by Chris Culver
“I assume these young ladies are all over eighteen,” I said.
“They are,” said Rasmussen. “I hope you understand why my client was reluctant to give up his phone now. Laura Rojas sent him pictures, too. There’s nothing illegal there.”
I thumbed through a couple dozen more nude photographs until I came to a set of pictures of a young woman with Laura Rojas’s skin tone. The pictured woman wore no clothes, but someone had cropped out her face, leaving only her body.
“This is Laura Rojas?” I asked, holding the phone toward Logan.
“Yeah.”
“The pictures don’t show her face.”
“It’s her,” said Logan. “Trust me. Her body’s hard to forget.”
Only it wasn’t her. This young woman—whoever she was—had a tattoo along her rib cage. Laura didn’t. If Laura had sent him these pictures, she was playing him. I put the phone on the table and focused on Logan.
“Okay. I get it. You knew Laura Rojas. Did she tell you she was an attorney?”
He looked to his stepfather before speaking.
“No,” he said, his voice low. “She told me she was a librarian.”
“How’d you meet her?”
“At the library,” he said. “Not the college one, but in town. I was looking for an audiobook. I listen to them when I work out.”
“What did you two talk about?”
Mason Stewart scoffed and then shook his head, but Rasmussen cleared his throat before Logan could say anything.
“Can we please stick to the matters at hand, Detective?” he asked. “My clients are busy people. We don’t have time to waste.”
I forced myself to smile at the attorney, but I didn’t allow it to reach my eyes.
“I am sticking to the matters at hand,” I said. “Ms. Rojas was a beautiful, successful attorney who was investigating Reid Chemical. I’m wondering whether she ever told Logan about her practice.”
“No,” he said.
“Then what did you talk about?”
He blinked and then tilted his head to the side.
“We didn’t have that kind of relationship,” he said. “We got together to have sex. That’s it.”
It was a lie, but I didn’t know what he hoped to get from it. I paused.
“Since we’ve been investigating Ms. Rojas’s murder, we’ve pulled a list of her incoming and outgoing phone calls. You guys spoke often. If the primary focus of your relationship was sexual, what’d you talk about?”
“Positions and stuff,” he said, his voice meek.
Stewart rubbed his eyes and then cleared his throat.
“We’ve heard enough about my stepson’s sex life,” he said. “Can we move along?”
“One more question,” I said, not taking my eyes from Logan’s. “She was pregnant when she died. Is it yours?”
Logan drew in a sharp breath and covered his chin with his hand.
“My client can’t answer that,” said Rasmussen. “He had a sexual relationship with Ms. Rojas, but that doesn’t mean he was the only person.”
“That’s true, I suppose,” I said, nodding. “Did you suspect that Ms. Rojas was more than she seemed to be?”
Logan shook his head. “No.”
“Did she ever ask you about your family’s company?”
Again, he shook his head. “No.”
I thought back to the pile of invoices and receipts I had sitting in the conference room.
“Did you ever give her access to company files?”
Logan looked to his stepfather. Stewart answered.
“If she had company files, they didn’t come from my stepson,” he said. “As those company files contain trade secrets, we expect you to return them.”
“Talk to the prosecutors about that,” I said, focusing on Logan again and speaking before his stepfather could throw off the rhythm I was developing. “To reiterate, your story is that you happened to meet Laura Rojas in the county library. This beautiful, successful attorney lied to you about her identity, but she was so taken with lust that you two slept together immediately. During this relationship, you spoke on the phone two to three times a day to talk about sexual positions. Even though Laura was investigating your family’s company, she never once asked you about Reid Chemical, and you never once gave her access to company files or information. Is that correct?”
Logan leaned forward and nodded. “Yeah.”
I looked around.
“Huh,” I said, a moment later.
“Something wrong?” asked Rasmussen.
“I was looking for the turnip truck you guys think I fell off.”
Stewart’s lips curled into a tight smile, and his predatory eyes locked on mine. I almost shuddered.
“I’ve always had a thing for clever women.”
“Is that right?” I asked. “I’ve never had a thing for creepy murder suspects twice my age. Sorry.”
Stewart leaned forward. Even though he was several feet from me, I almost pushed away from the table.
“From what I hear, you don’t date at all,” he said. “You live alone in that old house with your dog, your only friend is the old lady who lives next door, and you don’t even know who your father was. Does that sound right?”
I forced a smile to my face. “For future reference, when you and your stepson are suspects in a murder investigation, it’s not a good idea to investigate the investigating officer. It makes you look guilty and creepy. Kind of expected your attorney to have told you that.”
As if on cue, Rasmussen pushed back from the table. “This interview is over. Can we have Mr. Reid’s phone now?”
“Sure thing,” I said, sliding the phone across the table toward them. Everybody glared at me as they shuffled out of the office, but I didn’t care. I had learned what I needed to know. Laura Rojas wasn’t just after Reid Chemicals. She was investigating Mason Stewart and his family, and Mason Stewart killed her for it.
Now I had to prove it.
29
Harry returned to his office about two minutes after Stewart and his entourage left. His face looked drawn and pale. When he saw me, he ran a hand across his scalp and crossed the room to plop down on the chair behind his desk.
“You okay, boss?”
He nodded before sighing. “Long day. I’ve been considering what you said. Once you close your case, I’m putting in my letter of resignation.”
I sat straighter and shook my head. “Don’t listen to me. My advice is terrible. You’re a good boss, and if you think I was mean to you, you should have heard the things I said to Travis before he retired. They were brutal.”
Harry smiled but focused on the desk in front of him instead of my eyes.
“I’m tired, Joe,” he said. “I was a good detective, but this isn’t my world anymore.”
“At least wait until the County Council lines up somebody else. If you quit now, they’ll promote Delgado. He’ll fire me. You know he will.”
“You’re too big for this pond as it is, Joe,” he said. “Time to get out while you can.”
“I like this pond. It’s my home.”
“I know you like St. Augustine,” he said, nodding and smiling. “But it doesn’t like you back.”
I couldn’t fault him for his honesty, but it didn’t make me feel good, either.
“I don’t even know where I’d go.”
He shrugged. “Your family’s done pretty well in St. Louis, but any police department in the state would be lucky to have you. You’d have to start at the bottom, but you’d move up. Since you’re young, you could take your time and do things right. Hell, you’re bright enough you could even go to law school and leave us all behind.”
I tossed up my hands. “If we’re throwing things out, maybe I should just become a drug dealer. I hear there’s good money in that.”
He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes.
“Just think about your future,” he said. “St. Augustine is going to get worse before it gets bett
er.”
I stood and paced the room by the front window. “I appreciate the uplifting pep talk, Harry, but this is my home. You’re not getting rid of me.”
He grunted and then sighed. “Okay.”
“That’s all you’ve got for me?” I said, standing still. “Okay?”
“You’re an adult, and I respect your judgment. I warned you that things will get ugly, but I can’t make you listen to me.”
I shook my head again and looked through his window. People ambled about on the sidewalks as they walked to restaurants and bars. From my vantage, the world looked idyllic. St. Augustine wasn’t perfect, but I liked my life here. I felt safe here, and I didn’t plan on leaving.
I looked at Harry.
“Thanks for being a friend,” I said, “but I’m not leaving without a fight.”
He grunted and then nodded. “I thought you’d say that.”
I smiled but said nothing. Then I cleared my throat.
“So I’m working a murder involving some very wealthy people.”
“Yeah,” said Harry, nodding. “I’ve heard.”
“I need to hire an accountant to look over Laura Rojas’s files.”
Harry thought for a moment and then crossed his arms.
“What have you got?”
“Four boxes full of inventories, spreadsheets, ledgers, and receipts,” I said. “Laura was on to something. We need to find out what.”
Harry considered and then nodded. “Call Darius Adams. He’s a CPA now, but he worked for the IRS when he was younger. He’s the best forensic accountant in the county.”
I lowered my chin. “Is he the only forensic accountant in the county?”
“Yeah, but he’ll get the job done,” said Harry. “His office is on Second Avenue in the basement. Tell him to bill the department.”
“Okay,” I said, standing straighter. “I’ll talk to him, and then I’m heading home. See you tomorrow.”
He grunted and waved, and I stepped out of the office. Within five minutes, I had the file boxes in my truck. Second Avenue wasn’t far away, so it didn’t take long to drive. Darius Adams had an office in the basement. I knocked before opening the door.
The interior was musty but neat. Late afternoon sunlight filtered through the windows near the ceiling and cascaded down on the thin gray carpet. It was a simple room with two wooden desks pushed against opposite walls. There were gray metal file cabinets everywhere. A man spun around on a rolling chair as I entered. He had dark skin and black hair, and he wore an olive-green vest, a white shirt, and jeans. He was twenty or twenty-five years older than me, but he was still handsome, even more so when he smiled.
“Can I help you?” he asked.
“Are you Darius Adams?” I asked, pushing my jacket back to expose the badge on my hip. “I’m Detective Joe Court. Harry Grainger sent me.”
“Nice to meet you, Detective Court,” he said, turning back around to close a document open on his computer. “How’s Harry doing these days? I hear they made him sheriff.”
“They did. He’s still adjusting to the role.”
“I’ll bet,” he said, removing his gold-rimmed glasses and placing them on the desk. “What can I do for the Sheriff’s Department?”
“I need help with a case,” I said. I looked to the empty desk opposite Adams’s. He nodded, so I pulled out a chair and sat down as I led him through what I had found so far. When I finished speaking, he crossed his arms and leaned back.
“So you’ve got bodies on the ground, and boxes of receipts and documents in your truck, and you don’t know what to do with them,” he said. “How would I fit in here?”
“I’m not sure,” I said. “My victim, Laura Rojas, was investigating Reid Chemical, but I don’t know what she was looking for. She wouldn’t have kept all these documents unless she thought she could use them, though. I need someone to look through them and find whatever she found.”
Adams considered before nodding. “All right. Let’s see what we’ve got.”
Adams helped me carry the boxes to his office, where he looked through what we had.
“Two boxes aren’t interesting,” he said after a few minutes. “You can leave them here, but I don’t think they have anything I can use. The other two, though, might be helpful. It’ll take time to look through them, but your lawyer was hunting for something.”
“You have any idea what?”
“Not a clue,” he said.
“So you think you can help?”
“I’ll need two to three days to get oriented,” he said. “Do you have a number I can reach you at?”
I fished through my purse until I found my business cards.
“This has my office number and email address. If you can’t reach me, just leave a message. It also has the station’s address. When you’re done, send us a bill. Harry’s authorized the expense.”
“Okay, Detective,” he said, slipping my business card into his pocket. “Tell Harry I appreciate the business. I’ll get right on this.”
“Thanks, Mr. Adams,” I said.
“Darius,” he said, holding out his hand. “My friends call me Darius.”
I shook his hand. He had the calloused skin of a carpenter. Surprising from an accountant.
“Joe,” I said. “And it’s nice to meet you, Darius.”
“A girl named Joe,” he said, leaning back in his chair again. “Bet there’s a story behind that name.”
“There is,” I said. “It’s not very exciting, though.”
“Maybe one day, I’ll hear it,” he said. “Goodbye, Joe. I’ll get started on your case tomorrow morning. My wife made shepherd’s pie for dinner, and I’ve got two teenage boys. If I don’t come home right on time, I’ll starve.”
“Have a nice dinner,” I said. “I’ll see you later.”
He smiled as I walked out of the office. Outside, my feet felt light, and I even smiled hello to a woman pushing a stroller up the sidewalk. Only as I opened my door did I realize that I had enjoyed meeting somebody new. That rarely happened. I spent my entire day talking to people, but it was never fun.
Even with my colleagues, I always had to stay on guard. My department had few choice assignments, so everybody jostled for a position at the department trough. I had friends at work—Trisha, Harry, Sasquatch, and a few others—but I never relaxed around them. It felt nice to let my guard down.
I drove home, but as I pulled into my driveway, the smile left my face. With Roger at the vet’s office, I was alone. I stayed in my truck for a few minutes, feeling the solitude creep into my bones. As I opened my truck’s door, I took my phone from my purse and called Dr. Johnson. He answered on the third ring.
“Doc,” I said. “It’s Joe Court. I’m calling about Roger.”
“Hi, Joe,” he said, his voice a little flat. “Roger’s with me right now. If it’s okay with you, I’d like to keep him with me for observation for the night.”
My throat tightened a little. “Everything okay?”
“How long has it been since he stopped eating?”
“Last night,” I said, crossing my yard to the mailbox. I had two catalogs and some generic junk mail. They’d go straight into the recycling bin. “He’s been drinking, though.”
“Yeah,” he said, his voice low. “Roger’s not a puppy anymore.”
“I know,” I said, walking toward the porch. I sat down on the edge so my feet were on the grass. “He’s a happy dog, though. He likes it here.”
“And I’ve seen you with him. He loves you,” said the vet. He paused. “I’d like you to come by the office tomorrow if possible. Tonight, though, make a list of things Roger likes to do. His five favorite things.”
I didn’t have to think. I knew what he was getting at and already had the list written by my back door. Roger wasn’t the only old dog to enter my life. My dad used to have a golden retriever named Benji. Dad loved him. They went for walks every day—rain, snow, or shine—and Benji used to sit at Dad’s side ev
ery time he came home from work. When Benji got old, Dad wrote down Benji’s five favorite things to do. When Benji stopped doing those things, Dad knew he had to let him go.
I swallowed hard.
“Roger likes to retrieve his ball, he likes to sit with my neighbor on her front porch, he likes to run with me in the woods, he likes to greet me when I come home, and he likes to chase small animals.”
Dr. Johnson paused.
“Does he still do those things?”
For a moment, the lump in my throat prevented me from answering.
“You still there, Joe?”
I nodded and forced myself to suck in a breath.
“He’s my friend,” I said, rubbing another tear from my eyes.
“I know, but he’s in pain. His kidneys are failing, and his arthritis is just getting worse. His health will not improve. We need to consider his quality of life.”
I drew in a long breath, forcing myself to calm down.
“Can we talk tomorrow?”
“Sure,” he said.
I thanked him and then hung up. Part of me knew I needed to get something to eat, but I couldn’t force myself to move. So I stayed there as the sun set and let myself think back to my conversation with Harry. I came to St. Augustine when I finished college because I had needed a job, and the Sheriff’s Department had offered me one. The town became my home, though, when I adopted Roger.
He was six when he came to live with me, which meant he had already been middle-aged for a dog his size. When I brought him home, he ran into the doghouse I had built for him in the backyard and refused to come out no matter what I did. I almost asked the shelter to take him back, but my dad persuaded me not to. I think Dad understood that I needed Roger as much as he needed me.
Every day, I brought Roger food and put it a little farther from his house so he’d come out farther each day. It took time, but he accepted me. He didn’t trust me, but he didn’t run when he saw me, either. I couldn’t blame him. Roger’s previous owner shot him with a BB gun so often he had pellets lodged all over his body, and he trembled whenever he met someone new for the first time. If someone had done that to me, I’d have trust issues, too.
