Degree of Guilt by Richard North Patterson Read Free Book Online
Authors: Richard North Patterson
to stop: just last month, someone insisted to me at a cocktail party that the Colt family had murdered Laura Chase to save his chances to be President, and that the unknown caller was the senator’s wife.’ Mary’s voice turned bitter. ‘But Ransom said he had something new that no one knew but him. Something he would share with me.’
‘What was that?’
‘Ransom claimed that James Colt met her in Palm Springs about a week before she died. She got drunk, took pills.’ Mary paused. ‘After Senator Colt got through with her, Ransom told me, he passed her on to two friends.’
Monk’s impassivity seemed now to take an effort. ‘Passed her on?’ he repeated quietly.
‘Supposedly, Colt watched them do it to her.’ Mary looked at her lap. ‘Laura Chase remembered him through some sort of semi-alcoholic haze, sitting in a chair by the bed and sipping a martini while his friends took turns.’
Monk was quiet for a time. ‘I don’t understand,’ he said finally. ‘How does a dead woman “remember” anything?’
Mary found herself staring at the tape recorder. ‘Ransom had a tape of Laura Chase. Talking to her psychiatrist.’ She paused again. ‘That was what Mark Ransom called to tell me.’
For the first time, Monk’s inflection changed. ‘When you said she remembered . . .’
‘It’s on the tape.’ Mary hesitated. ‘The one on the coffee table.’
Monk studied the tape recorder, as if newly fascinated by its workings. Mary could see him imagining the tape: the husky voice of a famous actress, describing her abuse by a senator from California – a man who millions wished had become President and whose death in a plane crash was still widely mourned. A man whose son was now poised to become governor.
‘You could hurt people,’ Monk said softly, ‘with a tape like that.’
The words held the resonance of feeling, reminding Mary that Monk lived a life outside this room and that some image of James Colt was surely part of that. Mary had images of her own: James Colt marching with migrant workers; speaking with passion on the Senate floor against the tragedy and waste of Vietnam, yet demanding of college students that they give up their deferments to ‘fight against a war the less advantaged are fighting in your place.’ Looking now at Monk, Mary reflected that James Colt occupied a special place for blacks: he had been the last potential President to speak for social justice without apology. The people Ransom’s tape would ‘hurt,’ as Monk had put it, were not just James Colt’s family.
‘Yes.’ Her eyes rose from the tape recorder. ‘Tapes like that could hurt people.’
Monk seemed to settle in his chair; something about him, Mary thought, seemed more tired than before. ‘Did Ransom say how he got the tape?’ he asked finally.
‘He bought it.’ Mary felt the edge in her voice. ‘From Dr Steinhardt’s daughter. She wanted to keep the house in Beverly Hills.’
‘Dr Steinhardt.’
‘The psychiatrist. He’s dead.’
‘But aren’t there rules about that? In this state, we have a psychiatrist-patient privilege.’
Mary shrugged again. ‘Laura Chase and Steinhardt are both dead. Who’s left? Only Steinhardt’s daughter and . . .’ And Ransom, she had been about to say.
‘Are you all right?’
‘Yes.’ Mary realized that she had touched her eyes with the fingertips of one hand. ‘It’s just that I saw him for a moment.’
‘Him?’
‘Ransom. When he died, he was staring at me.’
‘Yes,’ Monk said. ‘We’ll get to that.’
Beneath his voice, she heard the faint whirring of the tape recorder. ‘Let’s do that now,’ she said. ‘I’m tired.’
‘We just need to cover things.’
She opened her eyes. ‘May I have some water?’
‘Sure.’
He got up, went out, returned with a styrofoam cup of cold water. The tape kept spinning.
Monk leaned against the wall. ‘You’ve mentioned conversations – he called you at work, you called him
‘What was that?’
‘Ransom claimed that James Colt met her in Palm Springs about a week before she died. She got drunk, took pills.’ Mary paused. ‘After Senator Colt got through with her, Ransom told me, he passed her on to two friends.’
Monk’s impassivity seemed now to take an effort. ‘Passed her on?’ he repeated quietly.
‘Supposedly, Colt watched them do it to her.’ Mary looked at her lap. ‘Laura Chase remembered him through some sort of semi-alcoholic haze, sitting in a chair by the bed and sipping a martini while his friends took turns.’
Monk was quiet for a time. ‘I don’t understand,’ he said finally. ‘How does a dead woman “remember” anything?’
Mary found herself staring at the tape recorder. ‘Ransom had a tape of Laura Chase. Talking to her psychiatrist.’ She paused again. ‘That was what Mark Ransom called to tell me.’
For the first time, Monk’s inflection changed. ‘When you said she remembered . . .’
‘It’s on the tape.’ Mary hesitated. ‘The one on the coffee table.’
Monk studied the tape recorder, as if newly fascinated by its workings. Mary could see him imagining the tape: the husky voice of a famous actress, describing her abuse by a senator from California – a man who millions wished had become President and whose death in a plane crash was still widely mourned. A man whose son was now poised to become governor.
‘You could hurt people,’ Monk said softly, ‘with a tape like that.’
The words held the resonance of feeling, reminding Mary that Monk lived a life outside this room and that some image of James Colt was surely part of that. Mary had images of her own: James Colt marching with migrant workers; speaking with passion on the Senate floor against the tragedy and waste of Vietnam, yet demanding of college students that they give up their deferments to ‘fight against a war the less advantaged are fighting in your place.’ Looking now at Monk, Mary reflected that James Colt occupied a special place for blacks: he had been the last potential President to speak for social justice without apology. The people Ransom’s tape would ‘hurt,’ as Monk had put it, were not just James Colt’s family.
‘Yes.’ Her eyes rose from the tape recorder. ‘Tapes like that could hurt people.’
Monk seemed to settle in his chair; something about him, Mary thought, seemed more tired than before. ‘Did Ransom say how he got the tape?’ he asked finally.
‘He bought it.’ Mary felt the edge in her voice. ‘From Dr Steinhardt’s daughter. She wanted to keep the house in Beverly Hills.’
‘Dr Steinhardt.’
‘The psychiatrist. He’s dead.’
‘But aren’t there rules about that? In this state, we have a psychiatrist-patient privilege.’
Mary shrugged again. ‘Laura Chase and Steinhardt are both dead. Who’s left? Only Steinhardt’s daughter and . . .’ And Ransom, she had been about to say.
‘Are you all right?’
‘Yes.’ Mary realized that she had touched her eyes with the fingertips of one hand. ‘It’s just that I saw him for a moment.’
‘Him?’
‘Ransom. When he died, he was staring at me.’
‘Yes,’ Monk said. ‘We’ll get to that.’
Beneath his voice, she heard the faint whirring of the tape recorder. ‘Let’s do that now,’ she said. ‘I’m tired.’
‘We just need to cover things.’
She opened her eyes. ‘May I have some water?’
‘Sure.’
He got up, went out, returned with a styrofoam cup of cold water. The tape kept spinning.
Monk leaned against the wall. ‘You’ve mentioned conversations – he called you at work, you called him