I look up at him, a bite of mozzarella halfway to my mouth. I lower my fork. "What do you mean?"
"You told Caroline I'm fine when I'm not--"
"To protect her," I point out.
He nods understandingly. "Yes, I get it. But it's made me think about all of the deception that's been going on...for fuck's sake, for most of my life. My parents lying to the outside world that we were a happy family. Covering up Caroline's rape. Not acknowledging Ally. My dad and JT. All of that..."
"Not telling the police what really happened with JT," I add softly.
He ignores that. "Covering up JT's death aside, because that ship's already sailed, I'm just tired of all of it, so when you saw me cut my mother out, that was the first step in correcting some of that shit."
"I can understand that," I say neutrally, because I don't really think he's telling me this to justify his actions with his mother.
"I think I was disloyal to Caroline," he says quietly.
And there it is. I knew there was something else driving this.
"How?" I ask simply.
"By still having a relationship with my parents after what they did to her," he murmurs, laying his knife and fork down. His eyes are so sad when they look at me. "I should have cut them out then. I should have chosen Caroline and Ally completely. I should have made my stand for what was right, and by not doing it, I was just as complicit in their rotten ways."
I don't even know what to say to this, because sadly, I think he may be right. I never understood really why Beck maintained a relationship with them, although it was nothing more than a few get-togethers each year. But it wasn't for me to judge and it still isn't.
The one thing I do know without a doubt is that Caroline never looked upon Beck differently for choosing to give them a small sliver of his life.
"When we were at lunch today," I say as I reach across the table and cover his hand with my own, "I was telling Caroline about how for the longest time I thought getting raped was my fault. That I brought it on myself."
Beck nods and doesn't attempt to disillusion me on that feeling. We've discussed this before...many times...and he knows those feelings, while complicated and misplaced, had credence in the past.
"Caroline had felt the same way," I continue. "Not surprising. I think a lot of rape victims probably feel a level of culpability."
He watches me carefully, understanding damn well that I have a point to all this.
So I make it clear. "I told Caroline it took me a very long time to come to grips with that, and do you know what she said?"
Beck shakes his head.
"She said it didn't take her all that long to get past that," I tell him, my eyes boring into his. "She said you wouldn't let her. That you were her rock and savior. That you helped her find peace. So I guarantee you she doesn't give a shit if you have a Christmas drink or a slice of birthday cake a few times a year at your parents' house."
He sighs long and loud, flips his hand over, and squeezes mine. "I know. You're right."
"Damn tootin' I am," I say with a smile, and then pull my hand away so I can eat.
Only getting hungrier here.
"I think we need to tell Caroline that JT is the one who raped her," Beck says quietly, but his tone doesn't diminish the force of the bomb he just threw at me.
"What?" I ask, stunned beyond any further words.
"She needs to know the truth. It's going to hurt like hell, but it will give her closure. She'll be able to stop the wondering who did it, and I know you understand that, Sela. You're going to be left wondering about your other two attackers."
And fuck if he isn't right. It's gnaws at me every day not knowing who committed those atrocities on me along with JT.
"Are you going to tell her that JT was her half brother?" I ask hesitantly, because that's the twist to the twisted story that Caroline will be forced to hear from us.
He nods. "Yeah...and I know it's a loathsome thought, but fuck if I can be wigged out by it. I see Ally and how good and smart and funny and kind she is, and there's nothing of JT in her. She's pure Caroline, and that is how I'm choosing to look at it."
And damn...my heart. Right there that got me. It flutters with little happy wings of joy that I have someone as amazing as this man.
"I wish I had known you back when...well, you know," I tell him with a sheepish smile. "Caroline's such a lucky woman to have had you by her side."
"You got through it just fine without me," Beck says, and then picks up his utensils. "But you got me now and that's what really matters, right?"
"Right!" I agree, and pick up my fork with mozzarella still speared on the end.
I bring it to my mouth but then stop again when Beck says, "There's something else that's been eating at me."
I lower my fork and sigh wistfully at it. Beck snickers and says, "Eat your food and listen while I talk."
"Okay," I say, happily picking it back up again and placing the cheese in my mouth before I can be stopped again.
"The DNA's bugging me," he tells me while he works on cutting up his chicken.
I nod and speak around the food in my mouth. I know what he's talking about because it's caused me a little worry too. "You mean that if JT raped both Caroline and me, how come the DNA wasn't matched up?"
"Yeah," he says, deciding to dice the entire chicken breast before eating as he continues to throw his thoughts out to me. "It could be that JT lied to you. Told you he raped Caroline just to torture you a bit before he killed you, and I wouldn't put it past that sadistic fuck to do that."
"But you don't think he lied," I observe as I spear a piece of tomato.
He shrugs. "I honestly don't know. The other plausible explanation is that something happened on the police side of things and the DNA didn't get entered in correctly. I mean...no clue how that shit works, but people are fallible. Computers are fallible. Who knows?"
"And Dennis did mention that he didn't see the documentation in the file about sending the DNA in to the database...whatever that was called," I add.
"That's right," he agrees, and finally puts some food into his mouth. He chews, swallows, and then repeats as he contemplates what this all means.
Finally, he lowers his fork again and says, "I need to know, but I'm not sure how to go about doing it."
"Just call the investigating officer in my case. Simple as that."
"Maybe," he says hesitantly. "But I'm a little worried about drawing attention to us right now. And we certainly can't tell them why we're questioning it. It's just extra motive to pin on us. So, I don't know. It doesn't feel right, but then again, it's the easiest thing to do."
"Have Dennis get involved?" I suggest.
And I can tell by the look on his face that he's already considered this. "He's on vacation, and I hate to bother him."
"What the fuck ever, Beckett North," I scoff at him. "Dennis is a friend and he'd jump all over this in a heartbeat."
"And he'd ask us questions," he points out, and now I understand his hesitancy. "I don't want to drag him in any deeper."
"Well, we don't have to decide right this minute," I tell him as I pick up my utensils again. "I say we finish dinner and relax the rest of the night. God knows we need a little downtime away from all of this worry and stress."
"And we have whipped cream," he says with a husky laugh.
"Exactly." I pop the tomato into my mouth and chew through my grin at him.
Beck's phone starts ringing from the kitchen and he stands up to retrieve it. As he's walking away from me, he looks over his shoulder and adds, "But I don't think we tell Caroline until we know for sure about the DNA. Agreed?"
"Sure," I say with a nod of acceptance. It wasn't going to matter if we told her tomorrow or a few weeks from now.
Beck disappears into the kitchen, and before it can ring a third time, he answers, "Beck North."
He's silent for several moments, then I hear him say with resignation, "Sure. I'll be there at two."
He disconnects without even saying goodbye and I know this because he suddenly appears in the dining room before me.
"That was my attorney," Beck says in a low voice filled with tension. "The police want me to come in and give a formal statement tomorrow. He's arranged us to meet there at two P.M."
The food in my stomach seems to turn to lead as a heavy feeling of unease settles in. All thoughts of whipped cream and relaxation are now gone.
Tomorrow the police will talk to Beck, and while they certainly may want to just pick his brain about the potential of a bookie killing JT, my gut instinct says they're putting a narrowed eye on Beck because of his close relationship with his partner.
A kernel of fear forms in the center of my chest and I imagine the worst.
Beck going down for my sins.
I don't know this attorney, but he seems more than capable. My buddy Robert Colling, who is a domestic attorney, recommended this guy, Doug Shriver, to represent me in dealing with the police. I'd called Robert not long after the cops showed up at my condo on the night JT died and essentially told him the basics that he needed to know.
That being JT was dead under suspicious circumstances and the cops wanted to talk to me further.
Robert called Doug, and Doug called me.
We spoke for fifteen minutes and he advised me it would be best if we not only cooperated in the investigation but were proactive in setting up the meeting with the detectives as they requested. And so this is where I am now, waiting in a large conference room at the Sausalito PD that isn't what I expected from watching a few episodes of Law & Order. The room's brightly lit with large windows letting in sunshine. The opposite interior wall is solid, clear glass with vertical blinds that are open so we can see the hallway that's lined with individual offices with detectives' names on brass plates beside each door. The room almost has a boardroom feel to it, as the conference table is oval shaped and done in cherry wood with eight chairs around it covered in burgundy leather.
Doug and I had met an hour before this meeting at a nearby coffeehouse, along with Sela, who's back there waiting for us. He's an interesting-looking fellow, not one I would immediately associate with a big-time criminal defense attorney. He's probably about sixty with curly hair worn short and completely grayed. He can't be any taller than five five and wears a nondescript navy suit with a smart yellow bow tie. Horn-rims complete the look, which is more retired professor than courtroom shark.
Even though Robert recommended Doug, I'd done research, and the guy had some seriously big cases under his belt and was known for representing high-profile celebrities who got into trouble. He assured me that he wasn't going to let me answer anything that could be construed as incriminating, but that we wanted to be as open as we could so they would be assured we had nothing to hide.
I struggled not to laugh when he said that. I guess poor Doug looks at all potential clients as innocent.
The conference room door opens and Detective Denning walks in, carrying a cardboard tray with three large lidded cups. She kicks the door closed behind her and gives a quick nod to me and Doug as she rounds the opposite side of the table from us and sits down. Pushing the tray toward us, she says, "Coffee if you want some."
Doug grabs a cup but I don't. It might be paranoid, but I'm not about to leave evidence behind. "Thanks but no," I say politely. "I've already had my one allotted cup for the day."
"Would you like some water?" she asks.
"I'm good."
"All right then," she says leaning back in her chair, also ignoring the coffee. "My partner is handling some other things in the investigation so it's just us today. And this is just sort of an informal get-together so we can get more information about this theory that Mr. Townsend was killed for a gambling debt."
I nod with an understanding smile but she's not fooling me. Informal get-together my ass. I didn't miss the mounted camera in the corner with the red light that popped on as soon as Detective Denning sat down at the table. She doesn't have a notepad or computer with her, and I'm sure she wants this to appear as a friendly little meeting so I'll open up.
"I'm sure you've noticed the camera," she says, jerking a thumb over her shoulder at it.
Yup. Noticed that.
"We're recording this, and for the record, can you state your name?"
"Beckett North," I reply.
"And you're represented by attorney Doug Shriver, who is in attendance with us today, correct?"
"Correct."
"Mr. North, I'd like to know more about this gambling debt you say that Mr. Townsend owed to someone," she says almost lazily, and I get the distinct impression she really doesn't care about it.
So I tell her everything I know, leaving out, of course, the way in which I orchestrated VanZant to take the fall. I tell her about JT calling me to pick him up at the hospital, and how he told me he was in deep with a Vegas bookie. That he'd lost two million and doubled down on the VanZant fight, who we know as a matter of public record got his ass handed to him. I told her JT seemed panicked and how he begged me for the money, and yes, I even admitted to her that I didn't agree to give it to him at first. I didn't particularly like admitting this, but I knew I had to.
"Did there come a point when you agreed to bail him out?" she asks.
I nod. "I told him I'd give him the money plus an extra million, and he wouldn't have to repay me, and in return I wanted him to sign over ownership of our business."
She doesn't seem surprised by this at all, and that makes me nervous.
"Why did you want ownership of The Sugar Bowl?" she prods.
"Because he was clearly making terrible financial decisions," I hedge. She doesn't press me further.
"And did he agree to those terms?"
I shrug. "I have no clue. I was expecting him to call me and let me know his answer the day he died. He only had three days to deliver the money to the bookie and I told him I'd need some time to get some funds liquidated."
"If they gave him three days to pay the money, why would they bother killing him before the deadline?" she asks as she leans back in her chair.
"No idea," I tell her. "Why did they beat him up so soon after he lost the bet?"
"That is the million-dollar question, isn't it?" she muses, and then flashes a grin. "Or the five-million-dollar question as it may be."
I don't laugh or smile back.
Detective Denning now leans forward in her chair, placing her forearms on the table and clasping her hands. Gone is the casual cop, and now I'm seeing one who has determination in her eyes.
"Mr. North...you'd actually been having quite a bit of trouble with Mr. Townsend of late, hadn't you?" she asks slyly, and I know she absolutely knows the fucking answer to this question and it's not a stab in the dark. She's clearly been busy looking into JT and me regarding The Sugar Bowl.
"It's not a secret," I tell her candidly. "He'd been spiraling out of control. Drugs...gambling. I was afraid he'd drag the business down."
"In fact, you've tried to buy him out on more than one occasion, correct?"
Fuck. I'm guessing she's talked to JT's business attorney. My attorney can't reveal that information because it's protected, but JT's attorney could sure help out the investigation.
"That's correct," I say, but don't offer an explanation.
"And the way I understand your partnership agreement"--yup, she's talked to JT's attorney--"you couldn't force him out unless he did something criminal that affected the actual business itself, correct?"
"Yes," I grit out, and feel myself starting to get angry at the way she's piecing this all together.
"So the drugs and the illegal gambling debt wasn't something that could get him out, right?"
"Right."
"In fact, you could almost say that the only way to get him out was for him to willingly agree to a buyout--let's say for five million dollars--or if he was dead?"
I don't answer her question but instead ask her, "Detective...are yo
u insinuating I killed JT to get him out of the business?"
She shrugs, sits back in her chair. "I'm not insinuating anything, Mr. North. I'm investigating all angles."
"Well you don't seem to be taking it very seriously that his gambling debt probably got him killed," I retort.
"We've thoroughly checked all of Mr. Townsend's phone records and computers. We can't find any communications whatsoever with anyone remotely related to gambling," she says.
"He used a burner phone then," I suggest.
She ignores that and says, "What is interesting though is that there was a call Mr. Townsend made to your girlfriend just a few hours before he died. And she called him back. Any idea what that was?"
I was prepared for this because I knew the police would easily find that information. "Yes. Sela told me he left her a voice mail while she was in class. She called him back and he said that he wanted to talk about the buyout. Wanted her to help convince me not to kick him out."
"And what did she say?" Detective Denning asks.
"She declined to get involved," I tell her. "Told JT it was between me and him."
"And that was it?"
"That was it."
"We'll want to talk to her about that," Detective Denning says with a smug smile.
"By all means," I say politely. "I'm sure she'll be happy to cooperate."
Then my head is spinning slightly as she changes tactics on me. "Mr. North...our forensics team has already gathered quite a bit of evidence from Mr. Townsend's home. Blood, prints, hair, fibers. The usual. We're rushing the processing on those."
"Your point?" I ask, but I already know the fucking point.
"Would you be willing to offer a DNA sample so we can exclude you as a potential suspect?" she asks with dead seriousness, leaning forward again and carefully evaluating my reaction.
But before I can say anything, Doug says, "Not without a warrant."
Now fuck, that makes me sound guilty, so I say, "Detective, I'll have to follow my attorney's advice, of course, but I can tell you, I've been in JT's home many times. I'd be surprised if my DNA wasn't there."
She nods, knowing that's most likely true. "What about your girlfriend?"
"What about her?"
"She's been in his home too?"
For all the planning and talking Sela and I have done over the past two days, this was not discussed, and I feel like an idiot for not considering I'd be asked this. My normal human reactionary programming wants to deny it, but I force myself to pause. Chances are they are going to find some evidence of Sela being in that house, so I tell my first bald-faced lie to Detective Denning and pray it doesn't bite me in the ass. "Yes. Sela and I had dinner there with JT one night at his invitation."