by Emily James
The man’s voice sounded like it belonged to an opera singer—deep and rich.
I looked up. The voice didn’t match with the person standing in front of me. He looked to be around fifty, wasn’t much taller than I was, and had cheeks so red they looked like he’d painted them with blush. He’d also spilled coffee on his striped gray tie at some point today.
He put a hand over the stain as if he’d caught me looking. “Cavanaugh isn’t allowed visitors until after his bail hearing.”
I rose to my feet. My dad always said you were more likely to get what you asked for if you weren’t negotiating from a position of weakness. That included psychological cues of weakness, like being on a lower level than the person you were speaking to.
Even if they weren’t allowing regular visitors, they still had to allow Mark access to his legal counsel.
“I’m not a visitor. I’m his lawyer.”
His hand moved off the stain, as if he were no longer worried about what I might think. “I met Cavanaugh’s lawyer. Unless you’ve had a sex change in the past hour, you’re not him.”
It might have helped my case if I was dressed more professionally, but I hadn’t planned on doing case work when I’d picked out my clothes this morning. I’d only planned on eating cupcakes, and my favorite jeans and a fuzzy sweater worked great for that.
“I’m co-counsel with Anderson Taylor. He was called away to court before we could finish discussing the upcoming bail hearing with our client.”
The officer raised both his eyebrows. He clearly thought I was lying.
What I wouldn’t give right now to be able to ask for Chief McTavish. Did I even have a business card with me?
I held up a finger in a one-moment gesture and dug through my purse. My parents were probably flinching all the way from Virginia that I didn’t have a card holder to keep business cards where I could easily find them. In my defense, it wasn’t like I was actively sourcing clients. Since I only worked with people who claimed to be innocent, any work I received would come through Anderson.
But he had printed up business cards with both our names on them and he’d given me a whole stack. Most of them were still in the box on my kitchen counter. I was sure I tucked a couple in my purse to show Mark’s mom, though.
A little white corner peeked out from the middle of two grocery receipts. Bingo.
I wriggled it out and handed it over, praying he wouldn’t notice the badly bent corner. “I can produce ID if you’re still not convinced.”
He looked at the card and then tapped it against his palm.
There shouldn’t have still been a hesitation. Unless—crap. He recognized my name, but not as a lawyer. Elise had said something about them thinking Mark killed Troy in a jealous rage over me.
I imagined the way my mom’s face looked when she was dealing with a particularly confrontational officer. “Is there a problem Detective…?”
“Dillion.” He tucked my card into his suit jacket pocket. “Whether or not there’s a problem depends on whether you’re lying to me right now.”
Bending the truth, yes. I wasn’t here because Anderson ran out of time. Lying, not exactly. I was working Mark’s case. But I knew how to play the game. If I tried to defend myself, I’d only look guiltier. “What benefit could I possibly get from lying to you about being Mark Cavanaugh’s lawyer? Unless you believe I’m here to break him out.” I held out my arms. “You’re welcome to check me for weapons if you’d like.”
I made sure to let a touch of derision slide into my tone. It left a slimy feeling in my mouth after the words were out. Posturing might work for my parents, but it always felt wrong to me, like I was trying to fit into someone else’s clothes.
He turned and motioned for me to follow him. “I’ll show you the way.” He glanced back over his shoulder. “But you can only have ten minutes. There’s no reason you should need more than that to prepare your client for a bail hearing. Assuming he’s not considered a flight risk, you’ll have plenty of time to discuss anything else regarding the case after that.”
I let the flight risk zing pass with a smile. If I jumped to Mark’s defense, it would only call into question my professionalism. “Thank you. Ten minutes will be more than enough.”
The sidelong glance he leveled at me turned my hands cold. It was a look that said he didn’t believe attempting to break Mark out was actually outside of what I was capable of. It was a look that said they’d be investigating me almost as closely as they were investigating Mark as they continued to build the case against him. It was a look that said they had no doubt he was guilty. And that I might have helped him plan this whole thing.
I kept my mouth shut through the rest of the walk. Had it been anyone else who walked me down, I might have tried to dig a little. But the part of me that had years of experience as a lawyer watching police officers work said, this time, I’d lose more than I’d gain if I did.
We reached Mark’s cell. He shot to his feet. He opened his mouth, then closed it again. He’d probably been about to ask me what I was doing there. Thankfully he’d figured out just in time that I’d end up kicked out of the station without what I’d come for if he did.
I gave Detective Dillion a pageant-worthy smile. “I can find my way back up. You don’t have to wait for me.”
He pulled up his sleeve enough to reveal his watch and touched one finger to the face—an unspoken reminder of my time limit—then he turned and left us alone.
I couldn’t help rolling my eyes. “He’s almost as bad as having to work with Grady Scherwin.”
“Scherwin seems to be one of the only officers they haven’t put on leave. I saw him when they brought me in.”
That figured. The only officers who didn’t have some sort of good relationship with Mark were the ones who were either both new and young—like Troy had been—or were kind of unpleasant—like Grady Scherwin. It was a small pool, and it left us without allies on the force when we could most use them.
“I’m guessing you didn’t come here to talk about Scherwin, though,” Mark said.
I almost made a joke about how I missed him already and snuck in for a kiss, but just thinking the words brought an uncomfortable burning sensation to my eyes. I explained my guess about this connecting to a case he and Troy worked together.
Mark blew out a long breath. “That’s going back over a year. If we had access to the case files, that’d be easy to figure out.”
“If I’m right, it’ll be a case where someone wasn’t happy with the results.”
“I worked a drunk driver case. He got off on a technicality, but that had nothing to do with me. I only dealt with the body of the person he killed.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “And I can’t remember if Troy worked that one with me or not.”
Mark usually had an exceptional memory. I’d heard stories of how he could answer questions in court without consulting his notes. He barely needed to refresh his memory.
But the pressure of testifying in court as a professional wasn’t the same kind of pressure a person felt when they were behind bars, fighting for their own freedom and knowing that everyone was looking at them and wondering if they really did the horrible thing they were accused of.
The pressure of only having ten minutes—five now—didn’t help.
“Come at it sideways.” I used the same soothing voice that worked to coax my bullmastiff Toby when we went to the vet. “Have you personally received any threats or angry messages?”
He brought his hand away from his face. “One. He wasn’t threatening, but he was angry. I deemed a death natural causes, but the man’s son was convinced his stepmother killed his dad for his life insurance policy. He called for weeks and even showed up a couple of times asking me to reconsider. I had to have him removed from the funeral home, even.”
It was possible someone who felt justice hadn’t been rendered for his loved one could move from angry to vengeful. “Was Troy involved in the case?”
Mark shrugged his shoulders. “I can’t remember, but he was the one who escorted the man out of Cavanaugh’s and told him, if he didn’t stop, they’d hit him with a restraining order.”
The door at the end of the hallway swung open. Time was up. Dillion was back.
I yanked my phone out. “What were the names?”
Mark told me in a hurried whisper. With Dillion coming toward us, I didn’t even get a chance to squeeze his hand before saying goodbye.
He’ll be out on Monday, I reminded myself. He’s not a flight risk, and we’ll find a way to make whatever bail they set.
In the meantime, I’d call Hal, the private investigator I’d worked with on a few prior cases, and have him look into the names Mark gave me.
As I was dialing Hal’s number on my way to my car, a text came into my phone. I stopped to check it.
Isabel.
Were you able to narrow it down to a couple favorites?
I leaned against the door of my car, keys in one hand, phone in the other. It might be paranoia and nothing more, but Isabel’s behavior still struck me as odd. It wouldn’t hurt to have Hal dig into her background as well.
Troy and Chief McTavish were both fit men who’d been trained to defend themselves. For both of them to be overpowered by a stranger seemed like a stretch. They wouldn’t have turned their back on a man they didn’t know if anything at all seemed off about his behavior. They also wouldn’t have been relaxed enough to allow a man they didn’t know to pull a gun on them. They’d have reacted, and we’d have found signs. They’d have had their guard up with a strange man.
They might not have if their attacker was a woman.
And Isabel had been in the area of Lakeshore Park around the time McTavish went missing.
11
I debated whether I should wear a nice blouse for the conference call with my parents, right up until I figured out that we probably wouldn’t have video on our call. I put the blouse on anyway. My parents always seemed to know things they shouldn’t, and I wanted this to be a conference among equals. I didn’t want us sidetracked with anyone thinking they needed to coddle or protect me.
Especially after the conversation I’d had with my mom last night. I’d expected her to be angry at me for not calling her immediately, but instead she’d sounded worried about both Mark and me. Worry wasn’t something I normally heard in my mom’s voice. In fact, I’m not sure I could ever remember hearing it before.
I got to Anderson’s office ten minutes early. To his credit, Anderson kept the fan-boy gush out of his voice as he updated my parents and me on everything the police asked and tried during the interrogation. He clearly laid out the evidence they had against him.
“Have you considered arguing self-defense?” my dad asked, his voice matter-of-fact. “We could make a decent case for Troy luring him out of his home in order to rob him. Mark came back earlier than Troy thought, a shadowy figure attacked him, and he defended himself with the nearest object.”
I scowled at the handset. My dad couldn’t see it, but it made me feel slightly better.
I leaned closer to the phone so he couldn’t act like he didn’t hear me. “We’re not arguing self-defense because Mark is innocent.”
I made sure my voice had no emotion. I didn’t want to give my dad any ground to suggest I shouldn’t be part of this or that I was irrational and my opinions should be ignored.
“They’re never innocent, Nicole. You of all people should know that by now.”
It was an echo of the conversation we’d had in his office after I figured out Peter was guilty of murdering his wife. His words to me then had been They’re always guilty.
I wanted to hang up on him. I wanted to remind him of how much he’d respected Mark prior to this moment. I wanted to remind him that I’d worked with many innocent people since coming to Fair Haven.
I wanted to do a lot of things, but I couldn’t do any of them because I needed my parents on this case. Whether I liked it or not, they were the best at what they did. One of them had more experience than Anderson and me combined. My pride wasn’t more important than Mark’s freedom.
Anderson cleared his throat, breaking the dead air that’d hung since my dad’s statement. “There weren’t signs of forced entry or a struggle, and I’m not sure we could convince a jury that even a doctor would have a scalpel lying around his house. If the victim were killed with scissors or even a kitchen knife, it’d be a lock.”
My dad made a statement about how he’d convinced juries of more ludicrous things and that it was all in the way we sold it.
But all I could hear was that he wanted to argue self-defense because he thought Mark was guilty.
It was exactly why we needed to not only win in court, but also prove who had done this. Mark shouldn’t have to spend the rest of his life with people looking at him crossways the way they did O.J. Simpson. Mark was innocent.
“Mark’s not Peter.” My words came out louder than I intended.
It wasn’t until after they were out that I realized I’d talked over someone.
Muffled voices came from my parents end of the line, like one of them had covered the handset.
Anderson shifted in his seat as if he didn’t know who to stick up for—his idol or his partner. “Who’s Peter?” he whispered.
I motioned that I’d fill him in later. Hopefully he’d forget.
“I’m…sorry, Nicole.” The edge had come off my dad’s voice. It was a tone I’d never heard from him before, not even when I’d come to him as a little girl with a bruise or a cut. “You’re right. Mark’s not Peter. Did you tell him the one rule?”
My parents had one unbreakable rule with their clients. They could lie to their families. They could lie to the press. They could lie to the police.
They couldn’t lie to my parents because you defended a guilty person differently than you defended an innocent one. My parents didn’t want any surprises in court. If they knew the truth, they could prepare for it, whatever it might be.
I hadn’t told Mark the rule because I didn’t need to.
“I told him,” Anderson said.
Of course he would have. He’d modeled so much of his practice on my parents.
“Then we’ll get him acquitted.” The softness was gone from my dad’s voice as quickly as it’d come. “But this’ll be one for the wall.”
Pain throbbed above my eyes. I rubbed at the spots. The wall was a section in my parents’ office where they hung news clippings from the most challenging cases they’d won. It was the equivalent of an athlete’s trophy shelf.
We didn’t talk about the difficult cases that didn’t make the wall.
I’d been hoping I was wrong about this case and that my parents would see something obvious that I’d missed.
I planted my feet firmly on the floor and pulled my back up straight. They won more than they lost. They could win this one, too.
I filled them in on what Mark told me about the angry family member and that I already had our private investigator looking into the names.
My parents didn’t give out praise, but anytime they didn’t criticize, I knew I’d done the right thing.
“What about the evidence?” my mom asked.
I glanced at Anderson. He gave an I’m-not-sure-what-she-means-either head shake.
I inclined my head toward the phone, trying to hint that he should ask.
He made a you-do-it shooing motion with his hands. He might sound professional on the outside, but he still wanted to leave a good impression with my parents, just like a little boy wanting to impress his teacher.
Chicken, I mouthed, then asked, “What do you mean?”
“Who’s working on alternate explanations for the cell phone and the scalpel? Mark’s innocent.” My mom said it in a way that let me know she’d never doubted it the way my dad had. “Their strongest evidence against him is the cell phone and the scalpel with his fingerprints. If we can discredit those, Mark’s chances improve drama
tically.”
The scalpel! Talk about being too close to something to see it clearly. I’d been focused on the who, and not enough on the how. Someone had to have stolen a scalpel that already had Mark’s fingerprints on it. If we could figure out how they’d done it, it might lead us to the real killer.
12
There was only one place I could think of that someone would have been able to get a scalpel with Mark’s fingerprints on it—the morgue.
Because our county was a small one, Mark’s office and the morgue were part of Cavanaugh funeral home, run by his brother Grant.
As soon as I was in my car and headed back to Fair Haven, I called Grant’s phone. It went straight to voicemail. I left a message. While I could text him, Grant regularly ignored his texts and routinely sent replies to the wrong people. As good as he was with people, he was equally as bad with technology.
I tried his wife, Megan, instead. She answered, and I explained what I needed.
“Come on by.” Piano music played faintly in the background. “I’ll help when I have a break if you need me, but Grant isn’t going to be free for hours. We have a funeral and two visitations going on right now.”
I’d always thought it was unfair that life didn’t pause for you when something bad happened. Megan and Grant had to keep running their business even though Mark had been accused of murder. I had an advantage. My job allowed me to actively do something about Mark’s situation.
I thanked Megan and told her I’d be there in about half an hour. I couldn’t stand the idea of going home and not making any more progress today. I’d be so distracted that I shouldn’t even be allowed to do anything around Sugarwood anyway.
By the time I got to Cavanaugh Funeral Home, no spaces remained in the parking lot, and cars lined up down the street. I ended up parked two blocks away. Megan hadn’t been kidding.
I stopped on the front steps and glanced up. The front of the building had two cameras monitoring it. Having been here at closing a couple of times with Megan, I knew the front door had an alarm keypad and the camera system that turned on as soon as the alarm was armed. It’d seemed excessive to me for a small town. Megan said it was because Mark worked out of the building. The case files and bodies for autopsy had to be kept secure.
