Trace Of Innocence. Erica Orloff

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      She slid the folder across the table.

      Staring up at me from the mug shot was a man who made me blink slowly several times. He was beautiful. But beyond that, his eyes were soulful. Large and dark. He had a small scar on his left cheek, right near the corner of his eye, which brought my gaze to rest right at his pupils. His eyelashes were dark and made his eyes appear almost angelic. His hair was black and thick, with curl at the ends. He held up his processing number, and he looked stunned.

      “What’s pretty boy’s story?” Lewis asked.

      “David Falco is serving life for a rape-murder. The suicide king case,” C.C. replied.

      “I don’t remember that one,” I said.

      “About ten years ago. A woman murdered in her apartment. She was an acquaintance of his. She was splayed out, and the suicide king from a deck of playing cards—you know, the one with the knife through the head—was left by her side. A knife had been plunged into her temple.”

      “Oh yeah.” I nodded. “Now I remember.” I had learned not to shudder anymore. Too many depraved cases.

      “Evidence tying him to the murder?” I asked. For reasons I couldn’t explain, I had a knot in my belly, as if I wanted to believe that the man whose face was so innocent-looking had to be, in fact, innocent.

      “Not much. He admitted he had been in her apartment, so his fingerprints were there, but no fingerprint on the knife or the playing card. He was seen leaving her apartment in the window of time when she was likely murdered—but so was another man who was never found or questioned. David said the three of them had been hanging out together.”

      “So who was the other man?”

      “He doesn’t know. Said it was a friend of hers. But he never got the guy’s name.”

      “Sounds fishy,” Lewis said.

      “I know,” said C.C., “but there was possibly semen on her panties—panties lost by the police. The case was botched from the word go. And I don’t know…he just doesn’t give off a dangerous vibe.”

      “None of them do,” Lewis said, pouring himself another margarita.

      “That’s not so. Even men who are innocent, after a time in prison, they start to smell of violence. They give off that feeling. But not him.”

      “So where do we come in?” I asked, still fascinated by the picture.

      “Well, the panties surfaced after the trial in a paper bag in another evidence file. They were well preserved and I figure we have one shot at testing what may or may not be semen. I mean, we think it is. And we just need a break on this one.”

      I sipped my margarita and stared down at the picture. I wondered what the years in prison had done to that innocent-looking face.

      Chapter 3

      I drove a drunken Lewis home. He was a goner, and I don’t mean just drunk—though he was that, too.

      “Isn’t she amazing?”

      “Who?”

      “Don’t give me that—C.C.” He pressed the electric button to move his seat way back in the car so he could stretch his legs.

      I tried to avoid swerving off the road. “You can’t be serious.”

      “What? You don’t think she’s beautiful?”

      “Yes, I think she’s stunning. She’s also an N-U-N. Lewis…she’s not available.”

      “I know.” He smacked his forehead with his hand. “My luck I finally meet a woman besides you that I’m interested in and she’s a nun. A beautiful nun, not one with a hairy mole on her chin.”

      “I’m not even going to ask why that would be your impression of nuns, because I’m sure there’s some demented Lewis LeBarge story having to do with a decrepit old nun and I’m not in the mood.”

      “It’s a good story.”

      “Save it,” I snapped. “Lewis, be straight with me. Is the reason we’re doing this consulting work revenge against Walter Leighton or is it because you’ve got a crush on a nun?”

      “A combination.”

      “But it really has nothing to do with wanting to see justice served.”

      “Not really, no.”

      “You drive me nuts.”

      “I know. Listen, do you recall whether the lid was closed on Ripper’s tank?”

      About once a week, Lewis lost his tarantula.

      “I think it was closed.”

      I eased my car into a space on the street.

      “You want to crash here tonight?” Lewis asked, looking at me.

      “As long as Ripper is in his tank, yeah.”

      We climbed out of the car and went into Lewis’s house. I was tired, but I was still thinking about the whole crazy night. Lewis gave me a drunken hug, which for him also usually means planting a very loud kiss on my cheek—an exaggerated form of affection.

      “There’s pork rinds and Slim Jims if you’re hungry, and your usual in the fridge.”

      “I’ll pass on the snacks, but I think I’ll have a Dr. Brown’s.”

      I had long ago developed an addiction for Dr. Brown’s Black Cherry soda—not always easy to find. The addiction was nurtured by my father, who used to take me and my brother to every diner between Rahway Correctional, where we visited my uncles, and home in Montclair, New Jersey, as well as every town we ever visited that had a diner, for that matter. Lewis always kept a supply of black cherry soda on hand, along with his sickening snack choices.

      I heard Lewis climb up his stairs, and then I heard first one boot, then the other hit the floor as he pulled them off. I wandered into the kitchen and pulled a Dr. Brown’s out of the refrigerator. I walked back into the living room. A soft chenille blanket was draped over the back of the very comfortable leather couch. I settled a pillow on the arm of the couch and took the remote and clicked on to Comedy Central. Part of me wanted to laugh. I popped the top on my soda and started drinking. It hit the spot, but then, like the soda often did, it made me start thinking about my father, my brother, my mother and me. It was entwined with my memories of childhood. And then, inevitably, I thought of the night she disappeared.

      The lights of a cop cruiser reflected through the window and onto the walls of my bedroom. Red pulsated and filled my room. I rubbed my eyes and sat up as a police officer entered my room, the beam from his flashlight hitting my face. The cop lowered the flashlight immediately.

      “Hey, sweetie,” he soothed. “You okay?”

      I nodded sleepily.

      “Okay, СКАЧАТЬ