Trophy Widow (20 page)

Chapter Twenty

During the hour that I waited in the packed courtroom for my motion to be called, my emotions fluctuated between anticipation and discouragement—anticipation over my upcoming meeting with Sebastian Curry and discouragement over my inability to embrace the teachings of Jonathan's rabbi.

I'd had another session with Rabbi Kalman last night. Although I was trying—I really was—my resistance to Orthodox Judaism wasn't waning. No matter how I tried to open my heart to the rabbi's teachings, my brain kept interfering, kept parsing through the doctrine, spotting examples of the unequal status of women. And each example only increased my bond to my Reform congregation, where my rabbi was a woman and my cantor played guitar and my liturgy was gender-free.

But, I sternly reminded myself, this wasn't my team versus Jonathan's. The goal of my sessions with the rabbi was to get on Jonathan's team. I loved Jonathan and I loved his daughters and I wanted to be his wife and I wanted to be a mother to his daughters. Their world was the world of Orthodox Judaism. Jonathan and I had already fought about this once, just before he left for New York. In the aftermath, I vowed to start meeting with his rabbi and bridge our gap. I knew that the problem bridging that gap was mine—not the rabbi's or his teachings. Jonathan's religious world was the same world that had nourished and sustained my female ancestors for countless generations.

That's why my resistance was so frustrating. I almost told Jonathan when he called late last night. I'd been obsessing over it, trying to think how to break the news, when the phone rang. It was him. He sounded so exhausted that I didn't have the heart to go into it. So instead we commiserated—I with his marathon trial in New York, which was still weeks from final arguments, and he with my increasingly serpentine investigation of the loose ends in Angela Green's murder prosecution.

His advice on my investigation remained the same: “Stick with the money trail, honey. The other leads are important, of course—that artist, Samantha, the guy who killed himself—but the goal is to use them to move further along the money trail.”

***

Sebastian Curry knew something about the money trail.

That's what I told myself as I parked my car across the street from his building in the warehouse district. He'd confirmed as much through his reaction to my mention of Millennium Management Services. As for his obvious unease when I'd tried to probe his relationship with Samantha Cummings, I assume that that was tied, at least in part, to their roles in
All That Jizz
. Perhaps I could use that unease to get him to open up about Millennium.

I found his name on the column of mailboxes in the vestibule: S. CURRY—4B. There appeared to be two tenants per floor and six floors in the building. When it came to security, however, Curry's building was not quite the White House. The buzzer next to his mailbox was missing, as were the buzzers for many of the other tenants. Not that it mattered. The security door between the vestibule and the interior was propped open.

Although the warehouse district had been undergoing a major face-lift in recent years as developers sought to lure suburban couples back to the city with trendy loft apartments and hip decor, Sebastian Curry's building was still in its pre-chic phase. The walls of the small lobby were painted an industrial gray. The plaster ceiling was splotched with yellowish-brown water stains. Directly ahead was a freight elevator dating back to an earlier eŕa—the kind with a scarred wood-plank floor and sliding cage doors you pulled open with a handle.

I closed the elevator cage behind me and pressed the large black button marked 4. With a dull metallic thunk, the elevator started upward, accompanied by the creaks and whines of the cables and pulley. I peered through the crosshatched metal of the cage and watched the elevator rise past each floor. It halted with a shudder at the fourth. Yanking on the handle, I opened the door and stepped out. To my left was Curry's apartment, 4B. The door was slightly ajar. I glanced to my right. The door to 4A was locked.

I knocked on Curry's door and pushed it farther open. “Sebastian,” I called, “it's Rachel Gold.”

Silence.

I stepped inside. “Sebastian?”

Silence.

I felt a wave of dread.

I checked my watch. Twenty minutes to eleven.

Don't assume the worst, I told myself.

He said he worked nights. Maybe he's still asleep? Or in the bathroom?

I was standing in what appeared to be his studio area, which curved around to the right. The living quarters were off to the left. The sun came slanting in from the east, filling the studio with dazzling light. There were several canvases scattered around the room—the smaller ones on easels, the larger ones leaning against the wall, some apparently finished, others still works in progress.

I listened for sounds from the back of the loft—for shower water or a toilet flushing or cabinets closing. Nothing.

“Hello?” I called, my voice tight. “Sebastian?”

I sniffed the air for the morning scents of coffee or bacon. Nothing.

Maybe he ducked out for a moment—maybe to pick up some fresh baked goods for our meeting. That's always possible.

I moved toward the living quarters of the loft, past the couch and assortment of chairs that constituted the living room. The kitchen area was directly ahead. Everything there was neat and tidy—dishes in the drying rack, a crystal vase filled with yellow tulips on the small table, a wicker basket on the counter filled with oranges. On a sisal mat on the oak floor sat nearly empty bowls of cat food and water.

The kitchen was separated from the back area by a freestanding wall of shelving filled with cooking wares, knick-knacks, and books. I stared at the books, mostly cookbooks, reading the titles without comprehending a word.

He could be asleep
, I repeated,
or maybe he's in the bathroom or maybe he did step out for a moment. Plenty of innocent explanations
.

I hadn't moved.

I couldn't move.

My eyes scanned the knickknacks on the shelves. I was having trouble breathing.

Come on, Rachel
.
You're a big girl
.

I forced myself to the edge of the divider wall, took a deep breath, and peered around the corner. The room was dark, the shades drawn. As my eyes adjusted I could make out a queen-sized bed against the wall to the left and an enormous wooden armoire along the side wall. To my right was the bathroom. The door was open, the light off.

“Meow.”

A black cat sat on the edge of the bed. It stared at me with iridescent green eyes. I took a step toward the bed. I could see that the bed was unmade, the comforter pulled back and bunched, the pillows in a jumble.

“Meow.”

“Hi,” I whispered.

And then I saw the shape on the bed behind the cat.

A leg.

No, two.

A pair of legs—a black man's legs—visible from the feet to knees. Toes up, the pinkish bottoms of the feet facing me.

I stared hard. I could see the bends in the knees where the legs disappeared over the edge of the bed.

I forced myself closer. I moved around the foot of the bed, and as I did the rest of the body came into view.

“Oh, no,” I whispered.

I stared down at Sebastian Curry. He was flat on his back, naked, his arms spread out, palms up, his eyes open, a neat black hole in his forehead just above his right eye. The force of the bullet must have knocked him backward off the bed. There was a dark puddle of blood beneath his head.

“Meow.”

Chapter Twenty-one

Brian Morgan came out to greet me in the reception area. He was a short and burly lawyer in his forties with a moon face, flushed complexion, and thick blond hair combed straight back. We stood at eye level.

“She's here,” he said after we shook hands.

“Good.”

“I have to tell you, Rachel,” he said, running his fingers through his hair and frowning, “this is a first for me.”

“Me, too.”

“I have no idea what's going on here.”

“All you need to know is my promise that I won't talk to her about the case.”

“Yeah, well, maybe. I'm not comfortable with this, but I'll go along. Let me take you to her.”

I followed Brian Morgan down the hall. His four-man firm specialized in plaintiff's personal injury claims—mostly auto accidents and slip-and-falls with an occasional exotic thrown in the mix. This case had to be his most exotic.

Brian was an easy person to underestimate, and many defense lawyers had clients who'd paid the consequences. What he lacked in polish and legal expertise—having graduated near the bottom of his law school class at Mizzou—he more than compensated for with hard work, perseverance, and preparation. He was, after all, the lead lawyer on the first Son of Sam case ever filed in Missouri.

I'd called Brian yesterday, which was the day after I found Sebastian Curry's corpse. I told him I wanted to talk to his client alone.

“What do you mean ‘alone'?” he'd asked.

“Just her and me. But not about the case. I promise.”

“Then what about?”

It's private.”

“I'd call that a pretty unusual request, Rachel. Why should I agree to that?”

“Let's let her decide. Do you have a pen?”

“Yeah.”

“Take this down. Tell her I want to talk to her about Staci Cummer—that's C-U-M-M-E-R—and Ronnie Mandingo and Woodrow Woodpecker.”

“Woodrow Woodpecker? Is that a joke?”

“Just give her those names, Brian. Tell her I need to see her as soon as possible.”

He'd called back an hour later, even more mystified. “I have no idea what's going on here, but she'll meet you at my office tomorrow morning at ten.”

Earlier today I'd spoken again to the homicide detective on the Sebastian Curry murder—he'd previously interviewed me at length. He told me that the medical examiner determined that Curry had been dead for at least twenty-four hours before I found him, which meant that he was already dead when I called and left the message on his machine. Although there were two messages on his answering machine, neither was mine and both had been left after I left my message, since the first caller included the time of her call in her message. (“Hi, Sebastian. This is Gail. It's Tuesday night about ten-thirty. I know Jean's still out of town, and I bet you're lonely, you poor baby. Me and Greg Ramsey and Phyllis are going to Galaxy around midnight for Jambalaya's CD release party. Hope to see you there.”)

The timing meant that someone had been in the dead man's loft after I'd left my message. Even creepier, it meant that someone had listened to my message—and to any others on the tape—before erasing them. That someone would thus have learned that I was coming by the next morning, which meant that the door to the loft might have been left open intentionally. If so, the person who listened to my telephone message wanted me to find the corpse.

Brian Morgan stopped at the door to a small conference room, rapped twice and opened it.

“Samantha?”

A blond woman was seated on the far side of the conference table. She got to her feet as I followed Morgan into the room.

“This is Rachel Gold,” he said. “Rachel, Samantha Cummings.”

I was about to reach across the table to shake her hand but stopped when she crossed her arms over her chest. I nodded and said hello.

She nodded back, not saying a thing. She was wearing a burgundy cardigan sweater, the sleeves pushed up, over a gray knit V-neck dress hemmed at her knees.

A moment of silence.

Although I'd seen her on TV back at the time of the trial and more recently in the porno flick, which dated back at least a decade, this was the first time I'd seen Samantha in person. She was in her mid-thirties now. Although she was still stunning from a distance, closer in there were signs of aging—a trace of vertical lines from her nose to the corners of her mouth, a hint of crow's-feet at the corners of her eyes, worry lines in her forehead. Not that she wasn't still beautiful, especially with her high cheekbones and retrousse nose. Just older now, and a little worn. Her most striking features were still her almond-shaped blue eyes. But they too had changed over time. In the adult video, shot back when she was perhaps twenty-one, those eyes had sparkled. That sparkle was gone now, replaced by a muted determination. Samantha Cummings was a survivor.

“Well,” Morgan said with a forced smile, rubbing his hands together, “I'll leave you ladies alone. If you need anything, just holler.” A pause as he looked from her to me and back to her. “Okay, well, I'll, uh, I'll see you later.”

Samantha scowled at me as she sat back down. “I'm not dropping the case,” she declared.

“I'm not asking you to.”

“Is that so?” There was sarcasm in her voice. “I got your message, Miss Gold. I know exactly what's going on here.”

“No you don't, Samantha. I don't care about that part of your life, and I certainly have no plans to tell anyone else about them.”

“Then what do you want?”

“I want to talk to you about two of your costars. Billy and Sebastian.”

She thrust her chin forward. “Oh? What about them?”

“Look, Samantha, I'm not here today because of your lawsuit and I'm not here because of those films. I'm here because I've learned some very troubling things about Billy Woodward and Sebastian Curry.”

“Such as?”

“Such as Billy Woodward was with Angela Green the night Michael Green was killed.”

“What are you talking about?”

“She thought his name was John. That's what he told her. She had no idea who he really was—and neither did I—until I showed her a photo of Billy Woodward.”

She frowned in disbelief. “What in God's name was she doing with Billy?”

“More important, what was Billy doing with her?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Angela Green has almost no recall of what happened that night.”

“So she claims. Guess what? The jury didn't buy it.”

“The jury didn't know about Billy Woodward. And the jury didn't know what was in her blood that night.”

“What?”

“Rohypnol.”

She stared at me. Finally, she said, “How do you know that?”

“The blood tests are in the police file.”

“That never came out at trial.”

I shrugged. “There wasn't a lot known about illegal uses of that drug back then. And no one in the case had any idea that Angela's John was really Billy Woodward.”

She paused, absorbing that information. When she spoke again, her voice was tentative. “You're sure it was Billy?”

“Angela is.”

She shook her head. “I don't understand.”

“Neither do I. That's why I have to talk to you, Samantha. I have some questions about Billy and about Sebastian. I'm hoping you can answer them.”

She studied me for a moment. “Why should I?”

“Did you love Michael Green?”

She stiffened. “Of course I did.”

“Then that's why.”

“What are you talking about?”

“If you loved Michael Green, then you'll want to make sure that his killer is brought to justice. The jury said Angela Green did it, and maybe they're right. I don't think so. I've looked through the police file and done some poking around on my own. Three names pop up. Yours and Billy's and Sebastian Curry's. At first I had my suspicions about you.”

“Me?” she said, stiffening with anger.

“At first, but not now. Even if you didn't love him—even if you were marrying him only for his money—it wouldn't make any sense to want him dead before the wedding. So you're out. But that still leaves Billy and Sebastian. Maybe they had nothing to do with it, either, but I can't say that until I know more. You know things about Billy that no one else does.”

“What about Sebastian?” she asked. “He probably knew Billy better than me, at least toward the end.”

“Sebastian's dead.”

“What? When?”

“I met him for the first time a few days ago. He got really nervous when I asked him about his relationship with you during your art gallery years. When I went back to talk to him two days ago, I found him dead. Someone shot him in the head.”

She covered her mouth. “Oh, no.”

“I don't know what's going on, Samantha, and I doubt you do, either. But you know things that I don't know about those two men. The more I can find out about them, the better my chances of figuring out what really happened.”

She nodded, shaken.

“Tell me about you and Billy,” I asked gently.

It took a moment for her to shift focus. “Not much to tell. We met at Pinnacle. Harry Silver always claimed that he was our matchmaker. He made us call him ‘Yenta.' Billy and I hit it off. We ended up living together for a year or so.” She shrugged. “It didn't work out.”

“Harry told me Billy had sexual problems.”

“He did, but it was more than that. Billy was a little crazy, a little”—she searched for the word—“scary. It was like he had this split personality. Some days he was just the sweetest guy you'd ever want to know, but other days—” She shook her head.

“Other days what?”

“He was awful. Vicious, nasty, depressed. And when he'd be down like that, he'd start drinking or snorting coke—or both—and that only made him worse. He used to tell me stories about some of the things he did when he was younger—bragging about burglaries, assaults, stuff like that. He claimed he'd broken into lots of homes, stolen jewelry from the master bedrooms while the couples were sleeping. He claimed he killed a man down near the Kentucky border. Said he was never caught. I didn't know whether he was telling the truth or just trying to scare me, but finally it just didn't matter anymore. I couldn't stand the whole thing—the mood swings, the sex problems, the drinking, the fighting. So I ended it.”

“Were you still doing films at Pinnacle?”

“I'd left by then. Billy was still there, but he'd become too unreliable in front of the camera to be an actor anymore. Harry kept him on as one of the crew hogs.” Samantha smiled at the memory. “Harry had a blind spot for Billy. Treated him like his own kid. Billy got away with stuff that Harry would never have tolerated from others. But eventually Billy crossed the line. Harry's a funny guy, you know. He makes his money in porno, but he's got this strict code of ethics. Like no rape scenes in his movies, private dressing rooms for the women. He pays for medical coverage for his employees, things like that. I heard that when he found out that Billy was drugging women for sex, he fired him on the spot.”

“Had you known about Billy's use of Rohypnol?”

“No. He must have found out about it after we split. Shows you how twisted his mind could be. Fucking unconscious girls? Can you imagine?”

“He killed himself in front of your town house.”

She nodded.

“Had you been seeing him at the time?”

“Oh, God no. But Billy went through these cycles. I wouldn't hear from him for a year or so, and then he'd start calling every day like some stalker, trying to get me to see him, begging me, telling me how much he loved me, how things would be different this time. I'd always tell him no. He was from a phase of my life that I'd left behind years before. I'd moved on. No way was I ever going back. Never. He'd eventually get the message and stop calling, and then I wouldn't hear from him for a year or so until he hit the next cycle. Well, he started calling again right after I got engaged to Michael. In fact, Michael was over one night when Billy called twice. The second time Michael grabbed the phone from me and really laid into him. He told him that if he ever called me again he'd have him thrown in jail. That stopped Billy for a long time. I didn't hear from him again until the night he killed himself.”

“What did he say that night?”

“Mostly the same as before.” She hesitated, trying to remember. “He knew about Michael's death, of course.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Who wouldn't? I mean, that trial was on TV every day.”

“Did he mention it?”

“Not exactly. But I remember him telling me that I was free now, that there was nothing standing between us. That got me so upset. I told him we were history. I told him I wouldn't go back to him if he were the last guy on earth. That made him crazy. He was screaming and pleading with me. Finally, I got fed up and hung up. He called right back. He told me he couldn't live without me. He told me this was my final chance.” She shook her head. “How was I supposed to know he was standing at a pay phone across the street with a goddamn gun pointed at his head? I told him to stay out of my life, to never call me again. And then I hung up.”

She paused. “I didn't hear the gunshot. I must have been watching TV or going to the bathroom or something.” She shrugged. “I didn't know anything was wrong until I saw the flashing red lights outside. It was raining by then. I peered out the window and saw two police cars and an ambulance in the rain. I thought it was car crash or something. I didn't find out what happened until the next day.”

Her eyes were red. “I felt so—so guilty.” She lowered her head. “I was really down for a long time after that. I started seeing this therapist. She tried to make me understand that it wasn't my fault. That helped a little.”