Buried Evidence Read online

  Richard looked up at the sky, thinking she was probably right.

  “Since you’ve made it a point to remind me that I’m a murderer,” Lily went on, “maintaining our ethics regarding the Middleton case seems almost hypocritical. What do you think?”

  “I think I love you,” Richard said, a wild look in his eyes. “No matter what, I’ll probably always love you. You know that, though, don’t you?”

  Lily held up a palm, warning him to back off. Unleashing their feelings for one another at this point was premature, particularly under the circumstances. “Was it Middleton’s idea to keep Betsy on life support, or did you explain what kind of charges he would be facing if she died?”

  Richard started to answer, then stopped himself. First she didn’t want to see him because he was Middleton’s attorney. Now she seemed to be heading in exactly the opposite direction, hinting that he should conspire against his own client.

  “She has terrible seizures,” Lily told him. “Her limbs have atrophied. How do we know she isn’t experiencing pain during these convulsive episodes? It’s almost as if they’re keeping a corpse alive.”

  “Read my lips,” he said, pointing at his face. “Betsy Middleton is not your daughter!”

  “I’m going to petition the court in her behalf.”

  Richard stared at her in a renewed state of awe. When she became excited or angry, her eyes shifted from blue to green. This was the woman who haunted him, scared him, ignited his passion to the point where he felt totally alive. Not the rape victim but the storm trooper, the avenger, someone with enough courage to place her neck on the line for the benefit of others. “Do whatever you feel is right.”

  Lily remained standing in the driveway as he got in his car and sped off.

  5

  Dad,” Shana called out from her bedroom, “where’s my ice cream?” John Forrester was asleep in a brown leather recliner in the two-bedroom duplex he shared with his eighteen-year-old daughter. Located on a tree-lined street in North Hollywood, the exterior was constructed out of stucco, the pale pink paint cracked and faded. The yard consisted of a small patch of grass. Even though the living room was sparsely furnished, it appeared cramped and cluttered. A green velvet sofa was backed up to a large picture window overlooking the street. Shana had insisted that her father rent a place with a fireplace, therefore, their wall space was limited. If they hadn’t placed the sofa in front of the window, they wouldn’t have been able to see the television set. The only other furniture was an oak coffee table, the surface littered with glasses, newspapers, and stacks of unopened mail.

  Dressed in jeans and a black tank top, Shana left her desk to see why her father had not answered. “Wake up,” she said, standing over him. “You promised you’d go out for ice cream. That chicken you made tonight was awful. It tasted like an armadillo.”

  “What time is it?” John asked, looking at his watch. “Why didn’t you wake me before now?”

  “Because I was busy writing a paper,” she said, shoving her glasses back on her nose. “Can’t you get rid of all this trash? You know I can’t concentrate when the house is a mess. A cluttered house is symbolic of a cluttered mind.”

  John stared up at her, his eyes groggy from sleep. Up until her first day in college Shana’s room had been a pigsty. Now the pendulum had swung in the opposite direction. The duplex had to be kept in perfect order. Standing, he tucked his shirt in and stepped into his loafers. At five-nine, he wasn’t a big man. His daughter stood five-ten, only an inch shorter than her mother. If she hadn’t possessed Lily’s intelligence and drive, she would have no difficulty earning her living as a fashion model. Her eyes were sapphire blue, her skin unblemished, her cheekbones beautifully sculptured. Her auburn hair fell to the center of her back, but tonight she had it tied up in a ponytail on the top of her head.

  “Baskin-Robbins might be closed,” he told her, brushing his hand over the top of his head. The only hair he had left was basically a fringe around the base of his skull. To make matters worse, his hair had turned gray during the past year, and he now had to have it colored twice a month. “Don’t worry,” he added, picking up his car keys off the coffee table. “Ralph’s is open all night. Peanut butter and chocolate, right?”

  “I don’t want ice cream from the grocery store,” Shana protested. “I missed so many classes last week, I had to stay up until three o’clock last night. Please, Dad, don’t go back on your word.” She grabbed one of the glasses off the coffee table and brought it to her nose. “Were you drinking this afternoon? Is that why you burned our dinner?”

  “Of course not,” he said, snatching the empty glass out of her hand. “One of my deals fell through. I was trying to see if I could salvage it. I got busy on the phone and forgot to check the oven.”

  “Maybe you should get a regular job,” Shana told him, picking up the remote to lower the volume. Her father watched television incessantly. She was beginning to suspect that he was losing his hearing. He kept the volume at such deafening levels, it made it almost impossible for her to study. “Mom says you’re not cut out for sales. She thinks you’d be better off getting a job that pays you an hourly wage. You know, something you could count on every month.”

  John bristled. “When did you talk to your mother?”

  “Yesterday.” She scooped up the old newspapers and dumped them in the trash can in the kitchen, then walked the short distance back to the living room. “Mom’s already paying my tuition. It isn’t right for you to expect her to pay for everything. It’s not like she’s rich or anything. She’s a district attorney, Dad. She works for the county.”

  “She has more money than I do,” he said bitterly. “Why didn’t she go into private practice? When she went to law school, that was her intention. I’ll never understand why she wanted to become a district attorney.”

  Shana hated being trapped between two individuals who were continually arguing. People thought divorce affected only young children, but they were wrong. As much as she loved her parents, the situation was sometimes maddening. She felt like a lawyer forced to defend both the criminal as well as the victim. “Mom’s worked hard all her life. I’m proud that she’s a district attorney again. She didn’t belong in some boring desk job. She’s too good in the courtroom.”

  “She could have done the same thing in Los Angeles,” John said, his jaw protruding like a petulant child. “You could have seen her more often. Then I wouldn’t have to listen to her complaints that I monopolize all your time.”

  “Can you please stop it?” Shana shouted. “After the years she spent in L.A., Mom wanted to be near the beach. Not only that, she had to take whatever position was available. You’re talking stupid, Dad. I’m too tired tonight to deal with this crap.” She headed back to her room, then turned around. “Hurry and you can make it to Baskin-Robbins before they close. I went out and did the grocery shopping yesterday.”

  “Why didn’t you buy ice cream?”

  Shana flashed her dynamite smile, displaying a perfect row of white teeth. “Come on, Dad. You don’t like ice cream from the supermarket any more than I do. Most of the time it’s burned from the freezer.” She licked her lips. “I know what you want …a great big sundae with nuts and whipped cream. Doesn’t that sound yummy?”

  John lumbered out the front door, climbed into his daughter’s Mustang, and backed out of the driveway. Making her happy was the focal point of his life, even if she did have a tendency to treat him like an errand boy. He’d given up on women years ago. Now that he was in his fifties, certain things weren’t as important. After college Shana would be entering law school. He had no doubt that she would become a successful attorney. She certainly wouldn’t follow in her mother’s footsteps if he had anything to do with it, working for peanuts as a county prosecutor. He envisioned her in one of those skyscrapers down on Wilshire, where all the high-powered lawyers kept their offices. Those were the people who raked in the big bucks, made a real name for themselves. People wer
e fascinated with the legal system. All Shana had to do was play her cards right, and she might even have her own television show someday.

  Pulling up at a stop sign, John glanced over at one of his listings, a three-bedroom fixer-upper with a swimming pool. When he’d decided to get his real estate license, he’d anticipated earning a large income with a minimal amount of effort. Instead, he spent every day jabbering on the phone or chauffeuring people around. Resigning his job with the government might have been a mistake, but there was nothing else he could have done. He’d run into some financial problems a few years back, and cashing out his retirement had been his only option.

  Outside of his relationship with Shana, his future didn’t hold a great deal of promise. He had to get his career as a real estate agent off the ground and manage to sock away some money, or he would end up living the remainder of his life on Social Security. His retirement money was gone. The day before, he’d suffered the embarrassment of having to call Lily and tell her the truth—that he couldn’t afford to continue paying the rent on the duplex. The fact that she had immediately ratted him out to Shana made him furious. No man wanted to look like a failure in the eyes of his daughter.

  A black Mercedes came from out of nowhere, causing John to swerve to avoid a collision. “Idiot,” he yelled out the window. Behind the wheel of the Mercedes, a pretty blonde had a cell phone to her ear. “Try looking where you’re going next time.”

  Before the divorce, John and Lily had owned their own home. Maybe it wasn’t a palace, but it was certainly better than where he lived now. He missed his old yard, the backyard barbecues, chatting with his neighbors. While Lily had devoted herself to prosecuting criminals, he’d coached Shana’s softball team, prepared their meals, dropped whatever he was doing to rush to her school whenever she was sick. Lily was responsible for what had happened to his daughter. She’d refused to listen to him. If she’d quit the county and opened her own law practice, she would have never lured a maniac home and thrown all of their lives into chaos.

  Shana’s face flashed in front of him, the disgusted manner in which she’d looked at him. So what if he’d suffered a financial setback, needed a little help making ends meet? Why hadn’t Lily kept her mouth shut? He’d begged her not to tell Shana. But no, the woman had jumped on the opportunity to degrade him. And his ex-wife was far from perfect. He knew things about her that would make a person’s hair stand on end. Unlike Lily, though, he didn’t run around telling people. “Bitch,” he mumbled, a trickle of saliva running down the side of his face.

  When he reached the corner of Melrose and Santa Monica Boulevard, John spotted the pink neon sign for Baskin-Robbins. The clock on his dashboard read eight fifty-five. He punched the accelerator and careened into the parking lot, missing the driveway and running up over the curb. He couldn’t continue driving forward as there was a large metal container in front of him, a receptacle for people to place items they wanted to donate to the Goodwill. Throwing the car into reverse, he revved the engine, wanting to make certain the Mustang cleared the curb.

  “Shit,” he said, hearing a loud thud.

  Slamming on the brakes, he looked in the rearview mirror, certain he must have struck a tree. The area was so dark, though, all he could see were the lights in the office building across the street. He rubbed his neck, wondering if he could put in a claim for whiplash, then reminded himself that he was no longer insured. After his DWI arrest his premiums had skyrocketed, and he had been forced to sell his car.

  He got out to survey the damage when he saw the body on the ground, the legs twisted at an unnatural angle.

  A faint voice pleaded, “Help…me.”

  John stood frozen. He couldn’t breathe, think, move. He watched in horror as the man’s eyes closed and his head flopped to one side. “No,” he shouted, falling to his knees. “Please, God, don’t let him be dead.”

  There was no blood, at least none he could see. Positioning his face over the man’s mouth, he felt a whisper of breath on his cheek. He reached toward his legs, certain they were broken, then yanked his hands back as if he were reaching into a flame. What if he regained consciousness? He couldn’t let the man see his face. “Are you satisfied now?” he said, blaming Lily. “This would never have happened if you hadn’t upset me.”

  He had to remain calm, figure out a game plan.

  John decided the man must be a pedestrian, as there were no other cars in the parking lot. Dressed in beige khaki pants and a white T-shirt, the victim appeared to be in his late teens or early twenties. His dark hair was long and unkempt, but there was an incredible softness to his features, causing John to question if he might be a female. No, he told himself, the voice he had heard had sounded too masculine. To make certain, he bent down again. When he failed to detect breasts beneath the person’s T-shirt, he decided his first assumption was correct and the person was male. Regardless, the young man was astonishingly beautiful. A light seemed to be emanating from his face.

  John rocked back and forth on his knees, overwrought with emotion. He’d been driving too fast. He hadn’t been paying attention. His daughter had been right when she had accused him of drinking. After losing the only real estate contract he’d written in three months, he had consoled himself with alcohol. “What have I done?”

  He felt a powerful urge to pick the young man up in his arms, place him in his car, then rush him to the nearest hospital. His pants seemed several sizes too large, and his arms were like skinny twigs. Was he one of those street kids? John asked himself. Hollywood was full of them. Many of them were runaways who turned to prostitution to survive. Could that be why his features appeared so soft and feminine? Did he hustle men for sex?

  John’s eyes darted to the ice cream parlor, then quickly scanned the parking lot. He didn’t see any customers inside the store, and the salesclerk looked as if he was tallying up the day’s receipts. He wasn’t wearing his wristwatch, and for all he knew, the clock in the car might be slow and the store had already been closed by the time he reached the parking lot. He took note of the other businesses in the strip shopping center. The anchor, as they called it in real estate terms, was obviously Baskin-Robbins, but there was also a dry cleaners, a sandwich shop, as well as a small boutique. Outside of the ice cream parlor, the other establishments would have closed hours before. He was certain no one had witnessed the accident. He’d been convicted of driving under the influence only the previous month. The consequences would be disastrous if he called the police.

  Leaping back into the Mustang, he roared out the opposite entrance to the parking lot. At the first intersection he made a right turn into a residential neighborhood. His chances would be better if he stayed off the main thoroughfares. Picking up his cell phone, he started to dial 911, then quickly disconnected. A police officer might respond in a matter of minutes. Sometimes they were only a block or two away when the dispatcher advised them of an emergency call. He had to be safely out of the area before he did anything. The last thing he wanted was to drive right past the police car. Had the boy seen his face before he’d lost consciousness? Could he have possibly memorized his license plate? Even though he hadn’t seen any blood, he could have suffered internal injuries.

  Young people who sold their bodies were asking for trouble, John decided, practically flirting with death. One of his tricks could have killed him, or the kid could have contracted a sexually transmitted disease. If he did decide to own up to what he had done, the police might think he had paid the boy to have sex with him, maybe even intentionally harmed him. With all his other problems, the last thing he needed was to become caught up in an ugly scandal.

  The fact that the kid was probably a runaway might work in his favor. That meant there would be no relatives looking for him, at least, not right away. For all he knew, the authorities might not even be able to make an identification. The guy had been walking, so maybe he didn’t have a driver’s license.

  John decided he would place an anonymous call to
the authorities as soon as he got home. No, he corrected himself, his mind racing in a dozen different directions. Shana would hear and ask questions. Besides, the police had equipment that could trace every call. He had almost made a mistake and used his cell phone.

  The only solution was to find a pay phone.

  His knuckles turned white as he gripped the steering wheel. Perspiration spread across his forehead. His shirt was so wet it felt as if he had just removed it from the washing machine. He tried to focus on the road, but his vision was distorted. Several times he passed over the line into the opposite lane, almost colliding with an oncoming vehicle.

  He wasn’t drunk, he told himself. His vision was blurred because Lily had made him crazy. He had been sober when he’d left the house. “You’re lying,” he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Alcohol was a demon drug, no different than cocaine, speed, even heroin. Once again it had seduced him, lured him into a false state of confidence. How many glasses of Jack Daniel’s had he consumed? All he recalled was tossing an empty bottle into the trash can while he was cleaning up the kitchen.

  The lights to the shopping center where Ralph’s was located loomed in the near distance. Outside the grocery store was a phone booth. Squealing to a stop at the curb, he left the engine running in the Mustang as he raced toward the phone. After digging in his pocket for his wallet, he came up with only a few dimes and a five-dollar bill. In his rush to get to Baskin-Robbins, he must have left his wallet on the coffee table at the duplex.

  A middle-aged woman with salt-and-pepper hair was exiting the market, her arms laden with groceries. He opened his mouth to ask her for change, then stopped himself. The police could easily dispatch a unit to the phone booth after he reported the accident. The woman must live in the neighborhood because she was walking in the direction of the sidewalk instead of the parking lot. Their eyes met and he quickly looked away. How could he call from here? The woman would remember him.