Indeed, the groundskeeper had a superb complexion.
Liddon said, “So you reviewed the package.”
“Yes.”
“Do you have any questions?”
“No.”
“You see how it can be done?”
“Yes.”
“Then you’ll do it?”
“The money?”
Liddon handed him a manila envelope containing forty thousand in hundred-dollar bills. “Forty thousand more when it’s done.”
Neems didn’t bother to count the deposit. He dropped it in the cart and returned to Liddon another envelope that contained numerous photographs of his house in California, the floor plan, and detailed information about the security system.
“Plus expenses,” Neems reminded him.
“Yes, of course. Forty thousand more plus expenses. When are you flying there?”
“This afternoon.”
“As I told you, I’m only in Seattle on business until Wednesday noon. When will you do the job?”
“Tomorrow night.”
“Tuesday evening.”
“Yes.”
“Good. Excellent. I’ll be having drinks and dinner with a client from six o’clock till eleven or later.”
“Your wife looks nice,” Neems said.
“Yes, she does, she’s a beautiful woman, but I should never have married. I’m not the marrying kind.”
“I want her.”
“You want her? No. Not a good idea, Rudy. You were acquitted, but your DNA is still on file from the court-ordered blood sample, it’s still in the system, you don’t dare leave semen behind.”
“I won’t.”
Four years earlier, in California, Rudy stood trial for the murder of a fourteen-year-old girl. Liddon was his defense attorney.
“It’s too risky,” Liddon reasoned, “because I got you off in the Hardy case. They find your DNA, they’ll know I hired this done.”
He had not merely won a not-guilty verdict for Neems, but he had also made two straight-arrow police detectives appear so corrupt that they were ultimately fired from the force.
A network-TV news magazine did a two-hour feature on the case that brought Liddon millions in business. The camera loved him. He was a natural. Now and then he watched a DVD of the program just to remind himself of how good he looked.
“Judy didn’t have any.”
Judy was Judith Hardy, the fourteen-year-old who was kidnapped and raped.
Liddon said, “Didn’t have any what?”
“Any of my DNA.”
“She was largely dissolved by acid in a pit on the beach. The best forensic team wasn’t going to get anything from that body.”
“So I burn Kirsten.”
Kirsten was Liddon’s wife.
“Fill the bathtub with gasoline,” said Neems.
Looking past Rudy Neems, Liddon surveyed the foggy fairway. No one was in sight. The course didn’t open for at least another hour. Nevertheless, this was taking too long. To minimize the chance of their being seen together, they needed to meet in places as discreet as this and keep the meetings brief.
“Bathtub of gasoline?” Liddon said, boggled by the flamboyance.
“Sink her, burn her,” said Neems.
“I’ve got a lot of expensive art, antiques.”
