“My money’s on the footprint,” Weiss said. “What’s up with the Perkins girl?”
“I haven’t interviewed her yet. She looks like an extra from a horror movie. And she’s scared shitless, but she claims she doesn’t know who attacked her.”
“I thought you hadn’t interviewed her yet.”
“I gotta go,” Landry said, and ended the call.
Immediately he called Dugan and updated him on the guard hack videos.
“Is there any way we can freeze these guys’ passports?” he asked. “They have access to private planes.”
“I’ll call the state’s attorney,” Dugan said. “I’m guessing no. If you don’t have enough for an arrest warrant, they’re free to do as they please.”
“Can we sit on them?”
“And have Estes and Shapiro screaming harassment?”
“From a distance.”
Dugan hesitated.
“Jesus Christ,” Landry snapped. “Do we have to ask please and say thank you when we slap the cuffs on them? Do we have to ask permission from their lawyers before we arrest any of them for murdering a girl and feeding her to the fucking alligators? Whoever did this is a goddamn criminal. I don’t give a rat’s ass how much money he has in his bank account.”
“Yeah, that’s all very socially conscious of you, James. But the reality-which you know as well as I do-is rank has its privileges. Life isn’t fair. If anyone past the age of six hasn’t figured that out by now, they need to get their heads out of their asses and look around.”
“So the answer is yes,” Landry said. “I’ll have to go home and get my white gloves and party manners before I arrest one of these assholes.”
“And when the time comes, Landry, every t crossed, every i dotted on the affidavit, or Edward Estes will chew up your warrant and shit motions to dismiss. Got it?”
“Loud and clear.”
“Where’s the other Estes in all this?” Dugan asked.
“Why would I know?”
“You have a way of coming across her. Do I have to worry about that?”
Landry didn’t answer right away, considering the ramifications one way or the other. If he told Dugan that Elena was at the hospital with the Perkins girl, Dugan would try to do something to get her out of the way, to contain her. Taking her out of harm’s way, Landry thought. But preventing Elena from doing any damn thing she wanted was no easy task.
If she thought Landry was behind Dugan’s actions-and she could-whatever small scrap of trust she might still have in him would be gone, probably for good.
And while she didn’t carry a badge anymore, this case was hers in all the ways that mattered. This was her vendetta, if in fact Walker had murdered Irina. Could he take that away from her?
Should he?
“Landry?”
“Yeah. I’m here. My phone cut out. What did you say?”
“The media is digging up everything from twenty years ago,” Dugan said. “She was involved with Bennett Walker. Testified against him on a rape/assault. Now here she is again, in the middle of it. Edward Estes’s daughter. This could be the fucking Rubik’s cube of conflict of interest. Do you know where she is?”
“No,” Landry said. “I don’t.
“Look, I have to go interview the Perkins girl,” he said. “She’s in the hospital. Someone beat the crap out of her last night.”
“Does she know who?” Dugan asked.
“You’ll be the first to know.”
He closed the phone and went back inside to take Lisbeth Perkins’s statement.
Chapter 44
A nurse practitioner, who was both competent and compassionate, examined Lisbeth and did the rape kit, finding nothing. Landry allowed me to stay while he interviewed the girl-as if he could have gotten rid of me. I listened to her story for the second time, thinking she had been through one of the most terrifying experiences I could imagine: blind, helpless, completely at the mercy of a ruthless, faceless demon.
Physically, Lisbeth would be all right. The blood in her eyes would recede over the next few days. The swelling in her throat would abate. She was on a heavy dose of mega-antibiotics to fight off any infection that might take hold in her lungs from inhaling the filthy, stagnant swamp water. Psychologically, she was in a far worse place.
She stared at the dashboard as we drove from the hospital to the farm, saying nothing, sitting so still she might have been catatonic. I let her be. The last thing she wanted to hear was someone crowing at her to buck up and count her blessings for being alive. Alive probably didn’t seem like such a great thing just then.
Having been there myself, I knew enough to keep my mouth shut. People who have never experienced anything more devastating than a head cold are always the ones with the big Hallmark-card platitudes and wisdom. If I had a dollar for every time I wanted to tell one of those people to fuck off, I could have bought and sold Donald Trump three times over.
Sean was riding D’Artagnan when we pulled into the drive. He had the rock-solid seat and perfect upper-body position years of training with German masters had developed. He and the chestnut were one, springing across the diagonal line of the arena in a huge trot that seemed barely to touch the ground.
I wished I could be out there with him, the outside world receding as I focused on every footfall of the horse beneath me. In our sport, there is no time for the intrusion of external thoughts. In perfect moments, there is no conscious thought at all, only a oneness with the animal, only being. Communication is the simple exchange of pure energy. There is no process; no idea, plan, action, reaction, result. There is only intent and realization.
How unfortunate the rest of life is seldom that free of complications.
I parked in front of the cottage, went around the car, and opened Lisbeth’s door-otherwise, I thought, she would have just sat there indefinitely, staring at nothing.
“Come on, kiddo,” I said. “Let’s get you situated.”
I had to put a hand on her shoulder to keep her moving, or she would have simply stopped and become a lawn ornament. Inside, I took her to the guest suite and showed her how to operate the shower. While she was at that, I set out a pair of my own sweatpants and a T-shirt for her, then went to the kitchen and heated some udon soup.
Elena Estes, Domestic Goddess.
No one who knew me would ever have imagined it (which was the way I wanted it), but there was a part of me that could have too easily been a nurturer.
The quality was not hereditary. My birth mother had sold me to the highest bidder before I was even out of the chute. Nor had I learned by example from Helen, my adoptive mother.
I had learned by longing, and wishing, I supposed. By imagining how I would be, and how I would not be, when I had children of my own.
We were going to have three, Bennett and I. A boy, a girl, and a bonus baby. I had been overjoyed at the idea, had chosen names, and had mentally mapped out the things we would do together as a family.
But then there was never a marriage, never a baby, never a family.
Somewhere in my thirties I had made a kind of peace with it. I had a different calling. I was dedicated to my career. Never the most social of creatures, I was long since used to my own company. That worked for me. I didn’t have to conform to someone else’s idea of perfection or endure their unending disappointment. I was able to find some satisfaction within myself. Contentment-or as close as I was ever liable to come.
I had grown used to being as irresponsible as I wanted to be, to being as spontaneous as I wanted to be. I could be as selfish and headstrong as I wanted. I resented ever having to compromise my time, my plans. I didn’t
