No Way Out by David Kessler Read Free Book Online Page A

one in Utah was a store manager and the one in Boston some kind of academic. He understood the work of the former more than the latter, but both had families and neither came out west very often.
    So he spent his days, watching TV, reading the newspaper and – with diminishing frequency – bowling with his old friends. It was a dull, repetitive chapter towards the latter part of his book of life, but he had his basic needs and he didn’t want more. All he yearned for was a bit less arthritic pain. Oh yes, and he wished that the cops would do more to round up those gang-bangers who were turning the neighborhood into such an unpleasant place – he knew who they were… in a generic sort of way.
    It was while he was watching the TV that he saw a report about the Bethel Newton rape case. They were saying how a famous local talk show host had been arrested and then released. They didn’t have any footage from the police station, but they showed a still photograph of the girl and stock footage from the man’s talk show. Apparently he’d been arrested after shooting the latest show, yet to be broadcast.
    And that was when Carter got the feeling.
    He didn’t remember the details too clearly – the whole thing had happened just too fast. But there was one thing that he remembered.
    For a moment he hesitated, realizing that criminals could sometimes be vengeful towards people who “snitched.” But then he remembered his own, all-too-frequent words about the cowards who don’t speak out when criminals destroy their communities. He didn’t want to be like one of those people whom he routinely criticized. He knew now that it was his civic duty to speak out and he didn’t want to be like all the shirkers.
    So he dragged his weary bones out of the comfort of his tattered, dust-ridden armchair and trudged over to the phone.

Friday 12 June – 9:40
    Detective Bridget Riley was a victim chaperone, but not a counselor. Her duties involved being the principal point of contact between the investigating officers and the rape victim. The detectives investigating the case put most of their questions through Bridget. When they had to put questions directly or when others had to have contact with the victim, such as during the medical examination, the victim chaperone had to be there.
    She had a sporty, athletic look about her, not the soft look of a movie queen, but the tough look of kick-boxer. Male colleagues found her attractive and her face, highlighted against a raven-haired background, was potential photographic model material. But what was a blessing in the world of Show Biz, could be something of a curse in the locker-room culture of the police.
    Because of her looks, Bridget had been the target of sexual harassment by her colleagues. And like the proverbial “Boy named Sue” it had made her tough. She could take the complements with a smile and a shrug and when they became vulgar she hit back with a glib rejoinder like “in your dreams buster.”
    When one of the rookies was bold enough to try and pin her against a locker, showing off in front of three of his friends, she deterred him from further action with a well-placed fist to the groin. He had been anticipating the knee and had been poised to block it with his leg, but the fist took him by surprise. Then she added insult to injury by asking him if he wanted her to kiss it better. The rookies never bothered her again; nor had anyone else in the department during the four years since.
    At this moment, Bridget was sitting at her desk typing up a report on a domestic violence case for the DA’s office, when a female officer came over from the fax machine and dropped two sheets of paper on her desk. Bridget was a stickler for clarity as well as detail and so absorbed was she in getting the wording right that she let the fax lie there for three minutes while she played around with the phraseology of a single sentence.
    Sarah Jensen, the Assistant District Attorney in charge