Promises Town: A Texas Mystery

Promises Town A TEXAS MYSTERY BY THE

AUTHOR OF Splendor

Bay

L.B. COBB

A B

ADVANCEBOOKS Houston, TX, USA

Promises Town is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or have been used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, locales, or incidents is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or publisher. Copyright © 2002 by L.B. Cobb. All rights reserved. Library of Congress Control Number 2002-091776 ISBN 0-9706224-4-9, Library Hardcover, September 2002 ISBN 0-9706224-5-7, Trade Softcover, September 2002 ISBN 0-9746172-2-9, eBook, January 2004 Promises Town is published by AdvanceBooks, an imprint of the Advance Books Company of Houston, Texas, USA, www.advancebooks.com, [email protected]. Except for brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews and the permissions granted in the terms and conditions of eBook purchase, no part of this book may be reproduced or distributed in any form or by any means without written permission from the publisher. The eBook edition of Promises Town has a larger text font than the trade softcover and library hardcover print editions, hence it also has a greater page count.

ABOUT THE BOOK

A

federal prosecutor, the nemesis of Washington elite, is murdered at a posh Bayou City hotel. His wife is found with the gun at the scene and her motive is obvious—he did her wrong and she caught him in the act. The wife is arrested quickly. Perhaps too quickly, ASSISTANT D ISTRICT A TTORNEY VIRGINIA RODRIGUEZ soon realizes, but a dismissal isn’t that simple. Powerful people want a conviction and more than Virginia’s career is on the line—calculating killers have added her name to their list. Virginia is smart and sassy, and she can hold her own against LEO ZACHMANN, the highprofile attorney who has taken up the wife’s defense, but can she deliver Texas justice in a case where the truth is as elusive as the evidence? P ROMISES T OWN delivers a rich blend of memorable characters, a fascinating view of the two-sided search for truth in criminal cases, an intriguing mystery, wry humor, and Virginia Rodriguez, a woman who has it all—a killer of a job, a child and a dog to feed, a house to keep, promises to remember, and no Prince Charming in view. ABOUT THE AUTHOR L. B. Cobb grew up in Tennessee and practiced geology before practicing law. She now lives in Houston, Texas.

THE REVIEWS “A wonderful mix of characters highlights this memorable mystery” — Mystery Scene Magazine “Chiseled out of the Texas landscape, politics, and Virginia Rodriguez's sometimes bitchy, but mostly likable, character”— Midwest Book Review “From the opening page, you are hooked and delighted to hang onto the hook”— Review of Texas Books “Humorous, believable characters, and more bite than a Texas rattlesnake” — Chris Rogers, author of Bitch Factor “I don’t know that I have ever read anything that handled interracial relationships as openly, sensitively, and with such a sense of acceptance” — Prairie Hill Books “Multi-faceted characters, biting humor and emotional discoveries pack the pages from beginning to end” — Mysterious Corner, The Romance Readers Connection “Very satisfying having a main character that was not only female but a minority, a strong woman with the same problems many single mothers face each day” — MyShelf “Promises Town hooked me on the first page and I was sad to reach the last page” — Murder Express

ONE Friday, May 22, 4:15 p.m., Bayou City, Texas

V

irginia Rodriguez struggled with the key outside while the telephone rang inside and her dog yelped in the backyard. Finally, the lock clicked. She kicked the door open, dropped everything on the kitchen table, and grabbed the phone. “What?” she demanded, watching helplessly as the grocery sack and her shoulder bag spilled their contents across the table. Cans and vegetables tumbled to the floor. Her cell phone landed in a chair. Her gun clanged into the empty dog food bowl. “Sorry to bother you at home,” said her boss, District Attorney Wendell Boettcher, “but this is important.” “I’m off duty, Wen. Remember? You approved my vacation.” “I know, and you deserve one. You did a great job on the Bell trial. Your closing should make the evening news, but I need—” “Absolutely not!” She swatted a mosquito and glanced at the still open kitchen door, then at the patio door to the backyard where Denver, her black Labrador, had added glass scratching to his attention-getting routine. “Just hear me out,” Wen persisted. “It’s that federal prosecutor, the one who went after those politicians on that sex scandal. It’s a tremendous growth opportunity, or I wouldn’t have called.” Right. Another frigging growth opportunity. What management offered workers instead of decent wages. But not this time. She’d had all the personal growth she could stand.

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“No. Give it to someone else. I’m tired. I haven’t had a full night’s sleep in a month.” “I need you, Virginia. It’s Stuart Fullerton, at the Concord.” “Under no circumstances will I work with the headmaster of the sleaze-talk-show school of criminal prosecution.” “You wouldn’t exactly be working with him,” said Wen. “What, then?” “He’s dead.” “Dead?” “Murdered,” said Wen. “Just check out the scene before the cops screw it up, then you can hand it off.” No! No more! She had to let Denver in before his glass scratching drove her berserk. She had to get out of her hot lawyer suit and sagging pantyhose. She wanted to get into a tub and soak the trial photos of las víctimas jóvenes from her mind, then spend the evening making an authentic Tex-Mex dinner for her authentic Tex-Mex child. Wen interrupted her internal harangue. “Honest, Virginia. If you don’t want the case, you can reassign it. I promise.” No. She desperately needed a couple of weeks of pretending she had a normal life like other single working women with children. Single Working Woman With Child? Yes, that’s what she was. A SWWWC. Move the letters around a bit and she could be a website for the liberated woman who has it all—job she hates, child and dog to feed, laundry to do, house to clean, promises to remember, and no Prince Charming in view. “Unless the Feds take it away from us,” Wen added. She stopped in mid-tirade. Maybe. Probably. With a name brand federal prosecutor victim, the US Attorney’s office might actually take it over. Besides, she would be in town until after son Nick’s graduation on Thursday, and she could shop for whatever he needed for the summer after they got to the ranch. A discount store was within easy driving distance now. 6

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“I really want you to take this one, Virginia.” Maybe she could make it work. Get the case started, get her name on national television a few nights so that when she sent her resume to the big firms, they’d know who she was. So maybe one of them would hire her and pay her enough that she could make both the mortgage payment and Nick’s college tuition in the fall. “Please, just get it started. That’s all I’m asking.” Yes, she could do it and not disappoint Nick, and this case really could be the door marked “Exit.” Scratching out a living in the DA’s office was getting old. Her body felt old. Her soul felt old. Was this the way out? Virginia sighed, disappointed with herself for doing what Wen knew she would do when he called. “I’ll check it out, but I don’t want any lip from you if I reassign it.” “You have my word.” “Sure, Wen, I had your word I could take a vacation, too,” Virginia grumbled as she hung up the phone. Springing into action, she stepped over cans, stashed the lettuce, meat and cheese in the refrigerator, and scrawled a note. “Nick, I’m on a case, but I’ll be home early. I’ll pick up a pizza. Sorry, Mom.” Virginia anchored the note to the refrigerator door with a magnet, breathed deeply, and let the guilt go. Then she turned her cell phone back on and stuffed it and her gun into her bag. Quickly she filled dog bowls, let Denver in, and extracted the requisite promise. “You going to behave if I leave you inside?” Denver gave her his version of a grin, wagged his tail to emphasize his good-dog status, and whined affirmatively in the “Rocky Mountain High” pitch that had earned him his name. “You better,” she threatened. “You piddle on the floor or chew up anything, it’s off to the pound with you. Hasta la vista, pal.” 7

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Denver lost the grin and answered with a whimper. “Okay, I’ll trust you this time.” Virginia tugged her pantyhose back into place and straightened her skirt. In a final glance around the kitchen, she saw the avocados under the table. Denver would think they were balls, and eventually she’d find their moldy corpses under a piece of furniture. But no time to worry about that now. Virginia locked the door and hurried to her twelve-yearold pickup truck, which was still parked in the driveway because the garage was still littered with Nick’s motorbike parts. She’d forgotten to pick up the latest essential gizmo at the bike shop on her way home. And something else was on Nick’s list, she mused as she got in the truck, something she’d promised him on her way out the door this morning that she wouldn’t forget, something he absolutely had to have today. What was it? Virginia thought for a moment, but couldn’t remember. Whatever it was, they’d have to get it tomorrow. Leaving her neighborhood, deceptively named Country Club Estates by its 1950s developer, her mind turned to her next challenge—getting to the Concord Hotel quickly and without mishap. One wrong turn and she’d be stuck in the Friday afternoon dance-of-death for hours. Weaving through neighborhood streets as long as she could, Virginia made it to the freeway without incident, merged into the nerve-racking traffic, then turned on the radio for the high-in-the-sky road report on the politically incorrect Bill & Bob Country Retro Show. “We interrupt Charley Pride’s Honky Tonk Blues album for late-breaking news,” Bill declared. “Federal prosecutor Stuart Fullerton is reported to be a shooting victim at the swank Concord Hotel. No word yet on his condition or who did it. What do you think, Bob?” 8

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“The Lord works in mysterious ways,” quipped Bob. “All you commuters out there supporting the cell phone industry, give us a ring-a-ding and tell us what you think. Thirteenth caller wins a weekend in a luxury suite at the Concord. You can check in just as soon as they mop up the blood and gore.” Virginia fished her cell phone out of her bag and punched a quick-dial number. “Turn on your radio,” she said when Wen answered. “Bill & Bob. Or your television. It’s probably everywhere by now. The jackals are on the prowl.” Virginia braked to a stop in front of the Concord. Cop cars and a crime lab van were on the scene, but no sign of the medical examiner’s ghoul wagon and, thankfully, no news vans, either. She checked her watch—4:45 p.m. Bill & Bob had scooped everyone again, but it wouldn’t take long for the rest of the pack of dogs to find out. Virginia flipped her visor down to display her parkanywhere District Attorney pass and dashed up the steps of the chrome and glass hotel. Several badge waves later, she stepped off the elevator at the eighteenth floor. Who’s left to serve and protect the other citizens? she wondered as she scanned a hallway swarming with cops. Then she spied Detective Jackson Smith standing outside room 1807 talking to another officer and relaxed. With Smitty in charge, chances were the crime scene had not been compromised entirely. Smitty raised his head and breathed deeply through his Michelangelo David nose. He turned his sable eyes in her direction as if he’d caught her scent and smiled, a tad too knowingly, then strolled toward her. “Good to see you again.” Virginia met his eyes, hungry eyes, ojos hambrientos, and instantly felt the panic of prey. Quickly she glanced away. 9

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Smitty had been a mistake. It should never have happened. It would never happen again. “You in charge?” Virginia asked the tall, precisely dressed black man in her most assertive prosecutor’s voice. The sharp tone added an extra foot to her five-foot-one height in king of the mountain games with cops, lawyers, and judges. Smitty gestured toward room 1807. “Victims are in there.” “Victims? More than one?” “Two. Fullerton’s wife was found with the gun, so I guess we’ve got our shooter. She’s in 1809. It has a connecting door to the murder room.” “Anyone question her?” Virginia asked. “Tried to beat a confession out of her,” Smitty quipped. Virginia frowned. Jokes about violating a defendant’s rights didn’t play well with her. She’d had one too many cases compromised by overly aggressive police tactics. “Don’t worry,” Smitty said. “Everything’s kosher. She’s had her warning and is exercising her right to remain silent.” Virginia sighed. “Anybody call the medical examiner?” “Twice.” “Call again. We can’t do much until they get here. I saw the CSU van outside. I assume they’re observing protocol?” “Yes, ma’am.” Smitty clicked his heels soldier fashion. “A criminalist tended to the widow, but I asked them to hold off on a sweep of the rooms until the ME finishes. Anything else, ma’am?” Virginia ignored the question and the attitude as she moved past him into 1807. She first noticed lights flashing like blinking lightning bugs in a mirror behind an officer. Farther into the room, she saw the police photographer with plastic bags over his shoes, edging his way around the drapes-drawn darkened room. Taking another step, she saw the bodies. 10

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Joined like Siamese twins, back to belly, spoons on the kingsized bed, both nude, both male, the older male with a head wound embraced the younger male who had been shot in the chest. Blood decorated the headboard and ivory walls behind the bed. Blood-soaked bedding draped to the plush teal carpet. “Think she reloaded?” Virginia asked, alluding to the oftrepeated advice a prominent defense attorney gave women in his country club luncheon speeches: “Ladies, if you just have to shoot your husbands, remember one thing. Don’t reload. You might get off by claiming you thought he was a burglar when he came sneaking in late from tomcatting, and you might get off if you catch him in the act and claim it made you go insane. But if you reload, that’s premeditated. Premeditated will get you life in the pen, for sure. Might get you death.” “Under these circumstances,” Smitty said, “you’ll never get a murder conviction, not even if she reloaded twice.” “Be lucky to get her on manslaughter,” Virginia muttered.

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TWO Friday, May 22, 4:30 p.m.

L

eo Zachmann’s secretary stuck her blond head into his office. “Pick up line three,” Martha Dee ordered. “You’ll want to talk to this guy.” “Want to give me a clue?” Leo glanced at the wall clock above the door, cognizant of his five o’clock deadline for faxing answers to interrogatories in a civil case. He’d rather be doing just about anything else at the moment, but such tedious work kept the firm prosperous between the sporadic but much more lively high-society murder cases. Actually, his wife’s corporate deal-making kept them prosperous, but no need to quibble over details. “The police are holding Mrs. Stuart Fullerton for the murder of her husband at the Concord Hotel.” “Fullerton? Washington-scandal Stuart Fullerton?” “That’s the one.” “Is she on the line?” “No. It’s a man. He says he’s ‘a friend’ of Mrs. Fullerton. Won’t give me a name, but he really wants to hire you.” Leo looked at the papers in front of him, then at the clock again. “Can you finish these up and fax them off?” “No problem.” Martha Dee grinned at him. “What’s so funny?” “You. You look like a kid getting let out of school early.” Leo grunted. “Tell my wife I may be late for dinner?” He pressed a button to start the tape recorder hooked to his phone 12

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and lifted the receiver. “Leo Zachmann here. What can I do for you?” “I’m calling on behalf of Janette Fullerton, Mrs. Stuart Fullerton. The police are detaining her at the Concord Hotel. Will you help her?” “Who are you?” Leo replied. “And what makes you think she wants my help?” “Who I am isn’t important,” the voice said. “She needs you.” “Not so fast,” said Leo. “Tell me what happened.” “You’ll have to get the details from her. Please, just name your price, and I’ll send you a check.” “Whoa,” said Leo. “You tell me the nature of her problem, then we’ll worry about my fee.” Leo heard a sigh. “The police think she murdered her husband. I don’t know any more than that, but I’ll see that you’re well paid, whatever you want. Just help her.” “How do I get in touch with you if I decide to sign on?” “Write this down.” The voice recited a phone number with a Washington DC area code. Leo was now intrigued by just who the mystery man might be. “I’ll talk to her, but I’m not promising representation.” “Please, just check it out, then call me back.” “That much, I’ll do.” Leo buzzed Martha Dee and put his jacket on while she gathered up papers from his desk. When she left, he rang Jerry Thibideau, the firm’s private investigator. “Meet me at the elevator. Right now. Happy hour at the Concord.” When Leo came through his office door, he found his wife and law partner, Miranda, blocking his escape. “I hear you’re standing me up for a new client,” she accused. Leo swept Miranda into his arms and gave her a peck on the lips. “I would never give up an evening with you for a client, 13

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my dear. You and the kids start dinner without me if I run a little late.” Miranda’s emerald eyes locked on his blues. “I’m coming with you to make sure you don’t ‘run a little late.’” Martha Dee cleared her throat. “Would you two take it elsewhere? Someone gave me a five o’clock deadline, and you’re in my way.” “Certainly.” Leo directed Miranda toward the elevators. “Oh, Martha Dee? Would you check caller ID and see if you can figure out who our mystery man is?” “Yeah, yeah,” Martha Dee said as she fed the fax machine. Jerry Thibideau came out of his office just as Leo and Miranda reached the elevator. “What’s up?” “Don’t know yet,” Leo said. “Some man, who didn’t want to tell me his name, thinks Mrs. Stuart Fullerton needs a lawyer.” “Fullerton? The guy who went after those politicians?” “That one. Apparently he’s no longer among the living, and the police think his wife did him in. While I talk with the widow, see if you can get your cop buddies to tell you what they have on her.” “I’ll wait in the bar,” Miranda said. “No, my dear. You wanted to come. You can assist me in interviewing our potential client, act as my truth-seeking missile. Then you can tell me whether you’ll let me get on this horse and ride.” Miranda gave Leo her skeptical look. “Don’t I always listen to your opinions?” he asked. “You listen, then you do as you damn well please.” Police cars with strobe lights flashing and television station vans with antennae turning were parked helter-skelter in front 14

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of the hotel. Reporters babbled into microphones on the front steps. It looked like Christmas at the Concord and Leo felt the anticipation of a present waiting to be opened inside. Leo and Jerry formed the offensive line with Miranda on their heels as they crossed the granite-floored lobby. A young officer stepped out of the open elevator car as they approached. “Sorry, sir. We have a police problem upstairs. Hotel management is offering guests free refreshments in the Rustler’s Lounge. Wait there. We’ll let you know when we’re done.” “About that little problem you have,” said Leo, “that’s where we’re headed. I’m Leo Zachmann. You guys are holding my client, Mrs. Stuart Fullerton, on the eighteenth floor.” “I’m sorry, sir,” the cop said, “but no one goes up.” Leo moved closer to read his badge, towering over the cop. “Tell you what, Officer Cuellar, we’re getting on this elevator. You call whomever you need to call and tell them they’ll have to shoot Mrs. Fullerton’s lawyer to keep him from getting off. And someone else might get hurt in the shoot-out. You want to tell them that?” The officer, his right hand resting on his gun, glared up at Leo, then shrugged and stepped aside. “I’ll let them know some loco abogado is coming up.” “Thank you, kind sir,” Leo said, “but make that some bigand-mean crazy lawyer, so they’ll know which one.” Miranda kicked Leo in the calf as the elevator doors closed. “Ouch!” Leo yelped. “Why’d you do that?” She glared at him. “One of these days some hot-headed cop will call your bluff.” Leo shrugged. “You’ve always looked good in black.” “Not to worry,” interjected Jerry, “not with our new improved police department. Now, back in my day, it was 15

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bang, bang, you’re under arrest, bang, bang, you have a right to remain silent. These days, they’re too scared of Internal Affairs.” “You two clean up your act or I’ll take you home,” Miranda warned. Jerry grinned at Leo over Miranda’s auburn head. “Course back then, internal affairs took place behind closed doors between the chief and his secretary. Now, it’s cops screwing cops.” Leo had hired the six-foot-six chocolate colored Gericault Thibideau away from the Bayou City Police Department over twenty years ago after Jerry came up with evidence that helped the then hot-shot Assistant DA and now distinguished DA Wendell Boettcher whip Leo soundly in his first big love-andmurder trial. Fortunately, Wen had never done it again, and Jerry still held the respect of the older cops, at least enough they sometimes let him in on what was really in their evidence locker. As the elevator door opened at the eighteenth floor, Jerry turned right toward a group of officers. A tall black cop in a well-tailored suit stepped forward. “Whatcha doin’ here, Thibideau?” Jerry extended his hand. “What’s up, Smitty?” Leo watched as Smitty-the-cop warmed to Jerry-the-excop, then he scanned the crowded hallway looking for one of Boettcher’s people. Wen would definitely have a prosecutor guarding against a screw-up on a case this big. He saw her talking with a police photographer at the door of 1807 and smiled. That’s Virginia, Leo thought, already at work on her trial exhibits. Leo placed his hand on the small of Miranda’s back. “Would you accompany me to the boudoir, my dear?” 16

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THREE Friday, May 22, 5:15 p.m.

V

irginia felt genuine delight when she saw Leo Zachmann coming toward her. Of all the defense attorneys in town, Leo was her most challenging adversary and her favorite. Tough and relentless when he believed he had an innocent client, he would plead them out when he knew they were guilty. Leo was at least six-five, with mature silver in his fair hair and a sparkle in his dark blue eyes. His dashing good looks drew media attention, she reminded herself, and winning this one hands down against Zachmann wouldn’t hurt her professional reputation one bit. “What are you doing here, Leo?” she asked the blond giant. “Why, Virginia, I see blinking cop cars and rowdy reporters, and I just have to see if there’s paying work I can hustle up,” Leo deadpanned. “You know how testy the state bar gets when you send runners in to sign up clients, so I like to do the signing up myself.” “Right. I was told Mrs. Fullerton hasn’t said a word, but it looks like she managed to sneak in a call to a lawyer.” “Oh, she didn’t call me,” Leo said, pulling his wife into the huddle. “Miranda had one of her psychic visions, saw one of God’s children needed her rights protected, so we rushed straight over before some other lawyer could beat my time.” Virginia offered her hand to Miranda Zachmann. “Good to see you again. Anyone ever tell you that your husband is full of crap?” 17

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Miranda smiled. “It’s been mentioned by a few besides me.” Virginia turned to Leo. “I suppose you’d like to see Mrs. Fullerton. We’ve parked her in 1809.” Leo pointed to the now closed and guarded door of 1807. “I’d sure appreciate it if you’d let me look in there first, before they cart off the exculpatory evidence, that is. It’ll save us both a bunch of time later on.” Virginia eyed Leo suspiciously, then shrugged. He’d have access to the crime scene anyway. It might as well be now when they could watch him. “You can look, but don’t touch.” “Could someone take Miranda in to see Mrs. Fullerton while I check it out?” Leo asked. “I’ll be along in a minute.” Virginia nudged the arm of the uniformed officer at the door. “Make sure Mr. Zachmann signs the log sheet. Then he can take a brief look at the crime scene. After he’s done, he can visit with his client in 1809. Watch him every second he’s in 1807, and don’t let him touch anything.” A uniformed officer stood up from the small sofa as Miranda and Virginia entered 1809. Miranda focused on the woman who remained seated in a chair by the window. Janette Fullerton was not what she had expected. Instead of being a stylishly-chic lawyer wife, Mrs. Fullerton looked like a country music star in town for the rodeo—Texas-big bouffant blond hair, heavy-handed makeup, skintight jeans, fancy high-heel boots, a purple satin western shirt trimmed in turquoise fringe and silver beads, the top unbuttoned to reveal ample cleavage. If it were February and rodeo time, Miranda might understand the costume, but May? Was this her idea of a Go-Texan tourist outfit? The woman took a drag from her cigarette and dropped it into the ocher-colored liquid in a hotel-logo glass on the table 18

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next to her chair. Then she picked up the television remote and pushed the mute button. Silent images of the late-breaking events at the Concord played on. “I’m Miranda Zachmann. My husband and law partner, Leo Zachmann, will be with us shortly. He’s here to assist you if you need an attorney.” Mrs. Fullerton stared at Miranda as if trying to bring her into focus, shifted her gaze to Virginia, then looked back at the muted television. “It appears I do,” she said absently. “May I sit?” Miranda asked. Janette Fullerton pointed to the bed. Miranda glanced at Virginia. “Could we be alone?” Virginia shrugged and motioned for the officer to follow her out. “I’ll go try to keep Leo from stealing my evidence.” Miranda waited for Janette Fullerton to look at her again, then realized the woman’s detached air concealed fright— fright bordering on terror. “Mrs. Fullerton?” Her eyes darted to Miranda. “Yes? “Do you understand that we’re here to help you?” She nodded. “How did you know?” “Whoever you called must have called Leo,” said Miranda. “I didn’t call anyone. I’ve been busy with people swabbing my hands and... They said I could call a lawyer after they booked me.” Miranda stared at Mrs. Fullerton. If she hadn’t called the man who phoned Leo, then how had he known? Miranda scanned the room. Her eyes landed on a lamp on a night table. She examined the shade. A tiny disc fell out of a pleat. A bug? Were there others? Miranda put it back, then unscrewed the speaking end of the phone receiver and saw another. She screwed the phone parts together and turned to Janette with a finger in front of her lips in the “hush” sign. Leaving the room, Miranda pulled a cell phone from her purse. 19

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*** “Wow!” Leo blurted to the officer beside him. “Talk about getting caught with your pants down.” “Does give you a different perspective,” the officer replied. “Sort of yang-yang instead of yin-yang, ain’t it?” Leo continued. “So, what do you guys think? Who did it?” Virginia slipped in next to Leo and dismissed the officer with a wave of her hand. “Seems obvious—a wife with a gun and a dead husband engaged in an extramarital sex act at the moment of death.” “Sounds circumstantial to me,” Leo mused. “An eyewitness to the shooting and a solid confession would sound circumstantial to you, Leo Zachmann. Let’s see. Motive? We don’t need it, but I’d say we have it anyway. Means? A recently-fired weapon in the widow’s possession. Opportunity? The widow and gun were found in the room adjacent to the bodies. The door between the rooms was open. And, let’s not forget, she hasn’t said she didn’t do it. She hasn’t offered any explanation at all. About all she’s done is send a telepathic message to a defense lawyer, which sort of indicates she thinks she needs one. So can we take her statement now and wrap this up? I don’t know about you, Leo, but I’ve had a hell of a week, and I could use some sleep.” “Why don’t you let me take Mrs. Fullerton home with Miranda and me?” Leo suggested. “I’ll bring her downtown in the morning.” “How about I let the police take her downtown now?” Virginia countered. “You can visit her whenever you’re ready.” “Why don’t you wait until after you get the lab results to book her, so you don’t embarrass the DA’s office by arresting the wrong person?” “Leo, I’m tired. I don’t feel like debating you tonight. We have a rich woman in the next room. Rich women can buy 20

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airplane tickets and disappear where the long arm of Texas law can’t reach them. Our one, only, and obvious suspect goes downtown tonight.” “I wish you’d reconsider, Virginia,” Leo cajoled. “I know you’re exhausted from the Bell trial. From all reports, you did a bang-up job on it. I’m not much of one for the death penalty, but your Mr. Bell is one I’d give the needle to myself. You’re really making a name for yourself, you know. If you ever decide to change sides—” “Don’t try your blarney on me, Leo Zachmann, or I might consider it attempted bribery. If you want to talk with your client, I’d suggest you get on with it.” “Promise me that you’ll get her decent accommodations.” “I’ll do what I can,” said Virginia. Leo walked out of 1807 and saw Miranda on her cell phone at the end of the hall. She was reciting a credit card number when he reached her. “What are you buying?” “A room. Tell Virginia you want to talk with Mrs. Fullerton in 1822.” She pointed down the hall. “Away from all the activity. The desk manager is on the way up with a key.” “I doubt Virginia will agree to that.” “Just ask her.” Miranda proceeded to tell Leo about the bugs in 1809. Leo saw Virginia talking to the cop in the suit who Jerry had called Smitty and headed toward her. She waved Smitty away before he reached them. “I need a favor,” he announced. Virginia rolled her eyes. “What now?” “I’d like to talk with my client in a room Miranda just rented.” “What? Now, why on earth would I agree to that, Leo?” “Why not? One room is much the same as another.” 21

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“Why not 1809 then?” Virginia demanded. “I’d prefer a room of my own choosing.” “Leo, I’m tired. I’ve already accommodated you more than I should have. Go talk with your client in 1809. Now. Or not. Your choice. You’ll have plenty of time to talk after she’s booked.” “It’s this way,” Leo argued. “Miranda found a couple of bugging devices in 1809, and I don’t want to discuss anything with my client in that room. Let me talk to her in another room, which you can personally inspect, or I’ll go down and give a press conference, tell that coven of devil worshipers on the front steps that the police and the District Attorney are bugging attorney-client conversations.” “Bugged? You’ve got to be kidding.” “I’m not kidding. About the bugs or a press conference, if it becomes necessary. You want me to go tell the press you’re violating Mrs. Fullerton’s constitutional rights up here?” Virginia glared at Leo. “Fine,” she snapped. “Have it your way, but make it quick.” Leo sighed. He hadn’t wanted to rile Virginia, but he’d worry about having burned that drawbridge when he needed to cross it again. Right now he regretted giving up the information about the bugs because there was a better than even chance the police would trash both rooms looking for more of them before he could get his experts in to find whatever else might be of use in Mrs. Fullerton’s defense.

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FOUR Friday, May 22, 6:15 p.m.

M

rs. Fullerton glanced at the door as if considering an escape, then at Miranda as if seeking an ally. Finally, her eyes rested on Leo’s face. “Will you represent me?” “I don’t know yet,” he said. “Regardless, this conversation is privileged. Whatever you say to Miranda and me, we’ll take to our graves, unless it’s something I can use for your defense. Does that work for you?” “I understand the concept of attorney-client privilege,” she said, “but first tell me why you’re here.” “I received a phone call from a gentleman. He didn’t give me his name, but he said you needed my help.” Leo pulled a note from his jacket pocket and showed it to her. “You recognize this number?” She stared at the note a moment and handed it back. “No.” “You’re sure?” Leo asked. She shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. Obviously, I need a lawyer.” Leo nodded, then studied Janette Fullerton. Time to see if she would tell the important lie. “Did you do it?” “No! Absolutely not!” She glared at Leo. Most attorneys didn’t ask—because they really didn’t want to know, because clients usually lied, and because it didn’t matter. Regardless of the answer, the bottom line was simple —did the prosecution have sufficient credible evidence to prove guilt beyond a reasonable doubt? Not guilty and innocent 23

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were two different animals. But Leo asked, because it was a tad easier on his soul if they said they were innocent, and he needed to know if they were liars. “I returned to our room,” Janette Fullerton explained. “When I didn’t find Stuart there, I assumed he was still working.” “Working?” repeated Leo. She nodded. “They used Ray’s room as their office.” “Ray?” Leo quizzed. “Ray Atkins. The one with my... with Stuart in... his... his associate.” “Oh,” said Leo. She took a deep breath and continued. “I knocked, then tried the door. It was unlocked, as usual. I went in. It took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the dark room. Then I saw them. On the bed. God, it was horrible!” She shuddered, closed her eyes, and hugged herself. Leo briefly wondered whether it was the memory of finding her husband in bed with a man, or the memory of finding them dead, or the memory of killing them that upset her. He gave her a moment to compose herself, noting she hadn’t said where she had returned from. But that could wait. “They said you were found with a gun.” “Gun?” She looked at him with a bewildered expression. “They found a gun on the night table in your room next to the telephone. Do you know how it got there?” She looked at her hands plucking invisible lint from her jeans, then she glanced out the window. “No, I don’t know. All I remember is thinking I should call 9-1-1.” “Did you?” Leo asked. “Yes. No. Not 9-1-1. Zero, for the front desk. I told them my husband had been shot and asked them to send help.” “And then?” 24

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“Then I waited until the security guard arrived. He picked up a gun and did something with it. I don’t remember what. Then the emergency people and police arrived.” “They ask you any questions?” She stared at Leo long enough for him to notice that below the turquoise eye shadow her eyes were cornflower blue, with little gold flecks like freckles scattered around the irises. Unusual blue eyes. “Yes, but I didn’t say anything. I wanted to tell them I hadn’t done it, but I couldn’t make the words come out.” “What happened next?” Leo prodded. “The black officer, the tall one in the nice suit, reminded me I had a right to remain silent. He offered me a soft drink and a cigarette. Funny. I hadn’t smoked in years. Now it seems like I never stopped. You don’t happen to have one on you, do you?” “Afraid not,” Leo said, wishing he did. Miranda nagged him into quitting years ago, but he’d never completely lost the desire to light up when he saw someone else enjoying a smoke. He glanced at Miranda. She frowned at him as if she’d read his mind. Probably had. Usually did. Leo turned back to Janette Fullerton. “What happened next?” “People from the crime lab showed up. They took swabs from my hands and clothes, then they got busy in Ray’s room and left me with an officer. He turned on the television and we watched the news until you showed up.” She glanced at Miranda. There was a knock on the door. “Five minutes,” Virginia called from outside. “Okay,” Leo said. “We’ve got to wrap this up. Let me tell you what’s going to happen. The police will take you downtown to central booking. Reporters are swarming like piranhas downstairs; don’t say a word to any of them. Just keep moving. 25

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Don’t look at them and don’t hide your face, duck your head, smile, look smug, or anything else. Any emotion you show might make the public think you’re guilty, might make a potential juror think you’re guilty.” Janette nodded. “They’ll book you,” Leo continued, “take your picture and prints, put you in a cell. I hope it will be a private cell, but don’t count on it. You may share quarters with some unpleasant people tonight. Don’t talk to any of them. People in jail will turn on you.” She nodded again, clearly alarmed. “By the way, they have video cameras and microphones hidden everywhere these days, including jail cells. Don’t say or do anything you don’t want on camera. You got that?” Janette Fullerton closed her eyes and sighed. “I’d like to tell you that I’ll have you out in a few hours,” Leo continued, “but that won’t happen. We can’t do anything about bail until after the arraignment. I’ll try to schedule that for Monday. This weekend, I’ll need to talk with you some more and do a little investigation of my own. The more evidence we have on our side when we go into court, the more likely we’ll be to get you released.” “I have to get home! My children—” “I’m sorry, that’s not going to happen tonight.” Janette Fullerton turned pleading eyes on Miranda. Miranda shook her head and Janette looked back at Leo. “You’ll come with me, won’t you?” “I’m sorry. My accompanying you to jail won’t help you get any better treatment tonight, and I’d rather not give the press fuel for a flash fire this early. They see you walk out with a lawyer on your arm, and they’ll start speculating you did some pre-need planning. We don’t want that idea polluting potential 26

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jurors’ minds. Besides, there are things I need to take care of first.” “Your fee?” she said curtly. “That’s one thing. Not the major issue, but while we’re on that subject, you want to hire me directly, or you want me to make my arrangements with the fellow who called me?” Janette stared at Leo a moment, considering. “It doesn’t matter to me whether you pay me directly or someone else pays me. If I hire on, it’s your interest I’ll protect. Nobody but you and me have any say in the matter, and I call the shots in the courtroom. You understand?” Janette stood and paced between the bed and the window, then stopped to stare our at the view of the downtown skyline. Finally, she turned back to Leo. “Call him,” she said with no obvious chagrin at her earlier lie. “You want me to talk with him about bail?” Leo asked. She looked down at her hands and examined a chipped nail on her right index finger. Trigger finger? Leo wondered. “Yes,” she said in answer to his spoken question. “Okay, I guess that’s it for now.” Leo stood up. “I’ll tell Ms. Rodriguez we’re ready.” “Wait,” Janette wailed, then she turned to Miranda to plead her case. “My clothes—would you ask if they’ll let me change? I don’t normally wear clothes like these. In fact, I’ve never worn anything like this before. I was in a photo shoot today, for a magazine article. On famous lawyer’s wives or some such. I don’t want people thinking I’m a hooker.” “I’ll ask.” Leo didn’t want people thinking that either. Janette turned to Miranda. “My mother has the children. Would you call her before they hear it on the news? Tell her—” “I’ll tell her you’re okay,” said Miranda. 27

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Leo opened the door. A policewoman entered as he and Miranda left. He saw Virginia in the hallway a discreet distance from Room 1822 and headed toward her. “Would you let Mrs. Fullerton change into street clothes before you take her downtown?” he asked. “That way, you can send her cowgirl outfit directly to the lab instead of waiting until you get her booked and changed at the jail—less chance any gunshot residue or blood on her clothes will rub off.” Virginia stared at Leo. “And can Miranda pick out her duds?” Leo continued. Virginia sighed, then she nodded and led Miranda to 1809. A few minutes later they returned with clothing that Virginia passed to the policewoman inside 1822. While they waited for Mrs. Fullerton to change, Miranda moved down the hallway to call her mother, and Leo began negotiations with Virginia. “Monday okay with you for the arraignment? Or later in the week would be fine. So we can both rest up this weekend.” “I didn’t know there was any rest for defenders of the wicked.” “I was more concerned about rest for those who prosecute the innocent,” countered Leo. “What do you say? How about we both take this weekend to figure out who is wicked and who is innocent?” “I think we know already,” said Virginia. “Well, we know about Mr. Fullerton and his companion. But the verdict isn’t in on his wife. There’s a long way to go before that happens, if it ever does. It wouldn’t hurt for you to take a little time to get your ducks in a row. Besides, you must be exhausted from that big trial.” Virginia eyed Leo suspiciously, then bargained. “Monday’s fine, if you’ll agree that regardless of where we are on this case by Thursday, I’m taking a week off and you won’t play any defense attorney tricks while I’m gone.” 28

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“I’ll behave,” said Leo. “Who’d we draw?” Virginia pulled a paper from her shoulder bag. “Wagoner.” Virginia read the judge’s name. “Susan’s fine with me. Better than most.” “She’ll be happy to know that she’s had one satisfied customer,” Virginia said just as Janette Fullerton emerged from Room 1822. She rolled her eyes. “You owe me big time, Leo.” “You’re right about that,” he agreed as he appraised Mrs. Fullerton. The cowgirl getup had been exchanged for a stylish suit. Hair and makeup were now in normal proportions. She looked like a lady going to a country club luncheon, not a hooker in town for the rodeo, and definitely not like a woman who would murder her husband without good cause. Potential jurors in front of their television sets tonight would form a favorable first impression of a well-groomed and bewildered Janette Fullerton. “See you around,” Virginia told Leo and fell into line behind the policewoman leading Mrs. Fullerton to the elevator. The doors opened and three men—big black guy, big brown-haired white guy, short redheaded white guy, all wearing dark suits—stepped off. The redheaded guy waved a badge and barked, “Who’s the man in charge?” FBI, Leo decided, as Virginia guided Mrs. Fullerton around the men into the elevator. The elevator doors closed on the women and Smitty-thecop ambled over to the agents. “You just missed her,” he said, “but I’m Jackson Smith, Homicide. How may I help you?” “Well,” Leo said to Miranda. “We’ve done all we can here. Let’s find Jerry and wrap this up.”

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FIVE Friday, May 22, 7:30 p.m.

L

eo looked out on the miles of twinkling lights below the glass-walled restaurant at the top of the Concord. “What do the cops have?” he asked Jerry. “The gun’s a thirty-eight. Course, they won’t know for sure it’s the murder weapon until they run ballistics. A hotel security guard found Mrs. Fullerton sitting on the bed, next to the phone with the gun beside the phone on the night table. He picked it up and stuck it in a pocket. Said he didn’t want to take a chance she’d pick it up again. If we’re lucky, he smeared her prints.” Leo shrugged. “She says she didn’t kill them, so her prints shouldn’t be on it. At any rate, we have a sudden passion defense with the homosexual husband. What do you think, Miranda?” “Do I think she murdered them?” She took a sip of wine. “No, I don’t. So, who was your friend, Jerry? The tall, black cop in the expensive suit?” “Detective Andrew Jackson Smith. He joined the force a couple of years after I left, trained under my old partner when he graduated to Homicide. Smitty’s pretty good. Pays attention to details.” “He missed the bugs,” said Leo. Jerry smiled. “Yeah, but who besides Miranda would make that connection? First you’d have to know about the guy 30

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calling you. Then you’d have to know the wife hadn’t called anyone. Then you’d have to be half psychic.” “You’ve got a point there,” said Leo. Jerry checked his watch. “I’d better get home. Delphene will give me a talking-to if I’m out late again.” “Let’s start back on this one in the morning,” said Leo. “See if Stan Kendricks is available to take a look at blood spatter in 1807. Get a photographer to go with him. And call Prez. See if he can watch the autopsies tomorrow. Make the calls from home so that Delphene will know you’re working late.” Jerry motioned to the waiter for the bill as he stood up. “I’ll get it,” Leo said. “That’s why I’m leaving first,” Jerry replied. “Meet me downstairs for breakfast around eight in the morning. Maybe we can talk the cops into letting us back into those rooms.” Jerry gave the “okay” sign and made his exit. Miranda glanced at her watch as Leo dropped several bills on the table. “We’ll only be a half-hour late if we hurry.” Leo wrapped an arm around his wife’s shoulders and guided her to the elevator. “Think our offspring will let us off the hook?” She stopped in mid-stride and gave him her annoyed-wife look. “They’re expecting us for dinner. Jennifer has cooked all day, and I told her we’d keep the children while she and Nathan take the boat out this weekend.” “I know, but we have that nice room all paid for. It’d be a shame to let it go to waste.” “It’s too late for them to get a sitter,” Miranda argued. “If our daughter and her spouse really need one, Josh and his Susan, or at least Susan, will be happy to do it. That’s why we had two kids—so they could help each other.” 31

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The grandkids sitting was probably Miranda’s idea anyway, thought Leo, and usually he didn’t mind. It was kind of nice to be waked up on a Saturday morning by wiggly, cuddly little kids jumping into bed with them as their own children had thirty some years ago. Gave him an excuse to watch cartoons with his best friend, two-year-old Benjamin, while Miranda and her shadow, four-year-old Leah, discussed whatever females talked about these days instead of recipes and embroidery—probably free trade and global warming. But he had other priorities this weekend. Miranda moved out of Leo’s embrace and glared at him. “You plan on sneaking back into those rooms, don’t you?” “Not me,” Leo said innocently. “I just want a special night with the gal I love. Did you see that fancy tub? How about we have them send up their best champagne, then let’s play bubble-bath?” “Don’t make promises you can’t keep,” she warned. Miranda canceled the evening with their children and over dinner in their room told Leo about her earlier conversation with Janette Fullerton’s mother. It had gone much the same as with other clients’ mothers—shock, anguish, fear for her offspring. All Miranda had learned was that the Fullertons had two children, ages ten and thirteen. While Miranda filled the tub, Leo called the mystery man’s DC phone number. “I’ve talked with Mrs. Fullerton,” he reported. “She says for me to discuss my fee with you, and there’s the matter of bail, assuming we can get it.” “They’ve arrested her?” “She’ll be charged with two counts of murder,” said Leo. “You will defend her?” the man demanded. “I will.” Leo thought it interesting that the guy didn’t seem surprised at the charges and didn’t ask any questions. 32

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“Tell me how much. I’ll have a cashier’s check delivered to your office first thing in the morning.” Leo hemmed and hawed, then named an outrageous amount. “And I’ll need the bondsman’s percentage if they grant bail.” “Done,” said the man. “First, tell me where you fit into the picture. Mrs. Fullerton said she didn’t call you.” “She didn’t. Mrs. Fullerton is the victim of unfortunate circumstances. I trust you will make sure justice is done.” “Wait a minute,” Leo said just as the line went dead. I know that voice, Leo thought as he replaced the receiver. I know that voice. But who? And how did mystery man know about Mrs. Fullerton’s predicament so soon? “The water’s getting cold,” Miranda called. “Coming.” Leo pulled his shoes off and shucked his clothes. It was Friday night. How the hell would the guy get a cashier’s check to him tomorrow? He had to be somebody really important to get a banker off the golf course on a Saturday morning. Leo’s train of thought came to a sudden stop when he saw Miranda smiling at him from the tub. She offered up her empty glass for him to pour another round of champagne. He filled her glass, then one for himself and handed both to her. Now he had a real problem to solve. How would he ever be able to get into and out of that bubbly tub with his bad knee? But a promise was a promise. Leo draped a leg across Miranda’s legs, trying to find a comfortable spot in the unfamiliar bed. “You want to tell me what’s bothering you?” he said, pulling her closer. She sighed. “Your new case.” 33

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“What about it?” “I don’t think she committed those murders, and I’m certain she didn’t plant those bugs.” “So?” “So someone has gone to a lot of trouble to make it look like she killed them. Promise me that you and Jerry will be extra careful.” “Aren’t we always?” “No. You get your mind on a case and don’t see anything else that’s happening around you. You charge blindly at whatever cause you take up, like a bull after a red cape. And Jerry’s just as bad.” “Hmm, maybe so.” He might not be as psychic as she was, but now was not the time to debate his powers of observation with Miranda. He moved a hand to a breast. “Leo, please be careful. Someone set this up.” “Are you going to worry all night, woman?” “Are you trying to distract me?” “I figured I might try. Again. But this time, I want you to pay attention to me.”

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SIX Friday, May 22, 10:00 p.m.

V

irginia made sure that Janette Fullerton was booked and jailed according to procedure—this case would not come apart on a technicality. Then she realized how late it was and called home. Nick hadn’t answered, so she drove home concerned about where he might be and the logistics of the new case. She would do the arraignment on Monday, then, Leo willing and the crime lab working overtime this weekend, she’d be ready for the evidentiary hearing Leo would demand as early as Wednesday or Thursday. If she got that out of the way, she could take Nick to the family ranch in the Valley on Friday as planned without having to reassign the case. She’d spend a week or so visiting relatives, leave her son there for the summer, come back to tidy up the case file, and be ready for trial as early as July. Unless Leo found ways to delay, which he would try to do if they didn’t reached a plea agreement quickly. It would be hard for her to find a jury who would not be sympathetic to the wife, so she would definitely offer a fair and reasonable deal. The only issues: what was fair and reasonable under the circumstances, and would Leo go for broke rather than take the deal? But that was something to think about tomorrow. Tonight, she would make sure Nick was safe and hadn’t gone hungry. In the morning, she’d sleep late. Really late. Delicious catch-up sleep late. 35

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The autopsies were scheduled for one o’clock. The assistant medical examiner who had finally showed up merely confirmed death and carted the bodies off to cold storage. By the time he’d arrived, body temperature was no more reliable for determining time of death than the other information gathered by the police. A room service waiter delivered a pot of coffee to the two men around 2:00 p.m. They were fully clothed, discussing papers held by the younger man who let the waiter in. The wife called the hotel operator to report the murders at 3:48 p.m. Virginia had one hour and forty-eight minutes of loose ends to knot. Maybe they could shorten the interval with the ME’s lab work, and cops would interview hotel staff and guests over the weekend to see if anyone had heard a sound that might be interpreted as gunfire. So far, they hadn’t found anyone who had heard anything. But the posh rooms at the Concord were substantially more soundproofed than those in budget hotels, and it was the start of the weekend. Guests there for business reasons had checked out before the one o’clock deadline. Only one guest on the eighteenth floor had a confirmed stay-over for Friday night, and he hadn’t returned when the police let people use the elevators again. He’d probably tired of waiting in the lounge and found another place to stay, but he was on the list for the cops to interview tomorrow. Crime lab people would go over the rooms again in the morning to make sure nothing had been missed. An officer was posted outside 1807 tonight. No curious citizens or reporters would disturb the crime scene before the police finished. Smitty would oversee the lab people in the morning. All bases were covered. Except the “bug problem.” Who had planted them? And why? 36

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Fullerton had more enemies than any other lawyer on earth. As a special prosecutor, he had wrecked careers and lives when the conservative-controlled Congress, led by Texas’ own Senator Harry Dunn went after the liberal’s presidential frontrunner. A young female aid accused him of seducing her into an affair. She said it went on for months; he denied anything happened. Conservatives felt it worthy of an investigation to see who was lying. Fullerton pursued the allegation with vigor for months with nothing to show for it. Then, instead of ending it, he expanded his inquiry into the sexual practices of other liberal politicians. Finding no prosecutable offenses there, Fullerton went after the conservatives who the liberals had by then exposed as having at one time or other engaged in extramarital hankypanky. Even Senator Dunn, a key instigator of the whole mess, was forced to admit to his own “youthful” indiscretions. Once one of the Senate’s most powerful members, Dunn’s hypocrisy in going after the liberals had left him in political ruin. In the end, after great debate in the seats of power and in the press, millions of taxpayer dollars were spent and nobody was convicted of anything. Conservatives who had endorsed Fullerton’s hard-core investigation were left with nothing but the wrath of voters who had endured one too many costly, sordid probes into politician’s sex lives. Bottom line, any number of powerful people had a motive to bug that room and a motive to murder Stuart Fullerton. But those were old motives. The widow had a new motive, or perhaps the oldest motives—she caught him in the act and with a man at that. Chances were, the explanation for the bugs was as simple as the explanation for the murders. Maybe the wife suspected her husband had a lover and planted the bugs to get proof for a 37

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better divorce settlement. Then she’d decided shooting him would be a quicker and more economical way out of the marriage. Except for the gay-husband twist, it was probably just another garden-variety spousal murder. Divorce, Texas style. And, if that were the case, Virginia just might convince a jury the murders were premeditated and get her conviction. She pulled into her driveway and immediately all thoughts of the case vanished. The house was dark. Nick’s stereo wasn’t blaring out to the street. Obviously, he wasn’t home. “Dear God, please let him be okay,” she prayed, then added. “If I find him at a friend’s house this time of night, I’ll kick his wiseacre rear end all the way home.”

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SEVEN Friday, May 22, 11:00 p.m.

O

fficer Miguel Cuellar, guarding the crime scene from a chair outside room 1807, smiled as the man came off the elevator singing “Dixie” off key and meandered unsteadily down the corridor. Borracho, thought Cuellar. Good thing he’s walking instead of driving home. Cuellar took a mental inventory of the guy—tall, six-two or three, about one-eighty, mid-thirties, dark brown hair, brown eyes, regular features, scar on right cheek, rumpled navy pinstripe suit. The guy shuffled to the doorway of 1805, fumbled with an electronic keycard, then leaned into the door as he poked it at the slot below the doorknob. “Need a hand?” Cuellar offered. So this was the guest they wanted to question. Not likely he would remember hearing gun fire or much of anything else if they questioned him tonight, and he’d definitely be sleeping late in the morning. The logical thing to do, Cuellar thought, was to tell his relief that the guy was back in his room. They could question him in the morning. “Sus... Sure, Off... Ocifer,” the drunk said as Cuellar came toward him. The man offered the keycard. Cuellar slid the card into the slot and the tiny light blinked from red to green. He pulled the card out, pushed the door open, and handed it back. “Have a good evening, sir.” The drunk reached for the keycard and stumbled into Cuellar. 39

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*** Special Agent Wayne Hargis held on as the cop collapsed in his arms, eyes wide at the surprise of death. Hargis dragged the body inside, unlocked the connecting door between 1805 and 1807, and dropped him on the bloodstained mattress where Atkins had lain. He checked the body—perfect aim, through the ribs, into the heart. Instant cardiac arrest, no mess, at least not until he removed the knife. Now, a stream of crimson stained the cop’s blue shirt. Hargis cleaned the switchblade with a handkerchief and slipped the knife into his pants pocket, then dropped the handkerchief into a plastic bag attached to the inside of his jacket. He pulled a small screwdriver and an electronic sensor from the bag, opened the connecting door to 1809, and went to work removing all traces of surveillance from the two rooms, taking his time, doing the job right. He zipped the last of the bugs and tools into the bag and looked around 1807. Hargis pointed his finger in imitation of a gun to where Fullerton had lain. “Got you.” Then he locked the connecting door and went into the bathroom in 1805. He removed the wig and the contacts. Stashing them in the jacket bag, he checked his image in the mirror and combed his blond hair back into place. Noticing the scar, he removed it and extracted a blond mustache from his jacket pocket. Not much of a disguise, he thought as he pressed the mustache into place, but it might buy a little extra time if the local cops had to sort through conflicting witness descriptions. Hargis checked the hallway. Assured that no one was about, he closed the door on 1805 and this segment of his life. He took the elevator car off “stop” and, as the car descended, pulled off the piece of tape covering the camera eye in the 40

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button for the nonexistent thirteenth floor. When the doors opened, he checked the lobby. Seeing only a bellhop sleeping on a sofa, he stepped out and walked swiftly to a waiting taxi. Not a bad night’s work, Hargis mused as he settled into the back seat of the cab. Too bad about the local cop, but those were the breaks. Then he smiled as he remembered the earlier murders. Atkins hadn’t even seen it coming. When he’d come through the connecting door, Atkins had been sitting on the bed, focused on the papers he was discussing with Fullerton. The silenced gun had made a little pop and Atkins fell back, instantly dead. That’s when Fullerton looked up from his own papers. He’d have done it for free just to have seen the look on Fullerton’s self-righteous face when he realized he was next. “Please, please,” was all the bastard had said, over and over, as he’d complied with the order to strip. And the fun part— when Fullerton was naked, he’d made him strip Atkins’ body and arrange the corpse. Then it got messy. Fullerton grabbed for the gun in his briefcase. It had gone off in the struggle, an ugly head shot, not a pretty sight. Lucky nobody heard the blast, or at least no one came to check it out before he could finish. But it wasn’t neat, not like he’d intended, and it threw him off his game, caused him to rush to get out of there. Hargis sighed, clearing his mind of the murders. It was over, and he was off to the airport for a flight to the Grand Caymans. From there, who knew? With the money waiting for him, he had a world of options. No more worry about performance reviews or whether he’d be next on the Bureau’s downsize list. When they’d begun cleaning house after the terrorist attacks, he’d made his own early retirement plan. He had been 41

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trained to kill. Why not do it for something more than grunt wages? Now, thirty-five-years old and with a couple of million in the bank, he was a free man. It had taken a bit of courage, but what didn’t? Besides, nobody who mattered would look for him too hard. The Bureau would run for cover to keep from getting blamed for screwing up again and the rest of Washington would breathe a sigh of relief that the bogeyman was dead, give lying eulogies, then move on to the next news sensation. “How’d it go?” asked the driver, a large black man. “Peachy. Just peachy,” Hargis answered Special Agent Sam Martin then turned his attention to a briefcase on the seat next to him. He stripped the bag from his jacket lining and dropped it into the case. He added the knife and gloves from his pocket, but decided to keep his gun. Martin would take care of the details, plant just enough evidence to get the cops curious again, if finding a dead cop in Atkins’ bed didn’t do it. They definitely had more than enough to get the wife out of the jam she was in, so he was off the hook there. Like that was totally his fault. So he’d left the gun on the night table in 1809. Atkins’ bags were packed full for a weekend visit to his girlfriend, so he’d had to searched Fullerton’s room for a bag big enough to hold their clothes, papers, and Atkins’ frigging laptop. In the process, he’d put Fullerton’s gun down. Like he was supposed to remember everything. At least he’d remembered to cart out Atkins’ bag and laptop, and Fullerton’s briefcase, and the damn cell phones. Everything but the bugs. Now even that was done. One last duty. Hargis pulled his cell phone from a jacket pocket and punched in the numbers. “Mission accomplished,” he reported. “Make sure all my money is in the bank.” 42

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Hargis glanced out the taxi’s dirty window as he clicked the phone closed and slipped it back into his pocket. Office buildings gave way to strip shopping centers, car dealerships, and mobile home sales lots. They’d be at the airport soon, but the charter wouldn’t be there until four. Maybe he could take a nap while he waited so he’d be fresh in the morning. He wanted to be at the bank the minute the doors opened. His thoughts turned to his future. Where would he go after he picked up his money? Maybe Tahiti. Like that artist, Gauguin. He was in the midst of a fantasy of himself on a Tahitian beach with a beautiful native woman when Martin veered off the freeway. “Where’re you going?” Hargis snapped. “Figured I’d get some coffee. Plenty of time. Want something to eat?” “Actually, I am hungry. Haven’t eaten since lunch.” Hargis checked the intersection as they came to a stop. No filling stations or hamburger places. “Looks like this is a bust.” Martin turned right onto a two-lane road surrounded by pine trees. “There’s an all-night joint up the road, maybe five miles. They serve mean steaks, cold beer, hot coffee, and wicked women.” “Sounds good. Real good.” He’d been running on adrenaline all day, too keyed up to eat before the kill, too busy afterwards. Martin continued up the deserted county road, pulling to a stop minutes later in front of a “Road Out” barrier. Hargis saw that they were at the edge of a steep embankment. “Where are we?” “Been nice working with you,” said Sam Martin as he turned around and squeezed the trigger.

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*** Sam Martin got out of the taxi, removed the warning barrier, and sent the cab on its way into the bayou. The moon offered just enough light for him to see the car settle beneath the murky waters. As it disappeared, he put the barrier back into place and looked around. An isolated section of road, an isolated section of bayou, almost no traffic. It would be years before anyone built a subdivision, a few more years before the subdivision flooded and they dredged the bayou as after-thefact flood control. Unless a driver plowed through the barrier in front of witnesses, nobody would ever find the cab. What were the chances of that? He pulled out a phone and punched a number. “I need a ride.” Two minutes later a black sports utility vehicle pulled up. “How’d it go?” asked Special Agent Jim Penny. “Peachy. I have it on good authority that it went ‘just peachy.’” Bayou City police officer Bill Thomas came on duty at 12:10 a.m. Not finding Miguel Cuellar sitting in the chair outside 1807, he assumed Cuellar had gone home at midnight. A relatively harmless dereliction of duty to leave before his replacement arrived, as was his own late arrival. Only the DA’s lawyers would insist on guarding empty hotel rooms in the middle of the night. Not enough IQ in the DA’s office to make a turnip. Ought to get real jobs, out on the front line, facing the crazed citizens and their bullets and knives, serving and protecting, see what law and order was all about. So he was a little late getting to work. So what? Nobody’s perfect. No harm, no foul. Wasn’t that what the lawyers always said? No harm, no foul. Wonder what they meant by that? Next time he was in court, he’d ask an ADA. Damn lawyers! 44

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*** Hotel guard Dave Jenkins had fallen asleep in front of the security room monitors soon after coming on duty at ten o’clock and never noticed the elevator camera was out of service. When he awoke briefly at 12:20 a.m., all activity on the eighteenth floor was as it should have been. A cop sat in the chair outside 1807. Cameras operational, except the one that caught the traffic from the elevator to 1807. It had been out a couple of days. He ought to call maintenance, Jenkins told himself, stay on them until they checked it out. Not that anything interesting ever happened in the corridors. Except couples groping each other, and not enough of that to keep him entertained. The day shift was where all the action was. Like today. That woman caught her big shot husband in the act and blew him away. Guy doing another guy probably deserved it. Certainly made Willie Barnes’ day. When he’d come on duty, Willie had been full of himself over taking the gun away from her. Like who couldn’t take a gun away from a woman? But to hear Willie tell it, he’d saved the world. If Willie was so great, let him get the goddamn camera fixed. Nothing ever happened at night. For sure, nothing happening now.

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EIGHT Friday, May 22, 11:00 p.m.

V

irginia’s “Nick hunt” was short. He had scrawled a response at the bottom of her note on the refrigerator. “Mom, you said you’d pick up my tux, but they said you hadn’t been there. Mr. Nguyn loaned me the money to get it. Don’t expect me home before dawn. Prom. Late Dinner. Midnight movie. Party at Ken’s house. Don’t worry. No drinking and driving and unprotected sex, at least not while drinking or driving.” Wiseacre. She smiled at the note, then sighed. Picking up the tux was the to-do she couldn’t remember when she’d left the house. She’d forgotten Nick’s prom, hadn’t been here to take a picture of him on the brink of manhood, hadn’t told him how handsome he looked and how proud she was. She had blown another important moment in his life, broken another promise. Just call her the queen of broken promises land. They should take away her motherhood license. Virginia kicked off her pumps and opened the refrigerator. Spotting the box of wine, she lifted a glass from the drying rack. Thank heaven for her neighbor. Mr. Nguyn’s wife and children had been killed in their village while he led South Vietnam troops in that ugly war. Then, after trying to make a family out of distant relatives in France, he had decided, for reasons unstated, that Bayou City, Texas, USA, was the place to start life again. He had moved in 46

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next-door twelve years ago when Nick was an adorable fiveyear-old and had quickly appointed himself Nick’s surrogate grandfather, covering for her parental errors and omissions as best he could. Virginia took a sip of wine. At least Nick wouldn’t notice she had forgotten the pizza. Another broken promise, but no harm, no foul. Due to a technicality, it would not be noted in her motherhood permanent record. And she could finally get out of her suit and take a bath. Maybe she’d have a salad and watch TV until she dozed off. Virginia started for her bathroom but before she’d taken two steps, Denver scratched the patio door glass and wailed his “Rocky Mountain High.” She glanced under the kitchen table as she turned back to the patio door. The avocados were still there, showing no sign of a Denver ball game. Nick must have come home soon after she’d left and put him out. She opened the door and the big dog bounded inside. “How you doing, pal?” She scratched Denver’s ears. “You been a good dog?” Denver wagged his tail and yelped an answer. “That’s good,” Virginia said, locking the patio door before heading to her bathroom. She paused in the entrance hall to make sure the front door was locked, then glanced into the living room. Virginia smiled at the senorita in the painting above the sofa. The girl wore an embroidered ruffled peasant blouse and skirt and a whimsical, diamond-studded tiara in her long dark hair, hair that billowed in the breeze as she ran through a field of poorly executed Texas bluebonnets and Indian paint brush. The incongruous tiara and joyous expression on the girl’s face were the reasons Virginia had bought the otherwise tacky sidewalk artist’s painting. Just once in her life, she wanted to 47

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experience the joy the painter had put in that little Mexican girl’s face. Joy. Alegría—her secret wish. But she’d settle for contentment. Virginia continued on to her bathroom. She was too tired for a soaking bath, but her aging hot water heater was good for a ten-minute shower, almost enough time to scrub the summation exhibits from her mind—photos of dead little girls who might still be running through fields of bluebonnets had they not played in their front yards when a killer drove by. The jury had given Bell the death penalty—not nearly enough. Death on a fire ant mound under a broiling Texas sun while being slowly skinned alive with a salted blade would not be enough. There was no penalty sever enough to match his crimes. But Bell had years of appeals, time he would be locked up with guys who would do to him some of the horrible things he had done to those little girls. Maybe, just maybe, a bit of justice would catch up with Mr. Bell while he waited to die. Virginia stripped off her clothes and stepped into the shower. And tonight’s crop of victims? What about them? Strangely, she felt no sense of life tragically cut short, even for the young lawyer in bed with Fullerton. Curiosity maybe. About what Stuart Fullerton was doing in Bayou City. Who was he hounding? And his friend in bed? The young Mr. Atkins? She hadn’t even asked if anyone cared he was dead. The cops would figure it out and notify next of kin. Fullerton’s wife? Virginia felt a twinge of jealousy. Obviously Janette Fullerton was a pampered woman with a perfect life—the clothes she’d worn while leaving the Concord had probably cost more than Virginia’s monthly salary before deductions. Virginia almost felt sorry for the widow; her perfect life was no more. She massaged shampoo into her hair, imagining 48

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Wen’s face if she were to say, “I think we should dismiss charges. The widow just lost her Prince Charming.” Except Stuart Fullerton was no Prince Charming. Amend that to, “She’s just lost her meal ticket.” Speaking of Prince Charmings, just how had Zachmann known to show up when he did? Who had called him? Dashing Leo. Too bad he was taken, and taken he definitely was. No misinterpreting the way he’d looked at Miranda or the tender way he’d placed his hand on her back to guide her across the corridor. Definitely a Prince. Definitely married. And Miranda? Another woman with a perfect life. Tomorrow she’d spend the day with Leo while Virginia watched the ME carve up dead bodies. But who said life was fair? Bodies? Virginia’s hand moved to her breast for the monthly cancer check. Ooh, sore. She tried to remember when she’d had her last period. Who could keep up? A few days and it’s over. A few weeks and it’s back. Life goes on. Sunrise, sunset. PMS. Virginia dried off, toweled her hair, and studied her reflection in the mirror. She sighed at the spreading streaks of silver in her dark hair. Not yet thirty-eight, she looked older. She should do something, maybe one of those wash-in colors from the drug store. But her skin wasn’t bad, just a few laugh lines around her eyes. It was her expression that made her seem older. Her mouth turned down at the corners in that resigned “nothing good will ever happen again” way. Her mother’s face. When had that happened? Virginia raised her glass in a toast to her image. “You, girl, have the face of a person who has no joy in your life.” “What exactly do you plan on doing about that situation?” her image answered back.

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It was up to her. It had always been up to her. She sighed. Enough of this pity party. Virginia dropped the towel and slid on the oversized T-shirt she used as a nightgown. When she opened the bathroom door, Denver lay on the floor waiting for her. “How about a snack, boy?” He bounded for the kitchen. Virginia checked the refrigerator and briefly considered turning the lettuce and avocados into a salad. Instead, she opened the freezer compartment and pulled out the pint of chocolate ice cream she had hidden behind a bag of chopped spinach so Nick wouldn’t find it. A balanced meal—ice cream and wine. Denver nudged her leg to remind her that he’d also been invited to dine and added his “I’m hungry” whimper. “Okay, but I’m not sharing the ice cream.” She found leftover beef stew in a plastic container and spooned it into his bowl. Then she headed for the bedroom. Propping herself up on four pillows to watch television, she clicked the button and found a local news rebroadcast. The current Middle East crisis came first, then the local crime beat —the sketch artist’s interpretation of a serial rapist still on the loose and not yet her worry, a recap of the Bell trial with her summation and post-trial soundbite, and a clip of herself and the policewoman escorting Mrs. Fullerton out of the Concord. Virginia turned up the sound. Not yet fifteen minutes of fame. More like sixty-seconds on the local news, but a start. Definitely a lucky break to have the starring role in a successful serial-murder prosecution and a high-profile double homicide on the same day. Virginia savored a spoonful of ice cream while she channelsurfed, landing on the Loud Obnoxious Lawyers Arguing Show. They were showing the same tape of the policewoman, 50

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Janette Fullerton, and herself. Some New York lawyer who she had never heard of told the show host that Virginia Rodriguez was a “take no prisoners” prosecutor. “She’s put her share of defendants on Texas’ infamous death row,” he declared. “Damn! I had no idea that I was that good.” Virginia’s comment brought Denver running. “You either?” she asked as he skidded to a stop next to her bed. “That guy ought to start a Psychic Lawyer’s Hotline. Knows all, sees all, no questions asked. Maybe he can get Miranda Zachmann to be his spokesperson, let her do the commercial with her crystal ball.” Denver wagged his tail encouragingly and plopped down. “And the slogan. How about—if you slip and fall, give us a call, ’cause we do law. Or—if you get a ticket, tell ’em to stick it, ’cause we can fix it.” Denver put his head between his paws and looked at her out of the tops of his eyes. “Okay, I’ll stop. But I’d sure like to know how Leo knew to show up when he did and how Miranda found those bugs.” Just then, the phone rang. Virginia looked at the clock. Almost midnight. She reached for the receiver, instantly worried that her son might need to be rescued from some prom-night misadventure.

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NINE Friday, May 22, 11:50 p.m.

V

irginia answered the phone in her worried-mother voice. “Where are you? Are you okay?” “Virginia?” “Put me on your do-not-call list!” “Wait, Virginia,” Smitty said, “I have to talk to you.” “It’s late. I’m tired. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.” “Please, Virginia. Just tell me what I did wrong.” She hung up the phone. Wrong? Wrong? After working closely on the case for several months, they were reviewing evidence before the Bell trial began. She had broken down while examining autopsy photos of the little girls. He had comforted her. She had let him. She had gone willingly into that good night. She had even let herself believe the fairy tale, that he was a Prince Charming, different from the rest. She’d let her heart do that airborne Spring-dance of love, then she’d crashed against the wall of humiliation and hurt. Call her foolish. Call her silly. But don’t call her dumb. That lesson had been learned. Up to now, Smitty had only called her office, and he’d stopped that after giving his testimony in the Bell case and had no excuse to call anymore. Just her luck to have him assigned to this case. He’d probably wormed her new unlisted number out of the dispatcher. 52

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Why had she been so stupid? A married man! She should have seen it coming. How could a nice guy like Smitty have been single? The day after their night of indiscretion, she thought she would surprise him, perhaps ask him to lunch. But he wasn’t in. The clerk said he’d be back soon, for her to wait at his desk. As she sat down in his chair, Mrs. Smitty and Little Smitty smiled at her from a silver frame on his desk. She felt like she’d been kicked in the stomach and crawled away like a wounded animal. She had trashed every one of his “important message” phone slips ever since. The phone rang. Virginia was about to pick it up and give Smitty a piece of her mind when it stopped. Denver growled, then dashed to the hallway, his nails clicking loudly on the hardwood floors. The doorbell chimed. The phone rang again. “I’m at your door,” Smitty said. “I’m going to keep ringing the doorbell until you let me in. Just tell me what I did wrong.” He hung up and the bell chimed again. Virginia briefly considered letting Denver have at him, but Smitty had a gun, and he might shoot her dog. She considered calling the police, but Smitty was the police, and neither of them needed the hassle of an Internal Affairs investigation. She considered ignoring the doorbell until he went away, but if the commotion woke Mr. Nguyn next door, he might shoot Smitty. “¡Oh Cielos!” She hunted a pair of jeans to slip on. She would talk to Smitty. If he kept after her, she would file harassment charges against him. To hell with his career. And she would tell his wife. To hell with his life. She shushed Denver, who had added a deep-throated snarl to his sound track. “I’ll tell you when it’s okay to eat him.” 53

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When she opened the door, Smitty slipped past her, but stopped when he saw the big, snarling dog. “Is he safe?” “He won’t attack unless I give him a signal, or you touch me, or he’s having a bad day. What do you want?” “I brought Chinese food. I figured we might have a late dinner.” “Just say whatever you came to say and leave.” “Please, Virginia, it’s been a long day. I missed dinner, and so did you. Let’s have a bite to eat and talk it over.” Cashew-chicken aroma hit her nose and her stomach growled. She frowned at her body’s betrayal. “Just dinner and talk,” he said. “That’s all. Then I’ll leave and never bother you again if that’s what you want.” She frowned at him a moment longer, but gave in to hunger and headed to the kitchen. She directed him to a chair at the end of the table and pulled plates from a cabinet. Denver stood guard in the doorway, eyes on Smitty, emitting his “you’re not welcome” snarl. She opened the refrigerator. “I have wine and milk.” “Wine,” Smitty said, his eyes on Denver. “He’s big.” “Yes, he is.” She grabbed stemmed goblets from a cabinet and filled his with refrigerator-box wine and hers with milk. “The vet says I should put him on a diet.” “I guess it’s the same with dogs as with people,” Smitty said. “If a doctor can’t find anything else wrong, he’ll say lose weight.” “You don’t look like you’ve ever had a weight problem.” “I haven’t, yet. But every year my doctor tells me I should watch what I eat now that I’m middle-aged.” “I see,” she said. She should probably ask how old, but didn’t. No point in learning personal facts about people who have no meaning in your life. The time to have asked was before she made a fool of herself. Why hadn’t she asked—his 54

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age, date of birth, social security number, marital status, credit rating, social diseases? She could have checked him out easily enough. But she had been busy with a serious case headed for trial. Too busy. Always too busy. They ate in silence. Virginia avoided Smitty’s eyes as she tasted the cashew chicken, then the egg foo yung, and finally the shrimp fried rice. She almost moaned aloud with pleasure as the food slipped over her tongue on its way to her stomach. “This is good. Where’d you find it?” “Place near the freeway not far from here. Stays open until two in the morning on weekends. Maybe I can show you sometime.” “Oh.” She continued eating. Finally, she pushed back her plate, took a last sip of milk, and raised her eyes to him. He held an empty glass as he stared at her. “Would you like more?” she asked, looking at the empty glass. “Yes,” he answered, his voice soft and rich with meaning, his sorrowful tone taking her by surprise. Her resolve began to thaw. No, she thought, don’t try that sensitive-male act on me, because it won’t work. She got up. “It’s more comfortable in the living room.” Smitty scraped the leavings from her plate onto his then carried it over to the dog bowl. “Okay if I give him the leftovers?” “He’s the officially designated garbage disposal,” she said. “Here boy,” Smitty said. “Try this.” Denver wagged his tail and poked his mouth into the food, but growled when Smitty tried to pet him. Smitty shrugged, then headed toward the living room. Virginia took her time cleaning up in the kitchen but finally summoned the courage to join Smitty. He had settled into her father’s old recliner, one of the first things her mother had cleared out of their house after his death. 55

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She handed Smitty his glass of wine, then curled up in a corner of the sofa, the corner farthest from the recliner. Denver padded into the room and plopped down on the floor near her, his dark eyes alert, watching Smitty. “Tell me what I did wrong,” Smitty said with a hurtpuppy-dog expression on his face. “I assumed it meant something to you, too.” She stared at him speechless. Was he really that cavalier about his marriage? Did he really think she wouldn’t find out? “I think it’s called adultery.” “Adultery?” “I saw your family’s picture. The next day. I stopped by to see if you were free for lunch. Your son looks like you.” “I see,” he said, the hint of a smile in his dark eyes. “I guess I should have told you.” “Yes, you should have told me,” Virginia hissed, enraged that he could smile at being caught. Denver raised his head and growled at Smitty. “My wife is dead.” His smile faded into sadness. “She and our son died in a car wreck three years ago.”

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TEN Saturday, May 23, 8:00 a.m.

S

tepping out of 1822 where he and Miranda had spent the night, Leo found the hallway swarming with cops. “Back to your room,” a uniformed officer yelped at Leo. “What’s the matter, Officer?” Leo asked. “You deaf? Back to your room. We have a situation here.” “I’m Mrs. Fullerton’s lawyer,” Leo said. “I don’t care who the hell you are. Hands on the wall.” At that moment, Detective Jackson Smith arrived.

The ringing phone drove the image of turquoise water and a white-sand beach from Virginia’s dreams. She picked it up and heard Smitty say, “I’m at the hotel. We have a problem.” She groaned. “My one chance to sleep in and you call.” “Don’t get up on my account,” Smitty said. “I just figured you’d want to know we have a dead officer in the Fullerton death suite.” “¡Dios Mío! ¿Cuándo? When—” “And Mrs. Fullerton’s lawyer is here, sticking his nose into it.” “Zachmann? You have to be kidding!” With just about any other lawyer in town, Virginia would tell the cops to haul him off to county jail. But Leo had been in her dreams, and she didn’t want to deal with one of his civil rights violations lawsuits. “First let me talk to him, then you can tell me what happened.” 57

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Leo came on the phone. “Good morning, Virginia.” “What the hell are you doing there?” Virginia asked. “Nothing, Virginia, nothing at all. Miranda and I spent the night in that nice room down the hall where we talked to Mrs. Fullerton. I’d just opened the door to head down to the restaurant to meet Jerry for breakfast, stepped out into the hall, and next thing I know, some cop has me up against the wall, poking my private parts. If I ever have to testify under oath about extramarital sexual encounters, this will be reported. After the foreplay, they told me a cop got murdered in 1807 last night. Sort of makes you think whoever killed Fullerton wasn’t done, don’t it? Reckon the police missed the killer hiding in the closet? Or maybe in the air-conditioning ducts, like they do in the movies.” “Leo, back off. Let the police do their job.” “I’m not interfering with police business. They’re interfering with my going to breakfast and accosting my private parts.” “Let me talk to Smitty.” When Smitty came back on the phone, she said, “If Zachmann gets in the way, put cuffs on him and take him downtown. But don’t rough him up and don’t book him. Don’t let anyone do anything that he might interpret as a violation of his rights and make sure the police do a complete sweep for bugs—AC ducts, ceilings, everything. Get the lab people back in and start from scratch with this murder. This is a new case. Don’t assume a thing and don’t screw it up. Do you need me to come over?” “We can handle it,” Smitty snapped. “Fine. You do that.” She dropped the phone into its cradle. Denver whimpered and Virginia got up and shoved him out the patio door into the backyard. Returning to bed, she 58

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tried to finish her dream. Same beach, a different Prince Charming—the dark one. But she couldn’t hold onto the dream. Murder had intruded. She got out of bed, pulled on a pair of jeans, and headed down the hall to see if Nick had made it home safely. Her man-sized son was fast asleep, cocooned in a quilt, one foot poking out. She eased over to his bed to adjust the covers. Nick stirred and focused his green eyes on her “What time did you get home?” he demanded. “Oh, no, you don’t, Nick Rodriguez. Don’t try to turn the tables on me. I was home when I said I’d be, and you weren’t here at three when I checked your room.” “You mean you didn’t stay up all night worrying about me?” His grin widened. “What kind of mother are you?” “The only kind you’re going to get,” she said. “Get up. I’ll make you breakfast.” As she scrambled eggs, Virginia’s thoughts turned to Smitty. He hadn’t made any moves on her, but she would have been putty in his hands had he even hinted. At least she would have been putty before she thought it over and turn it to granite. They had talked. At least Smitty talked. He told her the whole sad story. His wife was driving their son to school. A tanker truck had jackknifed. His whole reason for living had vanished in seconds. He’d just been going through the motions until he’d met her. It had meant something to him that she had let him get close. He thought it meant something to her. She had hurt him when she wouldn’t speak to him afterwards. Toward the end of his telling, Virginia hated herself for being so quick to distrust. She had wanted to show him she was sorry, but he said he didn’t want to scare her away again. He had left her feeling guilty instead. 59

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Then she felt anger at him for making her feel guilty. She hadn’t killed his wife and child. She hadn’t ruined his life. She doubted she’d ever be the salvation they had been for him. But she was more angry with herself for not bothering to check out Smitty’s marital status before blowing him off. He was a good guy. Or at least she’d thought he was a good guy until she’d thought he was a skunk. Damn him! What right did he have to mess with her emotions? Nick looked over her shoulder at the scorched eggs. “I’ll make toast and coffee. You sit down.” “Thanks.” She scraped the eggs down the disposal, then looked at the clock. After ten. She had better call Wen and let him know she was on the job, before he called and interrupted her breakfast with her son.

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ELEVEN Saturday, May 23, 12:45 p.m.

V

irginia had always detested the meat-locker smell of the morgue. This time it made her physically ill. She was struggling to contain her nausea when Smitty arrived. She glanced at him, gave up the struggle, and ran, barely making the bathroom stall in time. Maybe she should have stayed home, she told herself as she pressed her face against the cool metal wall afterwards. Over breakfast, she’d listened to Nick talk about his prom night long enough to know he had enjoyed the experience and hadn’t gotten into any trouble, but she hadn’t listened long enough to feel connected to her son. She’d come down to this hellhole instead. Lots of ADAs did just that, stayed home, went on with their lives, let the cops and lab people do their job any way they saw fit, hoping it all came together when they walked into court. She did too on some slam-dunk cases, but never on a case this important. This one she had to observe, no matter how sick she was. It was her ticket out of the never-ending blood and gore and into... what? The much higher-paid blood and gore world of criminal defense law? Could she really do that? Help murderers go free? Virginia took a deep breath and willed her stomach to behave, then flushed and headed to the sink. “You okay?” Smitty asked as he pushed the door open. 61

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She patted her face with a damp paper towel. “I’m fine.” He stepped inside. “No, you’re not,” he said, wrapping his arms around her. “Go on home. I’ll handle it.” “I’m okay.” She pushed him away, angry with him for seeing her in a weakened condition. “And you’re in the wrong room.” “So report me.” Smitty pulled her back into his arms. Virginia rested her forehead on his chest as another wave of nausea swept through her. “Maybe I’ll sit down for just a minute.” “That’s probably a good idea.” He led her out to a chair in the viewing area. “You should have taken today off.” She plopped down in an orange plastic chair. “I don’t know why this place is getting to me today. It never has before. Well, maybe the first few times, but I got past it.” “Let me get you a ginger ale.” Smitty retrieved a can from the drink machine and opened it for her. “Here, try this.” She sipped slowly, feeling better immediately, and just in time. Leo’s expert in pathology, Dr. Herbert Hoover, who everyone in Bayou City criminal law called “Prez,” came looking for them. “You under the weather, Ms. Rodriguez?” he asked. “You look as gray as those guys on the slab.” “I’m fine,” said Virginia. “Just fine.” At least she and the bodies were color-coordinated. Dr. Yambika, called Dr. Y by most, stood at a sheet-draped body when Virginia walked into the autopsy suite. A black man with a British accent, Dr. Y was gowned, masked, and gloved for surgery on the dead. A similarly attired helper, Dr. Osborn according to the ID tag on his coat, came into the room, tugging his mask into place. Cameras, saws, and other 62

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equipment hung from a metal frame mounted to the ceiling above the table. “Ready?” Dr. Y started video and voice recorders, checked the toe tag, and undraped the body. “Stuart Fullerton, white male, fifty-two years of age. No skeletal or organ abnormalities were noted on x-rays taken this date.” He thumped the round belly of the otherwise slender-built man like testing a melon for ripeness. “Well nourished.” Then he set to work taking swabs of the pubic area to be tested for semen and several vials of clotted blood to be tested for drugs, disease, and DNA. The assistant turned the body. “Lividity on the right side,” Dr. Y said. He examined the head and measured the wound. No bullet fragments remained, he noted, and described the wound in anatomical terms that Virginia knew would take hours on the witness stand to translate into English a Texas jury could understand. He opened the chest and removed internal organs, filling vials with tissue samples as he worked. “Incipient coronary artery disease, but good for another twenty years without a bullet to his head.” Dr. Y finished with Fullerton, then moved to the table containing the body of Ray Atkins, age thirty-two. He noted lividity across Atkins’ back and buttocks, which indicated Atkins had lain on his back some period of time after death. An image of the death bed flashed in Virginia’s mind— both men on their sides, Fullerton’s arm draped across the slender younger man in a spoon-position embrace. The image dissolved as another wave of nausea threatened to engulf her. Maybe she had remembered wrong. Maybe Atkins had been on his back. All she really remembered was the blood. Blood everywhere. Just get through this, she told herself.

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A single bullet had passed through Atkins’ heart and lodged in his spine. Dr. Y looked at the slug a moment, dropped it into a vial, then read the numbers on the label aloud to establish a chain of custody record for the later ballistics analysis. The assistant covered Atkins’ body as Dr. Y moved to Officer Cuellar. He was twenty-six years old and, according to Smitty, married with two young children. Not so much older than Nick, thought Virginia as Dr. Y examined his young body. So sad. Dr. Y pronounced Cuellar’s cause of death to be a knife blade penetrating his heart. No other wounds. More importantly, no defensive wounds. The question in Virginia’s mind —why had a cop let anyone with a knife get that close? Prez, as the defense’s representative, observed but declined to take tissue samples for his own analysis. “I’m satisfied the victims were killed by guns and knives.” Then to Virginia, he added, “Of course, I’d like copies of your reports as soon as they’re transcribed and all supplemental ballistics and lab reports.” “We’ll get them to Leo,” Virginia said. “Are we done here?” “I am,” Prez said. “Hope you get to feeling better soon, Ms. Rodriguez.”

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TWELVE Saturday, May 23, 3:00 p.m.

S

mitty walked Virginia to her truck in the loading zone. “What’s next, counselor?” “Meeting with Zachmann at four-thirty.” She searched in her shoulder bag for her truck keys. “You don’t need to be there.” “Are you trying to get rid of me?” he asked. “I’m sure you have better things to do with your Saturday. What’s happening on Cuellar’s murder?” “Lab guys were working when I left. They’re going through the security videos for Friday night. Haven’t found much yet, but I can tell you this.” “What?” Virginia asked. “Cuellar met up with a professional.” “How do you know that?” “The autopsy. Ever seen an amateur work that neat?” “Three murders, one room,” she said. “I can hardly wait for Zachmann’s take on this one.” “He sure can twist things around,” said Smitty, “but you’re still okay with the murder charges on the widow.” “How so?” “Her print is on the gun found in 1809. You’ll probably have a fax from the lab when you get to your office. If the gun and slugs match up, you’ve got a lock on her. ” “We also need a lock on whoever did Cuellar.” 65

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“We’re getting help on the lab work,” said Smitty. “What help?” “The FBI.” Virginia shook her head. Damn. Wen was right in thinking the Feds would be interested, and she could just imagine Leo’s jury argument on that one: You tell me, ladies and gentlemen, just why is it the federal government saw fit to get involved in what the state claims is a simple spousal murder. I’ll tell you why. Because it ain’t that simple. “Let’s talk about it over lunch,” Smitty suggested. “If you can keep food down, there’s a Tex-Mex café a block over.” “I don’t like beans-and-cheese places.” “I assumed... ” Virginia rolled her eyes. “I mean... There’s a Greek restaurant not too far,” he offered. “Not for me,” she said. “Maybe the Sushi place down the street?” “Right. All my stomach needs. Let’s just do Mexican.” Actually, rice and beans didn’t sound that bad. She was hungry enough to eat roadkill. “Let’s take my car,” Smitty said. “I’ll bring you back here.” He led her to a white sedan, this year’s version of an unmarked police car. Nice, she thought, except for the electronic equipment in the dash and the overhead radar gun and camera. The restaurant was almost empty—too late for lunch, too early for dinner. They followed the greeter to a booth along a row of windows that looked out on a small courtyard with walls painted with a mural of a Mexican village plaza. Virginia stuffed herself with chips and salsa while waiting for her grilled seafood plate to arrive. She tried to think of 66

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something to say that didn’t take her mind back to the autopsy or back to last night. Smitty spoke first. “Tell me about your son.” “His name is Nick. He’s white.” Virginia said the first thing that came to mind. “White?” “Anglo, not Tejano like me.” She pointed to her cheeks. “He’s tall, has auburn hair, green eyes, fair skin, like his father.” “My boy’s name was Nick, too. Jason Nicholas.” “Oh.” She remembered the smiling eight-year-old in the photo on Smitty’s desk, the now dead child who had looked so much like his father. She felt Smitty’s anguish, but she could never take that pain away, and she wasn’t up to a repeat of last night’s emotions. His or hers. She dug into the chips to have an excuse not to talk any longer about their children. His or hers. The waiter brought their orders. Smitty chatted about the weather while they ate. She agreed it was a nice day, too nice to have the jobs they had, and continued eating. Finally, she pushed her plate away. “Smitty, make sure ballistics gets to those slugs today, and see if you can hurry up Janette Fullerton’s clothing analysis. I’d like some evidence besides the fingerprint to back up the charges against her, just in case Zachmann manages to turn the arraignment into a probable cause hearing.” Smitty frowned. “Sure thing, boss lady,” he snapped. “Oh, please,” she groaned, “don’t go chauvinistic on me. Why do men resent women doing their jobs?” “I’m not saying anything to you I wouldn’t say to a guy ordering me around. I’m the detective in charge, and I think I know enough to do a bang-up job without you standing over me. I haven’t blown a case yet. You need to trust people, Virginia.” 67

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She tried to think of a response that he wouldn’t find insulting. None came to mind. Finally she said, “I’m sorry.” He stared at her a moment. “Well, that’s a start. Because, if I let you boss me around now, you’ll keep it up after we’re married.” “Married?” she exclaimed. “Married,” he repeated. “I’m going to marry you, Virginia Rodriguez. I knew that the moment I met you. The sooner you get used to the idea, the easier it’ll be on the both of us.” Virginia’s mouth was still open when the waiter brought their check, her brain struggling to find a response that didn’t include profanity. None came to mind. Married? Was he deranged? She had done just fine without a husband, and the last thing she wanted in a husband was a cop. Cops get killed.

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THIRTEEN Saturday, May 23, 3:00 p.m.

J

anette Fullerton wore a jailhouse orange jump-suit and a worried frown as a deputy lead her to a chair in the tiny attorney-client interview room and unlocked her cuffs. The I’m-above-all-this tilt of her chin evident last night had disappeared. She was now one scared woman. Leo focused on her yellow-flecked blue eyes. “Start from the beginning.” She sighed, then dropped into a chair across the table from him. “What beginning? Yesterday? Our life together?” “Wherever,” Leo said. “We have as long as it takes. Tell me the whole story. Tell me the truth.” “Are you suggesting I might lie to you?” she challenged. “It wouldn’t be the first time a client tried to put the best spin on a bad situation.” “You’re taking my case?” “I’ve made my bargain with the devil. Whoever he is, he thinks a lot of you.” “I take it you’ll be well paid.” He nodded. “In advance.” “Even if money can’t buy happiness,” she said, “it can hire a good lawyer.” Leo shrugged. He’d heard better lawyer put-downs than that. “All your friend’s money has bought in me is a man who’ll do his best to get you out of here, if that’s possible. I do my very best when I’m working with the truth. So, are you going to help me?” 69

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She met his eyes and nodded. “When I walked in on them, my whole life was sucked into a dark tunnel. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t breathe. I don’t know how long I stood there, before...” “Before?” “Before I escaped that room.” “Let’s talk about that room,” said Leo. “What did you see?” “Them. In bed together. I couldn’t believe it. And the blood. God, it was awful!” Janette buried her face in her hands. Leo waited for her to lift her head. “Let’s go through it again, from entering your room until you found them.” Janette scooted her chair back and stood up. “I told you. I came back from the photo shoot. I walked into our room and dropped my purse on the bed. I assumed Stuart was working with Ray. He usually was. So I knocked on the door, turned the knob, and walked in.” She folded her arms across her chest like she was trying to keep warm, then she paced the small space. Leo glanced around to see if there was a thermostat on a wall. None, of course. “Ray’s room was dark, just the light from my doorway reflected from a mirror in his room,” she continued. “I noticed someone was in the bed and started to back out, thinking perhaps Ray was sleeping, that Stuart was out somewhere. Then I saw there were two people in the bed. I saw the blood and knew they were dead. Then I realized one was Stuart. His head! It was horrible!” The last was said with tears and sadness in her eyes. Grief? Leo gave her a moment. “What did you do next?” “I just stood there. Perhaps a minute. Then I ran back into our room and dialed the hotel operator. I sat on the bed and waited. The security guard came. A few minutes later the police arrived.” 70

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“Did the police question you?” She shook her head. “I don’t know. They may have, but I didn’t say anything. I was in a fog. I couldn’t really hear them. It was just noise.” “You’re absolutely certain you didn’t say anything to the guard or to the police or anyone else?” Leo probed. She met his eyes and nodded. Good, he thought, at least he didn’t have any statements to deal with. “Now, let’s talk about the gun. How did it get into your room. Did you pick it up in the other room?” Janette Fullerton stared at the wall behind Leo. “I don’t know where it came from,” she finally said. “I called the hotel operator. I put the phone down, and there it was.” “You’re sure you didn’t put it there? Perhaps you stumbled over it in the other room, picked it up, and then put it there while in a state of shock?” “No, of course not. I never touched it.” Leo studied her eyes. Was she lying? He’d come back to the subject later. “Okay, tell me about your marriage.” She closed her eyes and sighed. “We were content. Or, at least, I believed we were.” “Content?” Leo asked. “Content,” she repeated and met Leo’s eyes. “Even happy in the early years.” “Tell me about the happy times,” he said. She returned to her chair. “The usual story with lawyers. I was an associate, worked eighty-hour weeks. The only people I ever met were the other lawyers I worked with and clients. Clients are off limits, of course.” “Of course,” said Leo. “Stuart was a partner in the firm and I was assigned to his section. We worked late frequently, talked over quick take-in meals, found we had a lot in common. He was divorced. So 71

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was I. Mine was one of those short law-school marriages, his a neglected lawyer’s wife. One thing led to another. We dated a few months then married.” “When was that?” Leo asked. “Almost fifteen years ago. I left the firm when I became pregnant with our first child. We didn’t need my salary, and I was happy to be home with the children.” “What about the bad times? Have you had any of those? “Not really. Sometimes he would put his head in a case and not know I existed, but I expected that when I married a lawyer so it was never an issue. Stuart was never a grouch with me, and he enjoyed being with our children, took them to ball games, museums, plays, that sort of thing.” “How about recently?” She studied the wall behind Leo. “Mrs. Fullerton?” Leo prodded. “I tried to talk him out of it—that special prosecutor assignment,” she said. “There was nothing to be gained, but he saw it as a challenge. Once he was into it, he worked late often. Sometimes he didn’t make it home. Then, as it went on, the press painted him the villain. He said he could handle it, but our children were suffering. The other kids made remarks. You know, ‘Is your dad a pervert?’ That kind of thing. I begged him to give it up, for the children, for us. He said he would, if he could find an honorable way out. Then the case fizzled on its own, and he was blamed from all sides.” Like all political scandals, thought Leo, leaving those who create them and those who suffer the inquisition equally scathed. The things people do for power. He waited for her to continue. “Justice cut his budget and staff and hid him out of the public eye. His other career opportunities evaporated as well. They didn’t want to be linked to Stuart’s notoriety. He was 72

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hidden away in Justice until the new Attorney General created a group to investigate campaign contributions and corporate wrongdoings. Stuart was named lead counsel for it.” “When was that?” Leo asked. “A few months ago,” she said casually. “Was that why he was in Bayou City?” Leo asked. She nodded. “It was a small operation, not much budget yet, just Stuart with whatever help Ray could give him. We never discussed it.” Leo studied his client. The last part sounded like a lie? He talked about his cases with Miranda. Fullerton had to have talked with someone. If not his ex-lawyer wife who had once been his associate, then who? Maybe the young and dead Mr. Atkins? “I’d rather not ask this,” Leo said, “but eventually the police will be talking to all your friends. Your marriage, your love life—were there any fights? Did he beat you? Were there other women? Or men? Did you know he was bisexual?” “None of that. No fights, no beatings. Our sex life was adequate, if not always exciting, or very often of late.” She met Leo’s eyes. “I was a fool, wasn’t I?” He said nothing. The obvious answer was “yes.” But obvious answers weren’t always the right answer. “At least I have the children,” she said. “Children who now think their mother killed their father, and their father...” “Did she?” Leo asked. Janette didn’t answer immediately. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, then said, “No, she didn’t. I can see myself opening the door, expecting to find Stuart working, expecting a quick discussion about dinner. I can even see myself walking into the room and staring at the bed, at their bodies. But I don’t see myself killing them.” 73

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FOURTEEN Saturday, May 23, 4:15 p.m.

I

t’s hotter inside than outside, Leo decided as he entered the lobby of the District Attorney’s building, early for his meeting with Virginia. A sweaty-brow deputy looked at his driver’s license, checked him off an expected-visitors list, ran him through the metal detector, then turned him over to another sweaty-brow deputy operating the elevator. “Sure is hot,” Leo said to the elevator-operator deputy. The deputy grunted and pushed the button. Hotter than the lobby, thought Leo when the doors opened on Virginia’s floor and he felt the stifling air. Hell in reverse—higher up you go, hotter it gets. They must cut the air-conditioning on weekends to save tax dollars. Leo followed the deputy to Virginia’s office. The deputy rapped his knuckles on the frame of her open door. She closed the file she was working on. Waving a dismissal to the deputy, Virginia said, “Okay, Leo, what’s her story?” He glanced around the small room. Files and law books covered every horizontal surfaces. “Aren’t you going to ask me to sit down?” She pointed to a wooden armchair in front of her desk. Leo removed a stack of files from the chair and set them on top of others on a corner of her desk. “She didn’t do it,” he said, folding himself into the too small chair. “Why am I not surprised you’d say that?” Virginia responded. “Will you allow the police to question her?” 74

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Leo sighed. “What do you think?” “I think your client murdered her husband and his lover, and that, if you let us have a little chat with her, we’ll be able to clear this up. Then both of us can move on to other things.” “This is my only thing at the moment,” said Leo. “But I’d love to get it cleared up. She didn’t do it. Let her go.” Virginia rolled her eyes. “Here’s what I think happened, Leo. I think your client walked in on a disturbing situation. She was so disturbed that she grabbed a gun and got a Texas quickie divorce. If you’ll let her talk to the police, we might be able to plead this one out. If you take it to trial, after all is said and done, I’ll wind up with a conviction. Even if I don’t make the murder charges stick, she’ll do time for manslaughter, lots of time, and you and I will have spent all summer duking it out in a courtroom with inadequate air-conditioning.” “It might be working,” Leo quipped. “Depends on which courtroom we get.” “If I make murder stick,” Virginia continued, “she’ll get years behind bars. Good behavior and a sympathetic parole board, she might get out in time to collect Social Security. Or she might never get out.” “I think I can talk the jury into letting her go, even if you prove she did it,” Leo countered. “She’s the victim here. He could at least have had the decency to lock the door. But, for the record, she says she didn’t do it, and I believe her. She was framed.” “Framed?” Virginia exclaimed. “Who framed her?” “Same folks who bugged the room and killed the cop. Pick the oppressive governmental agency of your choice. Or get a big legal pad, list all the people who might want to get even with Fullerton. The senate and congressional telephone directories might help you there. Better set yourself up a computer file. It’ll be a long list.” 75

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“Come on, Leo. Give it up.” Virginia stood and walked over to the window to gaze out at the new criminal courthouse. “What’s your best offer?” Leo asked. “Manslaughter, ten years,” Virginia answered, her back to Leo as she continued to stare out the window. “If we do it quickly, before the press turns it into a national debate about how the rich get off and the poor get sent to Texas’ infamous death chamber.” Leo pondered the deal. Virginia wouldn’t offer a manslaughter plea bargain if she really thought she could get a murder conviction. No, if Virginia thought she could get a conviction, she would take her moment in the spotlight. Virginia turned to face him. “What do you say, Leo? Let’s do our deal and go home. It’s like an oven in here.” “Aren’t you even curious about who killed the cop?” Leo draped a leg across the chair arm, settling in like he had all the time in the world and the heat didn’t bother him. “She didn’t do the cop. Most likely, whoever bugged the room and killed the cop did Fullerton.” “The only bugs were the two your wife found. Conveniently, I might add, while she and Mrs. Fullerton were alone.” “You’re not suggesting Miranda planted them, are you?” Virginia sighed. “I’m not suggesting anything. I’m saying there were no ‘property of’ identification marks on either one of those bugs and the only print found belongs to Miranda Zachmann. Manslaughter, ten years, and we won’t oppose early probation. That’s all Wen will agree to. I’ll need your answer Monday.” “You have fingerprint results? That fast?” Virginia looked out the window again. “It’s amazing how quickly the crime lab can work.” “Got any prints on the murder weapon that killed the cop?” Leo asked. “What did kill him, anyway?” 76

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Virginia walked back to her chair and sat down. “That has nothing to do with the Fullerton case.” “Oh, yeah?” said Leo. “So why not answer the question?” “It has no bearing on your client’s case. The cop was stabbed, probably by a switchblade. Obviously, a different killer.” “Hmm,” said Leo. “Say a person wanted to get back into those rooms to remove listening devices, they’d have to go through the cop, wouldn’t they?” “Not necessarily. Maybe Cuellar went in the room to nap.” “Then what?” asked Leo. “Someone saw the door open, decided to rob the room, and encountered the sleeping cop. Robberies happen in hotels all the time. That’s why they have those little reminders on the door to check your valuables at the front desk.” “Let me see if I’ve got this straight. The officer decides to take a nap, lays himself down on the bloody bed, but leaves the door open. A thief walks by, sees the open door, comes in, sees the cop on the bloody bed. Instead of beating a hasty retreat to rob an unoccupied room, he stabs the sleeping cop but forgets to rob him. Is that how you see it?” Virginia shrugged. “It could have happened that way.” Leo shook his head. “Yeah, I can see how that might have happen. Think a jury will see it that way?” “Maybe,” said Virginia. “Why didn’t the officer pick the bed in 1809, where he wouldn’t have to lay himself down in somebody else’s blood?” “Maybe he just went into the bathroom of 1807 to take a leak,” Virginia countered. “Our thief walks by, sees an open door, and says ‘why not?’ He’s engaged in pilfering the room when Cuellar comes out of the bathroom and confronts him. Cuellar gets knifed. The thief drops him on the bed and beats a hasty retreat.” “Really? Any suspects?” asked Leo. 77

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“For all I know, you did it to create reasonable doubt for your client. You stayed the night on that floor, I understand.” “That’s right, Virginia. For all you know, I did the cop. For all you know, I shot Fullerton and his companion. Even you have doubt. So why are you holding Mrs. Fullerton?” “Let’s wrap this up,” Virginia snapped. Leo tipped his chair into a country-store-front recline and studied Virginia a moment. “The hotel has security cameras— what do they show?” “The police are checking now. I’ll let you know. And we have the FBI assisting with lab work, so it shouldn’t take long to tie up the case against your client with a nice pretty bow.” Leo’s chair legs hit the floor. He grinned at Virginia. “So this may not be your case?” “Murder is a state crime. Our jurisdiction, but with a Fed prosecutor victim, you’d expect them to be interested. And with all the attention the case is getting from the press, I wouldn’t be surprised if Wen takes lead counsel. He’ll be running for reelection soon. You ought to take the deal before Wen revokes it.” Leo chuckled. “Wen hasn’t tried a case in ten years. He wouldn’t take a chance on blowing the trial.” “Don’t count on it. He’s almost as crazy as you are.” “But the Feds might take it,” Leo mused. “Murder of a federal official is enough to give them jurisdiction.” “That’s not their style. They let the state courts do their state thing. If they don’t like the outcome, then they do their Fed thing.” “Assuming it’s your case. How exactly are they helping?” Virginia sighed. “They’ll assist with the lab work, and I’m getting a liaison from the US Attorney’s office. Here, I’ll let you see the fax. TJ Graham, from the DC office. Know him?” 78

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Leo groaned as he read the fax. “A real sweetheart. I went up against Graham a few years ago. Beat him, too. Big tax case. Feds set the guy up to make him turn on his business partners. So when do I get copies of the lab reports?” “As soon as they’ve gone through departmental review.” “Why don’t you just tell me what they say? Play fair, Virginia, at least until your Mr. Graham takes over.” “He’s not my Mr. Graham. I always play fair. And what makes you think he’ll take over?” “FBI lab helping BCPD lab? DOJ lawyer looking over an ADA’s shoulder? Sounds like it’s going to be alphabet soup around here. Come on, tell me what you have before the Feds hide the ball.” Virginia shrugged, then pulled a file from the stack on her desk and handed it to Leo. Leo read the report. His client’s thumb print was on the barrel of the gun, facing toward the grip, opposite to what would be expected had she held the gun in firing position. Two good prints from the hotel security guard and several unidentifiable smudges were also on the grip. “Maybe she moved it out of the way to use the phone to call for help. What else do you have?” “We should have the ballistics reports tomorrow.” “Virginia, I’ll stipulate that bullets killed those guys. If ballistics show the gun found in 1809 is the murder weapon, I’ll even stipulate to that. But that doesn’t prove she’s the shooter. Did they find any powder residue on her?” Virginia scooted her chair back and got up. “You come across any exculpatory evidence, Leo, I’ll take a look at it. Now, you go home so I can. It’s like a furnace in here. I’ll see you and your client Monday morning.” “Right,” said Leo. “Monday morning. Can’t wait.” 79

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*** Back in his vehicle, Leo pulled out his cell phone and punched a quick-dial number. “You standing by the phone?” he asked when Jerry answered immediately. “Nah, in the pool,” Jerry said. “It’s on my belly. Woke me up. But I need to go inside before I get sunburned.” “Sunburned?” Leo repeated. “You think only whites get too much sun? What’s up?” “Just checking to see what you found.” “According to my sources,” said Jerry, “they didn’t find any trace of gun shot residue on Mrs. Fullerton’s person or clothing. They found her thumb print on the gun barrel, not on the grip.” “Virginia told me about the print, but that’s all. Guess she was holding out on me.” “Not necessarily. Test results are in, but the reports haven’t been sent up to her office. We’re getting it before she does.” “You talk to Prez yet?” asked Leo. “Briefly. We’ll get his report Tuesday or Wednesday. He agrees with the Medical Examiner that it was guns and knives that did ’em in. Did the widow say anything about the gun?” “She don’t know nothing about no gun.” “Don’t they all,” said Jerry. “One thing. Prez looked at the crime scene this afternoon. Said he’s bothered about where the shooter had to be standing to do them both. Kendricks will go over with a photographer tomorrow afternoon, then he’ll get started on the blood-spatter analysis. He said we might need to hire a DNA expert to tell whose blood is where.” “Fine,” said Leo. “Tell him to hire whoever he needs. Oh, Virginia said the cops were looking at hotel security tapes. You heard anything about that?”

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“Only the ones for Friday night when Cuellar was killed, and they’ve got problems there. The elevator camera was out for a while. The camera that catches the eighteenth floor near the elevator was also out. The only thing the working camera at the other end of the hallway picked up was room service making a delivery to your room around eight-thirty and a couple who checked in around ten that went into 1816. Other than the party in your room and the lovers going to 1816, nothing much happened on the eighteenth floor last night. But the lobby camera picked up two guys who looked pretty interesting.” “How’s that?” asked Leo. “A brown-haired guy with a scar on his face walked through the lobby to the elevator around eleven. The gap on the elevator tape started about that time. There’s no footage of him on any of the floor tapes. He either disappeared in the elevator or got off on the eighteenth floor where the camera wasn’t working and never made it past 1809 to where it was working. A while later, there’s a blond guy with a mustache getting off the elevator in the lobby. None of the tapes from any of the other floors show his point of origin. The desk clerk says he didn’t notice anybody. Neither did the bell captain. Probably both were snoozing. The guy on duty in the hotel security room didn’t notice anything either, of course.” “Did you get copies of the lobby tapes?” asked Leo. “I’m working on it,” said Jerry. “Also get copies of the ones for the eighteenth floor for Friday afternoon,” said Leo. “Police might not be interested, but I’d sure like to know who had access to those rooms besides Mrs. Fullerton at the time the first murders went down.”

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FIFTEEN Saturday, May 23, 6:00 p.m.

V

irginia kicked off her shoes as she came through the back door. “Nick?” She heard the television blaring some obnoxious rock band. “Nicolas Rodriguez, answer me.” No answer. She checked the living room. Nick was asleep on the couch. Denver, snoozing on the floor, raised his head, gave her a don’t-bother-us whine, and went back to sleep. She turned off the noise. Nick and Denver never stirred. She went to her room, changed into jeans and a T-shirt, then returned. Plopping into her father’s recliner, she studied her son. Asleep, Nick still had his little-boy face. Awake, he now looked just like his father had when she first met him. Nick’s father had been her first serious boyfriend—a tall, handsome Anglo, with enough family money to ease his way through life. They’d met in a modern government class, she a sophomore, he a senior. He had looked like the storybook Prince Charming and she, envisioning herself in a ball gown, tiara, glass slippers, and happy ever after, had fallen in love. But he had cheated on her and lied to her. She couldn’t forgive him, and she couldn’t play pretend. He had graduated in May and took a summer-long trip to Europe. He had asked her to come with him. She had refused. A few weeks after he left, she couldn’t remember what she had seen in him. A few more weeks and she realized she was preg82

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nant. Nineteen years old, two years of college to go, and a believer in mortal sins, she never considered an abortion or letting him back into her life. When Nick was born, she had loved him instantly, completely, too much to give him away. So she did what she had to do to make a decent life for them. She left her baby in her mother’s care and went back to school. Every weekend and every break she went home to her beautiful baby son who flourished in the love of his mother, grandparents, aunts and uncles and cousins. She finished college, went on to law school, then found a job in the DA’s office. She went to the office. Nick went to school. Life went on. When Nick was small, he’d asked why he didn’t have a daddy like other kids, and she had told him his father was a wonderful person who had died too young. In a way it was true. The good in Nick’s father had died much too soon, and he was dead to her. After a few years, she had come to think of Nick’s father as just a sperm donor, someone who’d made no difference in their lives, at least until recently, when Nick had begun to look just like him. Maybe she should have told him. Maybe she should still tell him, send him Nick’s picture and a copy of his birth certificate with the date of birth circled. Or file a paternity suit. Sue him for seventeen-plus years of child support. Who was she kidding? Having Prince Cheating in their lives was too high a price to pay for the money. Nick stirred and stretched. She looked at her son. It seemed as if he’d grown another inch the past few days. Besides, it had been years since Nick had asked about his father. Telling him now would only screw up all their lives. Nick’s father was probably married anyway, with “legitimate” 83

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children. He wouldn’t want anything to do with Nick, and she couldn’t bear the thought that her son might be rejected by his own father. Better a dead father than a rejecting father. Nick’s green eyes opened, and he grinned at her with the same lopsided grin that had been his father’s charm. “What?” he asked. Denver jerked awake at the sound, gave them an annoyed snort for disturbing his sleep, then closed his eyes again. “You wouldn’t understand,” she said. “You want me to cook dinner, or do you want to go out?” “What time is it?” he asked. “Almost six, why?” “I have a date. Can I borrow the truck?” “What time?” “Eight-thirty.” “We have plenty of time,” Virginia said. “You want tacos?” “How about I make sloppy joes?” he countered. “Tell me about your prom,” Virginia said as they headed to the kitchen. Nick talked as he browned the ground beef. She listened while she shredded lettuce and sliced avocados for a salad. “Page must have had an afternoon nap too if both of you are up to another night out,” she said. “Page? Not. I met a girl at the prom.” “Really?” “She came with Ken. Man, he had us all faked out. Here we’re thinking he was a nerd who couldn’t get a date, and he shows up with a girl who’s out of this world.” “So you moved in on Ken’s girl? That’s the kind of thing a good friend does these days, huh?” “Oh, Mom. It wasn’t like that at all. She’s his cousin. Doing him a favor ’cause he couldn’t get a real date. But as 84

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soon as the other girls saw her, he had a whole harem. I guess they figured they’d underestimated him. He did look a lot better in a tux. Anyway, Ken was out there dancing, and his cousin was sitting there by herself, so I asked her to dance. Then we started talking. She’s smart, Mom. Really smart. Her name is Beth.” “What about Page?” Virginia asked. “Where was Page, your date, while you and Beth were getting acquainted?” “Dancing with Ken.”

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SIXTEEN Sunday, May 24, 3:00 p.m.

T

he attorney-client interview room was hot and stuffy. The same room had been freezing yesterday. They must have found out and turned off the AC to make sure prisoners and their lawyers didn’t talk too long, Leo mused. He rolled up his sleeves and focused on his client. “How did your thumb print get on the gun?” Janette Fullerton stared at him a moment. “Well?” Leo prodded. “I don’t know. Honest. I can’t remember picking it up. I must have touched it when I used the phone.” “Do you know whose gun it is?” She shook her head, then thought a moment and said, “It may have been Stuart’s. The FBI suggested he carry one after the threats.” “The threats? What threats? When?” “Near the end of the Washington investigation, they found a letter bomb in his mail. That’s when they assigned bodyguards.” “Bodyguards?” Leo asked. “How many? Who?” “Two. Local agents would relieve them, but generally Ray or Wayne traveled with Stuart.” “Ray? Ray who?” “Ray Atkins, in bed with Stuart.” She looked at her hands. “I thought you said Atkins was a lawyer,” said Leo. 86

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“Not exactly. Ray was FBI. He had a law degree, so he help Stuart with the paperwork, preparing subpoenas and the like, to stay busy.” “And Wayne? Who’s that? What did he do?” “Wayne Hargis. Also FBI. He was our driver and guard. He drove me to the photo shoot, waited until I finished, and brought me back to the hotel Friday just before I found them.” Leo wrote the name on his legal pad. “Where and when was this photo shoot?” She gave him the magazine’s name and address. “Wayne left me there around one-thirty, then picked me up around three-thirty. He brought me straight back to the hotel.” “Did he accompany you up to your room?” “No. He dropped me off at the front of the hotel and drove off. I assumed he was parking the car.” “Did you try to call him when you found the bodies?” She shook her head. “I should have, but I didn’t think about it. Maybe I wouldn’t be here now if I had. When I found them, I just picked up the phone and punched zero for the operator.” “Did you see him afterwards?” Leo asked, remembering the agents who had shown up at the hotel as Virginia was leading Mrs. Fullerton out. “I mean, at the hotel while the police detained you or when you were leaving to be booked?” “No,” she said. “What does Wayne Hargis look like?” “He’s tall. Maybe six-three, not as tall as you, slim. Mid-tolate thirties, blond hair, blue eyes.” “Mustache?” Leo asked. Maybe they had just identified guy number two on the hotel tapes. “No, why?”

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“No reason,” said Leo. At least not until he had photos for her to look at, one with a mustache and one without. Amazing what computer programs could do with photographs these days—put people into pictures where they hadn’t been, take them out of where they had been, like on those CIA television shows. Simple business to add or subtract a mustache. “Did Hargis stay at the Concord?” “Wayne was in room 1805. When he wasn’t taking us somewhere, he kept to himself.” “1805?” Hmm. Leo had heard nothing about 1805 before. He wondered if Virginia knew about the bodyguard agents and third room. “All the rooms had connecting doors,” she volunteered. “I didn’t notice that Friday night,” Leo said. “It’s not obvious. There’s a full-length mirror on Ray’s side of the door.” “Really?” he said. “The door was closed when I went into Ray’s room,” she continued. “It usually was. They used Ray’s room as an office and didn’t like to be disturbed when they were working.” “You’re sure it was closed?” She hesitated, thinking it through. “Yes. I remember seeing myself enter the room in the door mirror, you know, one of those reflections that make you think someone else is entering from another door, then I realized Ray’s room was dark and the light in the mirror was from my doorway. Then I saw them.” She closed her eyes and sighed. Leo gave her a moment then asked, “Why didn’t you mention the door before?” “I didn’t think of it. They always kept that door closed. Wayne wasn’t really involved in Stuart’s work. He just kept watch when we went somewhere.” 88

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Leo studied his client, thinking through the facts. Two FBI special agents—one dead, one missing—and a dead federal prosecutor involved in a still secret investigation. Add a bugged room, a wife with a possible alibi who claims she didn’t kill them, and weak physical evidence linking her to the murders. The makings of a some-other-dude-did-it defense? Maybe. The makings of another political conspiracy? Maybe. “What was your husband working on in Bayou City?” “I’ve already told you,” she said, looking at the wall past Leo’s right shoulder. “Something to do with campaign contributions. Beyond that, I really don’t know.” Leo told himself that he really ought to reread that psychology book that told what glancing left or right meant. He recalled looking right meant remembering and looking left meant creating a story or lying. Her looking over his right shoulder would be looking left, and it sure felt like lying. “Surely you overheard something, or maybe your husband told you something when you were doing one of those notlistening things wives sometimes do. Think about it. The answer to that question could make the difference between you spending years in jail or going home to your kids.” She looked down, examining her hands. “There’s something else we need to talk about.” Janette met Leo’s eyes. “What?” “The guy paying your legal bill. Your father.” She looked surprised. “I didn’t think he’d admit it.” Now it was Leo’s turn to be surprised. “Why not?” “My father and mother divorced when I was a baby. He was never a part of my life while I was growing up. He didn’t even object when my mother changed my last name to my stepfather’s.” “He seems concerned about you now,” said Leo. 89

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She shrugged. “When I married Stuart, I contacted him, thinking he would want to know that I had grown up to be a lawyer, that my life was working out. I though he might even want to give the bride away.” “Did he?” asked Leo. “No. But he’s been part of our lives ever since. He’s particularly fond of our son, his grandson. If I’d been a boy, perhaps he would have been a better father.” “I see,” said Leo. She shook her head as if there was no way he could. “How did you find out? He was always careful his name not be linked to Stuart’s.” “Your father was the major topic of slander on a political commentary show this morning. Some investigative reporter has the dirt on your parents marriage and divorce. He’s trying to link it to your husband’s Washington investigations and your situation.” Leo walked over to the door, pushed the button to ring for the guard, then turned around. “Something else you need to think about.” “What?” “The District Attorney has offered to let you plead to manslaughter. Ten years. You’d serve about half.” “No,” she said. “Absolutely not. I didn’t do it.” “Well, think about their offer,” he said, “and practice looking innocent tonight so you’ll be ready for your meet-the-press moment in the morning.” Janette’s eyes flashed anger, but she held her tongue. Good, thought Leo. Anger, properly directed, was a good thing. Evasive answers were not. If she wasn’t going to tell him what her husband was working on, he’d just have to find out for himself.

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SEVENTEEN Sunday, May 24, 4:00 p.m.

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eo noticed the tail just before he reached Memorial Park. He swung into the park. The black sports utility vehicle followed. He pulled into a parking lot near a jogging trail. The SUV parked a few spaces away. He started up again. It started up again, following as he twined back onto Memorial Drive. Time for a real test, Leo decided and headed to his office. The vehicle followed, staying two cars behind. He ran a yellow light. It cut around the cars behind him and ran the red light, almost getting creamed by oncoming traffic. Determined son of a gun. Leo swiped his card key through the reader and entered the garage, stopping just inside the gates to make sure they rolled back into place before heading to his parking space. The SUV paused at the closed gates, then crept past them. Leo grabbed his cell phone and rang the first floor desk. “Mike?” “This is Joe. Mike’s off today. What can I do for you?” “Joe, this is Leo Zachmann. I’m down in the garage, tailed here by a big, black SUV. They may have parked near the front of the building. Would you just walk by the windows and see if it’s there. If you can, get the tag number. I’ll hold.” “Sure thing, Mr. Zachmann. I’ll just be a minute.” Leo pulled a gun from his glove compartment and headed to the elevator. Just as the doors opened, Joe’s voice came back on the phone. “Got it. It’s J-Q-M—” 91

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“Good,” Leo interrupted. “Now, call the police and tell them there’s a suspicious vehicle out front that you think is casing cars parked in the garage over the weekend. See if you can get them to hurry over here.” “You sure about that, Mr. Zachmann?” “I’m sure. You have any problems, I’ll take care of them for you. I’m on the way up to join you in the lobby.” Ten minutes later, the police showed up. The cruiser pulled in front of the sports utility vehicle, and the men-in-blue ordered the men-in-black occupants out of the vehicle. Two guys, one white, one black, both well over six-feet tall, stepped out with hands raised. Leo watched the fun from inside as the officers ran a check of their IDs. Then he went outside. “They’re the ones, officers, the ones casing cars in our garage.” “Your name, sir?” one of the police officers demanded. “I’m Leo Zachmann,” Leo said. “I work here.” “It’s good to be cautious, sir,” the officer responded, “but I don’t think these two gentlemen are car thieves.” “Oh, sorry about that,” said Leo, rubbing his chin. He offered his hand to the black guy and studied his face, noting the mole on his right cheek and the scar through his left eyebrow above the dark glasses. “They say it pays to be cautious when you see strangers hanging around.” The guy mumbled his acceptance of Leo’s apology. Leo turned to the white guy—brown hair, acne marks, ruddy complexion, thirty-some years of aggression. “I’m truly sorry,” he said. “Sure,” growled the white guy as he climbed into the SUV. “Maybe I can help locate whoever you’re looking for?” offered Leo as he held the door open and checked out the 92

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inside of the vehicle. “If they’re in the building, I’ll be happy to call them down to talk to you.” “You’ve done enough,” he said and jerked the door closed. Right, thought Leo, now you go report to whoever sent you that your cover has been blown. As they drove off, Leo apologized to the cops and pumped them for information. One cop bragged they’d gotten the draw on the Feds, but that was all Leo got out of them. Why FBI agents who had shown up at the Concord Hotel Friday night were now tailing him hadn’t been asked or answered. Leo went back inside. “What kind of car are you driving these days?” he asked Joe. “Nothin’ special. Old sedan. Can’t afford nothin’ special on guard pay. Not like you lawyers.” “How would you like to trade cars for a day or two? You drive my new truck and check out all the features, and I drive your car.” “Oh, no, don’t think I could do that, Mr. Zachmann. I’d be afraid I’d wreck it or something.” “Don’t worry about that. I’ll give you a letter that says you have my permission to drive it, you give me one for your car. We’ll exchange insurance cards. That’ll take care of it. Say we trade back on Tuesday? How does that sound?” “Sounds like you’re scared of driving your car,” Joe said. Leo smiled. He was beginning to appreciate Joe’s wary intelligence. “It’s not that. I don’t think anybody will bother me, not after the cops took the wind out of their sails. Besides, if they’d wanted to do anything, they had plenty of time while they followed me here from downtown. I just want to distract them for a little while, give them somebody else to tail while I get on with my business.” “Hmm.” Joe shook his head, obviously not convinced. 93

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“Tell you what,” continued Leo, “why don’t I sit here and guard the place? You take my truck to the hamburger joint around the corner, get us something to eat. I’ll cover for you. If you don’t want to trade afterwards, just say so.” Leo pulled out his wallet. “Here’s a hundred. Get us a couple of burgers. You keep the change.” Joe looked at the hundred. “I don’t know. Guard’s suppose to have a gun. Can’t let you keep my gun.” Leo patted his boot. “Have one of my own. Uncomfortable as hell, but when I realized I was being followed, I decided I’d rather have it in my boot than in the glove box, just in case.” “Better safe than not,” agreed Joe, patting his own gun. “You got training on that thing?” Leo asked. “Army,” said Joe, “and the guard service puts us through a permit course. I do a little target practice every now and then.” “Bet you’re good with it. Not many men look as comfortable wearing a gun as you do.” Joe shrugged, then he eyed Leo. “Management company will fire me if they find out I left my post.” “Tell you what. They say anything, you come upstairs and see me. I’ll put you to work at a decent raise serving subpoenas, delivering stuff, doing a little security and investigation work every now and then, like that. If you’re interested, that is?” Joe looked at Leo, then at the hundred in Leo’s hand, and smiled. “You got a deal, Mr. Zachmann.” Joe returned with two giant burgers, supersized fries, and extra large drinks. When he tried to return the change, Leo said, “Nah, you’ve earned it. That SUV tail you?” “Yeah, right behind me when I drove through the food line. I pulled up close to the window, so they wouldn’t see it was me paying. I almost lost them at a light on the way back, 94

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but they caught up. They followed me back here, then kept going when I turned into the garage. I expect they’ll be waiting at the gas station on the corner, like they were when I left here.” “So, you up for trading cars for a couple of days?” Leo asked, stuffing a fry into his mouth. “There’s another couple hundred a day in it for you, for renting your car to me, that is. Say five hundred for the rest of today, Monday all day, and we trade back on Tuesday.” “I could get used to that big what-do-you-call-it?” Joe said. “Those tinted windows make you fell like you’re in a limo, and that sound system is out of this world.” “They call it an Ultimate Utility Vehicle, a UUV. You can use it as a big-mother SUV or you can use it as a pickup truck. I sort of prefer it as a pickup. Comes in handy for hauling hay at the ranch on weekends. It’s not exactly what I would have picked out for myself, but the wife got it for me as a birthday present. Wife gives you a present, what can you do?” “Can’t give it back when your wife gives it to you,” agreed Joe. “It sure is a nice vehicle, all right. Don’t think I’ve ever heard car speakers that smooth.” “Let’s do the deal right now. What’s your last name, Joe? I’ll write it all out to get us both legal.” “San Marcos. Joe San Marcos. Like the town.”

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EIGHTEEN Sunday, May 24, 5:00 p.m.

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eo saw the black SUV parked at the corner filling station as he left the building in Joe’s old sedan. He smiled. Good soldiers. No doubt they’d be sitting there when Joe went off duty at eight. What did it all mean? A bugged room. But only the two tiny bugs Miranda had found, if Virginia could be believed. One Janette Fullerton thumbprint on the barrel of the gun, nowhere near the trigger. A dead watch cop. Lots of loose ends. The dead cop? Nobody seemed real excited about that. Nobody seemed concerned that one of the FBI agents assigned to Fullerton and his wife for their protection had faded away after the murders either. Or that the missing agent had occupied room 1805, right next door to the murder room. An awful lot of not excited. And Janette Fullerton’s father, former Senator Harry Dunn? Where did he fit in? Another loose screw? At least Leo now knew who the mystery man was. Sometimes it paid to watch those Sunday morning political shouting matches on television. Not as good as Benjamin’s cartoons, but better than Miranda’s decorating channel. Now this, tailed by FBI agents. Why tail Mrs. Fullerton’s lawyer? Did they think she knew something she might tell him? 96

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Lots of questions. Few answers. Leo needed copies of the hotel security tapes now in police custody so that Mrs. Fullerton could take a look at the two men entering and leaving the hotel late Friday night when the cop was killed. And it was time to put a good private investigator to work checking alibis and getting answers to all these questions. Delphene, Jerry’s wife, answered the door. “Jerry here?” Leo asked. “He’s in his office in the pool house,” she said in her highpitched, whiny voice. Delphene was tall, still model-slender after three children, had beautiful Egyptian eyes and flawless café au lait colored skin. A gorgeous woman, but the voice—Leo wondered how Jerry could take it, day in and day out. “Thanks, Delphene. I’ll try to be brief.” Leo followed her through the den. She let him out the patio doors and he continued around the pool alone. He found Jerry at his computer, ear phones on, fingers beating out a rhythm on the keyboard. “Hey, man,” Jerry said when Leo tapped him on the shoulder. “What brings you to my humble abode?” “On the way home. Figured I’d try a few ideas out on you.” “Have a seat. Give me a minute while I log off.” Leo glanced around Jerry’s hideaway. Unlike his officeoffice, usually neat as a pin, and the house that Delphene kept as if she expected a drop-by visit by a decorating show camera crew, Jerry’s home office was, to put it mildly, cluttered. Stacks of magazines and piles of computer software and paperback mysteries and thrillers littered the place. It made Leo feel at home. He had always considered a clean work space the sign of overzealous toilet training. 97

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The furnishings included a relatively new black leather recliner, a beat-up old sofa, and a large chest that served as a coffee table. Leo selected the couch and stretched his legs across the chest. As the screen saver came on, Jerry got up. “Can I offer you a drink?” “I’ll take a beer.” Leo noticed the screen saver—fireworks in a night-sky over Bayou City, a pirated video of the Millennium Festival put on with taxpayer dollars. When the event organizers claimed they had exclusive rights to all pictures, citizens went into business selling counterfeit videos at flea markets. Wonderful thing about Texans—tell them they can’t do something, they spit in your eye. Jerry extracted a fancy-label beer from the tiny refrigerator in the corner and handed it to Leo. “What’s up?” “I’m not sure,” Leo said, still musing on the subject of Texans while Jerry got his own beer. What could you expect from the mixed-breed descendants of land-swindlers, horse thieves, Eastern misfits, runaway slaves, Tejanos, Comanches, Apaches, Cajuns, Germans, Asians, Arabs, Catholics, Hindu, Buddhists, Muslims, Baptists, and Jews? Had to love them or kill ’em. Too many to kill ’em all. Jerry folded himself into the recliner and lifted the footrest. Leo sipped his beer, waiting until he had Jerry’s full attention. “It’s this way. Stuart Fullerton had a couple of FBI guys assigned to him as bodyguards. Ray Atkins, the kid in bed with Fullerton, was one. The other one, Wayne Hargis, drove Mrs. Fullerton around Friday afternoon, dropped her at the hotel after her magazine photo shoot, then vanished.” Jerry pursed his lips. “Interesting.” “Hargis occupied 1805,” Leo continued. “The murder room was Atkins’ sleeping quarters and makeshift office for 98

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Fullerton’s investigation. Connecting doors between all three rooms. She says there’s a mirror covering the doors between 1807 and 1805 on the 1807 side. Missed it when I checked the bodies Friday.” Jerry shrugged. “Lot of people in there, most with their backs against the walls focusing on the bodies on the bed. I remember a wall mirror by the dressing area, but I didn’t notice it being a door mirror. Guess I need to go check it out.” “She thought Hargis was just parking the car when he let her out in front of the Concord,” Leo continued, “but he never showed back up. So my question is, why did her guard dog let her get hauled off to the jailhouse? And why hasn’t he come forward by now?” Jerry shrugged. “I don’t know. Why?” “And the bugs. Does it seem a bit strange to you that only two bugs were found and Miranda did the finding?” “Strange all right,” Jerry said. “About there being just two bugs. Not strange about Miranda finding them. That wife of yours has more psychic power than my voodoo-lady grandma.” “You got a point there,” Leo agreed. “But you saw that murder room. Not a piece of paper anywhere. Ever see a lawyer’s working office without paper everywhere?” “Can’t say as I have,” said Jerry. “Least ways, not yours. But, you’re right. I haven’t seen anything about them finding any papers in the evidence logs. If they bagged them, they’d have logged them.” “That’s not all. When I left the jail this afternoon, I got tailed.” “You’re kidding?” “Nope,” said Leo. “Two FBI agents in a big, black sports utility vehicle. I glanced inside when one of them got in. It has enough electronics in the dash to land a man on Mars. Got the tag number, in case you need it.” 99

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“FBI agents?” asked Jerry. “Honest truth,” said Leo. “Followed me back to my office. When I entered the parking garage, they had the gall to wait for me out front. So I called the cops and had a little fun.” “You didn’t?” “After your brothers in blue cornered them, I went out, introduced myself, looked them over. Remember the FBI guys getting off the elevator when the policewoman and Virginia took Mrs. Fullerton down Friday night? It was two of them. Reckon anybody made them write down their names in that crime scene log book?” “Don’t know,” said Jerry, “but I’ll ask.” “Now, why would FBI agents tail Mrs. Fullerton’s lawyer?” “What do you want me to do first? Tail your tail?” “Hmm,” Leo said. “Interesting. Investigate the investigators. I like it. I think I have them distracted for the moment. You know Joe San Marcos, the security guard in the lobby?” “Yeah?” “I’m driving his old car. He’s got my fancy new truck, gets off work at eight. Our special agents will probably be parked at the gas station at the corner ready to tail my truck again. Make sure Joe gets home safely. Call me if anything interesting happens.” “No problem, as long as you tell Delphene you’re making me work so she won’t think I’m out tomcatting.” Jerry had faced more than his share of violent people as a soldier in Vietnam and as a cop in Bayou City, but, like most men, he feared the wrath of his wife more than bullets. Leo wouldn’t want a talking-to from Delphene either. Of course, Jerry usually deserved it. He wasn’t the most faithful husband. “I’ll tell her.” Leo gave Jerry a detailed description of the vehicle and the agents. “The big brown-haired white agent and 100

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the big black-haired black one, not the short freckled redheaded white guy who did the barnyard rooster act, but he’s probably calling the shots.” “Got it,” said Jerry. “Don’t let them tag you and absolutely no car chases. Miranda won’t like it if my new truck gets wrecked, and neither one of us want a Miranda talking-to.” “You got that right,” agreed Jerry. “Oh, I checked hotel records this morning. Fullerton and his agents have been here about two months, at least they’ve had those same rooms that long. The manager on duty said he thought they might be using it as a base location since there were a lot of ‘bed still made’ notations in the housekeeping records. I’m supposed to get a printout of everything tomorrow—phone, restaurant, room service charge, an extra copy of the one they’re printing off for the cops.” “How long has Mrs Fullerton been here?” asked Leo. “Fullerton asked for a second key about a month ago, but she’s not been here the whole time. A few days then and back this past week. Maybe you should pin that down with her.” “I’ll ask her,” said Leo, “and you get the hotel records on all three rooms while you’re at it.” “Will do,” said Jerry. “Anything else?” “Yeah. Find time to talk to San Marcos. I sort of offered him a job. All I know about him is he’s licensed to carry a gun, which might come in handy. He has a cautious nature. He did me a favor he didn’t have to do. And he seemed to enjoy the sport of the chase.” “I’m home, sweetheart,” Leo called as he entered the front door and quickly reset the security alarm. Getting no answer, he checked the living room, Miranda’s favorite room, where 101

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he usually found her as day faded into evening. The room’s glass walls provided an intimate view of the natural bayou vegetation and wildlife. A raccoon family waited for their nightly handout on the deck. Leo ignored the raccoons and continued searching. No Miranda in the den or kitchen and no sign of dinner in the making. He found her upstairs in their bedroom, wearing one of his old shirts, her auburn hair still damp from the shower, a glass of wine in her hand, watching the evening news on TV. The news guy was saying, “Sources close to the investigation report Mrs. Fullerton has hired legendary trial lawyer, Leo Zachmann.” How about that, thought Leo, a legend in his own time. Or was that a legend in his own mind? He gave Miranda a kiss. “I wondered if you’d remember where you lived,” she said. “Where would you like to go for dinner?” “I hadn’t really thought about it,” Leo answered. “Well, think about it. I’m bushed. I took Leah and Benjamin to the zoo this afternoon.” Leo kicked off his boots and undressed, dropping clothes on the bedroom floor. He needed a bath himself after sweating through his meeting with Virginia and an afternoon of highnineties temperature and humidity. “How about we stay home? I’ll grill a couple of steaks in a little while.” “Want a sip of my wine?” she offered as he sat on the edge of the bed to remove socks. “Thanks.” He took the glass. She moved closer to massage his shoulders. “What kept you?” “It’s a long story,” he said. “Mmm, that feels good.” “Does it?” She moved her hands to his chest. “You trying to seduce me, old girl?” 102

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“Maybe, old guy.” “What kind of wine are we drinking?” he asked. “Sangria,” she said. “Why?” “I want to make sure I buy you plenty more.” Leo was awakened by the phone. “Yeah?” “It’s Jerry. I followed your special agents to San Marcos’ house. They waited around for a while, but I guess they eventually figured they’d been foxed and left. I followed them back downtown to the Federal Building. The black guy went inside. The white guy drove off. I followed him to his apartment. I don’t have names yet, but I’ve got calls in to sources. Want me to call you back when I get names?” “Call it a night. Meet me at the courthouse in the morning.”

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NINETEEN Sunday, May 24, 7:15 p.m.

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irginia was folding fresh-from-the-dryer laundry while watching a television quiz show with Nick when the phone rang. She pushed the basket aside to reach for the phone on the table by the sofa. “Hi,” Smitty said. “You still talking to me?” “I guess,” she answered. “Have dinner with me,” he implored. “Nick’s home. We’re going to order a pizza.” “How about if I bring a couple of five-toppings.” “I’m not sure that’s a good idea.” She had cleaned house all morning, shopped for Nick’s ranch gear all afternoon, and done laundry since getting home from the mall at six. An early meal, a bath, then straight to bed was what she had in mind for the evening, so she’d be alert at Janette Fullerton’s arraignment in the morning. “I’ll behave. Just a little dinner and a little cop talk. What do you want on your pizza?” She hesitated. It wouldn’t take any longer for him to bring the pizza than for her to order it. “Let me ask Nick.” She threw a sofa pillow at him to get his attention. “Huh?” Nick said. “The detective I’m working the new case with and I need to talk. Would it be okay if he brings a couple of pizzas over so that I don’t have to run into town tonight?” 104

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“Sure,” said Nick. “Here.” Virginia tossed the phone to Nick. “Tell Detective Smith what you want on yours.” By the time Smitty arrived, Virginia had invited Mr. Nguyn over and fixed a salad. Safety in numbers. She opened the door with Denver at her side. Denver grinned at Smitty, wagged his tail, and offered his head for petting. Traitor, she thought. I didn’t tell you that you could like him. “I’ll introduce you to my family,” she said to Smitty. Smitty seemed ill at ease as she made the introductions, then he settled into the chair she indicated at the foot of the table. They were on their second slices of pizza before everyone felt comfortable enough with one another for conversation. “Tell me about your life, Detective Smith,” Mr. Nguyn said in barely-accented English. “Not a lot to tell. I joined the Army just out of high school, against my parents’ wishes. They wanted me to go on to college, but I wasn’t smart enough to listen to them then. I wanted to get on with my life. Had to catch up later.” Mr. Nguyn smiled approvingly. “A soldier?” “For a while. My dad was in the Army, stationed in Germany, where I was born. Guess I got hooked on uniforms. I joined the department after I got out. Been there ever since.” “You must be a brave man,” Mr. Nguyn said. Virginia smiled. Mr. Nguyn had been a decorated officer in the South Vietnam forces and knew more about bravery than any man she’d ever met. “Mr. Nguyn owns a grocery store,” she said. “Oh, it’s only a small store,” her neighbor demurred. “Something for an old man to do other than think about his old man pains. Young people in the store do the hard work.” 105

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“Mr. Nguyn is modest,” Virginia said. “He also owns the strip center where the store is located and several others in this part of town. He is actually a very rich real estate tycoon pretending to be a poor grocer.” “Ah, not so rich,” Mr. Nguyn said. “I buy property cheaply. White people want to sell badly so they can move to where only white people live. They make offers I must take.” Smitty gave Mr. Nguyn a reappraising look. “My grandfather owned a little grocery store in the Fifth Ward. Enjoyed the work. Said it kept him close to the people. He was in local politics.” “Yes, being with the people would be important in that work,” Mr. Nguyn said. “Well, Virginia, thank you for inviting me to dinner. I must go home now and let you get on with your police business. Very nice to meet you, Detective Smith. A delicious pizza you brought us. I shall remember it all night, most likely.” Virginia walked Mr. Nguyn home, leaving Nick and Smitty to clean up in the kitchen. “Thanks for getting Nick’s tux. I forgot about it entirely. I’ll write you a check tomorrow.” “My great pleasure, Virginia. I was reminded of my own youth, getting dressed for the dance, wondering if she would admire me.” “I’m sure she did,” Virginia said. Mr. Nguyn smiled. “Yes, she did.” They reached his front door and he turned and touched her arm. “Life is short, Virginia. So very short.” Virginia gave Mr. Nguyn a hug. “He is a good man, that policeman. He is a good man, Virginia. You should pay attention to your heart. Life is very short.” 106

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TWENTY Monday, May 25, 10:30 a.m.

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bailiff led Janette Fullerton to the defense table. Leo noted that she wore a bewildered expression and the same clothes she had worn when leaving the Concord Hotel Friday evening. He should have Martha Dee check on her wardrobe needs. “You understand, Mrs. Fullerton, that you’re charged with two counts of murder,” Susan Wagoner began. “You have a right—” “For the record, your honor, I’m Leo Zachmann, Mrs. Fullerton’s attorney,” Leo interrupted Wagoner’s recitation. “We waive further reading of her rights.” Wagoner shrugged. “How do you plead?” “Not guilty!” Janette Fullerton declared. “So entered,” said Wagoner. “There’s the matter of bail,” Leo said. “Your honor,” Virginia intoned. “This is murder. Two murders in fact. Bail is inappropriate in this case.” “Mrs. Fullerton is merely the person who found her husband’s body and called it in,” Leo countered. “She is not the killer. The police have jumped to conclusions. Again.” Wagoner stared at Leo over her reading glasses. “Let’s see if I’ve got this right, Mr. Zachmann. She’s not guilty, and you want bail?” 107

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“Yes, your honor,” Leo said, “and an evidentiary hearing.” Wagoner shifted her gaze to Virginia. “And you think this is an open and shut case, that bail should be denied. That it?” “Yes, your honor,” Virginia responded. “We’d like you to set the hearing as soon as possible,” said Leo, “so Mrs. Fullerton can get back to raising her children.” “Right.” Wagoner turned to her clerk. The clerk whispered something. “How about we do it Friday morning at nine. That soon enough, Mr. Zachmann? Ms. Rodriguez can tell us about her case, then we’ll discuss bail. You can have an hour.” “Your honor,” Leo said, “we’ll need several hours.” Wagoner stared reproachfully at Leo, then turned to Virginia. “Friday okay with you, Ms. Rodriguez?” Virginia thumbed through her day planner. “I have a conflict. Thursday is better. We can provide sufficient evidence in thirty minutes to establish probable cause.” “I’m sure thirty minutes is more than sufficient for the prosecution to put on what little evidence they purport to have,” Leo said, “but the defense intends to cross examine the state’s witnesses. For that, we’ll need at least four hours, possibly all day.” Wagoner gave them her schoolteacher frown. “I take it the prosecution and the defense are agreed on Thursday.” She looked at her clerk who nodded okay. “You can have three hours, Mr. Zachmann, nine until noon, then we’ll see if more time is needed.” “About bail, your honor?” Leo queried. “Mrs. Fullerton has no prior offenses, and she has two minor children in need of her care. We beg the court to release her on reasonable bail while we sort things out.” Virginia opened her mouth to argue, but before words were out Wagoner said, “We’ll talk about bail on Thursday morning. See you all then, nine sharp. Next case.” 108

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Leo turned to his client who had tears in her eyes. “I’m sorry, but we both knew bail was a long shot. Do your best to be brave. I’ll do my best to get you out. Deal?” “My children. I need to talk to my mother, make sure they’re okay, that they understand. And Stuart... his funeral.” Leo sighed. “Miranda talked with your mother this morning. She’s concerned about you, but she says the children are fine. They send their love. And your husband’s brother contacted my office. He has requested release of the body from the ME. He said instructions with your husband’s will ask for cremation and a family-only service.” “Oh, my God.” Janette fell back into her chair. A bailiff came toward them. Leo held up a hand and he backed away. Leo sat down next to his client. “I’m sorry. I should have waited to bring this up.” “No,” she said, squaring her shoulders. “Let’s deal with it.” “Just think about what you want me to tell your brotherin-law. I’ll visit with you later and we can talk then. We need to get busy figuring out who did the killings so we can get you out of this mess.” Virginia was repacking her briefcase when Leo approached. “I understand you have results from the gunshot residue tests.” “Why, yes, Leo.” She looked up into his midnight-blue eyes. “We do. I received the report just this morning and was going to fax it over to you. Sounds like my grapevine has already dropped that fruit.” “And?” “You lucked out there, Leo, but lack of one piece of evidence doesn’t mean no evidence.” “Let’s talk about that,” he said. Virginia snapped her case shut. “Schedule it with Wen’s secretary. We’ll meet with him.” 109

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“So he’s pushing you on this one?” said Leo. Virginia glanced around the courtroom and saw a reporter watching them. “Look, we can’t talk here. Schedule the meeting.” Leo lowered his voice. “Would you do something for me?” “What now, Leo?” “Mrs. Fullerton went to a photo shoot at a ladies’ magazine on Friday afternoon. That’s why she had on that cowgirl outfit. She was escorted to and from the magazine by FBI Special Agent Wayne Hargis. Agent Hargis dropped Mrs. Fullerton at the hotel just before she discovered the bodies. He hasn’t been seen since.” “So?” asked Virginia. “So the guy in bed with Fullerton, young Mr. Atkins, was also an FBI agent. Both were assigned to Fullerton for his protection after he got a letter bomb during that Washington sex scandal probe. Hargis stayed in room 1805. Atkins was in 1807. The Fullertons were in 1809. I think that if you’ll check, you’ll find connecting doors between all three rooms.” “So you say, Leo, but I don’t see what that has to do with anything.” “It has to do with a missing witness, Special Agent Hargis, for one thing, and the murder of a cop. So far, all the reports I’ve received from you have to do with rooms 1807 and 1809. Send the cops back out to the hotel and check out 1805.” Leo pulled a note from his pocket. “And here’s the address for the magazine. Send someone to check out Mrs. Fullerton’s alibi while you’re at it. Then find out what Hargis did while she got her picture taken.” Virginia stared at Leo, dumbfounded. “I take it the local Feds didn’t tell you about the missing agent Hargis or that Atkins was one of them,” he said. “Maybe you should ask why. A woman’s liberty is at stake, Virginia. 110

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Two kids need their mother. Conduct a real investigation. Will you do that for me?” Virginia studied Leo’s eyes, looking for some sign that he was lying to her. “How do you know all this?” “I ask questions, and I don’t jump to conclusions. Just check it out. Find out who was on the eighteenth floor Friday afternoon when Fullerton was killed. Find out who was there when the cop was killed. See if any of the same people were there when both killings went down. She’s been set up, Virginia. Check it out.” Leo turned to leave, and Virginia stopped him by a touch to his arm. “The offer is still open. Until Thursday.” “Is that right? Are the terms any better?” “Seven years,” she said. “Minimum three served.” “I’ll tell her,” Leo said. Virginia watched him walk away. By the time the case went to trial, Leo would turn it into a national conspiracy. But if what Leo had just said was true, maybe it was. And maybe it wasn’t. Even if it was, how could the cops have checked out something they didn’t know about? The wife hadn’t given the police a statement, hadn’t claimed she had an alibi, had lawyered-up immediately. Virginia hadn’t seen a connecting door in 1807 Friday night. Nobody had seen it, if there was a door. She only had Leo’s word on that. Why in the world had she given him better terms? Why had she shown her losing hand to the best poker player in town?

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TWENTY-ONE Monday, May 25, 11:30 a.m.

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mitty ran interference to an open elevator car as Virginia made her “no comment” way through reporters. “Buy you lunch?” he asked as the doors closed them inside. She checked her watch. “Let’s find a place nearby.” “How about the salad buffet place in the tunnel?” Virginia considered their options. Beneath downtown Bayou City lay a maze of air-conditioned, shop-lined underground tunnels that provided passage between high-rise office buildings, the only sane answer to a sweltering above-ground climate three-quarters of the year. There were a number of lunch spots, most of which would be much too crowded. The salad bar was probably their best chance for a quick meal. “Here.” She handed Smitty her briefcase as the elevator door opened. “Carry my books.” Smitty’s arm dropped when he took the handle. “What have you got in there, woman? Gold bars?” “A couple of law books with cases on point that I didn’t have time to copy this morning. I wanted to be prepared in case Leo got creative with me. He can go from Dixie revival preacher saving jurors’ souls to Harvard Law scholar in the blink of an eye.” “Yeah,” Smitty said. “He does put on a great show for juries.” “He also does a courtly Southern gentleman act for women judges,” Virginia said as they crossed the street to a building 112

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with access to the tunnel system. “They melt like freshchurned butter on hot biscuits.” “Zachmann? You’ve got to be kidding. He’s not exactly handsome, even for a white guy. He’s at least fifty, maybe sixty, and I doubt he’s seen the inside of a gym in years.” “What’s that got to do with anything?” asked Virginia. “And I thought he was married to that redhead who came with him the other night,” continued Smitty. “She doesn’t look like the kind of woman you’d mess around on.” “She’s his wife, all right. Or maybe I should say he’s Miranda Zachmann’s husband. I don’t think he’s ever looked at another woman, but that doesn’t mean he’s not above charming them.” “What charms women, if you don’t mind me asking?” “It’s not beefy biceps, if that’s what you think. Women want more than a pretty face and bulging muscles. Brains, integrity, and that twinkle in his eyes that says he really likes women as people.” “You telling me that I’m wasting my time working out?” “No,” she said. “It’s probably good for your health.” “But that doesn’t get your attention?” Smitty persisted. “It’s the eyes that get a woman’s attention,” she said as they reached an elevator going down to the tunnel system. It opened up and they squeezed in, halting conversation, staring straight ahead, pretending not to notice any of the other bodies in too close proximity. Virginia tried very hard not to notice Smitty’s body in much too close proximity. They got off the elevator and began the stroll through the tunnel. “A man either has it or he doesn’t,” she added. “It’s in his eyes. That’s what women judges fall for.” “And lady lawyers?” he asked as they reached the restaurant’s out-the-door line. 113

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Virginia met Smitty’s eyes. “Women lawyers, women judges, and women jurors. That’s what I fear most.” “Oh,” he said. She smiled. “You have that woman-friendly look in your eyes, sometimes.” Smitty and Virginia filled their plates at the salad buffet, then found an empty table in the back. The waiter came around to take drink orders and quickly returned with their iced teas. Virginia was ravenous and the fresh baked bread was luscious. She had missed breakfast. Actually, she hadn’t felt like breakfast. She must still have a touch of whatever had made her so sick at the autopsies. Probably food poisoning. She was always grabbing food on the run. She tried to remember if she’d eaten anything with mayonnaise. Mayonnaise and hot weather equaled food poisoning. “Where do you put it?” Smitty asked. “Put what?” “The food. I’ve never seen such a little woman eat so much.” “My hips. It all goes to my hips. By the time I’m fifty, I’ll probably weigh three hundred pounds. You better think about that the next time you think you want to marry me.” “I like big women. You should see my grandma. My mama’s not tiny either, and my dad’s still in love with her.” “Black women look better big than Mexican women do.” “What makes you think my mama and grandma are black?” Virginia put down her fork. She reached across the table and laid her hand beside his. “I guess the color is brown. I assumed they were brown like you.” “You’ve got to stop jumping to conclusions. My dad is black or, by your color scale, medium brown. He has a white 114

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great-grandfather on his maternal side that we know about. There are probably some slavemasters we don’t know about in my pedigree. But my mama is white. Italian. They met when my dad was in the Army.” “I thought you said he was stationed in Germany?” “I did, but soldiers get leave. He traveled in Italy, stayed at a little bed and breakfast run by her parents. The rest is history. Good history. Married forty-five years now.” She considered Smitty’s pedigree. “You get your nose from your mother? I like your nose.” “And my eyes. You also like my woman-friendly eyes. That’s two things you like about me already. Once you get to know me, you’re going to love the rest of me.” Virginia rolled her eyes. “Let’s talk about the case. Let me tell you what Zachmann just told me. He may be bluffing, but even if he is, we need to broaden the investigation.” “Are you always all-business?” “Always,” she said firmly. Smitty smiled. “Not always.” Virginia spent the afternoon reviewing an investigation folder on another case with Claudia Lockhill, an ADA that she supervised. They were discussing trial strategy when Wen’s secretary, Denise Lincoln, buzzed. “He can see you now.” “On my way,” Virginia said. “Is that about the Fullerton case?” Claudia asked. “I can help you on that one. I have time.” Virginia looked at Claudia and wondered why she only felt short around tall women. Even with both of them sitting down, Amazon-sized Claudia was a foot taller than herself. Tall men didn’t make her feel short. Smitty, who was probably six-three, didn’t make her feel short, nor did giant-sized Leo Zachmann. 115

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Virginia stood up so that she was taller than Claudia. “Thank you. I really appreciate your offer, but everything is under control.” If the case went to trial, she’d have to pick one of the ADAs she supervised for second chair, but it wouldn’t be Claudia. She was the last person Virginia needed on a case this sensitive. Claudia was just too ambitious and too sneaky and much too tall. “Okay,” Wen said, “what’s bothering you?” Virginia told him what Leo had said about the missing agent after the arraignment. “Leo telling you something doesn’t make it true. You just need to do a little more work on this one is all. You’ve put an offer on the table. If Zachmann takes it, then we’re done. Let’s be patient and see what happens.” “That’s easy for you to say. She’s the one in jail, and I may have let the cops arrest the wrong person because I was too dog-tired to insist on a real investigation.” “Maybe they arrested the right person,” countered Wen. “There may be a perfectly logical reason why Hargis didn’t stick around. When Graham gets here, share your concerns with him. He has the resources to get this sorted out. If the Justice Department can’t find a missing FBI agent, no one can.” “But, Leo—” “Leo’s job is to get his client off any way he can. All he’s doing is playing that little game of which walnut shell is the pea under? He’s trying to get your attention off the pea.” “Wen, I don’t feel good about this case. Mrs. Fullerton has two children. Their father has just been murdered. Her kids need her. She’s not going to run. She’ll be taking care of her children and we’ll be able to find her. Besides, we’re already offering a minimum sentence if she’ll plead to manslaughter. 116

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Why not just drop the charges now? We can arrest her again if we can build a case.” “If we drop the charges now, it’ll be almost impossible to get a conviction later. And Susan Wagoner isn’t going to fall for any of Leo’s tricks. Let’s proceed on this arrest. If we’ve made a mistake, I’ll be the first to call a press conference and announce it to the world.” Sure you will, Virginia fumed as she hurried back to her office. Wen would be on the courthouse steps telling the world that a mistake had been made, that Virginia Rodriguez had failed to dot her i’s and cross her t’s, that even though the screw up was down in the ranks, he’d take full responsibility and appropriate action to make sure it didn’t happen again, probably by demoting said ADA to prosecuting dog-bite cases. But maybe Wen was right. Maybe the missing agent was on forced leave while the Bureau’s equivalent of Internal Affairs investigated him, just like the IAD was doing with the officer who was ten minutes late showing up to guard room 1807. Maybe Zachmann was just screwing with her mind. Yes, that was it. But then, who had killed Cuellar?

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TWENTY-TWO Monday, May 25, 3:00 p.m.

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eo sat across the table from Janette Fullerton. “The DA’s offer just got a little better,” he said. “Seven years, three behind bars.” She met his eyes and squared her shoulders. “I didn’t kill them, and I’m not saying I did. Absolutely not! Not ever!.” Leo shrugged. “Then let’s get to work.” “I’ve told you all I know,” she said. “Let’s talk about other things for a while. Sometimes people remember important things when they’re talking about other things.” “What other things?” “The prosecution will try to make their case on motive. With a gun and you there, they have means and opportunity, but their physical evidence is a little iffy. The DA is offering a plea because they know their case is shaky and that with the right jury you could walk. If we turn them down, they’ll work harder and try to prove you planned it. Which brings us to the Three-M Proposition.” “Three-M Proposition?” “Motive for Murder is Money. Three M’s. Eight times out of ten, one way or another, people kill for money or some kind of property. The other twenty percent are teenagers who kill for fun because they think they’re in a video game, or drunks who knife each other in barroom brawls, or spouses who kill 118

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for good cause. A spouse killing for good cause is the case the DA thinks they have now, probably the reason they offered you a deal. But if you turn down the offer, they’ll look deeper to see if you had another motive. The first place they’ll look is your finances. There’s no easy way to ask this, so I’ll be blunt. How much do you get as a result of your husband’s death?” Anger flashed in her eyes. “I didn’t kill them!” “I believe you,” Leo said calmly. “But this isn’t about what you did or what I believe. It’s about figuring out what the prosecution will base their case on and figuring out how we’ll defeat each of their possible theories. You with me so far?” “I had forgotten. Their argument, our counter-argument, and the lawyer who contributed most to the judge’s election fund wins.” “Sometimes, and sometimes the truth sets you free. You’re a lawyer. Start thinking like one. Help me help you.” She glared at Leo. “You going to be cross with me or you going to help me?” Janette shrugged. “What do you want to know?” “Let’s talk about money.” She smiled wryly. “The children will receive a million each in life insurance proceeds, payable to trust funds. Under Stuart’s will, I’m trustee of those funds, although his brother is the executor of his estate. I’m not a beneficiary of Stuart’s insurance, but his half of our joint property, another two million or so, will pass to me. The other half is already mine.” “Hmm.” Two million direct and the trustee of two million more would sound like a Three-M reason to most jurors, thought Leo. “Hmm, yourself,” she said. “You probably haven’t completed your background investigation on me.”

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“No, just started,” admitted Leo. “We’ve spent this weekend trying to figure out what evidence the police have that would make the prosecution’s case and what might prove you didn’t do it.” “What do they have?” she asked. “We’ll talk about that in a minute. Let’s stay with motive.” She sighed. “The money that I’ll control as a result of Stuart’s death is just small change. I have a substantial estate that’s my separate property. My stepfather has been very generous. He established a trust fund for me when he married my mother, added to it over the years, and his lawyers drafted an ironclad premarital agreement before each of my marriages. He’s also established substantial trusts for my children. But we’ve always lived within Stuart’s income, which was adequate for the kind of life we wanted. We didn’t want our children growing up spoiled rich kids, thinking the world owed them anything.” “I see,” said Leo. “The truth is, Stuart married me for my family connections. My money was a bonus. But I was too foolish to realize it then.” “When did you decide this?” Leo focused on the yellow freckles in her blue eyes. She was no longer the distraught widow of their previous meetings. Mrs. Fullerton had decided to get on with her life, or maybe she was just through acting the grieving widow. “Last night,” she said. “I went over our entire marriage in my mind. Things I tried to ignore while I played supermom, things that didn’t make sense before but do now.” Her shoulders sagged, and she looked down at her hands. “I can’t believe I was a fool for so long. I should have known, and if I had known, I might have killed him.” 120

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“I don’t think that’s something we’ll want to tell the jury.” She breathed deeply, then met Leo’s eyes. “I don’t suppose it is. Ask your questions, Mr. Zachmann. I’ll give you honest answers, then we’ll decide what to tell the jury.” Leo delved into the Fullerton marriage. No, she’d never had any reason to suspect her husband might be gay or unfaithful. He worked with other lawyers, other men, closely. He worked long hours, but that’s what lawyers do. Except he’d been more distant the past year. At first, she thought it was depression because of his fall from grace after the Washington sex scandal imploded. He came out of that funk when he started the new investigation. She never thought the long hours he’d been working with Atkins could be anything more than just the normal intense work level at the start of any new case. Stuart had worked in Washington until a couple of months ago—late March or thereabouts. She’d come down for a few days about a month ago to visit and shop and again last week for the magazine photo shoot. Leo moved on to Fullerton’s Bayou City investigation. “Who or what was he investigating?” “I don’t know,” she said as she had the previous time he’d ask. “Something to do with campaign financing and corporate mergers. It sounded dull. I didn’t pay attention.” Leo scooted his chair back and stood up. She had looked him in the eyes and lied. He was sure of it. There was no reason to continue until he knew why. “Okay. I guess that about does it for now.” She was evading the truth on this point, the point that could lead to the killer. A federal probe into campaign financing could make big-monied people run scared. Maybe some politicians had been paid off to enable federal approval of some corporate profit-enhancing deal and wanted to make 121

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sure the facts didn’t come out. What politicians? What corporation? What deal? “I’ll be back tomorrow to talk about this again,” Leo said at the door. “Any messages for your children?” “Tell them I love them, and tell my brother-in-law... tell him I didn’t kill Stuart. Ask him to please wait a week for Stuart’s memorial service. You might get me out by then.” Leo nodded, then pushed the button for the guard. “What are your other reasons for murder?” she asked. He turned around. “Power trips and insanity. I guess they’re one and the same.” “I suppose they are,” she said. Leo held up his hand to the guard outside to stop her from opening the door, then asked a question of his own. “What’s Wayne Hargis’ cell phone number?” Janette looked at him, surprised. “Why?” “He’s our missing link,” said Leo. “If we had the number, we might track him down.” “I don’t remember,” she said. Another lie? Leo wondered as he left Mrs. Fullerton in the care of the county jail. Walking to his truck, he pondered the situation. Mrs. Fullerton knew exactly what her husband was working on, but she wasn’t talking. Which meant she was trying to protect someone. Who would Mrs. Fullerton want to protect more than herself? A lover, perhaps? The missing special agent?

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TWENTY-THREE Monday, May 25, 3:30 p.m.

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mitty entered room 1805, locked the door behind him, then glanced around. How about that? Zachmann wasn’t lying. There was a connecting door to 1807. He started to open it, then thought better. He’d wait until they took prints from the door. The day manager had said a maid cleaned Sunday morning. Likely all trace evidence was long gone, but there might still be something. He left 1805 and let himself into 1807. Sure enough, a mirror-covered the entire door and there was no way to open it on the 1807 side. No door knob, no key holes, and no wonder they had missed it, since most of the time their backs had been against it as they focused on the bodies and blood on the bed. It was a mistake he shouldn’t have made, but a mistake everyone else had made as well. And all he could do now was make sure they didn’t make any more mistakes. Smitty pulled his cell phone from his pocket and punched in numbers. “Charlie, this is Smitty. I’m at the Concord on the Fullerton case. Send lab people over. We need to check out room 1805 as well as 1807 and 1809 again. And would you see if any keycards showed up in the evidence logs for any of the three rooms?” He listened to Charlie’s grumbling a minute, then added, “Soon as you can. I’ll be in 1805. Don’t make me wait long.” 123

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Smitty returned to 1805 and started to pick up the remote to watch television while he waited for the CSU. No, he thought, might still have a print or two on it. And no sense snooping around in the room until the lab people showed up. Tramping around was a good way to destroy evidence. But touching the television buttons probably wouldn’t hurt. Smitty pushed the numbers for the sports channel. Tennis. Not bad to play, but the most boring sport you could watch on television. Except for golf. He switched to a news channel. The Fullerton case was the major item. Guys who worried about politicians’ sex lives last year now worried about Fullerton’s alternative lifestyle—whether his sexual orientation had been the impetus for his investigations into the heterosexual lifestyles of Washington politicians. A commentator wondered whether Zachmann could make a temporary insanity defense work for the widow. Another remarked on what was apparently old news from Sunday’s political talk shows, but new news to Smitty—Texas’ former senator Harry Dunn was Janette Fullerton’s father. She had been raised by the ex-wife who divorced Dunn forty-some years ago and had grown up using her stepfather’s last name. Fancy that. A Senator’s daughter. And, as far as he knew, the good Senator hadn’t shown up making a stink to get his baby girl released. One had to wonder why? Must be some real bad blood in that family. Deciding his time could be put to better use, Smitty turned off the TV and looked around for a place to sit. A recliner disguised as a wingback chair looked to be the best choice. The lab people could vacuum him down for any trace evidence he might pick up. He folded himself into the chair. Extending the footrest, he settled in to wait.

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*** A knock at the door woke Smitty. He looked at his watch— 4:15 p.m. Good thing he wasn’t in any hurry. “What now?” the crime lab tech asked as she entered the room. “Didn’t we do this place over the weekend?” Mid-thirties, short, dark blond hair, pale blue eyes, Liz Something-or-other was one of the lab people who had worked Friday night and Saturday morning. Smitty had never seen the guy with her before. Late thirties to early forties, tall, dark brown hair. Odd eyes. Yellowish-shade of brown. Looked anxious, like he might be new on the job, thought Smitty. “You did the murder room next door.” Liz scanned the room. “They all look alike after a while. What are we doing here?” “Checking out a hunch,” Smitty said. “A hunch? We’re here on a hunch? I don’t pick up my kids by six, I have to pay overtime at daycare. For a hunch?” “Sorry about that,” Smitty said. “What do you want done?” Liz asked, resigned. “The works. Prints on doorknobs, remote control, drawer fronts, anywhere a maid might leave untouched. Go through the room with a magnifying glass, look for hair, fingernail and toenail clippings, laundry tags, chewing gum, anything we might get a print or DNA reading from. Call in the electronics guys. Have them sweep the room and look for signs that bugs might have been here and removed—walls, ceilings, furniture, outlets, everywhere. Do the same for 1807 and 1809, again.” “We’ll be here until midnight,” Liz grumbled as she pulled a cell phone from a back pocket of her jeans. “I’d better call my mother. Maybe she can pick up my kids.” “What are you looking for?” the dark-haired guy asked. Smitty offered his hand. “Don’t believe we’ve met.” 125

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“His name is Frank Rosetta,” Liz answered for him. “He’s on loan from the FBI.” “Is that so?” Smitty wondered why no one had told him. “Yeah,” Rosetta said, standing tall but giving Smitty a limp hand shake. “We can take it from here if you have something else you need to do.” “Not a thing, Frank. Not a thing. I’ll just sit over there in that nice recliner and watch while you guys work.”

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TWENTY-FOUR Monday, May 25, 4:00 p.m.

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he walls of the women’s magazine reminded Jerry of the “Home with the Armadillo” song. There they were, bigger than life, prettiest women he’d ever seen, giving him come-hither looks. Jerry heard throat-clearing and turned around. For a moment, he thought one of the cover photos had come to life. A tall, gorgeous, Yellow Rose sister said, “See anything you like?’ “I’ll take one of each,” he replied. “They’re for looking, not for purchase.” “Too bad,” he said. “Is there anything else I can help you with?” Jerry bit his tongue, but he saw from the amusement in her eyes that she’d read his naughty thought. “I work for Leo Zachmann, Mrs. Fullerton’s lawyer. Maybe you saw the news this weekend.” “Yes?” “Mrs. Fullerton said she was here for a photo shoot for a magazine article on Friday afternoon. Can you confirm that?” “Do you have any identification?” “Sorry. Here’s my card. I’m Jerry Thibideau.” She looked the card over carefully. “Anyone can have business cards printed. Do you have a driver’s license?” Smart girl, Jerry thought as he removed his wallet from a hip pocket and opened it. “My driver’s license and my private investigator’s license. That ugly dude in those pictures is me.” 127

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She looked at the IDs and then at his face. “You’ll have to speak to Mr. Cartwright. Let me see if he’s available.” Jerry sighed as she left the room, then turned his attention to the remaining pretty women. Minutes later, Yellow Rose returned with a short, tubby white guy with a Santa beard. Jerry extended his hand. “Mr. Cartwright?” Santa ignored Jerry’s hand. “Come with me, please,” he said without Santa’s twinkle in his eyes and led Jerry down a hallway lined with photos of still more cover girls. Cartwright’s office was done up in imitation oriental rug on the floor, miniblinds on the windows, and furniture made of pressed sawdust to look like Mexican antiques. “You were asking about Mrs. Fullerton?” Cartwright said. “She’s a client of my law firm, represented by Leo Zachmann. We’re hoping to verify her alibi for Friday afternoon. She says she was here. Can anyone confirm that?” Cartwright eyed Jerry curiously. “Guess it would be difficult for her if we couldn’t, wouldn’t it?” “Perhaps.” Jerry wondered whether honesty had been the right approach with Cartwright. “Was she here?” “Oh, I’m sure she was here during the afternoon. Whether that provides an alibi or not, I couldn’t say.” “If you’ll tell me the time she was here, I’ll tell you whether or not it helps our case or the prosecution’s case,” offered Jerry. Cartwright pulled a sheet of paper from a file folder on his desk. “She signed in at 1:30 p.m. She left at 3:40. Who wins?” “What’s that?” asked Jerry, pointing to the piece of paper. “The photographer’s time sheet. We keep very precise records around here. He’s free-lance, has his own shop. Comes in for special assignments. I can give you his phone number and address, but you didn’t answer my question.” Jerry smiled. “I can’t say who will win, but you’ve been very helpful, especially if other people can confirm she was here.” 128

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“Will they be called as a witnesses? I mean, at the trial. There will be a lot of publicity, don’t you think?” So that was Cartwright’s game. He wanted to be a TV star. “That’s a possibility. Who should I talk to?” “Myself, of course. I always meet our feature article people so that I can make sure the story write-up accurately reflects the individual. Writers slant things. I make sure it’s error free.” “I’m sure you are essential to the production of such a wonderful magazine, Mr. Cartwright,” Jerry said. “And you could be very important to our case. What time did you meet with Mrs. Fullerton?” Cartwright smiled broadly, just like he was already in front of television cameras. “One-thirty-three exactly. I was working under deadline to get next month’s issue to the printer. I looked at the clock when Telia brought her into my office. Mrs. Fullerton and I spoke briefly. Then Telia led her back to the photographer.” “Telia?” asked Jerry. “The young lady in the waiting area. Telia Richmond.” “Ah, yes,” Jerry said. “I suppose I need to talk with her.” “Please do.” “Do you recall what you spoke about?” “Oh, it was just ‘How are you, Mrs. Fullerton, we’re so glad you’re participating in our December issue,’ and her saying, ‘Happy to do it.’ That kind of thing. Just a couple of minutes of chitchat.” “Do you remember when Mrs. Fullerton left?” “No, but the photographer and Telia will. Mrs. Fullerton was still here when I left. As I said, I had to get copy to the printers by four, so I left at 3:15. You can’t believe how deadline driven this job is. People think being an editor is easy. Well, it’s not.” 129

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“I’m sure it’s not,” Jerry said. “Do you happen to recall the gentleman who came with Mrs. Fullerton?” “Oh, yes. I don’t think we were introduced, but I did notice him. He waited at the door while I chatted with her.” “Can you describe him?” “Certainly. Tall, not as tall as you. Perhaps six-three. Late thirties, perhaps forty. And white, of course.” “Of course,” Jerry said. “Any distinguishing characteristics? Any scars? A mustache? Eye color?” “No, not really. Clean shaven, even features. Ash blond hair and really piercing blue eyes. Not exactly handsome, but commanding, if you know what I mean. He looked like he could hold his own in a bar fight, as these Texans say.” “I don’t have a picture with me at the moment,” Jerry said, “but when I get one, I’d like to come back and have you take a look at it, see if it’s the man who came with Mrs. Fullerton.” “Surely she can tell you who came with her.” “Yes, she has,” answered Jerry. “We know the man’s name, but he seems to be missing. We need to establish his whereabouts Friday afternoon through eye witnesses other than Mrs. Fullerton.” “Then you should talk with Telia. She was in the lobby all afternoon because we had several ladies coming in for the December issue photo shoot. We greet each of our ladies personally. Make them feel welcome so that they’ll be relaxed during their session. Telia can tell you who was here.” “I’ll talk with Telia, and thank you for your time. You’re doing a wonderful job. Your magazine is outstanding. I wouldn’t miss an issue. In fact, my wife just got us a lifetime subscription.” “Why, thank you.” Santa’s twinkle lit up Cartwright’s eyes. “That’s always nice to hear.” 130

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“Oh,” asked Jerry, “just as a matter of curiosity. Will you still do your article on Mrs. Fullerton? I mean, after all the notoriety?” “Why, certainly,” said Santa. “Notoriety increases sales. In fact, we’re moving the article up to the August issue while the murder is still on everyone’s mind. That will be costly, but I’m sure it will be worth the investment. By the way, when will the case go to trial?” “August,” said Jerry, giving Cartwright the answer he obviously wanted. “Is the article about Mrs. Fullerton already written?” “In draft. I’ll start editing it as soon as I get the July issue put to bed. We’ll add a blurb about her husband’s murder and her arrest. Nothing libelous, I can assure you. Oh, do you think Mr. Zachmann would let us photograph him in his office? You know, just to add some spice to the story? We would just mention that he’s her attorney, give a brief bio on him, his important cases, that sort of thing, nothing that would compromise the trial, of course.” “I’ll run it by him,” said Jerry. “Is there any way I could get an advance copy of that article?” “Well...” “It won’t go any further than our case file,” said Jerry. “Mr. Zachmann will want to see it before he commits to an interview.” “Well, if you promise to keep it under wraps. We don’t want anyone scooping our story.” “Neither do we,” said Jerry. “By the way, can I get a copy of that timesheet?” “Certainly.” Cartwright picked up the file. “I’ll have Telia make you a copy.” Then he patted Jerry on the arm like he was his new best friend and led him back to the front desk. 131

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“Please cooperate fully with Mr. Thibideau,” Cartwright told Telia when they reached the reception area. “Make a copy of this timesheet, the Fullerton article, and anything else he needs.” Telia nodded, then busied herself at the copier behind her desk. When Cartwright was out of earshot, she turned back to Jerry. “What else do you need?” “What time do you get off,” slipped from Jerry’s lips. “Could we talk over a drink while I figure it out?” She smiled. “I’ll meet you at The Club, down the street, at five.”

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TWENTY-FIVE Monday, May 25, 7:30 p.m.

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irginia was clearing the dinner table when the doorbell rang. “Can you get that?” she asked Nick who stood in front of the microwave waiting for popcorn to finish popping. Nick rolled his eyes at her, then headed for the front door. She heard him say, “Guess you’re here to see Mom.” She stepped into the entrance hall to see who it was. “I wanted to report on what we found in 1805 and some other stuff,” Smitty said. “Got a minute?” “Let’s talk while I finish the dishes.” She returned to the kitchen. Nick and Smitty followed. Smitty stood awkwardly in the kitchen doorway while Nick went to the microwave to remove the bag. Virginia glanced at Smitty, then pointed to his chair at the kitchen table. “Have a seat. Nick, fix some popcorn for Detective Smith, please. Get him something to drink?” Nick sighed an exaggerated put-upon sigh, then placed another bag in the microwave and emptied the first one into a bowl. Smitty took his place at the foot of the table. Denver followed and tendered his head so Smitty could rub his ears. “I hear you’re about to graduate,” Smitty said to Nick. “Took my last exam today,” Nick answered without turning around. “Only thing left is commencement Thursday night.” “Bet you’re glad of that.” 133

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“Yeah. Mom and me are heading to the Valley Friday morning,” he said, emphasizing the “Mom and me.” “I’m spending the summer at my uncle’s ranch, helping him and my cousins with stock branding, stuff like that.” “Sounds like fun,” said Smitty. Nick shrugged, then gave Smitty a quick look. “Lots of work, but fun.” “So where are you going to college?” “Texas A&M.” With a glance at his mother, Nick added, “I think I’ll study animal science. I want to be a rancher, like my uncle. Mom thinks I should study engineering.” “Engineering?” Smitty shot Virginia a questioning glance. She shrugged. “Yeah.” Nick handed Smitty the bowl of popcorn. “Mom says it’s steady work and the pay is a lot better than ranching, don’t you, Mom?” Smitty smiled at Virginia. “Is that what you say? I’d have thought you’d want him to study law. Lawyers do okay.” “I wouldn’t wish a legal career on my worst enemy,” she muttered. “Want a soda?” Nick asked. “Sure.” Nick pulled a can from the refrigerator and tossed it to Smitty. “Thanks,” said Smitty. “You’ve got a good arm.” Nick gave Smitty a tentative smile, then poured himself a glass of milk. He pulled the second bag of popcorn out of the microwave. “I’ll get back to my show,” he said with an exit wave of the bag. “Take care,” Smitty called. Denver whimpered a good-bye to Smitty and followed Nick to the living room. 134

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Virginia wiped her hands on a dish towel and came over to the table, staring at Smitty, saying nothing. She sat down and continued to stare at him, eyebrows raised. “What?” Smitty asked. “What did I do?” “What are you doing here?” she asked. “I told you. I need to talk to you about the case.” “Why didn’t you phone?” “Because I wanted to talk to you in person.” “So talk.” “He’s a great kid, Virginia,” Smitty said, holding the can over the table to open it. “Thanks.” She tossed him the dish towel to wipe up the spewing soda. “About the case?” “You are a cold, heartless woman, Virginia Rodriguez. A cold, heartless, all-business woman, but I’m going to change that.” Virginia rolled her eyes. “Just tell me what you found.” “First, let me tell you what I didn’t find,” Smitty said. “Okay,” said Virginia with a sigh. “What didn’t you find?” “We have the hotel security tapes for Friday night, except for where cameras were out, but every single one of the tapes for the eighteenth floor from noon until four Friday afternoon are missing. Every single one. So are the lobby and elevator tapes.” She’d have to check the file, but Virginia distinctly remembered the hotel desk clerk’s statement. Janette Fullerton called for help at 3:48 p.m. By four, a hotel security guard was with her. If the tapes were missing, the wife hadn’t taken them, and the hotel’s security room was unguarded during that time. Virginia mentally delivered Zachmann’s conspiracy-theory jury argument: Now, ladies and gentlemen, why is it the police have tapes in the morning and tapes in the evening but no tapes for the afternoon when the murders were happening? “What did you find?” she asked. 135

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“Hair—in the bath of 1805. Two strands of synthetic hair, like from a wig—short, brown. Also a few strands of blond natural hair, and a small rubber thing with theatrical glue attached. And blood spots. Two spots, on the baseboard and carpet just outside 1805. If it’s Cuellar’s, that might mean he was killed at the door of 1805 and moved to 1807. The lab is running DNA now.” “Is that all?” “No. A few prints. Hargis’ prints and a few unidentifieds. You’d expect to find his prints in 1805. Others are probably the maid’s.” “Did any unidentifieds match any unidentifieds in 1807?” “As a matter of fact,” said Smitty, “a couple of the same ones were found in all three rooms. Likely it’s cleaning people. We’ll run prints on any we can gather up. Most are probably illegals who will scatter just as soon as they hear we’re checking them out.” Virginia shrugged. Illegals—the invisible people. The cops wouldn’t bother looking. “What else?” “We found a bug.” “A bug?” she repeated. “Exactly like the ones Mrs. Zachmann found in 1809.” “Where?” “At the base of the headboard in 1807.” “I thought your people checked that room Saturday.” “They did, but they missed that bug. Probably didn’t want to get near the gory mattress, and they conducted their sweep Saturday while lab people were working on Miguel Cuellar’s murder. Lots of people in those room with beepers and cell phones. That can mess up signals on their meters. Whatever, they missed it.” “We have to think about what this means,” said Virginia. 136

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“There’s one more thing,” said Smitty. “A partial print of Hargis was on this little bug.” “Have you located him yet?” Virginia asked. “No, but I’ve talked with the FBI. You remember the guy with red hair who showed up as you were leaving with Mrs. Fullerton? His name is Robert King. The other two are Jim Penny, the white guy, and Sam Martin, the black guy. Anyway, Special Agent King told me Hargis’ whereabouts were none of our business, to stay out of the FBI’s investigation.” “What did you say?” “Can’t repeat it,” Smitty said. “Women are present.” “What about the security tapes for when Cuellar was killed?” “Those we have, but there are gaps—on the elevator and part of the eighteenth floor. We’ve identified two possibilities, though.” “I want to look at the tapes,” she said. “I figured you might. You have a VCR?” “Let me evict Nick from the living room. Oh, one more thing. Make sure the crime labs goes over Cuellar’s clothing for trace—fibers, hairs, the works. And you’ll need to have everyone at the hotel take a look at the tapes to see if they can identify anyone.” Smitty sighed. “When are you going to trust me? The lab people are looking at Cuellar’s clothing. We got people showing hotel staff photos from the Friday night tapes. I’m going to the hotel in the morning to search for the missing tapes and to pick up printouts of the room records on all three rooms, then I’ll go over to that women’s magazine. Trust me, I have it covered.” “I’m sorry, Smitty. Trust is hard for me.” “Let’s work on that,” he said. “My next New Year’s resolution,” she said. “I promise.” 137

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“Oh, no!” Smitty pulled his cell phone from a pocket. “What?” He punched some numbers. “It just occurred to me that I’d better make sure our lab holds onto all the evidence.” “Is there a problem?” “An FBI guy showed up with our lab tech—you know, the gal who was there Friday night, Liz What’s-her-name.” “Liz Mezisky. What’s the problem?” “The FBI might not want to see their dirty linen in our evidence files. I doubt they’ll give back anything they get.” “I’m not the only one with a trust problem,” Virginia said. “You’re the only one with an irrational trust problem. You don’t trust the other professionals on your team. You don’t even trust the man who loves you.” “Once burned, twice shy, they say.” “When are we going to talk about that?” he asked. “Never.” “Never?” “Never,” repeated Virginia. “And do a complete background check on Mrs. Fullerton. If we’re going down this rabbit trail, we need to include all possible suspects, not just the missing agent.” “I guess you already know she’s Senator Dunn’s daughter.” “What?” “It was on one of those Sunday morning news shows. It’s been a matter of public discussion ever since.” Virginia rolled her eyes. She’d picked a fine time to tune out. Between Cuellar’s murder and the autopsies on Saturday, house cleaning and shopping on Sunday, and the arraignment and supervising baby ADAs on their cases today, she hadn’t caught the news since Friday night. If anyone else in the office had, they hadn’t bothered to inform her. 138

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TWENTY-SIX Monday, May 25, 10:15 p.m.

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iranda had not come home from her dinner meeting with a prospective client nor had she called, so Leo worried. He was trying to keep himself entertained by simultaneously reading The Grapes of Wrath and watching a television sitcom about assorted-gender, twenty-somethings sharing a New York City apartment and looking for love in all the wrong places. The rare, as-new, inscribed-first-edition Steinbeck and its companion “reading copy” were another early fifty-fifth birthday present from Miranda, as if he needed to be reminded of the next notch on his belt of life. Maybe the last notch. He was now officially too old to die young, even though he didn’t consider fifty-five old anymore. But he was the same age his father had been when he’d died much too young. One day his father was the biggest and most vigorous man in Leo’s life; the next day he was dead from a heart attack. Now that Leo was the same age, every little twinge in his chest or shoulder or arm set him to wondering if it was his first notice of the big one. Damn heredity! Why did Miranda have to make such a big deal out of birthdays anyway? Every opportunity to remind people they were mortal, she took. A month ahead, she’d start with the presents. And gifts he couldn’t use. Well, maybe he could use the fancy new truck, but the real Steinbeck was too rare, too precious to have its pages touched by human hands, and the 139

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print in the paperback reading copy was so small he kept losing his place. Giving up on the starving Joads, Leo tried once more to understand what the emaciated young actors were saying over the loud laugh track. He punched the button to mute the noise. “Enough of that,” he muttered just as the phone rang. He picked up the receiver, hoping it would be Miranda and not another one of those junk phone calls trying to sell him bottled water or carpet cleaning or a pre-need funeral. An unlisted number didn’t stop them. Even the “do not call list” didn’t stop them. Nothing stopped them. “What?” he barked, mad at the idea of a pre-need funeral, even madder that Miranda hadn’t called before now. “Did I catch you at a bad time?” Jerry asked. “Thought you were selling something.” “Didn’t mean to tee you off.” “It’s not you. Miranda gave me another early birthday present. Thought she was done when she gave me that fancy pickup truck.” “Presents upset you? Remind me not to give you anything.” “Consider yourself reminded. What did you find out?” “Good news and bad news,” said Jerry. “The bad news?” “The hotel security tapes for Friday afternoon are missing.” “Hmm,” said Leo. “I guess if they don’t turn up, we’ve got a great big ‘why not’ question for the jury, don’t we?” “The good news is, Mrs. Fullerton didn’t have time to rip them off. If they’re gone, somebody else did it.” “How’s that?” “Mrs. Fullerton’s camera shoot lasted until 3:40 p.m. It takes almost ten minutes speed-limit driving to get back to the Concord Hotel. Hargis moved like lighting if he dropped her 140

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off in time for her to call the hotel operator about her husband being dead at 3:48 p.m. She moved awfully fast too. Didn’t have time to do anything but walk into the room, turn around, and dial the phone.” “Virginia will argue that it only takes a moment to squeeze a trigger,” Leo said. “Had to have been a pretty quick moment,” said Jerry. “But Hargis had plenty of time. The people at the magazine say he brought Mrs. Fullerton into their building and saw her back to the editor at 1:30. Then he took off, showed back up at 3:35 and chatted up the receptionist until Mrs. Fullerton finished at 3:40. Receptionist wasn’t impressed.” “Is she guessing, or does she have a precise recall of the time?” “Precise. Everybody who came or went Friday is on a signin sheet. There’s a big digital clock by her desk. They sign, she fills in the time. The editor, a guy by the name of Cartwright who wants to be your star witness at trial, remembers speaking with her at 1:33. I have a copy of the photographer’s time sheet which says she was with him until 3:40, and he verified that she was there the whole time.” “Window of opportunity for Hargis.” Leo smiled broadly, wondering how he could go about proving the clocks at the magazine were set the same as the hotel and police clocks if Virginia raised the issue. “A nice big picture window of opportunity,” agreed Jerry, “compared with Mrs. Fullerton’s tiny bathroom window.” “Great work,” Leo said. “Does that entitle me to a raise or something?” “I think we can come up with enough of a bonus that Delphene can get you a new couch for your pool-house office.” “That’ll make her happy. Now, if I were to come up with a recent snapshot of this Hargis fellow and get a positive ID from the magazine’s receptionist, what would that be worth?” 141

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“How about season tickets to the Astros games, you and me, best seats.” “I need a new car,” said Jerry. “Car, too, if you can pin this one down,” answered Leo. “Order the car and the tickets,” said Jerry. “I have a positive ID on Hargis and a bootleg copy of the Concord security videos for Friday night.” “How did you get a photo of Hargis?” “The PD ran driver’s license checks with the other states and came up with the photos of several Wayne Hargises. I managed to get copies—don’t ask how—and showed them to the receptionist at the magazine. She identified a Wayne Hargis from a DC suburb.” “What color do you want on the new car?” asked Leo. “Something that will blend in around Bayou City.” “I’ll tell Martha Dee to choose,” said Leo. “Oh, your Joe San Marcos called me today. What do you want me to do with him?” “See if you can make a private-eye out of him. After you pick up your new car, give him the old one and put him to work tailing FBI agents. Let’s see if he’s smart enough not to get caught.” “One more thing,” said Jerry. “What?” “I got an advance copy of the article on Janette Fullerton that the magazine plans on running.” “Anything worth reading?” Leo asked. “No, just gives her sexist philosophy. She gave up the practice of law to raise children, thinks women ought to stay home with their kids. Nobody asked her if that applied to her maid. It doesn’t mention that her real daddy is Senator Dunn. The magazine editor, Cartwright, is not going to be happy that he’s been scooped.” 142

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“What surprises me is that no one found out about the Dunn-Fullerton relationship when Dunn was head cheerleader for the Washington sex scandal inquiries.” “Guess the press were more concerned with zipper problems then,” said Jerry. “When she was arrested, some energetic reporter ran her bio all the way back to her birth certificate.” “I guess,” said Leo. “See you in the morning.” He looked at the clock as he hung up the phone. Almost eleven o’clock. Where the hell was Miranda?

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TWENTY-SEVEN Tuesday, May 26, 8:30 a.m.

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an Marcos was wowing at the freeway view from Jerry’s office. “That’s nothing,” Jerry bragged. “You ought to see the views from Zachmann’s office. Downtown skyline.” “What do I do first?” Joe asked. “You tag along with me. I have a new car on order that we need to pick up today, then you can use my old one. I have a few small projects you can work on to get familiar with how we do things around here.” “Whatever you say, Boss.” “Boss?” said Jerry. “Good, I like that.” “Whatever you say, Boss.” “I don’t like it that much. Make it Jerry. What I need are your social security and driver’s license numbers.” “Why?” “To run a check on you, find out if we can trust you with a company car and credit cards.” “Credit cards?” “Yeah, to cover business expenses.” “You got it, Jerry.” “While I run you through the computer, you can visit with Martha Dee Wilkerson. She’s that blonde lady at the desk outside Zachmann’s office, down the hall. You go see Martha Dee. She’ll take you to personnel to sign up for benefits.” “Benefits?” 144

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“Yeah. Medical plan, life insurance at double your salary, and they match your retirement savings, dollar for dollar. Plus you get three weeks vacation after the first year.” “Jerry, I want to tell you something. There’s a day when the angels come and sit on your shoulders and bless you. I think my day was Sunday afternoon when Mr. Zachmann showed up at my desk downstairs. I’ve never had a job with real benefits before.” “You do now, unless you mess up. Zachmann is an easygoing guy, unless you blow an assignment or get sassy. I’d advise against screwing up or getting sassy.” “Man, you gotta believe, I’m gonna be smart every day for the rest of my life.” “That’s good. But there are a few rules. First, the zipper rule—no messing around with the women who work here. No looking, no touching, no chatting them up. Second, always let somebody know where you can be reached. You’ll have a cell phone and a beeper and you need to make sure they’re always working. Things come up in a hurry. A good part of your job is jumping when somebody needs a jumper. Three, anytime you need help with anything, ask. No penalty for not knowing, but it’s your head for assuming and screwing up. Four... Four is whatever I say four is. Now, go see Martha Dee. She’ll set you up with a desk and the other stuff you’ll need.” After Joe left, Jerry went to work searching online databases, first for Joe San Marcos’ history, then to gather the information he’d told Leo that he would have on Janette Fullerton this morning. San Marcos came up clean. Graduated high school. Grades and sports not good enough for a scholarship, so no college. Two years in the Army instead. An assortment of jobs for another few years. Past five years with the security company. 145

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Reasonable credit rating, no bankruptcies, no judgments, no police record. A few phone calls to past employers and Jerry would know for sure if he had a permanent helper. For now, Joe looked good. Twenty-eight years old, unmarried, and he didn’t live with anybody. He ought to be free for the night snooping that Jerry was getting too old to do. Then Jerry started on Janette Fullerton’s background check. She was in good standing with her state bar, although currently inactive. Her legal-directory bio said she was something of a scholar—law review, top of class, a court clerkship before she went to work in Fullerton’s law firm. But today’s question was—who was she between getting born and becoming a lawyer? Jerry searched using Janette’s mother’s name and the phone number that she’d given Miranda. One of the Internet databases provided her mother’s home address. A marketing database said her neighborhood contained people with the top income in the United States. Thirty minutes later, Jerry had leapfrogged from one commercial database to another and knew Janette’s stepfather was a wealthy businessman whose politics were diametrically opposed to her father’s politics. Interesting. One thing was certain—if Mrs. Fullerton had murdered her husband and his lover, her motive wasn’t money. Janette Fullerton was one very rich lady, an American Blue Blood. Her mother and stepfather had summer, fall, winter, and spring homes across the globe. And apparently, other than an early divorce from a guy she’d married in college, Janette Fullerton had lived an unblemished life. The only intriguing thing was, how had her mother ever hooked up with Texas’ own country-boy-turned-Senator Harry Dunn? Intriguing, but probably not relevant. Probably just another ill-fated college romance. 146

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TWENTY-EIGHT Tuesday, May 26, 8:30 a.m.

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iranda and Leo had coffee in bed while the morning “news” show droned on about Mrs. Fullerton’s family relationships and her probable guilt. Virginia and Leo were both chided for being too closed-mouthed. It seemed to be driving the news people crazy. At least, thought Leo, it gave them something to talk about besides interviews with celebrities about coming movies. “How is Janette holding up?” Miranda asked. “I plan to call her mother this morning. I’m sure she’ll want to know.” “Good.” Leo continued to stare at the TV. He was still miffed that Miranda had stayed out past midnight without calling to let him know she was okay. He hadn’t been able to sleep for worrying that she was the victim of a carjacker or that the FBI had nabbed her for finding their bugs. Why did she have to worry him like that? “What’s happening with the case?” Miranda asked. “It’s progressing.” “Leo! Tell me what’s going on.” Now he was in the doghouse. Obviously, she wasn’t going to let him make her feel guilty, and the longer he held out, the longer it would take for her to let him make up. He relented and told her about the missing FBI agents and security tapes. “Jerry’s working on finding them.” 147

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“Sounds like you’ve got your some-other-dude-did-it guy.” “Yeah, but without the tapes or eyewitnesses, we have a problem connecting him to the murder. Unless Fullerton just happened to have done something awful to this agent that someone besides the two of them knew about, we’ve got a problem with motive. But it looks like you’re right—we’ve got ourselves a setup.” “So what’s your plan?” “Something Jerry said. ‘Investigate the investigator.’ I’m wondering who might be behind an investigation of Fullerton’s probe? Keeping tabs on a federal prosecutor wouldn’t be an amateur operation, but it wouldn’t necessarily be a government operation.” “That’s true,” Miranda said. “So that leaves us with the possibility that (a) Mrs. Fullerton planted the bugs to get the goods on her husband, or (b) he planted them to get the goods on her, or (c) whoever Fullerton was investigating planted them to get a heads up on Fullerton, or (d) some federal police were keeping an eye on Fullerton, or (e) any number of other possibilities. “Your main theory is?” “Mrs. Fullerton said her husband was investigating campaign contributions and corporate mergers, so I like ‘c’ best, although it might be ‘d.’ But I haven’t got anything to support either. You haven’t heard any rumors in the local business grapevine that would clue us in on what Fullerton was working on, have you?” Miranda threw back the covers and got out of bed. “All I’ve heard is speculation on his sex life and whether she was justified.” “What’s the consensus?” “You’ll get an acquittal with a jury of my peers.” 148

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“You have no peers, Miranda,” said Leo. “Do me a favor. Listen around. Keep your ears open to words like ‘merger’—” “Sorry, Leo, I’m not ratting out clients. Campaign contributions are what my clients do to make their mergers and acquisitions go smoother. If you ever checked our finances, you’d realize we always contribute to both sides. I don’t consider it bribery, just buying us an even playing field regardless of who’s elected or who’s on the bench.” Just semantics, thought Leo, but he kept silent. No need to start that fight about which one, if either, of them held the moral high ground—he in defending common thieves and murderers or she in representing business clients in global rape-and-plunder endeavors. “Speaking of clients,” she continued. “I signed a new one last night. They’re interested in pursuing major acquisitions.” “Took you long enough,” Leo grumbled, now reminded that he was still mad at her for being out half the night without calling. “It took a while for us to discuss all the issues involved in our firm representing his companies. I still need to run a conflict of interest check,” she said in her get-over-it tone of voice as she stripped off her gown. “But I was worried about you,” Leo said to his wife’s shapely nude back as she headed to her bathroom. She turned and met his eyes. “Worried? Or lonely?” God, she’s beautiful, thought Leo. How had he been so lucky? Through exceptional genes and a prudent diet, she had avoided the ravages time had scribbled on his own body. He sighed. There was no way he was going to win this argument. If he gave up now, she might let him take a shower with her. “Who’s the client?” He got out of bed. 149

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“You remember Will Stockton, the oilman who owned just about everything in the early 1980s?” she called from her bathroom. “Yeah,” said Leo, standing at her bathroom door. “Then his bankers owned it all in the mid-’80s.” “Not everything.” She turned on water. “Will’s back in the game. I’m supposed to meet with Will and his son at their headquarters next week to get familiar with their operations. They have major acquisitions in mind, so there’ll be a lot of travel involved. Will’s son, Matthew is his name, is pretty much in charge now.” “I hate it when you’re gone,” Leo said. “I hate it when you stick your head in a case and forget to come home,” she countered. “I’m here now,” he said. She stepped into the shower and smiled at him. “So I see.”

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TWENTY-NINE Tuesday, May 26, 10:15 a.m.

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irginia and Wen Boettcher were meeting with Assistant US Attorney TJ Graham in Wen’s office. Graham and Wen had each snagged a wing chair, so Virginia took the corner of the sofa nearest Wen. Why had Justice sent Graham of all people? Virginia forced herself to be cool, calm, and professional as she laid out the evidence, concentrating on the DA’s concern that a missing FBI agent might be the guilty party, motive unknown. “You have an ample case,” said Graham, ignoring the Hargis problem. “I don’t need to tell you that our people in Washington want this matter handled quickly.” “We need to complete a thorough investigation before we move ahead,” Virginia said firmly. “Zachmann was the one who first noticed this hole in our case. You can be certain he’ll exploit it.” Graham stood and walked to the window. He turned around to face Virginia. “Any delay would signal weakness. You need to move forward, get this one to trial quickly. Let me worry about finding the missing agent. If you can’t handle it, Ms. Rodriguez, maybe someone else in the DA’s office can. Need I remind you that we take the murder of a federal prosecutor seriously.” “You think we don’t?” Virginia replied acidly. 151

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Wen cleared his throat and waited until he had Graham’s full attention. “Let me put it this way, Mr. Graham. This is our game, and we’ll play it by our rules. Mrs. Fullerton may have an alibi for Friday afternoon. She was locked up when Officer Cuellar was murdered. The evidence is what it is. We have to wonder if it adds up to a wife shooting her husband and his lover. Your Special Agent Hargis, who was supposed to be guarding Fullerton, had ample opportunity to commit all three murders. Now he’s missing. That has to be explained.” “Let us worry about Hargis,” declared Graham. “Besides,” continued Wen, “we’ve never had a spousal murder case where the Feds offered their help with such vigor. In fact, we’ve never had a spousal murder where the Feds offered any help. I’ve just got to wonder why we’re getting all this help from on high?” Graham studied Wen’s face. Then, as if he’d heard none of it, said, “We think you need a more seasoned prosecutor.” Virginia let out a you’ve-got-to-be-kidding groan. “I don’t mean any disrespect,” Graham said, “but perhaps Ms. Rodriguez isn’t up to dealing with Zachmann.” Wen opened his mouth. Before he could get started, Virginia said sweetly. “Why, Mr. Graham, I’m sure your experience with Zachmann will be invaluable to this case. Let’s see, how did that tax case turn out?” Graham turned beet red. Right, she thought, went home with your tail between your legs, didn’t you? She should thank Leo for telling her about that one. Wen added, “Your experience with Zachmann may scare you, but Virginia is the best in our office, the best in the state. In cas you haven’t heard, she’s put more people on death row than any other prosecutor in Texas. This is murder, after all, not one of your piddling white-collar crimes.” 152

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Virginia looked at Wen. He had actually complimented her work while taking a bite out of Graham’s ego. Bless his old heart. “We want a conviction,” Graham growled. “We want it quickly. What more do you people need? That woman’s print is on the gun. If you people can’t do the job, then we will.” “Exactly who, besides you, wants this conviction?” Wen asked. Graham opened his mouth and stuttered into speech, “Th... That’s not your concern.” “Maybe not at the moment,” Wen said, “but if it turns out someone else is the guilty party, we’ll have to answer to the public. I’d like to be able to tell the voters just who in Washington insisted we proceed to trial with a shaky case.” Graham let go with a tirade, the bottom line of which was how dare they, local yokels, challenge him, the US government’s representative on the case? Wen walked to the door and opened it. “Do you know your way out, Mr. Graham?” After a moment of hard eye contact, Graham shrugged. “I had hoped we’d come to an agreement on this.” Then he turned to Virginia as if it had been the most cordial of meetings. “Nice seeing you again. I’d forgotten how much I enjoyed our debates.” Virginia met his green eyes. “Yes, just like old times.” And it was. He was a self-centered bully then. He still was. After the door closed on TJ Graham, Wen looked at Virginia. “I didn’t know you knew him.” “I don’t,” she said with more vehemence than she had intended. “We had a class together in college,” she added. “World Political Systems, something like that. We debated free trade, disarmament, other stuff. I didn’t remember who he really was until now.” 153

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Wen raised his eyebrows, but said nothing, just headed to the his desk. He plopped down, leaned back in his chair, then did the steeple-building finger thing bosses do while he stared at the ceiling. Virginia waited until he shifted his gaze back to her. “I’m not going forward, Wen, not until I’m convinced she’s the murderer.” “I wouldn’t want you to,” he said. “What do you want me to do?” Wen shrugged. “I’m not sure I know what this case is about anymore. An ex-senator’s daughter with an ironclad alibi, DC Justice people wanting us to prosecute her instead of insisting we release her, and they won’t tell us about their missing FBI agent. Do you know what it’s about?” “I’ve been trying to tell you that we don’t have a case.” “This job isn’t worth having if we have to play politics,” Wen declared. “You make sure every shred of evidence goes in front of Wagoner on Thursday. Lay it out so that she can make of it what she should. Let Leo get his defense in the public record. I’d rather Mrs. Fullerton walk if she’s guilty than have Washington thinking they can order us around.” “Sounds like a plan,” Virginia said. “With any luck, Susan will dismiss charges and take the rap so we don’t have to bring on the displeasure of the gods.” “And if she doesn’t?” “If Susan doesn’t dismiss, don’t oppose bail. Let the woman go home to her children until trial, then stall on the trial date. If it stalls out and Leo gets a dismissal for lack of a speedy trial, so be it. If the Feds think they can convict on federal charges after we’re done, let them try.” In other words, thought Virginia, Wen’s new strategy, which he’d arrived at after his rooster match with TJ, was to let 154

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Judge Susan or moi, ADA Virginia, take the fall. “I guess if the case gets dismissed, that will prove Graham is right.” “About what?” “That I’m not man enough for the job,” said Virginia. “You have more balls than any man in this office. But try not to show them off. Powerful people are involved or we wouldn’t be getting all this help from on high. Powerful people can take away more than your career.” “Right.” Virginia got up. “I hoped you’d come around.” Wen followed her to the door. “Was there ever any doubt?” He stopped with his hand on the knob. “You know, Virginia, you remind me of myself twenty-years ago. That’s why I work you so hard. I know you’re good for it. If I’d had a daughter, I would want her to be just like you. Except for one thing.” “What’s that?” Virginia asked, surprised at the compliment, wary of the “one thing.” “Trust. Stop assuming the worst in people. Trust the people you work with, the ones who come through for you day in and day out. And the people who care about you, trust them too.” She stared at Wen, speechless. “Give people a chance to do it right, and something else.” She braced herself for the next punch. “What?” “Whatever hurt is in your heart, you have to let it go. And whoever caused that hurt, you have to let them go as well. Otherwise, you’re going to miss some of the best things in life.”

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THIRTY Tuesday, May 26, 12:30 p.m.

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ack in her office, unexpected emotions grabbed Virginia. Rage at TJ Graham, because he was back in her life and because she’d once been stupid enough to think she loved him. And anxiety for her future. TJ could be devious. And rage at Wen, too. They should never have filed charges. They should dismiss. Instead, he was passing the buck, letting her or Wagoner take the fall. And that sappy advice on trusting her associates and letting her hurt go—who did he think he was that he could talk to her like that? The phone rang, interrupting Virginia’s internal tirade. “Want to do lunch?” asked Smitty. She thought about it only a second. She needed to get away, clear her mind. “Yes. Now.” “I’ll pick you up in front of your building in ten minutes.” Virginia waited outside. Another mistake. Lawyers going in and coming out wanted to stop and chat about the Fullerton case. She was in no mood to chat, no mood to be civil. The meeting with Graham and Boettcher had taken all the chat out of her. When Smitty pulled up, she ran for the car. “What’s the matter?” he asked as she got in. She jerked on her seatbelt. “Nothing.” “I see,” he said. “Where do you want to go for lunch?” “You choose,” she said sharply. “Did I say something wrong?” 156

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“Please. I don’t want to talk about it. Just drive. Please?” “Okay, I’ll drive.” Smitty headed for the freeway. They had passed the old airport before Virginia realized they were headed toward the beach. “Where are you going?” “Does it matter?” he asked. “Yes, it matters,” Virginia said. “I have an hour for lunch.” “You got a meeting to get back to?” Smitty asked. “No.” “You got a court appearance this afternoon?” “No.” “Then why do you have to get back so soon?” “I have work to do on the Fullerton file.” “Everything you need to know about the Fullerton file is in my head. I’ll be glad to share it with you.” “No, Smitty, I have to get back.” “No, Virginia, you have to get a life.” The dam burst. Choking sobs, from the bottom of her soul sobs, sobs of anger and sobs of outrage. Smitty stopped the car on the shoulder and pulled her into his arms. “I’m sorry, Virginia. I’m so sorry. Please, don’t cry.” The tears wouldn’t stop. Tears that she had held back half her life came pouring out for no reason that she could name. Smitty stroked her hair and made soothing sounds, “Don’t cry, Ginny Baby, don’t cry.” The sobs finally came to an end. “You have anything I can blow my nose on?” she asked. Smitty found a napkin in the cup holder. Virginia blew her nose in the coffee-smelling paper and sniffed back the last of her tears. “You going to be all right?” he asked. She nodded. She was done crying. She was embarrassed. She had never done anything like that before. 157

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Smitty started the engine. “I’ll take you back now.” “No! I don’t want to go back.” Virginia realized as she spoke that it was one of the truest things she had ever said. “Neither do I,” he said. Smitty pulled out into the traffic, continued on to the seawall. Heading toward the beach, he steered through a fastfood restaurant and ordered iced teas, country-fried fish fillets, and side dishes of fried okra and French fries. Virginia rolled her eyes when she heard the order. She could write him off as an early coronary. He handed her the sacks of food, put the drinks in the cup holders, and drove on to a deserted section of public beach. Parking near the dunes, he got out and came around to open the door for her. “Would my lady care to join me at my table?” “Yes, she would.” Virginia took off her jacket and rolled up her sleeves while he opened the trunk to take out a well-used quilt. Food bags in hand, she followed him to a clean spot of sand. He spread the quilt and took the food from her. Virginia slipped out of her shoes, dropped to the quilt, and gratefully took the fried fish he offered, feeling better with each bite. That was the reason for her emotional outburst. Hunger. She’d skipped breakfast. And maybe PMS. She should check the calendar in her day planner. She had overreacted. TJ was a self-centered bully, but he was harmless. He’d huff and puff, but when he realized things weren’t going according to his plan, he’d go away. But the rest of it? What did Wen know about her hurt anyway? It was so long ago that even she had forgotten. What was it anyway? Disappointment in herself for misjudging people. She’d been wrong about TJ. She’d been wrong about several other men in the years since. So she wasn’t a good judge of men. But it wasn’t their fault that she had believed the fairy 158

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tale that scullery maids were entitled to a prince’s love, or that sexual attraction sometimes led her to believe they were princes. It probably wasn’t even their fault they were frogs instead of princes. Frogs happen. Wen hadn’t meant anything. He was just trying to... to what? She sighed. Wen was Wen. He would always do the most politically expedient thing while claiming he was above politics. In a way, he was. He didn’t care about power, but he did care about being reelected. He was an honest public servant who needed his job, so he wasn’t going to give any opponent a soft- on-crime war cry, especially when somebody else might take the fall. Wen was right about her. She didn’t trust the people she worked with to do their job. Smitty had said the same thing. But, more often than not, she was justified. The lab people and the cops weren’t the ones standing in front of the jury trying to put away some sociopath, hoping the judge wouldn’t dismiss the case because of a botched evidence collection, or a botched chain of custody, or a missing piece of evidence. If she didn’t second guess them and they failed her, she failed her victims and their families in their last chance to have justice. And it was her career and her reputation on the line. It was her that Wen held accountable, not her trial team, or the police, or the crime lab people. Her. “Want fries?” Smitty asked. “Another piece of fish.” She put straws in each drink and handed him his tea. “Beautiful day, isn’t it?” he asked. She followed his gaze to the water. Waves rolled in and dissolved into foam on the sand. Gulls glided near the shore. A beautiful day. Clear. Not hot. Nice breeze. Beautiful. Bonito. Espléndido. 159

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“God gives us days like this to remind us we’re animals,” Smitty said, “capable of living for the pleasure of a nice breeze. Maybe we’d all be better off if we would take time to do that instead of speeding around in a frenzy. Be human beings, not humans doing.” Virginia sighed, wondering if he watched Oprah. “I didn’t know that before I lost them,” he continued. “I figured I had all the time in the world to be a husband and a father, that they’d be there when I found time for them. But...” She waited for him to continue. “I was always working, chasing some crook, my head into one piece of evidence or another. God must have looked down, saw I didn’t appreciate what I had, so He took them away.” Definitely too much Oprah, or too many send-us-money preacher shows. Virginia carefully placed her tea in the sand next to her shoes and wiped her hands. She lay back on the quilt, feeling the breeze touch the skin on her arms and neck and face, closing her eyes against Smitty’s hurt. She wished she could take off all her clothes and feel the breeze on her entire body, wished she didn’t have the ache in her throat, wished she didn’t care about Smitty’s grief, wished he wasn’t starting to look more like a prince than a frog. “Know what I want in life,” Smitty said softly, almost inaudibly over the rumble of the waves. “Besides you, that is. I want you and me and our two or three little kids to come here and feel this miracle. Come down afternoons in the spring and fall, a couple of hours before sunset, throw out some lines, see if we can catch anything, let the kids run up and down the beach while we sit here on an old quilt and watch the kids and the fishing lines and the sunset. Not in the summertime. It’s too hot then and too many people. You can’t feel the miracle 160

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with too many people around. That’s what I want. I’ve learned my lesson. If God gives me another family, I’m not taking them for granted. You have my word.” Smitty carried the remainder of the food down to the water’s edge and scattered it for the birds. With his back to her, Virginia worked her pantyhose down below her skirt and yanked them off so that she could feel the breeze on her legs. She rolled her sleeves higher and opened another button on her blouse. Virginia lay back and closed her eyes, feeling the breeze dance on her legs and chest and arms, breathing in clean sea air, listening to the waves lap the shore, feeling the breeze, just feeling the breeze and breathing away Smitty’s hurt, breathing her own hurt away. Smitty sat down beside her and stretched out. Feigning sleep, she turned on her side away from him. He turned toward her, then worked an arm under her head as a pillow for her and draped his other arm across her waist, snuggling his face against her hair. “I love you,” he whispered. Virginia said nothing, just continued breathing. In. Out. Breathe in, breathe out. Breathe all the words away. She heard his snore and smiled as tears came again. Silent tears. Private tears.

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THIRTY-ONE Tuesday, May 26, 2:30 p.m.

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nocking once, Leo opened the door to Jerry’s office to find him on the phone. “You heard me. Cancel the damn subscriptions. Take me off your mailing list!” Jerry slammed down the phone. Leo headed to the bar in Jerry’s credenza and rummaged around, examining bottles. A label proclaimed the contents of a bottle to be, “single islay malt scotch whisky, 10 years old.” Hmm. Ought to be old enough. “You got a problem?” Leo poured scotch in one glass and Jerry’s bourbon in another and carried the glasses to Jerry’s desk. Jerry looked at the glass. “A little early, isn’t it?” “You need a calmer-downer.” Leo headed for the sofa. Jerry picked up the bourbon and came around his desk. “So what’s your problem?” Leo asked as Jerry folded his large frame into a chair across from him. “Look at that pile of trash on my desk. Just one day’s junk mail from the house. Political-action committees asking for donations, fraudulent charities, magazine contests.” “What’s it doing here?” “Self defense. Delphene entered some contest and wound up with a lifetime subscription to a dozen magazines as part of the fine print. Now I have magazines and junk mail coming in buckets. There ought to be a law against the mass mail mar162

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keters getting cheap postage when the rest of us have to pay for first class.” Leo stretched his legs across the coffee table. “So when do you plan on running for Congress?” “You get your rich friends to back me and I’ll run,” said Jerry. “Won’t work,” Leo said. “My rich friends run politicalaction and mail-marketing scams. Besides, you’re looking at it all wrong.” “How should I be looking at it?” Jerry swung his legs across the unoccupied half of the coffee table. “Junk mail is the American economy,” said Leo. “Think about it. Tree cutters, paper mill people, truckers hauling trees to pulp mills and paper to printers, people who make computers and software for graphic artists, the printers, people who stuff it into envelopes and run it through metering machines—they all have jobs because of junk mail.” Jerry sipped his bourbon. “Is that a fact?” Leo continued, “Then there are all the postal clerks and people in transportation. Not to mention gun and bullet manufacturers who sell guns and bullets to postal workers who go berserk because they have to sort it and bag it, day-in and dayout, with no end in sight. The list of jobs because of junk mail is endless.” “Thanks for explaining that to me.” “Don’t forget garbage people. Nobody reads that stuff. It all goes into the trash, which creates jobs for garbage people, landfill people, all those environmentalists upset about landfills. You do away with junk mail, the whole economy will collapse. Sounds like subversive thinking, Jerry. War heroes shouldn’t think that way.” “Anybody ever tell you you’re full of crap? Solid gold crap?” “Nobody ever told me it was valuable before,” said Leo. 163

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“Anything in particular you wanted to see me about, or are you just starting happy hour early?” Jerry asked. “There’s something about our client’s story that’s bothers me,” said Leo. “What’s that?” asked Jerry. “She told me that as far as she was concerned her marriage was just about right, that she had no idea her husband was interested in guys until she found him dead in a compromising position.” “And?” “And they say sexual orientation is one of those things you’re born with or you get turned onto as a teenager.” “I hear that’s the theory,” said Jerry. “So if Fullerton always liked guys, somebody somewhere ought to have know about it and ratted on him. There ought to be secret lovers trying to get on the talk shows by now. Heck, it ought to have come out when he was getting the goods on those randy politicians. Liberals were scrambling for anything that would even the score.” “You want me to check into his alternative lifestyle?” “That’s one thing,” said Leo. “The other is her family. With Fullerton and Dunn hand-in-glove on that sex inquisition, that family relationship should have come out then. Guess her not using her daddy’s last name growing up paid off. But my question is—what’s the story on her mama’s side? It seems that’s where the family connection got broken.” “I checked that. No dirt there that I can find. Her stepfather is the CEO of a big multi-industry company, stock privately held. He has so much money he can hire as many politicians and hit men as he needs, but there’s nothing to indicate he’s anything but the world’s most upstanding citizen. Have you asked her? She might have dirt I didn’t find.” 164

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“Not yet,” Leo said. “That’s on my list for our visit tomorrow. I wanted to have a few facts of my own handy so that I could ask some of the right questions and maybe know if she is telling me lies.” “You think she’s lying to you?” “Let’s just say she’s holding back. She’s still saying she doesn’t know anything about her husband’s job except maybe he was checking into campaign contributions and corporate mergers. I asked Miranda to listen around, and she told me to forget about that ever happening. Offends her sense of professional ethics. So maybe you could see if your cop buddies have any leads on Fullerton’s little Bayou City inquiry, and if they know what happened to that missing FBI agent.” “Will do, but have you read today’s paper?” asked Jerry. “There’s an article on Dunn, on what he’s been doing lately.” “What’s that?” asked Leo. “Went into lobbying for some big Texas companies that used to feed him campaign contributions. I’ve already got it on my to-do list to chase down the particulars on what they’ve been up to in the way of business dealings.” “Really?” said Leo. “So we have a lobbyist daddy as well as a big-CEO step-daddy. Interesting.” “Just what is your theory on all this?” asked Jerry. Leo drained his glass, then walked to the bar and refilled it. “I’m not sure I have one, yet,” Leo said. “But when I was leaving the jail last visit, I got to thinking about why she might be evading my questions. I came up with the idea that she must be protecting someone she loves, but I can’t make it fit together from there.” Jerry laced his hands behind his head. “Tell me more.” “She pretty much said her husband had his head in this new case and his head into the DC probe before that. Ignoring 165

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a wife can lead to her straying. Say this missing agent took her places, kept her entertained while her husband worked, made her feel special.” Jerry finished the question for Leo. “Would she tell anybody where he was if she thought he had killed her husband because he was smitten with her?” “That’s one side of the question,” said Leo. “Would she tell on him if she was as smitten with him as she thought he was with her is the other?’ “And you think she’s lying about that?” “I haven’t asked her point blank if she had a lover.” Jerry gave him a questioning look. Leo continued. “The question she keeps evading isn’t about her marriage. She won’t tell me any details about her husband’s inquiry, which is something the missing agent might also have known something about. Especially if he planted those bugs. Maybe this was one of your investigatethe-investigator deals.” “Huh?” said Jerry. “So you think whoever Fullerton was after bribed this guard agent to listen in and then to kill him?” “That’s a possibility, and the fact that the agent is missing might help us, but I don’t know what kind of spin to put on it.” “I see your problem,” said Jerry. “You mention him, Virginia might make the lover connection. If he did the killings because he was having an affair with the widow instead of being involved in some grand conspiracy, it might not matter to a jury whether her lover did the killings or she did.” “Hmm. I may have already screwed up there. I told Virginia about the missing agent. Course, I hadn’t come up with the lover theory then. Maybe she won’t either. Especially if I put my mind on other stuff when I’m around her. That’s what I hate about women lawyers. They can pick your mind, and you don’t even know they’ve doing it.” 166

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“Nah,” said Jerry. “Your problem is that you live with Miranda. She’s a grand champion mind-picker.” “You’re right about that,” said Leo. “That makes you suspicious of other women,” continued Jerry. “Most of ’em aren’t as good at it as Miranda is.” “Is that a fact? You telling me Delphene doesn’t know the minute you mess around on her?” “Not always, but that’s different. Sometimes I’m careless, just to see if she’s paying attention. And given my history, Delphene’s always suspicious. But I’ve never thought of Virginia as the suspicious type.” “Me, either. Curious, maybe,” said Leo. “Extremely curious and extremely cautious. That’s the reason she wins so many. She won’t go to trial unless she’s sure of a conviction.” “Well, here’s another theory you can think about when you’re talking to Virginia. Mrs. Fullerton might be protecting her daddy.” “Why?” asked Leo. “He’s her daddy. He’s her benefactor. He was in the know about her predicament awfully quick. He has big business connections her husband might be interested in investigating.” “That he has,” said Leo. “But why would he—?” “I don’t know. Something to talk to your client about.” “Right,” said Leo. “Oh,” continued Jerry, “the only strange thing on the hotel records was the lack of phone calls on the room records. But I guess everyone totes a cell phone these days. Except the cops didn’t find any cell phones in any of the rooms.” “And no papers, either, according to the evidence logs,” mused Leo. “A witness report says a room service waiter delivered coffee around two and saw them talking over papers. Got to wonder what happened to those papers?” 167

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“I’ll work on it,” said Jerry. “By the way, Prez is coming in to see us in a little while.” “What’s he want?” “He has a copy of the autopsy reports. He’s found something interesting, something that slipped by him earlier.” “What?” asked Leo. “Said he’d tell us in person. Can I fix you another drink while we wait?”

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THIRTY-TWO Tuesday, May 26, 4:30 p.m.

T

he first thing Virginia saw when she returned to her office was red—TJ Graham’s auburn hair as he sat at her desk examining files. He was still as trim and handsome as when she had first met him. Except for his lying, cheating, controlling personality defects, he was the perfect white male specimen. She cleared her throat. TJ looked up from the file. “I wondered where you were.” “Close that file and get out of my chair.” “I was just looking at—” “Do I need to call security?” “I didn’t think you’d mind.” TJ tried for a smile. “Look, the Fullerton autopsy report came in this afternoon.” “I do mind, very much,” she said firmly but softly, barely above a whisper, her angry voice, which he seemed to recognize. “If we’ll be working together—” “Close that file and get out of my chair. Now.” TJ stood up and walked toward her. “If you feel—” “This is either my state case or it’s your federal case, but it’s not our case. I don’t need your help, and I definitely don’t want you going through files on my desk without my permission. Do that again, I’ll have you arrested for tampering with evidence.” TJ stopped about a foot away and smiled. “What are you so upset about, Virginia? We used to share everything.” 169

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She looked up into his green eyes. “That was a long time ago.” “I just thought I’d make myself useful until you showed up.” “By tampering with evidence?” “I’m beginning to see why you’re concerned about this case. Do it your way, Virginia. I’ll support you any way I can.” “I repeat,” said Virginia, “I don’t need your help.” She knew how he operated. His bullying hadn’t worked, so he was trying Plan B. He’d make any promise anytime to get whatever he wanted. She had fallen for his line when she was young and stupid, but that was a long time ago. “You’re still holding a grudge? After all this time?” “I haven’t given you two seconds of thought in eighteen years. The minute you were out of my life, you were out of my head.” “You haven’t been out of mine,” he said softly. “I’m sorry for how it turned out, Virginia. I asked for this assignment, you know. When I saw you on television Friday night, I asked to be put on the case so that I could see you again.” He touched her arm. “Out, now,” she growled. “I’m leaving, I’m leaving.” He raised his hands in mock protest, grabbed his briefcase from her desk, and moved toward the door. “Not so fast.” She crossed her arms and stepped in front of him, blocking his way out. “Open your case.” “You have to be kidding.” “Shall I call a deputy?” “All right, all right. You don’t need to make such a big deal out of it.” He opened the case. “Look, none of your stuff.” Virginia fingered his things slowly to make sure he got the message. “Next time you want to talk to me, visit with me, or look at my files on this case, you make an appointment.” 170

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TJ shook his head as if he were disappointed in her. “Honest, I’m only here to help, and I wanted to catch up on old times.” “That was our problem,” said Virginia. “We never wanted the same things.” “I see you kept my photo.” TJ glanced at the snapshot on her bookcase near the door, a snapshot of Nick in greasy jeans and T-shirt on his ancient secondhand motorbike. Virginia’s heart skipped as she met TJ’s eyes. The recent snapshot of Nick was one of the few personal objects she kept in her office to remind her that she had another life at home when her cases became too much. “I keep it to remind me why I’m still happily single,” she said, thankful she didn’t have any photos of a younger Nick in her office. TJ smiled as he left, like he didn’t believe a word of it, like he believed she would have kept a photo of him all these years. Virginia watched him walk to the elevator. The selfcentered ass. He actually thinks I’m still pining for him. Then another thought crossed her mind. Were motorbikes a genetic trait? TJ had kept one to get around campus. She had once taken a snapshot of him in a similar pose. That’s why he thought the photo was of him. She shook her head. What else did Nick and TJ have in common besides hair and eye color and motorbikes? At the elevator, TJ turned. “I’ll be back.” “Not without an appointment, you won’t,” she countered. TJ grinned at her as he got on the elevator. Damn. Nick had the same grin. Virginia turned toward her office and caught sight of Wen standing at Denise’s desk. He gave her a questioning frown. Virginia walked calmly into her office and closed the door, waiting for anxiety to come. Would TJ realize he’d just seen his son’s photo? Would he make her life miserable if he did? 171

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Virginia waited, but no anxiety came. TJ hadn’t guessed the truth, and he wouldn’t. He was too self-absorbed to think about anyone but himself. She laughed, a deep soul-clearing laugh that had been too long in coming. She had exorcized TJ Graham’s ghost. The man he’d become was all the confirmation she needed that she had done the right thing to keep Nick her secret. She set to work comparing the evidence log to lab reports, reading each report carefully to make sure that everything collected had been examined. It was almost six, and she was just about to call it a day when she opened an autopsy report. “No surprises here,” Virginia muttered. Then she stopped. Moving the folder aside, she picked up the ballistics report and scanned it again. “I’ll be a raven-haired floozy!” she said just as Smitty opened her office door. “If I’d known that,” he said, “I’d have gotten here sooner.” “What are you doing here?” “When I read those reports, I wanted to make sure you saw them. Plus, there’s something else that probably hasn’t made it to your desk yet.” “What’s that?” she asked. “Evidence collected yesterday at the Concord. Blood spots at the door of 1805 definitely belonged to Cuellar. He was probably killed there and moved to the bed in 1807.” “But why?” Virginia asked. “Obviously whoever killed him was headed to room 1807 through 1805. And we’re reasonably sure that person is the missing Wayne Hargis.” “How do you know that?” Virginia asked. “That little rubber scar thing they found. Our computer people compared the shape of it to the scar on one of those guys in the hotel videos. They say it’s the same man going in and coming out of the elevator. The brown hair was probably 172

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a wig—the synthetic hair found in the room. Coming out, it was probably his own blond hair with a paste-on mustache. The blond guy’s face matches the driver’s licence face of a Wayne Hargis in the DC area.” “That’s an interpretation. Can you prove it any other way?” “Possibly. The lab found skin cells clinging to the scar thing, so we can get a DNA pattern. If the FBI will let us compare DNA on the fake scar with their sample on Hargis, we’ll know for sure. They do a profile on their agents, just in case they get killed in some horrible way that makes a look-see ID impossible.” “What’s the problem? They’ve offered their help.” “Yeah, right. Apparently it doesn’t extend to tagging one of their agents for murder. King said it was none of our business, so we need to find Hargis ourselves and get our own sample. Virginia frowned. “Let’s talk to Wen. Maybe he can convince someone in Washington to cooperate in the search.” “And there’s one more thing I need to check out.” “What’s that?” “Mrs. Fullerton’s alibi.” “I thought you’d already done that,” Virginia said. “It’s on the list, boss lady,” Smitty snapped. “I’ve been busy.” Virginia met Smitty’s eyes. “Right. Sorry.” Wen’s office door was open. Denise was straightening up his desk. “Too late,” she said. “He left early. He has a band parent thing at his son’s school this evening.” “Darn,” said Virginia, “we need to talk with him.” “Try his cell phone,” Denise offered. “It can wait,” said Virginia. “I should go home myself. I need to start packing Nick’s stuff for his trip to the ranch.” “Let me walk you to your car,” Smitty offered. 173

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“That’s not necessary,” Virginia said casually, but loud enough for Denise to hear just in case she had overheard Smitty’s offer. “You know how dangerous our streets can be,” he persisted. “I’m parked in the garage,” she replied. “There’s a security patrol.” Having Denise speculate about Smitty and her around the office was the last thing Virginia wanted. “You’re sure?” “I’m sure. I’ll be fine.” Leave me alone is what she wanted to say. She had to think it through before she let things go any further with Smitty. She needed time. That’s exactly what she needed. Time. “Well, okay then.” He headed for the elevator. Virginia checked her mail in the wall bin by Denise’s desk. On top was a second notice for her mandatory firearm testing. If she didn’t comply in 30 days, they’d take her gun away. She stuffed the notice in her jacket pocket and sorted through the rest of her mail. “You want me to sign you up for a speed-reading course? Or is that just an exceptionally interesting continuing legal education course announcement?” Denise peeped over Virginia’s shoulder. “Hmm. Legal Issues of Intellectual Property on the Internet. What will you lawyers think of next to sue people about?” Virginia dropped the flyer in Denise’s trash can. “You want my opinion, girlfriend?” Denise asked. “No,” said Virginia. “If I wasn’t a married woman,” continued Denise, “I’d be wanting a man like Smitty to light my fire.” Virginia groaned. Had she missed the announcement? Was today National Give Virginia Rodriguez Personal Advice Day? A holiday? She should have taken the whole day off. 174

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Denise moved in close to whisper. “If I were you, girlfriend, I wouldn’t be going home alone. Not me, not if I’d just got an engraved invitation like you just got. No ma’am, not me. Not if a fine-looking man like Smitty would go home with me. When Prince Charming comes around with the glass slipper, I wouldn’t be one of those Cinderellas who tells him I prefer my old work pumps.” “Cinderella, Sminderella, that milksop,” Virginia muttered as she walked away. What was Cindy’s victim act about anyway, letting her stepmother and stepsisters order her around? She should have sued for her rightful inheritance and kicked those witches out of her house. Virginia stopped in her office long enough to pick up her shoulder bag. She locked her door, then headed to the elevator. When those stepsisters ripped that bird-and-mouse-made dress off Miss Cindy, she should have shoved them down the stairs, disposed of their bodies in the dungeon. With a female jury, she would have walked. Women understand the temporary insanity that comes with ruining a good piece of clothing. Virginia pushed the elevator button. And losing only one glass slipper? Not likely. If truth were told, after a couple of hours of dancing, Cindy took off her heels to rest her feet when she and Prince were fooling around out at the fountain. And loosing just one slipper while running off to meet Fairy Godmother’s curfew? If you kick shoes off to run, you kick them both off. And what does it say about a Prince who couldn’t catch a girl hobbling off in one glass slipper? A real prince could have caught her. A real prince would have run a 10K for the woman of his dreams. And last, but not least, why didn’t those glass slippers turn back into fairy dust like the rest of her outfit? 175

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THIRTY-THREE Tuesday, May 26, 6:15 p.m.

V

irginia got off the garage elevator and walked toward her truck. Suddenly, she felt uneasy, that she wasn’t alone. She glanced around, seeing no one. But still... She reached into her shoulder bag as if searching for car keys and grasped her gun. Easing off the safety, she continued walking while sliding the gun out of the purse and into her jacket pocket. Feeling secure again, she ventured a longer look around the garage. Denise’s car was parked next to a clerk’s car several spaces ahead. She recognized all the vehicles except a new black SUV parked near the elevator. Probably belongs to one of the boy baby ADAs, she told herself. Before they realized how little of their salaries were left after taxes, the boys bought big SUVs; the girls bought small sedans or vans. Both bought the required lawyer wearing apparel—navy or black suit, cell phone, beeper, briefcase, and day planner. The SUV’s engine roared to life, startling her. She moved to the side and kept walking. As she neared Denise’s car, she heard the engine pick up speed. She turned around. It was coming straight at her. They must see me, she thought. They see me, she knew. They’re trying to kill me, she realized and dove between Denise’s and the clerk’s cars just in time to save herself. She pulled the gun from her pocket and aimed at a tire as the SUV squealed around the corner. 176

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It was gone before she could get off a shot. Then she tried to get to her feet and felt the pain. ¡Ay! She lowered herself to the dirty concrete and cautiously fingered her ankle. ¿Roto? And she hadn’t even gotten a good look at the license plate! Virginia took a deep breath and focused on the gun in her hand. Forget the pain, she told herself. They could come back. Be ready. She tried to get up, but sat down quickly as excruciating pain pierced her ankle. Moments passed with no sign that they were coming back to try again. Maybe it had been an accident. No, it was no accident. She had known that the instant the SUV came at her. They intended to kill her. They? Who were they. Why did they want to kill her? And how did she know it was “they”? She hadn’t seen anyone behind the dark glass. Still, she had sensed there were two of them. But it could have been just one visually impaired driver. Some witness she’d make. Maybe one of her convicts was out on parole. She’d had enough of them threaten to get even as they’d left the courtroom. She’d have to run a check to see if any of her villains were back out on the street. Who else could it be? Who else would want to kill her? But she couldn’t worry about that now. She needed help. She dropped the gun into her jacket pocket and fished her cell phone out of her bag. She had just started to punch numbers in when she heard the elevator. Virginia snapped the phone shut and retrieved the gun. The elevator opened. “Denise! Thank God.” Virginia let out a breath and lowered the gun. “I was trying to call you.” “What happened to you, girlfriend? What’re you doing on that dirty floor?” Denise hurried to her. “And you’ve ripped 177

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your skirt. Did you slip in the grease? I’ve been telling Wen he ought to make somebody clean up these greasy concrete floors. When it’s been raining, they get too slick to walk on. Somebody really ought to do something, before everybody breaks their—” “Denise!” Virginia interrupted. “It wasn’t grease on the floor.” “Huh?” “Somebody tried to kill me. Someone tried to run me down.” “Oh, my God!” Denise said. “Let’s get out of here.” Virginia sighed. Now why didn’t I think of that? She pointed to her ankle, now one throbbing pain. “I think it’s broken. Can you help me?” In the emergency room, after giving blood and urine samples and every conceivable bit of information about her health history, Virginia waited behind a curtain while they took care of a car wreck victim and other emergencies. “Why do they have to run all those tests to treat a broken ankle?” Virginia asked Denise. “Guess they figure your insurance is good for it and their malpractice coverage isn’t.” “It’s been well over an hour. What’s taking so long?” “Has it really been that long?” Denise looked at her watch. “Time sure flies. Well, I’ve got to go. You know how Earl gets about missing his supper. While you were peeing in the jar, I called Nick for you. He said he’ll get your neighbor to bring him down to the hospital to pick you up.” “Thanks, Denise. I don’t know what I’d have done if you hadn’t shown up.” “Glad I could help.” Denise picked up her purse to leave as an orderly finally came with a wheelchair. “Oh, I called Wen. 178

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I figured he might want to know somebody tried to bump off one of his staff. He called the cops, and they’ll be here soon. One of them might like you well enough to chase down whoever did this.” “Thanks,” Virginia said as Denise waved good-bye. “Hop in,” said the tall, boyish-looking female orderly. Virginia pointed to her leg. “If I could hop, would I need that?” “Sorry. It’s been a long day.” The orderly assisted Virginia into the chair. Miles of hospital corridors later, the orderly wheeled her into a room marked “Radiology” and handed her chart over to a white-coated girl at a desk. An hour later, the girl wheeled Virginia into a room filled with x-ray equipment. “A tech will be with you shortly.” “Do you have an aspirin?” Virginia asked. “I’m sorry, we’re not allowed to dispense medication without a doctor’s order.” “Just a thought. Probably wouldn’t do much good anyway.” The girl slipped away. Virginia closed her eyes, trying not to think about the pain. What a day! Wen thinks I’m the daughter he’s always wanted. Smitty thinks I’m the wife he wants. TJ thinks I’m still in love with him after eighteen years. And somebody thinks I’d make great roadkill. Talk about all things to all people. An x-ray technician interrupted her internal harangue, “Virginia Rodriguez?” “That’s me. Virginia Rodriguez, Renaissance Woman.” “Right,” said the technician. “Hop up on the table.” Virginia sighed and pointed to her ankle. “Sorry.” The technician helped Virginia out of the chair and up on the table. “I need to turn your leg a little to get the right shot. I’ll try not to hurt you.” The woman twisted Virginia’s ankle. 179

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“¡Imbécil!” Virginia screamed. “Do that again, I’ll shoot you!” “I’m sorry,” she said insincerely, but backed off. “Let’s see. We’ll need the lead blanket for the rest of you.” “Lead blanket?” “Oh, it’s just a plastic pad really, with a lead fabric lining, to put over your midsection. You know, to protect the little fellow.” “The little fellow?” “You know,” the technician said, “the baby.” “Baby?” “Your tests say you’re going to be a mommy. Good thing this happened now rather then when you’re eight months pregnant, isn’t it? Hard enough to move then without a busted ankle.” “Yeah, good thing.” Virginia’s lips grew cold. She closed her eyes and fell into a Dali-like surrealistic painting. A red sky with an orange sun surrounded her. She and a large clock lay on the steel top of her truck, the clock melting in the heat of the orange sun. She wore the sidewalk-painting senorita’s peasant clothes and tiara and Cinderella’s glass slippers. Stems and petals from Texas bluebonnets and Indian paint brush fell like snow-flakes around her. Then she and her truck began to melt like the clock into a primeval tar, sliding into an ooze with woolly mammoths and saber-tooth tigers and other mammals who had stayed too long at the ball. Her biggest concern was how she would get the tar out of her blouse and skirt, because Virginia knew that her mother would be unhappy she had soiled the clothes her mother had so lovingly embroidered. As she melted, Virginia knew one other important fact—life as she had known it was now at an end.

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THIRTY-FOUR Tuesday, May 26, 9:00 p.m.

V

irginia opened her eyes to find Nick, Mr. Nguyn, Wen, Smitty, a tall man in a badly fitting suit, and a nurse surrounding her bed. The nurse was taking her blood pressure. Virginia looked at their concerned faces. Maybe they’d had to amputate? She looked down and saw her foot and ankle wrapped in a bandage and elevated on a stack of pillows. Nope. Still there. “What happened?” Virginia asked. “Apparently you fainted,” the nurse said. “Fainted? How long was I out?” “I’ll let the doctor know you’re awake,” said the nurse. The doctor, a young Asian woman, came back with the nurse almost immediately. “We decided it might be better for you to spend the night,” she said in Texas-accented English. “The good news is, there are no broken bones. Just a bad sprain. I’ve given you something for the pain.” “Uh...” Virginia wanted to ask questions, but not in front of this crowd. Apparently the doctor understood her concern. “I’ll come back after your guests have gone. It’s after visiting hours, gentlemen. Say good-bye.” “You scared us, Mom.” Nick moved in close to take her hand. “You’re not going to miss my graduation, are you?” 181

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“Nick, don’t worry your mother,” said Mr. Nguyn. “Her health is the important thing.” “I’m sorry,” Nick said. “It’s just that I want you there.” “I’m sure I’ll be fine by Thursday.” I can do anything, she mused. Leap tall buildings without tripping, spit into the wind without it landing on my face. Fear no evil, Renaissance Woman is here. Darn, whatever the doc had given her was good. She’d like a year’s supply. But was it safe for—? “Do you think you can answer questions?” Smitty asked. “No time like the present,” Virginia said merrily. Smitty pulled money from his pocket and handed it to Nick. “Would you and Mr. Nguyn go get us all something to drink?” Nick just looked at Smitty, staying his ground, obviously not wanting to miss the questioning. “Come, Nick,” Mr. Nguyn said. “Let the policemen talk with your mother. We will come back in the morning.” “Thank you, Mr. Nguyn. Can Nick stay with you tonight?” “Of course, Virginia. Don’t worry. I’ll keep him safe.” “And feed Denver,” she said as they headed to the door. Nick stopped and came back to the bed. “You worried me, Mom. You know that? This time I’ll forget about it, but don’t do it again. Okay?” “You have my word.” Virginia smiled at her tall, handsome son. He was clearly destined to be some young woman’s Prince Charming, but hopefully not some wimp like Cinderella. As soon as they left the room, the guy in the suit asked the first questions. “Mrs. Lincoln said someone tried to kill you?” “I’m sorry,” Virginia said, feeling oh so Southern Belle, “I didn’t catch your name.” “Sorry, Ms. Rodriguez. I’m Bob Harmon. I’ll be investigating your hit and run.” 182

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“Harmon’s a good guy,” Smitty said. “We’ll both be on the case until we find out who did this to you.” “Okay.” Virginia felt strangely light of body and mind but clear headed. “What do you want to know?” “Let’s start with a tag number,” Harmon said. “Then tell me everything that happened after you left your office.” “I’m afraid I didn’t get the tag number,” she said. “No, let me think. Maybe. The first letter was a ‘J.’ The next was a ‘Q’ or maybe an ‘O.’ But I can’t swear to what came after that.” “What did the vehicle look like?” Wen asked. “Big, black, SUV. I’m not sure of the make. It went by fast, and I jumped out of the way even faster.” “There are thousands of them in Bayou City,” Harmon said. “Are you sure you didn’t get the tag number?” “Nope, sorry.” Virginia used a clicking sound as a period. Hmm. A nice sound. She really ought to use it more. What other sounds could she use as punctuation? What sound was a comma? A semicolon? “I didn’t.” Click. A nice period. “You’re sure it was intentional?” Smitty asked. “I’m sure.” Click. “I moved to the side of the lane and they aimed for me.” Click. “I think that makes it intentional, don’t you?” Now, what was the sound for a question mark? “They?” Wen asked. “Did you see them?” “Nooo,” said Virginia. “The windows were very dark. I didn’t actually see them, but I felt there were two of them.” Strange. No clicks for commas in compound sentences. “Well, at least one,” Smitty said. “There had to be a driver.” “How fast were they moving?” Harmon asked. Virginia shrugged. The analgésico wasn’t as great as she’d first thought. She felt her ankle again and this game of twentyquestions was boring. “Fast enough. If I hadn’t moved out of the way, they would have run me over. They squealed to a stop 183

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to make the turn to the down ramp. I think I heard a bump. Maybe they swiped a wall. Why don’t you go to the garage and measure skid marks or something?” “You have enough?” Smitty asked Harmon. “She’s tired. Let’s give her a break and chase down what we have.” Harmon closed his notebook and glanced at Smitty. “You coming?” “Not yet,” said Smitty, “I’ll stick around until the guard gets here. You run the computer and see what you can find in the way of black SUVs with a ‘J-Q’ or ‘J-O’ on the tag. Call me if you find anything.” “I’ll leave you in Smitty’s hands,” said Wen, “but you can count on me to make sure that whoever did this is prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law and absolutely no deals.” “Just as long as I’m not the prosecutor.” Click. Smitty followed Wen and Harmon to the door, made sure it was closed, then turned around and stared at her. “What?” Virginia blurted, alarmed. “Don’t be afraid,” he said as he walked toward her. “I just don’t want to be interrupted until I say what I have to say.” He took her hand. “They let slip that you’re pregnant.” “Oh. I—” “No, don’t say anything. Let me finish. I now know why you haven’t wanted me coming around, but I want to tell you this. If it doesn’t work out between you and the baby’s daddy, I’m still here for you, for you and the baby. If you ever need me, I’m here.” Virginia sighed. “I didn’t know myself until tonight.” “You don’t owe me any explanation,” he said. “I guess I just let my heart get ahead of my mind where you’re concerned.” “Did they tell Nick?” Virginia asked, wondering how she would explain the situation to her son? 184

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“No. They haven’t told anybody anything except that you don’t have any broken bones.” Virginia let out the breath she had unconsciously been holding, but immediately felt panic. “How did you find out?” “I was at the nurses’ station arranging for a guard and overheard the conversation between the doctor and nurse about what pain medication they could give you that would be safe for the baby, and they want to make sure the fall hasn’t affected your pregnancy. That’s why they’re keeping you overnight.” At that moment they heard a timid knock. Smitty strolled to the door. “If you need me, I’ll be outside.” Virginia watched him go. She should tell him. No, not yet, she answered. I need time to think. ¡Oh Cielos! What did I do to deserve this? She sighed, remembering. Okay, so I did the deed. But what in the world will I do with a baby? Not now. I don’t have time for a baby. I barely have time to feed the dog! The doctor came in and checked Virginia’s pulse. “You will have pain for several days, but your ankle should be normal in a week or two if you use crutches when walking and keep it elevated when sitting. A nurse will show you how to wrap the bandage in the morning. I’ll leave a prescription for pain medication. Come to my office in a few days so I can see if things are progressing properly.” Virginia nodded. “Here’s my card. I’ll leave instructions with the nurse.” “Thank you,” Virginia read the card—Dr. Chen. “Perhaps I should say nothing, but I understand you fainted when you were told about the child. It’s not good news?” “No, it’s not,” Virginia said. “You’re not married?” “No,” Virginia said. “I guess that’s why I was surprised.” 185

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“Surprised?” The doctor smiled. “Married or not, we women usually know when we’re late and why.” “I guess I had other things on my mind.” “How many periods?” asked Dr. Chen. “I don’t know,” said Virginia. “One, maybe two.” She had never gotten around to checking her calendar at the office, but she wasn’t clueless. She worked backwards through the day planner in her mind and read the date. “The only possible date of conception was the first Sunday in April. You want to know the hour?” Dr. Chen raised her eyebrows. “Only time? You’re sure?” Virginia nodded. “You have less time for sex than I do!” Virginia shrugged. Dr. Chen counted on her fingers. “That’s eight weeks gestation. I think we should do an ultrasound in the morning to make sure the baby wasn’t injured in your fall.” “I don’t think so,” Virginia said. Dr. Chen looked at her curiously, the question unspoken. Virginia met her eyes. “I’m not sure I want to think about this conception as a baby. I’m not sure I want to remain pregnant.” “Certainly, that is a difficult question to decide. But, to be on the safe side, I will refer you to an obstetrician on staff. I’ll ask her to stop by and check you in the morning before we discharge you.” “Thank you, doctor.” Dr. Chen patted Virginia’s hand and handed her the remote control. “Press the red button to summon a nurse, the blue button to turn on the television, the black ones are for channel selection. I’ll see you in the morning.” Dr. Chen reached the door, then stopped. “I am speaking out of turn, but I feel I must tell you this.” 186

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“Yes?” said Virginia. “I had to choose between continuing a pregnancy or going to medical school. I don’t think there is a day that passes that I don’t think about that child, who it might have been. This freedom of choice we women have is a heavy burden. Consider carefully. Consult your heart.” Virginia watched Dr. Chen leave. No doubt about it. It was National Give Virginia Rodriguez Personal Advice Day. She punched the blue button to turned on the television and found the Loud Obnoxious Lawyers Arguing Show. Fullerton’s murder was still the major topic of slander. The host took a call on the show’s special 1-900 line from a man who claimed to have been Atkins’ lover before Fullerton, a very disturbed man with a decorator voice willing to spend five-dollars a minute to claim he had been Atkins’ lover. He knew things, but he wasn’t telling. Not yet. His agent was negotiating a book deal. When the book came out, he’d come on the show and tell the viewers a few of the secrets that would be in his book, then they could buy the book and read the rest of his story. Possible suspect? Jealous lover? Hmm. Somebody ought to call the show’s producer and get the guy’s name. Check him out. But not her. Not tonight. Tonight she’d think about whether she had it in her to tell her mother once again that she was pregnant and still unmarried and how she could tell her almost-a-man son that the stork might soon be visiting mommy. And, by the way, your daddy that I told you was dead, well, he’s only brain dead. But the greater question was—did she have it in her to raise another child alone, and if not, did she have it in her to take its life?

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She pushed the button to turn off the television. She couldn’t listen to anyone’s words anymore, not even the ones in her own head. The tears were falling again. She hadn’t meant to play for keeps. She had used Smitty to clear Bell’s young victims’ suffering from her mind. She hadn’t thought about birth control until it was too late to think about birth control. One night’s folly was all it was. Check and mate.

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THIRTY-FIVE Wednesday, May 27, 12:05 a.m.

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mitty shook hands with uniformed officer Dave Kirsten when he arrived for the midnight shift guarding Virginia’s hospital room. “Want some coffee?” Smitty asked. “I figured I’d stop by the cafeteria and get a cup before I start home.” “If you don’t mind,” said Kirsten. “I don’t mind.” Smitty was in no hurry to go home. No one to go home to. And, as much as he loved the woman on the other side of the door, it didn’t look like she’d love him anytime soon. Smitty followed the signs to the cafeteria and got two coffees. Coming back, he turned a corner and nearly tripped over a baby stroller being pushed by a young white woman. He made sure they were all right, apologized, told her what a pretty baby she had—dark curly hair, big brown eyes, brown skin—then headed for the elevator. By the time he reached the elevator, the idea had wormed its way into his head. Virginia’s baby could be his. She hadn’t said it wasn’t. He had just assumed there was someone else, someone white like her son’s daddy. Maybe it was his baby. Should he wake Virginia and ask before he left? No. He should let her sleep, ask her in the morning. She needed her rest. But if he woke her now, he’d catch her by surprise. Smitty got off the elevator and looked down the hall. Kirsten stood by the door to Virginia’s room, which was closing. Good, thought Smitty, maybe the nurse will wake her. 189

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“Nurse?” Smitty asked, motioning to the door. “Nah,” said Kirsten. “Orderly with a tray of stuff. Been real quiet, except for that guy snoring down the hall.” Smitty set the cups down and pulled out his gun. “Cover me.” “What?” Kirsten looked confused. Smitty didn’t bother answering. He pushed the door open, gun drawn. “Hold it right there,” he said to the bearded man standing next to Virginia’s bed, holding a needle inches from her arm. “I’m just doing my job,” the orderly said calmly, eyeing the gun in Smitty’s hand. “You got a problem, take it up with management.” “Put it down now,” Smitty said firmly. The orderly stared at the gun a second longer, then he met Smitty’s eyes. “You’re making a mistake, man,” he said as he moved slowly away from Virginia and laid the needle on the tray. “Let me get you the chart. You can check it yourself.” Smitty focused on the orderly’s eyes, a yellow-shade of brown. Like the FBI lab guy at the hotel. The orderly saw the recognition in Smitty’s eyes and reached beneath a towel on the tray. Smitty squeezed the trigger as he pulled out a gun. “You’ll regret that,” Rosetta said as he collapsed to the floor. “I already do.” Smitty kicked Rosetta’s gun toward Kirsten. “I was aiming for your head.” “Smitty?” Virginia asked groggily. “You okay, Ginny?” Smitty checked her arms for injection marks, seeing none. “Fine,” she said with a yawn. “Please tell me it’s after midnight.” “It’s after midnight.” “Good. I don’t think I could take any more of yesterday,” she muttered and went back to sleep. 190

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*** John Doe was arrested on a charge of attempted murder and sent upstairs for surgery to repair his shoulder wound. Half a dozen Bayou City cops and CSU investigators showed up, soon followed by an Internal Affairs Division team. Toward the end of the mop up, Wen Boettcher arrived to check on Virginia. Assured she was okay, he left after telling IAD to back off—regardless of their determination of whether Smitty had fired his weapon lawfully, Wen wouldn’t prosecute an officer who had saved an ADA’s life. Virginia had slept through the whole show. It was now 3:30 a.m. Smitty was alone with Virginia. She was sleeping and he was working. He had borrowed a CSU laptop to stay informed. Analysis of the contents of the hypodermic were already in the case file database. Had Smitty not walked in when he did, the orderly would have injected Virginia with a potassium solution that caused fatal cardiac arrhythmia. She would have died in seconds. His quick action had saved her life. For the moment he was a hero, and she was safe. But for how long? He hadn’t told anyone that he had met the guy before in his role as a FBI criminalist Frank Rosetta because he didn’t want the police getting into a fray with the Feds and screwing up his investigation, and he wasn’t sure who he could trust anymore. Virginia stirred. She heard a clicking sound and shifted her focus to the chair by her bed. “I thought you went home.” Smitty closed the laptop. “It’s my baby, isn’t it?” Virginia breathed deeply, then nodded. “You will marry me, won’t you?” She sighed. “I need more time, Smitty.” 191

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“Time?” he erupted. “You need time. Our baby needs a daddy. I need you and the baby. Guess everybody needs something. Well, you take all the time you need, but remember this—I’m here now, for you and the baby. Remember one other thing, something I had to learn the hard way—before you know it, your time is gone.” She didn’t know what to say. What could she say? Smitty’s need lay loudly between them. She finally asked, “What else is bothering you?” “I figure we don’t have long before it gets out that I’ve shot an ex-FBI agent and his pals want to do something about it.” “Ex-FBI?” “His name is Frank Rosetta. He’s the lab guy who showed up with Liz What’s-Her-Name at the Concord when I checked out 1805. They ran his prints through the offender databases, found no record, and haven’t looked any further. Yet. But I did. He’s not an agent like he said. He’s ex-FBI, from DC. “Why didn’t you tell Wen?” “Because he might tell someone else. I’m not sure who we can trust. They’ll figure it out when Rosetta starts talking, or when they think to run his prints through the federal employee database.” “Maybe it’s just a couple of rogue agents,” Virginia suggested. “It’s hard for me to see FBI agents as hit men.” “Let’s see, Hargis does the cop, then disappears. Another ex-agent shows up as a crime lab tech when we get serious about looking for Hargis. He then tries a hit on you. And you think it’s just a couple of rogue agents? Is that how you have it figured? Just because they’re Feds, don’t make them anymore straight arrow than your ordinary cop. Ask IAD how many of them go bad.” “I suppose,” Virginia said into a yawn that grew into a stretch. “What time is it?” 192

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“Three-thirty last I checked.” Virginia closed her eyes again and thought about their situation. The two of them were in a hospital that wouldn’t come alive for hours. Sitting ducks. She yawned again and focused on Smitty. “What do you think is going on?” “I haven’t got a clue why they tried to run you down and then tried to finish you off, but if we’ve got DC ex-agents involved and they’re that determined, we probably have someone in Washington calling the shots, maybe your Mr. Graham. Funny how he showed up when he did.” “I can’t believe it’s TJ Graham.” “Why is that?” Smitty asked. “Because he’s a lawyer, a member of your special handshake club?” Virginia shook her head. “I don’t like him, I don’t trust him, but I can’t think what would motivate him to get involved in something like this. TJ can’t be bribed with just money.” “Sounds like you know him pretty well.” Virginia shrugged. “I wonder...” “What?” asked Smitty. Virginia met Smitty’s eyes. “Graham was in my office looking at case files when I got back from the beach. He could have bugged my office then. It’s even possible he bugged Wen’s office during our meeting earlier. If he did, they’d know we’re easing up on the case against Mrs. Fullerton. Maybe they thought...” “Thought what?” “I don’t know. None of it makes sense. In our meeting, Wen and I laid the facts on the line, that Hargis is now the prime suspect. Graham made it clear that Washington wants Mrs. Fullerton prosecuted. But then, later, he seemed okay with our approach. Maybe they thought that if they eliminated me, it would scare Wen into moving ahead.” 193

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“Why not go after Wen?” asked Smitty. “Somebody might ask serious questions if they bumped off a sitting District Attorney. Who’s going to care about a girl prosecutor who doesn’t have sense enough to get out of the way of a moving vehicle?” “How does your ankle feel?” Smitty asked. “If I don’t move it, it doesn’t hurt me.” “I want to get you out of here,” he said. “I don’t think I can walk yet.” “That’s not a problem.” “Isn’t there a guard on the room?” “Give me a minute.” Smitty slipped out of the room, leaving the door open a crack. Virginia heard him offer to take over the watch if the officer needed a break. A couple of minutes later, he came back wearing a white coat, pushing a wheelchair. “Can you help me into the chair?” Virginia sat up. “Want to change out of that breezy gown first?” “Turn your back,” she said. “No,” he said. “No?” “I want to say hello to my daughter.” “Daughter?” “I don’t know why, but I think we’re going to have a girl. And, whether you marry me or not, I’m entitled to visiting privileges.” Smitty lifted Virginia into the car, folded the wheelchair, and put it in the back seat. Then he opened the trunk and removed an automatic weapon and a couple of clips before getting in the driver’s seat. “Next stop is an all-night drugstore.” She looked at the gun. “You planning a holdup?” 194

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“They sell crutches,” he said. “Might be easier for you to move around on them.” “You don’t want to lift me in and out of the chair?” “Ginny, I’ll gladly carry you across the threshold, but I’m not carrying you around Bayou City.” They stopped at two all-night drugstores before Smitty found a pair of adjustable aluminum crutches. Back in the car, he asked, “How do you think we should go about figuring out who among our federal brothers are involved in this?” “I think it’s time to join forces with my opponent.” “Your opponent?” “Zachmann. In addition to having more money than God, the Zachmanns have more contacts in seats of power than God. In fact, he and his wife have contacts God wouldn’t touch. She’s a conservative, he’s a liberal. They contribute generously to both parties, so they ought to be able to find us a bipartisan investigation team that can cut through any smoke screens the local Feds try to raise.” “You got Zachmann’s home number?” “It so happens I do,” she said. “Let’s find a pay phone. I don’t want to use my cell phone or yours. They’re too easy to intercept. And I need to call Wen and make sure he’s okay with this.” “What?” barked Smitty. “Just a thought,” she said. “I guess we can call him after we talk with Zachmann.”

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THIRTY-SIX Wednesday, May 27, 6:00 a.m.

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iranda brought coffee into the library where Leo, Smitty, and Virginia were waiting for Jerry Thibideau to arrive. As she sipped her coffee, Virginia glanced around a book-lined room larger than her whole house. Leather-clad hardcovers filled walnut cases. Paintings covered wall space above the books. With its lively combination of antique tables, big leather sofas and chairs, and Navajo rugs, it looked like the kind of room a decorating magazine would feature. Miranda had probably spent more money furnishing the Zachmann’s library than Virginia would earn in her lifetime. Obviously, criminal law paid well, and anything was possible with enough money. “Danish?” Miranda asked, interrupting Virginia’s excursion into envy with a tray of food. “You have a lovely home,” Virginia said. “Thank you,” said Miranda, then she repeated Virginia’s last thought. “Anything is possible with enough money. But you should have seen the tiny one-room apartment we had when we were first married. Like a closet, wasn’t it, Leo?” “What?” Leo said grumpily. “I was telling Virginia about our first apartment.” “A dump.” Leo took a sip of coffee. “Good thing we didn’t have anything but sex on our minds back then.” “More coffee?” Miranda asked. 196

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Virginia nodded, taken aback by Miranda’s thoughtreading and Leo’s remarks. Obviously a love-match. Then she noticed Leo studying her through half-opened eyes. “What?” “If you don’t mind me asking, Virginia, what happened to you? You look like you’ve been through a thrashing machine.” “That’s why we’re here,” Virginia said. “I was run down in the parking garage yesterday afternoon. In the hospital a little while ago, someone tried to give me a lethal injection.” “What!” Miranda exclaimed in tune with the doorbell. “That’s Jerry,” Leo said. “Hold your story until I get back.” Ten minutes later Virginia finished telling about her encounter with a black SUV and Smitty’s gun battle with Rosetta. “Black, you say?” Leo glanced at Jerry. “I was tailed by a black SUV last Sunday afternoon after I left the jail. Turned out to be a couple of local Feds. Tell her, Jerry.” Jerry complied. “The driver was Jim Penny and the passenger was Sam Martin, two of the three FBI agents who showed up at the Concord Friday night. Third agent at the Concord is their boss, Robert King. We’ve tailed the two of them in the SUV ever since. The SUV left your parking garage in a hurry at 6:18 p.m. yesterday. Our guy followed them back to Penny’s apartment.” “What time did they play hit and run with you?” Leo asked. “About 6:15,” said Virginia. “Bingo,” said Miranda. “Yeah, bingo,” said Leo. “I’m guessing, but I’d say we have us a gang of special agents involved. This is how I have it figured. Hargis is the brown-haired guy going into the Concord Hotel Friday night. He’s also the blond-haired guy coming out. He killed Fullerton and Atkins while Fullerton’s wife was out at her photo shoot, then he went back to strip out bugs and the cop got in the way.” 197

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“How did you get those tapes?” Virginia demanded. “What tape?’ asked Leo. “You know what tape,” she said. “The hotel security tapes for Friday night. How else could you know?” “Oh, that,” said Leo. “Bought them at the flea market. You’d be amazed at what they sell. Now, you want to listen or go shopping?” Virginia sighed. She’d worry about the leak in BCPD or her office later. All evidence turned over to the defense had to go through channels in the DA’s office before being turned over to the defense, and the tapes hadn’t yet. “Go on.” “If Penny and Martin tried to run you down, chances are their boss, King, is in on it,” Leo continued. “The big question is, what are they into that would start them killing people?” “As uncooperative as King has been with the department,” said Smitty, “I don’t have a problem believing he’s involved.” “Maybe we ought to draw an organization chart, see who’s in the top box,” said Leo. “Somebody has to be paying the bills.” “That’s why we’re here,” said Virginia. “I hoped you’d have the connections to get this sorted out.” “You willing to concede Mrs. Fullerton was set up by this gang of agents and their masterminds?” “I am,” said Virginia. “Wen, too, I think. I figured I’d let you’d win at tomorrow’s hearing.” “Mighty kind of you,” said Leo, “but if our conspirators are aware of your plan, they might try to keep that from happening. Besides, I don’t think Mrs. Fullerton ought to spend one more day in jail. Let’s call Wen right now.” Leo looked at his watch, then grinned. “Why, it’s already 6:00 a.m. A hard-working public servant like Wen has probably been up hours already, protecting and serving the citizens. You think?” 198

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“No, wait,” Smitty said. “They may have his phone bugged. How about I go over to his house and invite him to our party?” “How about if I go?” Jerry offered. “Nobody owes me a bullet. You stay here and guard the fort.” “Hold on, Jerry,” Leo said. “After you gather up Wen, go over to Susan Wagoner’s house. See if you two can convince her to come here for breakfast and a probable cause hearing.” “We don’t need a hearing,” Virginia said. “Let’s just take our deal to her for her blessing.” “Maybe I want one,” said Leo. “For the record.” “The evidence files are in my office,” Virginia said. “Maybe not,” Leo responded. “FBI agents might have already visited your office. They could have nabbed your files and cleaned out police evidence lockers as well, made sure you couldn’t make your case against Hargis. But that’s not a problem.” “It’s not?” Virginia questioned. “Prez has the pathology reports on all the victims and copies of the other evidence reports you’ve turned over to the defense. Let’s get him and Wagoner over here, get it in the public record that Mrs. Fullerton didn’t kill her husband and that other man in his bed.” “We should call Dr. Yambika,” said Virginia. “You want to spend the time trying to get him to translate medical jargon into English, go right ahead,” said Leo. Virginia remembered her last Dr. Y courtroom experience and sighed. “As long as I can take on Prez as a hostile witness.” “Take him any way you want, Virginia. Let’s just get this on the record, see if we can put a stop to these killings.” “We still have a problem,” Virginia said. “What?” Leo asked. 199

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“I’m willing to dismiss the charges with or without a hearing, but who did the killings?” “We know who did the killings,” said Leo. “That’s not the issue. What we don’t know is why they did them and who paid them to do them and then go after you.” “So we still have a problem.” “No, Virginia, we don’t have a problem,” said Leo. “It’s not my job to hunt down killers. It’s not your job, either. It’s your job to prosecute whoever the police gather enough evidence on to charge. Prosecutors who make it their job to get the goods on someone at any costs obstruct justice. Our dead Mr. Fullerton is a prime example of that.” “We were counting on your help,” Virginia said firmly. “You’ll get it,” Leo said, “within reason.” “We were hoping that you’d use your political connections to help us solve this,” Virginia persisted. Leo eyed Virginia sternly. “You’re not conditioning my client’s dismissal on my help, are you?” “No, Leo. You’ll get your dismissal, regardless. I’m not trading. I’m just asking for your help.” “In that case, I’ll do what I can. Jerry, would you start things moving? Go get us a judge and a pathologist and Wen.” “Will do,” said Jerry. “I’ll also wake up Martha Dee. You’ll need a certified court reporter to take all this down.” Leo retreated to his upstairs study to make a phone call while Miranda served breakfast to Virginia and Smitty. “Senator Dunn, this is Leo Zachmann,” he said into the phone. “I hope I’m not waking you. We need to talk about your daughter.” “My daughter?” “Your daughter.” “What do you want to talk about?” Dunn asked warily. 200

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“How did you know your daughter was being held by the police at the Concord when you called me to rush to her defense?” “How do you think?” the Senator asked in an you-idiot tone of voice. “I heard it on the news, an on-the-scene broadcast. They said Stuart had been killed, that his wife was being detained.” “What time?” “Around five.” “Five o’clock?” “Maybe a little after,” Dunn hedged. “Eastern time. That would be around four your time.” “Okay. Well, let me ask this. What was your son-in-law doing in Bayou City?” Leo was answered by silence. “Sir, need I remind you that your daughter’s freedom, perhaps even her life, may depend on your candor.” “You have to promise that you’ll only reveal what I tell you as a last resort in her defense,” said Dunn. “You have my word that I will only use what you say to make sure justice is done.” “It’s complicated,” Dunn said. “I’m sure it is,” said Leo. “Look, I don’t want to talk about this over the phone,” said Dunn. “Can we meet in your office this afternoon?” “What time?” “If I can get the ten o’clock direct flight out, I should be there by two. Say, your office at three-thirty.” “I’ll see you in my office at three-thirty,” Leo said. “My time.” Leo looked at his watch. Time to get Mrs. Fullerton some justice. As soon as the hearing was over, he’d ask Martha Dee to check their office phone records and the television stations’ logs to see when the first broadcast had hit the airwaves. 201

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*** Leo returned to his study. “Hey, Virginia, I have a question?” “What?” “When did the hotel call in the murders?” “Why? she asked, eyeing Leo suspiciously. “Just curious,” he said. “Around four. I’d have to check the file to be sure.” Smitty pulled out a notebook. “The wife called the hotel operator at 3:48 p.m. Security called 9-1-1 at 3:56 p.m. Patrol officers arrived just after four. They called homicide at 4:09. I was already headed home, so it didn’t take me long to get there. I arrived about 4:20.” “Any news crews there when you arrived?” Leo asked. “I didn’t see any,” Smitty said. “Several blue and whites and an ambulance were out front and a CSU van.” “How about you, Virginia,” Leo said. “When did you hear?” “Why do you want to know?” “Humor me.” “Wen called me at home at about 4:15. I had just gotten home and had to turn around and go back to the Concord. I was in traffic when I heard about it on the Bill & Bob Show. That was probably 4:30 then. I got there about fifteen minutes later, about 4:45 p.m.” “Any news vans when you got there?” Leo asked. “No. But if it was on Bill & Bob, they couldn’t have been far behind. Why?” Leo shrugged. “Nothing Virginia, at least nothing yet. But you’ll be the first person I tell if it becomes something.”

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THIRTY-SEVEN Wednesday, May 27, 8:00 a.m.

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iranda gave Virginia a tour of the downstairs of the Zachmann home while they waited for Jerry Thibideau to return. Walls of glass in most rooms made the natural bayou acreage surrounding the house seem a part of the decor. The ravine view from the living room was so lush that Virginia could hardly believe they were in Bayou City. The only room without the feel of a tropical rain forest was the library, where they gathered when Jerry returned with Susan Wagoner, Wen, and Leo’s secretary. Wagoner frowned at Virginia as she entered the room, then glared at Leo. “This better be good, Zachmann.” “Trust me,” he said. “The little shut-eye you lose today, you can make up tomorrow.” “I need coffee,” Wagoner declared. Miranda filled a cup and handed it to her. “How about a sweet roll or some toast?” “I shouldn’t.” Wagoner patted a broad hip. “What the heck. I’ll never see a size sixteen again. A sweet roll.” Then she glanced around the room and said to Leo. “I get the desk.” “I’ll clear it for you.” Leo shoved papers into a drawer. Wagoner plopped down into his chair and pulled forward, which put the desk at her chin height. “Uh, could you do something about this chair, Leo?” 203

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Virginia had forgotten how short and wide Wagoner really was—the bench added stature to everyone. Leo fussed with the chair a moment, raising it so that Susan was at the proper height for judging, while Miranda refilled her coffee. Wagoner sat back down, picked up the sweet roll, ate a bite, sipped the coffee, then looked at Virginia. “Ready, Ms. Rodriguez?” “Yes, your honor.” “Well, have at it,” said Wagoner. “The defense and prosecution have agreed that, in the interest of judicial economy, I’ll begin by calling Dr. Herbert Hoover, the defense expert in pathology.” Wagoner stared at Virginia a moment, then at Leo to see if he was in agreement with Virginia’s approach. Leo shrugged. Wagoner glanced at Wen. “You okay with all this?” Wen, in a recliner in a corner, nodded. “Guess there’s nothing in the Texas statutes that requires us to hold the hearing at the courthouse, or says the prosecution can’t call the defense’s expert to present its case,” Wagoner continued. “But in the interest of judicial economy, since it appears the prosecution is throwing the case, can’t I just declare Leo the winner?” “Not so fast, your honor,” said Leo, “I’m not ready to win just yet. I want to get the evidence in the public record.” “That might be a problem, Mr. Zachmann,” said Wagoner. “We don’t have a court reporter to take any of this down.” “Oh, yes, we do,” said Leo, glancing at Martha Dee. “My secretary is still a certified court reporter. We figured she could take it all down. We’ll also run a video tape recorder and a cassette sound recorder in case the court or anyone else wants backup for the transcription.” 204

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“Is she acceptable to the prosecution?” asked Wagoner. “No objection,” said Virginia. Wagoner crossed her arms and glared at Leo. “Looks like you’ve thought of everything except one key item.” “What’s that?” asked Leo. “We don’t have a defendant here. The law requires us to invite her into any proceeding that could determine her fate.” “She waives the right to be present,” said Leo. Wagoner eyed Leo sternly. “You sure about that?” “I’m sure,” he said. “In that case, let the record reflect that counsel for the defendant, Mr. Leo Zachmann, has waived Mrs. Fullerton’s right to confront witnesses in this hearing. Off the record, it’s your neck, Leo, if your client decides you pulled a fast one.” Leo shrugged. “Proceed,” Wagoner said to Virginia. “Thank you, your honor,” said Virginia. “Mr. Zachmann and I have stipulated to certain facts. Namely, a 38-caliber handgun was found in close proximity to Mrs. Fullerton in the hotel room adjacent to and with a connecting door to the room where her husband and Mr. Atkins were found dead from gunshot wounds. She was found in room 1809. They were found in 1807. The door between the two rooms was open. The gun found with Mrs. Fullerton had been fired. The defense concedes that Mrs. Fullerton was present at the murder scene and found near a gun.” “Are you really stipulating to all that?” Wagoner asked Leo. “No objection,” he said. “We believe other evidence will prove Mrs. Fullerton could not have killed either man.” “Really?” said Wagoner. “Then go for it.” “The People call Dr. Herbert G. Hoover,” said Virginia. Wagoner raised an eyebrow. “Everybody stipulating to Dr. Hoover’s qualifications as an expert?” 205

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“I am,” said Leo. “He’s our expert.” “I’ll stipulate,” Virginia said, “as long as I can treat him as a hostile witness, if need be.” By stipulating to Hoover’s qualifications, she could save time. By having Hoover declared a hostile witness, she could ask leading questions and probe as deeply as she needed to get at the facts. She’d gladly stipulate to anything to get this over. The adrenaline rush from their hospital flight had worn off. The analgésico had worn off. All she wanted now was to find a bed and sleep, if her ankle would let her. Besides, there were no reporters in attendance to witness her performance. Let the play begin. Let Leo win. Let Justice be served. “Let the record reflect the prosecution has stipulated to the qualifications of the defense expert in pathology,” said Wagoner. “Oh, could I have another cup of coffee, Mrs. Zachmann, Miranda? Now, back on the record.” “Dr. Hoover,” Virginia began, “did you witness the autopsies of Mr. Fullerton, Mr. Atkins, and Officer Cuellar, and do you have in your possession certified copies of those autopsy reports?” “I did,” said Prez. “I have them here.” Prez handed three reports to Virginia. “Mark them,” said Wagoner. Virginia handed the reports to Martha Dee who marked the prosecution exhibits and passed them back to Hoover. “Dr. Hoover, what, if any, conclusions were reached by the medical examiner as to the cause of death of the three men?” “Mr. Fullerton died from a head wound, which was consistent with what one would expect from a 38-caliber bullet.” “What does the report on Mr. Atkins say?” “Atkins was killed by a 9-millimeter weapon.” “Do you concur with Dr. Yambika’s conclusions as to the cause of death of the two men? Gunshot wounds? Two guns?” 206

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“Yes,” Prez said. “Gunshots. Two guns.” “Were both guns recovered by the police?” asked Virginia. “To my knowledge, the 9-millimeter gun has not been found.” “And have you examined photos taken at the crime scene?” “I have,” said Prez. “What do those photos suggest as to the relationship between Mr. Fullerton and Mr. Atkins at the time of death?” “The position of the bodies at the crime scene, both nude and Mr. Atkins embraced by Mr. Fullerton, suggest that Mr. Fullerton and Mr. Atkins were engaged in a sexual act at the time of death. But the ME and I are of the opinion that no sexual act took place.” “Really?” said Virginia. “How was that determined?” “No semen on the bodies, none on the bedding, nothing in the tissue samples to indicate sexual arousal or penetration. It’s my opinion, and that of the ME as well. The men were placed in a compromising position at or near the time of death?” “What is the basis of that opinion?” “First, white cotton fibers along the bullet’s path in Atkins’ body indicate he was wearing a shirt, at least an undershirt, when the gun was fired. Since he was nude when found, that shirt was removed from the body after he was shot. And second, lividity. After death, blood settles in the lowest parts of the body. Blood settled in Atkins’ back and on Fullerton’s right side. Both men were found on their right sides, in what is commonly referred to as spoon position, Mr. Atkins’ back to Mr. Fullerton’s front. Blood should have settled on Atkins’ right side.” “Are you saying they were killed and then posed?” “Yes, that’s exactly what I’m saying,” said Prez. “Both the medical examiner and I believe Mr. Atkins was killed first, then Mr. Fullerton was shot, then their bodies were posed.” 207

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“How do you know who was killed first?” asked Virginia. “From the pattern of blood spray on the bedding and the walls, which reveals the location of the men at the time of the shootings.” “Pass the witness,” Virginia said, as she would any witness who was giving answers that didn’t support her case. Her few questions to Prez had established sufficient facts for Wagoner to hang a dismissal finding on, and the record would merely reflect a prosecutor giving up on a lost cause, not one throwing the case. She would let Leo fill in the details to prove his client innocent. That was the defense attorney’s job, after all. Her job was to prove guilt beyond a reasonable doubt, which she couldn’t do with the facts she had been dealt. “Your turn, Leo,” said Wagoner. “Anything else unusual about Mr. Atkins’ wound?” Leo began. “In addition to cloth fibers, specks of metal were found in the wound.” “What do you conclude from that?” asked Leo. “The missing 9-millimeter gun had a silencer.” “Have you seen the police lab’s ballistics report?” “Yes, I’ve read it.” “This it?” Leo asked, handing the report to Dr. Hoover. “Yes,” Hoover said. “Defense moves to enter this ballistics report into evidence as defense exhibit ‘A’,” said Leo. “No objection,” said Virginia. “Mark it,” said Wagoner. Leo handed it to Dr. Hoover. “You’re not an expert in ballistics, are you Dr. Hoover?” “I’m not qualified to analyze bullets and determine which gun they came from, but I am qualified to look at a human 208

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body and make a determination of the size bullet that caused a wound.” “Are you qualified to read a ballistics report?” “Yes, I can read,” Prez said with a smile. “Prosecution stipulates Dr. Hoover can read,” Virginia said. “Glad we cleared that up,” Wagoner remarked. “What are the salient facts in this report?” Leo asked. “The police removed a 38-caliber slug from the headboard behind the bed where the men were found. It passed through Mr. Fullerton’s head, as was determined by analysis of blood and tissue surrounding it. Striations on the slug matched to the 38-caliber handgun found in the adjacent room 1809, proving it was the gun that killed Mr. Fullerton.” “And another gun killed Mr. Atkins?” continued Leo. “Yes. A 9-millimeter weapon,” said Prez. “You said that gun was never found?” “Right,” said Prez. “To my knowledge, it was never found.” “What about Mr. Atkins’ clothing? Any bullet hole?” “The only items of clothing recovered from the hotel room were a shirt and undershirt found under a sheet. Neither garment had bullet holes. The undershirt is a size large. The shirt has a neck size of seventeen. Mr. Atkins would have worn a size fifteen shirt and a medium undershirt. We’re reasonably sure the recovered garments belonged to Mr. Fullerton?” “How was that determined?” asked Leo. “Several hairs on the shirt matched to Mr. Fullerton.” “So the shirt Mr. Atkins wore when he was shot is missing.” “That’s my conclusion.” “What about the other clothing the men would have worn?” Leo asked. “The shirt and undershirt were the only garments found,” Prez responded. 209

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“Would it be reasonable to conclude Atkins’ murderer walked off with their clothing and the gun that killed Mr. Atkins?” continued Leo. “Seems obvious,” said Prez. “Okay,” said Leo, “let’s go back to the autopsy report on Officer Cuellar. It says he was found dead in room 1807 many hours after the other two bodies were removed from that room, the next morning, in fact, doesn’t it?” “Yes,” answered Hoover. “His autopsy was conducted on the same date as the others?” “Yes. First Fullerton, then Atkins, then Officer Cuellar.” “What caused Officer Cuellar’s death?” asked Leo. “A knife or other sharp instrument consistent with a knife.” “Any report about a knife being found in that room or in any adjacent room, or anywhere near the murder scene?” “No,” said Prez. “Let me ask you this. Have you ever met Mrs. Fullerton?” “No, but I’ve seen photographs of her,” said Prez. “If I were to tell you—no, let me show you.” Leo sorted through folders and found the police intake report, then entered it into evidence. “This report says she’s five-foot-seven and weighs one-twenty-two. From the photographs you’ve seen of her, do you have any reason to dispute those numbers?” “No, I’d guess that’s about right.” “Well, let me ask you this,” said Leo. “What does the autopsy report say about Mr. Atkins’ height and weight?” Hoover thumbed through the report. “Six-two, one-seventy.” “And Mr. Fullerton?” Hoover turned to the report. “Five-eleven, two-twenty.” “In your expert opinion, would a woman Mrs. Fullerton’s size be capable of moving the bodies of men that size to pose them?” 210

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“Highly unlikely.” “If she had moved them, would her clothing have been bloody?” “Given the nature of their wounds, yes, very.” “Have you looked at the reports on her clothing analyses?” “Yes,” said Prez. “Did they find blood on them?” “No,” said Prez. “Did they find traces of what is commonly called gunshot or gunpowder residue on her clothing?” asked Leo. “No.” “And that indicates what to you?” “She didn’t fire a gun. She didn’t move the bodies.” “Let me see if I can sum up what you’ve told us. Mrs. Fullerton was already locked up in jail when Officer Cuellar was killed. No, you didn’t tell me that. You willing to stipulate, Ms. Rodriguez? “I’ll stipulate,” said Virginia. “And I’ll agree we should enter the report on the analysis of Mrs. Fullerton’s clothing into evidence.” Wagoner winked at Leo, then she smiled at Virginia. “Doesn’t miss a thing, does she?” “Summing up,” continued Leo, “Different guns killed the men found dead in 1807 last Friday afternoon. Clothing belonging to them is missing. Their bodies were posed after death. No blood or gun powder residue was found on Mrs. Fullerton clothing or person. She isn’t big enough to have moved the bodies. A knife killed a third man found in 1807 after she was locked up. Two of three murder weapons are missing. That it?” “Pretty much,” said Prez. “Well, that’s our challenge to probable cause, your honor,” said Leo, “and a solid argument for reasonable doubt. If that 211

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isn’t enough, we can round up witnesses who will testify Mrs. Fullerton was at a magazine photo shoot Friday afternoon during the period of time her husband and his associate were killed. The defense moves to have all charges dismissed.” “Any objection from the prosecution?” Wagoner asked. “No objection,” said Virginia, stifling a yawn. “None at all.” “Charges are dismissed,” ruled Wagoner. “With prejudice?” queried Leo. “Any objection?” asked Wagoner. “No,” said Virginia. By agreeing to a dismissal with prejudice, the DA’s office could never revive state charges against the widow, even if it turned out she had masterminded the whole thing. If the Feds thought they had a case, they could take their shot, but they’d have a heck of a time winning with the evidence in the record. “All charges against Janette Fullerton are dismissed with prejudice,” recited Wagoner. “The court orders she be released from police custody immediately. Off the record, how soon can you get a written copy of that order for me to sign, Mrs. Wilkerson?” “I’ll have it delivered to your chambers this afternoon,” said Martha Dee. “I’ll have the transcript to you by noon tomorrow.” “Good enough,” said Wagoner. “Now, who’s calling the jail to let them know the paperwork is coming through?” “I’ll give the jail a call,” said Wen, rising from the recliner in the corner where he had sat quietly through the hearing. “Virginia looks like she could use a nap.” “And the important question,” said Wagoner, “who’s going to break the news to our beloved press?” “Why don’t we let Wen handle that?” said Virginia. “I’m done. So very done.” 212

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THIRTY-EIGHT Wednesday, May 27, 11:00 a.m.

L

eo and Wen walked Virginia and Smitty to Smitty’s car while Martha Dee, Susan Wagoner, and Jerry followed Miranda to the kitchen to grab an early lunch. As Virginia and Smitty drove away, Leo turned to Wen. “Stroll with me.” The two of them ambled over to Jerry’s new car. “Can you do me a favor?” asked Leo. Wen inspected the car. “Depends. What is it?” “When you call the jail to tell them Mrs. Fullerton’s paperwork is on the way, could you be a little vague about her status? Tell them to hold onto her until Jerry gets down there to pick her up, which will probably not be before five.” Wen looked at Leo, questioning. “Oh, I’ll tell her in time,” said Leo, “but I sort of promised Virginia I’d help her figure out who’s behind all these murders.” Wen gave Leo a suspicious look. “Okay, okay, I’m not that concerned about seeing Fullerton’s killer brought to justice,” Leo admitted. “There probably isn’t a red-blooded, privacy-loving American, liberal or conservative, who isn’t secretly pleased about his demise. But I’d like to see whoever tried to run Virginia down answer to a little Texas justice. Getting Fullerton for politically-inspired prosecutorial misconduct is one thing. Going after innocent people to cover your tracks is another.” 213

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“So that gets us to you not telling your client she’s free how?” “Her daddy is flying down to meet with me this afternoon,” said Leo. “I figure if he doesn’t know his daughter in the clear, I might get a little help he doesn’t seem too keen about giving.” “What does Senator Dunn know about this?” Leo shrugged. “I don’t know, but if he knows anything about what his son-in-law was working on, he knows more than I do. Once we find that out, we’ll probably know why Fullerton was killed and maybe who hired that gang of FBI agents who tried to kill Virginia.” Wen hoisted himself up on the trunk of Jerry’s new car. “None of this makes any sense, you know?” “Move over.” Leo joined Wen on his perch. “Let me share with you, as the social workers say.” “Share away,” said Wen. Leo told Wen about being tailed by Special Agents Penny and Martin on Sunday. “You think they’re the ones who ran Virginia down.” “I’m reasonably sure,” said Leo, “and I believe they report to Robert King. All three showed up at the Concord Friday evening about the time Virginia led Mrs. Fullerton off to jail.” “That explains why King has been so uncooperative.” “This black SUV exited your parking garage in a hurry at 6:18 p.m. yesterday, minutes after a black SUV ran Virginia down in that very same garage.” “You had a tail on it?” asked Wen. “I did. Thought it might be the prudent thing to do. But my people have to sleep sometime, so our tail has been a little spotty at times. If you were to ask nicely, we could probably tell you where it was last seen. You can check and see if it’s still there.” “You son of a bitch, why didn’t you tell me sooner?” 214

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“That’s nice enough,” said Leo. “Jerry will fill you in on the details on your drive home.” “Thanks,” said Wen, “I guess.” “If I were in charge of doing justice, like you are,” said Leo, “when I got such information, I might call the chief of police and see if he could send a SWAT team out to wherever that SUV is parked, gather up its driver and passenger. You never know, those guys might talk. And I’d have someone check the vehicle over carefully to see if there’s any evidence it came in contact with Virginia. Her skirt was ripped. Maybe the vehicle has a piece of it hung in the bumper, like they’re always finding on those television police shows.” “I’ll do that,” said Wen, “but I don’t expect they’ll tell us much. The ex-FBI agent who tried to kill Virginia last night is under guard at the hospital. So far he’s not talking.” “Like I told Virginia, it ain’t my problem, but it seems to me you have two choices. Find out who’s behind this conspiracy or just sit around and hope it goes away. If I were in your shoes, Wen, I don’t know which I’d do. But at the moment, you have all the investigative resources of the State of Texas at your disposal. You might even get the Feds to help you, if you can find any you can trust.” “I get so sick of all this political infighting,” said Wen. “You know that’s what it will be when we get to the bottom of it. There are days I wish Nixon’s people had gotten away with his little burglary. It’s been one camp after the other ever since, like watching a video game.” “What can you expect? These young guys taking over grew up on video games. Zap or be zapped. That’s how they think the game ought to be played. They never played those dying for truth and honor and justice games we played when we were kids.” 215

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Wen shook his head. “I’m getting too old to love this job.” “Yeah,” said Leo, “me, too. Gets harder to get up to bat every time. Tell you the truth, Wen, my heart wasn’t in it on this one. Only reason I took the case was I was working on a boring paper-chase case and needed to get out of my chair. But I would like to see the rest of the truth come out. How about you?” “Yeah. Truth is good.” “Right. Truth is good. When you call the jail, tell them to hold Mrs. Fullerton until Jerry gets there to pick her up. It might be a good idea to keep an eye on her until we figure out who tried to set her up. Somebody ought to keep an eye on Virginia as well until we find out why those agents went after her, and maybe somebody needs to keep an eye on you. Whoever is behind it might not know the game is over. Reckon you can talk the cops into watching over everybody?” “I’ll let Jerry look after your client, but I’ll call Chief, have him assign a unit to follow Virginia around. I’ll be okay. Nobody’s threatened me.” “Suit yourself,” said Leo. “If I were you, I’d make sure all my phones get debugged on a regular basis. You never know who might be listening in these days. And you might want to check out everybody’s phone records, just to see who’s been calling who.” Wen slid off the car trunk. “As we used to say, it’s been real.” “Sure has,” said Leo. “I don’t know about you, Wen, but I could use a power nap before I meet with Senator Dunn this afternoon. Jerry should be out with Susan in a minute to take you back to town. You all take care now.” “Wait,” Wen said. “What?” Leo turned back to Wen. “Why were special agents tailing you?”

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“I’ve been asking myself that very question,” allowed Leo. “I’m not sure I have a good enough answer yet. Maybe they wanted to make sure I was working, and maybe they wanted to know if Mrs. Fullerton had told me anything about what her husband was working on. When you catch them, why don’t you ask that question? And see if they know what he was working on. That might point you in the direction of the mastermind.”

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THIRTY-NINE Wednesday, May 27, 11:30 a.m.

N

ick was as angry as Virginia had ever seen him. “Where have you been?” he bellowed. “I went to the hospital with Mr. Nguyn this morning to get you, and they said you were missing. Why didn’t you call me and let me know you were okay?” Denver, standing next to Nick, joined in the recriminations with loud, whimpering yelps. “It’s very complicated,” she said. “I didn’t mean to alarm you. Here, give me a hug.” Nick crossed his arms and moved out of reach, but Denver, unable to hold a grudge, sidled up to solicit an ear rub. “You’re inconsiderate,” Nick lectured. “You know that? Don’t you know people worry about you?” “I’m sorry, but leaving the hospital seemed to be the safest thing to do. A man tried to kill me in my hospital room last night. If Smitty hadn’t been there, he would have succeeded.” Nick looked at Smitty. “Really?” “Please, Nick,” Virginia said, “I have to sit down. These crutches are killing my arms.” Nick glared at her a moment, then curiosity got the best of him. He pulled a chair away from the kitchen table for her. She sat down. Denver settled beside her chair and raised his head to her lap. “I missed you too, boy.” Virginia massaged ears. “What happened?” Nick asked. 218

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“This guy came into my room dressed as an orderly and tried to inject me with something that would cause heart failure. Smitty challenged him. He pulled a gun. Smitty shot him.” Nick looked at Smitty, impressed. “You shot him? Wow!” “Yeah, wow!” said Virginia. “Smitty saved my life. And the Fullerton case has been wrapped up. As soon as you graduate, we can take off to the Valley. I’ll even take some time off and visit the family with you this summer.” “I’d better call Mr. Nguyn,” Nick said. “He made me promise to call him as soon as I heard something.” “Why don’t you do that while I take a nap. I’m exhausted.” “Nick,” said Smitty, “help your mother to her room. I’ll make her some lunch while you call Mr. Nguyn.” Smitty made sandwiches for the three of them. He was looking in cabinets for glasses when Nick came back to the kitchen. “Is the case really over?” Nick asked. “Your mom’s part is,” said Smitty. “So you won’t be coming around anymore?” Smitty looked at Nick, not sure what his tone of voice meant. “Sit down, Nick, please. I want to talk to you, man-to-man.” “Heavy,” Nick said. “It’s this way,” said Smitty. “I’m fond of your mother. I’d like your permission to date your mother.” “My permission? Hey, man, you don’t need my permission. It’s Mom you need to be asking about that, not me.” “Your blessing, then,” said Smitty. “Let me just come right out and say it. I love your mother. I want to marry her, if she’ll have me. I’d like for us to be a family. But if that’s too much to ask, I’d still like for you and me to be friends.” Nick stared at Smitty a moment. “You know anything about motorbikes?” 219

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“Huh?” “I just thought that if you were going to be hanging around, maybe you could help me fix my motorbike. Mom was supposed to pick up the part I need, but she keeps forgetting.” Smitty smiled. “I think I can handle that. Let me take your mother her lunch, then we’ll work on that problem.”

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FORTY Wednesday, May 27, 4:00 p.m.

L

eo directed Jerry to a corner of the sofa, a position that would keep him out of the line of sight of anyone walking straight to the guest chairs at Leo’s desk. Seconds later, Martha Dee led silver-haired ex-Senator Harry Dunn into his office. Dunn walked stiffly into the middle of the room and glanced around. His gaze rested briefly on Leo’s ornately carved antique governor’s desk—a state seal in the center with cowboys, windmills, and oil rigs here and there—before shifting to the view of the downtown skyline out the windows. After a moment, Dunn’s eyes settled on Jerry. “I expected this to be a private meeting.” “It is private,” said Leo. “Jerry works for me. He has played an active part in your daughter’s case. I think he ought to be here should you have questions about our investigation.” Dunn stared at Jerry long enough that a lesser man would have withered under his imperial gaze, then he turned his piercing gold-flecked blue eyes on Leo. “It’s your meeting.” “Have a seat, Senator.” Leo pointed to a chair at his desk. Dunn glanced at the chair, then chose its mate instead. Leo smiled at Dunn’s obvious I’m-in-control action and took his chair at the desk. “Let me tell you what we know.” “Please do.” Dunn squared himself in the chair and fixed his gaze on Leo. 221

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Leo met his eyes. “Your daughter was at a magazine photo shoot during the time your son-in-law and Mr. Atkins were murdered. One of your son-in-law’s guards, FBI Agent Wayne Hargis, had ample opportunity to commit those murders. This agent was also at the hotel when an officer guarding the rooms was murdered. We believe Hargis murdered all three men.” “Why haven’t you taken this information to the DA?” Dunn demanded. Leo noticed that despite the harsh tone of voice, Dunn showed no surprise at the information. “We have. They’re happy with the defendant they have now. There’s no apparent motive for this Agent Hargis to have killed any of them.” “Motive?” barked Dunn. “When I practiced law, motive wasn’t relevant to anything. Why am I paying your outrageous fee? A junior associate could get Janette off with what you’ve got.” “You’re paying my outrageous fee because I dig out the facts and because I worry about what matters to a jury. Motive usually matters to a jury. Obviously finding her husband having sex with another man would seem a very strong motive to a lot of jurors.” Senator Dunn glared at Leo. “Stuart wasn’t a nice person. Perhaps he did something despicable to Hargis. Who cares?” “This has to make sense to me so I can explain it to a jury.” “Stuart was dirt,” said Dunn. “But my daughter could never see Stuart for what he was. ‘He’s my children’s father,’ she’d say when I tried to tell her about him. She wouldn’t listen.” “When was this?” asked Leo. “What do you mean? It doesn’t matter what I told my daughter or when I told her.” “I’m not going into a courtroom to defend your daughter if I don’t know everything—the good, the bad, the ugly. I 222

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want to know before the prosecution surprises me and I leave your daughter hanging out to dry because I’m not prepared.” “There was no bad or ugly in their marriage,” snapped Dunn. “Really? A man his age doesn’t just wake up one morning and decide to engage in a homosexual act.” “Stuart was not a homosexual,” Dunn said firmly. “Really? How do you know?” “You think I didn’t run a complete background check on him when my daughter told me she was going to marry him? You think I didn’t keep an eye on him? There were no other men, or other women. I can assure you of that.” Not like your own “youthful indiscretion,” thought Leo. “Really? I just assumed you and Stuart held a mutual respect, what with being on the same side on those Washington inquiries.” “You assumed wrong. We were never on the same side.” “You endorsed his investigation,” said Leo. “I endorsed the investigation because I couldn’t stand by and let the Senate be defiled,” continued Dunn. “Stuart went after them because he was a predator. Who he attacked never mattered to him. What he loved was the power of humbling his betters, having people know he could destroy them. That’s all that mattered to Stuart.” Leo stared at Dunn a moment while thinking through this new piece of information—Dunn’s perception of his son-inlaw. “I suppose losing fame and power was hard on him.” Dunn’s proud bearing dissolved. “It’s hard on everyone. One day you’ve got the world at your feet. The next day nobody remembers you. You’re just a footnote in history. Your only hope is that the footnote is untarnished by the words ‘involved in the biggest sex scandal in history.’”

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In front of me sits a bitter old man with a motive for murder, thought Leo. “Do you hold Stuart Fullerton responsible for what happened to you?” “Of course, I do. He wouldn’t stop, not even when it was obvious he didn’t have a case. It didn’t matter to him who he ruined. All he cared about was that people respected the power he held over their lives.” Leo stared at Dunn. The man had lost everything that mattered to him—his power, his prestige, his good name. Logical or not, he blamed that loss on Fullerton. And Dunn was now a lobbyist for a large corporation involved in mergermania. What if Fullerton had uncovered illegal campaign contributions by Dunn’s client, or outright bribes? What would Dunn do to protect the little he had left in power and reputation? “There’s one question I’ve asked your daughter that she has so far failed to answer. What or who was your son-in-law investigating in Bayou City? Who made and who received the campaign contributions he was checking into? Who had a reason to strike back?” “Sticking his nose where he shouldn’t have,” Dunn said, “like a dog. Stuart was like a wild dog. Sniff, sniff, sniff, until he found a helpless animal to rip apart. I’m surprised nobody killed him before now.” “That’s not good enough,” said Leo. “I think your daughter knows exactly what her husband was working on, and she isn’t saying. I think you know as well. And you know what else I think?” Dunn glared at Leo. “I have no idea what you think, Mr. Zachmann. Nor do I care.” “I think your daughter is protecting you.”

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Senator Dunn blinked, then looked alarmed. “You have no idea what you’re talking about. No idea at all. Neither my daughter or I had anything to do with this.” “Really? I believe your son-in-law’s investigation focused on corporate mergers that moved through federal review quickly and the people in Washington who might have expedited approvals. I think he was looking into what the public would consider bribery of public officials. I think that’s why your son-in-law was killed.” “You’re guessing,” said Dunn. No, thought Leo, I’m bluffing, but from the look on your face, I think I’ve hit the nail on the head. “You think so?” “You’ve got nothing. Nothing!” shouted Dunn. “You can’t even begin to understand what this is about.” “Perhaps you’ll tell me,” said Leo, “to save your daughter.” Dunn answered with a spew of profanity aimed at his dead son-in-law. It was all Stuart’s fault. Anything that had ever gone wrong in Dunn’s life was his son-in-law’s fault. Leo quickly realized that he was not dealing with a rational person, and Dunn had the wealth to hire hit men. Power trips and insanity—always motives for murder.

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FORTY-ONE Wednesday, May 27, 4:00 p.m.

V

irginia was awakened by the pain in her ankle and a need to use the bathroom. She sat up in bed and looked around for her crutches. Nick had left them leaning against the dresser. She studied the room a moment, figuring a strategy for getting to the bathroom with the least amount of pain. If she put one hand on the night table and the other on the bed, she could stand up. Then, if she hopped over to the dresser, she could reach her crutches. First, she needed to get Denver out of the way. “Move, boy,” she said. “Move.” Denver looked at her, then around the room, making his own assessment of the situation. “My crutches, Denver. Fetch my crutches.” Denver just grinned his silly dog grin. “Never mind.” Virginia hobbled around him to the crutches. “You think I could manage a shower?” Denver whimpered affirmatively. “I think so, too, boy.” She limped over to the dresser to find clean underwear and a nightshirt. Throwing them over her shoulder, she added her bag containing her makeup. “I’m doing pretty good for a cripple, don’t you think, boy?” Denver cocked his head. “Where do you think Nick is?” she asked. 226

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He whimpered an answer she couldn’t translate. “Doesn’t matter. He’ll turn up.” She maneuvered to the bathroom. Sitting on the toilet, she unwrapped the bandage and got her first look at her ankle. It was now various shades of purple and extremely swollen. She pushed her finger against a couple of the darker splotches. The pain was bearable. Then she stood up by holding onto the edge of the sink counter. She shifted her weight from her good leg to both feet. ¡Ay! She shifted her weight back, took a deep breath and tried again. Not as much pain. What next? Take off clothes. Okay. I can do that. Easy. Now take a step. Noooope! So how do I get into the tub? Sit on the edge, swing my legs over the rim into the tub, bring in the crutches, stand myself up. That should work. Not bad, thought Virginia as she stood inside the tub. Next question—shower with or without crutches? With. The crutches were aluminum. Water wouldn’t hurt them. Now, turn on water. She raised her face into the water. Wonderful! She found shampoo and went to work. Just as she finished rinsing her hair, she heard a noise. A car backfiring in a neighbor’s driveway? No, that wasn’t it. She heard it again. Another backfire? Inside the house? Denver yelped. God, no! She stepped out of the shower with one crutch supporting her weak ankle, leaving the water running. She pulled on the T-shirt nightshirt, reached into her purse for her cell phone, and punched speed dial for police dispatch. “This is Virginia Rodriguez, DA’s office,” she whispered and quickly gave her address. “Get officers and an ambulance to my house immediately. Gunfire in progress, gunfire in progress.” 227

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Virginia laid the phone on the vanity before the dispatcher could ask any questions. She pulled the gun out of her purse with a shaking hand. She needed two hands for a steady aim. To heck with the crutches. She eased the door open an inch. Denver! She saw blood oozing from his body. Then she saw movement in the dresser mirror, a hand with a gun entered the room. The shooter was easing into her bedroom from the hall. She saw his reflection in her mirror and raised her gun in both hands. The instant the man stepped through the doorway, she squeezed the trigger. The bullet entered his side, kidney level. Blood and tissue spattered her bedroom wall. The shooter went down. Ignoring the pain in her ankle, she hobbled over, picked up his gun, and tossed it onto the bed. She felt for a pulse. Still alive. She considered fixing that problem, but she’d have to shoot him in the back. That might not play well in a selfdefense argument. Then she caught movement in the mirror and turned around. “Don’t move.” A black man pointed a gun at her head. In the next instant, his head exploded. “Virginia?” Mr. Nguyn called. “Virginia?” “I’m in here. They shot Denver!” He stepped into the room. “Are you—” “I’m fine,” she said. “Nick? Smitty?” “Nick went to a friend’s home.” “Thank God,” she said, looking at Denver. Mr. Nguyn followed her gaze. “I’ll take care of him. You see about your Mr. Smith.” “Smitty? Oh, no!” “I came as soon as I heard the first shot,” Mr. Nguyn said. “I wasn’t fast enough. I’m sorry.” “Help him.” Virginia touched Denver’s head. 228

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“Go to your Mr. Smith.” Ignoring the pain in her ankle, Virginia stepped over the man Mr. Nguyn had shot and rushed to the living room. She heard the moan from the sofa. “Smitty! God, no! No!” Don’t panic. She felt his neck. Pulse strong. Thank God. Leaving him, she limped to the kitchen phone and punched the speed dial number for dispatch. “Virginia Rodriguez. Officer down. Officer down. In my house. Yes, that’s the address. Where are the units you’re supposed to be sending?” At that moment two officers crashed through her kitchen door. “You okay?” the first one in asked. “There.” She pointed toward the sofa. “Officer down, Detective Smith. Shooters, dead and wounded, in the bedroom. My dog’s been shot. My neighbor, Mr. Nguyn, came to my aid. He’s in the bedroom—tending to my dog. Don’t hurt him.” “Securing the residence,” an officers said into his remote, then he and the other officer bounded through the house checking each of the rooms and closets while Virginia rushed back to Smitty’s side. She felt his pulse. Still strong. But the blood was spreading. And black? Around his stomach. Black blood? She touched his shirt. Grease. Grease? “Talk to me, Smitty. Talk to me.” Please, God, let him live. Smitty moaned and opened his eyes. “Ginny?” “I’m here,” she said. “Hang on. Help is on the way.” An officer spoke into his remote, “Premises secure, send in the medics, and hurry. Officer down, officer down.” “Ginny?” Smitty said. “I love you Ginny.” His eyes closed. “Oh, Smitty, don’t die. Don’t you dare die! I love you!”

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The next few minutes were a blur—EMTs ministered to Smitty’s wounds while her fear for his life consumed her thoughts. When the medics had Smitty on the stretcher and out the door, she hobbled back to the bedroom to check on Denver. Mr. Nguyn had wrapped him in a quilt and was struggling to carry him out of the bedroom. “Help him,” Virginia ordered an officer standing idly by. “Help him get my dog to a vet.” “But—” “Now,” snapped Virginia. The officer took the big dog from Mr. Nguyn and Virginia petted Denver’s head as they moved through the hallway and out to a police car. “I’m sorry, boy. I’m so sorry.” They had been through so much together. Denver had been the only other adult in the house for years, helping her guard over Nick, keeping her company through lonely nights. “I’ll take care of him,” said Mr. Nguyn, getting into the car. She nodded, then turned to an officer standing in the yard. “Please find my son. Nick Rodriguez, seventeen, six-one, auburn hair, green eyes. His photo is on my dresser. Come with me.” The officer followed her to her room. “We’ll find him,” he said as he took the photo of Nick in his cap and gown. “Don’t let him come back to the house,” she said. “Don’t let him see the blood. Tell him I’m okay.” “I’ll see to it personally,” he said and left her in the bloodspattered room. She ignored the carnage, dressed quickly, and found an officer to drive her to the hospital.

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FORTY-TWO Wednesday, May 27, 6:30 p.m.

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irginia was in the waiting room outside surgery when Wen joined her. “I’m sorry,” he said, “the cops watching your house weren’t paying attention. IAD is checking into it now.” “That’s not important. Have they found Nick?” “He’s okay,” Wen said. “Smitty fixed his bike, and Nick took it for a test ride to a friend’s house. The other kid drove them to the beach. Nick left your house around two. He was never in danger.” “The grease,” she said. “What?” asked Wen. “Smitty had grease on his shirt. It must have been from fixing Nick’s motorbike.” “Oh,” said Wen. “Thank God, Nick wasn’t there. I don’t think I could live if anything happened to him.” “I know,” Wen said. “Denver?” Virginia asked. “The vet thinks he’ll make it. Nick and Mr. Nguyn are with him now. What’s the word on Smitty?” “A number of officers gave blood. They’d like more.” “Sure, I’ll do that.” Wen was silent for a few moments, then added, “I spoke with Chief. Smitty’s getting a commendation 231

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and a promotion for saving your life last night. He’ll have a plush desk job until he’s ready for normal duty.” “Thanks. I’m sure Smitty will be pleased about that.” “He’s a good cop,” said Wen. “Just caught off guard.” She nodded. “What about the guys Mr. Nguyn and I shot?” “Agent Sam Martin is dead, thanks to your neighbor’s keen marksmanship. The guy you shot, Agent Penny, may live, but he’ll never be a kidney donor. You took out a kidney, his spleen, and a chunk of liver. Pretty good shooting for a desk jockey who hasn’t kept up her target practice.” “He shot my dog,” she said. “I considered finishing him off, but I would have had to shoot him in the back. You might have gotten suspicious.” “I appreciate your restraint,” said Wen. “We have all the murders we can handle at the moment, and I don’t think we’ll have a problem convicting any of them. You’ll have justice for Denver.” “I’ll have justice if Penny dies.” “How are you doing?” asked Wen. “I hear you managed to move pretty fast for a cripple.” Virginia looked down at her ankle, now swollen to twice normal size. Her whole leg throbbed, but she had grown accustomed to the pain. “Fine, I guess. Doesn’t hurt any more than childbirth, or much less, either. If you find a doctor with those pills they gave me last night, I’ll take a dozen.” Wen stood. “Why don’t I check into that. They still have you on their missing patient list, you know.” He stepped toward the door. “Wait,” she said. “One more question. Has Rosetta talked?” Wen came back and sat next to her. “Rosetta made it through surgery fine, but all we’ve gotten out of him is that he reported to Agent King on this project.” 232

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“I take it someone is in the process of gathering up King?” “King’s in custody. He ‘don’t know nothing ’bout nothing.’” “Of course,” said Virginia. “Your friend in the US Attorney’s office, Graham, wants our files on the case. I told Denise to make him copies, hold all originals. Chief ordered the police department to hold all evidence in their possession. I informed Graham’s about this morning’s hearing.” Virginia smiled. “Bet he loved that.” “After all that’s happened, he quickly forgot he was ever keen on prosecuting Fullerton’s widow. He wants you to stay on the case, wants us to take first shot on the felony murder charges against the agents while he chases the white-collar conspiracy issues.” “Wen, we need to talk,” Virginia said. “I thought we were talking,” Wen said. “Not about cases. About me. I need time off. Someone else can prosecute those guys. Besides, by the time they blame each other and their lawyers muddle the issues, we’ll never know for sure who was really behind it. Even if we get a confession that names the money people, any trial of the big guys is at least a year off.” “I need you to pull it together,” he said. “No. Not this time. I don’t want to think about trial tactics. I don’t want to think about conspiracies. I don’t want to think about justice or professional ethics. I gave at the office. I need time off.” “You’re the best prosecutor I’ve got, Virginia. I need you to make sure no one drops the ball.” “Wen, I’m tired. I’ve had enough. My whole life has been one murder after another for twelve years now. There are other people in my department who can take over. Claudia, for 233

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instance. She spends enough time sucking up to you to have earned the spotlight.” “But she doesn’t have the experience or the... the...” “Integrity? She doesn’t have integrity. That’s why she’s perfect for this kind of case. She has no scruples. She can think like these people. Power trips, lies, deceit. Her area of expertise.” “Are you sure that’s what you want? Wouldn’t it be better to develop the case yourself, delegate the parts you don’t want? Keep an eye on things, make sure it’s done right?” “Maybe that would be better for you, Wen. But it wouldn’t be better for me. I’m taking your earlier advice. Remember? A hundred years ago yesterday. I’m going to trust other people to do their jobs. I have things to tend to.” “Like what?” “I want to get to know my son before he leaves home for good. This summer is the only time I have left for that.” “How can you handle Nick’s tuition without a job?” “Give it up, Wen. I have money put away. But you’re right, it’s not enough to do more than get Nick started. His father is almost eighteen years behind on child support, so I think it’s time to call his attention to that omission.” Wen sighed. “It sounds as if you’ve thought it over. Are you sure I can’t talk you out of it?” Virginia smiled at him. “Not this time, Wen. Not this time. Actually, I’ve given the whole idea less than twenty-four hours of spare-time deliberation while dodging hit-and-run drivers, needles, and bullets. For me, this is an impulsive act. But I’m entitled. I’ve been impulsive only a few times in my life, and they turned out splendidly.” “What will you do with all that free time? Nick will be away at school, and you’ll be sitting around the house doing nothing.” 234

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“Give it up, Wen. You can’t change my mind. I have a plan. I have it all marked down in the day planner in my mind. I’ll be really busy getting myself a life. I’m getting married. I’m having another child. And if I should have any spare time when I’m not being blissfully happy ever after, I’m going to think about what I really want to be when I grow up.” “Have you picked out a husband yet?” “As a matter of fact, I have. I’m going to marry Smitty. I thought I’d break it to him as soon as they bring him out of surgery. He should be too weak to argue with me about it then.” Wen shook his head and grinned. “The poor guy. I wonder if he has any idea what he’s in for?” Twenty minutes later a doctor came out of the operating room and headed in their direction. Virginia grabbed Wen’s arm as a crutch and stood up. She tried to read the doctor’s face. It wasn’t good. “Mrs. Smith?” Virginia leaned on Wen for support. “We work with him.” The doctor cleared his throat. “Tell me!” Virginia demanded. “He made it through surgery, but his condition is guarded. We almost lost him. It took longer than we would have liked to get him stabilized. All we can do now is wait.” Virginia drew in a deep breath, then let it out. Thank you, God. Now make him well. “Can I see him?” “Only a minute,” said the doctor. “Is his family here?” “We’re trying to locate his parents now,” Wen said. “I’ll want to talk with them when they arrive,” the doctor said, “but come on back.” Virginia let go of Wen and grabbed her crutches. They followed the doctor to the critical care unit. Wen waited at the nurses’ station while Virginia was ushered in to see Smitty. 235

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He looked so helpless hooked to the tubes and monitors. Please, God, don’t let him die, Virginia prayed as she took his hand. “Smitty, it’s Virginia. It’s Ginny. If you can hear me, the answer is ‘yes.’ I’ll marry you. Please don’t die. I need you. Our baby needs you. We’ll get married, and we’ll be happy for at least the next forty-five years. I promise.”

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FORTY-THREE Wednesday, May 27, 8:00 p.m.

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nurse led Virginia out. “Leave your phone number and we’ll call you if there’s any change.” “Come on, Virginia,” said Wen, “I’ll give you a ride home.” “Thank’s, but I’ll get a cab. I want to stick around for a while in case Smitty needs me, and I need to find that doctor who gave me those wonderful pain pills last night and see if she’ll give me more.” Wen looked at her sternly. “Tell me you’re not going to do what I think you’re going to do.” Virginia met his eyes. “Honest, I won’t even try to write my own prescription. I just want to be here if Smitty needs me.” She watched as Wen got on the elevator. He was still staring a warning at her when the doors closed. Then she put the crutches under her arms, hobbled into the waiting room, and picked up the phone on a table full of old magazines and newspapers. She pushed zero for the hospital operator. As she waited, Virginia scanned the lifestyle section of a newspaper someone had left on the sofa. “Tiaras are worn only for special occasions,” said the headline on the column. No kidding, thought Virginia. She skimmed the half-page article explaining the ins and outs of formal wear. Maybe she should add a tiara to her lawyer ensemble for her next big trial. That would get the jury’s attention. Might also wake up the judge. Brides were permitted to wear tiaras, said the article, but nothing about lawyers. Nothing about little Mexican girls 237

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running through fields of bluebonnets and Indian paint brush either, she mused as the image of the painting over her sofa came to mind. I guess lawyers and senoritas are flat out of luck, she concluded as the operator finally answered and connected her to the third floor nurses’ station. Her doctor was making rounds on that floor, so Virginia got back on her crutches and headed to the elevator. “I need to see Dr. Chen,” she told the nurse at the desk. “You’ll have to wait.” Virginia reached into her shoulder bag and pulled out her badge. “Please, go get her. Now. It’s important. Very important.” The nurse scurried off to find Dr. Chen, and Virginia leaned against the counter. Dr. Chen came out of a room, saw Virginia and smiled. “I guess we can call off the search.” “I need to talk to you.” “Follow me.” Dr. Chen led her into a small office off the nurses station and closed the door behind them. “Have a seat. Let me look at your ankle.” Virginia settled into a white plastic chair. Dr. Chen lifted her leg and whistled. “Not following doctor’s orders, I see.” “Sorry, my life is too complicated to follow orders.” “This must be very painful,” said Dr. Chen. Virginia shrugged. “I hoped you could spare a couple of those pills you gave me last night, maybe a prescription?” “I can give you a week’s worth, provided you agree to come to my office in a day or two and let me make sure this ankle is healing properly, and you promise to stay off the foot.” “I will,” said Virginia. “The other thing I wanted to ask— could you check on the condition of three patients for me?” Dr. Chen asked, “Are you related?” Virginia pulled her badge out again. “I’m investigating the deaths of Stuart Fullerton and others. Someone tried to run 238

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me down yesterday, which is the reason for the ankle injury, and someone tried to kill me in your hospital last night, which is why I ran off. This afternoon, they tried again in my home. First, I want to know about Detective Jackson Smith. He was shot in my home this afternoon.” “So you’re the Virginia Rodriguez that’s been on television?” “Please, find out about Detective Smith for me. He’s not only a colleague, he’s my baby’s father. I want to know his condition. In English. Not medicalese.” “Where is your Detective Smith?” “Critical care unit.” “I’ll call,” said Dr. Chen. A few uh-hums later, she hung up and looked at Virginia. “I wish it were better news, but Mr. Smith’s condition is critical. There’s been no improvement since surgery, but he’s stable and has active brain function, so don’t give up hope.” Virginia nodded. Hope. When had she ever allowed herself to hope? Hope. Trust. Foreign words in her vocabulary. How could she do them if she couldn’t say the words? “The other patients?” asked Chen. “Jim Penny,” said Virginia, “brought in with a gunshot wound this afternoon, and Frank Rosetta, shot here last night.” “I’ll check. First, let me get you those pills.” Virginia rested her head against the wall while she waited for Dr. Chen to return. Perhaps she should keep her promise to Wen, just go back to the waiting room so she’d be there when Smitty needed her. That’s what she should do. Let other people do their jobs. Dr. Chen came back with medicine. “Take one when you’re finally down for the night. You should have a restful sleep. These samples should last you a week. I still want you in my office in a day or two. Take no more than three a day. Less is always best with medications when you’re pregnant.” 239

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“I’m not really a pill person,” said Virginia, “but it would be nice not to hurt.” “Don’t drive or operate a chain saw after you take it. Now, as to the other gentlemen you asked about, the news is not all good. Mr. Penny survived surgery, but he succumbed a few minutes ago. We have to wait for the pathologist’s report to learn why. It appears to be cardiac arrest. Mr. Rosetta’s condition continues to improve.” Cardiac arrest. The needle Rosetta had intended for her would have induced cardiac arrest. Maybe someone had gotten to Penny. Virginia pulled out her phone and punched in Wen’s number. As it rang, she told Dr. Chen, “When I hang up, you call hospital pathology. Tell them hands off. The ME will perform the autopsy on Mr. Penny. Have them bag any used hypodermics on that floor. Penny’s death may be a murder.” “Murder?” repeated Dr. Chen. “Wen, we’ve got a problem at the hospital,” Virginia said as he answered. She responded to his “what?” and Dr. Chen’s “murder?” as she filled in the details. “I’ll call Chief,” said Wen, “and get a team over there to check out Penny’s death. I’ll make sure there’s a guard on Smitty’s floor.” “I’ll be in the waiting room outside critical care if you need me. I want to be there when Smitty wakes up.” “Be careful, Virginia.” “Don’t worry about me. I’m a SWWWC. Indestructible.” “Huh?” “Private joke.” Virginia hung up and Dr. Chen helped her get back on her crutches. “May I refer you to an obstetrician?” Virginia nodded. “When I come to your office.”

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*** Back in the waiting room, Virginia called Mr. Nguyn. Denver had survived surgery, but was very weak. Then Smitty’s parents arrived. Virginia introduced herself to the beautiful silver-haired white woman and handsome white-haired black man. Francesca Smith eyed Virginia. “Ah, you’re Jack’s Ginny. You are as lovely as he said, my dear.” “Yes, he’s been telling us that he’d be bringing you home soon,” said Jackson Smith, Senior. “Francesca is already planning the wedding. You know how Italians are about weddings.” When Mr. Smith mentioned a wedding, Virginia burst into tears. Mrs. Smith cried as well, while Mr. Smith wrapped his arms around both women and patted their backs. “Now, now. Our Jack will be just fine. Jack’s strong. He’ll come out of this just fine.” Smitty had to be all right, Virginia told herself. She needed him. Their baby needed him. Yes, he had to be all right. Virginia raised her head from Mr. Smith’s shoulder and saw the nurse coming toward them. “Are you the Smiths?” Virginia nodded. “Is he—?” “He’s asking for you,” said the nurse.

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FORTY-FOUR Thursday, May 28, 9:00 a.m.

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irginia awakened in Smitty’s boyhood room. The Smiths had insisted she come home with them. Since Nick was sleeping at Mr. Nguyn’s house, she had agreed. Their home turned out to be an early 1900s mansion on the banks of a bayou near downtown. Smitty’s father was a retired doctor; he had used his GI Bill for medical school. Smitty had left out some of his own history as well. After his Army service, Smitty earned a degree in political science while holding down a full-time job on the police force. He was now just a few credits shy of finishing law school, something he’d been working on during the three years since his wife and son died—his form of grief therapy, or penance. Virginia stretched, feeling thoroughly rested. She felt no pain in any part of her body, thanks to Dr. Chen’s magic pills. As she glanced around Smitty’s room, she briefly wondered how she could ever live in her own house again. She should talk to Mr. Nguyn. Perhaps he could help her sell it. Maybe it was time to find a condo near downtown. Now that Nick was grown, she didn’t really need a yard, and it would be more convenient to be close to the office. Then she remembered the baby. She touched her belly and spoke softly. “I guess I need to talk with your daddy about houses, don’t I? He might have an 242

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opinion on the subject of yards. But today is your big brother’s graduation. We have to get our act together and make the day special for him. And we need to go to the hospital and see your daddy. I guess we’d better get up and get a move on.” Francesca had thoughtfully placed clean underwear, slacks, and a blouse in the bathroom. The note on top said, “We look about the same size. I hope these will fit.” Virginia touched the cream-colored, satin-smooth silk blouse and checked the size—12. The linen slacks were a 14. So that was what Smitty considered “not tiny.” Virginia dressed quickly, anxious to call the hospital to check on him. The clothes were a perfect fit except the blouse was a bit tight across the chest and the pants legs were too long. She fixed the pants by turning the hem under; the blouse, she would just hold her breath. Then she looked at herself in the mirror. She needed some color if she wanted to look like anything but a tired, worried, would-be Cinderella. She searched her bag and found her makeup kit that included never-before-used eye shadow and blush. She applied them cautiously, then noticed the crystal dish with barrettes and hair pins. “Let’s try hair up.” A minute later, she faced a stylish Hispanic matron. “Way to go, girl,” she said and headed downstairs. “Jackson called the hospital earlier this morning,” Francesca said as she poured Virginia a cup of coffee. “In fact, he called off and on all last night. Jack has continued to improve. They said they will move him to a regular room later on today.” “Wonderful.” Virginia added a silent prayer of thanks. “Yes,” said Francesca. “There’s no reason to delay the wedding.” “The wedding?” repeated Virginia. 243

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Francesca smiled, then in her beautifully-accented English said, “I think it should be a family thing. Of course, we have a rather large family. Have you chosen your dress?” ¡Dios Mío! A wedding. A dress. Had she really agreed to play Cinderella to Smitty’s Prince Charming at a formal ball? A dress, flowers, a reception, well-wishers, drunken relatives, gifts, thank you notes, a house with a yard, a baby, a puppy. And let’s not forget the tiara for a veil. What had she gotten herself into? Virginia decided instantly there was only one honorable way out of this wedding business. “We were thinking of a small ceremony, and soon. You see, I just found out that I’m pregnant. Under the circumstances, Smitty and I think it would be wise to fast-forward through the wedding to the happy ever after.” Francesca gulped, then her face broke into a smile. Virginia had offered a grandchild in exchange for a big wedding. It had taken Francesca only a moment to accept the deal. “Oh, that’s wonderful, dear.” Francesca jumped up from her chair. “I must tell Jackson. He will be thrilled. A baby? Of course, you’re right. You and Jack should be married quickly.” Virginia savored her coffee while her future mother-in-law sprang into action. There was the expectant grandfather to tell. Then, no doubt, Francesca would start planning the decor of the baby’s room. But first things first. Virginia had to call Nick and work out the day’s plans. Then she had to go by the hospital and kiss the expectant daddy good morning, then she had to check on Denver, and then she had to get Nick graduated. Another busy day. Using the railing as a cane, Virginia climbed the stairs back to Smitty’s old room to retrieve her cell phone from her bag. She called Nick, assured him that both she and Smitty were 244

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fine now. He also had good news—Denver had survived the night and was out of danger. Nick and Mr. Nguyn were on their way to the vet just as soon as they hung up. She promised she’d be home in plenty of time for a visit with Denver before the ceremony at seven. As she snapped her cell phone closed, the light bulb in her head flashed on. Cell phones! The answer was in the cell phones. Every one of the agents involved in this must have a phone. The Gen-X union card. Every thirty-something in a suit had one, and a beeper, and a laptop, and a day planner. Where there were cell phones, beepers, laptops, and day planners, there were telephone records and email and hard drives and chips that could not be erased, but could be destroyed if they didn’t get to them in time. The dots for a picture. All she had to do was connect the dots to find out whose picture they made. Why hadn’t she thought of that before? Maybe because she’d been brain-dead tired after the Bell trial, too tired to do her job. She punched the direct dial number to Wen’s office. “Cell phones,” she said. “Have the police go through the agents’ pockets and retrieve cell phones. See if Susan Wagoner will expedite the search warrants the police will need to go through homes, offices, cars, computers, day planners. Check phone records. There has to be a connection to the guy in charge of all this. All we have to do is find it. The cop who was working with Smitty on my hit-and-run, Bob Harmon, may be able to help expedite things.” “I’ll get on it,” Wen said. “And have our offices checked for bugs.” “Have checked. We’re clean.” “Good,” she said, feeling relieved. If TJ Graham was involved, at least he hadn’t planted any bugs. She truly hoped 245

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he wasn’t. She had always wanted her son to have a father he could be proud of. “You sound like you’re feeling better this morning,” Wen said. “How’s Smitty doing?” “He’s going to make it. And I got a good night’s sleep, enough that my brain is working again, and the pain is under control.” “So you’re not really quitting?” “I’m still taking a leave of absence, then we’ll see. But if my hunch pays off, we should be able to wrap up the Fullerton case before I do.”

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FORTY-FIVE Thursday, May 28, 3:00 p.m.

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he vet’s assistant led Virginia and Nick back to Denver. “He’s a sweetheart,” she said. “Had a bad time of it for an old boy. We’ll keep him a few more days until he gets his strength back.” Denver raised his head as they neared his cage and gave the most pitiful “Rocky Mountain High” whimper Virginia had ever heard. “Such a brave boy,” said Virginia. “You’re going to be fine, pal. When you come home, I’ll feed you all the beef stew you want.” “Mom, you know he’s supposed to be on a diet,” said Nick. “Just let him dream about beef stew until he’s well.” When they returned home, Virginia went over to Mr. Nguyn’s house. “I never had a chance to thank you for saving my life.” “Had I not saved your life, I would have lost my soul,” he said. “So, my daughter, what is the next step on your journey?” Virginia smiled. “I’m taking your advice, following my heart. I have decided to marry Detective Smith.” “I am happy for you,” Mr. Nguyn said, “and sad for me. You will no longer need this old man.” “On the contrary, I’ll need you even more. I’ll continue living here, and I’ll continue asking favors of you.” “Thank you,” said Mr. Nguyn. 247

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“The first favor—would you supervise work on my house while I’m away?” “Away?” “While Detective Smith and I are on our honeymoon. It needs a thorough cleaning, and there’s some renovation I want to make.” “My pleasure, Virginia. It shall be my marriage gift to you.” “I’d also like you to give me away in the wedding ceremony.” “My great pleasure.” “There’s a third favor. Three wishes today.” “Yes?” “I’m pregnant with Smitty’s child.” “Oh, Virginia, that is wonderful news!” “I want you to be our child’s godfather.” “You bring a gift of great joy,” Mr. Nguyn said softly. “We shall watch another child grow.” That evening, Virginia and Mr. Nguyn watched with pride as Nick walked across the stage and claimed his diploma and a scholarship. Not bad for a Hispanic kid without a father, she thought. But, with his father’s help, Nick might actually reach his potential—get into the right graduate school, be admitted to the right clubs, be introduced to influential people, have doors opened that she could never open for him. She would think about it. After the ritual tossing of caps, Nick joined Virginia and Mr. Nguyn in the parking lot. He had a pretty brunette at his side. “Mom, this is Beth,” Nick said with pride. “My mom, Mr. Nguyn.” “Nice to meet you,” said Beth in a real voice instead of one of those teenage whines many of the girls in Nick’s class had adopted. Beth offered a firm handshake to Virginia. 248

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“I’ve asked Beth and her parents to come to dinner with us,” said Nick. “And Ken and his folks, if that’s okay?” Virginia looked into the girl’s intelligent eyes and saw an equally measuring scrutiny, not unlike the glance that had passed between her and Smitty’s mother last night. “We’re pleased to have you.” Virginia opened the door of Smitty’s hospital room and found him watching the ten o’clock news. “I’ve missed you,” he grumbled. She gave him a kiss. “I’ve missed you, too.” Then she settled down in the chair next to the bed to watch the commentary on the late-breaking developments in the Fullerton case—the dismissal of charges against Mrs. Fullerton, the deaths and arrests of FBI agents, the hit-and-run on local prosecutor Virginia Rodriguez, the shooting of Detective Jackson Smith. What did it all mean? What did it all mean? None of the news people seemed to know. “Welcome to the club,” she said to the television news guy and found the button at Smitty’s pillow to turn off the noise. They didn’t have complete answers yet, but all the culprits were in custody, so they could take their time figuring it out. “I thought you’d forgotten me,” Smitty complained. “Never. I watched you sleep over an hour this morning and your mother has been feeding me reports all day. How are you?” “As well as can be expected, they say. They took all the tubes out, said I was going to live. I think I’ll give it my best shot. Except when I move and feel the pain. Then I think maybe I should go ahead and die.” “I have some wonderful pills,” said Virginia, “but it’s illegal for me to dispense them. With a cop in the room, I’d risk a drug bust.” 249

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“My doctor should be making late rounds soon. Why don’t you tell him about them. If they’re safe for an expectant mother, they ought to be safe for the father.” “I’ll tell him,” Virginia said. “I like your hair that way,” he said, smiling at her. She felt her cheeks warm. “Thank you.” The doctor came in, said hello, remarked that all of Smitty’s vital signs were now within normal range, that he should heal nicely. He marked the chart and started to leave. “Excuse me,” Virginia said in her big voice. “You didn’t ask if he has any questions.” “It’s been a long day,” the doctor responded. Virginia wondered if they trained medical personnel to say that, as if they were the only ones with never-ending jobs. “Do you have any questions, Mr. Smith?” the doctor asked. Smitty mentioned Virginia’s magic pills. “I’ll tell the nurse.” He marked the chart again and walked out. The nurse came with pills for Smitty. “These should ease the pain. We’ll check on you around midnight. If you need us before then, just punch the button. But I doubt that will happen. If these and the other stuff you’re on don’t knock you out, nothing will.” After the nurse left, Smitty said, “Ginny, do me a favor.” “What?” “Scoot up here next to me. Let’s talk until I fall asleep.” “Are you sure I won’t hurt you? Your stitches?” “Please.” Virginia squeezed onto the narrow bed. Draping her arm across Smitty’s waist, she snuggled her head between his neck and shoulder and felt the strong pulse in his neck. “Hmm,” he said, “that feels much better.” “It does feel nice,” she said. 250

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A little later, she added. “You know, this is the first time we’ve ever actually been in a bed together.” He smiled. “Let’s not tell anyone about desk-sex in the DA’s office. You never know when they’ll make that a crime.” “No, I don’t think we should mention it.” “You love me? Or did you just say ‘yes’ because of the baby?” Virginia considered the question a moment. “I guess I was afraid that if I let myself love you, you’d go and get yourself shot and die and break my heart. When I saw you had been shot, I felt my life was over, my time had run out. I knew it wasn’t a question of letting myself love you. I already did.” “I love you,” he said. “There’s a lot we don’t know about each other,” she said. “We know the important stuff. But, just so you don’t claim you agreed to marry me under false pretenses, here are the facts. I’m forty-two, healthy except for this little hole in my chest which will heal, and I make top pay at my grade. I have a little money in the bank and an old convertible that I drive to the beach on weekends. I was raised a Catholic and still believe there’s a God. I was raised a Democrat and still believe giving people a hand up is a worthy public policy. And I’d like to have at least two children with you. Anything else you want to know before you say ‘I do’?” “Would you settle for one child? This child?” She touched her belly. “I’m getting a little too old to be making babies.” “How about we negotiate that in a couple of years?” She smiled, remembering Nick as a cute, cuddly two-yearold. “I guess a couple of years could make a difference in how we both feel about more children. Next question. Who will do the laundry?” “I’ll take mine to the laundromat like I’ve been doing. Yours too, unless you want to do it yourself.” 251

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“Who does the dishes?” “We’ll share the kitchen duties.” “How about child care?” “You give birth. I’ll change diapers. I’ll walk the floors at night when the baby cries. And I’ll love her or him as much as any father can. Anything else?” “You sound like perfect husband material,” she said. “Except for one thing.” “What’s that?” he asked. “You forgot to mention that you’re almost a lawyer.” “Oh, that. I’m not one yet, and I’m not sure I’m going to do anything more than get the degree. I’m happy being a cop. That’s more than most lawyers can say.” “You’re right about that,” she said. “Now, what do you want to know about me?” “I know everything I need to know. You’ll be thirty-eightyears old your next birthday, never married, mother of a seventeen-year-old son, valedictorian of your high school class, smart enough to win full scholarships to college and law school, been with the DA’s office ever since. You’re five-one, weigh one-thirty-five pounds, own your own home and an old truck. I’m assuming you were raised a Catholic like I was, but I don’t know or care. And I’m assuming you’re a law-andorder Republican by the way you prosecute your cases, so we’ll probably argue about politics. You’re stubborn, bossy, would kill to save the people you love, have great boobs, broad childbearing hips, and you’re not very adept at birth control. I’d say you’re perfect wife material.” “You... you... snoop!” she wailed, more alarmed that he knew her weight than anything else. “Be still, woman,” he said as he closed his eyes. “I need my rest.” 252

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FORTY-SIX Thursday, May 28, 11:00 p.m.

V

irginia kissed Smitty and scooted off the bed. She gathered her shoulder bag, then looked at him, his mouth open as he snored away in drug-induced sleep. She’d have to buy earplugs. “I love you,” she whispered. She didn’t know when it had happened or why, but she knew it was true. She loved him, and she wanted their child. Virginia headed for the elevator. She had dispensed with the crutches. Her arms hurt more when she used them than her ankle did when she didn’t. With the bandage wrapped tightly and her wonder pills, she could walk without too much pain, at least for short distances. She passed the waiting room and glanced inside. No guard cop. Maybe he’d gone for coffee. She paused at the nurses station and leaned against the counter to give her ankle a rest. A doctor and nurse discussed a chart. Without intending to, she found herself inventorying their facial features for future mug shots, a bad habit she’d acquired over the years. Something about the doctor struck her as familiar. Dr. Osborn was the name on his coat. Hmm. An ordinary face. An ordinary name. Nothing came to mind. She continued to the elevator and punched the down button. As the elevator began its descent, she remembered where she had seen the doctor. The morgue. Osborn was the 253

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name of Dr. Yambika’s assistant. He had worn a surgical mask during the autopsies. Making rounds? Maybe an intern on rotation. One week with live patients, next week with the dead? As the elevator descended, her suspicion rose. She didn’t know for a fact Dr. Osborn was an intern. Rosetta, who was supposed to be an FBI crime lab investigator, had turned out to be an ex-FBI killer. Maybe Osborn was too. Smitty? But why? The doors opened to the lobby. She pushed the button to close them, then the button for Smitty’s floor. God, let me be wrong. It seemed like hours before the doors opened again. No one at the nurses’ station. No guard in the waiting room. A doctor entered Smitty’s room. She pulled the gun from her bag, eased down the hall, and flung open the door. Osborn was at Smitty’s bedside with a hypodermic. “Hold it.” She moved inside, gun aimed at him. He turned around, startled. “What?” “Put it down.” “I’m a doctor. It’s time for Mr. Smith’s medication.” “You’re not his doctor, and Mr. Smith has had his medication. I said put it down.” Osborn looked at her, considering. “Do as I say or I’ll put a bullet between your eyes.” He lunged toward Virginia. She fired. He clutched his abdomen as he went down. Virginia moved in, frisked him, and found a gun and cell phone. She tossed them onto Smitty’s bed. “You’re lucky, so far. My aim isn’t that good or you’d already be dead. But unless you tell me what’s going on and who’s behind it, I’ll put a bullet where I intended.” 254

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“You wouldn’t,” Osborn whimpered. “That would be murder.” “So? You think you’re the only one with a license to kill? Just who will stop me? I didn’t see anyone out there when I came in. No one has come running. I guess everyone’s on break. And I’m a woman at my wit’s end. I’ve been attacked by hypodermic-waving and gun-toting FBI agents who shot my dog and my future husband. Now you’re trying to finish him off. Cops and DAs are always happy when a cop killer goes down. I doubt there’ll even be an internal investigation, let alone a referral to the grand jury. If there is, I bet I can make it stick that shooting you was in the line of duty. If not, I’m sure I can convince a jury that I was a temporarily insane woman. So tell me what I want to know or say hello to the devil.” “King is running the operation,” he wailed. “Get me a doctor.” “That’s not good enough. King is behind bars. Somebody else gave you the order. Who?” Osborn whimpered. “Please, I’m bleeding to death.” “Too bad. Are you local or are you from Washington?” “Please, help me. Get a doctor.” “Talk to me. Why are you killing people? Tell me or you won’t live long enough to see a doctor. Did you kill Penny?” “Yes,” he moaned, “help me.” “How?” she asked. “An injection.” “Why?” “Money,” he sputtered. “What else? Please.” “How much?” “Two million each. We pick it up at a Grand Cayman bank after our part is over. I get a bonus for the hit on Penny.” “What about Rosetta?” 255

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Osborn glared at her instead of answering. “Has it occurred to you that after you do your hits, you’re next on the list. You’re a liability just as soon as you do your tricks. So your only hope of surviving this is to tell me why you tried to kill Smitty.” “Please, get me a doctor,” he whimpered. “Tell me.” “Help me,” he pleaded. “Answer me! Who’s calling the shots?” “King.” “We’ve already been through this. King isn’t calling the shots. Tell me the truth or, so help me God, I’ll squeeze this trigger again.” “I don’t know who. Somebody in Washington. King programmed the number into my cell phone. Three, two, and the pound sign. I’ve told you everything I know. Please.” Virginia picked up his phone and punched the numbers. “What?” demanded the sleepy, older male voice. “Who is this? Who is this?” She flipped the phone shut. Could it be? Virginia looked at the now silent Osborn, then she checked Smitty’s pulse. Strong and regular. Still sleeping. With two of Dr. Chen’s magic pills and an IV drip of pain medication, Smitty was out for the count. That’s where Prince Charming is when you need him—sound asleep. Virginia considered the wounded man on the floor. The puddle of blood around Osborn was increasing in size. Do I go for help and possibly save his life so that he can kill again, or do I let nature take its course? Which is the worse punishment— letting him slip into death now or letting him spend years behind bars before they gave him the needle? Tough call. But a cop in prison with guys who hated cops was probably worse. 256

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Besides, they might need his testimony. Especially if the voice was who she thought it was. She punched the button on Smitty’s bed controls to call a nurse. Let God decide. If the hospital staff who hadn’t heard the gunfire made it in time, Osborn might live. If they didn’t, he would die. Those were the breaks when you check into a hospital. Having played a doctor, he should know that. Now, what do I do about the voice on the phone? she asked herself. Senator Dunn? Was he really behind all this? Why would Dunn set up his own daughter?

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FORTY-SEVEN Friday, May 28, 9:00 a.m.

N

ick dropped Virginia off at the car rental place. “Don’t pick up any hitchhikers,” she told him as she got out of the truck. “Don’t lose your keys. You did hide an extra set in the truck bed, didn’t you?” “Yes, Mom,” said Nick. “Magnetic case, hidden and secure, spare tire full of air, spare belts and hoses, a jug of coolant, a can of flat-fix, a tool kit, a first-aid kit, and a stuffed picnic cooler.” “Stop every couple of hour for a soda to stay awake. The drive is really boring that last couple of hours.” “Yes, Mom.” He got out of the truck and came around to walk her to the door. “If you should have an accident, call the insurance company immediately. Don’t admit it’s your fault. Just exchange insurance information and say what happened if a cops ask, but don’t talk to the other guy or his insurance company. And call me immediately.” “Yes, Mom. Can I go now?” “Be careful. I love you.” “Yes, Mom. I love you, too. I’ll be careful. I won’t pick up hitchhikers. I’ll stop frequently to drink soda and then stop again to pee. I’ll hold onto my keys. I’ll take a bath every day. I’ll brush my teeth and floss. And I promise not to fall off my horse. Anything else?” 258

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She smacked his arm. “Stop being such a wiseacre!” “You take care, Mom.” Nick gave her an awkward hug. “Call me if you need me.” “Tell your grandmother that I’ll be home in a couple of weeks, just as soon as Smitty can travel.” “I’ll tell her.” “Nick, there’s something else that I need to tell...” “What?” Virginia signed. “I love you.” “You already said that. And I already said I love you.” Yes, you did, she thought as she watched her son drive away. But would he still when she told him about his father? If she told him he had a father, she amended. She would only tell Nick when she was sure his father would not reject him. Lots to do today. She walked into the rental car office to pick up the weekend bargain-rate. It turned out to be an unlimited-milage luxury sedan. “Ah,” she said, settling into the leather seats, “I wonder what the payments are?” “Buy a new car,” was on her to-do list. The truck was now Nick’s. But first, she needed to check on Smitty, then go to the office and check her mail, reassign her case load, give Wen formal notice of her intended leave of absence, maybe look up car prices on the Internet, and... It was after eleven when Virginia finally arrived at the office. Denise glanced at the clock, then at Virginia. “I went by the hospital first,” Virginia explained. “How is Smitty?” asked Denise. “Better, much better,” said Virginia. “I hear you took my advice.” “What’s that?”

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Denise smiled. “It would be a shame to let a Prince Charming like Smitty get away.” “You’re right about that.” Virginia returned the smile, then she headed for her office with her mail. “Oh, Virginia,” Denise called after her. “Wen said to send you right in when you got here.” “Why didn’t you tell me?” “I just did,” said Denise sweetly. Virginia sighed. Some things never changed. She opened the door to find Wen, Leo, and Jerry Thibideau with their feet up on Wen’s desk. Leo was saying, “These terrorists burst into a state bar convention. Several thousand lawyers were taken hostage. The terrorists announced that unless their demands were met, they’d release a hundred lawyers every hour.” Hearty laughter all around. Old-boy network at work, thought Virginia as she entered the room. “Hello, gentlemen,” she said as the laughter ended. “I was hoping you’d show up,” said Wen. “Why, Virginia,” said Leo, “you look mighty chipper. Positively radiant. Shooting FBI agents must agree with you.” “Hush up,” she said. “I also enjoy shooting defense lawyers.” “Hope the present company is excluded. I’m just a concerned citizen, here to help you authority figures solve crimes in our town.” “We welcome community involvement,” she said. “Sit down, Virginia,” said Wen. “Your brainstorm on the cell phones has paid off. The police have Senator Dunn in custody. He hasn’t admitted a thing, of course, but he’s in custody.” “Our other prisoners?” she asked.

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“King agreed to our deal. If he gives us everything he knows, we offered thirty years, no parole, instead of the death penalty. Your ‘Dr. Osborn’ made it through surgery. He seems agreeable to talking as well. Rosetta hasn’t said a thing, yet. But it doesn’t matter. Between King and Osborn, they’ve already said a mouthful.” “What’s the story?” asked Virginia. “Basically, what you pieced together. According to King, Hargis killed Fullerton and Atkins while Martin played lookout and Penny pulled security tapes. Hargis went back to remove the bugs and ran into Cuellar guarding the rooms so he killed him. Martin picked up Hargis in a taxi cab in front of the hotel afterwards. Hargis thought he was headed to the airport, but Martin made a detour and shot him instead.” “Why?” Virginia asked. “According to King, it was Dunn’s idea. Hargis screwed up by leaving the gun in 1809 then dropping Dunn’s daughter off too soon. Hargis was supposed to have made a call to the hotel when he got to the photo shoot to pick her up and then take his time in traffic so she wouldn’t arrive before the bodies were found. Apparently he got in too big a hurry. Penny and Martin were offered Hargis’ pay if he never collected. Skipping to the bottom line, Hargis’ body has been found.” “How did you do that?” Virginia asked. “The cell phones the agents carry have a tracking device. Hargis’ phone and remains were in a taxicab sunk into the muck of a bayou out near the airport.” “I knew it,” said Virginia. “The cell phones.” “The 9-millimeter gun that killed Atkins and a switchblade with Cuellar’s blood on it were found with him,” added Wen. “A pyramid scheme,” said Virginia. “One guy does his thing and the next guy’s job is to bump him off.” 261

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“Just like corporate America,” said Leo. “Offer the guys who downsize their fellow workers a bonus for their costsaving efforts. After you eliminate the first round of weaklings, make the offer again. Pretty soon, you’ll get rid of all but the really vicious people who’ll do anything for money. Darwin Theory of Management.” “Leo,” said Virginia, “if you put all your absurd-buttruisms in a book, it would be a bestseller.” “I might do that someday, but let Wen finish his story. Let him get to the part about me being the hero who saves the day.” “You the hero?” Virginia howled. “I’m the one who keeps shooting them down as soon as they pop up. I’m beginning to think I’m in purgatory disguised as a carnival shooting gallery.” “Okay, you two,” said Wen. “Let me finish. King was the project manager. Put to use those management training courses the Feds make their guys take. Found a milestone chart on his laptop.” “Did any of them collect any money?” asked Virginia. “Several payments to various bank accounts, nothing approaching the millions they were promised.” “Who made the deposits?” asked Virginia. “We don’t have that nailed down yet,” said Wen, “but the FBI is trying to coax Grand Cayman bankers into telling us who the depositor is. All we have is King’s statement that the money came from a Texas corporation Dunn helped get government approval on a big merger transaction. We’ll need more if we’re going to get an indictment against the corporate officers. Anyway, Fullerton’s wife let it slip to her father that he was on their tracks. Dunn didn’t like his son-in-law, so he didn’t have a problem with having him zapped. It’s not clear who came up with the idea, Dunn or the corporate officers, but when we get it sorted out, you’ll get to prosecute one colossal high-profile murder conspiracy.” 262

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Virginia looked at the ceiling. “Can anyone tell me why they went after me?” “Because you didn’t let Mrs. Fullerton go quickly enough,” said Wen. “King said Dunn figured that if they got you, the press would ask why the killings continued, why we were holding an obviously innocent woman.” Virginia rolled her eyes. “Is Dunn crazy?” “He’s old,” said Leo. “He possibly suffers from dementia, and he was so consumed with hatred for his son-in-law after he got the short end of the stick in that sex scandal that he may have lost all contact with reality. He might even be legally insane, but you’ll have to talk to his lawyer about that.” “What kind of deal are you asking for Dunn?” asked Virginia. “He’s not my client,” said Leo. “He hired me to represent his daughter, that’s all, and that job is done. My grapevine says he’s hired a Washington lawyer who suggested he cooperate.” “I’m so glad you’re not his lawyer,” said Virginia. “You’d claim he didn’t do it, or in the alternative, he was framed, or that he’s not culpable because he’s insane. I might even believe you.” “See,” said Leo, glancing at Wen. “I told you Virginia would make a great defense attorney.” “Enough gab, Leo,” she said. “I might buy that logic for the parking garage attempt, but why come after me at home after the charges have been dismissed?” Leo sighed. “That’s probably my fault. After our hearing, I met with Senator Dunn and kept quiet on the fact his daughter was about to be a free woman, hoping he’d come clean if he thought she was still in danger. The agents were acting on prior orders, because he didn’t know about the dismissal in time to stop them. I sincerely apologize if that ploy put you and Detective Smith in danger.”

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“I guess I share some of the blame,” said Wen. “Leo told me about the SUV that ran you down. I passed it on to Chief, but the cops didn’t follow through quickly enough.” Virginia shook her head. “But why did Osborn go after Smitty last night? They had to have known about the dismissal soon after their raid on my house.” “The agents were acting on their own then,” said Wen. “Smitty was Rosetta’s idea, a personal matter, because Smitty shot him. Osborn was Rosetta’s buddy in a division purged after the terrorists attacks. Osborn killed Penny to make sure he didn’t talk.” “I assume Rosetta and Osborn are well guarded at the hospital.” “Yes, Virginia,” said Wen. “Local cops and Texas Rangers. And Federal Marshals are trying to get in on the party. Your Mr. Graham seems to think the Feds have jurisdiction on the conspiracy.” “Hmm,” said Jerry. “I hate to break up this why-andmaybe party, but we have other chickens to fry. We’ve found Fullerton’s files in a warehouse out near the ship channel.” “How’d you do that?” Virginia asked. “We’ve had a tail on the black SUV since Penny and Martin followed Leo from your office on Sunday,” said Jerry. “They made a trip to a storage warehouse Tuesday. After all the shooting started, we decided it might be important. King admitted it was when we determined that he signed the lease.” “What about TJ Graham?” asked Virginia. “I’ve checked him out all the way up the chain to the Attorney General,” said Wen. “They all vouch for him.” Thank God, thought Virginia. At least Nick’s father hadn’t been involved. Just an ex-senator and a few rogue agents. “Where are Fullerton’s files?” 264

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“We’ll show you,” said Leo, “then we’ll have us a major press conference.” “Press conference?” repeated Virginia. “Big one,” said Leo. “Since we cheated those buzzards out of a probable cause hearing, I thought maybe we should let them in on the whole story, let them take lots of pictures, so maybe the Feds won’t lose the evidence on its way to Washington.” “I fully agree,” said Wen. Of course, you do, thought Virginia. With elections on the horizon, the bigger the press conference, the better with Wen.

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FORTY-EIGHT Friday, May 28, 12:30 p.m.

L

eo drove, Jerry rode shotgun, and Virginia and Wen buckled into the back seat of Leo’s UUV for their drive across town. I sure hope no other crimes are happening in Bayou City today, Virginia thought as she spied the assembled crowd in front of the storage facility—TJ Graham, Smitty’s buddy Harmon, a dozen BCPD blue-uniform officers, CSU lab guys, several Federal Marshals, and a couple of Texas Rangers. “Have you served the warrant?” Wen asked Harmon. “Done. The manager is being held to make sure he doesn’t call anybody. He says he doesn’t have a key.” “Well, open it up,” Wen said to a cop with bolt cutters. The air-conditioned storage unit appeared to be doubling as a makeshift office. It housed a desk with a computer and more than a dozen boxes containing paper files, sound and video tapes, and some luggage. One piece of luggage contained hotel crime-scene evidence—the missing clothing, files, a laptop, and two cell phones. Rubber-gloved crime lab techs bagged and labeled evidence. Three hours later they had catalogued the last box. “You guys ready for me to call the press in?” Leo asked. “I’m not sure Washington will agree to releasing this,” said TJ Graham. “We need to run it through channels.” “You may not have the authority to release it, Mr. Graham,” said Wen, “but I do.” 266

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“And if we don’t do it now, the public will never know the whole truth,” added Leo. “Fullerton’s found enough dirt to keep all the lawyers in Washington busy denying, denying, denying, for the next century. Sooner or later somebody had to figure it would be cheaper to hire trained killers than lawyers to control Fullerton. What better killer to hire than his own guard?” “Let the press in, Harmon,” said Wen. He turned to Graham. “Your ‘channels’ can watch it on TV with the people who pay their salaries.” Wen credited Virginia and Smitty with solving the case and recited the salient facts before introducing TJ Graham, who would lead the Fed’s prosecution of the political conspiracy. “All wrongdoers will be punished to the fullest extent of the law,” Graham declared. Then he took credit for busting the case, implying that without the Feds’ help with the lab work, the locals might never have figured it out. “Can you give me a ride back to my office?” Virginia asked TJ when the press conference ended. “I’ll gather up files for you.” “Sure.” He led her to his car. “But I already have copies of most of them. That Denise Lincoln is very efficient.” “She’s a gem, all right,” Virginia agreed, “but I thought you wanted to get reacquainted.” She almost batted her eyes at him. He hesitated. “Actually, you’re right, Virginia, as usual. My federal interest in this case will not overlap your state interest. I’ll let you have first crack at the murders, then we’ll take the conspiracy.” She laughed. “Not me, TJ, not me. But I’m sure Wen won’t let this one go. It’s big enough to carry him all the way through the next election. Besides, he hates corruption.”

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TJ started the car. Once he merged into the freeway traffic, he looked over at her and smiled. “You kept my picture all these years.” The conceited cur, Virginia thought, but she smiled back. “Tell me about yourself, TJ,” she said when they paused at a traffic light. “I’ve seen your name on several substantial cases.” He glanced at her. “The career is fine, but I was about to leave Justice when this came up. Dad wants me to accept a managing partnership in his firm so that he can retire. From there, I thought I might seek a judicial appointment, but there’s plenty of time for that. I need to see this through now.” “This case can give you a lot of visibility,” she commented. She now knew why TJ had involved himself in a spousal murder case. He wanted the publicity so his name would be known when he sought a judgeship. A few years on the federal bench and he’d be ready for to move up to the appeals court and then a Supreme Court appointment, an ambition he’d once shared with her back in the days when they’d shared ambitions and other daydreams. “I suppose,” he said. “You’ve become a household word this past week. This case ought to give your career a boost.” “My career?” Virginia laughed. “Putting criminals away is ever bit as productive as herding cats.” “You could run for DA, run against Boettcher,” TJ suggested. “I bet you’d find a lot of support if you decided to do that.” “I’m not that crazy,” she said. “Wen is welcome to his job as long as he wants it.” “Just a thought,” said TJ. They drove in silence a few minutes, then Virginia asked, “Did you ever marry?”

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TJ shook his head. “The timing has never been right. You?” “Who has time, with my career and all? But it would be different for you. Men have wives to look after the home front. I figured that by now you’d have married a debutante named Buffy and have three children named Biffy, Buffy Jr. and Thomas Joseph III.” “Oh, I’m ready for a wife and kids. I turned forty this year, as you well know. But it gets harder to find the right person the longer you wait. If I ever found the right girl, I’d like to have a family.” He glanced at her. “But, to tell the truth, Virginia, after you, all the debutantes have seemed a little shallow.” “Why, thank you, TJ. What a sweet thing to say. But I’m sure having a family will become important enough eventually that you’ll take the first fertile twenty-one-year-old charmer who tells you she really digs mature men.” TJ laughed. “You always knew how to put things in perspective. I’d better find that twenty-one-year-old charmer soon. Dad talks about nothing else but passing the torch. He’ll be seventy-two this year, and he’s always griping about not having any grandchildren.” “Yes, parents will do that,” said Virginia as they reached her building. “You know, TJ, now that I think about it, there’s no need for you to come up. Denise is really very efficient.” “You sure?” he asked. “I can wait while you check, then we could have dinner.” “I’m sure,” she said. “Just give me your card. If they’re not on the card, jot down your email address and all numbers where you can be reached if anything else turns up.” TJ scribbled some numbers and handed her his card. “Thanks,” she said. “It was good seeing you again, Virginia,” TJ said. “Really good. I’ve never seen you this contented. You must be very happy. I’m glad you’ve had a good life.” 269

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She watched him drive away. Yes, she mused, I have had a good life, and I am happy. Maybe not an easy life, but I’ve had all the good things in life, and you’ve missed one of the best things. I’ve had a little boy curl up in my lap for bedtime stories. I’ve had him say, “Mommy, I love you.” I’ve watched him grow up to be an honest, decent, caring adult. And you missed it, you lying, cheating... Virginia took a deep breath and let all her bitterness toward TJ Graham flow out on exhale. She watched the hurt and the hate float away on the breeze. Smiling, she went up to her office. She checked her mail, tossed most of it, and sent Wen an email spelling out her intended leave of absence—the next six weeks for a start. It was all covered by accrued but unused vacation time. She sent Denise an email with directions for handling her mail and headed off to the law library. She found Nick’s grandfather’s law firm in the legal directory and made a copy of the firm’s address and his bio, then she went back to her office and wrote a letter. Dear Mr. Graham, You may recall that we met briefly at your beach home when your son and I were dating eighteen years ago. There is something I have been remiss in telling you and your son. You have a grandson. His name is Nick, Nicolas Tomas Josef Rodriguez. He’s a wonderful young man... Virginia finished, read the letter over twice, then went to the color copier and copied Nick’s photo. She printed out and signed an agreement for paternity testing and slipped it, the copy of Nick’s photo, and the letter into an envelope bearing her office return address. She wrote TJ Senior’s address on the 270

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front, marked it personal, and added two stamps. Then she stared at the envelope. Do I really want to do it this way? she asked herself. Shouldn’t I tell TJ in person? Do the courageous thing? And then what? Listen to his recriminations because she hadn’t told him before. Listen to his protests that it wasn’t true. Or worse, hear him say he didn’t care. No. This was how she had to do it. If the Grahams denied Nick was TJ’s son, that would be the end of it. She wouldn’t pursue it. It would be their loss. Virginia sighed, then picked up her shoulder bag and walked to the mail slot by the elevator. She looked at the envelope again. Trust your heart, she answered her doubt and dropped the letter into the slot. If TJ wanted a son, he’d know where to find him. If TJ Senior wanted a grandson, he’d couldn’t ask for a better one. And if the Grahams wanted Nick in their lives, he could decide whether he wanted a father and another grandfather in his. Let TJ Graham Junior and Senior and Nick Rodriguez decide. She would trust that each would follow his heart. Virginia punched the down button, then looked at her watch. She had enough time to stop at the jewelry store next to the Fiesta Market before heading to the hospital to spend the evening with Smitty. Perhaps they would have the sparkling tiara she had in mind for her wedding veil.

*****

271

KEEP READING! L.B. COBB’S DEBUT NOVEL

Splendor Bay LCCN 2001118509 ISBN 0970622414, TRADE SOFTCOVER ISBN 0970622422, LIBRARY HARDCOVER ISBN 0974617210, ADOBE EBOOK

B

ill Glasscock, a suspended-for-malpractice attorney, wakes from his girlfriend Sally Solana’s bed to a crystalline May morning in Splendor Bay and faces the challenge of his life. The stiff the local cops have just found on the beach below Sally’s bayview mansion is Bill’s soon-to-be ex-wife Eleana’s lover, Governor Wallace Moreno. Sally, the state’s attorney general, is missing. So is Bill’s wife Eleana, head of the state archives. In addition to having a complicated love life, Bill is quickly the prime suspect of a host of cops—local, state, and federal. All of which is just the catalyst Bill needs to abandon his sabbatical from life for a quest to save those he loves from a murderer. Suspense, quirky characters you will love and remember, crisp dialogue, wry humor, and a feel-good ending are a few of the reasons Splendor Bay grabs you by the heart and sweeps you along on waves of emotion to its surprising conclusion.

THE REVIEWS “In Splendor Bay, the commonplace becomes extraordinary...” — Midwest Book Review “Splendor Bay lands ex-lawyer Bill Glasscock in... a whirlwind search for the women in his life, a murderer, and proof of his own innocence”— Publishers Weekly “The exceptional sense of place draws you in... a sensual, suspenseful, murder mystery” — Review of Texas Books “More ambiguities, snappy dialogue, and twists that keep the pages turning... an exceptionally accomplished debut novel” — Chris Rogers, author of Bitch Factor “A page-turning story filled with cracking wit and suspense” — Julie Wray Hermann, Agatha-nominated author of Three Dirty Women and the Bitter Brew “Very likeable characters that you begin to really care about” — Murder and Mayhem Bookclub “A great mystery entwined with funny and witty characters...” — Scribes World Reviews “Splendor Bay is a book to be savored” — Mysterious Corner, The Romance Readers Connection (Read more reviews at www.lbcobb.com.)

ONE Saturday, May 26, 8:00 AM

T

here’s not much to see around here if you don’t count the view of sparkling turquoise water and ivory sand below buff-colored cliffs where mint-candy-colored houses dangle precariously. Some folks say the spectacular bay view is the reason God gave people eyes. Other folks don’t say much. So unless you’re into tight-lipped people, glorious scenery, candycolored houses, or our main drawing card, cutesy-touristy restaurants enhanced architecturally by the hulls of old boats attached to their roofs, there’s no reason to be here. The view is what does it for me. On a clear day and with a clear head, a jog along Splendor Bay beach is reason enough to be living. It’s my coming-of-age panorama, the place where my teenage ghost plays the male lead in the Beach Blanket Bingo adaptation of Splendor in the Grass always running on the drive-in movie screen in my mind’s eye. The view and my ghost are the reasons I’ve never been able to grow up and leave home. Correction. I did leave once, for too many years, but I don’t plan on ever doing that again. Anyway, the day was one of those crisp, crystalline May days that come just before summer’s heat, a day with a shimmering cornflower-blue sky and not a whiff of the refineries down the coast, a day for feeling young in my little spot of heaven on planet earth. Even the booze ache behind my eyes had eased up enough for me to contemplate a jog on the beach

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as my workup to a day of pretending I still had my life ahead of me, still had time to get it right if only I’d give it one more try. There I was, contemplating my woebegone past and my uncertain future, thinking maybe this would be the day I really would give it one more try, when I glanced down from my perch on the deck of Sally Solana’s bayview manor and had an entirely different thought: why the heck is that John Doe near the water’s edge choosing to be dead on such a day? There he was, in a black tuxedo, with the diamond-studs in his shirt glistening brighter than the mica in the quartz sand, washed up with the seaweed, spoiling my view, interfering with my contemplation of activities physical, right out there on the good stretch of beach where I should have been running. Looking back, I guess it wasn’t a matter of choice, for the stiff or for me. Things happen. Sometimes you have to ride the wave. I had strolled out to the deck with my first cup of coffee just as the beach patrol discovered the body. That caught my eye. After shrugging their shoulders at each other, they called out Splendor Bay’s finest. The men in tan arrived quickly with the siren blaring. That got my full attention. I finished my second fix of caffeine while watching the activities below through Sally’s opera binoculars. Tiny Sanders, the biggest of our local cops, was stomping around, doing just about every dumb thing imaginable to destroy the integrity of the crime scene, everything but kick the body to see if the stiff really was dead. His partner, the newest and youngest member of the three-man Splendor Bay PD, a twenty-one-year-old black kid with the Hispanic name Gomez, was puking his guts out behind the dune in front of the department’s one and only squad car, a vehicle that I now respected. The Police Caprice, with a 5.7 liter V-8, could outrun

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Baby, my sleek ’57 Corvette rag-top with her original 283cubic-inch, gas-guzzling, many-times-lovingly-rebuilt engine. I had discovered that sobering fact when Gomez gave me a run for my money, just before I failed his breath-analyzer test, just after I burned up what remained of Baby’s brake shoes trying to stop before I landed in the middle of the bay. When the rescue squad’s elderly Bronco ambulance/ coroner’s meat wagon pulled in behind the Caprice, I bet myself that Splendor Bay’s premier crime fighters would get one of the vehicles stuck in the sand before they finished the paperwork on the dead dude. And when they pulled out the ziplock stiff bag, curiosity got the best of me. I doubled my bet with myself and made the fateful decision to leave the safety of my girlfriend’s cliff-hugging house for a closer look-see. Actually, “girl” is a mild stretch of the facts in Sally Solana’s case. And I don’t suppose you could call her my friend anymore. Just so you know, I don’t normally go poking my nose into crime scenes I’m not paid to poke my nose into. But this one was different. I don’t normally find death on my doorstep. And with Sally’s opera glasses, I had counted a dozen glittering diamond studs in the John Doe’s pleated shirt. Since we don’t get many stiffs on this section of beach and the ones we do get don’t usually turn up wearing a tux, that had me extra curious. I wanted to see who he was, something I couldn’t do from Sally’s deck because his face tilted away from me in his final view of the bay. I was figuring someone might be willing to pay for a photo or two, or a few unofficial facts on a stiff who could afford to die in diamonds. I could definitely use the cash since this month’s Scotch trust-fund allowance had already been spent at Fred’s Fine Liquors, down the boardwalk from Fred’s Fine Seafood Bar and Grill, up the beach from my own humble shack.

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You never know, I told myself, John Doe might be somebody interesting enough for a grocery store tabloid. Or some rich relative might want to know where he was and/or who or what had done him in, which was part and parcel of my current line of work—private eyeing—when the weather was unsuitable for surfing. Besides, I reasoned, if someone who knew something about protecting the evidentiary value of crime scenes, such as me, didn’t get down there soon, what few clues there were would be washed away in the next tide. Having concluded the cops could use my help, I pulled a pair of shorts on over my briefs, slipped on a T-shirt and flipflops, picked up my camera, and casually descended the steep wooden stairs to the beach. Gomez was through puking when I got close enough for it to matter. He had started back around the vehicles toward the dead dude, ready to be a man about it, when I caught up with him. “Who is it, Gomez? Anybody who anybody would care is dead?” I asked politely. I believe in being polite and direct. You never know, sometimes the truth pops out when you confuse people like that. If that doesn’t work, you can always go to phase two—intimidation, or bribery. “What’re you doing here, Fragile Dick?” Gomez asked, being impolite as heck as he hitched up his pants just like Barney Fife on the old Andy Griffith Show. Fragile Dick had been my handle since third grade. It was the worst thing any of the little guys could think of to do with a last name like Glasscock; there wasn’t much you could do with a first name like Bill. Fortunately, for my self-respect and for the women in my life, Fragile Dick was a misnomer. “Just happened to be in the neighborhood, visiting a friend. Guess you could say ex-friend if you want to be meticulous in your terminology. Up there.” I pointed to the enormous house

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where Sally-with-the-gorgeous-body-and-exceptional-brain graciously allowed me to spend the night. Not that I was in any condition to leave when our friendship ended, mind you. Sally must have been. Able to leave, that is. Because she wasn’t there when I woke up with the strong belief that a little sun on my face would take away the too-much-whiskey pain behind my eyeballs. So far, I had been half-right. If I squinted with the left eye closed, I didn’t hurt as much. I squinted at the kid. “Come, on, Gomez. Who’s the stiff? Anybody important?” “Maybe,” Gomez allowed. “Tiny just told the Chief he ought to get his white honky ass out here, real quick. I was heading back over there when you so rudely interrupted me from my duties to the citizens of our fair town.” “Fair is right, Gomez. Do your superiors know you’re a bigot? I bet Tiny never said the Chief had a white honky ass. It’s probably a red pimply ass anyway. You’re the only guy in town who doesn’t have sun-bleached hair and all you do is lord it over us white guys. Just because you have a tan to die for. What do you use anyway? A minus SPF 45 sunscreen?” “Why? You want to be beautiful like me, Fragile Dick?” “Of course. Why do you think I spend so much time in the sun? I’ve seen the way girls turn their head when you drive around in the cruiser.” “I’ll need some official identification before I let you near my crime scene,” Gomez said, a bit chattier now that I had acknowledged his superior swordsmanship. “How do I know they didn’t pull your license for good cause since the last time I saw you? And I’d like to inventory the guy’s pockets before you get within ten feet of him. Routine procedure. Remember?” “Come on, Gomez, just one teeny, tiny favor,” I whined, “and I’ll let you keep the diamond studs.”

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Gomez didn’t answer. At that moment, we heard the squawk of the Police Caprice radio. Tiny Sanders, the other cop, was communicating with the world at large, the Chief in particular. “Yeah, done that,” Tiny shouted over the surf ’s roar. “Have a tentative ID on the floater. Driver’s license says he’s Wallace Moreno. Had five hundred in cash in a money clip, so he wasn’t robbed. I’d say you’d better get ready to vote for a new governor, Chief. The current one is a little under the weather.” I have to admit, when I heard that, my first thought was— There is a God! My second thought was—Oh, what a beautiful morning! In my mind’s eye my teenage ghost did a quick Swan Lake up and down the beach. The slimy bastard was dead. Joy! Joy! In addition to being the late Governor Moreno of our great state, he was the same self-serving cur who had aided and abetted my beautiful and soon-to-be ex-wife in the fine old practice of cuckoldry, or cheating, as in “Your Cheating Heart,” if you prefer Hank Williams to William Shakespeare, as most folks do. My prayers had been answered. For reasons as yet known only to God, instead of enjoying my wife, the governor was now enjoying the state of final repose I had wished upon him. My third thought was—Darn! I bet they’ll think I did it. I was right. It didn’t take long for the cops to give my third thought serious consideration. By then, I had more acute concerns.

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TWO Saturday, May 26, 9:00 AM

I

snapped a quick dozen shots of Silent Wallie before three carloads of state police barreled onto the beach, followed a few minutes later by two cars of FBI special agents. What with the uniformed state guys and Brooks-Brothered Feds assisting the locals in kicking sand at Moreno, it was clear my volunteer services were excess to the event. I left the other guys to play murder investigation and climbed the stairs to Sally’s house. No one seemed to notice my leaving. I showered, shaved, and changed into clothes that I kept at Sally’s in case she wanted to dine out where shoes and shirt were required for service. I found a button-down shirt left over from my suit-wearing days, a clean pair of jeans, and a pair of tassel loafers. Socks were too formal for my planned activities. Having gotten myself presentable for snooping around Splendor Bay, I fixed an omelet, took it and a beer out to the deck, and watched the entertainment below through Sally’s binoculars. An hour passed while small groups of cops conferred with one another, milled about, conferred with other one-anothers. Lab guys showed up looking for something to collect. The governor and a few sprigs of seaweed were it. Two carloads of state cops loaded up, squealed onto the pavement, ran a red light to make the turn onto Cliff Road, and headed up the

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ridge in the general direction of Promontory Point. Then the rescue squad loaded the sun-ripening governor into the meat wagon for his trip to the county morgue in the basement of Brewer’s funeral home in downtown Splendor Bay. I felt a momentary pang of regret seeing those diamond studs drive away. They could have paid my tab at Fred’s, a couple of months rent, and bought Baby some new brake shoes, with enough change left over for a day at the pony track. However, just knowing Moreno was now waiting his turn for the coroner’s carving table tempered my regret immensely. As soon as the recently departed governor departed the beach, the remaining state cops and the Feds took off in the same direction the first two cars had taken up the cliff. I briefly wondered what sort of cop convention was going on at Promontory Point today, then I turned my attention back to Gomez and Tiny, who had been left on the beach looking as if they had been told by their big brothers that they were too little to play cops and robbers. The whole show was over in less than two hours. By then, it had turned into a dazzling morning. So resplendent a morning that even with the lingering pain in my head, I felt like exercising my inquisitive nature. I rejoined Tiny and Gomez on the beach to see what the official story was before I went snooping in town for gossip. The only new information I picked up was that Moreno wasn’t the only dead dude. His limo driver had been found in a burned-out crash just beyond Promontory Point, the reason the big cops had sped away in that direction. The crash site was outside the city limits and SBPD’s jurisdiction, the reason Tiny and Gomez had been left behind, or so Tiny said. Tiny readily confirmed my initial observation—Moreno’s cause of death wasn’t immediately apparent. No gunshot

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wounds, no blows to the head, no slashed throat, no stab wounds, just dead and already stiff. That left a host of natural and unnatural causes of death for the coroner to choose from. Gomez put his money on the safe bet—drowning—since the beach patrol had pumped a little sea foam out of Moreno before calling SBPD. Why he had gone for a swim in a tux wasn’t a significant issue in Gomez’s mind. Tiny picked the heart-attack-stroke-aneurysm category because of Moreno’s age—fifty-eight—betting it occurred while Wallie was getting a little nooky on the beach. I placed my bet on drug-overdose because I preferred to think the worst of Wallie, and I didn’t want to think about who the nookee might have been. Besides, this section of beach had its share of transactions which might lead to drug overdoses as thrilling as Viagra. According to Tiny, the FBI was sending in an expert to assist the county coroner in analyzing Moreno’s innards. The lab work would be expedited. Inquiring minds wanted to know. In the meantime, there were the matters of a state funeral and a successor to pick. And possibly a murderer to find. The list of potential suspects was too long to go down the whodunit road, so we examined our political science knowledge and placed our bets. Tiny and I last had civics in high school, and Gomez had skipped that course, so our knowledge wasn’t extensive. But we all agreed it would be the Vice President and then the Speaker of the House if Moreno had been President of the United States. Tiny and I remembered when Reagan was shot and knew for sure it wasn’t Alexander Haig. Gomez was too young to remember Reagan or Haig, so he was easily convinced. None of us had any idea what happens in state government when you don’t have a vice-governor, although we tried to remember what they called the job in Texas when Bush II resigned to be president.

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Gomez put his money on the state controller since, according to Gomez, looking after the money is the most important job. Tiny picked the head guy of the state senate, whatever that job is called, because making the laws sounded like an important job to a peace officer. And I put my money on the attorney general. I knew her. We agreed a special election was in order. “Well, it sounds like you have everything under control,” I said, intending to climb the stairs back to Sally’s place to see if I could summon the courage to test Baby’s brakes down Cliff Road, or the larger question, whether I could make it down Cliff Road without winding up in the same condition as Moreno’s limo driver. In addition to buying Baby some new shoes, I thought I might poke around to see if anyone had anything to say on the subject of Moreno’s passing, starting at Oma’s Kitchen, one of the few places where you can get any chitchat from anybody. “Wait up a minute,” Tiny said as he headed over to the cruiser. “I need to call in.” “Yeah, sure.” I turned to take in the bay view and a deep breath of sea air while Tiny did his calling-in. I fully expected Tiny to suggest a cup of coffee at Oma’s so we could play one of our little games of guess the perpetrator, a passable substitute for a game of checkers with Old Man McPeters. I was reciting the verse from John Keats’ Endymion to myself—Wide sea, that one continuous murmur breeds along the pebbled shore of memory—one of the few verses I know, when Gomez strolled over to visit. “You can tell me,” I said. “What was the governor doing when he got himself killed?” “I can’t tell you anything, Fragile Dick.” Gomez wanted me to beg. “Just a tiny bit of speculation,” I whined. “Something I can trade for lunch at Oma’s.”

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“I might as well tell you,” he said. The thing I liked most about Gomez is you didn’t have to beat information out of him. Usually, you didn’t even have to buy him a drink. “It’s this way, Fragile Dick. We’ve got nothing.” “I owe you one.” “Nothing but speculation,” Gomez expounded in response to my expression of gratitude. “You know his reputation. The governor was out tom-catting last night.” “So I’ve heard,” I said. Sally Solana, my most recent exfriend and the current state attorney general, was a Moreno staffer until she had enough on him to convince him to give her a real job. From time to time, Sally shared with me some of the sordid facts she picked up in her work, Moreno’s habits included. “Nobody thought anything about his outing from the Mansion until he didn’t show up for his seven a.m. staff meeting. Then they started looking for him.” “Really?” “There’s a car that trails Moreno’s limo,” Gomez continued, “manned by two sharpshooters state cops. The limo driver’s also a state cop, which gives the governor three body guards with him at all times. For some reason, that didn’t happen last night. Seems this backup car had mechanical trouble. By the time they switched vehicles, the governor was out of sight. Cramer is grilling the two cops now.” “Which two?” I asked. “Last names was all I got,” Gomez said. “Block and Sartin. Bet their heads are going to—” “Bill, the Chief wants you to give a statement,” Tiny yelled, interrupting Gomez just as he was getting to the good part. I’d heard something recently about Stan Cramer, head of the state police. But with my still pounding head, I couldn’t

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remember what, something Sally had insisted on sharing while I watched a ball game on TV. I’d filed it away in the gray matter, so I’d be ready for one of her you’re-not-listening-tome pop quizzes. The question was, what category? Work stuff? State secrets stuff? Can you believe cops stuff? It would come to me. “Bill, you hear me?” Tiny yelled again. “Why me?” I yelled back. “I didn’t see anything until I saw you guys down here destroying evidence. I can give him that statement over the car radio if he wants.” “Don’t get smart with me, Bill,” Tiny growled. “One of these days, you’re going to push me too far.” Tiny Sanders outweighed me by a hundred pounds, and he was almost a head taller than my six-three. That didn’t scare me. Tiny was too good-natured to scare anyone. He was like having a big teddy bear for a cop. If you could keep him from grinning, his size did a darn good job of scaring the tourists into good driving habits. The rest of us liked him too well to misbehave much. Tiny was one of only two guys I had gone through school with who never called me Fragile Dick. Fred McPeters, of Fred’s Fine Seafood Bar and Grill and Fred’s Fine Liquors, was the other. Which, to my way of thinking, proved Tiny loved me like a brother like Fred did. Tiny ought to. I was the one who explained the facts of life when we were eight and got him his first date in high school. If Mary Louise hadn’t seen the potential in him back then, Tiny probably never would have married. Heck, if Mary Louise hadn’t seen the potential in him, he never would have had sex. He was just that aggressive. “Don’t shout at me, Tiny. I’m a little under the weather.” I rubbed my head where it hurt the worst, between the eyes.

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“Damn it, Bill. When are you going to get your act together? You had more going for you than any of us. Look how you’ve turned out.” “I turned out just fine,” I said. “I’m a has-been, not a neverwas. I’m on sabbatical from life. Early retirement, if you will.” “Sure. I bet Davy is real proud of his daddy these days. Now, wait for me in the cruiser. I need to talk to Gomez.” “I don’t mind listening to you talk to Gomez,” I said, deflated, rightly chastised by Tiny’s remark. I looked away to my favorite view of the bay. Tiny had hit me where it hurt. My son was the only good thing I had produced in my entire life. I hoped Davy would forgive me for taking time off from being an adult. “I don’t have time for your crap today,” Tiny said in a tone that almost made me think he didn’t love me anymore. That bothered me, too. I was running out of people who cared. “Get in the cruiser, Bill,” he ordered, throwing me the keys. “Listen to the radio or something.” I got in the front seat, shotgun side, put the key in the ignition and turned it far enough to get the radio playing. Then I pushed buttons until I found the local station that played Peter, Paul and Mary, and other fine musical artists from my youth. I turned the radio off when I heard their plea for money to support the arts. That is, their plea for money to support the odd-ball tastes of people like me who can’t handle new-age rock and roll and need to get over it and the station workers, a group of long-haired, tongue-lip-ear-eyebrow-nipple pierced graduate students who ran the station out of their camper most sunny weekends. I was afraid that if I gave them any money they’d use it to pierce as yet unrevealed parts of their anatomies. As much as I love “Puff,” I didn’t want that on my conscience.

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With nothing else to do, I lowered the windows to catch the breeze, hoping to overhear Tiny and Gomez, and lowered my seat back as far as I could with the cage in place to pretend I was taking a nap and wasn’t interested in their conversation. Surf noises prevented much snooping. Before I got bored enough to push the button for the siren, the Center City Channel 12 Eyewitness News van arrived. Out jumped their babe reporter, Pam Somebody, and a cameraman with a long greasy ponytail. That’s one thing you can say for being an out-of-the-way seaside town. By the time the TV news folk show up, there’s little but the weather to report. As Pam leaped around the news van gazelle-like, her high heels stuck in the sand. But nothing could keep Wonder Reporter Pam from her story. She slipped out of the shoes and vaulted the rest of the distance in her stocking feet. “Officer? Officer? What happened here this morning?” Pam shouted. “We’ve learned that a body, reported to be Governor Moreno, was discovered on the beach. What can you tell our viewers?” “No comment,” Tiny commented loudly. He pulled Gomez by the arm to the cruiser and pushed him into the back seat. Tiny went around the car, slid in behind the wheel, and cranked the engine. Being a helpful person, I pushed the siren button. Pam was quick. She stuck her head, microphone-holding right arm, and torso into the open window, draping her plasticized boobs across me as she aimed the microphone for Tiny’s tonsils. “Please, Officer, the citizens are entitled to know what the police are doing about this situation,” she shouted, making my ears ring. “Are the state police and FBI involved? Who’s in charge of the investigation?”

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“No comment,” Tiny muttered. I decided to help Tiny. Since Pam was draped across me anyway, I pulled her into my arms and kissed her on her collagen-injected, red-tattooed lips. She broke away sputtering. While she was still confused, I pushed her out the window and pushed the button to raise it. “Now’s your chance, Tiny,” I said, blowing a kiss at Pam who stood there with an open mouth, apparently in shock that lips had a purpose other than as an outlet for loud sounds. “It always takes women a while to get over my kisses.” “You better hope she doesn’t file assault charges on you,” Tiny said as he put the Chevy in gear and pulled around the Channel 12 van, not once losing traction in the sand. I reached in my right pocket and moved the twenty over to the left pocket, promising myself I’d pay up on the rest of the bet when I got some cash.

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THREE Saturday, May 26, 11:00 AM

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plendor Bay Police Chief Murphy Sanders was redder-faced than usual. “Damn it, Bill, what did you see?” We had been talking only a minute when Chief decided to get high-handed on me and I shut up. You would have thought the voters were watching his performance, but I suspected the viewing audience was merely a minor contingency of state police and FBI agents behind the two-way mirror. Heck, the video camera wasn’t even on, or the little red light was burned out. Equipment maintenance wasn’t a major item in the city budget. “Have you had your blood-pressure checked lately?” I asked politely. “A man your age ought to avoid stress.” The least I could do with my part in this passion play was to act like a concerned citizen. Chief Sanders, Tiny’s uncle, was pushing seventy-five. He’d been Splendor Bay’s police chief most of our lives, his father, grandfather, and great-grandfather before him. Best I could figure, his ancestor must have broken up a gun fight in one of the founding father’s saloons, been appointed chief, and like some English lordship, the title had been passed down to the male heirs ever since. “Cut the crap, Bill,” Tiny interjected, resting his big hand on the flap of his holster like he was going to draw on me. Tiny didn’t like any sort of controversy, but he was big on respecting elders and protecting children. Besides, he had to

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set an example for Gomez as well as a starring role to play in the SBPD version of Hill Street Blues. I acted contrite. “I’ve already told you, Tiny. I didn’t see anything until I saw you guys down at the beach. I had just come out on the deck to drink my coffee. Saw you guys messing around. Thought I’d see what all the commotion was about.” “Did Sally see anything?” Tiny asked. “I don’t know. She was gone when I woke up. Our state’s attorney general has more important things to do than lie in bed past daybreak with the likes of me.” “Know where she is?” the Chief asked, his face not quite as red as before since I was now being a cooperative witness, and I’d reminded him I had connections. I’m not proud of it, but I can name drop with the best of the have-beens or never-weres. “No,” I answered the question asked. When I was a lawyer, I always told my clients to never volunteer information. As the Miranda warning clearly declares, what you say to the police can, and will, be twisted in ways you never dreamed possible and used to screw you over in a court of law if they can’t find anyone else to pin the blame on, or just because you’re handy, or just because they don’t like your face. The only smart thing to say to an inquiring cop is, “Get me a lawyer.” Then shut your mouth. “Do you know when she left?” the Chief asked politely. Cops were taught in police school to ask questions lawyers were taught in lawyer school to tell their clients not to answer. If both the suspect and the cop play the game properly, it can take a long time before the suspect gets trapped in enough uncertainty to raise the ante to probable cause for an arrest. “No,” I answered, disregarding my own internal lawyer advice so we could get this game of twenty-questions over. I then proceeded to elaborate. “We were getting along just swell

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until she got mad about something and left our bed. I have no idea what she did after that.” “When was this?” “I don’t remember. In the heat of the night. Before dawn.” “What did she get mad about?” Tiny asked. I shrugged my shoulders over the mystery of it all. “Who knows with women? One minute we were being friendly. Then she got mad and started yelling. Now that I think about it, it was when she asked me if I loved her enough to marry her. Have you ever noticed how women wait until you’re too weak to argue to ask such a question?” “So what happened next?” Tiny asked. Tiny liked my women-adventure stories, which I fabricated just for him. To my credit, I never talked about the actual details of any intimate relationship I’ve ever had because those have been with women I cared about. Of course, I’ve fabricated the number of adventures and the number of women and given lots of those “you know” hints, which Tiny was too proud to admit he didn’t. “Guess I gave the wrong answer,” I answered just in time to keep Tiny from beating it out of me. “So nothing happened. She left the bed. I went back to sleep. Next thing I know, the sun’s up, I’m awake. She isn’t there. So I made coffee, took it out to the deck, saw you and Gomez on the beach kicking sand at the stiff. Now we’re here. Together again.” The Chief glared at Tiny, then at me, and snapped, “Where can we find Sally?” Good question, I thought, and proceeded to elaborate on my connections. “Seeing as how it’s Saturday, I doubt you’ll find her in her Center City office. She might be at her Center City townhouse, though. But you probably should try her sister’s beach house first. That’s where Sally usually goes when

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we have a tiff. Her sister’s name is Lizabeth Thorton. She’s married to Chester Thorton, Harvard Law lawyer, heck of a nice guy. They have a small cottage, about an acre under roof off Bayside Road, and a house on Grandview Avenue in Center City, and an apartment in New York, a ranch in Texas, and a place in Beverly Hills, and one in Paris, and—” “That’s it for now,” Tiny said, concluding the interrogation before I got around to confessing under the pressure of it all. “But just in case you were thinking of leaving town, don’t. We’ll be talking to you again.” “Looking forward to it.” I extended my hand. “And thank you, Tiny, for the ride into town. I’ll find my own way home, if you don’t mind.” KEEP READING! ASK YOUR LIBRARY OR BOOKSELLER FOR

Splendor Bay LCCN 2001118509 ISBN 0970622414, TRADE SOFTCOVER ISBN 0970622422, LIBRARY HARDCOVER ISBN 0974617210, ADOBE EBOOK

COMING NEXT! PORT OF MIRACLES L.B. COBB

T

he wife of a country music star is murdered in their Bayou City mansion and he is charged. Enter Leo Zachmann, a defense lawyer who has built a successful career on high-profile love-and-murder cases. Leo is perceptive and fearless in representing his clients, yet on a personal level, he’s unable to face problems in his long marriage to the secretive Miranda. He even dismisses an imminent threat to his own life. Instead of dealing with the unthinkable, Leo buries himself in the new case, knowing that even if he saves his client, he stands to lose all that really matters. Port of Miracles brings to mind a sensually adorned Russian nesting doll. The outer shell is a richly told legal thriller, unflinching in its portrayal of the emotional and physical violence of murder and the mercurial nature of the law. Hidden inside is a poignant and gently humorous account of Leo Zachmann’s struggle to save his marriage and his soul. VISIT WWW.ADVANCEBOOKS.COM FOR RELEASE DATE AND EXERPTS FROM

PORT OF MIRACLES. VISIT WWW.LBCOBB.COM FOR SCHEDULE OF PORT OF MIRACLES BOOK EVENTS.