Reilly 02 - Invasion of Privacy (26 page)

Which left two possibilities. Either the disappearances were random, the most likely scenario, or some third party was responsible, an unknown predator out there, who went hunting once every three years or so. Cheney had made a list of known sex offenders in the area, checked their whereabouts on the relevant nights, and found nothing. Everywhere his thoughts lit, Cheney had already thought it through and checked it out. The only connection Paul could find was that Terry London had made the connection in her film, and she might have done that for purely whimsical, artistic, or malicious reasons.

Cheney stuck his head in. "I’m heading out. You find anything in there? Give your brain a good workout?"

"Good, thorough police work," Paul said. "Like you said, I feel there’s a connection between them, even if there’s nothing specific to point to. I have this feeling that if I could just see better, there’s something here. I know it. Give me five more minutes."

Cheney laughed. "Oh, boy. He’s hooked. I’ve been there and back a dozen times, and here I sit at square one. Call me if anything pops up, okay?"

"Sure. Thanks, Cheney."

"No problem, van Wagoner. You ever consider going back to police work? Pretty little town, regular paycheck, two-buck buffet breakfasts any day of the week."

"That’s mighty tempting," Paul said, smiling. "Then there’s the risking your life every day to look forward to, also."

Sergeant Cheney chuckled, a big deep belly laugh that made his whole body shake. "Son, you risk your life every morning when you get out of bed. There’s no getting around it." He waved and left.

Paul leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes, making a picture in his mind of them dressing to go out, leaving and fading from sight, on a street, a mountain slope....

He checked the weather reports for each day. No, they hadn’t all vanished in a snowstorm. No, they hadn’t vanished on exceptionally clear, or foggy, or overcast days. They had disappeared during cold weather, wearing their cute little furry coats, their warm pants, and their snow boots....

So what?

26

PARADISE SKI RESORT OCCUPIED THE WRONG HALF OF the mountain above South Lake Tahoe, the part that tourists couldn’t see and had to drive farther to, the part that wasn’t Heavenly. Paradise had no view of the lake, and had fewer lifts. But it had two advantages over Heavenly: with several runs at ten thousand feet, it was at a slightly higher altitude, and it was cheaper. Nina had never been there before.

The parking lot was jammed full of tour buses and vans from the big casino hotels. Paradise, with its snowmaking equipment and altitude, managed to stay open longer than almost any of the other resorts. She trudged up the cement path toward the small lodge with the die-hard spring skiers clomping along around her.

Jessica Sweet invited her into her pleasant office in back. Outside, snow piled up to the glass of a long, picturesque window wall. She sat down at her desk in a soft-looking red leather chair, two computers on a table to her left, and behind her, a full bookcase.

She looked much as she had in court and in Terry’s film. Her brown face was heavily lined from years of exposure to the sun, and she had a strong skier’s frame. Short silver hair and eagle eyes added to the aura of vitality. She wore a green blouse with slacks and the light hiking boots Matt called waffle stompers. Her face was calm.

"You remember my husband, Jonathan," she said.

Jonathan Sweet had changed for the worse. He was well dressed, thanks no doubt to Mrs. Sweet, but up close the boyish features were wizening without ever having turned into a man’s face. He sat in an electric wheelchair by the desk. "Hello, Mr. Sweet," Nina said, but he ignored her outstretched hand, leaving his own large hand resting on his shrunken legs. Another I-hate-you-lawyer-scum greeting to brighten up her morning.

"May I?" Nina said, lowering her untouched hand to indicate her tape recorder.

"If you wish," Jess Sweet said. "I hope this won’t take long. Jonathan doesn’t—"

"Quit babying me, Jess," Jonathan Sweet said. "Okay, we’re here. What do you want?"

"I have your statements," Nina said. "May I ask you a few questions to clarify some points?"

"Why?"

"Well, there are a few things I’d like to follow up on—"

"But why should we answer your questions?" Jonathan Sweet said. "He probably killed our daughter. He’s a murderer."

"You want the law to punish the right person, don’t you?" Nina said. "A fair trial means both sides have the best possible access to the facts."

"Do you deny that Kurt Scott is the man my daughter was secretly seeing twelve years ago when she disappeared?"

"He knew her. He doesn’t deny that. But they were no longer seeing each other on the night she—"

"Let me ask you this," Sweet interrupted. "Are you convinced your client is innocent?"

"What I think doesn’t matter. It’s what twelve jurors decide after hearing all the evidence that matters."

"You’d say anything to manipulate us into giving something that might help your client. You don’t care about our loss or his guilt. Hypocrite." He folded his arms, looking pleased with himself. His wife let him take the lead.

"Then why let me come?" Nina said. "Why didn’t you just refuse to see me?"

"Because Mr. Riesner told us you could drag us into a deposition with court reporters and legalese. This is the only time you’ll be talking to us."

"Oh, I’ll be talking to you at the trial," Nina said. "We have a lot to talk about. You want to know what will happen with Terry London’s film and your lawsuit, don’t you? You want to know if there’s a connection to Tamara, don’t you? I can tell you some things, if you will answer some questions for me. I don’t want to trick you or cause you any further pain. What you say may not help me at all. But if I turn around and walk out of here, you’ll see me next in court, and you won’t be asking me any questions then."

"Speeches," the man in the wheelchair said. His face had turned red. "Impertinence. Get out."

"Wait, Jonathan," Jessica Sweet said. She turned toward Nina. "I’d like to know anything you know about Tam. I don’t care why Scott killed Terry London."

"I don’t believe he killed Tamara, Mrs. Sweet," Nina said.

"You wouldn’t. He’s your boyfriend now as well as your client, isn’t he? Mr. Riesner told us—"

"Your daughter cared about Kurt Scott at one time, Mr. Sweet. Stop one moment and try to imagine that he is suffering and being persecuted, not that he is guilty. You sued Terry London because she had distorted the memory of your daughter, made her something she wasn’t. Have you ever stopped to think why she did that?"

"Sleaze makes money." But he seemed to be thinking about it.

"She knew your daughter, Mr. Sweet. She had a romantic interest in Kurt Scott. As you know, Terry London was both single-minded and unscrupulous. If your daughter has come to harm, one theory would have to be that Terry London caused the harm."

"She knew my daughter? How do you know that?"

"From Mr. Scott."

"I don’t believe anything Scott says, considering the jam he’s in."

Mrs. Sweet said to her husband, "If Terry knew Tam —it’s unbelievable! And she never once told us. Jonathan, listen to her."

"How was the decision made to have Terry London make this film?" Nina went on when Jessica Sweet nodded for her to go ahead.

"I was talking to some television people about making an unsolved case files show. You’ve seen them," Mrs. Sweet said. "They reenact a crime, or a disappearance, then put up a phone number to call after the show in case anyone who sees it recognizes something or has information to offer. And she called me to offer to produce it and take care of everything. That way the film could be more widely publicized."

"How did she hear about it?"

"Well, for once the Mirror had some news to report. They saw it as a chance to resurrect the old story about Tam disappearing, because I was in the talking stages with a producer. She said she wanted to make the film, had some money lined up and the whole bit, and suggested that I cooperate with her. She was a local girl and seemed truly interested in my little project. Well, of course I wanted to see something happen that might bring our daughter back, so I ... convinced Jonathan. We agreed and pitched in what money we could. She expected to make much more back when the film went into distribution, so she asked for most of the profits. That seemed like a good deal to me. We didn’t care about the money and we didn’t know if this TV thing would pan out or not. Those people are hard to pin down. So she made her film. And you know how that turned out."

"You didn’t agree, Mr. Sweet?"

No response. Mr. Sweet breathed heavily. Finally he said, "I thought it was a waste of money. And boy, was I right. But my wife was dead set on it." Was it her imagination, or did he grip the sides of his armchair hard when he said that?

"Jonathan was quite right, as it turned out," Mrs. Sweet said, moving around to touch his shoulder. He shrugged her off and scowled at Nina.

"Let’s get this over with. You have three more minutes."

"What was Terry doing before she contacted you?"

"She said she was out of work and looking for a project. My impression was, it had been some time since she had done anything at all substantial, work-wise. She was glad to see this project come her way," Mrs. Sweet continued, as if her husband wasn’t acting hostile. The trick apparently was to ignore his little displays of temper. Sweet was an angry man. He and his wife hadn’t adapted well to his handicap.

"Yes. Very glad. Much too glad," Nina said. "She makes the film so no one else will, controlling the viewpoint and the information that goes into it. She gets to blacken your daughter’s reputation, since she is connected to Kurt Scott, the man she still feels great animosity for. She even makes money. She does a good job and kills three birds with one stone."

"I don’t believe it,’’ Mr. Sweet said. "If she was such a manipulator, why not kill four birds and make your client into the bad guy? If she ... hurt Tamara, why not blame it on him? She didn’t even mention his name!"

"I don’t know the answer to that question yet, Mr. Sweet. But I do owe you and your wife an apology. When I agreed to represent Ms. London, I didn’t investigate the situation thoroughly enough. I was taken in by her, and I found myself on the wrong side when I realized the film was in fact malicious."

"It’s too little and too late," Sweet said, his voice hostile.

"The film is part of her estate, and as far as I know, she has no heirs. I will cooperate with Mr. Riesner to ensure the film is never shown except in court, if that becomes necessary."

They looked at each other. Nina let it sink in.

"It’s a strange way to win the case," Mrs. Sweet said with a nervous laugh. "So your theory is that Terry London was responsible for our loss ... and she manipulated us, cheated us, took our money twelve years later.... It’s almost too dreadful to think about."

Nina said, "She was capable of it."

"What do you want to know, Ms. Reilly?"

"I’d like to know if you were ever in Terry London’s house or studio."

"Jonathan?" He shook his head, tight-lipped.

"No," his wife said. "Oh, except that she filmed one of our interviews there. She made coffee, and smiled and laughed and told us the film would help us find our daughter."

"I’d like to know where you were the night Tamara disappeared."

"Like it says in the statement, we were at a meeting of the Zephyr Cove Property Owners’ Association until ten-thirty. We waited up for Tamara until two, then we got concerned and called the police," Mrs. Sweet said.

"You both waited up for her?"

"We tried to keep a close watch on her."

"Why?"

"We had had ... a bit of an argument before she left. About her staying out so late. She was eighteen, but young for her age. Also, we had been bothered by a Peeping Tom for a couple of weeks before that."

"Someone was looking through your windows?"

"Into Tamara’s bedroom. She had seen him twice."

"Was she sure it was a male?"

"Women don’t do that," Jonathan Sweet said. "It’s a male sexual perversion. Read up on your psychology."

"Was she sure?"

"She hadn’t gone up to the window to see, no." Mrs. Sweet had taken up the thread again.

"Was the peeper ever caught?"

"No. We called the police both times, and we told Sergeant Cheney about it. They never found anything."

"Did you ever see the peeper again? After Tamara disappeared?"

"No." Mr. Sweet broke his silence and leaned forward in the wheelchair. "It was probably Scott. She dropped him, and he wouldn’t give up."

Undeterred, Nina said, "It says here in the statement that you were in San Francisco the night Terry London was shot, Mrs. Sweet. What were you doing there?"

"I was at a conference. The Northern California Ski Resorts yearly meeting. I stayed at the Hyatt and I returned the next day."

"Did you have a single room?"

"Yes."

"I see what you’re trying to do, don’t think I don’t," Jonathan Sweet said.

"And you, Mr. Sweet—"

"I was at home alone. But you don’t believe that, do you? Okay. I got so mad at Terry about that film that I ignored my paralysis, jumped up from my wheelchair —temporarily cured—and went there and shot her. Heh, heh, heh. Happens all the time on TV."

"The studio was on level ground, Mr. Sweet. You wouldn’t have to walk."

"Oh, what do you know about being in a wheelchair? My wife and Terry London both had to help me up that path to her studio—it’s too narrow to be entirely safe for me. Also, there’s one step up to the porch, you probably didn’t notice. And the doorway’s tight, with a ledge I had to be pushed over to get inside. I’m not saying it’s impossible, just that it’s ridiculous. Plus, one thing being in a wheelchair takes away is your ability to be anonymous. Everyone notices me, and pretends not to. I guarantee, I’m not instantly forgotten. And the witness saw your client come out of there, not me. How are you going to fool the jury about that?"

"I’m not suggesting you killed Terry London."

"Come on! What else do questions like that mean?" Nina followed the progress of his blood pressure as it pinked his skin and mottled his nose.

"You have to pardon my husband. He took Tam’s disappearance very hard. We haven’t forgotten her, not for a minute. And then he’s had his own problems."

"I am sorry."

"No, you aren’t," Jonathan Sweet said, wheeling himself away from Nina, toward the window, catching a ray of sun that sparkled off the metal of his chair. Outside, a girl skied by and waved through the window at them, vigorous and happy, full of grace, blessed with all the gifts they had wanted to give their daughter.

In the parking lot, through her sunglasses, Nina watched the colorful dots whizzing down the white hill. She felt afraid for the skiers, as if there might be an avalanche any minute.

The case was like a damn avalanche, too full of people and facts to get a handle on it, and she felt buried in an airless tomb of snow, unable to dig her way out, suffocating on too many billowy suppositions.

She brought an odious thought from the interview to consciousness. Why didn’t Jonathan Sweet want the film made? What was he hiding? The statistics on murders of women consistently showed that many knew their killers.... How far would Mrs. Sweet go to protect him?

Had Sweet killed his own daughter?