Accused sf-2

by Mark Gimenez

  "What do folks in Highland Park do for excitement?"

  "Shop at Neiman Marcus mostly."

  "Ain't no Neiman or Marcus in South Dallas."

  "So what did you do for excitement down in the projects?"

  "Walk outside."

  Boo nodded then turned to Scott. "I saw something on TV this morning about Mother's boyfriend."

  "Boo, I told you, when something about the case comes on, change the channel. There's a lot of stuff you don't need to know yet. "

  "Stuff like her boyfriend used drugs?"

  "Yes, stuff like that."

  She hesitated, and Scott knew what her next question would be. She had to ask.

  "Did mother use drugs, too?"

  Before Rebecca had left them, whenever Boo had asked Scott tough questions like that, he had always answered like a lawyer: he had fudged the truth. But when he became her only parent, he had started answering her like a father instead. And so he answered her now. He lied.

  "No."

  An eleven-year-old girl needed to know the truth about sex but not that truth about her mother.

  "Good." She seemed relieved. "So, if Mother doesn't go to that prison, is she coming home with us?"

  "Do you want her back?"

  "Did you come down here to get her back?"

  "I came down here to defend your mother so she doesn't spend the rest of her life in prison for a crime she didn't commit."

  "But you want to understand why she left us?"

  "Yes."

  "Because you blame yourself?"

  "Yes."

  "Which is why you won't ask Ms. Dawson out?"

  "Yes."

  Boo nodded. "I don't understand her either. Mother is a complicated person. But you two wouldn't get married again unless we all decide?"

  "No. Never. We're a family. And a family makes decisions together."

  "Good. Oh, A. Scott, there was a segment this morning about statins. I really think you should be on one. You're thirty-eight now."

  "Boo, I know thirty-eight sounds really old to you, but it's not. I'm still a young man. I'm not going to die on you." He put a hand on each of their shoulders. "On either of you."

  "You'd better not," Boo said.

  Scott kissed them goodnight then went into his bedroom, which shared a bathroom with Carlos' and Louis's bedroom. They were downstairs watching TV, so he undressed and showered. He was still naked when he opened the door to his bedroom and saw Rebecca standing there. She too was naked. Incredibly naked. They stared at each other.

  "You look good, Scott."

  So did she.

  "Let's finish what we started on the beach," she said. "A little man fun for Father's Day."

  He wanted her. Desperately. But he resisted. Because he had to think like a lawyer and not lust like a man. Because she needed him as her lawyer more than he needed her as his lover. Because she couldn't be a bad influence and a good mother. So he turned, walked back into the bathroom, and shut the door; but he did think, That's an odd place for a tattoo.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  "It's official. Medical Examiner ruled it a homicide."

  The next morning, Galveston County Criminal District Attorney Rex Truitt handed the final autopsy report on Trey Rawlins across his desk to Scott. He passed it to Bobby. The Assistant D.A. sat in the corner like a kid in timeout.

  "No change to the cause of death," the D.A. said. "Sharp force injury. The knife killed Trey, not the cocaine."

  "Who told Renee about the cocaine?"

  "Detective Wilson denied it, but lots of people saw that tox report."

  "It's not right, Rex, for someone in your office-"

  "I don't know it's coming from my office, Scott."

  "It's coming from someone in law enforcement, and that's not right, leaking evidence to the press. That's depriving my client of a fair trial. Find your leak, Rex, and plug it, or I'm filing for a change of venue."

  "That won't make Shelby happy."

  "Keeping her happy isn't my job."

  Bobby, always mindful of Scott's blood pressure, diverted the conversation.

  "Rex, what about the fingerprints?"

  The D.A. had said the fingerprint results were back. He read from another report. "None of the prints you gave us matched the unidentified prints at the crime scene. But your 'TM'-comes up Teresa Daniels in the system-she was arrested for solicitation five years ago, in Nevada."

  "Figures."

  "The item marked 'NM,' Nicholas Madden in the system, he was arrested for DUI ten years ago, deferred adjudication."

  "Not surprised."

  "And one of the five 'CW' prints belongs to a Hector Garrido, fugitive from Mexico, wanted for murder. That's why I called you soon as I got this report. Where'd you get his prints?"

  "He's working on the judge's house, down the street from Trey's house."

  "You're kidding? A Mexican fugitive wanted for murder, working at an American judge's house?" The D.A. shook his head. "Tight border security. Well, we'll pick him up this morning."

  "Can you hold off till five?"

  "Why?"

  "Those Muertos might've killed Trey."

  "I thought Pete Puckett killed him? Or the caddie?"

  "I think Pete did, but the Muertos had a good motive, too."

  The D.A. hesitated before asking the question he did not want to ask.

  "And what motive was that?"

  "Trey owed Benito five hundred thousand dollars."

  The news knocked the D.A. back in his chair. He took a moment to gather himself.

  "Hank said you got in to see Benito. He tell you that?"

  Scott nodded. "Trey bought a lot of cocaine from him."

  The D.A.'s shoulders slumped. "When the tox screen came back, I figured him for recreational use, but five hundred grand-that's vocational." He blew out a breath. "It's like when A-Rod fessed up to steroids. I couldn't believe it. He always seemed so righteous, love of the game and all. I guess we want to believe someone's above all this crap." He shook his head. "But why didn't the Feds pick up Trey on their surveillance of Benito's place? It's twenty-four/seven."

  "Because he never went there. Benito delivered the cocaine to Trey's house, every week. Said Trey gave him a key to the garage, he put it in the dumb waiter."

  "Why the debt? Trey was rich."

  "Trey disputed some deliveries, accused Benito of cheating him. Benito said he made the deliveries."

  "Rex," the Assistant D.A. said, "we can probably keep Trey's drug use out at trial, unless they can show a direct connection to his death."

  "Unlikely it'll be suppressed, Ted, but that's not the point. Trey owed half a million bucks to a Mexican cartel, and that's a goddamned death wish."

  "And a motive for murder," Scott said.

  "Except her prints are on the murder weapon."

  "The Muertos are professionals. They wouldn't have left prints."

  "True. So what's that got to do with those construction workers?"

  "They might've stolen the cocaine. Carlos is working down there, to find out."

  "A man on the inside. Good thinking. Okay, we'll wait till five to pick up Hector, take that long to get the arrest warrant anyway. Tell your man to hightail it out of there before then, the cops are gonna round up everyone with brown skin till they figure out which one's Hector. I can't have a wanted murderer running around the Island."

  "Boo wanted me to ask you again, boss, about me teaching her to surf."

  "You want to take my eleven-year-old daughter out half a mile into the Gulf of Mexico on a surfboard?"

  "Uhh… maybe not." Carlos pointed down the street. "Here they come."

  In the Jetta parked at Trey's house, Scott and Carlos had a front-row seat as six Galveston Island Police Department cruisers arrived with lights flashing at the judge's house down the street and police bailed out with their guns drawn at the Mexican workers sitting on the porch drinking beer. One worker bolted and slid down the dune to the beach and ra
n to the water as if to escape via the Gulf of Mexico. The cops captured him at surf's edge.

  "That's Hector," Carlos said. "He's mean."

  "Mean enough to kill Trey?"

  "And Miss Fenney… only he didn't. Kill Miss Fenney. But they took the cocaine. Saw Benito stopping by once a week in that silver sports car, figured out what he was doing."

  "They know Benito?"

  "Everyone on the Island knows Benito, except law-abiding folks."

  "So how'd they get into the garage?"

  "Jimmied the lock. Found the dope in the little elevator."

  "What'd they do with it?"

  "Used some, sold some."

  "Why didn't they rob the place?"

  "Figured Trey would beef up security, if they stole other stuff. They wanted the cocaine more than they wanted his cars or his woman." Carlos shrugged. "That's what they said. They knew the party had ended when Trey died."

  They watched the shirtless, handcuffed workers being loaded into a police van. Busted at the beach on a fine summer day.

  "Guess that's the end of the show," Scott said.

  He started the engine.

  "Oh, boss, there's something else about the blonde girl and the big man they saw that day."

  Scott couldn't have sent Carlos with photos of Pete and Billie Jean Puckett-that would have blown his cover. But Scott was sure the big man was Pete and the blonde girl was Billie Jean. They had been in Trey Rawlins' house the day he was murdered. Once Scott got their prints, he would know for sure. And so would the D.A.

  "What?"

  "What they said happened. Said right after lunch, the blonde girl drives up in a black Mustang, goes inside, they don't see her for maybe four hours. Then a cab drives up and the big man gets out. This was after five 'cause they were already drinking beer. The big man, he don't go in the front door like the girl, he goes around back. Maybe fifteen minutes later, he comes out the front door dragging the girl by her arm, puts her in the Mustang, and they drive off. She was crying."

  "How could they tell she was crying from that far away?"

  "Binoculars."

  "They had binoculars? What for? To watch the birds?"

  "Uh… no, boss. To watch the red-haired woman go out on the back deck… naked. Said she had a tattoo."

  Mark Gimenez

  Accused

  TWENTY-NINE

  Two days later, Scott woke early, drove to Hobby Airport in Houston, caught a Southwest flight to San Antonio, rented a car, and drove to the La Cantera Golf Club on the north side of town where the San Antonio Open was being played. He found Nick Madden talking on his cell phone and watching Pete Puckett putt on the ninth green. When Nick ended the call, he had a big grin on his face.

  "Never thought I'd be so happy to hear someone say 'erectile dysfunction.' They want Pete to endorse for them." He gestured at the green. "Twenty years, he couldn't win a fucking putt-putt tournament, then he wins the U.S. Open. I'm getting a dozen endorsement offers a day."

  "He suffers from ED?"

  "He does?"

  "Why would he endorse that stuff if he doesn't?"

  Nick gave Scott a dumbfounded look. "Money. You watch golf on TV-what are the commercials for? Drugs to make your dick harder, your prostate smaller, your hair darker, and your golf ball go farther. How to get it up, keep it up, look younger, and hit it longer-that's the WM squared fantasy, Scott, and sponsors pay big bucks to anyone who can help them tap into it. Old fart like Pete whips the young studs out here to win the Open, he's the perfect pitchman for that stuff: 'Guys, if I can win the U.S. Open, you can win the babe. All you gotta do is color your hair and swallow this pill.' " He paused. "I guess you want his prints?"

  Scott nodded. "And Billie Jean's. What kind of car does she drive?"

  "Black Mustang. Why?"

  "A blonde girl in a black Mustang was seen at Trey's house the day he was murdered."

  "Shit."

  "And a big man came and dragged her out of the house."

  "Double shit."

  "That's why I need their prints. I need to know."

  "I'll help you."

  "Why?"

  "Because I need to know, too. I'm working these endorsement deals, last thing I need is him involved in Trey's murder. Sponsors get nervous when criminal stuff's involved, unless it's an NBA player, then it's just part of the deal. Sooner you mark Pete off the list, sooner I can close these deals and make some money." He paused. "Did you mark me off the list?"

  Scott nodded. "Did you know Trey used cocaine?"

  Nick didn't react for a moment. Then he exhaled and nodded.

  "I told him, snorting coke, he'd never win the Open. But he said he had it under control. Famous last words, right?"

  "I thought the tour was drug testing now?"

  "They are."

  "How'd he pass?"

  "He didn't. I did." Nick shrugged. "I peed for him. He kept a clean sample in his locker. They tell him it's his turn to pee, he'd sneak it into the john, pour it into the cup. It ain't exactly San Quentin out here."

  "Did you know he owed his dealer half a million dollars?"

  " Half a million? Shit. No, I didn't know. Why?"

  "He thought the dealer cheated him."

  "Jesus, he was in deeper than I thought. You think the dealer killed him?"

  "Maybe the Muertos."

  Nick nodded. "They executed some people in Houston. I wouldn't want those bastards after me."

  "Why didn't you get him into rehab?"

  "He didn't want to go. Besides, he goes into rehab, the whole world knows about it the next day-and his endorsements dry up. WM squared don't like dopers, Scott."

  "You just sat back and watched him go downhill so you wouldn't lose your commissions?"

  "Scott, I couldn't make him go straight. But I sent him to a sports psychologist."

  "Who?"

  "Dr. Tim. Timothy O'Brien. He works with a lot of athletes, helps them keep their heads on straight when the world's telling them they're gods. Usually doesn't work."

  "He wasn't exactly the Trey Rawlins you sold, was he?"

  "Neither was Tiger." Nick blew out a breath. "Scott, we sell what people want. They want that all-American golden boy image. They want their heroes. They need them. The public doesn't want reality, hell, they can get depressed enough watching the evening news with Katie Couric. Last thing the public wants is the truth."

  "Well, Nick, they're going to learn the truth about Trey Rawlins at trial."

  "When?"

  "Twenty-six days."

  "Not much time to find the killer."

  They found Billie Jean Puckett sitting in a tree. She was eating a cherry snow cone with her fingers.

  "Hi, Billie Jean," Nick said.

  He had startled her. She almost dropped the snow cone. She stared down at them and said, "What do you want?"

  "Come on down, kiddo."

  "No."

  "He just wants to talk to you."

  "No."

  "Billie Jean," Scott said, "did you go to the Florida tournament with your dad?"

  "No. I stayed in Austin."

  "But you didn't stay in Austin, did you? You drove to Galveston. You were in Trey's house the day he died, weren't you?"

  "No."

  "You drive a black Mustang."

  "No, I don't."

  "He knows you do," Nick said.

  "So?"

  "So witnesses saw a blonde girl in a black Mustang at Trey's house that day," Scott said.

  "No one's gonna believe a bunch of Mexicans."

  "I didn't say they were Mexican."

  "Oh. Still, wasn't me."

  "Will you give me your fingerprints?"

  "What for?"

  "So he can cross you off the list," Nick said.

  "What list?"

  "The list of suspects, people who might've killed Trey."

  "I didn't kill Trey."

  "I know that, honey. But he doesn't."

  "I'm not coming down
."

  "Well," Scott said, "we're not going anywhere until you do."

  He leaned against the tree and whistled a tune.

  From ten feet above: "You can't carry a tune in a bucket."

  "Thank you. How long were you and Trey involved?"

  "A few weeks… I said I don't want to talk."

  Scott started whistling again.

  "I'm gonna tell my daddy and he's gonna beat you up."

  "Did he beat up Trey?"

  Nothing.

  "Did he kill Trey?"

  More nothing.

  "I've got all day, Billie Jean."

  "I gotta pee."

  "If I let you down, will you talk to me?"

  "If you don't let me down, I'm gonna pee on your head."

  Scott looked up at her. "Please don't run."

  She sighed. "I won't." She held the snow cone down to Scott. "Hold this."

  He took her snow cone while Nick reached up to help her climb down. Her hands were red with the juice, which was now running down Scott's hands. He held the snow cone out to her.

  "Here."

  In a quick movement, she punched the bottom of his hand, sending the red snow cone splashing onto his shirt. Then she ran.

  "She's running again!" Nick said.

  Scott dropped the snow cone, and they ran after her. They chased her across fairways and around greens, through crowds and tents and between concession stands… she was fast… and she was again heading to the ladies' locker room. And they couldn't catch her. She hit the thick glass door with both hands up high, pushed it open, turned and gave them a little red-handed wave, then disappeared from sight. Scott put his hands on his knees and tried to catch his breath. He ran five miles every morning on the beach and this teenage girl had run him into the dirt.

  "You really think Pete might've killed him?" Nick said. "He's got a bad temper, but sticking a knife in Trey?"

  An older woman gave Scott a look as she stepped past him to the door, grabbed the handle, and pushed the door open. The door shut behind her, and as it did, the sunlight caught the glass-and Scott stood straight at what he saw: two red handprints.

  "Don't let anyone touch that glass," he said to Nick.

  He jogged over to the concession tent and bought paper towels, a bottled water, and clear packing tape-the tape wasn't technically for sale; Scott had to pay $50 for a half roll. He wiped his hands on the towels, drank the water, and went back to the ladies' locker room door where Nick stood guard. Scott overlapped long tape strips across the glass to form one large piece of tape and smoothed the tape. Then he peeled the tape off the glass in one clean stroke. He held the tape up to the sunlight.