“Do you know if your husband ever did any other side jobs for Hood?” Davis asked.
“He did some moving-man work for a couple of Jim’s clients. Nothing against the law.”
Davis looked around at the duct-taped furniture and the stacks of trash. He knew the answer to his next question before he asked it.
“You wouldn’t happen to have any paperwork showing that your husband worked for Jim Hood? Pay stubs, maybe?”
“He paid Bruce under the table. A blank envelope filled with cash every Friday. Maybe you can get the son-of-a-bitch on tax evasion, the way they did with Al Capone.”
“We’ll look into it,” Davis said. “Do you know if Bruce had any friends who also worked for Hood?”
“You mean like to corroborate?”
Davis nodded.
“Bruce was a loner. Kept to himself on legit jobs and was strictly solo in the criminal world.”
“Do you know if he did any other contract work?”
“You mean killings?”
Davis nodded again. Sharon blew out a deep lungful of smoke.
“Ha!” she said. “If he did, I’d be sampling cocktails on a beach somewhere. He did plenty of strong-arm stuff, though. Broke more bones than a schoolyard swing set. Usually for pocket change.”
Davis leaned forward, made his voice soft and gentle.
“I hope this isn’t indelicate,” he said, “but you don’t seem very broken up.”
She shrugged.
“I guess I could sense the end coming. For both of us. Thirty years of chasing a high’ll do that. I won’t be far behind now. I just hope I make it to testify against Hood.”
* * *
“Doesn’t seem like she’s hiding anything,” Greene said, sliding behind the wheel.
“Yeah,” Davis said, “but what kind of a witness will she make? She’s an aging junkie who married a killer and probably has a rap sheet as long as his.”
Greene turned the ignition, tapped his horn to scare off a flock of pigeons who were pecking at breadcrumbs in the gravel behind their car.
“So what’s our next move?” he asked.
“We use what she gave us against Hood. Invite him down to the station as a witness and then hit him with what we know.”
“Won’t he just demand a lawyer?”
“Maybe. But a guy like that probably thinks he’s about a thousand times smarter than a couple of glorified civil servants. We might get lucky.”
“I’ll make the call,” Greene said.
CHAPTER 21
DAVIS SAT ALONE with Jim in an interrogation room while Greene watched through the two-way mirror.
“You see,” Davis said, “we know that Beauchamp used to work for you. He was fresh out of prison when you hired him on one of your construction sites.”
“So?” Jim asked.
Davis flashed a quizzical look.
“So you never mentioned that before. Not to us. Not when he was on trial for killing your wife. You claimed you’d never laid eyes on him.”
“I hire a lot of people. Most of them are day workers. If Beauchamp did work for me, I have no memory of it.”
Davis leaned back, folded hands behind his head and smiled.
“You know,” he said, “my hardest day as a parent came when my son learned the word ‘coincidence.’ He was seven, maybe eight. He thought he’d discovered the world’s secret free pass. Suddenly everything was a coincidence. When the dog vomited all over our carpet and we found an empty box of dog treats under my son’s bed, that was a coincidence. When a trash can in our backyard caught fire the day my silver lighter went missing, that was a coincidence.”
“Fascinating,” Jim said. “Look, I’ve been here going on three hours. If you have a question to ask me, then—”
“My question is this,” Davis said. “Was I wrong to punish my son for overfeeding our dog? For setting a fire in our yard? I mean, all I had to go on were a couple of coincidences.”
Jim saw where the detective was headed.
“No,” he said, “you weren’t wrong.”
“So I shouldn’t have taken my son at his word?”
“Are you comparing me to an eight-year-old child?”
“If I were, I’d have to say his lies were more convincing.”
Jim wouldn’t rattle.
“There are some key differences,” he said. “First, if Bruce Beauchamp worked for me and then killed my wife, I wouldn’t call that a coincidence. Maybe he saw her at one of the job sites. Maybe he developed an obsession. Or maybe his obsession was with me. Beauchamp had nothing. It must have seemed to him like I had everything. Maybe he couldn’t let that stand.”
“Interesting theory,” Davis said.
“And then, even if Beauchamp did work for me, it’s not like we kept in touch. I wouldn’t have seen him in over a decade. That’s longer than your kid had been alive when the dog got sick. Do you know how many people have come and gone on my job sites over the last ten years? Why would I remember him?”
Davis started to giggle.
“That’s funny?” Jim asked.
“I guess you’re just too damn clever for your own good,” Davis said. “I never mentioned how long ago Beauchamp worked for you. But you’re right—it’s been just over a decade. Is that another coincidence?”
Jim squirmed a little despite himself. Davis pressed on before his suspect had a chance to regroup.
“You know what I think,” he said. “I think you hired Beauchamp to kill your wife.”
“You’ve got an active imagination.”
“Oh no, I don’t have any imagination at all,” Davis said. “What I have is a witness.”
“A witness to what?”
“To an envelope stuffed with twenty-five thousand dollars. You were supposed to pay Beauchamp fifty grand, but you stiffed him on the second installment. I guess that could help your self-defense argument. He came to your office to demand his full payment. He had a gun, but you drew first. Of course, for that to work in court you’d have to admit to murdering your wife.”
Jim gripped the edges of the table, raised up in his seat.
“I didn’t kill Bonnie,” he said. “You’re going to take a drug addict’s word—”
“I don’t know what drug addict you’re talking about,” Davis interrupted. “What I do know is that Beauchamp earned that second twenty-five grand. He was facing life, and he didn’t let out a peep about you. From where I sit, you’re looking awfully ungrateful.”
The last bit of Jim’s patience snapped.
“Let’s talk about where you sit,” he said. “Let’s talk about that bargain-rack suit you’re wearing. Let’s talk about the sad little middle-class upbringing I bet you gave that son of yours. You’re right: you have no imagination. You carry a gun and send people to jail, but at the end of the day you’re just another sad working stiff who couldn’t think of anything better to do with his life.”
Davis smiled.
“I hope you get a lot of self-made rich folk on your jury, because us working stiffs may not find you so sympathetic.”
“Does that mean you’re charging me?”
“I might as well. A confession would be nice, but I don’t really need one. The DA’s got a clear enough story to tell. You killed the killer to cover your tracks and save a few bucks.”
“That’s insane. I loved Bonnie.”
“Once, maybe,” Davis said. “But you were tired of her little mountain adventure. It was costing you money, and you had no intention of living up there, away from the action.”
“That place wasn’t costing me a thing,” Jim said. “Bonnie was making a go of it.”
“Please, Mr. Hood,” Davis said. “We’ve been over the receipts. I believe ‘hemorrhage’ was the accountant’s word. Then there’s the fact that your marriage wasn’t so strong to begin with. I mean, your wife was cheating on you with the handyman.”
“Shut your—”
“Then there’s the Widow Beaucha
mp, who, hard living aside, is about the most compelling witness I’ve come across. I’m a skeptic at heart, but she sold me within five minutes. You lured Beauchamp to your office thinking you could get rid of the last of the evidence and save a few bucks in the process. You should have just paid the man, Mr. Hood.”
“All you’ve got is speculation,” Jim said.
“Not true, Mr. Hood. There’s physical evidence, too.”
“What physical evidence?”
Davis considered whether or not to share. It was risky, but the more he piled on, the more likely Hood would be to panic.
“Bruce Beauchamp was left-handed,” he said.
Jim looked confused.
“So?” he asked.
“So we found the gun in his right hand. And there wasn’t a speck of blood on that gun.”
“You could explain that a thousand different ways,” Jim said.
“No, Mr. Hood, you couldn’t,” Davis said. “There’s no way Beauchamp was holding a gun on you when you pumped five bullets into his chest. It’s just not possible. I’ll give you this, though: you put on a hell of a show for the 911 operator. You sure you don’t want to do some more acting? Say how sorry you are? Shed a few tears? That kind of thing goes over big at sentencing.”
Jim held up his hands.
“I want my lawyer,” he said. “Now.”
CHAPTER 22
JIM’S IN-LAWS WERE back in court for the trial, dressed to the nines and sitting in the front row. Jim could feel their eyes boring into the back of his skull; he imagined Bonnie’s mother smiling each time the DA scored a victory. And for the prosecution, the victories kept coming.
Forensic experts supported Davis’s theory of the crime scene: whether or not Beauchamp was left-handed, the impact of his fall would have knocked the gun from his hand, and the gun itself would have been spattered with blood.
A forensic accountant testified that Camp Nelson was a “money pit,” costing the Hoods hundreds of thousands of dollars, a loss Jim would have recuperated through his wife’s $500,000 insurance policy. He further testified that Jim’s own real-estate holdings were spread so thin that he was more paper tiger than tycoon: “If things were to continue as they are now,” the accountant told the DA, “he’d be bankrupt in a year.”
Jim’s team of celebrity attorneys couldn’t stem the tide: it took the jury just under three hours to convict.
* * *
At sentencing, Jim was led into the courtroom in shackles and an orange jumpsuit. He scanned the front row and found Bonnie’s parents in their usual place.
They’d left Mindy and Jim Jr. at home, just as they always did: why risk painting Jim as the single father of two bereft children when there was a good chance he’d go away for life?
The judge, a sixty-something man with slicked-back hair and glasses that looked more like goggles, called the session to order, then read a few preliminary remarks before asking Jim if he’d like to address the court. Jim stood and looked around the room. He forced himself to make eye contact with Bonnie’s mother, then turned to face the judge.
“I just want to say how truly sorry I am,” he began.
He’d rehearsed the speech in his cell, the way he’d rehearsed his 911 call in front of the bathroom mirror at home. But he hadn’t made that call in front of an audience. Here, in the courtroom, he was keenly aware of all the people staring at him, rooting for him to fail.
“I shot Mr. Beauchamp in self-defense,” he continued, “but if I could take it back, I would. Whatever the circumstances, I killed a man, and I’ll have to live with that for the rest of my life.”
It was like he was standing outside of himself, watching and critiquing his own performance. He was wooden, unconvincing. His voice rose and fell in all the wrong places. He’d practiced crying, but now the tears wouldn’t come. And now that he’d stopped talking, he couldn’t seem to start up again. He’d planned to give an outpouring of remorse, to throw himself at the judge’s mercy, to beg for the Widow Beauchamp’s forgiveness, but instead of pushing on he simply sat back down and hung his head.
The judge, unimpressed, sentenced him to twenty-nine years. The courtroom erupted in tears and applause. Jim kept his eyes on the ground as the bailiff led him away.
* * *
It was a long three months before Bonnie’s father brought Mindy and Jim Jr. for a visit. Jim sat on one side of a thick glass wall, the kids on the other. They spoke through headsets. Mindy, Jim’s tomboy, now wore a bright pink dress with a matching ribbon in her hair. Jim Jr. was suffering his first outbreak of acne. Both children put their hands up to the glass. Jim’s father-in-law stood back beside one of the correctional officers. He hadn’t so much as nodded to Jim.
“I wish I could bring you real clothes,” Mindy told her father.
“This outfit is plenty comfortable,” Jim said. “It’s like wearing pajamas all the time.”
Looking at them now, he regretted every harsh word, every instance when he’d lost his temper or refused to play one of Jim Jr.’s board games. More and more he wondered why he’d fought so hard against Bonnie’s version of the future. A quiet country life spent watching his kids grow up … what else had he wanted?
“You look bigger, Daddy,” Jim Jr. said. “I bet everyone here is afraid of you.”
Jim smiled.
“It’s not muscle,” he said. “It’s all the delicious meals they’ve been feeding me.”
In fact, prison food had put a good twenty pounds on him. His face was bloated, and for the first time in his life his gut jutted out over his waistband.
“We saw you on the news,” Mindy said.
Jim winced. He’d hoped his in-laws would shield the kids from media coverage. There was a difference between knowing the truth and being slapped with it day in and day out.
“I guess I’m famous now,” he smiled.
“It isn’t true, is it?” Mindy asked.
“What isn’t true, honey?”
He regretted the question almost before he’d finished asking it. Better, he thought, to issue a blanket denial: No sweetie, none of it is true. Even the police make mistakes.
“They said that you didn’t really have any money and that you hired that man to shoot Mommy and then you shot him because you couldn’t afford to pay him,” Jim Jr. blurted out.
Jim fought off a sharp pang in his gut.
“No,” he said. “I didn’t do any of those things. Your father’s innocent.”
But looking through the glass at his children, he accepted for the first time that he wasn’t innocent. He’d spent his months in prison scheming, denying, searching for a way out. But there was no point in struggling: he was exactly where he belonged. His children would have better lives without him.
EPILOGUE
Two Years Later
“IT WILL TAKE as much money to fix this place up as it will to buy it,” Louise said.
“More, probably,” Dan told her. “And a whole lot of labor.”
“Still, it’s a beautiful spot,” she said.
“Can’t argue that,” he agreed.
They stood outside the boarded-up lodge, turning in slow circles as they studied the property. The balconies lining the second floor of the motel appeared to be hanging on by a thread, and the small cabins, also boarded up, were tagged with graffiti. Even the FOR SALE sign was in disrepair. Still, on a clear-blue day in autumn, with the sequoias towering above, there really was no denying the majesty of the place.
“Wasn’t somebody murdered here?” Louise asked.
“I think so. I don’t remember who or how, though,” Dan said.
Louise shrugged.
“Well, I guess we might as well see the rest of it,” she said. “There’s supposed to be a stunning trail on the other side of that meadow.”
They started across. The grass was thigh-high, and now and again one of them would stumble over an old car part or a discarded piece of furniture. When they reached the tree line, Louise turne
d back around for one more look.
“It’s like a ghost town,” she said. “Like something out of the Wild West.”
And just as she said it, a shriveled little man wearing a torn plaid shirt and faded jeans emerged from the forest just a few yards away. He held a fishing pole in one hand and a tackle box in the other. His mostly gray hair, thinning up top, hung below his shoulders in the back. He wasn’t old, but his shoulders were stooped and he seemed to have trouble walking.
“Howdy,” he said, his expression none too friendly.
“Hi there,” Dan answered.
“We aren’t trespassing,” Louise said, as though she anticipated a scolding. “We talked to the realtor, and—”
“Ah, you’re investors,” the man said.
“Something like that,” Dan said.
Rudy looked the couple over. They were young, attractive. They had most of their adult lives ahead of them. He felt a wave of resentment.
“Well, you won’t find anything better to do with your money,” he said, forcing a grin.
“You think so?” Louise asked.
“I’m sure of it,” Rudy said. “If I had the money, I’d buy the lodge myself. There’s nowhere in the world like it.”
Louise took another look over her shoulder.
“I think you’re right,” she said, locking arms with her husband. “I think this place has real potential.”
THE ONE WHO KNOWS THE SECRETS IS THE ONE WHO HOLDS THE POWER. CAN NYPD RED FIND THE TRUTH BEFORE A CITY EXPLODES?
PLEASE TURN THE PAGE FOR A PREVIEW.
ONE
THERE WERE ONLY four words beneath the tattoo of the Grim Reaper on Aubrey Davenport’s inner left thigh. But they spoke volumes.
Death is my aphrodisiac
And nowhere in the entire city was her libido more on point than at the Renwick Smallpox Hospital, a crumbling three-story, U-shaped monster on the southern tip of Roosevelt Island.
Once a marvel of neo-Gothic architecture, Renwick was now a rotting stone carcass, the final way station for thirteen thousand men, women, and children who had died a painful death.