Sheer Gall (31 page)

A moment later, the elevator thunked to a stop and the door slid open.

“Ah,” she said, positioning herself in the open doorway, “we're here.” She flipped the elevator switch to off. With the gun trained on me, she backed slowly out of the elevator. “Now get up and put your hands behind your head.”

I got to my feet, my hands tingling. I kept my eyes on her the whole time. The gun was pointing at my face.

“That's good,” she said. “Now, walk slowly toward me. Slowly. No sudden movements, and none of that karate crap, or they're going to be scraping your brain off these walls for weeks.”

I stepped out of the elevator and onto the metal platform. We were inside what looked like a chain-link cage about the size of a walk-in closet. The cage was anchored against the back wall of the north leg of the Arch. In front of me, beyond the front end of the cage, the two side walls of the Arch angled in to meet at the inner point of the triangular leg. Fastened along that inner point was the elaborate system of hoisting cables and transporter track that hauled the trams up and down the Arch.

Amy had her back to the cables and track. She stepped to the side and gestured with the gun. “Go ahead. Take a look.”

I walked to the edge of the cage and looked down. I caught my breath and grasped the chain-link fence.

She laughed. “Nice view, eh? We're a little over halfway up. Three hundred seventy-two feet, to be exact.”

I peered down, slightly dizzy. The inside of the north leg of the Arch was dimly illuminated by an occasional bulb, but there was enough light to follow the transporter track and cables all the way down the triangular shaft until they curved out of sight into the tram loading zone beneath the Arch. A stairway zigzagged up the three walls of the shaft. I stepped back and looked up. The stairs continued their zigzag path and disappeared around the upper curve of the Arch hundreds of feet above my head.

“Back when I worked here,” Amy said, “I once walked all one thousand seventy-six stairs. That's one hundred and five landings. It's a good workout.”

I turned to face her, my back against the cage. “How could you have done it alone?”

“Done what?”

“Killed her.”

She shrugged. “Talent, I guess.”

“But how did you get her tied up?”

She smiled. “Oh, that was the easy part. I had help.”

“Who?”

“Sally.”

I looked at her, mystified. “What?”

Amy stepped closer, the gun still aimed at my head. “She loved it.”

“I don't understand.”

She gave me a sensual wink and did a lascivious bump and grind. “Everybody loves to fuck Amy. Neville McBride did, Bruce Napoli did, even Benny. But no one, and I do mean no one, loved it the way Sally loved it.” She arched her eyebrows and whispered, “Especially when I tied her up. She was a kinky little bitch.” She moved closer. “Surprised, Rachel?”

I said nothing.

She stepped up to me and pressed the gun against the side of my forehead. “Actually,” she hissed, close enough for me to smell her breath, “even with her fancy diploma and all those awards, Sally Wade was nothing but a grubby piece of white trash.” She stared into my eyes as she slid her left hand slowly up my leggings along my right inner thigh. “But you, Rachel—” She paused to lick her lips. “I've always had a thing for high-class pussy.” She slid her hand the rest of the way up and grasped me between my legs. Her eyelids fluttered as she pressed her hand hard against me. “What a shame,” she said with a carnal sigh.

I tried to mask my revulsion.

She stepped back, her expression suddenly cold, and pointed toward the door in the chain-link fence. It opened onto a stairway landing. “Time for our hike. Let's go.”

She followed me to the door. “Open it.”

I did. My hands were trembling.

“Up,” she said.

I started up the stairs, my eyes scanning the area as I searched for possibilities. The stairs were set against the wall, and the guardrails were chest-high and fenced-in.

“How far?” I asked, my voice a little steadier.

“Five more flights,” she said. “We're going up to the scenic overlook.”

I turned toward her at the next landing. Fear was churning inside me, but I wasn't going to let myself give up. I needed time, though. I needed time to figure out my options.

“I want to ask you something,” I said, surveying the area. I could see boxes of tools and a couple of folded drop cloths on the next landing up. I looked down at Amy. “Who did the car bomb? Junior?”

“Junior?” She laughed. “That incompetent nigger couldn't walk and chew gum at the same time.”

“Then who?”

She shook her head ruefully. “You must be referring to my reluctant partner, Brucie Goosie.”

I stared at her in amazement. “Bruce Napoli?”

She grinned. “Surprised, eh? Sally gets all the credit there. Maybe Bruce was looking for a revenge fuck at first, but Sally got him hooked on gallstones instead. She cut him in on the action for access to his contacts. And my oh my, they do come in handy.”

I frowned. “Contacts?”

Amy nodded. “When your name is Napoli and one of your brothers is in jail and the other runs a security business, you have access to all kinds of talent.” She raised the gun toward my head. “Now move it.”

I turned and headed up the stairs in silence. We passed the landing with the toolboxes and kept going.

“Were you the one who hired me?” I said as I walked.

“Huh?”

I turned. “Were you the fake Sally Wade who came to my office that day?”

She smiled and shook her head. “Oh, no. I hired a professional actress for that part. She had Sally's bone structure.”

“Who is she?”

“That poor floater.” She put on a mournful face and made a tsk-tsk sound. “The one they fished out of the river by the McDonald's. She got a little too greedy.” She gestured upward with the gun. “Come on.”

I turned and started up the stairs. My options were limited and lousy: run or attack. Running seemed the worst of the two. I was at least three hundred stairs from the top and thus three hundred stairs from safety. Amy had the gun and was in good shape, which meant an escape run would most likely end with a bullet in my back. Attacking her wasn't much better, but it was probably my only hope. If I could find a way to get her near me, I could try for the gun.

“Here we are,” Amy said as we reached a landing surrounded by chain-link fencing. “We used to call it Lover's Leap.”

We were at least two-thirds of the way up the Arch. The curve above us was much more pronounced.

“Over there,” she said, gesturing toward the door at the edge of the chain-link cage.

I looked to where she pointed. The door appeared to be a gateway to nowhere, a portal into thin air more than four hundred feet above ground. But as I approached I saw the ladder beneath. It was a steel-runged ladder, attached to the edge of the landing directly under the doorway. It led down to what looked like a huge fuse-box anchored to the back wall. I turned back to Amy. She was standing in front of the stairs, cutting off any escape.

“Amy,” I said, “this'll only make it worse for you.”

She laughed and raised her gun. “It's definitely going to make it worse for you. Open the door.”

I turned and grasped the doorknob. I shook the handle, pretending that I was trying to open it. I looked back at her and shrugged. “I think you need a key.”

There was a momentary flicker of uncertainty in her expression, and then she pointed toward the corner. “Same drill as the elevator,” she said. “Sit down and don't move.”

I backed to the corner and lowered myself slowly into a squatting position as Amy stepped to the door. I glanced toward the stairway. Too far. I'd never make it. Frustrated, I jammed my hands in the pockets of my jacket. My right hand bumped against the key-chain weapon. I caught my breath.
Option Three
.

I moved my hand around the chain, searching for the right grip, my mind racing.

Amy held the gun with both hands and aimed at the door lock. Squinting, she pulled the trigger. The gun bucked as I turned my head, squeezing my eyes closed. The roar was deafening. When I opened my eyes there was smoke on the landing and the acrid scent of gunpowder. Through the smoke I could see that the door had swung all the way open.

Amy turned and gestured toward me with the gun. “On your feet.”

I watched her carefully as I got to my feet, my right hand still in my coat pocket. I had a good grip on the chain.

“Get back over there,” she said, pointing toward the open doorway.

I moved past her slowly. “Amy?”

“What?”

I was facing the doorway. I kept my voice low, hoping it would force her to move closer. “Did you have Sally's death planned out the first time you slept with Neville?”

“Oh, I was considering it back then,” she said with a chuckle, “but Neville didn't move to the top of my list until the second night.”

“Why then?” I had my legs at shoulder width, knees bent.

“That's when I found that bondage Polaroid of Sally. It was perfect. Sally loved me to tie her up, and I knew it'd be a lot easier to kill her in that position—and it was. Just a plastic bag over her head, three minutes of flopping around, and that's all she wrote.”

I glanced down. Amy's feet were right behind me. Keep her talking, keep her distracted. “Did you save his semen the first time, too?”

“Of course.” She chuckled. “A girl can't ever be too careful, you know. I have a little jar of Benny's, too. Just in case.”

I turned my head, checking her position, tightening my grip on the chain. “Just in case what?”

She raised her eyebrows. “Just in case he gets to be a problem after you're gone.”

Get ready
, I told myself as I took a deep breath and leaned forward slightly, tensing my arms.

“I don't understand,” I said, closing my eyes, trying to visualize Faith Compton's instructions.
It's a two-step move: out slow until the chain is fully extended, then up and around hard
. Carefully, I lifted my right arm, feeling the chain extend. I inhaled deeply.

Amy snorted arrogantly. “Just in case Professor Goldberg decides to pick up where you left off on this case. He's going to find it pretty distracting when I scream rape and the hospital nurses find his sperm inside me.”

Her words were just background static. I was ready. The blood was roaring through my veins.

One…two…
NOW!

With a yell, I whipped the chain around in an arc and whirled toward her. Her eyes widened in surprise just as the keys smashed into the side of her face. The impact spun her off balance and knocked loose the gun, which clanged along the floor. She staggered back against the cage to the left of the doorway, reaching for her face, her legs wobbling.

I dove across the floor toward the gun. Grabbing it, I spun toward her. She was leaning against the chain-link cage, her hand covering her right cheek and temple. I tried to hold the gun steady with both hands as I gasped for air. She was staring at me in dismay as bright red blood trickled through her fingers.

As we faced each other in silence, we could hear the distant metal clatter of footsteps approaching from above. Amy raised her head toward the sound, and then looked back at me in confusion. I got to my feet, my breath still jagged. As I tried to catch my breath, I looked up. I could see several flashlight beams jumping along the stairways about a hundred feet above us.

“It's over,” I said to her.

“No,” she said dully, shaking her head.

“Oh, yes.” I could feel the wrath building within me. “After Benny dropped me off, he called that security guy. He's up there right now, and it sounds like he's bringing the cavalry along.”

She stared at me as if in a daze. The sounds of footsteps were coming closer.

I glared at her with disgust. “You'll need a miracle to avoid death row.”

Her eyes seemed to glaze over. She lowered her right hand from her face, revealing a gaping flesh wound above her cheek. Blood was dribbling down her face and neck. There was utter despair in her eyes. She turned toward the open doorway and sank to her knees. Her left hand grasped the chain-link fence, fingers spread wide.

The clattering above grew nearer. A deep male voice shouted, “Rachel Gold? Rachel Gold?”

I looked over at Amy. Her body was leaning through the opening, swaying slightly, her left hand supporting all the weight.

I realized too late. “Amy,” I said, starting toward her, “don't.”

She released her grip as she turned her head toward me. Our eyes locked for an instant as her body tipped through the opening. Then she disappeared over the edge.

I stood motionless, staring at the opening, trying to ignore the sounds of her plunge.

A moment later a familiar voice said, “Rachel?”

I turned.

It was Walter Brunt. He touched the brim of his fedora as six armed park rangers joined us on the landing, their walkie-talkies crackling. One of them peered down through the open doorway and leaned back, shaking his head.

Walt surveyed the scene on the platform, his seasoned eyes taking in the key chain and the blood and the gun in my hand. He looked at me with solemn eyes and nodded. “Nice work.”

Chapter Thirty-six

Havdalah
is Hebrew for separation, and for all the bittersweetness that separation connotes. The
havdalah
service, held at sunset on Saturday, marks the moment of separation from the Jewish Sabbath. It is a wistful pause at the border between the sacred and the secular.

Three symbols anchor the ceremony. One is the goblet of wine, first used to welcome the Sabbath on Friday night and now refilled to remind us of its joys as it departs. Another is the braided candle with two wicks—a symbol of fire that marks the beginning of the work week and a distant echo of the first Sabbath, which Adam ended by building a fire. And last is the box of spices, used to buoy the spirits saddened by the end of the Sabbath and to fix its sweetness in our memories until its return next Friday.

We were seated around the dining-room table—Jonathan at one end, me at the other, Sarah to my right, Leah to my left. They were adorable little girls, dressed in pretty white peasant dresses. Leah was two years older than Sarah. She had long auburn hair and her father's dazzling green eyes. As the big sister, she was allowed to hold the
havdalah
candle, which was braided in blue and white wax.

Her younger sister, Sarah, was in charge of the silver spice box, which she solemnly handed to me. Sarah was in first grade, a beautiful girl with curly black hair and dark almond-shaped eyes.

“Thank you, Sarah,” I said with a gentle smile.

She blushed and looked down. “You're welcome, Rachel.”

I held the silver box to my nose, closed my eyes, and inhaled the fragrant mix of cloves, nutmeg, and bay leaf. The Jewish mystics believe that during the Sabbath each Jew receives an additional soul, which departs at sunset on Saturday. We try to comfort the lonely remaining soul with the spices.

“Mmmm,” I said as I handed it back to Sarah. She got up and walked it around to her older sister. From the other side of the table, Jonathan watched us with a peaceful smile.

After the Sabbath day I had just spent, my lonely soul was sorely in need of comforting. During the first hours after Amy's death, a busy swarm of homicide detectives and FBI special agents sketched in the outlines of Amy's audacious scheme. Indeed, by the end of the day the only important missing link—and the only one that would likely remain missing—was the actual event that had made Amy decide to kill Sally. With both dead, we were never likely to identify the final, lethal twist in their complex relationship.

But once Amy made that decision, the plan unfolded with a fiendish brilliance. Neville McBride was the fall guy, with “Tammy” doing the semen harvest and making sure he had the weakest possible alibi on the night of the murder: home alone. I was the unwitting accomplice: retained by a woman I had never met before to file a lawsuit designed to clinch her ex-husband's status as the sole suspect. Better yet, there was a good chance that I might also be hired to serve as counsel to the personal representative of Sally's estate in wrapping up her law practice, thereby providing Amy with a way to monitor the homicide investigation. Her relationship with Benny gave her yet another line of access, along with another source of incriminating evidence that might come in handy someday. (The police found more than a dozen vials of frozen semen in her freezer, each labeled with the name of the unsuspecting donor.)

Had everything proceeded according to Amy's original plan, McBride would have gone on trial for murder. Although the odds favored a conviction, even if he prevailed—perhaps in a second trial after a hung jury in the first—so much time would have elapsed that no homicide detective would have been able to pick up the scent again.

The only flaw in her plan was its complexity. There were too many variables, one of which was the identity of the criminal defense attorney Neville would hire. She hadn't counted on Jonathan Wolf, who sensed from the start that his client had been framed. It was Jonathan who set in motion the chain of events—beginning with his utterly obnoxious phone call to me—that eventually destroyed her.

Although it was still too early to tell for sure, the homicide investigators didn't believe that Brady Kane was involved in any of the murders, although there was most likely a long prison term in his future for embezzlement and fraud.

Bruce Napoli, however, had more serious problems. Amy had described him as a reluctant partner, and from what the investigators had put together so far it seemed to be a particularly apt description. His initial involvement with Sally's scheme might have been slight—a small piece of the gallstone profits in consideration for his access and influence. By the time of Sally's death, however, he was stuck in the embezzlement equivalent of the La Brea tar pits—not merely unable to extricate himself but sinking deeper with each attempt to get out. By the time I left the police station at five-thirty, Napoli was already in police custody.

After dinner, the girls and I helped clear the table, and then Jonathan told them to go upstairs and get ready for bed. I was going to help clean up, but Sarah came back in the kitchen with her thumb in her mouth. She took it out long enough to ask if I could help her get ready for bed.

I kneeled down in front of her and placed a hand on her shoulder. “I'd love to, Sarah. Maybe I could read you a bedtime story, too.”

She smiled around her thumb and nodded.

I followed her up the stairs. Sarah shared a bedroom with her big sister. Leah was lying on top of the comforter on her bed, her head propped up by a pillow. She was reading a Goosebumps book. She grunted a hello when I came in and went back to her book.

Sarah didn't really need help getting ready for bed, but it was nice for both of us to pretend that she did. I helped her hang up her dress and put away her shoes and pick out her outfit for tomorrow, which she carefully arranged on the floor at the foot of her bed. After she brushed her teeth, we sat on the bedroom carpet and she showed me her proudest possessions: her Mighty Morphin Power Rangers figures, her special crystal rocks she'd found at Babler State Park, her first-place trophy from her T-ball team, and, saving the best for last, her Barbie doll and accessories, which, she told me in a solemn tone, “were my mommy's when my mommy was little.”

I smiled. “I still have my Barbie doll, too.”

Leah joined us on the floor, and we tried on Barbie's different outfits. Our favorite was definitely the Rollerblade Barbie outfit (complete with pads and helmet), although I ranked Junior Prom Barbie a close second. I told the girls what a junior prom was. Leah asked if I had ever gone to one. I told her about mine and described the prom dress I'd worn, which my mother had made for me. In addition to Barbie, they also had a Ken, but we all agreed that he was kind of dull and dorky.

After the day I'd had—indeed, after the month I'd had—it was pure bliss to sit on the carpet with these precious little girls.

When they were ready for bed, I asked them to pick out a bedtime story for me to read. They rummaged through the bookshelf and returned with a tattered old picture book that was missing its cover. Both girls got into Leah's bed as I turned out the overhead light and Leah flipped on the reading light attached to her headboard. I smiled down at the girls. Each of them was holding a threadbare baby blanket against her cheek. I sat down on the edge of the bed and started reading.

The book opens late at night. A young mother is standing over a crib and gazing down at her baby daughter. The mother is beautiful, with long dark hair. Behind her is a window. Outside, a million glittering stars illuminate the heavens. The baby stares up at her mother with big round eyes as her mother tenderly strokes her soft blond hair and sings a special song:

I love you more than all the stars,
That sparkle in the sky.
My love will be your cradle,
For as long as I'm alive
.

And as she sings the baby closes her eyes. When the song ends, the mother leans over and gently kisses her along the curve of the bridge of her nose. The baby smiles in her sleep.

I paused after the first page, sensing already that I was in trouble. I looked down at the girls. They were both staring intently at the picture on the page. Sarah was sucking her thumb with the blanket pressed against her hand, her brow furrowed.

The story continued. The little girl grew older. Sometimes she misbehaved, and sometimes her mother punished her, but most nights after the daughter was asleep, even when she had grown to be a headstrong teenager, her mother would sneak into her room late at night and tenderly stroke her hair as she sang their special song, and when she finished the song she would lean over and gently kiss her daughter along the curve of the bridge of her nose. Her daughter would smile in her sleep.

Even when her daughter had grown up and moved to another town, whenever she came home to visit, her mother would come into her bedroom late at night, careful not to wake her, and she would tenderly stroke her daughter's hair as she sang their special song:

I love you more than all the stars,
That sparkle in the sky.
My love will be your cradle,
For as long as I'm alive
.

And when she finished the song she would lean over and gently kiss her daughter along the curve of the bridge of her nose. Her daughter would smile in her sleep.

By now my eyes were watering and I was fighting to keep my voice from cracking. I glanced down. My two little listeners were rapt, their eyes focused on the illustration. I could hear the wet noises of Sarah sucking her thumb.

So I took a deep breath and pressed on.

One day, many years later, a doctor called the daughter to tell her that her mother was in the hospital. The daughter traveled home all that day and arrived late at night. When she got to the hospital room, her mother was sound asleep. The daughter stood quietly by the bed. She was a beautiful young woman now, with long dark hair. Behind her was a window. Outside, a million glittering stars illuminated the heavens. The daughter sat down at the edge of the bed and tenderly stroked her mother's soft white hair as she sang a special song:

I love you more than all the stars.
That sparkle in the sky.
My love will be your cradle,
For as long as you're alive
.

And when she finished the song she leaned over and gently kissed her mother along the curve of the bridge of her nose. Her mother smiled in her sleep.

I think there were a few more pages after that, but I never reached them. Tears were streaming down my face as thoughts of their mother and my father and Danny and others overwhelmed me. I put the book down and covered my eyes, struggling to regain control.

After a moment I felt a little warm hand on my shoulder. “It's okay, Rachel.”

I wiped my eyes with my hands and turned, sniffling. Sarah was kneeling next to me, her face earnest. “It makes my daddy cry, too.”

I gave her a blurry smile and a kiss on her nose. “Thank you, sweetie.”

Leah reached over and pulled a Kleenex tissue out of the dispenser on her nightstand. “Here, Rachel. There's gook coming out of your nose.”

I laughed and took the tissue and blew my nose.

Back under control, I tucked Leah in and kissed her good night. Then I walked Sarah over to her bed and did the same for her.

“Send my daddy up,” Sarah told me.

When Jonathan came back downstairs after kissing his daughters good night, I was waiting in the front hall.

“You have two special little girls,” I said.

“I know.” He smiled. “Sarah told me you're going to bring over your Barbie doll one day.”

I nodded. “I promised her.” I tried to stifle a yawn. “But first I'm going home and sleeping for twenty-four hours.” I reached out and took his hand. “Thank you for a wonderful evening.”

“It was my pleasure.”

“And thank you”—I paused, trying without success to find the right words—“for everything else.”

“Oh, but there wasn't—”

“Enough.” I covered his mouth with my hand as I smiled at him. “You can either say you're welcome or you can say nothing.” I took my hand away.

He gently pulled me toward him. I closed my eyes and let him hold me against his chest.

“You're welcome,” he said softly.

We were swaying ever so slightly, a tranquil rocking motion. I tried to think of something to say but nothing came to me.

I was completely out of words.