Deadly Past

by Kris Rafferty

  “What are we looking at, Benton?” Charlie said. Benton handed him another piece of paper. Same bank, but this time, it was a printout of the destination of the million-dollar transaction, also highlighted in yellow. No names, just account numbers.

  “We’ve subpoenaed the bank,” Benton said. “The one in the Caymans shrugged us off when we called, but the destination bank in the United States must comply, so we’ll discover what account this transaction landed in soon enough. We believe our source is revealing the killer’s identity, as well as the one who ordered the hit.”

  “But why show us these statements?” Cynthia had grown more incensed the longer Benton spoke, making Charlie think her question was rhetorical. Cynthia handed the bank statement back to Benton.

  “I thought it would be wise to give Charlie the opportunity to refute our source’s claim,” Benton said.

  “Your source is claiming I kill people?” Charlie said. “For a million dollars? My net worth is twice that size, and the IRS can attest it was earned the old-fashioned way, not by moonlighting as a contract killer. If this transaction landed in my bank account, it’s because someone is framing me. Your forensic accountants need to work faster to uncover this manufactured motive.”

  Benton expression was neutral. “You willing to allow us access to your bank accounts?”

  “Hell no,” Cynthia said.

  “Someone is framing me for murder, using my banking system,” Charlie said. “Seems counterintuitive to help them by helping you.”

  Benton nodded. “Fair enough, but I have to do my job.” He sent a sidelong glance to Cynthia. “You know that, right?”

  “She knows,” Charlie said, because Cynthia was too busy scowling at her boss.

  “The subpoena is written and submitted,” Benton said, “in anticipation of your”—he shrugged—”sensible response, but it’s only a matter of time before we gain access to the account.”

  “Who is your snitch?” Cynthia said. Benton made a big show of ignoring her, futzing with the paperwork. “We deserve to know who is accusing Charlie.”

  Benton’s jaw muscles flexed. “That’s what a trial and discovery is for.”

  Alrighty then. Benton had a reputation for hardball. There were no surprises here.

  Benton focused on Charlie. “You should be upset. Surprised, maybe. Why aren’t you?” He glanced between him and Cynthia, who from Charlie’s perspective seemed upset enough for them both. “Six dead. Payoff from a Coppola syndicate shell company transferred to your account. If you’re being framed, you are mighty calm about it.”

  Benton’s goading failed to move Charlie. “‘No man knows the value of innocence and integrity but he who has lost them.’ William Godwin.”

  Benton narrowed his blue eyes. “You confessing?”

  “No!” Cynthia snapped.

  “To what?” Charlie said. Now was the moment of truth. Would Benton come right out and accuse Charlie, instead of simply insinuating?

  “Murder one. Six counts,” Benton said. Not a flicker of skepticism. It hurt.

  “Screw you,” Charlie said. “The real killer is out there, the case’s lead investigator is chasing ghosts, and the case’s forensic expert is conveniently sidelined by defending himself from murder charges. Someone knew what they were doing when they chose me to pin these murders on. You get that, right?”

  Cynthia pulled out her phone. “I’m calling my lawyer. Stop talking, Charlie. We’re done here.”

  Charlie wondered if Benton would be surprised to discover his head had been nodding as Charlie had been defending himself. It made him think maybe Benton and he were on the same page after all.

  “And yet.” Benton pulled a piece of paper from the folder and nudged it across the table toward Charlie. “Where’s your gun?”

  The paper was a copy of a Walmart receipt. For a Glock. He leaned, reading without touching, and saw that it seemed to be a good facsimile of the receipt he received from the now-defunct Walmart. Except it couldn’t be authentic. Those gun sale records had been destroyed in a fire, and that wasn’t his Visa number. Yet his “signature” was clearly written on it, as well as on the accompanying Visa receipt. Charlie’s eyes hit on the discrepancy immediately.

  “I didn’t buy my Glock from that Walmart, that’s not my Visa, and my gun was stolen.” All three statements were true, so they fell from his lips easily, despite Cynthia’s frown. She wanted him to shut up, and he probably should have, but he wanted this case solved, too. “Whoever falsified this information is connected to the killings. I’m not.”

  “Stolen, huh?” Benton said.

  “Charlie, not another word.” She curled her fingers into the muscles of his neck as she leaned close. “You hear me?”

  “The receipt is falsified.” Charlie pulled out his wallet and showed Benton his Visa card. “Sloppy work by my accuser.”

  “Means nothing. It’s easy enough to open secondary accounts.” Benton pressed his lips together, frowning at the card as Charlie allowed him to take a photo using his phone. “I’ll need a credit report to verify your claim. I’m assuming you’ll want to sign off on that to avoid a subpoena.”

  “Subpoena all you want, Benton. He’s not giving you anything,” Cynthia said.

  Her cheeks were flushed, and she had the flavor of panic about her. Charlie felt bad that she was this upset, and a little confused. Why hadn’t she anticipated these questions? And a few surprises?

  “So far, we seem to be doing fine without his help, Cynthia. We called Walmart,” Benton said, “gave them the receipt number, make, and model, and obtained the serial number of Charlie’s gun. It matches our murder weapon.”

  “Let me guess,” Cynthia said. “Your anonymous source who fed you the bank statements and pointed to Charlie’s bank account. Unless you can prove that Visa account was opened by Charlie, and that the receipt isn’t falsified, and that the serial number proves it is his gun, and that Charlie was in possession of that gun during the killings, none of this proves anything. So, no, you don’t get Charlie’s anything. Got it? What else do you have?”

  “Deming.” Benton compressed his lips, looking fit to be tied. “There is a reason why you shouldn’t be in this interview. This. This is why. You know I have to ask these questions. If it’s not me, it will be someone else. Someone who doesn’t know Charlie—”

  “I don’t care who’s asking. Charlie isn’t talking without his lawyer in the room.” She waved her phone in the air. “And once I get a call back, then…” She nodded her head, looking hesitant for the first time since she stormed in the room. “Then you’ll be sorry.”

  Benton rolled his eyes. “Is the murder weapon yours, Charlie?”

  “You can’t ask him any questions now,” Cynthia said. “He lawyered up. Stop trying to use our friendship to pin a murder on my husband!”

  Charlie wanted to answer. Yes. The gun was his. He’d known that from the moment he saw it at the crime scene. “Are you saying the gun matches the slugs and casings that killed the vics?”

  “Yes,” Benton said. Charlie felt relief expand his chest, and it was hard not to show it. Cynthia’s gun wasn’t the murder weapon. “So?” Benton said. “Is it your gun, or not? Your silence doesn’t help your case. Either someone is going to a lot of trouble to paint you as the unsub, or you really are the unsub. Which is it?”

  Cynthia threw her hands in the air and looked ready to blow a gasket. Charlie moved to her side and embraced her, pressing his lips to her ear. “Stop,” he whispered. “Benton is doing his job. We need him to do his job.” When she nodded, Charlie loosened his grip and turned toward the team leader. “I’m innocent.”

  “Yes, dammit! He’s innocent.” Cynthia, still clutching Charlie, was now struggling to hide a quivering chin. Her eyes were round with hurt, and she looked helpless. Charlie knew that was when she was most dangerous. Cynthia di
dn’t like helpless. She lashed out. He feared she’d do something rash, like confess.

  “Cynthia,” Charlie whispered. “Let’s be calm.”

  “How can you think he’s guilty, Benton!” She scrunched up her face, scowling. “I mean”—she gave Charlie a squeeze—“look at him! Does he look like a killer?”

  Benton lifted his brows and scoffed. “You’re biased. And you’re ignoring the evidence. If you weren’t married to the man—”

  “But I am! He’s being framed. All of this can be explained away, or disproved.”

  “I know,” Benton said, leaning back in his chair, folding his arms over his chest.

  “Because of the bank account?” Charlie could feel her relax in his arms. She’d switched easily from outraged spouse to investigator in the space of a heartbeat, and then stepped from Charlie’s arms. He almost smiled. Then she paced the small interrogation room. “Anyone with access to the internet can find a bank’s routing number.”

  “I know,” Benton said.

  “And we both know it’s not hard to find someone’s bank account if they’re motivated,” she said. “I bet I could find yours if I wanted, and Charlie said the gun was stolen.”

  “I said I know, Deming.” The weight of Benton’s stare seemed to finally get through to her. “And you’re his alibi that night. Right?” He shrugged. “So, the question is, who is trying to frame Charlie? That’s probably our killer.”

  Cynthia’s mouth dropped, and her hands clenched. Meanwhile, Charlie’s stomach had grown queasy. This was the test. Did he trust the justice system or not? Cynthia seemed poised to lie for him, and if he’d allowed her to do that, to commit a felony, they’d have to live with that lie for the rest of their lives, or face the consequences. Careers over. Maybe jail time. It would stain them both, and maybe help the real killer.

  “No,” Charlie said. “She wasn’t with me that night.” Cynthia gasped and turned toward Charlie, her heart on her sleeve.

  He’d been right. She’d been moments away from lying to her boss, a federal officer.

  Cynthia turned her back to the camera and leaned her shoulder against the wall, hiding her face from Benton and Charlie. He wanted to go to her, to explain why he did what he did, but he knew now wasn’t the time. Benton was staring at the table, and didn’t seem surprised, which made Charlie wonder if he’d been baiting them to lie, waiting to see if they’d give a false alibi.

  “Why the sudden marriage, Charlie?” Benton kept his tone low, almost gentle, either because he knew the atmosphere in the room was combustible and he didn’t want to trigger another outburst by Cynthia, or because the topic was marriage. Feelings. And those were always combustible. “Did you hope your association with Cynthia would buy you leniency? If so, you’ve miscalculated. I care for Cynthia. She’s like family. As her husband, that puts you under more scrutiny, not less, if only to keep her safe.”

  “I’m innocent,” Charlie said.

  “You can’t even answer why you married her,” Benton said. “Don’t think that goes unnoticed.”

  “Charlie,” she shook her head, her back still to the room. “He’s not the enemy.”

  “No,” Benton said. “In fact, I might be the only thing standing between you and jail.” Benton stood, leaned his palms on the table, and leveled a no-bullshit glare on Charlie. “I’d like an answer, please. Why did you marry Deming yesterday?”

  It was complicated, especially since the question implied Charlie was using Cynthia as a shield. Just posing the question wounded his pride, but it was a grievance best left to resolve after the real unsub was found. Then Benton could eat crow, when, ironically, he and Cynthia no longer needed to be married.

  Charlie shrugged. “I love her.” Cynthia’s shoulders shook, as if she were silently sobbing.

  “Oh, Charlie.” She glanced at him over her shoulder. He stood, held out his arms, and felt his heart swell when she raced into his embrace. “I love you, too.” Then she was squeezing him as if to give him strength, or maybe because she was that afraid. Hiding her face against his chest, she sobbed. Charlie felt sucker punched. She loved him, too. She could mean many types of love, but at that moment, he needed to believe she meant it the way he’d meant it. He was in love with her. If she meant something else…Well, he’d fix that later, when he wasn’t trying to keep them both out of jail.

  Chapter Eleven

  Cynthia felt the tension in Charlie’s body the moment she embraced him. He was taut, and upset in a way he hadn’t been even when Benton was accusing him of being a murderer. She’d seen his face, knew her words of love had shocked him, and now, mortified beyond all belief, she had to find a way to move past this humiliating moment. But she couldn’t stop crying!

  For an unforgivably obtuse moment, Cynthia forgot that Charlie was playing a role!

  His “love” went along with their “marriage.” She knew Charlie had to be desperate, if not horrified, that she’d put him in this untenable position. He was covering for her, hiding that she was at the crime scene.

  Charlie would never hurt her on purpose. Never.

  She’d confessed her love for him, and he’d seized up, stiff as a board. If that didn’t answer her question about his feelings, nothing would. She cringed to think of what he’d do to smooth things over with her later. It’s not as if Charlie was fully armed when it came to navigating social situations. Would he melt, act lovey-dovey, thinking that’s what she’d want? Ugh.

  Time to put her big girl pants on. None of this mattered.

  She loved Charlie. This case was going to kill her career. She might as well save her relationship with Charlie. It might be all she had left afterward. Sniffing, brutally shutting down her tears, Cynthia pulled from Charlie’s embrace, grabbed his hand, and squeezed to signal she was on his side.

  “Benton,” she said, “all you have is a snitch’s accusation.” Charlie squeezed her hand back, but it felt as if he were cautioning her. “If your snitch was credible, we wouldn’t be standing here. Charlie would be in handcuffs, being led to holding. In fact, I’ll go out on a limb here”—she used the back of her hand to wipe a tear that spilled past her lashes—“and say you don’t trust your snitch.” Benton’s gaze flickered, telling Cynthia her instincts had been spot on, and her relief was incalculable. “We’re leaving.” Cynthia tugged on Charlie’s hand. He didn’t move at first, but instead looked between her and Benton, calculating if leaving was a good idea. Finally, after a long pause, he nodded and led the way to the door.

  “Cynthia!” Benton barked out her name. When she paused and turned, Charlie did also. Benton looked at the camera affixed to the ceiling and used his fingers to make a slashing motion to his neck. He continued to stare at the camera until the red light flickered out. “Just so we’re clear,” he said, his tone low, at almost a whisper, “I am not releasing Charlie because I don’t have probable cause to hold him. I’m protecting the Coppola case. Charlie was the bureau’s expert witness. If it gets out the forensic pathologist we used to prosecute the Coppola case is now the prime suspect for the deaths of these witnesses, Dante Coppola’s conviction can be overturned. The bastard can file a petition for mistrial, and will, in a heartbeat. He’ll receive at least a retrial, as will any defendant from any case that Charlie touched. This is bigger than Charlie, Deming. You have to see that.”

  Cynthia shook her head. “No. I don’t. All I have to see is Charlie. Something else you never knew about me.”

  “Deming—” Benton snapped her name out, as if he wasn’t done.

  “The prosecutor has to assume his culpability. I don’t.” She almost mentioned spousal privilege, and that it meant she didn’t even have to talk to Benton about Charlie, but she feared solidifying his suspicions that she and Charlie had married because of the murders.

  “Benton,” Charlie said. “Does it occur to you that I wouldn’t want all the cases of my care
er to be challenged? It’s not just the bureau and the FBI that will be affected. My life’s work will be ruined. Keep that in mind when you’re looking for a motive.”

  “Hmm.” Benton didn’t seem convinced, and that panicked Cynthia even more. “I’m thinking a man willing to kill six people for a million dollars might not value the legacy of his day job.” Benton might not want Charlie to be guilty, but he was telling them he wasn’t ruling it out.

  “Consider this my official request to take time off for a honeymoon.” It stopped Benton from putting her on administrative leave. “You need me, call me, but if it’s about Charlie, call his lawyer. I’ll email you his contact information.” When she found a lawyer.

  Cynthia and Charlie left the interrogation room. She quickly grabbed her pocketbook from the incident room, avoiding her fellow agents’ gazes, hoping to just leave. Gilroy, Modena, and Benton hovered, a gauntlet of detectives that she and Charlie had to walk by.

  “Deming?” Modena said. “You want to wait to settle that bet?”

  The marriage bet. He was asking her if she had any hesitation about whether Charlie was guilty. “Nope,” she said. “Expect the money on your desk when I get back.” Modena nodded, his brow furrowed, his green eyes bright with concern.

  Vivian O’Grady stepped to Gilroy’s side. “Call me if you need me,” she said. Cynthia nodded to the IT tech but couldn’t hold her gaze, because Vivian’s tears were threatening to make Cynthia cry again.

  “When the subpoenas are issued,” Benton said, “it won’t take more than an hour to have our answers.” He followed them out into the hall, hounding their steps.

  Charlie stopped walking, and turned so abruptly that Cynthia stumbled against his side. “Do what you’ve got to do, and do it fast, because you’re wasting time. The real unsub is out there, and it isn’t me. Tell my techs—” He paused, as if he had no idea what to say.

  Cynthia took pity on him. “Tell Kevin and Teresa that Charlie is on his honeymoon. We’ll be at his house or mine, but call first. We’ll be busy.” Her smile was tight, and she didn’t feel any pity for Benton, Modena, and Gilroy’s embarrassment. Vivian, however, smiled.