going on in Allie's life? A young girl needed guidance in all things, because there were so many dangers, so many ways in which she could make mistakes, bad judgments, come to harm.
Lucy Tobias spent a miserable night.
The morning would only get worse for her and Ben, for Allie's two friends, and for everyone else who cared at all about a sensitive, unassuming eighteen-year-old girl with a bright and hopeful future in front of her.
It was one of those awful coincidences that make you wonder if there might truly be such a thing as a fate that cannotbe denied: the day after Allison moved into her new apartment, her police officer uncle in Bahia Beach felt something nudge his memory. It was a name, one of those that had been given him by his worrywart of a sister. Lucy was going to ruin that girl if she didn't cut the apron strings, Lyle Karnacki thought. They were apron strings made of iron; it would take a blow torch to cut them, he thought, and shook his head ruefully as he made the trek personally from his division to Juvenile.
When he got there, he inquired of a cop he knew, “The name Steven Orbach mean anything to you?”
The woman rolled her eyes, and said, “Stevie? Killed his mom when he was fourteen. Why?”
“Oh, fucking shit,” Lyle breathed. “Tell me the whole thing.”
“Well, that's it. Beat her, stabbed her, and choked her until she was dead. Stevie didn't get tried as an adult, unfortunately, so he—why?”
“His record's been sealed?”
“Probably. He was a juvie. What's he done now?”
“Nothing, I hope. My niece up in Lauderdale Pines has just moved into an apartment house and he's one of her neighbors. That could be him, couldn't it? I mean, this guy is twenty-one—”
“It's probably him. How many Steven Orbachs can there be? That's about his age, and that's where he moved to, last I heard. You might want to tell your niece to find herself another place to live.”
“Fucking shit!” Lyle exclaimed, feeling as if he couldn't get to a telephone fast enough. “My sister's going to have a fit. Can I get an outside line off your phone?”
But it was already 9:00 A.M. when he called up to Lauderdale Pines.
“Lucy? It's Lyle—”
The medical examiner of Howard County later determined,at Lyle's grieving insistence, that he had been approximately six hours too late to save his niece. Ever after, his sister blamed him and he was never able to refute her accusations. He hadn't taken her request very seriously; he'd made a halfhearted check; and now no one could accuse him as harshly as he accused himself. But when the detectives launched their search for the killer, Lyle put everything he had into it, and nobody could ever say he didn't.
“Raped and murdered?” Martina Levin asked the veteran detective. Despite the shade from the tree above them, she felt as if she'd been left to bake too long in an oven. Even the hair on the top of her head felt hot when she reached up gingerly to touch it. The cop beside her had long since taken off his suit coat and laid it on the cement seawall. They'd both put on sunglasses, but she was still squinting behind the lenses of hers. “What happened to him?”
“To Stevie Orbach?”
Carl told her that in 1991 Orbach was convicted of the rape/murder of eighteen-year-old Allison Tobias in the early morning hours of May 27, 1990. Upon the unanimous recommendation of the jury and the fervent agreement of a district court judge, Orbach was sentenced to death, at a time when the electric chair was still the sole means in Florida of carrying out that punishment. When the state changed its laws he was presented with an alternative: death by lethal injection. To which he famously responded, “The hell with you. If I get off easy, that means you get off easy. You kill me, you bastards, for a crime I didn't do, then you can by God watch me fry.”
“Jeez,” Martina breathed, feeling fried herself.
“That's who our victim's husband is fighting for,”
Lucy Tobias spent a miserable night.
The morning would only get worse for her and Ben, for Allie's two friends, and for everyone else who cared at all about a sensitive, unassuming eighteen-year-old girl with a bright and hopeful future in front of her.
It was one of those awful coincidences that make you wonder if there might truly be such a thing as a fate that cannotbe denied: the day after Allison moved into her new apartment, her police officer uncle in Bahia Beach felt something nudge his memory. It was a name, one of those that had been given him by his worrywart of a sister. Lucy was going to ruin that girl if she didn't cut the apron strings, Lyle Karnacki thought. They were apron strings made of iron; it would take a blow torch to cut them, he thought, and shook his head ruefully as he made the trek personally from his division to Juvenile.
When he got there, he inquired of a cop he knew, “The name Steven Orbach mean anything to you?”
The woman rolled her eyes, and said, “Stevie? Killed his mom when he was fourteen. Why?”
“Oh, fucking shit,” Lyle breathed. “Tell me the whole thing.”
“Well, that's it. Beat her, stabbed her, and choked her until she was dead. Stevie didn't get tried as an adult, unfortunately, so he—why?”
“His record's been sealed?”
“Probably. He was a juvie. What's he done now?”
“Nothing, I hope. My niece up in Lauderdale Pines has just moved into an apartment house and he's one of her neighbors. That could be him, couldn't it? I mean, this guy is twenty-one—”
“It's probably him. How many Steven Orbachs can there be? That's about his age, and that's where he moved to, last I heard. You might want to tell your niece to find herself another place to live.”
“Fucking shit!” Lyle exclaimed, feeling as if he couldn't get to a telephone fast enough. “My sister's going to have a fit. Can I get an outside line off your phone?”
But it was already 9:00 A.M. when he called up to Lauderdale Pines.
“Lucy? It's Lyle—”
The medical examiner of Howard County later determined,at Lyle's grieving insistence, that he had been approximately six hours too late to save his niece. Ever after, his sister blamed him and he was never able to refute her accusations. He hadn't taken her request very seriously; he'd made a halfhearted check; and now no one could accuse him as harshly as he accused himself. But when the detectives launched their search for the killer, Lyle put everything he had into it, and nobody could ever say he didn't.
“Raped and murdered?” Martina Levin asked the veteran detective. Despite the shade from the tree above them, she felt as if she'd been left to bake too long in an oven. Even the hair on the top of her head felt hot when she reached up gingerly to touch it. The cop beside her had long since taken off his suit coat and laid it on the cement seawall. They'd both put on sunglasses, but she was still squinting behind the lenses of hers. “What happened to him?”
“To Stevie Orbach?”
Carl told her that in 1991 Orbach was convicted of the rape/murder of eighteen-year-old Allison Tobias in the early morning hours of May 27, 1990. Upon the unanimous recommendation of the jury and the fervent agreement of a district court judge, Orbach was sentenced to death, at a time when the electric chair was still the sole means in Florida of carrying out that punishment. When the state changed its laws he was presented with an alternative: death by lethal injection. To which he famously responded, “The hell with you. If I get off easy, that means you get off easy. You kill me, you bastards, for a crime I didn't do, then you can by God watch me fry.”
“Jeez,” Martina breathed, feeling fried herself.
“That's who our victim's husband is fighting for,”
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