of this meeting, and then I turn in.

It’s clear at once that precious few of us can aspire to live on Easy Street. The road hosts only a trinity of homes. Number three appears first, on my left, a stately colonial on manicured grounds. It’s sealed up for the season, sheets of plywood nailed over its windows and doors to protect them from Cape Cod’s fierce winter winds.

I pass number two next, on the right, a pristine, newly shingled saltbox surrounded by dozens of hydrangea bushes, their few remaining blossoms a faded blue. It too stands abandoned, its cobblestone driveway empty, its shutters closed, waiting for the warmth of summer to lure its absentee owners back to Chatham’s charms.

Number one is on the left at the end, on the water. It’s a gem. A classic Cape with a gambrel roof, a waterside deck, and a floating dock, it’s obviously an antique that’s been painstakingly restored. I park the Thunderbird in the oyster-shell driveway and head for the side of the house, intending to knock on the kitchen door as Cape Codders always do. The front door opens first, though, just as I reach the steps to the deck, and a woman’s voice stops me in my tracks.

“This way,” she calls at my back. “Right this way. I am some kind of happy to see you, darlin’.”

It’s a Lauren Bacall voice: deep, throaty. But that’s not what makes me freeze. She sounds like the Kydd. Louisa Rawlings is Southern.

She’s cut the distance between us in half by the time I turn around. Long, certain strides carry her toward me, across a brick walkway, her full red lips glistening. She’s in tight black slacks and heels, her long-sleeved white silk blouse tucked in at her belted waist. Louisa Rawlings is six feet tall if she’s an inch. No, taller; she’s even taller than Harry.

And she’s stunning. Statuesque.

“You must be Mrs. Nickerson,” she says, extending her hand. Her French manicure is perfect. So is her makeup. And her shoulder-length, auburn hair.

I’m not quite sure how to respond. My mother was Mrs. Nickerson. “Marty,” I tell her as we shake hands. “Please. Call me Marty.”

“Marty it is,” she says, latching on to my arm as if we’re old sorority sisters reunited at last. “Let me tell you right now how grateful I am for your help, Marty. Harry Madigan says you’re the very best.”

I feel myself tense when Harry’s name rolls so easily off Louisa Rawlings’s tongue, but she doesn’t seem to notice. She leads me back across her brick walkway and through the front door. As we enter the foyer, I remember she’s only lived on Cape Cod a month. She doesn’t know, yet, that we don’t use our front doors. We come and go through kitchen doors, always.

I follow her down a short hallway and through the living room. It’s sparsely furnished in beiges and ivories, each piece looking as if it were created specifically for the spot it occupies. Huge wood beams and uncomplicated moldings throughout the room have been restored, not replaced. The same is true of the dark wooden mantel above the fireplace, as well as the two ovens built into the hearth beside it. And the soft pine floor, though refurbished, is the original. I can tell by the width of the boards, by the way they dip and slant, and by the square heads of the nails that secure them.

We pass through the kitchen next, where top-of-the-line appliances and granite countertops meet the old-world charms of a butcher block table and an antique built-in hutch. On the other side of the kitchen is an enclosed sunroom, a porch of sorts, with screened windows to filter the ocean breezes on warm summer nights. Louisa stops at the entry and steps aside, waving me in ahead of her, a gracious hostess. She follows and shuts the double doors behind us.

The windows are closed against autumn’s chill and the sunroom is warm, bathed in the golden glow of Cape Cod’s singular morning light. The room’s oversized, curtainless windows frame an unobstructed portrait of Strong Island and the open ocean beyond. A half dozen white wicker rocking chairs, all with cushions that mirror the vibrant blue of the water, face the glass. If there’s a more breathtaking view on the Cape, I haven’t seen it.

“Sit down, darlin’. Make yourself at home. What can I pour for you?” Louisa turns her back to me and walks toward a brass tray on the white wicker table by the windows. It holds a thermal coffee pitcher and an electric teapot, along with two cloth napkins that match the cushions. When she faces me again, she’s arranging bone china cups and teaspoons on saucers. I sink into one of the rockers and set my briefcase on the slate floor.

“Coffee,” I tell her. “Coffee would be great.”

Her golden tan defies the calendar. Above her scooped neckline hangs a single strand of cultured pearls and a lustrous matching gem rests on each earlobe. She’s perfect. My stomach was right; I shouldn’t have come here.

“Cream and sugar?”

“No, thanks. Black is fine.”

“That’s how you keep your girlish figure,” she says, looking up from the table and smiling.

I don’t want to have this conversation with Louisa Rawlings.

She hands me a cup of coffee and a napkin, then eases into the rocker across from mine. “Me, on the other hand,” she says, crossing her long legs and working her tea bag, “the only reason I drink tea is so I can have lots of cream and sugar.”

She needn’t worry; the calories seem to know where to go. I don’t say so, though. I don’t plan to discuss live bodies with Louisa Rawlings. Not mine anyway. And certainly not hers.

Once she’s settled in her rocker, I set my cup and saucer on the edge of the side table, pull a legal pad from my briefcase and a pen from my jacket pocket. It’s time to get to know a few things about Louisa Coleman Powers Rawlings.

CHAPTER 5

Harry taught me an important lesson when I moved from the prosecutor’s office to the defense bar: Keep the initial client interview spare. Get the big picture; reread the pertinent cases; think it through. And then hand-select the follow-up questions. On this side of the bar it’s better, sometimes, not to know everything.

“Mrs. Rawlings,” I begin, “why don’t you summarize the events of the past week for me. We’ll go back later and fill in the details.”

“First of all,” she says, leaning into the space between us, “the only Mrs. Rawlings I know is my mother-in-law, a woman who sobbed through her baby boy’s wedding, from beginning to end. And let me assure you, darlin’, hers were not tears of joy.”

I almost laugh, but catch myself. This isn’t a social call, after all.

Louisa leans back in her chair, smiling again, and recrosses her long legs. “It gives me an enormous amount of pleasure to report that Mrs. Rawlings went to her heavenly reward some years ago.”

This time I can’t help it. I laugh out loud and Louisa joins me. “So please,” she begs, mock dismay in her large, chocolate-brown eyes, “let that woman rest in peace.”

“Okay,” I tell her. “I will. Now why don’t you give me the short version of what happened, Louisa.”

She stops laughing but her smile lingers. She stares at me and shakes her head. “I’m afraid that’s about all I can give you, darlin’.”

I wish she’d stop calling me that. I reach for my coffee and stare back at her. “What do you mean?”

She falls quiet and her gaze moves to the water. Her shoulders are broad—swimmer’s shoulders—and the sheer sleeves of her blouse hug well-toned, athletic arms. “I mean the short version is all I know,” she says. “Only Herb knows the rest.”

I nod.

She sighs, shakes her head, and her eyes return to me. “Knew the rest, I suppose I should say.” She stares into her lap. “I just can’t get used to talking about Herb in the past tense.”

I nod again. That’s a sentiment I’ve heard before, more than once.

“Anyhow,” she says, “I’ll tell you as much as I can.”

I set my cup down and reposition my legal pad.

“It happened on Sunday.” She pauses and swallows hard. “Five days ago, but it seems like a century. I’d gone to the club. A few of the women members had invited me to play nine holes—make it a foursome—and then have brunch at the grill. When I got home, the house was empty. Herb was gone and so was the boat.” She looks up at me and reaches for her teacup.

“Was that unusual?”

She sips and shakes her head. “Not at all. Herb was crazy about that boat. Carolina Girl, he named it. That’s why we moved here”—she points out at the floating dock—“so he could keep his baby girl at the back door. It didn’t surprise me at all that he’d taken her out.”

I keep my eyes on her, but say nothing. I want Louisa Rawlings to do the lion’s share of the talking. It’s her story, after all. And once she tells it to the Chatham cops, she’ll be stuck with it.

She takes a deep breath and holds it for a moment, then lets it out slowly and leans toward me once more. “It was close to noon by the time I got home. I went straight in to shower, then put on my robe and came in here with The New York Times. That’s when I found his note.”

She opens a small drawer in the wicker table next to her chair, pulls out a single sheet of plain white paper and hands it to me. Five short lines of boxy handwriting in blue ink are centered on the page:

My dear Louisa, Sometimes I don’t make good decisions. I realize I’ve let you down. Please forgive me. Always, Herb

I pass it back to her, well aware that neither of us should be handling it. But that’s the prosecutor’s worry, not mine. And so far at least, there is no prosecutor. She returns it to the drawer and looks over at me, apparently awaiting a question.

“Did you call the police?”

She sighs. “No, I didn’t. Not then.”

“Why not?”

“It didn’t even cross my mind. It never occurred to me that I was looking at a suicide note. I wish to God it had. Maybe someone could have reached Herb in time, talked some sense into him.” She sighs again, gazes out at the water, and falls quiet.

“What did you think it was?”

She looks back at me, her eyes the darkest brown I’ve ever seen. “I knew what it was,” she says. “At least I thought I did.”

She stops, takes a deep breath, and I wait.

“Herb was having trouble,” she says at last.

Now we’re getting somewhere. We’ll be hard-pressed to explain the man’s suicide if he wasn’t having trouble of some sort. “What kind of trouble?” I ask.

She’s quiet again.

“Financial?”

She shakes her head. “Oh no, darlin’. Money was never a problem.”

I do wish she’d stop calling me that. “What, then?”

She folds her arms and looks into her lap. “I’m sorry,” she says, “but I find this somewhat difficult.”

“Take your time,” I tell her.

Finally, Louisa swallows and looks up, but not at me. Her eyes rest instead on some spot over my shoulder. “Herb was a good deal older than I am,” she says.

“Harry mentioned that. Fifteen years?”

She nods. “And he was having trouble…with his…”

Her eyes move to mine. She’s apparently hoping I can fill in the blank, but I can’t. I shake my head at her.

“…his function,” she says.

“His function?”

“His erectile function.” She exhales the words, her eyes still averted.

“Oh.”

“I urged him to see his doctor about it, but he kept putting it off.”

I nod, hoping she’ll keep talking, but she doesn’t. She seems to expect a reply. “Maybe he was embarrassed,” I venture.

“That was part of it,” she says, shaking her head, “but it’s not the whole story. Since his retirement, Herb put most things off. When he was working, he was a take-charge, get-things-done kind of man. But once he had time on his hands, he turned into a professional procrastinator. He loved this house—threw his heart and soul into the renovations—and he loved that damned boat. But everything else could wait. And I do mean everything.”

Louisa pauses and sips her tea, then looks over at me to see if I get the picture. I nod again to tell her I do.

“Anyway, we’d had a little…session…on Sunday morning,” she says, looking away again, “before I left for the club. It didn’t go very well.”

“So you thought the note was about that? About your failed session?”

“Exactly,” she says. “I wasn’t worried when I found Herb’s note. To tell you the truth, I was glad he’d taken the boat out. I enjoyed the afternoon here alone, even finished the Times crossword puzzle. Not something that happens every week.” She smiles and sips again.

“But then?”

“But then it started to get dark. And I knew something was wrong. Herb always brought the boat in well before dark, no matter what water he was on. He was cautious that way. And he had a few lobster pots in the channel. He always checked them on his way in—always—and he needed light to do that. He caught so many I’m sick of eating lobster already. We’ve started giving them away.”

She pauses. I wait.

“When I realized it was starting to get dark, I did call,” she says. “I called the police; they alerted the Coast Guard and the harbormaster’s office. Of course, sunset isn’t the best time to begin a search for a missing vessel. They did what they could, called it off at midnight, and then started all over at daybreak.”

Louisa looks out at the water again. “They found the Carolina Girl early Monday morning, not long after the search resumed. She was up on the shoals in the Great South Channel with a good deal of hull damage. They also found the half dozen life jackets Herb always kept on board.” Her eyes leave the water and meet mine again. “They didn’t find Herb, though.”

“Harry told me they still haven’t recovered his body.”

“That’s right,” she says, staring out at the ocean. “Not yet.”

“I’m sorry, Louisa.” I mean it. And I wish I’d said it sooner.

She’s quiet.

“When did the police contact you?”

“Right away,” she says. “Two detectives came to the house early Monday morning. There’d been an accident, they said, a boating accident.”

“Did you think they were right?”

She faces me again, shakes her head. “Not for a minute. Sunday afternoon was glorious. We had some weather that night, but not until late. During the day, seas were calm, winds light. Herb was at home on the ocean. He’d been boating since he was a boy. And as I said, he was cautious; he respected the water.”

“Did you tell the police what you thought?”

She shakes her head again. “No.”

“Did you mention the note?” I already know she didn’t. If she had, it wouldn’t be here.

“I didn’t even think of the note until hours after they’d gone. I didn’t connect it with Herb’s death until later in the day.”

“What else did the detectives tell you?”

“Very little,” she says. “They asked when I’d last seen Herb, where I’d been when he took the boat out. They also asked questions about Herb—basic information—and wrote my answers on a form. They asked me to sign it when they finished, then offered their condolences and left. I didn’t expect to hear from them again.”

“But you did.”

She nods and sets her cup down. “Yesterday. One of them phoned first thing in the morning. Walker, I think his name was.”

“Mitch Walker.”

“That’s it. Anyway, he said additional facts had surfaced, asked if I’d come to the station, answer a few more questions. He was evasive when I asked what the additional facts might be. He said Herb’s insurance company had contacted him, had raised new concerns, but he wouldn’t say what they were.”

“Life insurance?”

“Yes. New England Patriot.”

“How much is there?”

“A million,” she says. “At Herb’s age, it didn’t make sense to carry any more than that.”

“You’re the sole beneficiary?”

“That’s right. And I may as well tell you now, that fact didn’t sit well with Herb’s daughter.”

“His daughter?”

Louisa nods. “Anastasia. A product of his first marriage.”

I make the initial entry on my legal pad: Anastasia Rawlings.

Louisa flashes a devious grin over her teacup when I look up, as if we share a wicked secret. “I’m the trophy wife,” she says.

Well, of course she is. The term was probably coined for Louisa Rawlings. “What about your predecessor?” I ask. “Is she still in the picture?”

“No. She was a good sort, Bess. Never cottoned to me, but I rather liked her. Passed on a few years back. Heart trouble.”

“Is Anastasia Herb’s only child?”

“Yes, thank the Good Lord. And a child she is. Forty-five years old going on seven.”

“Is she married?”

Louisa laughs. “Married? Anastasia? Good heavens, no. She’s a career woman of sorts. A professional spoiled brat.”

Second entry: Only child. No love lost.

“But she is joined at the hip to a washed-up beatnik,” Louisa continues, “a flower child gone to seed. Lance Phillips. Calls himself a murder mystery writer. A modern-day male incarnation of Agatha Christie. Lance is always one scotch away from a runaway best seller, so he finds Anastasia—not to mention her ready access to her father’s wallet—rather attractive.”

Third entry: Beatnik boyfriend Lance Phillips. Aspiring writer.

“Anyway,” Louisa says, “I had already heard that New England Patriot was kicking up a fuss about the claim. Steven Collier—he’s my financial advisor—had started the process the day before. He’d contacted the agent, had him surrender the policy. But the agent reported meeting with a good deal of resistance. A claim without a corpse is automatically suspect, I suppose.”

It occurs to me that a claim submitted less than forty-eight hours after rescue efforts cease might raise a few eyebrows too. A fourth scribble finds its way to my legal pad: Steven Collier, financial advisor/Quick-draw McGraw.

Louisa pauses to set her teacup on the side table. “Speaking of Steven,” she says, opening the drawer in the small table again, “he thought you’d want this.” She hands me a stapled legal-size document that the cover page identifies as a life insurance policy. Herb’s. Quick-draw McGraw is on top of things.

“Anyway,” Louisa continues, “I couldn’t imagine what issues the insurance people might have raised with Detective Walker. He clearly wasn’t going to enlighten me on the telephone. And he was abrupt; his tone made me nervous. So I told him I’d cooperate in any way I could, but not without an attorney. He agreed. That’s when I called Harry.”

She shrugs and folds her hands in her lap, then lets out a small laugh. “And here we are.”

“When does Detective Walker expect to ask you these additional questions?”

“On Monday,” she says. “He wants me at the station first thing in the morning.”

“Then he’s in for a disappointment.”

“How’s that?” Louisa tilts her head to one side, curious.

“You’re not going to the station.”

“I’m not?”

“No. I’ll call Mitch this afternoon and tell him. He can ask his questions in my office. We’re talking to him voluntarily. We’ll do it on our turf, not his.”

Louisa folds her arms, smiling at me. “My, you are scrappy,” she says.

I bite my tongue. If Harry told his old flame that I’m scrappy, he’s a dead man.

“Between now and Monday,” I tell her as I get to my feet, “we have a fair amount of work to do. Are you free to meet both weekend days?”

Another small laugh escapes her. “I don’t have a date, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“I like to work in my office in the mornings.” I hand her a business card. “But I think we should meet here again, walk through it all a few times and go into a little more detail. I’ll plan to be here at noon both days if that’s all right with you.”

“It’s fine,” she says.

“And I’d like to bring my associate along. If this thing heats up at all, or drags on longer than we expect, I might need an extra pair of hands.”

“Whatever you think.” Louisa stands and walks to the window. “I should tell you,” she says, her back to me, “that I was planning to leave Herb.”

My stomach tightens and I lower into the chair again. “Did he know?”

She turns and walks back across the room toward me. “I hadn’t told him yet,” she says, her eyes lowered, “but I think he knew.”

“Does anyone else know?”

“Yes,” she says, and she sits too. “My lawyer, Fred Watkins.”

No problem there; it’s privileged. And I know Fred Watkins. He’ll take every one of his clients’ secrets to his grave.

“And my financial advisor.”

Problem. I make a check next to Steven Collier’s name on my legal pad.

“I’m glad you told me, Louisa. It may turn out to be important. Let me give it some thought. One more question before I go, though.”

She nods.

“Was Herb having any difficulties other than what you’ve already told me?”

She thinks for a moment, then shakes her head. “No, just his…”

“Function,” I finish for her. I grab my briefcase and stand yet again.

Louisa stands too. “So how is Harry Madigan?”

If there was a segue in her mind, I don’t want to know about it. “He’s well,” I tell her.

“We went to law school together, you know.”

“He mentioned that.”

“I was quite fond of him.”

Not as fond as he’d hoped, though. I bite my tongue.

She laughs. “He used to call me Mona Louisa.”

Too much information. I head for the double doors. It’s time to get out of here.

“You’re his law partner?” Louisa follows me.

“That’s right.”

“Such a dear boy,” she says to my back.

Of course. Harry’s still twenty-five in her mind’s eye. A boy.

“I’ll never understand it,” she says. “He’s brilliant, don’t you think?”

“I do.”

She falls into step beside me and shakes her head. “Graduated near the top of our class. Could have had any job he wanted. Chose that awful criminal work.”

Louisa doesn’t seem to remember that just yesterday she asked him to do some of that awful criminal work on her behalf.

“I was so pleased,” she continues, “when I saw he’d opened a private office, gotten away from that public defender business. But I understand he’s handling the same dreadful cases, just doing it under his own roof.”

Perhaps I should mention that one of the dreadful cases under his roof is hers.

“And what about you, darlin’? Where did you go to law school?”

I pause at the front door, but not for long. I’ve had enough darlin’s for one day. “Same as you and Harry,” I tell her. “I was two classes behind you.”

“Really? You and I were on the same campus for a year and I didn’t notice you? I can’t imagine that.”

I can. “Are you from Georgia, Louisa?” I’m surprised to hear myself ask the question.

“Good heavens, no,” she says. “I’m a North Carolina girl, a Tarheel through and through.”

Of course. Carolina Girl.

Louisa’s expression suggests North Carolina and Georgia are in different galaxies. “Why do you ask, darlin’?”

I shrug. I don’t know why the hell I asked. So she could call me darlin’ one more time, maybe. I wanted this conversation over five minutes ago. “Our associate is from Atlanta,” I tell her. “I thought your accent sounded a bit like his.”

Louisa arches her perfect eyebrows at me. “I can see we’re gonna have to teach you a thing or two about the South, honey chil’.”

Maybe darlin’ wasn’t so bad.

I turn back toward the front door and notice what looks like the face of a touch-tone telephone on one side of it. “A security system?” I ask.

She nods.

“Was it activated on Sunday?”

She shakes her head. “We had it installed when we renovated,” she says, “but neither one of us was very good about making use of it. We were never even good about locking the doors, for that matter. I’m not sure I’d be able to find a key.”

I stop on the front step and face her. “I don’t lock mine either,” I confess. “Most people in this town don’t.”

She laughs. “It’s not as if we live in a high-crime neighborhood.”

Her smile fades at once. It’s pretty clear she regretted her last sentence before she finished it. “Herb kept saying we should,” she adds. “Especially at night, he said, we should lock the doors and activate the alarm. He kept telling me that he, at least, was going to start.”

“But he never got around to it,” I finish for her.

“That’s right,” she says. “He never did.”