Pas de Deux

by Jamie Craig

  Or maybe not so amazing, considering his devotion to Tana Mayfield. Duke suspected he’d probably been in love with the young woman. Men had changed their lives for less.

  He took his time going up to the front door, drinking in as many details as he could. In spite of the house’s dilapidation, the front yard was carefully tended, with flowerbeds barked out to counter the lack of regular moisture, and shrubbery that was only just looking like they needed to be trimmed back. A stone path wound through the beds, firmly embedded in the ground to prevent tripping, with a small sign that read, “Here lies the last dog that pooped in my yard.”

  He almost smiled until he remembered where he was. With this house’s occupants, that might not necessarily be a joke.

  The front door stood wide open, crooking a bent finger at Duke to beckon him inside. He had called ahead to let Ms. Cunningham know he was stopping by for a more formal interview, but the open door invitation took him a little by surprise. His careful footsteps echoed against the tiled foyer. Floorboards overhead creaked to let him know he wasn’t completely alone, but other than that and the distant rumble of bass coming through speakers, the place seemed deserted.

  Immediately to the right of the entrance was a large, empty living room, the couches, all different shapes and sizes, ringing the center of the room. It looked like a meeting area, maybe for the group sessions the cons were usually ordered to go through. All steps toward rehabilitation, supposedly. The fact that not a single person was in the room did not necessarily bode well for how seriously people took the therapy. Or it could mean exactly the opposite and the room was reserved for group sessions alone. Either way, it seemed a waste of space.

  Duke ventured deeper into the house, looking for someplace Ms. Cunningham might consider an office. Two more rooms might have worked, but they were just as deserted as the first he’d found. He was about to call out and hope someone answered him when something clattered from the rear of the house, and Chandra Cunningham’s distinctive raspy voice erupted in cursing.

  He followed the sound and emerged into a wide, bright kitchen, sunshine glaring off the pale linoleum floor to nearly blind him, even with his sunglasses on. The swearing came from behind a breakfast bar, and he stepped closer in time to see a dark head pop up, followed by the svelte form of a forty-something woman. Her hands were full of broken pottery, the curve of a cup handle visible before she dropped the pieces into a sink. Coffee had spilled on the counter and run over the side onto the floor. Duke grabbed an available towel and pressed it to the edge, stopping any more from dripping.

  Chandra Cunningham jumped when she turned back and saw him there, though she only seemed off-balance for a moment. “You’ve got to be Detective Duke,” she said, bending down again. “You’re early.”

  “The front door was open.”

  “That’s because it’s hotter than Hades in here, and that’s the only way to cool this place down.” She stood again with a second load of broken pottery. “I didn’t think you’d want to bake for this.”

  He waited patiently as she finished cleaning up, only relinquishing the towel to her command after the floor was clear. “If this is a bad time—”

  “No, no, this is as good a time as any.” She tossed the towel into the sink with the other remnants. “But you’ll have to do without some iced coffee. Sorry about that.”

  He gave her a small smile. “That’s perfectly fine. I don’t usually get snacks while I’m interviewing people.”

  She grimaced. He’d been right about the smoking. Tiny lines radiated from her lips, one of the few imperfections in her otherwise attractive face. Her dark eyes radiated intelligence, her toffee-colored skin flawless. “Is that what we’re calling this? An interview?”

  “That’s what I call it, yes.” He glanced around. “Is there somewhere comfortable we can sit without interruption?”

  She gestured to the long dining room table that took up the opposite side of the room. “Have a seat. Nobody comes back here in the middle of the day except for me.”

  He waited until they were both comfortable before pulling out his notepad. “Have you seen the news?”

  “About Hector?” Chandra sighed. “Yeah. That poor kid is never going to get a break, is he?”

  “Well, that’s for us to try and find out.”

  “Are you on that case, too?”

  Duke shook his head. “I’m still investigating Tana Mayfield’s murder. I’ve exonerated Young from suspicion, but that just means somebody else out there did it.”

  “Any ideas?”

  “Nothing I can discuss at this time.”

  A frown drew her thin brows together. “So what’re you here for? You don’t need to talk to me about Hector.”

  He uncapped his pen and poised to write. “I’d like to talk about Tana, actually. Her responsibilities here, people she might have come into contact with, that sort of thing.”

  “She came into contact with just about everybody at some point or another. She helped out with some of the admin stuff, hung around to talk to anyone who might want to listen, helped coordinate sessions. That sort of thing.”

  “How did she come to work here?”

  “She just showed up one day, wanting to help. I told her to fill out an application, got her resume, checked her record.” Chandra smiled. “You’d be surprised how many girlfriends show up, thinking they can come to work here and help their guys skip through. It’s hard enough trying to maintain some kind of order without them making things worse.”

  Duke thought Chandra Cunningham, for as shrewd as she appeared, was more than a little blind to what was obviously going on under her nose. Maybe out of necessity. She could focus on the ones she knew she could help, and just pray the others did their misdeeds off the property.

  “Was there anybody else Tana took a special interest in, other than Hector Young? Or anyone who took a special interest in her?”

  “You’ve seen her pictures, detective. She was a beautiful girl, and I’ve got a house full of men who got locked away from pretty girls like that for years. Of course, the others noticed her. But if they didn’t show her any respect, she knew exactly how to cut them down. She might have looked delicate, but she had a backbone of steel. I doubt there was nothing she couldn’t do if she set her mind to it.”

  “That must have pissed some of the men off.”

  Chandra shrugged. “Maybe. But Hector wouldn’t have let anybody touch her.”

  “Is anybody else around that might have known Tana? I’d like to talk to as many acquaintances as possible.”

  She leveled him a frank stare. “You can try, but you don’t really think they’re going to say anything to you, do you? You’re a cop. You’re not exactly at the top of their Christmas card lists.”

  “Well, maybe you could talk to them for me.”

  She still seemed doubtful. “If they knew anything, they would have already said something.”

  “Not if they were covering something up.”

  “And you think that’ll encourage them to answer my questions?”

  “Can you please try?”

  With a roll of her eyes, she rose from her chair. “I’m not making any promises, you know. Now that Hector isn’t in trouble for it, they won’t see why it matters.”

  “It matters because a girl is dead, Ms. Cunningham.”

  Chandra paused in the doorway. “You know that, and I know that, detective, but to these men here? She’s gone. Life goes on. They’re not exactly known for caring about the past.” She sighed. “I’ll be right back.”

  The house felt even emptier when she’d left, prompting Duke to stand and prowl around the expansive space. What he really wanted to do was follow her upstairs, but she had a point about how cooperative the men would be. Even if he just said he was gathering background information, they were far more likely to say they knew nothing than to volunteer something useful.

  Still, he liked the possibility of someone from Woodson being the kille
r. By Chandra’s own admission, these were men with violent pasts. Men who might have resented the pretty little rich girl showing up to do her good deed for the day. Men who might have been thwarted from further advances by a protective Hector.

  Yeah. He liked the idea a lot.

  The only thing the theory didn’t explain was why someone seemed so determined to set Hector up. They’d gotten to Saucedo, though he’d found a way around it to get the necessary information to Duke, and they’d gotten to Johnny Fender. Duke knew in his head, if not his heart, that Sager had to be involved somehow, as well. Scott’s theory that Sager might be a pawn could be possible, but the man Duke knew and respected was too smart for that. Nobody used Sager unless he wanted to be used.

  Now, two people were dead, and a third would be joining them unless Scott was able to work some magic. Based on what he’d seen of the man so far, Duke thought he just might do it, too.

  Sliding glass doors separated the kitchen from the back yard. At some point, someone had given up on grass and laid a concrete patio over the whole thing, with a single orange tree in a far corner and a couple pots of wilting flowers scattered near the house. A long picnic table with a covered barbecue next to it sat in the shade provided by the tall fence, but it wasn’t unoccupied. A large man was hunched over something unseen, his faded workshirt straining across his back.

  Duke eased outside, though not as quietly as he would have liked. The soles of his shoes clicked with his first step, startling the man at the table into glancing back. Thick brows drew into an even thicker line, though he didn’t look away as Duke approached.

  “He just doesn’t know when to give up, does he?” the man growled. A tattoo snaked its way down the front of his throat, undulating as he spoke. Someone at some point had taken a knife to his face, too. Old scars mottled his cheeks. “Fuck off.”

  Duke went around the opposite side of the table and sat down. The remains of a portable DVD player spread out between them, but he deliberately ignored the screwdriver the man still held loosely in one hand.

  “I’m just interested in asking you a few questions.” Duke kept his tone neutral, refusing to back down from the man’s implied threats.

  “That’s what he always says.” They held gazes until the other man finally snorted and shook his head, focusing again on his project. “It’s not our fucking fault he doesn’t like the answers he gets.”

  He. Duke could wager guesses as to who this he might be, but he didn’t want to be wrong. Or maybe, on the chance it was Sager, he didn’t want to be right.

  “You want me to pass along a message to him for you, then?” he played along.

  The man rolled his eyes. “Yeah, like Mr. Bigshot DA gives a rat’s ass what an ex-con thinks of him.”

  Disappointment mingled with relief. Horan, then. Probably came down to question some of Hector’s associates in an attempt to get a stronger link to Tana. That didn’t help Duke very much, but at least it wasn’t Sager. That counted for something.

  “It’s called doing his job.”

  “Yeah, you just keep on shoveling it. Pile it deep enough, and you won’t be able to see it for the pile of shit it is.”

  Duke reached inside his jacket for his notepad. “Listen, Mr.—”

  “Oh, hell no!” At first sight of the pad, the man bolted upright, dropping the screwdriver onto the table. “Don’t even think about putting me on the record. DA’s got his rats. He doesn’t need me in his fucking cage, too.”

  He raced off without looking back, abandoning his project in his desire to get out of Duke’s presence. Duke couldn’t blame the man, but his last words left him unsettled. The DA had contacts within Woodson? It wasn’t uncommon, but then why hadn’t he used any of them in his bid to get Young charged with Tana’s murder? And why was this particular man so obviously rattled? His assertions implied Horan, or at least his men, came by often enough to be recognized. Asking questions. Getting answers he didn’t like.

  He was still lost in thought when a shadow fell across the table.

  “Did you say something to Vinnie?” Chandra demanded.

  “That depends.” Duke rose and slid his notepad back into his pocket. “Who’s Vinnie?”

  She ignored the question and jabbed a thin finger back at the house. “He just ran out, like a bat out of hell. I want to know what you said to him.”

  “He didn’t give me much of a chance to say anything. He pegged me for a cop and left.” Which was close enough to the truth to make Duke comfortable with it.

  Her frown didn’t ease, though some of the tension in her shoulders lessened. “Well, maybe you should go anyway. I’m not getting anything new from the guys who are here. I’ll have better luck if you’re not around.”

  Duke didn’t agree, but he knew when to let the line relax. “Call me if they say anything, or if you remember anything remotely interesting.” He handed her one of his business cards. “Day or night, it doesn’t matter.”

  She flipped the card back and forth between her fingers, stepping aside to give him room to walk past. He heard the faint tapping all the way until he walked out the front door.

  Back in his car, he pulled out his phone and stuck his earpiece in. He scrolled for Scott’s office number. They needed to talk about how things were developing.

  “I’m sorry, detective, you just missed him.” Scott’s secretary, Monica, sounded genuinely contrite. “He’s on his way to court.”

  That meant the decision had come in on the Jenkins case, just like Scott had suspected. Duke thanked her and disconnected. He’d head into the city and intercept James at the courthouse. They could go grab something to eat after all.

  The courtroom was absolutely packed. Sammy Jenkins had been charged with the double homicide of his mother and her boyfriend after a five month investigation that culminated with a dramatic stand-off at the victims’ home, Sammy crying and protesting his innocence even as he hugged a semi-automatic rifle to his chest. It had seemed scripted for television, and been broadcast on every local station and cable news channel. Sammy had threatened to kill himself before finally surrendering to the police after six very tense hours. If he had been trying for sympathy, the attempt had failed. After that, just about every person in the country believed him to be guilty.

  Except maybe James Scott. Of course, it wasn’t necessary to believe a man innocent in order to defend him. And Duke knew Scott took the job too seriously to slack off, even if his client was as guilty as Lucifer himself. Duke had demurred when asked his opinion because he did not have all the information on the case—he hadn’t even followed the trial that closely. But he did know that the investigating detectives, as well as the DA’s office, thought they had this one in the bag.

  Scott sat beside his client at the front of the courtroom. Jenkins wore an expensive suit he had obviously not bought himself, with his hair carefully combed. He looked younger than his twenty-three years. Duke did know that the young man had tested on the low side of average for intelligence, and he had the look of a man who didn’t quite understand what was happening around him. The court had ruled him competent to stand trial, though. There had been a hard fight over that. One that had lasted for weeks and delayed the trial. As soon as Horan won that battle, he decided to up the charges to two counts of first-degree murder.

  Duke chose a spot in the rear of the room. There were no cameras, but there were plenty of reporters and producers, ready to email and text the verdict as soon as it came through. Despite being stuck in the center of a three-ring circus—and despite the stakes—Scott looked perfectly calm. Calm, but not relaxed. There was no easy smile on his face, and his shoulders were tense, his spine ramrod straight.

  “Mr. Foreperson, has the jury reached the verdict.”

  A tall, slightly stooped, balding man stood. His head reflected the golden light above him, and his eyes were huge behind a pair of spectacles. All eyes in the room were locked on him.

  “We have, your honor.”

&nbs
p; “Would the defendant please rise?”

  Jenkins, Scott, and his two co-counsels stood. The tension in the room was thick. So thick that even Duke had to struggle to take a breath. He had been in the middle of more than a few ugly trials, but he had never been in a courtroom that felt like this. And now, it felt like the whole world might be watching.

  “What say you?”

  “We, the jury, find the defendant, Samuel Dylan Jenkins, guilty of two counts of murder in the first degree.”

  Duke’s eyes widened. Scott didn’t move. He didn’t even twitch.

  “So say one, so say you all?”

  “Yes, your honor.”

  Jenkins turned big eyes to Scott and there was such a deep look of confusion and despair that even Duke felt something twitch in his chest. Duke didn’t think James had the answer for the younger man’s unspoken question.

  As the judge said his final words, Duke rose silently from his seat and slipped out the door. Already, the press was going crazy, eager to get at anybody close to the bench. Scott would have his hands full for a few minutes. Duke didn’t want to distract him from what would likely be some tense questions.

  Instead, he flashed his badge at security and navigated through the courthouse corridors to the secure conference rooms attorneys used during the trial. He didn’t know which one Scott was going to use, but the benches in the hall gave him a good view of the court’s back exit, the one Scott would use to leave the building. No grandstanding on the front steps today. Scott would probably want to get back to his office to prepare for the appeal process as soon as possible.

  As the minutes ticked by, Duke realized he could just leave. In fact, he probably should leave. At the moment, Hector Young would be the last thing on Scott’s mind. And it wasn’t like they couldn’t talk about what Chandra had told him later. Like the next day, when things would be less hectic. Plus, he was wasting time while he waited for Scott to emerge. There were still plenty of people to interview, plenty of leads to follow. Leaving and calling Scott later would be the logical thing to do.

  Duke acknowledged that fact, but he didn’t move. Not even when the thirty-minute mark passed. It was almost a full forty-five minutes before he caught sight of Scott’s familiar golden brown hair.