Phillip Margolin - Ties That Bind

Chapter Ten.

Dunthorpe was an exclusive residential neighborhood where substantial homes sat back from the road on large, tree-shaded lots, and the peace was rarely disturbed. But the morning after Harold Travis's murder, Sean McCarthy had to drive at a crawl to get past the television vans, the reporters, and the gawkers who crowded the narrow street that ran in front of the senator's house, a Tudor mansion shielded from view by a high hedge.

McCarthy flashed his ID at the policeman who was manning the barricade at the end of the driveway. The cop pulled back the sawhorse and waved McCarthy and Tim Kerrigan through. A maid answered the doorbell, and Kerrigan and the detective walked into a wood-paneled entry hall in which a crystal chandelier hung over a polished hardwood floor and the Persian carpet that covered most of it.

Carl Rittenhouse rushed over and grasped Tim's hand as soon as the prosecutor stepped through the front door. Rittenhouse had a doughy build and thinning gray hair that looked as if it had been combed in haste. His eyes were wide behind tortoiseshell glasses.

"This is fucking awful, Tim. Fucking awful."

"How is Deborah?"

"Holding up a hell of a lot better than I am. She's in there." Rittenhouse gestured toward the living room. "She's tough, keeping it in. I'm afraid she'll crash as soon as everyone leaves and she doesn't have to put up a brave front."

Kerrigan introduced McCarthy to the harried AA. "Look, Carl, before we talk to Deborah there are a few things we've got to ask you. Stuff we don't want to discuss in front of her. Is there somewhere we can talk?"

Rittenhouse led the way down a narrow hall decorated with delicate pen-and-ink sketches of Parisian boulevards, and into a den. Two walls were lined with bookshelves. A window took up most of the wall across from the door. Outside, the sky was gray and threatening.

"Do you have any idea who killed him?" Tim asked.

"No."

"He was going to be the nominee for president. You don't climb that high without making some enemies."

"Well sure, but I can't think of anyone who hated him enough to beat him to death."

"What about the house where Harold was killed?" McCarthy asked. "Who owned it?"

Rittenhouse colored.

"If you know anything you've got to tell me."

"It was the senator's place. I'm not certain Deborah knows."

"Why wouldn't she?" Tim asked.

Rittenhouse looked like he was in pain. "Come on, Tim. Do I have to spell it out for you? Harold fooled around."

"Do you know why he was there last night?" McCarthy asked.

"I might. Harold had an argument with a man in the parking lot at the Westmont after he played golf."

Rittenhouse told them about the incident.

"Did you recognize the man who was arguing with Harold?" McCarthy asked when he finished.

"No, but I saw him clearly. I'd know him if I saw him again."

"Great," Tim said.

"And I wrote down the license number of his car."

Rittenhouse took out his wallet and showed them what he'd written on the back of one of his business cards.

"What does the argument at the Westmont have to do with Harold being at the cabin?" Kerrigan asked while McCarthy used the phone on Travis's desk to call in the plate.

"A few of us met Harold here last night to plan campaign strategy. We've been doing that a lot since Whipple dropped out. We were all excited because the senator had a real shot at . . ."

Rittenhouse stopped. "Damn." He bit his lip in an effort to fight back tears.

"You want some water?"

Rittenhouse shook his head. "I'll be okay."

Rittenhouse paused until he had his emotions under control. "The meeting broke up around eight-thirty because Harold said he had a headache. He told me to cancel his plans for the morning. He said he felt run-down and wanted some time to himself. After Harold kicked everyone out, I asked him about the guy at the club again, because I'd been worrying about him. Harold had an odd reaction. He acted excited, like he wasn't worried at all, and told me to forget about it. He said 'Jon' was going to make it up to him that night. He looked like he'd forgotten that he was supposed to have a headache."

"Do you think the headache was a sham to get rid of everybody?"

"The thought crossed my mind."

"And you think he might have met the guy he argued with later on?"

"All I know is what I told you."

Kerrigan was about to ask another question when McCarthy interrupted. "The plate came back to Jon Dupre, 10346 Hawthorne Terrace, Portland."

Kerrigan could not conceal his surprise. "Describe the man who argued with the senator again."

"He was young, mid- to late twenties, good-looking."

"How tall was he?"

"Taller than Harold, maybe six feet."

"And his hair?"

"Uh, brown, I think."

"Any jewelry?"

Rittenhouse frowned. Then he brightened. "I think he had an earring."

"Can you describe it?" Kerrigan asked, fighting hard to mask his excitement.

"Uh, I think, yeah, it was a cross. A gold cross."

Kerrigan had a sudden flashback to the hearing in Dupre's case. He remembered the defendant strolling down the aisle, radiating arrogance the way his gold jewelry radiated light. One of those pieces of jewelry had been an earring in the shape of a cross.

"Sean, call Stan Gregaros. Tell him to put together a photo throw-down with a picture of Jon Dupre in it and get over here, pronto. Tell him to make it a great throw-down, one that will win a prize."

"Who is this guy, Tim?" Rittenhouse asked.

"Jon Dupre runs a high-class escort service that's a front for a call-girl operation. We got an indictment based on the testimony of one of his escorts, but we had to dismiss the case when she was beaten to death."

Rittenhouse turned pale. "Just like the senator," he said.

"Just like the senator," Tim echoed.

When Kerrigan and McCarthy entered the living room, Dr. Deborah Cable was seated on the sofa surrounded by friends. All conversation stopped, and Deborah's protectors stared at the detective and the prosecutor. Deborah stood up, and Tim walked over and hugged her. She was a substantial woman with graying brown hair, who normally exuded confidence and energy. Today she looked exhausted and bewildered.

"I wish this wasn't my case," Tim said after introducing Sean McCarthy.

"I wish this hadn't happened at all," she answered.

"Can we talk to you alone?" Tim asked, after casting a quick glance at the people who had come to comfort her. Deborah spoke quietly to her companions. Some hugged her and others squeezed her hand before drifting out of the living room.

"When did you get back?" Tim asked when they were gone.

"I caught a midnight flight. Carl picked me up at the airport. Thank God the press didn't know I was coming in. It's been a zoo out there."

Deborah sat on the sofa. Tim and the homicide detective took chairs across from her.

"Tell me how Harold died," Deborah asked as soon as they were seated.

Kerrigan hesitated.

"I'm a medical doctor, Tim, a neurosurgeon. I can handle the details."

Deborah sat up straight, her hands clasped in her lap, like a schoolgirl. Her body did not move when Kerrigan explained what he'd seen at the A-frame, but her hands tightened on each other.

"There are some questions that I have to ask if we're going to catch the person who did this."

"You don't have to walk on eggshells with me."

"Okay. Can you think of anyone who hated Harold enough to kill him so brutally?"

"No, but there was a lot about Harold's life that I didn't know." Dr. Cable fixed her large brown eyes on Kerrigan. "My work is here and Harold's was in Washington, D.C. That meant that we didn't see each other very much. For the past few years that's been intentional."