by Karen Rose
‘What the hell is taking them so long?’ a male voice muttered over her shoulder. Daphne looked up to see her boss pulling out the chair next to hers. ‘Just a little moral support before the party starts,’ Grayson added in a murmur. ‘This is always the hardest for me. Waiting those last few minutes for the jury to file in.’
‘Assuming they’re even still back there and haven’t all fled to Tahiti or something,’ Daphne murmured back. Which would be par for the course for this case, a three-ring circus even before jury selection had begun, thirty very long days ago.
Grayson frowned. ‘What do you know?’
‘Only that the jurors saw the protesters this morning, just like we did.’ The crowd had more than doubled that morning, their collective energy increasing by far more. ‘And the Millhouse contingent is smiling like canary-eating cats.’
The Millhouse contingent included Bill and Cindy – parents of the accused – and a half dozen of their saner family members. ‘Saner’ being relative, of course.
‘More like vultures,’ Grayson said with contempt. ‘Circling.’
Reggie sat at the defendant’s table with an arrogant smile. He expects to be acquitted. The eighteen-year-old had beaten an African-American couple to death after finding them stranded on the road. His lawyer had the nerve to present a self-defense plea, claiming the couple lured an unsuspecting Reggie to their aid and struck him first.
The media had stirred a frenzy in the city. Reggie’s father, Bill, had worked the talk-show circuit, presenting his family as ordinary, hard-working, and middle-class, struggling to make ends meet and pay the rent – just like everyone else. Bill Millhouse had made numerous pleas for support – and dollars – for Reggie’s defense.
Has this country become so politically correct that a white man can’t defend himself? had become Bill’s sound bite. His followers had responded enthusiastically, donating a staggering sum through a website set up for that purpose.
Black community leaders responded with rhetoric of their own and the battle spread from television to churches and civic halls, bars and beauty parlors, spilling over into the largely anonymous internet blogosphere like . . . a cancer. Insidious and terrifying.
But defeatable, Daphne thought resolutely. This I know for a fact.
Because she’d beaten cancer herself. It was an empowering thing, beating cancer. It had left her with the feeling of I stared death in the eye, so hit me with your best shot, asshole. Earned arrogance, so to speak. Reggie’s arrogance was nothing but a cheap imitation. Like a ten-dollar Prada knockoff.
She met Reggie’s eyes across the aisle. Watched his smile fade to a grim snarl. Too bad his online fan club isn’t here to see it. Reggie pretended to be a poster child for milk-drinking, clean-living, misunderstood American youth. A frightening number of people in TV and Internet-land had bought his innocent act, lock, stock, and wallet.
And then you met me, you little sonofabitch.
‘Well, sugar,’ she said softly to Grayson, ‘those vultures can circle all they want. I’m nobody’s road kill today.’
‘Atta girl, sugar,’ he said, mimicking her twang. A glance up at him revealed the approval in his eyes. Because she knew the kind of man he was, his approval meant a lot. But his approval was tempered with caution. ‘Are you wearing your vest?’
‘Every damn day, because either way this jury comes back, there’ll be trouble.’
‘Either way this jury comes back,’ Grayson countered, ‘you’ve done a good job.’
‘I had good evidence.’ The detectives had been meticulous, the ME unshakable. Daphne had presented a solid case while the Millhouse clan stared with blatant malice, trying to intimidate her. That they’d succeeded was a secret she’d never reveal.
‘You stuck,’ Grayson said simply. ‘A lot of prosecutors would have quit. A few did.’
I almost did, too. Daphne had no doubts that the Millhouses were responsible for the threatening phone calls she’d received, but the police hadn’t been able to prove it. The calls had started months ago, long before the first juror was chosen. At first they’d been annoying but quickly swelled into threats that left her shaken.
She’d started driving a different way home every night and her two newest – and now closest – friends had become concerned. A pair of PIs, they’d taken charge of the escalating situation, providing the kind of personal security that the police simply couldn’t give her.
Clay Maynard had ensured her house was wired with the best security system money could buy. Paige Holden drilled her in self-defense moves and had given her a very big dog. Things had settled for a while, and Daphne redoubled her efforts to build a case that would wipe that arrogant smile off the little bastard’s face.
But when the callers had threatened her son . . . Daphne had come damn close to calling it quits. She’d begged Ford to accept a bodyguard, but her twenty-year-old, testing-his-wings son had point-blank refused and no amount of reason had swayed him. So, being a mom, she’d hired one anyway. He’d shit a ring if he knew the truth. But she wouldn’t apologize if he found out. Because I sleep better. A little.
More important than her sleep, it had given her the strength to stay the course.
She’d been through a hell of a lot in her life and was proud that she’d never given up. There’d been a few times she’d had to hunker down and wait out a storm, but mostly she’d risen to whatever challenge had been tossed in her path. Giving up had rarely even entered her mind. But the thought of the Millhouses touching a single hair on Ford’s head had given her serious pause.
‘I don’t give up so easily,’ she said, grateful she’d had the financial means to make that statement true. If she hadn’t been able to afford protection for Ford, she might have run for the hills. Instead, she’d pushed forward, prosecuting an eighteen-year-old murderer who’d regarded her with chilling contempt from the first day of the trial.
Now the final decision lay with the jury.
‘Miss Montgomery.’
Daphne turned to the quiet voice on the bench behind her. It was Sondra Turner, the daughter of the victims. Barely twenty-one, she’d conducted herself with a dignity far beyond her years. Beside her was her younger brother, DeShawn, who sat slightly bent forward, his eyes closed. His clenched fists rested on his knees.
‘Almost over, guys,’ Daphne murmured. ‘Soon.’
Sondra folded her hands in her lap. ‘I wanted . . . we wanted you to know that whatever happens next, we know you did your best for our parents. Thank you.’
‘You’re welcome.’ But even if they got a conviction, it wouldn’t be enough. Sondra and DeShawn had lost their parents, brutally. Nothing would bring them back.
But a conviction was better than nothing. Better than no justice. This I also know.
Daphne sympathized with the victims who relived their trauma in the courtroom, but also envied the closure they got from the process. She’d never confronted the man who stole so much from her. From her family. She’d been too young. Then too scared. And then he’d been too dead. The passage of time had taken the choice out of her hands.
‘Did you make provisions for them?’ Grayson whispered, facing forward so that the Turners’ children could not see his face. In the event of a riot, was what he left unsaid.
‘I did.’ Daphne lifted her eyes to the back of the standing-room-only gallery to the detectives who’d made the arrest, JD Fitzpatrick and Stevie Mazzetti. They’d promised to protect Sondra and DeShawn if courtroom tensions boiled over. The promise had not been easily won from JD, who hadn’t wanted to abandon Daphne should a melee erupt.
JD shouldn’t even be here, she thought. He should be home with Lucy. JD’s very pregnant wife was due any day, and even though she was already on maternity leave, she’d come in to testify the week before. As the medical examiner who’d autopsied the Turners, Dr Lucy Trask Fitzpatrick’s testimony had been invaluable, painting the picture of a brutal attack on a middle-aged couple who’d tried to defend
themselves, but had been overpowered by someone much bigger and stronger. Someone just like Reggie Millhouse.
JD gave Daphne a hard stare now and mouthed, ‘Vest?’
Daphne nodded, then her eyes flicked to the door at his right as it opened. The older Millhouse brother had arrived, uncharacteristically out of breath. George had been running, his face red and sweaty. He shot her a cold look before taking his place between his parents.
‘Looks like George made it after all,’ Grayson murmured.
‘Lucky us,’ Daphne muttered sarcastically. George had been escorted from the courtroom many times for his outbursts. She wasn’t eager to see what he had up his sleeve today. She turned in her seat, facing forward. ‘At least Marina isn’t here.’
‘Maybe she finally had that baby,’ Grayson said.
‘Lucky us,’ Daphne muttered again. That child didn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell with a sixteen-year-old KKK groupie for a mother and Reggie Millhouse for a father.
Normally Daphne felt empathy for teen mothers, having been one herself, but she felt very little for Marina. Daphne clearly remembered what it had been like to find out she was pregnant at fifteen – the fear, the despair, the disappointment that her dreams would never be. But those feelings had quickly taken a backseat to the need to protect her unborn child, to give him the best life she could. It had been one of the greatest challenges in her life.
Marina – and the Millhouses – seemed to view pregnancy in a far more calculating way, using her baby to manipulate public opinion in their favor. There were some who pitied Marina, believing that the Millhouses controlled her actions, but Daphne had seen the sly gleam in the girl’s eye. Marina not only knew what she was doing, she reveled in it. Daphne worried about that baby, worried at the life the child would lead. If Reggie was acquitted, the baby would be raised to become another Millhouse, racist and violent, but with that shiny veneer of charm that had fooled so many. If Reggie was convicted, his baby, who in utero had already become the symbol of the Millhouses’ ‘hope for a purer America’, would become . . . Daphne shuddered to think about it.
Marina had been absent the past few days, a welcome relief from her soulful sobs. A pretty girl, she was a media favorite who used those baby blues of hers to influence anyone on the fence.
Unbelievably, there were people on the fence. Hopefully none were on this jury.
Daphne sucked in a breath when the door to the jury room opened. Finally. Clearing her mind, she studied the jurors, noting that some were pale. All were grim.
‘I’m going back to my seat now,’ Grayson whispered. ‘If things go south, you will not act the hero. You tuck and roll. Got it?’
‘Honey, if things go south, I’ll be dusting the floor. Guaranteed.’
The bailiff entered solemnly. ‘All rise.’
They did, then sat when the judge had been seated. Daphne held her breath as the judge asked the jury foreman for their verdict. The foreman stood, the paper he held fluttering as his hands shook. But he wasted no time in reading the verdict.
‘We the jury, on the charge of murder in the first degree, find the defendant, Reggie Millhouse, guilty.’
Yes. Daphne closed her eyes as cheers and cries of outrage rose around them.
‘No!’
Twisting in the direction of the shriek, Daphne could only stare. One second Cindy Millhouse was hugging her son over the bar, sobbing, then suddenly she was barreling through the gate.
‘Bitch!’ Fingers like claws, face contorted with rage, Cindy lunged, coming for . . .
Me. Oh my God. She’s coming for me.
Tuesday, December 3, 10.10 A.M.
Joseph texted photos of the dead cop’s face to Bo, but didn’t think they’d do much good toward an ID. The pics were too grainy because the alley was too damn dark, the rooftops of the buildings blocking what little natural light there was. The sky was gray and darkening by the hour, the forecasters calling for more snow. Which is all we need.
He was about to put away his phone when a string of very terse texts came through. Hell. He’d forgotten about his father. Joseph sent a quick answer: Working a case. Victim is not Ford. Will call when I can.
He aimed his flashlight at the victim’s face and upper torso – all he could see until CSU processed the scene and removed the pile of boxes covering him to his ankles.
There didn’t seem to be any injuries to the face and head. Nothing but that mawing slice across his throat. The blood that had pooled behind the victim’s neck and head had frozen. The cop had been lying here for hours. Probably since last night.
Why were you here, man? Why are you dead?
Joseph frowned. And why was the blood frozen in a pool close to the man’s head? He stood, shining his light on the walls and pavement looking for spatter, but saw none.
The blood had seeped, not spurted. Which meant Red Socks was already dead when his throat was slit. This guy was big, his neck thick and muscular. So how had his killer taken him down? And why slit his throat if he was already dead?
Joseph searched the area beyond the victim and found part of the answer. AFID tags, about an inch in diameter, littered the ground five feet from where the victim lay. Like confetti, the brightly colored anti-felon identification tags were ejected from a taser when a cartridge was deployed. Serial numbers on each tag matched the cartridge, intended to deter anyone from firing a taser unlawfully and to track them if they did.
It obviously hadn’t deterred Red Socks’s assailant. Still, a taser blast wouldn’t have killed the victim. So what happened in between the taser and the knife?
Joseph lifted his head when he heard a car door being closed. CSU was still five minutes away. But it could be somebody returning to the scene.
Drawing his gun, Joseph stepped into the shadows behind the dumpster closest to the alley entrance. And waited. He didn’t have to wait long.
A man crept into the alley. As big as Joseph, the collar of his leather jacket was pulled up, hiding his face. Still, there was something familiar about him. The way he moved. Like a soldier. The way he held his gun at his side. Like a cop. A recent memory flickered and Joseph narrowed his eyes. No way. Couldn’t be.
‘Tuzak,’ the man hissed. ‘Are you here?’ He paused, tilting his head to listen.
The movement exposed his face and Joseph’s suspicion was confirmed. Clay Maynard.
Joseph knew this guy. Resented the fucking hell out of him. Came perilously close to hating him. So of course he shows up. He’d worked with the PI once before. The day he’d met Daphne. Clay Maynard had met her that same day. Except it was Maynard she’d come to rely on in the months that followed. Months when Joseph had flown all over the country, tracking domestic terrorists, waiting for his transfer into VCET so that he could stay close to home. Close to her.
What the hell is he doing here? That he was carrying a semi-auto didn’t bode well.
However, as much as Joseph would have liked to believe the guy was dirty, he knew better. He could hate Clay Maynard for sharing Daphne’s bed, but the man had earned the respect of the Carter clan. Of Joseph’s brother, Grayson, specifically.
Clay’s partner in his PI firm was Grayson’s fiancée, Paige Holden. Paige trusted Maynard with her life. Importantly, Grayson trusted Maynard with Paige’s life.
Maynard continued toward him. In another few steps, he’d discover Red Socks.
Remaining concealed, Joseph kept his voice even, not wanting to surprise a man with a gun in his hand. ‘FBI. Drop your weapon.’
‘Fuck,’ Maynard muttered. ‘Let me see the badge.’
Joseph held it out and Maynard’s chin came up, his eyes wide. ‘Carter?’
‘That would be me. The gun, please.’
Maynard handed it over, handle first. ‘Why are you here?’
‘I was going to ask you the same thing.’ Joseph pocketed Maynard’s gun.
‘I have a permit to carry,’ Maynard said, eyes narrowing.
‘You’ll get
it back when we’re done. Why are you here?’
‘I’m looking for someone.’
He’d called the man Tuzak. ‘A friend?’ Joseph asked.
‘An employee.’ Maynard hesitated. ‘And yes, he’s a friend, too.’
Joseph thought of the slice across the victim’s throat. As much as he resented Maynard, he hated for the guy to see his friend that way. ‘Is he a cop?’
Maynard’s narrowed eyes turned wary. ‘How’d you know?’
There was no good way to say the words. ‘He’s dead, Clay. I’m sorry.’
Maynard’s eyes closed, shoulders sagging as if he’d been expecting it. ‘How?’
‘Throat slit.’
Maynard’s eyes flew open, denial warring with grief. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘I’m also looking for an employee.’ Ford Elkhart was his father’s employee, but it was close enough for now. ‘Why was this man here? What was he doing for you?’
‘Where is he?’ Maynard pushed past Joseph.
Joseph grabbed his arm. ‘No. Clay, wait.’
Maynard snarled, pain in his eyes. ‘Let me go or I’ll break your fucking arm.’
‘He . . . looks bad. If he was your friend, you don’t want to see him this way.’
Clay’s lips thinned. ‘I’m sure I’ve seen worse. Let me go.’
Joseph released him, following to make sure he didn’t disturb the scene. Maynard probably had seen a lot worse, but it was different when you knew the victim.
Maynard abruptly stopped when he saw the red socks and sucked in a strangled breath as he walked around to see the head, the color draining from his face.
‘Oh God,’ he whispered. ‘Not again.’ Slowly he fell to his knees. ‘Not again.’
Not again? What the— Oh, shit. Maynard’s story came back to Joseph in a rush. He’d lost the partner before Paige, discovering her body gutted by a vicious killer and left to rot. Now this partner was nearly decapitated. If I’d remembered, I would have held him back harder, kept him from seeing this. But Joseph knew it would have been fruitless to try to control Maynard. I would’ve pushed him away under the same circumstances.
