Before I Sleep Page 15

  He followed her.

  “Otis,” she said.

  He made an impatient sound. “Just because the caller says—”

  She whirled on him. “You're going to tell me it's a copycat?”

  He held up his hands. “Easy, babe.”

  “I am not your babe!”

  He stuffed his hands in his pocket. “Don't I know it.”

  For an instant, just the merest instant, she thought he looked almost wistful. Not now! Not with this murder hovering in the air around them. This was not the time …

  But as fast as the look had come, it had vanished from his face and he was all exhausted business again. “Look, I can't be sure the vic was slashed. Nobody can until the M.E. checks it out. But it looks like it. It could be a copycat. It could be some sicko who's capitalizing on the publicity surrounding Otis's execution. And that's what I'm going to hear from my superiors if I start suggesting what you're thinking. So, at least for right now, let's just leave that aside, okay? First we have to catch this guy anyway. No phone call is going to be enough to convince anybody who matters that Otis didn't do the Kline killings. You know that Carey. You know that.”

  “We've got two weeks, Seamus. Just two weeks! Christ!” She wrapped her arms around herself and tried to stop shaking. “How the hell are you going to feel if you catch this creep three weeks from now, after Otis is dead, and you find out he did the Klines, too?”

  “Right now,” he said heavily, “I'm not going to think about that. It'll just get in the way.”

  “No, maybe it'll light a fire under your butt! Maybe you better take another look at the Kline killings. Maybe something got overlooked in the rush to pin it all on Otis.”

  “I'll check out everything that's worth checking out!”

  She shook her head and turned away from him. “You know, all the moral arguments about the death penalty are real nice philosophical discussions to have on a rainy evening over a glass of brandy. I've had them many times with other lawyers. But you know what really gets to me?”

  “What?”

  “Morality aside, it all comes down to one thing, Seamus. The finality of it. Once John Otis is executed, if evidence turns up exonerating him, there's not one damn thing anybody can do about it. It'll be too late! And that's what's really wrong with the death penalty. It's something we can't ever take back.”

  He didn't respond. After a couple minutes, that began to bother her. Seamus always had a response. It was one of the things she had liked about him in the beginning, the way they could have lengthy discussions about almost anything. Never once could she remember him answering anything she said with nothing but silence. Finally, she turned to look at him.

  “What aren't you telling me?” she asked.

  He looked sadly at her. “I'm being a coward.”

  “What? Why?”

  “I don't have to be the one to tell you.” He sighed. “On the other hand, you'll want to kill me if you get it from the papers or the news feed.”

  A chill began to settle into her bones, and a blizzard began to blow in her soul. Reaching out, she steadied herself on the back of a wing chair. “What?”

  “The victim was Harry Downs.”

  “Oh my God …” The room seemed to go dark, and her vision narrowed until it was a tiny tunnel with Seamus a long way away on the other end. A loud buzzing filled her ears, and the cold in her bones turned to an unhealthy heat before becoming cold again.

  The next thing she knew, she was sitting in a chair and Seamus was forcing her head down between her knees. Light came back to the world, and along with it a searing pain in her heart.

  Harry. She squeezed her eyes closed and tried to absorb the incredibility of it, the pain of it. A fleeting prayer winged heavenward from her soul, asking God to forgive her for the way she had hated that cocksure son of a bitch, hated him as much as she had admired him. Could hate kill?

  The craziness of that thought hit her like a bucket of cold water, clearing her head. Anger filled her. She snapped upright, shaking off Seamus's hand. “He was the lead prosecutor on the Otis case!”

  Seamus's answer was a long time coming.

  “I know,” he said heavily. “I know.”

  CHAPTER 11

  15 Days

  They made another pot of coffee. Seamus gave up all thought of getting any sleep. He was worried about Carey. Hearing that someone you knew had been brutally murdered, even if you hated him, was tough to take. Maybe especially if you hated him. Hate, after all, was as strong a feeling as love, and more likely to cause a sense of guilt. He remembered all too well the strong antipathy Carey had felt for Harry Downs. She'd made no secret of it around Seamus.

  She drank her coffee in silence, not even looking at him. Then she poured another cup. The first signs of a red dawn were beginning to streak the sky, and through the windows the shadowy shapes of the plants in her garden were just becoming visible. The dirty dishes were piled beside the sink, and he thought about washing them, just to have something to do. Fatigue felt as if it had seeped into his bones, though, so he let it go.

  He sat and waited.

  “He was the lead attorney on the Otis case,” she said again.

  “I know.”

  She looked at him for what felt like the first time in hours. “You're not going to ignore that!”

  “No. I'm not going to ignore that.”

  “If you won't review the Kline case, I will.”

  “Fine.” He waved a hand. “Help is always welcome.”

  “Don't patronize me.”

  “I'm not! But I don't think we're going to find anything there. If there was anything, we'd have found it back then. An awful lot of us looked that case over, Carey. There wasn't a whole lot of anything to go with.”

  “There was enough to get the wrong man convicted.”

  He didn't bother arguing with her because, quite frankly, after tonight he was beginning to have some serious doubts himself. Maybe she was being irrational, thinking that something had been overlooked in a case that had been gone over with a dozen fine-tooth combs, but she was entitled to a little irrationality.

  Besides, it made him feel better that she was getting into fight mode. That was a hell of a lot more hopeful than her sitting there in utter silence staring at nothing.

  Caffeine was buzzing through his system, making him feel edgy, but not enough to cut away his tiredness. Finally, he said, “We both need to get some sleep. Neither one of us is going to be any good to anybody if we don't get some shut-eye.”

  She nodded slowly. “I guess.”

  He didn't like the way that sounded. Worry stirred again. “How about I crash on your couch?”

  “It's not big enough. You'll never get any decent sleep.” She stood and went to empty her mug in the sink. “Come on, you can share my bed.”

  For an instant, his heart leapt but then it settled back down. He knew she didn't mean that. Not now. Not under these circumstances. And it wouldn't have mattered anyway because he was too damn tired.

  They climbed the stairs together. She crawled under the covers of her king-size bed still wearing her kimono. He kicked off his shoes and stretched out beside her, on top of the covers, wearing his shirt and slacks. His gun and shield he put on the bedside table.

  A king-size bed, he noticed, and wondered who she had shared it with. He brushed the thought aside. All that mattered was that he would know if she stirred. Then sleep reached up and sucked him down into its welcome forget-fulness.

  Carey found no such relief. For a long, long time she stared up at the brightening ceiling and tried to hold the demons at bay.

  Strong arms held her, and Carey burrowed into their warmth, luxuriating in the hazy hinterland between sleep and waking. She felt safe and secure, and some deep-rooted longing was being satisfied by the arms that held her. Seamus. His body heat was like a warm fire on an icy night. It had been so long ….

  But gradually her waking senses grew aware of other things. One o
f them was that he was awake, and trying gently to ease away. The other was that the faint, nauseating scent of death clung to him.

  Harry Downs. Her heart slammed into high gear, and anxiety hit her, driving the last sleepiness away. She jerked her head up and found Seamus looking down at her, his eyes alert, though reddened from lack of sleep.

  “I have to go get that tape,” he said.

  “I'll go with you.” She rolled away quickly, not wanting to be close to him any longer. He was a promise of things he couldn't give. Hadn't she learned that the hard way?

  She could feel his gaze on her back as she rummaged through her closet, trying to decide what she wanted to wear.

  “I can't drive you back,” he said. “I'm supposed to meet my partner at noon, and I need to shave and shower before I go in.”

  “No problem. I'll follow you.”

  They didn't even bother to make coffee, but left as soon as she was dressed.

  Following him in her Jeep down I-275, Carey forced herself to focus on how thoroughly rotten she felt from lack of sleep. The last thing she wanted to remember was how good it had felt to wake up in his arms.

  They made good time, pulling into the station twenty minutes later. Carey walked Seamus past reception, straight to Bill Hayes's office.

  “Come in,” Bill called in answer to her knock. She opened the door to find him on the phone.

  He raised a finger, indicating he needed a moment, then raised his eyebrow when he saw Seamus. “It's all good PR,” he said into the phone. “The more weirdos, the better. Listen, I gotta run. I'll get back to you on that.”

  He hung up the phone and waved to the chairs facing his cluttered desk. “Have a seat. What's up?”

  Seamus waited until Carey was seated, then took the remaining chair.

  “This is Seamus Rourke with the St. Pete PD,” she said. “He wants the tape of the Ted Sanders show last night.”

  “I heard about that call.” Bill looked Seamus over, as if trying to determine his caliber. “I believe in cooperating with the police, but this is station property, and we have our own uses for it.”

  Seamus's expression never changed. “I'm perfectly willing to get a warrant. From what I hear, something on that tape may be relevant to a murder that took place over the weekend.”

  Bill sat up a little straighter. “Really?” He rubbed his chin. “I suppose you want the original.”

  Seamus nodded.

  Bill sighed. “Can I copy it first? I want to use part of it in a promo spot.”

  Seamus shrugged, smiling pleasantly. “That's fine by me.”

  “Can you give me a half hour or so?”

  Seamus looked at his watch. “I'll be back in an hour.”

  Out in the hallway with Carey, Seamus said, “An hour is time for breakfast. Join me?”

  She felt a remarkable lack of hunger, maybe because they'd had breakfast just six hours ago, or maybe because Harry Downs was dead. “I need to call some people, and I'm not really hungry.”

  “So have some coffee with me. We need to do a little brainstorming anyway.”

  That perked up her interest. “Okay.”

  At least he didn't pick a traditional breakfast spot. Carey thought she would vomit if she had to smell frying bacon. Instead he drove them to a bagel shop, where they both got bagels and hot coffee and sat at a corner table.

  “How good are your friends at the State Attorney's Office?” he asked her.

  She considered the question. “I've got some sources over there.”

  “Do you think you can get a look at the Otis file?”

  “It's been five years. I don't know how much is left, other than public documents. But yes, I can get whatever they have. It might take a couple of days to get it out of storage, though.”

  “Worth a try. If you're willing, I also want you to take a look at everything they've got in the newspaper morgues.”

  “Really?” She wouldn't have thought of that.

  “Well, it might tip us to somebody involved in the case who could have had a reason to pin it on Otis.”

  She nodded.

  “And follow it up to the present. Any link to Otis at all. Besides, it'll give me a list of potential victims, if whoever killed Downs is really going after people involved with the case.

  Carey felt the back of her neck prickle, as if a cool breeze had wafted over her. “I was involved in the Otis case.”

  His expression was grim. “Believe me, I haven't forgotten that.”

  He didn't say any more, but he didn't need to. Carey could connect the dots as well as he.

  As soon as Seamus picked up the tape and left her at the station, Carey found a phone and called Evan Sinclair over at the State Attorney's Office.

  “I can request the file, Carey,” he told her, “but I can't let it out of my possession. You'll have to come over to my place to see it.”

  Evan had been hitting on her for years. She stifled a sigh and wondered what was the best way to handle it so that she wouldn't wind up offending him beyond hope. Of course, if she went to his house and had to fend off his advances, that would probably put paid to their relationship for good.

  “I'll visit you at your office, Evan,” she finally said.

  “I deserve a little more than that.”

  “Okay, I'll buy you dinner. In a restaurant.”

  He laughed then, taking it in good humor. “Still hung up on that cop, huh?”

  Was she? she wondered after she cradled the phone. She doubted it, but one thing she knew for sure was that she felt no desire to carry her relationship with Evan past friendship. No sparks there, at least not on her side.

  Then, feeling a twinge of conscience, she called the IRS about Danny Rourke. This time she got through to a woman in the Problem Resolution Office, and soon had notes painting a bleak picture. Danny Rourke had stopped filing his income tax returns five years ago, but bank records showed he had still been making some money from his fishing business for the next couple of years. When all was said and done, the IRS was estimating that he owed well over sixty-five thousand dollars in back taxes and penalties.

  “He's an alcoholic,” Carey told the woman. “He's in a treatment center right now, and I can tell you he doesn't have a dime to his name.”

  “He's paying you, isn't he?”

  “I'm doing this pro bono.”

  “Oh.” Silence.

  “I understand you've confiscated some of his property. A fishing boat, in fact.”

  “We'll have to auction it. I doubt we'll get that much for it.”

  Carey was well aware that these auctions didn't bring full value, so she didn't argue. “Well, you can't get blood from a stone. The man is ill and broke. I'm sure we can negotiate something.”

  “I'll have to talk to my supervisor.”

  “You do that.”

  After she hung up, Carey felt a little better. At least she had managed to accomplish something to help someone.

  Sitting there, listening to the sounds of the radio station all around her, it suddenly struck her that it had been a very long time since she had felt she had helped anyone, except for her work with Legal Aid. Talk radio sure didn't give her the feeling that she was doing any good for the world. It didn't even give her the feeling that she was justifying her existence.

  Whoa there, she told herself sharply. This was not a good way to think.

  She had gone to law school with all kinds of idealistic notions and had managed to preserve them until working as a prosecutor had uprooted them one by one, leaving her cynical and wounded. Everybody had an ax to grind, and everybody lied, and all too often the cops weren't any better than the perps. She had watched political considerations be weighed into decisions that should have been made solely on the basis of the law. She had watched judges do back flips and act like prosecution stooges even though it meant ignoring the law or believing blatant lies simply because they had wanted to be reelected and feared being thought soft on crime.

&
nbsp; And in the end, she had come out of the process feeling sullied and raw. The good guys, it seemed, were motivated by the same self-interest that the bad guys were. And while the bad guys might steal and rob and rape, the good guys could take away people's lives by locking them up or killing them. In the end, she had found the law to be almost as dirty as the criminals it was trying to punish.

  But it had been five years, and during those five years, she had found satisfaction in her work with Legal Aid. The people who came to her there had relatively minor problems—divorces, landlord disputes, bankruptcies, employment problems—but the problems had been overwhelming them, and she had been able to offer an invaluable service. And in the process, some of her wounds had healed.

  But the last thing she wanted to do was let go of the protective shell of cynicism that she had built. It was all that stood between her and the pain she had felt when she realized that there was no room for idealism in the world, that horse trading was the bottom line for nearly everyone.

  There were exceptions of course, and she found herself remembering them now. Judge Greg Hanson, for one. He was considered a maverick and a wild card by the state at-$$$orneys, but he was a man who could be counted on to stand up for the law. And there had been a couple of prosecutors who'd been around long enough to be able to stand up to the political pressures that weighed so heavily on their boss, the State Attorney.

  And there had been Evan Sinclair, who had surprised her one day in court. A decree had come down from the higher-ups that the state's lawyers were not under any circumstances to accept downward departures from sentencing guidelines set by the legislature. The order had come through as the result of a newspaper investigative report that had recorded the percentage of downward departures being allowed in the county.

  The departures hadn't really been all that shocking. Every case, after all, had its own set of facts, and judges were trying to weigh the threat to the public in their sentencing decisions, especially when prisons were crowded. Some people, it was reasonably felt, were not likely to err again, or to be a threat to anyone else. But the stats looked bad in the paper, so the prosecutors were ordered to oppose downward departures.