The One Who Got Away (25 page)

I smiled to myself. Not for nothing is Dick van Nispen known as Tricky Dick. Loren's family had sold their story to
RealNews
, but that was in an effort to get the police to take some action. To my knowledge, they haven't sold a story since then. The quote that Dick was talking about came from some comments Molly had given the
Bugle
after Dick had announced his intention to move a motion to have the whole case thrown out.

‘If it comes to trial – and it should – we will be there every day,' Molly had said. Like Loren, she's only little, and her face was pretty much hidden by the forest of microphones. ‘But we absolutely won't sit there and watch David get off on a technicality.'

She meant, during this preliminary stage.

She meant, while they're all so busy arguing about the jurisdiction.

Tricky Dick!

‘Okay,' I said, banging my gavel. ‘I think we've heard enough of that, Mr Van Nispen. Let's get back to the main point, shall we? You say that we can't hear this case. Who do you say can?'

‘Well, if it's anyone, it's Holland,' said Dick.

Sandy rose, saying: ‘The government of The Netherlands – which is the correct term – has transferred this matter back to the United States.'

Dick moved his head slowly from side to side, like a big old bull. ‘As they say in the South, that don't matter.' (Dick's not from the South; he lives seven doors up from Cecile and me.)

‘Why doesn't it matter?' I said. ‘Ms Ruiz is right. The Dutch aren't interested. And who can blame them? This happened in international waters. What are they going to do, send a team of investigators from Holland to the Baja Peninsula? It's not practical. It's not logical. So what would you have me do? Charge over there and put a clog up their behind?'

The bloggers liked that.

Dick wasn't amused. ‘You know, Judge Pettit, you don't actually have to do that,' he said. ‘In point of fact, you don't have to do anything. That's precisely my point. You don't have to do anything. Under maritime law – some of the oldest law in the world – this is not our business. You know it, and I know it, and my friend from the DA's office also knows it.'

Sandy made to rise.

‘It's alright,' I said, moving my hand so that she sat down again. ‘I've heard enough. Mr Van Nispen, I don't want you to worry. I'm not going to scold you for insubordination, although you probably deserve it with a remark like that. I respect you. You've put up a good fight, but now it's time for me to put you out of your misery.'

Dick resumed his seat, with his cane lying flat over his white trousers.

‘Let's consider the facts here. The Dutch have jurisdiction, but they don't want it, and I don't blame them,' I said. ‘They've handed the case to us. You say we shouldn't take it, and you're relying on ancient maritime law to make your case. Good for you, Mr Van Nispen, but let me tell you what I'm relying on. I'm relying on decency. This young woman, Loren Wynne-Estes, was born in Bienveneda. She was born in this town. Raised in this town. She went to school here, she married here, and she had those little girls here. They're Grammar girls! You're on the Grammar board aren't you, Mr Van Nispen? It doesn't matter. The point is, Loren Wynne-Estes is missing. She's a local woman and she's missing. How can you, in good conscience, say that it's none of our business? Of course it's our business. Who else's business could it possibly be?'

Dick began swinging his big head from side to side again, as if to say ‘no, no, no', but he knew what was coming.

‘Of course it's our business,' I said. ‘It's not only our business, it's our responsibility. What happened to this woman? We need to know. Her girls need to know. I'd go so far as to say that your client needs to know if, as you say, he has no idea what happened. So the answer is yes. Yes,' I said, banging my gavel again, ‘in the matter of
The People
v
David Wynne-Estes
, this court claims jurisdiction. Let's bring the matter to trial.'

* * *

‘You did good,' said Cecile.

She was seated in the far corner of the floral sofa doing the
Times
crossword. She hadn't looked up when I entered the room, but a smile played on her face.

‘Why thank you,' I said, moving towards the bar, ‘and now it's over, and so is my career.'

‘Tosh.' Cecile put the folded newspaper aside and removed her reading glasses. ‘You're leaving the bench. You can still work in the law.'

‘Ah, but can I?' I said, holding a seventieth birthday bottle of whisky up towards the light to see what remained. ‘I'm only saying I would've liked to have seen this one through to the end,' I continued, taking a glass down from shelves built at eye level over the bar, ‘and instead I have to hand the matter to a girl who wasn't born when I graduated from law school.'

‘She isn't a girl,' said Cecile. ‘She's a lawyer. A grown woman. Now, stop moping and turn on the TV so we can watch David Wynne-Estes bury his wife.'

Bury his wife?

Yes, indeed. While I'd been in court, David had been at home, preparing to bury Loren. If that sounds macabre, it absolutely was, because it wasn't like they had a body.

About a week earlier, David had given a short press conference to explain his motivation.

‘My lawyer, Dick van Nispen,' he'd said, ‘intends to move a motion saying Bienveneda court has no jurisdiction in this matter. He has, however, advised me that we have a no better than fifty-fifty chance of winning, and as such, it seems that I must prepare myself for what is likely to be a long, drawn-out trial.'

David paused. ‘I'm also advised that if we lose the motion – and we might – I will be taken into custody. Now, as most of you know, I have two small children. Girls. Twins. Hannah and Peyton.'

David paused again, to touch the corner of his right eye. ‘Night after night, my girls ask me, when is Mommy coming home? I have dodged and weaved because I just haven't wanted to answer, but now it seems I have no choice. I'm to be charged with murder. As such, anyone can conclude that my wife – Loren – must be dead. And if she's dead, then the time must have come to bury her.'

‘Why is he doing this?' Cecile had asked. ‘Is this part of some plan to soften up the jury?'

I had no idea.

‘Given that I have only a fifty-fifty chance of the motion to dismiss being granted, I propose to hold Loren's funeral on the day that my lawyer is in court. We will wait for the judge's decision, and then proceed.'

Cecile couldn't wait to watch.

* * *

‘You two look like a couple of rap stars.'

I'm quoting our son. That is what he said the first time he saw the black leather viewing chairs with the extended foot rest, the walnut panelling and drinks holders I got to go with the mega-widescreen I got for Cecile's seventieth birthday.

‘Your mother likes to binge-watch,' I said.

And it's true. She does. We both do. We like it more than reading books in the evening, mainly because neither of us can see the text anymore. We like it more than crosswords, because, ditto. We got into it with
Breaking Bad
and
Mad Men
, before moving on to
House of Cards
and
Orange is the New Black
(a very realistic look at a female prison, I thought). We haven't watched
Game of Thrones
(too much violence).

In any case, we meandered from the sitting room into what Cecile now calls the Viewing Room. I took my whisky; Cecile prefers gin-and-tonic, but usually only after four pm.

‘But I guess I can make an exception,' she said, ‘for your last day on the bench.'

I settled down with my footstool right up, and the chair reclined.

‘How can you even see?' said Cecile. ‘You're nearly horizontal.'

‘I can see fine,' I said, putting the chair back up a little.

The funeral hadn't yet started but Fox9 was running what it called ‘exclusive, uncut footage' from Liz Moss's earlier interview with David – bits and pieces that maybe hadn't made it to air the first time, including what they described as a ‘dramatic revelation', so we settled back to watch that. I do like Liz. She's got what they call the Voice of Experience.

‘How old would she be?' I asked. Because I mean, Liz was an ABC war correspondent during the first Gulf War. That's, what,
forever ago. Yet her show still starts with shots of Liz in tight cammo pants and a press vest.

‘She'd be a fair age, now,' said Cecile, ‘not that you'd ever be able to tell. She's holding up okay, don't you think?'

Me? No, and I wasn't just saying that because Cecile was there. Living in Bienveneda, I see a fair bit of plastic surgery. Mainly boobs. Big melon boobs. Whatever floats your boat, but in my opinion, women ought not to touch their faces. They're trying to stay young, but they don't. No, in my considered opinion, most women who have their faces stretched just look scared.

The promo finished, and David came onto the screen.

‘Look at his hand,' cried Cecile, pointing. ‘Is that his wedding ring?'

‘Good spot,' I said.

David was wearing his wedding ring. I'd heard on the grapevine – it starts and ends at Bienveneda Golf Club – that he'd employed image makers for the interview. The ring was undoubtedly part of that, and they'd had it buffed to make it gleam before the camera.

‘Good touch or bad touch?' asked Cecile.

‘Hmmm … good touch?'

‘Yes, I think so,' said Cecile. ‘A wedding ring says: “I'm a family man. Never in a million years would I kill my wife.”'

I'd already been warned that Liz didn't have her combat boots on for the interview. She started by saying, ‘This is a crime that has received a lot of attention. It seems that everyone has an opinion. We all think we know what happened. But now, in your own words, David Wynne-Estes, please tell us what you think happened.'

David paused, and said: ‘I can't believe I'm even saying this, but I think that my wife decided to take her own life.'

He was not crying exactly, but his lip trembled.

I glanced at Cecile. She was not buying it.

Liz pressed on. ‘And why do you think that?'

David rubbed his forehead. ‘This is hard for me.'

‘Take your time.'

‘I suppose the reason is obvious,' he said. ‘She wasn't thinking straight. Not before the cruise, and not during the cruise. But it's still hard for me to face up to the fact that she didn't want to be with me or with her children anymore because, whatever anyone thinks, Loren and I loved each other.'

‘The hide of him!' said Cecile, sipping her gin.

David dabbed at his eyes. ‘Loren's family has been flinging mud at me. Loren's stepsister, Molly, and her father, Danny Franklin … they're wanting revenge and I suppose I can understand that.'

I looked over at Cecile. ‘How's he doing?'

‘He's doing okay,' she said, shrugging.

Liz said: ‘Loren's father has told the world he doesn't believe a word that comes out of your mouth. So I guess I have to ask you … are you a liar?'

The question seemed to hang for only a second.

‘Yes, I am,' said David. ‘I lied to Loren about my affair with Lyric Morales. I told her it was over when it wasn't.'

Cecile scoffed. ‘She's under his spell.'

‘And just for the record,' said Liz, ‘what else have you been lying about?'

‘Nothing else,' said David adamantly. ‘I promise you, Liz, I've given up telling lies. Lying gets you nowhere. It has cost me everything. So no, I'm not lying now. I'm telling the truth: I did not kill my wife.'

‘That can't be it?' said Cecile, eyes wild. ‘He got off pretty easy.'

‘That's not the whole interview,' I said.

‘No, but it's all we get to see before the funeral, which I can't wait to watch,' said Cecile, rattling the ice in her glass.

I rose to get her a refill.

‘Shame on you,' I said. ‘I've never known you to be so ghoulish.'

‘Everyone will be watching!' she protested, and she wasn't wrong.

Everyone would be watching, and tomorrow they'd be gossiping. Bienveneda had the Wynne-Estes bug and why not? The case had everything: David was rich and Loren was beautiful. The mistress was a siren and the girls were angelic.

Here was evidence that awful things could happen to beautiful people; that the big house and the expensive cars can be that old cliché, the glittering façade.

Plus, sex tapes!

Let's not forget the sex tapes. Ever since David's interview, all of Bienveneda had been abuzz with gossip about the sex tapes.

‘I can't believe that the police were reluctant to investigate Lyric's death lest the tapes got out,' I said, returning to the room with Cecile's gin-and-tonic. ‘It seems to me that the police believed David's story. Why wouldn't they? He was ready to plead guilty to being an accessory. That carries jail time, or at least, it might. Does David strike you as the kind of person willing to go to jail to protect the reputation of Fat Pete Evans?'

‘So Pete
is
on the tapes,' said Cecile.

‘I didn't say that. I have no idea. That's just what people say. But anyway, are you sure you want to watch the funeral?' I added, even while settling into my extravagant chair to watch it. ‘Burying an empty coffin for the theatre of it? That seems wrong to me.'

‘I want to see the empty coffin,' said Cecile. ‘I want to see David bend over the flowers on top of the coffin and whisper something, and I want the microphone hidden in the flowers to pick up what he says.'

‘What makes you think the police will bug the flowers? I'm not sure that would even be admissible.'

‘Well, if they don't, they should,' she said, taking a satisfied sip of her drink.