by Amy Vansant
Mariska gasped. “Oh that’s wonderful. What does that mean?”
“He made me a deputy. He says he’s going to give me a badge. Can you believe it? It’s like wild west stuff.”
Darla slid a piece of bacon from Mariska’s communal plate and waved it at Charlotte like a wand. “Doesn’t the deputized posse usually end up dead in those movies?”
Charlotte froze, mid-happy dance. “Do they?” She shrugged and resumed shaking her hips. “You know what? I don’t even care. Now I’m a licensed private detective and a deputy. I’m, like, practically a super hero.”
“I know about fifteen women who would love to sew you a costume,” said Darla.
“I want to see the badge,” said Mariska.
“I have to go talk to Frank later today. He said he’d give it to me if I swung by his office.”
Mariska slapped Darla’s hand as she reached for another strip of bacon. “Make a plate. Stop eating the bacon like an animal.”
Darla flashed puppy-eyes. “Be kind to me. My husband deputized another woman. He never deputized me.”
Charlotte laughed. “Because you’d go mad with power.”
Darla snatched another strip of bacon and dodged a swipe of Mariska’s spatula. “It’s true.”
Chapter Five
“Your honor, I’d like to call Danielle Arneau to the stand.”
Stephanie Moriarty turned to watch her witness rise from her seat. The girl with scraggily hair pulled at her shirt, though no amount of tugging would ever get it to cover her pierced navel. She stooped to retrieve a pack of cigarettes that fell from her purse and then straightened.
Stephanie smiled in the most soothing way she could muster.
Okay Danielle. Just remember what we practiced.
The girl’s gaze met her own and then shot away.
Oh no.
Stephanie felt the acid from her morning coffee rise in her throat.
Danielle’s focus slid to the right and she stared at the back of opposing counsel’s head. Her hand fluttered to her throat to tug at a large necklace there. It took Stephanie a moment to read between the girl’s fingers.
Danielle. The necklace said Danielle in large, scripty gold letters.
Not exactly Tiffany’s, but still, it took a lot of gold to spell Danielle—
She’s come into some money.
Stephanie’s eyes grew wide.
No, no, no...not again. She’s not going to say what we practiced—
Stephanie spun to face the judge. “Wait.”
The judge looked up from her papers. “Did you say wait, Ms. Moriarty?”
“Yes, I—”
Danielle was staring at her now, frozen in her tracks, her face the mask of guilt. Assistant District Attorney Jason Walsh turned to face them. His eyes were wide, as if he were surprised, but the smirk on his lips...
He knows. He got to her. Son of a—
“Ms. Moriarty?”
Stephanie turned her eyes to the judge but her mind remained on the girl.
What am I going to do?
Danielle was her star witness. Her testimony would free the dirt bag sitting to her left, of that she was certain. But she could tell by the smug look on the crooked Assistant D.A.’s face that he knew that, too. This was the third time Walsh had tampered with her witnesses, paying them, she suspected, to tell his version of the truth.
Stephanie’s fingers curled into fists.
He’s supposed to be the good guy. He’s supposed to play by the book and make it easy for me to beat him…
She glanced at her client. He was staring at her too, his expression made all the more angry by the tattoo on his face—a smattering of tribal art spilling down his left temple and cheek with the word “bad ass” woven into it.
These people. They couldn’t make it harder to keep them out of jail if—
The judge cleared her throat. “Ms. Moriarty? My patience is running low.”
Stephanie flashed Danielle a glare sharp enough to slice through flesh and then slapped on a smile to face the judge. “Your honor, I’d like to request a continuance.”
“Why?”
Stephanie glanced at Jason. His glee had ratcheted up a notch. She felt her own smile crack.
I am going to kill you.
“Ms. Moriarty?”
“Huh? Oh. Sorry. Permission to approach the bench, your honor?”
Judge Carrillo heaved a great sigh and motioned for Stephanie to approach.
“Me, too, your honor,” said Jason, standing.
Stephanie heard a low growl thrum in her throat.
He really doesn’t know who he’s messing with.
The two lawyers walked to the bench, the sharp click of Stephanie’s six hundred dollar heels the only sound.
Judge Carrillo’s gaze locked on Stephanie’s shoes and then bobbed up to meet her eyes.
“Are those Louboutin’s?”
Stephanie nodded. “Would you like them?”
The judge chuckled. “Funny. So, tell me all about your problems.”
Jason made a motion to show he acquiesced to Stephanie. She smiled with a touch of snarl and turned back to the judge.
“Your honor, I have reason to believe my witness has been tampered with. Possibly even bribed.”
Jason gasped and slapped his hand to his chest. “Your honor, this is nothing short of slander. Convincing your witness to tell the truth instead of the lies opposing counsel groomed her to tell isn’t what I’d call tampering.”
The judge scowled. “You’re both making serious accusations. Anyone have any proof?”
Jason shook his head. “Not at this time, your honor.”
The judge swiveled her attention back to Stephanie. “And you? What makes you think your witness has been tampered with?”
“It’s—a feeling, your honor.”
“So you want me to grant you a continuance on a feeling?”
Stephanie winced. “Well, no, I—”
The judge flopped back in her chair. “Look, today’s your lucky day. We’re just about out of time. I thought maybe I could squeeze this in, but it’s late and I have somewhere to be. I’m going to wrap things up but I expect you both to be here tomorrow, ready to finish with no excuses and no whining about tampering without proof. Do you understand me?”
Both lawyers nodded.
The judge banged her gavel. “Okay everyone, we’re going to wrap up for today. I’ll see you here tomorrow.”
Stephanie walked back to her side of the room. Danielle saw her coming, snatched her worn, fake-leather purse from a bench and scurried out of the courtroom.
“Should have bought a new purse,” Stephanie called after her.
“You better get me off,” growled her client, standing as the police re-cuffed him to be returned to prison.
Stephanie rolled her eyes. “Have you considered getting a hate crime tattooed on your face? That would make it even easier for me.”
The man’s eyes narrowed and he leaned forward, straining against the pull of the guard leading him towards the door. “The boss ain’t gonna be happy with you if you don’t set me free, you—”
The officer jerked him back as a string of profanities spilled from his lips.
Stephanie ignored him and stuffed her papers into her Italian leather briefcase.
“You seem a little flustered by your own client.”
Stephanie turned to find Jason grinning at her.
She snorted a laugh. “Him? Growing up, my stepmother said worse things to me before breakfast on a daily basis. He’s an amateur.”
“Wow. That goes far towards explaining your charming demeanor.”
Stephanie zipped her case shut and dropped it to her side. “You tampered with my witness.”
Jason thrust his hands into his pockets and rocked on his heels. “Me? Why would I do that?”
“You’re paying them—or threatening them—to lie because it’s the only way you can beat me.”
Jason sco
ffed. “Have you looked at your client? I don’t have to pay anyone to put that punk in jail.”
Stephanie smiled. “Remember the Wyatt case? Maybe not. I know it might be hard for you to recall because you lost. I’m sure all those losses blur together after a while.”
“Sure. I remember Wyatt. I keep a list of all the killers and thieves you put back on the street, right here.” He tapped his skull with his index finger.
“Then it might interest you to know that after the Wyatt case I went to talk to Wendy Brice—the witness who nearly blew the whole thing for me. Know what? She was gone. Seems she’d lucked into enough money to take herself and her three kids to Texas to live with her mother while she entered an expensive rehab.”
Jason grinned. “Aw. That’s a sweet story. Thank you for sharing it with me.”
She poked him in the chest with her index finger. “I know you arranged it. I know you paid her to throw my client under the bus. You and your rich family. You’re buying wins on your way to buying district attorney. Then maybe you can end up a senator like your daddy.”
Jason shook his head. “Nope. Nice try, though.”
Stephanie put her face an inch from his. “You don’t want to mess with me.”
“Stop working for scumbags and I won’t.”
“Everyone has the right to a fair trial.”
Jason snorted again and took a step back. “Do they, though?”
He strode up the aisle and with a last wave, left the courtroom.
Stephanie frowned. She still had a few tricks up her sleeve to get this particular idiot out of his conviction, but this pattern had to end. Jason was making it more and more difficult for her to collect her checks. And the money wasn’t even the most important part—the men she worked for didn’t appreciate failure.
What she really needed was to take care of Jason once and for all. He couldn’t disappear—he and his family were much too high-profile for such a simple solution. She needed to catch him in the act. Surely, he couldn’t risk letting other people do his dirty work. He had to be paying these witnesses himself.
Maybe she could squeeze a few more bucks out of her client for a private investigator. Someone cheap. Someone honest and sweet who wouldn’t be afraid of an Assistant D.A. because they couldn’t fathom ever being arrested and up against him in court—
Stephanie slowed as she swung her bag onto her shoulder.
She smiled.
Charlotte.
Her ex’s squeaky-clean new girlfriend was a shiny-new private investigator now.
She’d be perfect.
And as a bonus, any time Charlotte spent following Jason was time Declan would be left unattended.
Chapter Six
Declan knocked on the door of the Pineapple Port modular home and it rattled on its hinges. Crime tape still clung to the vinyl siding, flapping in the breeze.
He glanced left and right, wondering what eyes might be on him. He felt a little bad. When Charlotte told him the owner of 67 Hibiscus Dr. had died, his first thought had been, “I wonder if he has any good bedroom furniture.”
The Hock o’Bell needed bedroom furniture.
Of course, he couldn’t feel too bad about it. It was his job. And after all, that’s how Charlotte and he had met. Upon hearing a body had been found at her house, he’d shown up, hoping to be the first to approach the family about worldly goods left behind.
Funerals were expensive; sometimes selling an unwanted desk or bookshelf was a great way to fund a burial.
In Charlotte’s case, the “death” had turned out to be bones buried in her backyard garden, and Charlotte, the lovely occupant, remained very much alive.
He’d been wondering who to contact about the contents of Kristopher Rudolph’s house when the man’s wife called looking to sell out. He’d driven right over.
Declan raised his hand to knock again, only to have the door fling away from his reach. A thin woman with frizzy, dishwater-brown and gray hair peered back at him. She looked as if a tornado had tossed her around for a few minutes and then dumped her back in the house.
She wiped her brow. “Yes?”
“Oh. Hello there.” Declan flashed her his best smile, the one that made the dimple near his right cheek deepen. He knew immediately his effort had been wasted. The woman stared, unmoving. He’d have received the same reaction flashing his dimple at a telephone pole.
Okay, so the charming pawnbroker act isn’t going to win over this one.
Declan cleared his throat and fumbled for the card he’d thrust in his pocket back at the shop.
“I’m Declan Bingham, I own the pawn shop in town, the Hock o’ Bell. You called me? I—”
The woman closed her eyes and took a deep breath as he spoke and then cut him short without reopening them. “And you were hoping to vulture-up some stuff. I’m Noelle. Come on in.”
He frowned. He hated the word vulture.
Noelle took a step back and Declan entered the home without comment. He’d been called a vulture before. He tried to take it in stride. By the end of every visit, the widows and widowers were tearfully grateful to him for helping them unload their excess furniture at such fair prices.
He knew the drill. No pressure. He could always come back later. Mrs. Rudolph would soon come to see he wasn’t a vulture—
Declan stopped in his tracks, the riot of color and clutter in the house sending his mind into overload. Charlotte hadn’t been kidding when she described the house to him.
Take a deep breath.
His own house he kept military-neat, or at least as neat as he could with his slob of an uncle, Seamus, still crashing there. It had been nearly six months since Seamus showed up. He knew because he kept a prison-wall-like calendar next to his bed where he scratched out the days he’d been forced to share a roof with the man.
Kristopher Rudolph’s home looked like the day after a black Friday sale at a Christmas-themed dollar store. Decorations dotted the landscape like red poppies in a field of green. The furniture had been pulled away from the walls, the Christmas tree was burned, every pot, pan and plate had been yanked from the kitchen cabinets and now sat teetering in piles on the counters and floor.
“Wha—?” began Declan, realizing the answer to his question before he’d posed it. His attention had circled back to settle on the woman, and for the first time he noticed a glistening sheen of sweat on her face and neck. Unless she’d been enjoying a workout tape in one of the back rooms, she was clearly responsible for creating the mess.
She’d been looking for something. Declan couldn’t help but wonder if she’d found it.
“How much ya give me?” She held a steady gaze on him, as if daring him to ask what had happened. She flopped into a large reclining chair and he eyeballed the La-Z-Boy’s burned arm.
Too bad. La-Z-Boys were good sellers.
He’d heard there’d been a fire, but sniffing the air, it didn’t seem as though everything had been ruined by smoke. Maybe in the living room but not the back rooms. It appeared the fire had been contained to the area around the Christmas tree, which, unfortunately included the chair.
“How much for what? What do you want to sell?” he asked, trying to seem unenthusiastic. It wasn’t hard.
She made a lasso twirling-like motion in the air with her hand. “Everything.”
“The furniture?”
“Everything. This.” She picked up a ceramic angel and held it aloft. “This.” She put down the angel and tossed a piece of shriveled tinsel into the air without fanfare.
He watched the tinsel float to the ground. “Uh, can I look around?”
Nodding, she stood and smacked a cigarette from a pack which seemed to have magically manifested in her hand.
“I’ll be outside.” She glanced at the pile of ash beneath the tree. “Not that it matters.”
He bobbed to the right as she passed, to keep her from clipping his shoulder.
Charming woman.
Declan took a deep breat
h and surveyed the room, making a mental list.
Coffee table and chair, toast. Lamp, nope. Other table… could maybe be refinished. Flat screen television, potentially salvageable. Few usable decorations and knickknacks…
He strode into the kitchen and opened the few cabinets not already hanging open.
Nothing worth anything unless she includes the appliances…
Down the hall he peered into an almost empty office. The contents of a three-tier file cabinet had been tossed to the floor.
Desk. Chair. File cabinet.
On to the master bedroom.
Decent headboard. Decent side table. What the...
Declan took a step back to better survey the strangest bureau he’d ever laid eyes on—and that was saying something in his business. The piece had thirty one drawers of varying sizes, each with a flat, brightly-painted wooden knob shaped like a different creature, object or Christmas icon. A rabbit, giraffe, dog, tree, ornament, cat, raccoon...the last drawer featured a pineapple. Half the drawers were open, most were empty. Underwear had been stuffed into the horse drawer and socks in the robin.
Declan stroked his chin. “Now that is unique.”
He made his way back outside to find the woman stamping out her smoke in the grass.
He cleared his throat. “I’m sorry, was it Noelle?”
She nodded.
“And you’re Kris’s—?
“Wife. Ex-wife. I got everything in the will. They contacted me.”
“Okay. You wouldn’t happen to have any proof that you have the right to sell his things?”
“I have everything signed and official.” Rolling her eyes, Noelle turned and walked to a faded red Chevy Malibu to open the passenger side door. Papers slid from the seat to the curb as she shuffled through them. She made no attempt to retrieve the ones that fell. When Noelle found what she was looking for, she slammed shut the door, catching papers half in and half out. Turning, she marched her proof back to Declan.
“You can keep them if you need to. I have copies.”
He couldn’t keep his gaze from bouncing back to the pile of papers laying in a puddle beside the Malibu.
