Cut and Run

by Allison Brennan

  “Yes,” Reed said.

  Lucy gave him her credit card and he walked away.

  Reed drank a third of the beer in one gulp. “Mills, go.”

  To the point. “First thing you should know is that I’m only looking into this case because it may be connected to one of my cases and I’m hoping we can share information.”

  “My suspect is dead. You think Grant killed someone else?”

  “Are you up-to-date on the bones that were found out in Kendall County?”

  “Yeah, the woman embezzled three million dollars. She and her whole family, dead and buried.”

  “Denise Albright. She was Victoria Mills’s college roommate.”

  “Small world. Think Grant killed her?”

  Lucy didn’t but didn’t say so. “Victoria was killed the night after the bones were discovered—the same day that the news reported the discovery.”

  “But they were only recently identified. No one knew who they were, didn’t even speculate.” She drank, watched Lucy over the rim of her mug.

  She had Reed interested. The best way to get information was to give information first.

  “Correct. But the original news report indicated that four bodies were found. When I learned that Denise and Victoria knew each other, I started looking into anything that they may have worked on together, anything that might put them in danger. According to Victoria’s family, Albright did a lot of work for Mills and didn’t charge her.”

  “She was an accountant, right?”

  “Yes. Re-creating her records has been a chore—our White Collar Crimes unit is working on it. She had multiple clients, big and small. But we had a few names, so I started looking into Mills’s client list. So far, one name is the same.” Lucy was stretching this because she had no evidence that Albright had worked for Monroe, but Max was so certain that he was involved in Victoria’s death—even with no proof—that Lucy was willing to go out on the limb. “Harrison Monroe.”

  Silence.

  “He was one of Victoria’s clients and may have been one of Denise’s. We’re still investigating. But they knew each other from college.”

  “Yeah, we have Mills’s client list.”

  “Did you run it? Was anyone suspicious?”

  “We interviewed a few people, but when Grant confessed, that was it. He knew information about the crime that we didn’t release.” Reed didn’t elaborate.

  “It would help me if we could work together on this,” Lucy said. “Grant was assassinated in broad daylight.”

  “We released to the press that Mills had been stabbed, but not where or how many times. He knew that she was stabbed twice in the stomach. He’s right-handed, which fits forensics. He also said that after he stabbed her she staggered a couple feet and fell into the pool. That information—that she was found in the pool—was released. The blood trail is consistent with his version of events. This whole circus about changing his plea is just that—a circus.”

  “Except for the blood drops that could have come when someone was getting in a passenger side of a car.”

  “That’s fifty-fifty. The driveway is wide. Someone could have parked far to the right and got in the driver’s side.”

  Lucy nodded, but she still thought, based on the layout of the driveway, that the drops were from a passenger.

  She said, “What if I told you there was evidence that Grant had been threatened to plead guilty?”

  “I would ask, ‘What evidence?’”

  “I’m working on it.” This was where Lucy was going to have to come clean or the detective would never trust her again. “My husband is Sean Rogan.”

  “The PI who was at the courthouse. You could have led with that.”

  Lucy smiled. “Yeah, but then you may not have met me. Sean has a way of irritating cops.”

  “Actually, though he was a bit of a know-it-all, he was a terrific witness. I verified his credentials, so we’re good. He gave us a line on the white florist van, and I have some security footage we’re working on enhancing.”

  “Was one of the men on the security footage a Hispanic male adult, under forty, over six foot two with broad shoulders?”

  “Yes, like thousands of men in San Antonio.”

  “If you need any distinguishing features on him, his right hand is seriously scarred from some sort of burn.”

  “I don’t know that we have that detailed information, but we’re still going over security tapes from the area. Rogan said the van was parked in the loading area of the archives building for a minimum of fifteen minutes. We have confirmed it arrived at twelve thirty and stayed until one ten when Grant was killed. My theory is that he pled guilty because he was guilty, but sitting in jail he couldn’t fathom spending the rest of his life there, so he came up with this asinine plan to change his plea. The confession wouldn’t be thrown out, the prosecutor assured me, because he came in on his own volition. It’s a good confession. He panicked because he didn’t get away with the embezzlement, the goons he owed money to took him out as an example to other gamblers who wanted to renege on what they owe. We’re turning the case over to Vice.”

  It was a solid theory. One even Lucy could buy into. “I may have some information that could help you there.”

  “It’s not my case anymore, and good riddance.”

  “But Victoria Mills is still your case.”

  “You’re going to have to do some slick talking to convince me that Stanley Grant’s confession was a lie.”

  “Sean is working with Maxine Revere.”

  “For shit’s sake.”

  “She’s difficult and persistent—”

  “She’s a bitch.”

  “But she’s good at what she does. I don’t like reporters any more than you do—probably a lot less than you do.”

  “Doubtful.”

  “But Max—”

  “Don’t say she’s different.”

  “No, but she has a unique way of viewing information, plus she has access to more than we do, including the Mills family.”

  “You can’t work with her. A fucking defense lawyer would say you used her to go around getting warrants or some such fucked nonsense. We may not like all the rules, but they’re there for a reason—so these bastards don’t get off on a technicality.”

  “I recognize this is a gray area, but I think we can work together on this. The day Grant was killed, he met with his lawyer and Maxine at the courthouse. He told them—”

  “Right there, Kincaid. He was talking to his lawyer. Client confidentiality.”

  “Grant is dead, and Max was there,” Lucy said, not liking the interruption. “Just hear me out, okay? Grant told them that he was approached after Victoria was killed by a Hispanic male with a scar on his hand. The stranger said that Grant killed Victoria and had embezzled two million from the company account because he’d started gambling again and was in the hole. He told him to confess, or his sister and her family were in danger. Grant didn’t believe him until the next day. Marie was in an accident and when Grant arrived on scene he saw the same man watching. He convinced his sister to leave town and then confessed. If Grant is innocent of her murder, someone who was there and had the details told Grant what to say.”

  Reed was listening, so Lucy pressed on. “You and your people canvassed the area and interviewed a neighbor named Robert Clemson. I want to interview him. Care to join me?”

  She didn’t say anything for a minute, then drained her beer. “Let’s go. You’re lucky you have friends on the force, otherwise I would have told you to fuck off, especially after hearing you’re friends with that bitch reporter.”

  “I wouldn’t say friends, exactly. I respect her, though. To be perfectly honest, if it wasn’t for Max I would never have known who killed my nephew.”

  “So you feel like you owe her something.”

  “Maybe. Maybe I do.” Lucy hadn’t thought about her conflicted feelings about Max like that, but Reed could be right. “But more, I owe Denise Al
bright and her family justice.”

  * * *

  Twenty minutes later, Lucy and Jennifer were at Robert Clemson’s house. Jennifer knocked on the door and Clemson answered, clearly unnerved to see them.

  “Mr. Clemson, do you have a moment?” Jennifer said sweetly.

  “I, um, really don’t.”

  “I promise, five minutes. Just a follow-up on your statement from September. If you don’t mind?” She motioned if they could come in.

  He hesitated, then opened the door, but made no move to leave the large entryway. He looked at Lucy, and she introduced herself.

  “FBI?” he said, his voice a squeak. He cleared his throat and said, “What can I do for you?”

  Jennifer made a show of flipping through her notepad. “I’m confirming the timeline. You said on September 6, the night that Victoria Mills was killed, that you hadn’t left … then you later recalled that you had drinks with a friend, Melissa Randolph, correct?”

  “Yes, that’s right. I just got the dates confused.”

  “How do you know Ms. Randolph?”

  He blinked. “I— We just knew each other. I, uh, think we met when my lawyer was drafting a contract for my business.”

  “So you were dating her.”

  He hesitated. “Uh, no.”

  “You don’t know if you were dating her?”

  “No, no, we just met for drinks. She wanted advice on a work-related matter.”

  “Which was?”

  “I—I don’t honestly remember.”

  “Why would she come to you for advice?”

  “What?”

  “She’s a young paralegal, you’re not a lawyer, right?”

  “No, I’m not, but I run a business, and she wanted to move into a different type of legal work and wanted to know how much businesses pay for legal consulting, things like that. I don’t quite remember the conversation, it was more than two months ago.”

  “Okay. That’s fine. And you went to Russo’s.”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay. Good. And do you remember again what time you returned home?”

  “About midnight, take or leave. I don’t really know for certain. Why is this important?”

  “You heard about the shooting at the courthouse?”

  “Yes, so?”

  “The victim was our primary suspect in Victoria Mills’s murder. My boss wants me to verify every piece of information we have related to the the Mills murder, so that’s what I’m doing.”

  “Oh.”

  Lucy asked, “Did you go to Russo’s directly from your house?”

  “What? Of course.”

  “Did you make any stops on the way?”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “So you went to Russo’s, were there for about an hour, and returned home.”

  “Yes.”

  Jennifer shut her notebook. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Clemson.”

  “Is that it?”

  “For now.”

  “For now?”

  Jennifer smiled. “Yes, I may need to talk to you again, but for tonight I think we’re good.”

  Even Lucy could feel Jennifer’s anger under her skin.

  In the car, Jennifer nearly exploded. “The fucking liar!”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Maybe he was confused, maybe he remembered wrong, but there was something … and if I’m right, he flat out lied. Either when I first interviewed him or now.”

  “Trust your gut,” Lucy said.

  “Two months ago he told me that he was giving Randolph relationship advice. Like what twenty-nine-year-old professional woman could go to him for relationship advice? I didn’t think anything of it at the time, figuring he was embellishing something, making himself look good, but I should have known.”

  “She corroborated, and then Grant confessed,” Lucy said. “You had no reason to go back again.”

  “But it should have been a red flag.”

  “Do you have time to sit on his house for a while?” Lucy asked.

  “I’m not doing anything. You?”

  “Nope.”

  “You think he’s going to leave?”

  “Fifty-fifty. Leave or make a call, but we don’t have a warrant for his phone records.” Yet.

  Jennifer drove around the block and parked just out of sight from Clemson’s house but where they’d be able to see if he left his driveway.

  Not ten minutes later, he left his house.

  “You’re good, Kincaid,” Jennifer said with a tight expression. “Let’s nail him.”

  “Let’s just see where he goes.”

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Mitch Corta had disappeared.

  Okay, Sean thought, maybe not actually disappeared, but Sean couldn’t find him anywhere. He wasn’t at work—his assistant said he left at noon, saying he was sick. Sean checked out his house, he wasn’t there. Sean considered breaking in but decided against it. Then Sean drove by all of Mitch Corta’s active listings, but neither he nor his car was there.

  Where they hell had he gone?

  As he drove back from Mitch’s house—for the second time—a familiar number called him.

  “Patrick, it’s about time you called me back.”

  “I’m sorry, Sean, it’s been crazy.”

  “Lucy wants you here for Thanksgiving.”

  “I know. I’m trying to make it work, but there are extenuating circumstances. I can’t—it’s hard to explain.”

  “Tell me.”

  Sean listened to Patrick. “Call Lucy and tell her what’s going on. She’ll understand.”

  “No, she won’t. I know she doesn’t like Elle, and this is going to be one more thing that’s going to grate on her.”

  “They just rub each other the wrong way,” Sean said. “You didn’t like me when I started dating Lucy.”

  “Not exactly true.”

  “Really.”

  “It was different.”

  Sean snorted. “Keep telling yourself that, buddy. Just listen to me: Tell Lucy.”

  “Maybe. We’re still hoping to work it all out. But … I’m not coming without Elle. I can’t do that to her, even to make Lucy happy. I hope Lucy understands, someday.”

  “I might have an idea.”

  “What?”

  “I need to make a call, but just be open to suggestions.”

  “All right,” he said suspiciously.

  “Trust me, Patrick.”

  “Famous last words,” he muttered.

  Sean laughed, said good-bye, and ended the call. He sent a message to Kate about Patrick’s dilemma, and she responded almost immediately:

  I’ll move mountains.

  Sean grinned. If anyone could fix this, it was Kate.

  His cell phone rang, and he couldn’t imagine that Kate had answers in five minutes, but when he answered he realized it was Marie, Stanley Grant’s sister.

  “Sean, I’m sorry to bother you, but Billy and John convinced me that I needed to call you with information.”

  “Are you in Lake Charles?” She was planning to go there with her ex and stay with her family until this case blew over.

  “Yes. We’re here.”

  “Good. I don’t think you’re in danger anymore, but it’s best to be cautious.”

  “Mitch called me late this morning to tell me how sorry he was that Stan was gone,” Marie said, her voice quiet, tired. “He was torn up—really torn up. I asked him if he knew what was going on—why Stan confessed when it was clear that Mitch didn’t believe that he killed Victoria. I begged him to tell me why he was killed.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He said Stan had been a pawn, a chess piece to move around because he was the only one who gave a shit. Which makes no sense. He promised me that Stan never killed anyone, but he didn’t know how to prove it. Why won’t he go to the police? Why won’t he tell the police what he knows? Stan deserves to be cleared of these charges, even if he’s dead. Right? Where’s the justice
if my boys grow up with everyone thinking their uncle was a cold-blooded killer? I can’t— I don’t want them to suffer. To be bullied and ridiculed and—” She began to sob.

  “Marie, I’m going to find Mitch. He’ll tell me.” Sean would make sure of that.

  He hung up and was about to go back to Mitch’s house and crack his security system. He’d made a promise to himself that he wouldn’t break any serious laws now that he was married to Lucy, but in this instance he justified it because Mitch’s life might be in danger. At least, that’s what he told himself.

  But he didn’t get a chance. Lucy called. “Can you meet me at Russo’s? I’m in the parking lot sitting in Detective Reed’s truck.”

  “I’ll be there in five minutes.”

  When he arrived, he slipped into the backseat of Detective Reed’s dark-blue King Cab Ford.

  “Lucy, Detective. Good to see you again.”

  Reed caught his eye in the rearview mirror. “You’d better not have been lying to me the other day about the courthouse.”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “You didn’t tell me you were working with a damn reporter.”

  “You didn’t ask. You asked me specifically what I was doing at the courthouse, and I honestly told you I was escorting Mr. Grant and his sister out because Mr. Grant felt that there was a threat to their lives, which was proven true.”

  “Semantics.”

  “Ask better questions.”

  Lucy intervened. “We followed Robert Clemson here from his house. We interviewed him again tonight, just a follow-up, and he was acting suspicious.”

  “He fucking lied to me, and I don’t like liars,” Reed interjected.

  Lucy said, “Clemson is fifty, six feet tall, wearing a white button-down shirt, no tie, and khakis. Glasses. He’d recognize us, so we can’t go in. We’re pretty sure he’s meeting someone. He left his house not ten minutes after we talked to him. Don’t engage, just tell us who he talks to, and if you can discreetly get a picture that would be great.”

  “Discretion is my middle name, sweetheart.”

  Lucy couldn’t help but laugh. Sean leaned over, kissed her, and climbed out of the truck.

  Reed said, “How’d you two meet?”