No in Between
Page 41
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“I do have some good news,” David adds. “Tiger and I finally connected on a major issue. He has the club situation contained, at least for now. Mark agreed to turn over a membership list if there was a written agreement that it would never be shared.”
Chris leans forward, his hand flattening on the table. “And this is good news why?” The snap to his voice tells me he’s not as unaffected by the club’s exposure as he’s let on. “Can’t the court still subpoena the information?”
“Yes,” David agrees, “but if the police have what they need, the chance it’ll get that far is less likely. And here’s the kicker: That list has high-level judges, doctors, and business owners on it, many who are political contributors. And campaign donors are protected, often to law enforcement’s frustration.”
“That’s the fucking truth,” Blake says.
“This is good news, Chris,” David tells him. “This assures us there won’t be police cars and search warrants at the club in the near future.”
“How do we know Ava won’t release this information, if she hasn’t already?” Chris presses.
“Oh, she will,” David responds. “But Mark has the ‘Bay City Cigar Club’ cover for the operation, and it’s pretty damn tight. The media isn’t going to break that down easily.”
I turn to Chris. “A cigar club? I’m lost. I had no idea.”
“It didn’t seem relevant, since we aren’t involved anyway,” he explains, then his gaze shifts back to David. “But money has power. If Ava discusses the club, the press will look for someone to corroborate her claims. And if the price is right they’ll find that someone, even if their story’s a lie. I’m willing to be slaughtered in the press, but there are a lot of people who won’t survive it the way I will.”
“I understand,” David assures him, “and I think the main concern is trial time, and real members of the club being blackmailed to testify in a way that is favorable to Ava and not to others. That makes time critical. We get her in a real jail cell, not a fluffy hospital, where she feels real pain. Then she’ll be willing to take a deal.”
“A deal,” I say flatly. “What kind of deal?”
“It’s irrelevant,” Blake says. “I’ll prove she killed Rebecca before that’s on the table.”
“In other words, the deal wouldn’t be much of a punishment,” I say.
David rubs his head and leans forward. “Trust me. I’m good at my job. If you can’t trust me, trust Chris. He picked me for a reason.”
“He’s an asshole, but he’s our asshole, baby,” Chris says, repeating what I’d said to him.
“Exactly,” David agrees. “The DA’s motivated to get murder back on the table. As of tomorrow when they drop that charge, they have not one, but technically, two missing women, and no explanation. I pointed that out, too, believe me. The more pressure they feel, the better they do their jobs.”
I swallow the acid the “two missing women” comment stirs in me. “Or they find a fast fall guy. Detective Miller trapped me at the gallery today. She said Ella and Rebecca have the storage unit and me in common.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Blake says. “Seriously, Sara. Your alibi is tight. They’re just running scared and terrified of ‘serial killer on the loose’ kind of headlines. That shit makes law enforcement hide under their beds.”
David leans closer, lowering his voice. “No comment—that’s your answer to everything. I repeat, Sara: Stop fucking talking to them without me. She’s messing with your head, and testing how you’ll handle yourself during the trial.”
Two waitresses appear and start distributing our food. Chris shifts in his seat, leaning on the table, and giving the others his back, blocking me from their view. He studies me a moment, eyes softening with whatever he sees, knuckles caressing my cheek. “Deep breath, baby.”
“I’m trying.”
“There is no serial killer. Ava never knew Ella.”
“What if she was afraid of something she thought might be in the journals, and she killed Ella to get them?”
“We know Ella was in Paris. She’s not a part of this.”
He’s right. “I think what gets me is that everyone has an agenda of their own. It makes me feel so out of control.”
“That’s why we take control and hire people we trust.”
“Excuse me,” someone says and I glance over my shoulder to see the waitress holding my salad.
“What about Ava’s estranged husband?” I ask after the waitstaff is out of hearing range.
“Unlikely suspect,” Blake says, “and I base that on his blond babe of a girlfriend, who seems to have all of his attention. That, and he owns a bar on the Wharf, where he was working the night of Rebecca’s return.”
“But that’s perfect,” I counter. “What if Ava took her there? Does he have a boat?”
Blake dips a fry in ketchup. “No boat.”
“But he’d have access to people who do, right? He works on the pier.”
“Sara thinks Rebecca’s at the bottom of the ocean,” Chris offers softly, squeezing my leg.
Blake’s brown eyes meet mine. “Because of her nightmares.”
It’s not a question, and it twists me in knots to know he’s read those entries and so have many other people. I give him a choppy nod. “It’s almost like she was having premonitions about her death.”
Chris leans forward, his hand flattening on the table. “And this is good news why?” The snap to his voice tells me he’s not as unaffected by the club’s exposure as he’s let on. “Can’t the court still subpoena the information?”
“Yes,” David agrees, “but if the police have what they need, the chance it’ll get that far is less likely. And here’s the kicker: That list has high-level judges, doctors, and business owners on it, many who are political contributors. And campaign donors are protected, often to law enforcement’s frustration.”
“That’s the fucking truth,” Blake says.
“This is good news, Chris,” David tells him. “This assures us there won’t be police cars and search warrants at the club in the near future.”
“How do we know Ava won’t release this information, if she hasn’t already?” Chris presses.
“Oh, she will,” David responds. “But Mark has the ‘Bay City Cigar Club’ cover for the operation, and it’s pretty damn tight. The media isn’t going to break that down easily.”
I turn to Chris. “A cigar club? I’m lost. I had no idea.”
“It didn’t seem relevant, since we aren’t involved anyway,” he explains, then his gaze shifts back to David. “But money has power. If Ava discusses the club, the press will look for someone to corroborate her claims. And if the price is right they’ll find that someone, even if their story’s a lie. I’m willing to be slaughtered in the press, but there are a lot of people who won’t survive it the way I will.”
“I understand,” David assures him, “and I think the main concern is trial time, and real members of the club being blackmailed to testify in a way that is favorable to Ava and not to others. That makes time critical. We get her in a real jail cell, not a fluffy hospital, where she feels real pain. Then she’ll be willing to take a deal.”
“A deal,” I say flatly. “What kind of deal?”
“It’s irrelevant,” Blake says. “I’ll prove she killed Rebecca before that’s on the table.”
“In other words, the deal wouldn’t be much of a punishment,” I say.
David rubs his head and leans forward. “Trust me. I’m good at my job. If you can’t trust me, trust Chris. He picked me for a reason.”
“He’s an asshole, but he’s our asshole, baby,” Chris says, repeating what I’d said to him.
“Exactly,” David agrees. “The DA’s motivated to get murder back on the table. As of tomorrow when they drop that charge, they have not one, but technically, two missing women, and no explanation. I pointed that out, too, believe me. The more pressure they feel, the better they do their jobs.”
I swallow the acid the “two missing women” comment stirs in me. “Or they find a fast fall guy. Detective Miller trapped me at the gallery today. She said Ella and Rebecca have the storage unit and me in common.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Blake says. “Seriously, Sara. Your alibi is tight. They’re just running scared and terrified of ‘serial killer on the loose’ kind of headlines. That shit makes law enforcement hide under their beds.”
David leans closer, lowering his voice. “No comment—that’s your answer to everything. I repeat, Sara: Stop fucking talking to them without me. She’s messing with your head, and testing how you’ll handle yourself during the trial.”
Two waitresses appear and start distributing our food. Chris shifts in his seat, leaning on the table, and giving the others his back, blocking me from their view. He studies me a moment, eyes softening with whatever he sees, knuckles caressing my cheek. “Deep breath, baby.”
“I’m trying.”
“There is no serial killer. Ava never knew Ella.”
“What if she was afraid of something she thought might be in the journals, and she killed Ella to get them?”
“We know Ella was in Paris. She’s not a part of this.”
He’s right. “I think what gets me is that everyone has an agenda of their own. It makes me feel so out of control.”
“That’s why we take control and hire people we trust.”
“Excuse me,” someone says and I glance over my shoulder to see the waitress holding my salad.
“What about Ava’s estranged husband?” I ask after the waitstaff is out of hearing range.
“Unlikely suspect,” Blake says, “and I base that on his blond babe of a girlfriend, who seems to have all of his attention. That, and he owns a bar on the Wharf, where he was working the night of Rebecca’s return.”
“But that’s perfect,” I counter. “What if Ava took her there? Does he have a boat?”
Blake dips a fry in ketchup. “No boat.”
“But he’d have access to people who do, right? He works on the pier.”
“Sara thinks Rebecca’s at the bottom of the ocean,” Chris offers softly, squeezing my leg.
Blake’s brown eyes meet mine. “Because of her nightmares.”
It’s not a question, and it twists me in knots to know he’s read those entries and so have many other people. I give him a choppy nod. “It’s almost like she was having premonitions about her death.”
