Natural Suspect (2001) (11 page)

On the desk before him lay the investigators preliminary report on the Hightower children, complete with highly informative color photographs (taken, by the looks of them, with a very long lens). It made for interesting reading, especially under the circumstances. While Joe Kellogg had assured him that he would deliver the votes when the time came, Rutledge hadn't gotten where he was by leaving things to chance. Assurances or no assurances, he liked to know with whom he was dealing. The fact that so much depended on the outcome of the trial presented its own set of problems. According to Rutledge's sources inside the courthouse, things were not going as well as might be hoped.

He reached across to the console on his desk and pushed the intercom button.

"Cordelia!" he bellowed into the box. "Cordelia, get yourself in here!"

While by no means a handsome man, he'd discovered that each successive million made him increasingly attractive to the opposite sex. That is, with the notable exception of his personal assistant, Cordelia. Impatiently counting the seconds it took her to respond to his summons, he wondered if perhaps he should try being nicer to her. But he immediately rejected the idea. Hell, the woman was privy to his personal financial statements. That should be aphrodisiac enough.

As soon as Cordelia set foot in his office, he reconsidered. If anyone was worth the extra effort, it was the green-eyed beauty who had worked for the last three months as his assistant. With her long legs and auburn hair, she seemed to embody the perfect combination of sex and class. The fact that she seemed totally indifferent to the effect she had on him made her seem, if anything, even more maddeningly attractive.

"Yes, Mr. Rutledge?" she inquired with the aloof correctness of a well-trained British servant. She was dressed in a cream-colored wool suit over a lavender silk blouse that contrasted dramatically with her green eyes. In her hand she held an oblong box, elaborately gift-wrapped in gold paper and tied with a red ribbon.

"What's that you've got there?" he asked, suddenly adopting the teasing tone he associated with flirtation. "You never said anythin
g a
bout it being your birthday. If I'd known I would have gotten you something special."

"My birthday is in July," she replied with a demure smile. "This just came by messenger for you. I was about to check my computer files to see whether you had a special occasion coming up when you buzzed."

"In that case, we'd better open it," he declared, taking the box from her hands. Like most millionaires, Rutledge adored presents. He held it up to his ear and gave it a shake. "Doesn't sound breakable," he observed playfully.

Rutledge pulled the ribbon and tore through the paper like an impatient child. Inside was a plain box of heavy brown cardboard. He lifted the flaps, quickly discarding the last sheets of gaily colored tissue that separated him from its contents. Cordelia stepped closer for a better look.

"What the hell is this?" demanded Rutledge, his voice clotted with a mixture of incredulity and rage.

Cordelia did not answer. Instead she staggered toward the door. All the color had drained from her face and the back of one hand was pressed to her lips in a caricature of ladylike revulsion. She fled from the room, leaving Rutledge by himself, staring at the neatly severed human hand.

Chapter
5.

I
s
everything okay
, Ms. McGee?" Judge Hardy asked.

Struggling to her feet, Devin didn't answer. She knew the judge hated to be interrupted, but she had no other choice. Last night's explosion changed everything.

"I asked you a question, Ms. McGee--is everything okay?" At this point, the ringing in her ears was almost deafening.
"I'm fine, Your Honor!" she
shouted at the top of her lungs.
"I just wanted to make sure I could hear you okay!"

Her voice boomed through the room and echoed off the wood-paneled walls. Behind her, a few members of the press couldn't help but laugh. Even McCandliss let out a little snicker.

The judge, however, was less than amused. "I can hear you just fine, Ms.--"

"I said I wanted to make sure I could hear you okay!"
she repeated.
"Don't worry, though, it's fine. Let's continue. "
"Are you sure, Ms. McG--"
"What?"
Devin shouted. "I said, are you--"
"A little bit louder!" "Ms. McG--" "Perfect!" she
shouted.

Scowling at the now-ready-to-burst members of the press, the judge crossed his arms and leaned back in his seat.

"Did I say something wrong your honor?"

"Why don't we--"
"What?"

"I was trying to make a suggestion, Ms. McGee. Considering your injuries and the seriousness of this proceeding, why dont we recess for the day so you can have a chance to recover from your injuries?"

Devin nodded at the judge.
"Thatd be great! Thank you., your honor!"

Slamming shut her briefcase, Devin whispered something to Mrs. Hightower and took off for the door.

"Nice trick," McCandliss growled as Devin flew past him in the aisle.

"Sorry," Devin grinned, pointing to her ear. "Cant hear a word."

The tall man
known by some as Stefan scratched the scar on his left cheek and cursed the monkey bars for ever being invented. With a forceful stride and a friendly nod, he strolled right past the security guard in the lobby. "Whats cookin'?" he threw in for effect.

"Same old, same old," the guard said with a wave.

Stepping inside the waiting elevator, he pressed the button marked seven. As he waited for the doors to close, he didn't lean back against the railing or rest his shoulder against the wall. He just stood there, unmoving, in the center of the elevator. Without a doubt, he hated the physical filth of the public world, and unlike his predecessor, he wasn't into showy, blood-on-the-walls torture sessions. He knew there was much more order--much more control--in keeping it neat. Put down some plastic; wrap it in a nice little box. Don't touch anything. That's the only way to get away with it.

He stepped out into the fluorescent-lit, blue-carpeted hallway and followed the signs to suite 727. There it was--thick black letters painted on translucent glass:
devin a. mcgee--attorney at law.

Checking over his shoulder, he made sure the hallway was empty. He opened both hands and dropped two bags to the floor: his black doctors bag and the plastic cooler. Going for the doctor's bag first, he opened the zipper, rummaged down past the blond wig, and pulled out a small, rectangular case that looked as if it might hold a Montblanc pen. With a quick flip, he opened the case and took out a thin, wire-tipped instrument. Sure, he was good at disguises and booby traps, but that was just the tip of the tall anal-retentive iceberg. A man in his line of work also had to be proficient at first aid, marksmanship, computer hacking, long-range weaponry, short-range weaponry, medium-range weaponry, scuba infiltration, Chinese jacks, and most important, lock picking. A silent flick later, the door swung open and the tall man was inside.

The office itself was sparse and uninspired: a small reception area in the front with a few randomly scattered magazines, and a larger office in the back lined with diplomas and a few personal photos. After checking out the layout for himself, the tall man returned to the reception area and, on a hunch, stepped behind the receptionist's desk. On top of the desk was a phone, a cheap black blotter, and a coffee mug. Raising an eyebrow, he pulled open all the desk drawers. Empty. Every one. Not even a stray pencil. Devin McGee may work in the back, but the reception area was just for show.

Proud of himself, the tall man approached the nearby coffee table and picked up a
People
magazine. It reminded him of the severed hand he sent to Rutledge. Was it too
Godfather
? he wondered, checking the always-easy
People
crossword puzzle. An homage is one thing, but he'd rather die than be derivative.

Flipping back to the front of the magazine, the tall man noticed that the issue was dated a year ago, and that the fraying subscription label was addressed to the Dental Offices of Dr. Milton McGee. She must be taking them from her father. How sad, he thought, as he tossed it back on the table. Must be a bad time to be a lawyer.

"Well?" Trent asked
, rolling toward his partner and propping himself up on an elbow.

" Well
what?" Marilyn shot back. Lying flat on her back, she let the covers dangle beneath her breasts.

"Well, was it better than the gardener?"

"Don't start with that."

"I'm not starting--I'm just curious."

"You're not curious--you're rubbing it in. You're like an annoying old uncle who always tells the same joke." She lowered her voice and continued, "Was it better? Was it better? Huh, huh, huh, huh?" Shifting back to normal tone, she added, "Get off my case already. We've been through it five hundred times."

"Doesn't make it right."

"I never said it did," Marilyn shot back. "I thought you didn't care if I slept with other people."

"That was just a lie to make you think I was edgy."

"Oh, I knew you were edgy--your bunny convinced me of that."

Trent smiled and turned toward the metal cage. Still wet from the morning's festivities, the rabbit shivered, its dark eyes focused angrily on Marilyn.
I hate you
y
it seemed to say.
I hate you, meat.

Marilyn glanced down at her fur coat on the floor, then grinned back at the enraged rabbit. "You'll never win!"

"Marilyn, can you please stop teasing him?" Trent begged.

"Why? Suddenly you're jealous?"

"Of course I'm not jealous. I just. . . just leave him alone, okay?"

"He star--"

"I don't care if he started it--and stop trying to change the subject. We were talking about you and the gardener."

"Actually, we were talking about me and the rest of the populace. And the way I remember it, you didn't seem to mind when it turned you on."

"That was different."

"Only thing different was the number of people in bed. And no offense to you, pretty boy, but you're not half as much fun alone."

Clenching his teeth, Trent tried to play it cool. He wasn't going to give her the satisfaction. "Let me ask you this," he added. "If it was so bad, why'd you beg for another go-round this morning?"

"You mean besides making you late for court?"

"Late for--? I thought you said it was--" He looked at the alarm clock. 7:50
a
. M
. He grabbed his watch from the nightstand. 9:50
a
. M
.
"What the hell is wrong with you?" he asked, jumping out of bed. "Why d you set it back?"

"To be a bitch," she said with a twisted grin.

"Don't play mind games with me, psycho queen. It's not funny anymore."

"Actually, I think it's really funny. Hysterically funny."

Trent continued to hop around, struggling to get dressed. "I'm serious," he said as he pulled on his pants. "I don't like being tricked."

She lifted his tie from the floor and dangled it in front of him. "Silly rabbit," she purred. "Tricks are for kids."

He ripped the tie out of her hands. "I knew you were going to say that! Everyone says it! You can't even help it, can you? It's so old and easy, it just comes right out!"

"So do you, but you don't see me complaining."

Trent stopped where he was. "Have you always been such a vampire?"

She pulled the covers over her breasts and grinned. "When we used to go to Disney World, I'd bring a wheelchair so we could cut all the lines."

"You're sick, y'know that?"

"I hope so," she said. "But that doesn't mean I don't want you to win."

Shoving his feet into his shoes, Trent raced for the door. "We'll discuss the rest of it later. Just feed Buck before you leave."

"Whatever you say, lover boy."

The door slammed shut, and Marilyn stared at the rabbit. Its nose twitched with rage. Refusing to take her eyes off him, she got out of the bed and reached for the phone. Eleven digits later, a voice said hello. "It's me," Marilyn explained as she approached the cage. "Yeah. Yeah, he just left. He didn't even think about it--it's just like I told you-- typical male." Leaning down toward Buck, she slowly brushed her fingernails against the bars of the cage. "Hold out the right carrot, and they'll always come running."

Following the twisting
and turning hallway, Devin McGee had her chest out and her head high. Sure, it wasn't right to trick the judge,
but. . . well ...
at least it bought her some time. Like her Crim Law professor used to say, "When it's out of your control, get it out of the courtroom."

At the end of the hall, she quickly approached suite 727. Seeing the familiar
devin a. mcgee--attorney at law
sign, she reached into her purse and pulled out a small wad of keys. She slid them in the door and was relaxed by the thunk of the opening locks. The sounds of home. Twisting the doorknob, she thought she heard something move, but as she flipped on the light switch, all she saw was the familiar
my lawyer's bigger than your lawyer
coffee mug sitting on the always-empty receptionist's desk. There was another sharp noise behind her and the door slammed shut--but before Devin could react, a thick, meaty hand clamped over her mouth. Her eyes were still focused on the happy bright red letters of the coffee mug. That was the last thing she saw.

After a trip
to his apartment for a quick replenishment of clothes, Patrick didn't waste time getting back to his office. Despite his limp, he stormed through the humming newsroom, marched past the unending rows of cubicles and, without stopping, threw open the door to Whitechapel's office, sending it crashing into the wall. Whitechapel was in the middle of his midmorning ritual: With an open can of anchovies in his hand, he was hunched over his desk, flipping through a six-inch stack of various-sized newspapers. The competition'll kill you in New York.

Hoping to keep the conversation private, Patrick closed the door behind himself, leaving just the two of them alone in the office. Whitechapel was so caught up in his reading material, he still hadn't looked up.