CHAPTER 44
Harrison leaned back in his desk chair at the
Breeze, ignoring its squeaking protests as
his mind traveled along several pathways. He had been researching
Zellman for about an hour and had developed a very unflattering
picture of the man.
It was weird. He’d learned Zellman was
in his office right now. Working. As if nothing had happened. As if
his son weren’t in the hospital, clinging to his life. As if his
wife weren’t dead.
It didn’t make sense.
Unless . . . Harrison called Stone,
who, for once, picked up.
“Stone.”
“It’s Frost. Hey. I’ve got a question
for you. The cell phone calls I’ve been getting from Justice
Turnbull on Zellman’s phone? Have you tracked that phone down? Made
sure it’s in someone else’s possession?”
“I can’t discuss the details of this
investigation with you, Frost. You know that.”
“Off the record?”
“Doesn’t matter. Why? You don’t think
it was Justice who phoned you?”
“I don’t know. Look, I’m going to want
to ask you a few more questions about what happened at Siren Song
for a story. Can we meet?”
“I’m a little busy right now.” There
was an edge to Stone’s words.
“Will you call me when you locate that
phone? I have a personal interest in it, you know, since I’m the
one who gets the calls on it.”
“As I said, I can’t discuss the details
of the investigation.”
“I tipped you to the Zellman house,”
Harrison reminded the detective. “Because the lunatic called
me.”
“When we’re ready to go public with
everything, you’ll be the first person in the media I contact. Now,
I’ve got another call.”
Stone hung up and Harrison listened to
his other messages, both from Pauline Kirby, wanting to interview
him as a “witness” to the Zellman murder.
As he headed out, he lifted a hand in
good-bye to Buddy, who yelled at him, “Where you
going?”
“Got an interview,” Harrison
said.
“You got a story for Connolly? ’Cause,
man, I’m not staying here all night.”
“Work it out with the
boss.”
Harrison was out the door, in his car,
and on the road to Halo Valley, thinking about the phrase that he’d
said to Stone: because the lunatic called
me.
Why was that? Why hadn’t Justice called
Laura and harassed her? Why him, one step out? At the time Harrison
had thought it was because Justice preferred to contact Laura
mentally, throw his taunts out into the atmosphere and scare the
bejesus out of her. But she claimed to have shut him down on more
than one occasion . . . so why not threaten her on the phone as
well? If that was part of his MO, why not call Laura the usual
way?
Zellman had claimed he’d added
Harrison’s name to his list of contacts in his phone, that it was
an automatic thing with him. He’d wanted a journalist’s number at
hand?
He didn’t buy it.
He thought about the raspy voice on the
phone, one he assumed was Turnbull’s hissing threats, but really?
The doctor knew Turnbull’s speech patterns, what irritated him. . .
.
And asking for press? Turnbull? That
just wasn’t what made him tick.
So, why call Harrison
Frost?
A tense feeling settled in the pit of
his stomach as Harrison considered the possibilities. By the time
he reached Halo Valley, he’d convinced himself that Dr. Maurice
Zellman was not the victim of anything other than his own deceit
and treachery. In fact, in the whole dark scenario that filled his
mind, Harrison felt Zellman could have been pulling the strings of
everyone involved in the investigation from the onset. How else did
they know anything about how Justice Turnbull thought or acted?
Only from his psychiatrist, the one man who was his confidant, his
only contact with the outside world.
The more he thought about it, the more
the pieces of the puzzle fell into place, and he could hardly
believe it had taken him this long to see it.
It was only a matter of proving
it.
“You son of a bitch,” Harrison said, as
if the psychiatrist were in the car with him.
An hour later he was angling his Impala
into the Halo Valley Hospital lot. He gazed with a locked jaw at
the redwood and concrete building, that bastion of good intentions
and failed results, at least in Justice Turnbull’s case. Side A,
Side B, it didn’t matter. Just like a bad LP.
Slipping his pocket recorder and cell
phone into his pocket, Harrison considered his Glock, then decided
against it. Too many security cameras and even metal detectors in
the mental hospital. He left the 9 mm in his locked glove box, then
locked his car and walked into the hospital.
The receptionist on Side A was cool.
“Dr. Zellman’s actually not seeing anyone,” she said, obviously
starstruck by her boss.
“I realize he’s still recuperating, but
please let him know I’m here.” He slid his card across the desk.
“Tell him I think I have new information and want to run it by him,
get his professional opinion.”
She stared at him a long second, then
sighed and hit a button on her phone.
Zellman’s voice, a rasp Harrison
recognized, answered. “I thought I told you I didn’t want to be
disturbed.”
“I’m sorry, Doctor,” she said, “but
there is a Harrison Frost from the Seaside
Breeze who wants to talk to you.” Sliding Harrison a dubious
look, she relayed the rest of his message, and to the girl’s
wide-eyed surprise, Zellman said, “He’s here? Well, then, I guess
you’ll have to send him in. Remind him I’m a busy
man.”
“Oh, he knows, Doctor,” she said and
clicked off. She buzzed Harrison through and gave him instructions
that guided him to a skyway where private offices and conference
rooms were located. Those he could access without a security code;
Side B, where Justice Turnbull had been housed, was
off-limits.
He clicked on his micro-recorder and
kept the device in his jacket pocket.
Zellman was seated at his desk, where
he was typing on his laptop while scanning a couple of
green-jacketed files lying open on his ink blotter. His
camel’s-hair jacket had been tossed onto a hall tree; his shirt
collar, left open. The bandage around his throat was visible, as
was his irritation.
Shoving away from his desk, he motioned
Harrison into one of the two visitor’s chairs facing the desk. “I’m
busy,” he said with effort.
“I thought you were at the hospital
with your son.”
“He’s doing well. . . . Cuts were
surprisingly superficial, thank God.”
“Too bad your wife didn’t get so
lucky.”
“Yes,” he said, his face clouding. Was
it with grief? Guilt? Fear? He sighed. “Is there something you
wanted?”
“I’m surprised you could come into
work.”
“I know. It’s difficult but I’m not
good at waiting around.”
Harrison decided to take off the boxing
gloves. “I did some research on you, Zellman.”
The doctor narrowed his gaze and said
in a whisper, “Doing an article on this mess?”
“Mmm. Your wife filed for divorce two
weeks ago.”
Zellman blinked. “A misunderstanding.”
But he was more wary now.
“Your marriage was over a long time
ago.”
“Mr. Frost, I loved Patricia. Still
do,” he said, affronted. “This is preposterous. If you’ve finished
harassing me, you can go.” He seemed to struggle to talk, but
Harrison wondered. Was it all a crafty, malicious
facade?
“You wanted her out of your life, and
you saw a way to get rid of her. Even if it involved hurting your
son.”
“What?” Zellman was on his feet,
appearing agitated and, for the first time, dangerous. Harrison
kept his eyes on the doctor as he sputtered, “Get out! Before I
call security!”
“Call them.” Harrison settled farther
down on his back and stared up at the psychiatrist. “Did Brandt get
in the way? Try to save your wife?” he asked, a quiet rage seething
through his blood.
“You’re insane!”
“You should know.”
“Get out of my office, now!” Zellman
ordered, his voice clearer, the skin over his reddened cheeks drawn
taut. Beneath the cultured reserve was a fierce, angry
man.
“Did she want all your money? Or, was
it that she just wanted out? Big ego slam.” Harrison narrowed his
eyes, as if he understood. “Oh, I get it. There’s someone on the
side, right? A girlfriend? You couldn’t risk the chance of losing
your rep or your fortune.”
“I have never been unfaithful to my
wife! It was Patricia—,” he started to say, then backpedaled
quickly, trying to recover. “It’s true. She wanted a divorce. She
didn’t care a whit about how that would affect Brandt, at his age.”
He added icily, “It was she who had affairs, Mr. Frost. She who
didn’t understand the boundaries of marriage, the responsibilities
of raising a son . . .” He was stock-still, his anger having
crystallized into something clear and cold and deadly. “Patricia
couldn’t possibly see what a divorce would do. Her plebeian
upbringing was always coming into play.” He sneered down at
Harrison. “She didn’t even finish college.”
“Because she got pregnant with your
son.”
Zellman’s eyes flashed a rage that had
been seething for years, possibly decades.
“And that’s why I’m here at Halo
Valley. Instead of teaching at Harvard, doing research at Yale . .
. whatever.”
“So you killed her?”
“I told you—”
Harrison kicked his chair back and
leapt to his feet. He towered over the shorter man. “You pretended
to be Turnbull! You called me, played me, pretended to be that
twisted nut job so that I would call the police and we would all
buy into your pathetic act!”
“That’s enough!” Zellman reached into
his top drawer and pulled out a Taser.
Whoa. Harrison
focused on the weapon. It wouldn’t kill him, but it would render
him helpless so that Zellman could use something else to kill him .
. . the knife that he’d used to carve up his family. “Do you think
you can really get away with this?” Harrison asked, knowing that
there was no way to avoid the shock of thousands of volts if
Zellman decided to use the weapon he must have been issued for
extreme cases in dealing with the criminally insane.
“You’re deluded, Mr. Frost.” Zellman
was calm again as he pointed the Taser at Harrison’s chest. “I
assume you know the meaning of incapacitation via neuromuscular
shock? Or maybe compliance via pain is more your style. Either way,
this weapon is guaranteed to shoot enough voltage through your
system to make you convulse and gasp, and squeal in pain like a pig
being slaughtered.” He offered Harrison the coldest smile he’d ever
seen.
“And you’re a fuckin’ murderer,
Mr. Zellman.”
“It’s Dr.,”
Zellman spat back, his voice clearer than ever. “I’ve earned my
degree and title, and people like you and Patricia never
understand.” The weapon quivered a little in his hand. Zellman’s
stun gun was without a cartridge. He wouldn’t be able to shoot
Harrison from a distance or create the neuromuscular havoc he
mentioned, but he could sure as hell zap him with enough
electricity to send him to the floor. But he could do it only if he
actually touched the weapon to Harrison’s body.
No way would he allow
that.
Nor would he back off.
“Did you let Turnbull go on purpose?
Fake your injury? Did you let that monster out in the world just so
you had a cover to murder your wife and son?”
“Brandt is alive! He’s . . . going to
make it! His wounds are only superficial!” A darkness gathered in
his eyes, and Harrison realized he was hoping that Harrison would
make the first move, jump him and force him to take defensive
measures. The man’s lower jaw was trembling in rage or fear.
Harrison couldn’t tell which it was.
“You could have killed him,” Harrison
charged, ready to spring at a second’s notice. He kept his gaze
locked on the psychiatrist’s eyes.
“I would never!”
“Sure you would. You’d take care of
anyone who got in your way. Including Brandt!”
“You don’t know what you’re talking
about!”
“How many times before were the police
called to your place for domestic violence, huh? Just because the
charges were dropped doesn’t mean it didn’t exist. What did it cost
you to keep Patricia from leaving? Flowers? Diamonds? Or maybe a
white BMW—”
“She was never satisfied!” Zellman
roared, his voice strong as it quivered with fury. “Never.” He
re-aimed the Taser to make a point. Threatening. “Come on,” he
goaded. “Come on, attack me.”
“So you have a reason to use that
thing?” Harrison said, though he was sweating bullets.
“I don’t need a reason!” Zellman
snapped. He lunged, the teethlike prongs of the stun gun
glinting.
Harrison leapt to the
side.
Zellman missed. Nearly fell
over.
“You self-serving fraud!” Harrison
vaulted over the chair and grabbed Zellman’s arm, forcing the guy
down. Was it his imagination, or did he hear footsteps? “In here!”
he yelled toward the open doorway.
Zellman twisted and, teeth bared,
forced his hand around.
Harrison shifted but felt Zellman press
the stun gun against his arm.
Oh
damn!
Zzzzzzztttt!!!!!
Pain, so excruciating he screamed, shot through Harrison’s left
forearm.
His knees buckled and he fell, knocking
over the chair and dragging Zellman to the floor. Writhing, he
rolled over the smaller man and was rewarded with another jolt of
two hundred thousand volts.
“Stop! Police!” a deep voice said from
the hallway, and to Harrison’s immense relief, Deputy Langdon
Stone, weapon drawn and aimed at the doctor, strode into the room.
“Maurice Zellman, you’re under arrest.”
“I don’t like this,” Catherine said
sternly as she relocked the gun closet and handed Laura the little
revolver, a .38 Smith & Wesson snub nose that had some years on
it.
“I don’t either, but I think I need a
weapon. A serious weapon.” Laura knew what she had to do. Justice’s
last missive, a horrid image of all her sisters writhing in their
death throes, convinced her.
She had to stop him.
She was the one.
“I didn’t tell the police I fired it.
None of us did,” Catherine said.
Laura and Catherine walked outside and
stood a moment on Siren Song’s front porch. The rain dripped
steadily off the roof, and a brutal wind was kicking up. The door
was closed behind them, no one else had been allowed to know what
Laura wanted, but she noticed the curtains in the living room move
and a pair of eyes—Cassandra’s, she thought—peeking through. Then
there was the shadow of a wheelchair visible through the narrow
window near the front door. Lillibeth was hovering, hoping to catch
a phrase here or there.
It had been hours since Laura had seen
Harrison, and in that time she’d formulated her shortsighted, if
necessary plan, eventually calling in sick to work, then loading
her car and driving back to Siren Song.
“You don’t have to do this.”
Catherine’s face was grim, the lines in her face more pronounced
than ever, and her hair, in the drab day, was an equally drab
gray.
“Something has to be done, and I’m the
only one who can contact him.” Laura said it without inflection,
and the older woman gazed at her in worry.
“This has been such a
nightmare.”
“Hopefully now it’ll be
over.”
Catherine didn’t appear convinced as
she reached into a pocket of her voluminous skirt and came up with
an old box of bullets. “God help me,” she whispered, handing over
the ammo and folding her fingers over Laura’s. “Please, be
careful.”
“I will.” She forced a
smile.
“If you’re not calling the
police—”
“I’m not.” She wasn’t going to spook
Justice before she had the chance to confront him.
“Then, please, take that reporter,
Harrison Frost, with you. He seems strong and sturdy, and Lord
knows he loves you.”
Oh, Catherine, if you
only knew.
Laura nodded because she knew there was
no way Catherine wouldn’t keep harping at her until she agreed. The
older woman frowned, obviously wondering at Laura’s quick
capitulation, but Laura left her to her thoughts. “I’ll see you
soon,” she promised and hugged the woman who had tried her best to
raise her.
“Take care.”
Laura released Catherine and hurried
away, along the puddles of the pathway to the main gate, where Earl
waited to bolt the gate after her. She climbed into her Subaru with
the rubber raft strapped to its roof rack, an earlier purchase, one
she’d made on a whim but one that could very well prove to be a
necessity if she kept with her plans.
She knew facing Justice bordered on
lunacy, but she didn’t care. This had to end. And it would.
Tonight.
Harrison watched as Zellman was led
away, his hands cuffed behind his back. It had taken fifteen
minutes to read the psychiatrist his rights and haul him out of his
place of business, but now Harrison and Detective Stone were alone
in the doctor’s tidy office.
“How did you know?” he asked
Stone.
“Same as you. The domestic violence
charges were dropped, but there were the accusations. Zellman’s
half nutty himself. Thought his wife was having affairs when she
wasn’t. And then the knife wounds on Brandt and Patricia Zellman?
Inconsistent with the wounds on the two women at Siren
Song.”
“So Turnbull was attacking the women at
Siren Song while Zellman attacked his own family?”
Stone was nodding. “The timing seemed
too close, so we had to start looking at Zellman as the possible
doer. He planned it all along. I even checked with his physician.
He was faking his injuries, or at least making them appear worse
than they were. He pretended he couldn’t talk, then mimicked
Turnbull on the phone when he called you. We did find the phone. In
a garbage can near the Drift In Market, close to where the last
call was made according to the cell phone company tower records.
I’m betting my badge the only prints we find on it are the
doc’s.”
“You came at the right moment. I think
he was going to claim I was attacking him and he shot me in
self-defense.”
“How’re you feeling?” Stone
asked.
Harrison moved his arm, which was down
to a dull throb. “Electrified.”
Stone smiled thinly. “Good thing you
don’t have a weapon on you. Or a recording device, because we
wouldn’t want anything to compromise nailing Zellman for his wife’s
murder and his kid’s assault.”
“Good thing,” Harrison agreed with a
straight face. “I can’t believe the bastard attacked his own
kid.”
“He never meant to really hurt him. It
was a cover. He had to make sure the kid didn’t get up during the
attack. But Brandt didn’t sustain any deep cuts. He didn’t
recognize his dad, either, as he was attacked in the dark while he
was sleeping. Or, at least he says he didn’t. By the time he was
conscious and thinking, Zellman had barricaded him in the room by
shoving a hall dresser in front of the door. Brandt was too weak to
get out and then passed out, we think. Still working on that.”
Stone exhaled heavily. “Zellman had to have had a pretty bad moment
there, at the house, when it looked like Brandt was hurt worse than
he thought.”
“Good,” Harrison stated
coldly.
They were walking across the skyway.
From the glass crossing, Harrison looked down on the parking lot,
where emergency vehicles and police cruisers were parked, lights
flashing, the night settling in. An officer was helping Zellman
into the back of a car.
Stone said, “I’m not kidding, Frost.
Don’t mess up my arrest, okay? Zellman may be crazy as a loon, but
he’s still wealthy, can afford a good lawyer. This case has got to
be pristine. If you have a recording or notes, I don’t want to see
them. Ever. In exchange, once it’s over, you’ll get first crack at
interviews with the department and Zellman.” He slid a glance at
Harrison. “And this conversation never happened. You need to come
down to the department and make a formal statement.” Then he walked
swiftly away, calling the elevator.
Harrison waited until he saw Stone in
the parking lot; then he reached into his pocket, withdrew the
micro-recorder, tossed it onto the floor, and squashed it with the
heel of his boot.
That accomplished, he picked up the
pieces, stuffed them into his pocket, and pushed the call button
for the elevator.
He glanced at his watch. Seven p.m. Now
that Zellman was behind bars, he had to concentrate on
Turnbull.
He thought of Laura, of course, but
didn’t go there. Not yet.
Once outside, he jogged to his car,
turned on his cell phone, and read through his texts before he got
behind the wheel.
The message that made him take notice
was from Buddy, sent fifteen minutes earlier.
Blond chick here with info on Manny
Rojas killing at Boozehound.
He stared at the screen, disbelieving.
The anorexic blonde? Was this some kind of a joke? The same “skinny
blonde” who had stopped into the Sands of Thyme and talked to
Kirsten? That was who that was? The one with information on
Manny’s death? He felt that quick little
rush of adrenaline pump through his blood he always felt when a
story was coming together. And this one, about his sister’s
husband, was more than just something he found interesting. It was
life changing. For Kirsten. For Didi. For him.
Sliding behind the wheel, he called
Buddy, who answered on the second ring. “Is the woman still there?”
he demanded.
“Yeah, but it’s late, y’know? I
convinced her to wait, but we’re trying to go home here.” Then,
“She is kinda hot, though, in that super-skinny model
way.”
“Is she legit? I mean her
story.”
“You tell me.”
“I’ll be there in twenty,” he said.
“Tell her I really want to talk to her.” He hit the gas. Was this
possible? After all this time, she just came forward?
But there had been a thin blonde the
night of the shooting. . . .
He slid into a parking spot at the
newspaper in fifty minutes, then hurried inside. Sure enough,
seated in front of Buddy’s desk, wearing a short skirt, boots, and
a long-sleeved T, was a really thin woman with platinum hair
feathered around her sculpted face, which had a bored expression.
The smell of cigarette smoke surrounded her as she saw him enter.
“You’re Harrison Frost,” she said, and Harrison knew, from viewing
the tapes from the security cameras surrounding Boozehound, that
this was indeed the woman who’d witnessed the murder of his
brother-in-law. “I’ve been following what’s been happening with
you.”
“And your name is?” he
asked.
“Marilla Belgard. I was at the club
that night, and I know who killed your
brother-in-law.”
“You would make a statement to the
police?”
“Sure.”
“Why now?”
She snorted. “Does it
matter?”
“Yeah. It does.”
“Guilty conscience, I guess. I saw that
you lost your job and well”—she fiddled with the gold cross danging
from a chain around her neck—“the Lord found me and I’ve been
atoning . . .”
Harrison grabbed his notepad and said,
“Go.” After a halting start, she gave him the whole story, which
included admitting to knowing Bill Koontz, working for him as a
party planner, overhearing him talking one night about how to “get
rid of Rojas.” She hadn’t known he’d planned to have Manny killed
until the shooting. She’d disappeared after the doer shot himself,
afraid for her life; then, finding a new faith, she’d decided to
come clean to Harrison.
“I should have done it earlier,” she
said, still fingering the cross that dangled between her protruding
collarbones.
“Let’s just deal with the here and now.
I’ll call Detective Langdon Stone with the Tillamook Sheriff’s
Department. He’s a friend of mine.” Well, that was probably
stretching the truth a bit. “It’s not his jurisdiction, but he used
to work with the Portland Police Department, so he’ll know where to
steer us.”
“You’ll . . . you’ll be with me,
though, right? I’m not really cool with cops.”
“Isn’t Jesus?”
Marilla eyed him speculatively. “Are
you making fun of me?”
Harrison shrugged. “I’ll call Stone and
we’ll head down in my car together.”
She relaxed a bit. “If you let me smoke
in your car.” She looked at him ingenuously. “I’m not kidding. Cops
kinda freak me out.”
“It’ll be fine,” Harrison said, the
bigger problem being the time that was passing and the fact that he
was beginning to worry about Laura. He’d let his temper get the
better of him, and now, after he’d been beat up by and lectured by
Kirsten, zapped by Zellman, and confessed to by Marilla Belgard, he
was beginning to cool off and realize how much he missed her, how
much he worried about her.
Escorting Marilla to his Impala, he
checked his phone, saw no message from Laura, and figured she had
to be still angry. Well, she had a right, he supposed. As soon as
he squared Marilla Belgard with Stone, he’d find Laura and they
would work this thing out. Of course, he had a story to write,
telling the truth about Manny’s death, vindicating himself. But
that story could wait a few more days, once Bill Koontz was
arrested.
But Justice was still out there, and
Laura wouldn’t be safe till he was caught.