Her thoughts were already elsewhere, already on that pompous prick, John Babington.
One time in the hall of the Municipal Building, when no one else was around, John Babington had put his hand on her ass. It wasn’t tentative or fleeting. It was deliberate and forceful. In the same way she handled drunks in the bar, she simply glided out of range without making an issue of it as she handed him the documents she was delivering for one of her attorney clients. He had flashed her a smile that was both lewd and condescending at the same time.
Instead of going into work at the bar, Angela called Barry and told him she would be a little late, that she had to make a stop, first.
TWENTY-NINE
After calling Barry, Angela drove straight in to downtown Milford Falls. The whole way she kept trying to think of a reason why they would have let the men go. It didn’t make any sense. These weren’t petty shoplifters. These men had beat her senseless and left her hanging by a rope, fully expecting she was going to die.
Having been to the Municipal Building before, Angela knew that they had metal detectors. Once she found a parking place in a commercial lot about a block away, she did as she always did—she pulled the knife out of her boot and slid it under her seat. Since she was now carrying a gun, she removed the holstered weapon and hid it, along with the suppressor, under the back end of the floor mat in the passenger foot well, where it went under the seat.
Going up the broad steps, she realized that she wasn’t exactly dressed properly to see the assistant district attorney. Most of the other people going in and out were dressed in business suits, even though there were some messengers and lower-level workers who were dressed somewhat more casually. Angela had been on her way to work to tend bar, so she was wearing cutoffs and boots. Her attire earned her some inviting smiles from men and murderous looks from women.
Inside was the usual entry to a public building: a large, bland chamber that echoed voices and footsteps. A small line had formed at the security checkpoint as people laid briefcases and purses in tubs on a table before going through the metal detector. Angela slipped her purse off her shoulder and slung it up into a gray plastic tub. She knew the routine from delivering documents to the prosecutors who had offices in the building.
Once past security, she took the elevator up to the fourth floor. Down the hall, past people who paused to stare at her, she came to the office of the assistant district attorney. The receptionist was a thin young man with perfectly styled hair. His blue shirt, offset with a coral-colored tie, was too big for him. He asked if she had an appointment to see Mr. Babington. When she said no, he told her he was in a meeting and she would have to make an appointment and come back. She said she wanted to wait to see if he would have time to see her after his meeting. Annoyed, he asked her name. Angela told him that she was a courier and had delivered packages to Mr. Babington before. Pouting, he told her to have a seat.
Just before 5:00 p.m. John Babington opened his office door to let out a couple of men. They hurried past him on their way out. He paused, putting on his suit coat.
The guy at the front desk smirked his disapproval as he pointed at Angela. “I told her she would have to make an appointment, but she insisted on waiting.”
John Babington stood frozen with one arm in the sleeve of his jacket, taking in her bare legs. There was no question in her mind that he remembered her. He pulled his suit coat back off and gestured with a tilt of his head for her to come in to his office.
Angela closed the door and then sat in one of the two maroon leather chairs in front of his wooden desk. He swung his coat over his taller chair behind the desk and sat down.
“What can I do for you … ”
“I’m Angela Constantine.”
He leaned back in his chair and with one hand slicked back his long, thick, dark brown hair. “What can I do for you, Ms. Constantine?”
“Four men tried to murder me. I was told you dropped the charges and let them go. I want to know why.”
Recognition showed in his eyes and then he smiled to himself as if she were a child who had asked something naive.
“It’s not that simple.”
Angela nested her hands in her lap. “It is to me. They tried to murder me.”
“Didn’t you say they raped you, as well?” He leaned in with a hint of a smile, wanting to hear the juicy story.
A simple “Yes” was all she gave him.
His extra chins oozed over his collar and tie as he tried to glance down at her legs, but she was too close to his desk for him to see much, so he took a long look at her chest instead before he shifted his attention to the stack of folders to the side. He fingered through them until he found the one he was looking for and then tugged it out.
He dropped the folder on the desk in front of himself and then flipped it open. He turned over papers, reading, making small sounds in his throat. She saw the photocopied mug shots of the four men. He flipped those four pages over, then wet his thumb and picked up a page, studying it for a moment.
He finally looked up over the top of the paper. “What exactly was it you wanted to know?”
“I told the officer who came to see me in the hospital that I was willing to testify against all four men. I can identify them. I gave the officers the license plate number. I want to know why you would drop the charges and let them go.”
He gave her a long, cold look. “Are you prejudiced, Ms. Constantine?”
Angela blinked. “What?”
John Babington gave her a haughty smirk. “They’re undocumented Mexican immigrants, Ms. Constantine. This state has a policy of giving sanctuary to undocumented immigrants.”
Angela leveled a glare back at him. “They tried to kill me.”
“The good people of New York State”—he lifted his arm to twirl his hand in the air over his head—“and all the elected officials above me, have made it abundantly clear that this is to be a sanctuary state for undocumented aliens. That means we protect them. There are standing orders not to cooperate in any way with federal officials—”
“This isn’t a federal case,” Angela said, cutting him off. “This is a criminal case. I don’t want them deported, I want them prosecuted.” With a finger, she pointed out the bruises around her neck. “They hanged me and left me to die. They attempted to murder me. You’re the one who is supposed to speak for victims and prosecute criminals.”
He stared at her throat a moment before looking up into her eyes. “Are you into Satanism, Ms. Constantine?”
“What?”
“Satanism. You know, Devil worship.” He gestured toward her neck. “Your tattoo, there. It says ‘Dark Angel.’ Do you worship Satan?”
Angela frowned her incredulity. “No. And even if I did, which I don’t, what does that have to do with those men raping me and trying to kill me?”
He briefly looked back at the paper he was holding and then looked up with icy contempt. “It says here that the men said the sex was consensual.”
Angela stared in astonishment at the accusation. “That’s a lie. Of course they’re going to say it was consensual—they’re trying to get out of going to jail for what they did. I suppose they also claimed that the attempted murder was actually assisted suicide?”
He arched an eyebrow at her sarcasm before going back to silently reading the report in his hand. “I have the testimony of all four men saying the same thing, that it was consensual. They claim that you wanted to have an … ‘experience.’ ”
“What are you talking about? What ‘experience’?”
“They all say that they met you at Barry’s Place, where you’re a bartender. They say that after work, out in the parking lot, you got friendly with them and then told them that you had a rape fantasy. They say you asked them if they wanted to play along and help you have that kind of experience.”
After work that night Angela was busy killing Owen. But she could hardly say that.