Initially, Spurrier had repeatedly denied Abby’s requests for interviews. Then late last week, she had tried again and he had picked up the phone. He had suggested they meet after the arraignment, telling her his attorney had “made a deal.”
“He said he had read my stories in the Post over the years,” Abby had scribbled, “and had recalled my byline from when I was in Richmond. He remembered what I had written about Jill and Elizabeth, too, and remarked that they were ‘nice girls’ and he’d always hoped the cops would get the ‘psycho.’ He also knew about my sister, said he’d read about her murder.
That’s the reason he finally agreed to talk to me, he said. He ‘felt’ for me, said he realized I understood what it was like to ‘be a victim; because what happened to my sister made me a victim, too.
‘I am a victim,’ he said. ‘We can talk about that. Maybe you can help me better understand what that’s all about’ “He suggested I come to his house Saturday morning at eleven, and I agreed, providing all interviews are exclusive. He said that was fine, he had no intention of talking to anybody else as long as I told his side. ‘The truth,’ as he put it. Thank you, Lord! Screw you and your book, Cliff. You lose.”
Cliff Ring was writing a book about these cases, too. Dear Lord. No wonder Abby had been acting so odd.
She had lied when she had told me what was going to happen at Spurrier’s arraignment. She did not want me to suspect that she planned to go to his house, and she knew such a thought would never occur to me if I assumed he would be in jail. I remembered her saying that she no longer trusted anyone. She didn’t, not even me.
I glanced at my watch. It was eleven-fifteen.
Marino wasn’t in, so I left a message on his pager. Then I called the Williamsburg police, and the phone rang forever before a secretary answered. I told her I needed to speak to one of the detectives immediately.
“They’re all out on the street right now.”
“Then let me speak to whoever’s in.”
She transferred me to a sergeant.
Identifying myself, I said, “You know who Steven Spurrier is.”
“Can’t work around here and not know that.”
“A reporter is interviewing him at his house. I’m alerting you so you can make sure your surveillance teams know she’s there, make sure everything’s all right.”
There was a long pause. Paper crinkled. It sounded as if the sergeant was eating something. Then, “Spurrier’s not under surveillance anymore.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I said our guys have been pulled off.”
“Why?”
I demanded.
“Now, that I don’t know, Doc, been on vacation for the past-”
“Look, all I’m asking is you send a car by his house, make sure everything’s all right.”
It was all I could do not to scream at him.
” “Don’t you worry about a thing.”
His voice was as calm as a spill pond. “I’ll pass it along.”
I hung up as I heard a car pull in.
Abby, thank God.
But when I looked out the window, it was Marino.
I opened the front door before he could ring the bell.
“Was in the area when I got your message on the beeper, so I – ”
“Spurrier’s house!”
I grabbed his arm. “Abby’s there! She’s got her gun!”
The sky had turned dark and it was raining as Marino and I sped east on 64. Every muscle in my body was rigid. My heart would not slow down.
“Hey, relax,” Marino said as we turned off at the Colonial Williamsburg exit. “Whether the cops are watching him or not, he ain’t stupid enough to touch her: Really, you know that. He ain’t going to do that.”
There was only one vehicle in sight when we turned onto Spurrier’s quiet street.
“Shit,” Marino muttered under his breath.
Parked on the street in front of Spurrier’s house was a black Jaguar.
“Pat Harvey,” I said. “Oh, God.”
He slammed on the brakes.
“Stay here.”
He was out of the car as if he had been ejected, running up the driveway in the pouring rain. My heart was pounding as he pushed the front door open with his foot, revolver in hand, and disappeared inside.