Move to Strike (10 page)

‘She gave birth to her son in Auckland?'

‘Yeah. She wasn't that long out of college. She'd taken that big corporate job and then bailed on it as soon as she met the husband. She would only have been twenty-six, twenty-seven . . .

‘Anyway, I was in the lounge with a couple of work buddies. One of them had family in the South Island so we took advantage of the early winter and headed for Mount Hutt. Stephanie walked in with a toddler in one arm and a newborn in the other. Her husband was on his cell phone so we were never properly introduced.'

‘And this was in the New Zealand winter?' she probed a little further.

‘Just before, if my memory is correct, about this time of year. Her husband was launching his show there or something, so she flew down with the other kid and I guess the baby came while she was there.'

‘Kind of odd, isn't it?' she queried, the steam of her coffee lifting around her flawless face. ‘Making such a long trip when you are so close to the end of a pregnancy?'

‘I guess,' said Tony with a shrug. ‘Maybe the kid came early.'

Amanda nodded. ‘So was she pleased to see you?'

‘Sure,' said Tony. ‘Although I remember thinking she looked kind of harried. You know – skinny, tired. But then she'd just given birth to a kid in a foreign country so . . .'

‘I guess that's what happens when you make the mistake of swapping
the conference room for the nursery,' Amanda replied, and then, sensing by his expression that she might have gone too far added, ‘I mean at such an early age.'

Tony nodded. ‘Do you ever think about it?' he asked her. ‘You know, what it would be like to pack it all in, make a commitment to someone, have a couple of kids?'

‘Ah . . .' she began, wondering why Stephanie Tyler's death had her mercenary blue chip attorney boyfriend talking like a bona fide metrosexual sap. ‘Not yet.'

‘But some day maybe?' he asked, taking her hand.

And in that moment she knew he was falling in love with her, and simultaneously realised how stupid she would be – at least at this point – to rock the status quo.

‘Some day, Tony. Maybe. Sure.'

‘T
he woman was a tyrant,' said Katherine de Castro – plain and simple, just like that.

David knew she could read the surprise on his face, the complete and utter disbelief.

‘I know how this sounds to you, David,' she went on. ‘I spoke to Jeffrey on the telephone around lunchtime – it is J.T.'s birthday, you see, and he was allowed to make one call to wish him a happy day and . . . anyway . . .' She stopped there, as if the irony of this statement required a mandatory pause in its wake.

‘I told Jeffrey I wanted to tell you about it and he warned me that your past association with his wife would make it extremely difficult for you to believe. But then I suggested that not telling you would be worse, that we were way past the platitudes, that unless we acted now, this whole sorry mess would come crashing down upon us, destroying several lives in the process, including Chelsea's and J.T.'s.'

‘So Jeffrey gave you the go-ahead to explain this to us?' asked Sara.

‘Not in so many words, but . . .' Katherine took a breath. ‘You have to understand that, at least at this point, it is essential to Jeffrey that we stick to his story – for any suggestion of impropriety on Stephanie's part simply provides the District Attorney's office with the one thing against J.T. that they do not have, even after the forensics report comes in.'

‘A motive,' said David.

‘In one.'

‘So you are saying that Stephanie was . . .' Even speaking of it was difficult.

‘Abusing J.T., yes,' she said with determination, ‘and Chelsea, and Jeffrey too to a certain extent. She was a mistress of emotional manipulation, David – the worst kind of bully. She ran that household like a dictator, wielding her delicate fist with skill – berating and criticising and belittling and threatening and using that brilliant but sadistic mind of hers to control her children with the purest of psychological fear. So much so, that J.T. took it upon himself to liberate the family the only way he knew how.'

David felt the anger well up inside him. He was in shock – at the audacity, the ridiculousness of it all.

‘I'm sorry, Katherine,' he said. ‘But there is no way the girl who I once knew . . .'

‘But that's just the point, isn't it,' interrupted de Castro. ‘You knew the
girl
, David – the girl who grew into a woman determined to quash the spirit of others in order to take control.'

‘No,' he argued. ‘I knew the person. I knew her
soul
.'

‘You saw what she wanted you to see. The research on people like Stephanie is really quite comprehensive. These sociopaths are masters at creating personas to hide the extent of their narcissistic obsession with dominance.

‘Until recently I too knew nothing of what was really going on behind the doors of that meticulously kept mansion in Beacon Hill. Jeffrey went to great pains to keep their “situation” quiet. It was only a month or so ago that he finally broke down and told me the extent of what he and his children had had to endure. He was at the end of his tether, you see, and had finally decided to ask her for a divorce.'

‘I'm sorry, Katherine,' said Sara. ‘But if Stephanie was as terrible as you claim, why didn't the doctor get out sooner? Why would he leave his two kids in a household where they were subject to such vehement maltreatment?'

‘Because he knew if he spoke out no one would believe him, because he was trapped by his valued reputation as a man who championed a stance of zero tolerance against all forms of physical and emotional abuse,
because he was ashamed of how far he had let things go – and, most importantly, because he was terrified of how Stephanie might react if he finally got the courage to fight.'

‘So he let his children live in a home you describe as a virtual prison?' David was not convinced.

‘He was concerned she would go for custody – and given his demanding job and Stephanie's “on paper” reputation as a dedicated stay-at-home mom, he knew she had every chance of winning.'

‘But we're not talking about toddlers here, Katherine,' Sara pushed on. ‘Chelsea and J.T. are teenagers and surely, if they took their father's side, if they told the authorities of this alleged cruelty . . .'

‘Not everybody has the white picket fence upbringing I am sure your parents afforded you, Sara. As Jeffrey explained, those living in the company of a skilled emotional abuser are so diminished they simply cannot see a way out.'

‘Well, if you are right,' said David, ‘J.T. gave it a pretty good shot.' And the irony of his words lay heavy in the silence that followed.

‘All right,' said de Castro, rising from her chair to move towards the kitchen and take a bottle of white wine from the refrigerator and an opener from a stainless steel drawer. She progressed to the cupboard to retrieve three crystal glasses before returning to her sofa and extracting the cork.

‘Forgive me,' she said, pouring her own glass first before filling the other two without bothering to ask if they wanted any. ‘But it's getting late, and I'm tired, and the stories I have to tell are far from pleasant. I understand you need proof – and so I shall provide it. But as I explained earlier, I am not one to undertake anything without a favourable quid pro quo.'

‘What is it you want, Katherine?' asked David at last.

‘I want you to promise that when J.T. is arrested, you and Sara will agree to represent him.'

‘And is this request also coming from Jeffrey?' asked David, tiring of this little game of Chinese whispers.

‘No.' She shook her head. ‘This is my little addition to the contract. The boy needs your help and I am hoping you will agree to provide it.'

‘It's not that easy, Katherine. For starters we don't work in the juvenile court system – and secondly . . .'

‘Well, I want you to agree to assisting his juvenile specialist attorneys – to help this boy who has never known anything bar humiliation and shame and fear.'

David shook his head, before looking to Sara who raised her eyebrows ever so slightly in an expression that said, ‘
Perhaps we should at least hear what this woman has to say
.'

‘All right, Katherine,' said David at last. ‘We will listen, but I can promise you that from where I stand, the chances of your convincing me Stephanie was the monster you describe are somewhere between zero and zilch.'

‘Then I apologise in advance,' de Castro began, pausing to take a long slow drink of her wine, ‘for destroying your view of a friend you once obviously cherished.'

De Castro began with the gun. She started slowly, proffering questions as she went. Asking why the wife of a celebrated pacifist – a man who was an outspoken advocate for tighter gun laws – would have given her husband a high-powered big game rifle for his birthday. She explained that Doctor Jeff's hobbies were limited to golfing and jogging – and that his show was sponsored by Hallmark, one of the most outspoken anti-gun companies in the country.

‘It all started with the handbag,' she said. ‘Jeffrey told me Stephanie wanted one for her birthday. And not just any tote, she requested a Devi Kroell alligator clutch made from alligators with scales of similar sizes – a rarity, I believe, which I suppose, given Stephanie's covetous nature, made it all that more appealing.

‘Anyway,' she went on, taking another sip of her wine, ‘Jeffrey did his best to locate one, but as his wife's birthday approached, he ran out of time to organise it. He failed to put her name on the waiting list which was, apparently, several hundred strong. You have to remember these bags, which cost a cool thirty thousand each, are made from rare Asian reptiles and do not grow on trees.'

Sara nodded.

‘So,' she continued, ‘knowing he could not “deliver”, Jeffrey got the next best thing. He bought her a forty thousand dollar Nancy Gonzalez Porousus bag made from uncommon ring lizard skin. He presented it to her at a party – a big one attended by all her friends – and when she opened it,
and studied it, the slightest furrow formed in her brow, before she adjusted her expression to one more appropriate to her surroundings, and offered her husband a grateful and passionate kiss.'

‘She liked the alternative?' asked Sara.

‘God, no,' said de Castro. ‘Jeffrey told me she hated it. It was not what she had asked for, but she knew better than to let loose in front of an audience. And so she waited – an entire six months – before she returned the favour by giving him a two-foot weapon powerful enough to kill a Goddamned rhinoceros.

‘She presented it to him while he was at dinner with the family. Determined to show the kids what an unsatisfactory partner their father had turned out to be.'

‘Her apparent point being . . . ?' asked a still disbelieving David.

‘That Jeffrey had failed her,' said de Castro. ‘She served dinner and gave him the gun and then turned to him to say something along the lines of: “Next time I ask for an alligator skin purse, you can go and shoot the fucker yourself”.'

‘Oh, come on,' said David. ‘You don't expect us to believe . . .'

‘. . . and she said this while pointing the rifle directly at her thirteen-year-old son's forehead.'

David was floored. He simply did not know what to say.

‘Katherine,' said Sara then. ‘How do you know this? I mean, maybe Doctor Logan was . . .'

‘Because I saw the whole thing on video,' interrupted de Castro. ‘Jeffrey had taken to recording her, you see – for evidence in the divorce proceedings, so that he might win custody after all.'

David sat there, still in shock, the icy chill in his spine now spreading upwards towards his chest. He could not believe what she was saying. This was just not the Stephanie he knew.

‘Do you have a copy of this video?' he asked.

‘No, but Jeffrey has one – locked away somewhere safe.'

‘And are there other videos – other pieces of similar evidence which show Stephanie to be the woman her husband described?'

‘I think so,' she offered. ‘Although I am not sure what form they take. I know that Jeffrey only just started collecting such evidence. I know he only asked for the divorce a little less than a week ago.'

‘Then why the hell didn't he give this tape to the police?' asked David. ‘Why is he playing martyr when he could present such evidence and show his son killed out of desperation?'

‘I suppose he was thinking on his feet,' she replied. ‘Perhaps he sensed J.T. could not weather the storm of a public arrest. Perhaps he believed his “accident” theory might be enough to protect his two children from the media circus the truth would inevitably create. Jeffrey may be ambitious, he may have worked damned hard to get where he is, but there is no way he would manipulate his son's act of vengeance to score a few extra ratings points.'

‘So that video you speak of isn't being held for some big exclusive exposé on national TV.' David was thinking ahead, his mind jumping to and from every scenario he could think of to explain what Katherine de Castro was describing.

‘Absolutely not – in fact, if Jeffrey has his way, it will never see the light of day.'

‘I'm sorry, Katherine. I am still finding it hard to believe that . . .'

‘That what?' interrupted an obviously frustrated de Castro. ‘That the recording exists or that Jeffrey has no plans for using it?'

David realised he was stuck – for if he did not believe in one he could not argue against the other.

‘Both,' he said at last.

‘Then perhaps you will just have to see it for yourself.'

Las Vegas, Nevada