In the four and a half months Kyle had lived in his grim little apartment, he had managed to avoid having guests. Dale had asked about it a few times, then let the matter drop. Kyle described his place as a dump with almost no furnishings, lukewarm water, bugs, and uninsulated walls. He claimed to be looking for something much nicer, but then what first-year associate had time to look for an apartment? The truth was that he wanted a dump for that very reason - he could keep guests away, and in doing so avoid the risks of having their conversations listened to and recorded. Though he had not attempted to rid the place of mikes and electronic bugs, he knew they were there. He suspected there were cameras, always watching, and since he had lulled them into believing that he was clueless about their surveillance, he went through the motions each day of living pretty much like a hermit. Intruders came and went, at least one per week, but there were no invited guests.
Dale was content to meet at her place. She had a fear of bugs.
If you only knew, thought Kyle. My apartment has every kind of bug known to the covert world.
They eventually managed to sleep together without actually falling asleep beforehand. Both collapsed shortly afterward. They had violated firm policy on at least four occasions and had no plans to stop.
When Baxter called and asked if he could crash at Kyle's for a few days, Kyle was ready with a string of lies that were mildly convincing. Joey had sent a Mayday call from his desk phone to Kyle's just minutes after he'd said goodbye to Baxter. "We gotta do something," Joey said over and over until Kyle told him to shut up.
The idea of Baxter lounging around his apartment and talking at length about the Elaine episode was almost too much to imagine. Kyle could see Bennie with his technicians, clutching his headphones, listening to Baxter preach about the need to confront the past, admit everything, and so on. If the Elaine episode blew up back in Pittsburgh, Kyle would be dragged into it at some level, and Bennie would risk losing his leverage in New York.
"Sorry, Bax," Kyle said happily on his cell phone. "I have only one bedroom, if you can call it that, and my cousin has been sleeping on the sofa for a month. She's in New York looking for a job, and, well, I gotta say, the place is cramped."
Baxter checked into the Soho Grand. They met for a late pizza at an all-night joint on Bleecker Street in the Village. Kyle picked the place because he'd been there before and, as always, had taken notes on its suitability for future use. One door in and out, large front windows that faced the sidewalk, lots of noise, and it was too small for one of the bloodhounds to enter without being noticed. Kyle arrived at 9:45, fifteen minutes early so he could secure a booth and sit facing the door. He pretended to be engrossed in a thick document, the tireless associate ever dedicated to his work.
Baxter was wearing the same dungarees, sweater, and combat boots Joey had described. They embraced, then fell into the booth talking nonstop. They ordered soft drinks, and Kyle said, "I talked to Joey. Congrats on the rehab. You look great."
"Thanks. I've thought about you a lot in the past few months. You quit drinking during our sophomore year, right?"
"Right."
"I can't remember why."
"A counselor told me that the drinking would only get worse. I didn't have a serious problem, but one was definitely foreseeable. So I quit. Didn't touch a drop until a few weeks ago, when I had some wine. So far, so good. If I get worried, I'll quit again."
"I had three bleeding ulcers when they took me in. I thought about suicide, but I didn't really want to do it because I'd miss the vodka and cocaine. I was a mess."
They ordered a pizza and talked for a long time about the past, primarily Baxter's. He unloaded story after story about the last three years in L.A. - trying to break into the movie business, the parties, the drug scene, the gorgeous young girls from every small town in America doing everything physically possible to either get a break or marry rich. Kyle listened intently while keeping an eye on the front door and the front windows. Nothing.
They talked about their old friends, Kyle's new job, Baxter's new life. After an hour, when the pizza was gone, they eventually got around to more pressing matters. "I guess Joey told you about Elaine," Baxter said.
"Of course he did. It's a bad idea, Baxter. I understand the law, and you don't. You're walking into quicksand and you could take us with you."
"But you did nothing. Why are you worried?"
"Here's a scenario," Kyle said, leaning closer, eager to unveil a narrative he'd thought about for hours. "You go see Elaine, looking for some type of redemption, forgiveness, whatever you think you might find there. You apologize to someone you once hurt. Maybe she turns the other cheek and accepts your apology, and you two have a nice hug and say goodbye. That probably will not happen. What is much more likely to happen is that she chooses not to take the Christian approach, doesn't give a rip about this cheek-turning business, and decides, with the advice of a pretty nasty lawyer, that what she really wants is justice. She wants vindication. She cried rape once and nobody listened. You, with the best intentions, will vindicate her with your awkward apology. She feels violated now, and she likes being the victim. Her lawyer starts to push, and things unravel quickly. There's a prosecutor in Pittsburgh who, not surprisingly, likes to see his face on the front page. Like all prosecutors, he's tired of the mundane, the gang shootings, the daily street crime. Suddenly he has a chance to go after four white boys from Duquesne, and one just happens to be a Tate. Not only a Great White Defendant, but four of them! Talk about headlines, press conferences, interviews. He'll be the hero, and we'll be the criminals. Of course we are entitled to a trial, but that's a year away, a year of absolutely terrifying hell. You can't do it, Baxter. You'll hurt too many people."
"What if I offer her money? A deal with only two parties, me and her?"
"It might work. I'm sure she and her lawyer would enjoy those discussions. But offering money implies guilt, an admission of some sort. I don't know Elaine, and neither do you, but given Joey's encounter, it's safe to say she is not too stable. We can't predict how she will react. It's too risky."
"I can't live with myself until I talk to her, Kyle. I feel like I harmed her in some way."
"Got that. It sounds great in the AA handbook, but it's a different matter when other people are involved. You have to forget about this and put it behind you."
"I'm not sure I can."
"There's an element of selfishness here, Baxter. You want to do something that you think will make you feel better. Well, good for you. What about the rest of us? Your life will be more complete, our lives could be ruined. You're dead wrong here. Leave this girl alone."
"I can apologize to Elaine without admitting I committed a crime. I'll just say that I was wrong and want to apologize."
"Her lawyer is not stupid, and her lawyer will be sitting there with a tape recorder, probably a video camera." Kyle took a sip of a diet soda and had a quick flashback to the first video. If Baxter saw it now, saw himself tag-teaming with Joey while Elaine was motionless, his guilt would crush him.
"I have to do something."
"No, you don't," Kyle said, raising his voice for the first time. He was surprised at the stubbornness across the table. "You don't have the right to ruin our lives."
"I'm not ruining your life, Kyle. You did nothing wrong."
Is she awake? Joey asks. The words rattle around the courtroom. The jurors scowl at the four defendants. Maybe they feel compassion for Kyle and Alan because there is no evidence that they violated the girl, and find them not guilty. Maybe they're sick of the whole bunch and send them all to prison.
"I'll take all the blame," Baxter said.
"Why are you so determined to get yourself into more trouble than you can imagine? You're toying with prison here, Baxter. Wake up, man!"
"I'll take the blame," he repeated, very much the martyr now. "You guys will walk."
"You're not listening to me, Baxter. This is far more complicated than you realize."
A shrug. "Maybe so."
"Listen to me, dammit!"
"I'm listening to you, Kyle, but I'm also listening to the Lord."
"Well, I can't compete - "
"And he's leading me to Elaine. To forgiveness. And I believe she will listen, and she will forgive, and she will forget." He was firm, and pious, and Kyle realized he had little else to throw at Baxter.
"Let it sit for a month," Kyle said. "Don't do anything hasty. Joey, Alan, and I should have a say in the matter."
"Let's go. I'm tired of sitting here."
They roamed the Village for half an hour before Kyle, exhausted, finally said good night.
He was dead to the world when his cell phone rang three hours later. It was Baxter. "I talked to Elaine," he announced proudly. "Tracked her down, called her, woke her up, and we talked for a few minutes."
"You idiot," Kyle blurted before he could stop himself.
"It went pretty well, actually."
"What did you say?" Kyle was in the bathroom, splashing water on his face with one hand and holding his phone with the other.
"Told her I've never felt right about what happened. I didn't admit to anything other than some misgivings."
Thank God for that. "What did she say?"
"She thanked me for calling, then she cried and said no one has ever believed her. She still feels like she was raped. She's always known it was Joey and me, with you and Alan somewhere close by watching the action."
"That's not true."
"We're gonna meet in a couple of days, have lunch, just the two of us, in Scranton."
"Don't do it, Baxter, please don't do it. You will regret it forever."
"I know what I'm doing, Kyle. I've prayed about this for hours, and I'm trusting God to get me through it. She promised not to tell her lawyer. You gotta have faith."
"She works for her lawyer, part-time, did she tell you that, Baxter? No, she did not. You'll walk into a trap and your life will be over."
"My life is just beginning, old pal. Faith, Kyle, faith. Good night." The phone snapped shut; the connection was dead.
BAXTER FLEW BACK to Pittsburgh the following morning, retrieved his car - a Porsche he planned to sell - from the long-term parking area, and checked into a motel by the airport. Credit card records revealed that he spent two nights in the motel and never checked out. His cell phone records showed numerous incoming calls and text messages from both Joey Bernardo and Kyle McAvoy, with no outgoing calls in return. He had two long conversations with Brother Manny in Reno, and some short ones with his parents and his brother in Pittsburgh. There were two calls to Elaine Keenan.
On the last day of his life, he left Pittsburgh before sunrise, headed for Scranton, a drive that would cover three hundred miles in about five hours. According to the credit card trail, he stopped for gas at a Shell station near the intersection of 1-79 and 1-80, about ninety minutes north of Pittsburgh. He then headed due east on 1-80 and traveled two hours until his journey came to an end. Near the small town of Snow Shoe, he stopped at a rest area and went to the men's room. It was approximately 10:40 a.m. on a Friday in mid-November. Traffic was light, and there were only a few other vehicles at the rest area.
Mr. Dwight Nowoski, a retiree from Dayton who was traveling to Vermont with his wife, who was already in the ladies' room, discovered Baxter not long after he had been shot. He was still alive but dying quickly from a gunshot to the head. Mr. Nowoski found him on the floor by the urinals, his jeans unzipped, the floor covered with blood and urine. The young man was gasping and whimpering and thrashing about like a deer hit by a car. There was no one else in the men's room when Mr. Nowoski walked in and stumbled upon the horrible scene.
Evidently, the murderer followed Baxter into the toilet, took a look around to make sure they were alone, then quickly placed a nine-millimeter pistol, a Beretta according to the lab, at the base of Baxter's skull and fired once. A silencer muffled the gunshot. The rest area was not equipped with surveillance cameras.
The Pennsylvania State Police closed the rest stop and sealed the area around it. Six travelers, including Mr. and Mrs. Nowoski, were questioned at length at the crime scene. One gentleman remembered a yellow Penske rental truck coming and going, but he had no idea how long it was there. The group estimated that another four or five vehicles had left the rest area after the body was discovered but before the police arrived. No one could recall seeing Baxter enter the men's room, nor did anyone see the murderer follow him in. A lady from Rhode Island recalled noticing a man standing by the door to the men's room when she entered the ladies', and upon further reflection she agreed that it was possible he might have been a lookout. He was not going in, nor was he coming out. Regardless, he was long gone, and her description was limited to: male white, somewhere between the ages of thirty and forty-five, at least five feet eight but no more than six feet four, wearing a dark jacket that could have been leather, linen, wool, cotton, anything. Along with the lab reports and autopsy, her description was the extent of the physical evidence.
Baxter's wallet, cash fold, and watch were untouched. The police inventoried his pockets and found nothing but a few coins, his car keys, and a tube of lip balm. The lab would later report that there was no trace of alcohol or illegal drugs in his system, on his clothing, or in his car.
The pathologist did note a remarkable degree of liver damage for a twenty-five-year-old.
Robbery was immediately ruled out for the obvious reasons - nothing was taken, unless the victim was carrying something valuable that no one knew about. But why would an armed thief leave behind $513 in cash and eight credit cards? Wouldn't a thief consider stealing the Porsche while he had the chance? There was no evidence that the crime had anything to do with sex. It could've been a drug hit, but that seemed unlikely. Those were usually much messier.
With sex, robbery, and drugs ruled out, the investigators began scratching their heads. They watched the bagged body disappear into the rear of an ambulance for the ride back to Pittsburgh, and they knew they had a problem. The apparent randomness of the act, plus the silent gunshot and the clean getaway, led them to conclude, at least at the scene, that they were dealing with professionals.
THE CONFIRMATION that a member of such a noted family had met such a strange and brutal end brightened up a dull news day in Pittsburgh. Television crews scampered to the Tate estate in Shadyside, only to be met by private security personnel. For generations the Tate family had offered "No comment" to every inquiry, and this tragedy was no different. A family lawyer issued a terse response and asked for prayers, consideration, and respect for privacy. Uncle Wally once again took charge and issued orders.
Kyle was at his cube, chatting with Dale about their plans for the evening, when the call came from Joey. It was almost 5:00 p.m. on Friday. He had eaten a pizza with Baxter late on Tuesday night, then chatted with him a few hours later, but had not spoken to him since. As far as he and Joey could tell, Baxter had disappeared, or at least he was ignoring his phone.
"What's the matter?" Dale asked as she noticed the look of shock. But Kyle did not respond. He kept the phone to his ear and began walking away, down the hall, past the front desk, listening as Joey unloaded all the details now being splashed across the television. He lost him in the elevator, and once outside the building he called Joey back and kept listening. The sidewalks along Broad were packed with the late-afternoon rush. Kyle plodded along, without a coat to layer against the chill, without a clue as to where he might be going.
"They killed him," he finally said to Joey.
"Who?"
"I think you know."