A Twisted Path Read online

  She was staying at the Margolin’s house – the woman who’d helped her the night of the murder was the attorney Perry’s wife. He would informally provide Cheyenne counsel; not officially or that would have kept him from being able to represent Merrill. He had every intention of doing everything in his power to save Merrill. He would find a way to explain how a sudden surge of passion in a medicated, otherwise benign woman was completely out of character. She needed counseling, not a federal penitentiary. He’d run her case, using the resources of the firm where he was a partner, and make sure she only spent a few years in a minimum security facility. She might even have to spend time at a psychiatric center. He was confident it would go well. His advice to Cheyenne did not include staying away from the press – creating the image of how out of character Merrill’s behavior was would help his planned defense and plea agreement. Besides, the angry, lonely daughter role would elicit sympathy, especially when he orchestrated an emotional turnaround that reunited mother and daughter in forgiveness over the terrible events of that night.

  Margolin missed his friend Carl Wick. They’d known each other for years and the bond was strong. He thought back to the first time they’d met, introduced by a mutual friend at a wine tasting at a small club they belonged to. The friend thought they’d have interests in common. They did and both their careers flourished. Now, despite missing his friend, he would do everything necessary to take care of what was left behind.

  Chapter Fifteen

  A couple days in a county jail is not like a weekend at the Hamptons. The food tasted like vomit and vinegar, which ironically was what the cells smelled like. Merrill wasn’t numb anymore. It was amazing how quickly people fell into a routine. The morning after her second night, a guard came in to say her lawyer was there. She shuffled into the stark meeting room – they didn’t have any jumpsuits her size and the rolled-up pants legs were so wide they scuffed when she walked. Perry Margolin was waiting for her. He jumped up and hugged her, ignoring the initial protests of the female guard who didn’t put much effort into it.

  “Merrill, sweetheart, you look horrible.” He held her at arm’s length and looked her up and down. The haze from the night of Carl’s death had lifted somewhat. Seeing Perry now, in a calmer moment, reminded her she’d never been comfortable with him. Nothing she could put her finger on and he had been one of Carl’s closest friends. But she felt like an animal in a zoo being watched whenever Perry was around. And now she really was.

  “What’s going to happen now? Why isn’t…” Perry cut her off by leading her around to a chair like she was a lost child.

  “Now, you don’t worry about anything. I’m going to take care of everything. You just keep your spirits up. We’ll get through this together.”

  He started to talk to her about hearings and arraignments and whether bail was likely or not. He glanced at the cuffs of his shirt, thin red stripes offset by thicker white ones, each exactly one inch beyond the end of the jacket sleeves. One was tilted at an angle and he straightened it. Merrill started to cry, softly at first. Then in increasing volume and intensity as she realized the incredible void left by Carl’s death. She couldn’t see Perry lean over the table through her haze of tears to pat her on the forearms.

  “Yes Merrill, I know, it is a great loss. A terrible thing.” If she’d been more secure, more aware, she would have heard the patronizing note. She put her head down on the table and sobbed. She didn’t hear his parting words or see him go. The rough tug by the guard broke her growing hysteria and walking back to her cell she realized Perry never asked her why she’d kill his best friend.

  Chapter Sixteen

  That night Furyk sprawled on the couch in his living room, remnants of takeout Chinese on the coffee table and the third Rolling Rock of the evening creating a condensation ring on the wooden surface. One of the cable news stations that claimed to be the most watched or most trusted or most gossipy was on. The Wick case was the topic of discussion – it was getting national attention because it was sexy, even if the alleged perpetrator wasn’t – and it would be one of those stories that cooled off in a few days until a trial began. Then it would be great filler for any slow news days and the story that kept half a dozen court reporters busy ‘round-the-clock on Court TV unless a celeb went on a slow car chase or a Hollywood couple got into a nasty divorce. For now, the shows were in forensic mode – figuring out all the dirty little secrets of the participants in the crime, guessing at what their pasts held and their minds hid. It was one of the most popular games they played; take a mote of information and extrapolate – who did what to whom when and why. There was a parade of lawyers commenting on the likely plea and defense and prosecution positions; psychiatrists analyzing the players, particularly Merrill; investigators describing all the evidence that would eventually be collected, and overshadowing it all was the circus atmosphere that not only had the excitement of the big tent but the studied bias toward a predictable outcome: no one would say it outright, but they all practically nodded and winked that the wife would pay the price for her crime. Furyk ignored most of it, knowing the wolves had to feed and the audience liked to watch the carnage. He also had reason to think Merrill either didn’t do it or had good reason to. Either way, he couldn’t do anything about it. But then the particularly obnoxious blonde legal expert who ran one of the more popular attack shows gave a cloying, pedestal-building backgrounder on Carl Wick. Upstanding citizen. Brilliant psychologist. Loving father and husband. Donator of his professional services to those who couldn’t afford it – pro bono for the poor and demented. Furyk noticed his grip tightening on the neck of the green bottle of Rolling Rock he’d picked up. Wick was too good to be true. Literally. Then they started parading character witnesses in a series of snippets, neighbors and friends who would have had Wick canonized if they’d had papal powers. Mrs. Wick was headed for a very rough time. Furyk looked up at the television. They were interviewing a very slick looking lawyer who, as the crawl along the bottom indicated, was the lead attorney on Merrill Wick’s defense team. Defense team. Guess there was enough money for a whole squad. Furyk figured maybe it would work out okay for Mrs. Wick and he could ignore the pull to reach out to her.

  As a perfect set-up, the host of the show cut to a split screen of the smiling, immaculately dressed attorney. Perry Margolin grinned as if he were going to be asked about the basketball game coming up next week where his team was the underdog. The host gave him a look as the last testimonial about St. Wick faded, a look with a cocked head that seemed to ask what he was going to do to scrape the dog shit off his shoe that was his client before it began to smell too bad. Margolin waited for the question, something along the lines of “what’s a nice guy like you…” and instead answered the question he had in mind.

  “Well, Kelly, I want to thank you for allowing me to come on your show, following that lovely tribute to my friend Carl Wick.”

  “You’re very welcome, Perry, who, audience, by the way, I have known for many years.” She didn’t mention that she and Perry had dated once – or, actually, slept together, years before she had become a media star and was still a sweaty attorney in the DA’s office and he was opposing council on a drug charge. He’d won the case, banged the prosecutor after a couple of martinis and dinner, then dumped her, all before his client had time to hit the streets and get arrested again for attempted murder. Kelly hated him, though she’d done the same thing a dozen times since then in her career and respected his balls. “How do you plan to defend your client against the allegation that she brutally murdered her husband, stabbing him over a dozen times, then cowering near the body while her young daughter came across the bloody scene? And will her prior mental illness be a factor?” So much for an unbiased jury pool. Margolin maintained his smile and gave a bland response about presumed innocence and a lot of work to be done, ignoring the unfounded jibe about Merrill’s mental health. Kelly interrupted him.

  “Presumed innocence? Perry? Are you saying s
he didn’t do it?” The incredulity in her voice was something she’d found effective in front of juries. Margolin didn’t take the bait. He made smiling assurances that everything would come out and the truth would be learned. Kelly poked at him a few more times, then cut him off mid-answer to go to one of her pet attorneys who played sycophant whenever necessary, slavering over her every comment and never questioning her judgment. Margolin realized he was off the air. His smile didn’t fade and he could see from the monitor in the studio where he sat in LA that Kelly was not on air either while the attorney in front of the courthouse gave yet another summation of the events. He knew the world couldn’t hear him, though his mike was still on. Only Kelly and the producers. He waved his fingers at the camera, knowing she would be able to see.

  “Bitch,” he whispered through the smile. Her head jerked up, eyes ablaze, and then she smiled. Fingers waved back.

  “See you again soon, asshole.” He’d already pulled out the earpiece. He’d have plenty of opportunity to spar later.

  Like the rest of the audience, Furyk didn’t see the last exchange. What he did get was that Merrill Wick was being railroaded. He rolled that around on his tongue and didn’t like the taste. Another mouthful of Rolling Rock didn’t help. The husband was no saint and the wife no cold-blooded killer. When he’d met the Wicks during a domestic disturbance that was explained away as a misunderstanding with a teenage daughter and hormone-infused neighbor boy, Furyk had sensed something else. Merrill Wick was under her husband’s thumb, and not just in an old-fashioned 1950s way. She may have stuck him with a kitchen utensil a few times, but there was more to the story. He ignored the commercial playing on the screen telling him how to use natural herbs to last longer and keep the wife happy all night and thought about whether this was something he should stick his nose into. He certainly had no reason to spend any mental or other energy helping Mrs. Merrill Wick get herself out of a bind. Nobody was paying him and no one he cared about was asking for a favor. He was entirely absolved. He drained the bottle and picked up the phone. It answered on the first ring, 11:30 at night.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Perry Margolin watched the West coast feed of his televised exchange. Sitting in his den – a word he liked and no one used any more – stocking feet resting on a $7000 Ottoman and still wearing the silk suit pants from that day because they were more comfortable than pajamas, he lazily swirled the glass in his right hand. A couple of melting ice cubes clinked against the heavy crystal and the motion released the faint, appetizing aroma of scotch that cost more per ounce than heroin. He muted the sound with the remote in his left hand and the picture on the flat-panel television covering most of the wall flickered silently. He felt a couple of strands of hair fall in his face, the stiffened gel making it scratchy against the cheek he’d shaven twice that day, for the cameras. Instinctively he went to brush it back with his left hand and cracked himself above the eye with the remote he still held.

  “Fuck!” and he reared back as much as he could while in the deep grips of the leather lounger and hurled the remote at the screen. It should have been as easy as hitting a barn door but wasn’t because he was right handed. The remote went off at a ridiculous angle and knocked over a pale, modern lamp on his desk and he heard the bulb pop but not shatter. Missing didn’t make him angry; losing his temper made him angry. Goddamn Merrill, weak as a fucking kitten and puncturing Carl like the plastic cover on a microwave dinner. Perry wasn’t sure exactly how to feel and that made him feel out of control and that made him feel angry. With his left hand now free, he combed back the hair and took a sip of his drink. He looked at the phone on the desk, askew from the lamp hitting it but not off the hook. He had a couple of calls to make, one in particular he didn’t want to make, and he knew the flashing red light on his private line meant he had a message he didn’t want to deal with. But he’d do all three and make sure everything worked out. Control was all that mattered. The images on the television stopped jumping erratically from the commercials that had been playing and now the news was showing Merrill’s walk from the house/crime scene and then a clip from Perry’s interview. He reached for the remote to turn the volume back on, felt around the seat of the lounger, then remembered and looked up at the desk. The remote was on the floor near the window. The calm he’d regained dissipated.

  “Goddamn son of a bitch!”

  Chapter Eighteen

  “Pepperoni, dipshit! Pepper-fuckin’-oni!” followed by a crash and silence. Furyk’s grin was instantaneous and the first one after a long day. He hit Redial on the cordless and wasn’t surprised when it picked up before the first ring. He could hear the sharp intake of breath on the other end as the person filled their lungs in preparation for delivering an ear-shattering diatribe and he used the brief gap to get a word in.

  “Shut up, Prole.” He heard the breath blow out and could almost hear a glimmer of disappointment in it. He waited.

  “Yeah, great, just what I need. Brain-dead freakin’ pizza guy can’t figure out pepperoni-no-mushroom and now some asshole making a crank call.” She stopped and Furyk waited.

  “So whaddya think, Furyk, after seven months you’re gonna make a goddamn booty call? You’re as dumb as I remember.” Furyk grinned harder but didn’t let her hear it. He waited. It was a long twenty seconds. “Okay, stop wasting my time. You asking me to dinner or you need something. Because you’re not getting either one. Unless you bring the goddamn pepperoni over right now.”

  “Prole, you’re a charmer. I need a favor.” Small talk only pissed her off more.

  “Yeah, I figured. Big tough guy like you needs help all the time. You want me to cancel some parking tickets?” The sarcasm in her voice wasn’t from getting a late call or from hearing from a guy she’d gone out with a couple of times and woken up with once. It was poorly hidden self-recrimination for bailing on a guy she knew wasn’t full of shit and wasn’t intimidated – or overly turned on – by her being a cop. She’d ignored his calls after they’d slept together because he was a good guy with some rough edges and she didn’t need the distraction of liking someone. And it pissed her off even more that he didn’t bitch and moan about it. They’d crossed paths once or twice years earlier when he was still a cop and she was just a few years into it and then they’d bumped into each other a couple of times after he’d left. She’d liked how he’d left the force, though she didn’t share that view with others. And when they’d found themselves at one of the hangouts that had the reputation of being a place cops relaxed and sometimes got rowdy, they’d had a few drinks and maybe some dinner and a couple of outings. It was good. And that pissed her off.

  “Okay, enough with the silence crap. Whaddya need?”

  “I want ten minutes with Merrill Wick.” The click of the phone going dead was softer this time but just as fast. Furyk put the phone on his stomach and leaned back on the couch. A couple of sips from the beer bottle. He gnawed absently at a rough spot on his thumbnail and spat the microscopic piece of cuticle into the air. The phone rang. He flicked the Talk button.

  “Joe’s Pizza.”

  “Hilarious. She’s got a hearing at 11:30 tomorrow morning. She’ll be at the lockup until 10:30, probably consorting with her slimy lawyer. Come at 9:00.” The click was very soft this time. Furyk drained the bottle as he pulled himself off the couch and headed to bed, cordless still in his hand.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Margolin walked quietly down the long, dark corridor on the second floor. The hardwood didn’t creak and the only sounds came from the enormous hand-carved grandfather clock that lorded over the upstairs hallway. He passed the room that would have been a nursery a decade earlier if things had been different. The master bedroom and his wife were still thirty feet ahead and shrouded in the muted glow from the porch light downstairs they always kept on, letting the neighbors and any strangers passing through the sanctuary of Brentwood that the Margolins were home. He slowed his steps as he neared the door of the upstairs guest bed
room. Perry paused, turning to look at the heavy wooden door, a glint of light from downstairs reflecting off the varnished surface. He reached out and touched the door lightly, felt its solid surface. A minute passed. A soft rustling of someone asleep and moving about in bed escaped from the crack at the bottom of the door and then stopped. Perry thought about Carl and the daughter he left behind. A deep sigh, his hand still on the door, and then he heard a brief snort and gentle snoring echo in the air coming from the master bedroom. He dropped his hand but kept looking at the door. He turned and started walking toward the sound of his wife, unbuttoning his shirt and wondering what Carl’s death would do to the life he’d worked hard to make for himself.

  Chapter Twenty

  Furyk’s body jerked hard like it had just hit the ground after falling off a two-story balcony onto pavement. It woke him instantly and he couldn’t remember the dream that had ended half a second ago, but knew it wasn’t a good one. He must have been shot, or stabbed, or hit by a car or something in the dream that would make him jump. The shooting pain in his neck reached down his shoulder and a tingle in his fingers was just a couple seconds away. He reached across the pillows to fumble in the half-dark early morning for the tin and couldn’t find it. The gods smiled on him and his fingers found a couple of strays and he grabbed them and popped them in his mouth. Five hours of sleep left the inside of his cheeks feeling swollen and thick, and the oval pills were chalky and resistant as he dry-chewed them without the help of saliva. Lying back, he almost choked swallowing them but could sense the relief they would bring. Thank god for Vicodin.

  Not light yet and too early to go to the jail and see Merrill Wick. Arrangements already made for someone to open the shop and cover while he was out. He closed his eyes and thought about getting a few more minutes of sleep. The electric hum of the clock, not audible during normal hours, was like a herd of cicadas in the bedroom. He kicked off the sheets and lay in his boxers, the light chill of the A/C he’d left on assuring he’d get out of bed shortly. Eyes still closed, an image of Merrill from the television coverage hovered. Forlorn, lost, guilty. Furyk rolled off the bed and grabbed socks and sneakers from the closet. A small carton of juice from the fridge to put a little fluid in his body and he headed for the garage.