Natural Suspect (2001) (22 page)

They ran faster. The ski masks were almost upon them, taking aim. But the street was crowded. Would they shoot anyway? Devin sped up
,
making peace with mowing down the homeless, but at the last minute the raggedy man did a Macarena to the right, so that Devin and Trent barreled past him, leaving him behind as he pirouetted into a surprisingly accomplished mambo.

" 'A little bit of Monica in my life ... ,' " the homeless man sang tunelessly, but the lawyers left him far behind as they tore down the street and reached Devin's car.

"Here!" Devin shouted, and she flung open the driver's side at the same moment that Trent sprinted for the passenger door and they both leapt inside.

Devin shoved a key into the ignition and slammed the pedal to the metal. The car lurched forward despite the snow and careered down the street until the bad guys in ski masks became tiny dots in the dark and objects in the mirror were, ironically, smaller than they appeared. Devin twisted the car through dark city streets until they had left midtown and the traffic and people in the distance.

They drove for half an hour, and in time the fancy eateries and apartment buildings gave way to fast food joints and run-down homes covered with graffiti. Devin had driven each block with one eye on the rearview mirror, and Trent had kept turning behind until he was sure they weren't being followed. They were both finally calming down, their breathing returned to normal, when they pulled up by the curb to figure what the hell was going on. "That was exciting," Devin said, meaning it.

"All except for the gun part. That was more excitement than I need."

"Ha!" Devin rested her hand on the steering wheel and caught her breath. "You did all right. Held up very well, especially for a guy who hangs with bunnies."

"You making fun of my bunny?"

"No, I'm making fun of you."

Trent smiled, despite himself. "What's up, doc?"

"What's up is I never heard of a district attorney keeping a rabbit for a pet. I mean, a Doberman, I can see. But a bunny?"

"It shows I'm sensitive."

"It shows you're stupid."

Trent fell quiet a minute. "You don't really think I had a rabbit for a pet, do you?"

"You did, until his untimely death."

"Buck was a very special rabbit."

"I'm sure. He understood you like no other mammal."

"No, not that." Trent paused. "In fact, Buck was the hippity-hoppity host for something very special, which is why I think he was killed."

"He knew too much?" Devin laughed, but Trent's face turned grave.

"His microchip did."

Devin laughed again. "You have to be kidding me."

"Not at all."

"Come on. I've heard some strange things in this case. Homicidal clowns. Missing toes. Lame lawyer jokes. But a
microchip?"

"It's true. That's what I was going to tell you about before." Trent shifted closer and lowered his voice, though there were no passersby on the street. Not this late, not in this weather, and certainly not in this tough neighborhood. Snow fell steadily, muffling the city noises and making a hush that Trent found soothing. "You know how you can embed microchips in pets, for identification?"

"No."

"Well, you can, in the back of their necks. You have to do it, for example, if you quarantine an animal for travel abroad."

"I don't travel abroad. I drive to Hoboken. I pretend it's Paris."

Trent smiled. He liked Devin. Number one, she looked good in a hot tub. Number two, they had just come through fire together and here she was cracking jokes. But he could see she didn't believe him, and he found himself wanting her to. "Listen. There was a microchip embedded in Buck's neck that contained a set of very important documents. When they killed Buck, they took the chip."

"But why a rabbit?"

"Because no one would ever suspect it. Or so I thought."

Devin shifted over. She was intrigued. "What's on the chip?"

"Documents I was supposed to be safeguarding, that showed fraud and massive price-fixing."

"By whom?"

"By the oil industry."

Devins mouth opened in surprise. "For real?"

"Absolutely. I'm not just an assistant D
. A
. I belong to an organization that. . . well, that tries to solve major problems. World-threatening problems. The oil business has been fixing prices since the days of Standard Oil. Haven't you wondered why you're paying two bucks a gallon and there's no shortage of crude? It's a damn shame and it costs the taxpayers here--and in every other state--hundreds of millions of dollars a year,"

"Was Hightower Oil involved?"

"You betcha. Hightower, under King Arthur, was the ringleader of a conspiracy that included five major oil companies."

Devin gasped. "I wonder if it had anything to do with his murder."

"I don't know. It's possible."

Devin straightened in the driver's seat. It had to be true, as crazy as it sounded. And it could help her free Julia, who was innocent. "But why did you charge Julia with murder, if you know this conspiracy did it?"

"Only by charging her have we flushed them out. I never would have let it go too far. I was going to drop the charges as soon as I could."

Devin didn't know if she believed him. And she didn't like her client being used. "You played games with Julia's life."

"She played games with everyone else, and to the extent there was a price-fixing scheme, she and her family benefited from it the most."

Devin let it drop. It was no use fighting about it now. "I don't get something. Why did you have the documents?"

"We were going to bring suit. The documents were the paper trail. You know how hard it is to prove a criminal conspiracy in antitrust law. I've been building this case for the past ten years. I was just about to move on it. File the first of fifty-two lawsuits around the country, jus
t l
ike the state attorneys general did with the cigarette cases. Think of the damages. The suit would have cost the industry a fortune and changed the way it did business--for the better."

"Wow." Devin nodded. She had misjudged Trent. He was a smart and handsome lawyer, fighting for justice and lower gas prices. It got Devin a little hot, but she suppressed it. There was still stuff to find out. "Why put the documents on the microchip, for heaven's sake? You can't use a file cabinet like everybody else?"

"Not for this case." Trent shook his head. "We've had break-ins at the D
. A
.'s office over this case--even my computer files were searched. It was going to be my big case, so I kept the documents myself."

"On Buck."

"Yep. That's why I kept that bunny with me all the time. Walked him until my neighbors started looking at me funny. Now, the case is all but lost." Trent shook his head and looked over the hood of the car. Snow dusted the windshield and back window like talcum powder. The lights of a passing car shone momentarily, then disappeared as the car moved on. Trent began to feel uneasy, and the snowy hush that had earlier given him comfort now disconcerted him. "We should get going, Devin."

"But I have to figure out who's behind this. Who killed Arthur--"

"--and who were the guys in the masks, and where the microchip is, I know." Trent glanced at the rearview mirror but it reflected only a snow-covered back window, too obscure to lend any safety. "Let's get out of here. We'll figure it out together. Tonight. Partners, okay?"

"Okay, but one last question." Devin had to know before she agreed to any partnership, whatever that meant. "What's the deal with you and Marilyn?"

"Why do you ask?" Trent noticed another set of headlights traveling slowly down the street, shining through the snowy window like a light through fog. "Forget it. We'll talk about it on the way, partner."

"Not so fast," Devin said, trying to sound casual, which wasn't her forte. "You must have known that Marilyn was Arthur's daughter."

"Of course I did. I just played her to get the information I needed."

"And did you?" Devin was too intent on the answer to notice th
e h
eadlights of a car behind them, but Trent did. The car was right behind them and it wasn't moving. Why? There were plenty of other parking spaces, especially in this part of town. Trent felt his gut tense; then he heard the sound of car doors opening, swiftly and with purpose.

"Devin!" he shouted. "Hit the gas! We've been followed."

"Oh, no!" Devin twisted on the ignition.

But this time it was too late. The car doors flew open, and the next thing Devin knew, she and Trent were being dragged from the car and borne bodily into the frigid snow.

Chapter
11.

I
'm scared." Marilyn
Hightowers hands trembled as she groped in her Hermfes purse for a cigarette. "I just know Morgan's next. Oh, God, I don't want him to die. ..." Her groping failed for the moment and so did words.

"Morgan, why Morgan?" Robert Rutledge was puzzled.

"I'm sorry to bother you at this hour, but I just didn't know where else to go," she cried. "Mummy's run away."

Marilyn was slumped on the leather sofa in Rutledge's office wearing a rumpled gray pantsuit and white turtleneck sweater. For the first time in her life her beautiful body looked as if it had acquired some knowledge of defeat. And it had. Her whole world had come to a bloody end in one gross betrayal after another. First her daddy's gruesome murder, then her mother's indictment, then poor Joe Kellogg. Poor loyal Joe. She shuddered to think of the manner of his death. Then just when it looked as if things were looking up for Julia in the trial department, she debarked in the
Silver Girl VI
for who knew where. It was all too much.

"Why don't you have a drink and tell me everything?" Rutledge offered.

Marilyn shook her head. "Oh, no thanks. No drink." She'd never drink again. She tried to collect her thoughts. Why would anyone kill Joe? All he'd done was prepare a silly will her father would never in
a m
illion years have signed. Daddy was always threatening to disinherit them, and everyone knew he never would. It had been the family entertainment for years. That's the reason no one took it seriously in the first place.

"You'll all be disinherited by Thanksgiving," was what Arthur Hightower used to say with great regularity. He was alwa
y$>
just about
to divorce Mummy and cut Marilyn and Morgan off. The only person who actually believed him this year was the one with no Hightower Oil stock. Marilyn sniffed. It was all so cruel and unnecessary.

"Tell me about Morgan," Rutledge urged.

"He betrayed me, Robert." And the worst of it was, Marilyn didn't care anymore. The facts were finally sinking in. Her daddy was dead. He couldn't revile or protect any of them anymore. No more , family games of that sort. The new ones were much deadlier.

When Marilyn had checked at the Commodore, she'd found out Julia had indeed debarked in the
Silver Girl VI.
Marilyn wanted and needed her mummy now, but once again her mummy was out of reach.

"We're all in danger," Marilyn muttered fiercely.

She wasn't quite ready to go into Morgan's marriage problems. She resumed her search for a smoke, her hands no calmer than before. All this was his fault. Marilyn didn't want to tell Robert how deeply ashamed she was of her brother's behavior, of everything stupid he'd ever done, including getting rid of poor Joe's body in the East River. Why on earth would he allow himself to be duped into doing that? He might be stupid, but he was no killer. Morgan was her only brother, but he was an idiot.

"It's a little late for that. My head is spinning. This story is so out of control. Ten devious minds have created this tangled web. Robert, it's a nightmare."

Ten. So many? "I'm so sorry, my dear," he murmured. "Please let me help you untangle."

Marilyn shook her head, furious at this soft-spoken gentleman. Who would believe it would lead to this? It was supposed to have been a lark--a way for her and Morgan, and Julia, to parlay their small ownership in Hightower Oil, that powerful holding company that was int
o s
o much more than oil these days, into some small measure of independence over their lives. Making the most of a bad situation. It was to have been a business deal, that was all. It wasn't supposed to cause all these deaths. It wasn't supposed to put her mother on death row.

Rutledge chewed on
the inside of his cheek. He was thinking that all his life he'd been looking for a woman who could stand up to him. Someone who understood his world. Someone who could be strong and tender at the same time, who was tough but could break down with emotion when emotion was called for.

"To tell you the truth," Marilyn said, "it would have been nothing to any of us if Daddy had just divorced Julia. We weren't always so helpless, you know. Morgan had his painting. I would have gone to work. Don't laugh. Nouveau pauvre is perfectly acceptable in any circle."

"Do you see me laughing?" Rutledge said seriously.