“No it doesn’t,” he muttered. “It can’t get any worse! He was only pretending. He doesn’t know me at all and probably not you either! I want Gramps back, like before.”
Beverly wrapped her arms around her son, holding onto him for dear life. They were both crying.
“He’s never going to be the same Grandpa you remember, Jaime,” she said, anguished, but honest. “I wish I could say differently. He’s an old man with a memory disease that’s incurable and only going to get worse. All we can do at this point is pray that Papa can somehow live out his days in relative comfort and peace.”
Jaime seemed to accept this for the moment; even as Beverly tried to come to terms with what seemed like a tall order.
* * *
That afternoon while Jaime went skateboarding, Beverly took the opportunity to do some neglected yard work. She had once had an impressive flower garden, but had been unable to keep up with it in recent years. Now she promised herself to give it another try next spring. Maybe grow some perennials and plant some bulbs.
Beverly spent an hour doing aerobics in the den and another half hour on a stationary bike, deciding she could use a bit more firming here and there. Everyone told her she was in great shape, which she strived to be. Grant seemed especially pleased with her body. But, like most women, she always felt a constant need for improvement. Maintaining a steady workout regimen as a full time Mom and attorney was a challenge to say the least. Yet it was one Beverly was determined to keep up with for peace of mind and fitness.
Later Beverly listened to messages retrieved from her voice mail at work. Most had to do with various aspects of her caseload, requests for interviews, and even an offer to join a prestigious law firm. She had entertained such offers in the past, but never seriously. She loved working for the D.A.’s office, even if sometimes it could be a real pain in the ass. Mostly the work managed to tap into her skills effectively and challenge her mind in ways she could never have imagined.
One message in particular that caught Beverly’s ear came from a Detective Stone Palmer of the Wilameta County Sheriff’s Department.
“Ms. Mendoza, I just talked to a woman writing a true crime book on the Suzanne Landon case. Her name is Lydia Wesley. I’m sure you know the crime originated in Monroe County, but ended up being prosecuted in Wilameta County. How Ms. Wesley got my name, I’ll never know, since my role as a secondary investigator in what turned out to be Ms. Landon’s murdering her rich boyfriend was only minimal in the scheme of things. Anyway, to make a long story short, I referred her to you since you prosecuted the case. So don’t be surprised if she comes your way. Bye now.”
Beverly rolled her eyes. She had little time right now for someone seeking to exploit a murder for personal gain. Much like Suzanne Landon had herself. With any luck, this Lydia Wesley would forget that Detective Palmer had ever given her name as a source of information.
The last message came from Grant, who said, “Just wanted to say that I miss you and loved being with you the other day, in every way...” He paused, as if weighing whether to say anything else. “If I play my cards right, I should have some dynamic news to share with you on Monday, baby. I’d better leave it at that for now, so as not to jinx myself—”
Beverly smiled. Wonder what news that might be? She kept her fingers crossed that he would get the judgeship even as she also recalled the last time they were together. It made her hot just replaying the intimate nature of the occasion.
As for her, she would have to settle for promotions within the D.A.’s office for the moment, Beverly mused. These she saw perfectly within reach, so long as she continued heading in the right direction.
Starting with a successful prosecution of Rafael Santiago.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Manuel watched his old lady stuff her face with chili and corn bread, downing it with cheap wine. He was doing the same thing, but didn’t enjoy it half as much.
“I need some money,” he told her without prelude.
She lifted her face. “There isn’t any,” she said, as if this pleased her. “Not till I get paid next Thursday.”
She expected him to believe that? Did she think he didn’t know that she hid money from him?
Bitch.
“Just give me twenty for now,” he said nicely, “I can wait for the rest.”
She rolled her eyes cynically. “What didn’t you understand, Manuel? We don’t have any money. You’ve already spent everything the rent hasn’t gobbled up. Maybe if you got a job, we’d have more money—”
Before even he knew the rage that had built within him like fire in the furnace, Manuel had backhanded her across the face. She clutched her reddened cheek like it was about to fall off. For just an instant, he regretted hitting her. But he would not apologize. Hell no.
She was disrespecting him. The stupid bitch. He did not like it when women challenged his authority. Why the hell did he put up with her crap? She was only really useful for sex, and he could always get that somewhere else.
“See what you made me do!” He blamed her. Women were always to blame for making men do things to hurt them. They usually got what they were asking for. Even the whores.
“You bastard!” she spat defiantly.
He nearly slugged her with his fist, but thought better. Control your temper. Don’t do something crazy. Not to her anyway. Not when you still need the bitch.
They would kiss and make up later and he would still get his damned money. As always. Right now, he had to get out of there and clear his head.
Manuel backed his chair from the table and stood, glaring down at her. “Have it your way.”
“Where are you going?” she asked, eyeing him suspiciously.
“I need to go out for some fresh air,” he lied, knowing there sure as hell wasn’t much of that in this neighborhood. “Don’t wait up for me.”
He knew she would. It wasn’t as if anyone was waiting in the wings for her. Not that he would mind much if there were. If someone actually wanted to put up with all the crap he took from this bitch, the man could have her.
* * *
Manuel left by the side door, but not before rummaging through her purse and taking what she had.
He went down to the tavern on the corner. The neighborhood was largely Hispanic and African-American, though some Asians had recently begun to take up residence as if to escape their own hell. There were also the white whores who worked the streets and gave whatever they earned to pimps, giving the area a multicultural look. But to him, it would always be first and foremost working class Mexican turf.
At the bar he had beer while sitting on a stool. A flat screen TV sat on a wall like a picture. Manuel considered this his home away from home. His office, where he sometimes conducted business. He was tight with the owner, another Latino who also grew up in the hood.
Manuel put the mug to his lips and watched the ladies go by. They all knew him by name and swooned over him, wanting the chance to get into his pants—and let him get into theirs. Sometimes he was accommodating, other times disinterested. He liked it better when he took what he wanted. It gave him a sense of power no consensual sex ever could.
He looked up at the TV. The Asian broad on the news was talking about the murder of the judge again and about his wife being raped and beaten.
Now they showed the face of the man being charged. They said his name was Rafael Santiago.
Manuel gazed steadily at the man who looked enough like him to be his twin brother. Same good looks, olive skin tone, and short black hair.
Problem was he didn’t have a twin brother. Or maybe he did and just didn’t know it? Could be that they were separated at birth, he grinned, scoffing at the notion.
He watched with interest.
How sure were they that they had the right man in custody? Manuel wondered amusingly, drinking more beer.
If anyone else noticed the resemblance, they weren’t saying it to his face. I just might pay Santiago a visit before they inje
ct his ass with a lethal dose of drugs. People would think they were seeing double. That sure as hell would shake up the foundation at the place where they were keeping him.
The Asian lady now talked about a dead woman identified as Adrienne Murray, whose body was fished out of Eagles Lake like a dead salmon. She was believed to have been murdered. Videotape was shown of the grieving husband, who promised to do everything in his power to bring the killer to justice.
Promises, promises. Manuel frowned. Why did everyone want to be a damned hero? Even those who had something to hide?
And just as much to lose...
* * *
Manuel followed the one named Penelope from the bar. She was a petite Latina, with nice breasts and blonde-streaked brown hair. She had on a black leather mini dress, practically showing half of her ass, and black stilettos.
Her apartment was two blocks away. He knocked on the door, feeling the rush of excitement just like all the other times. When the door opened, he gave her his best smile.
“Manuel!” She regarded him with surprise. “What are you doing here?”
“To be honest, I followed you from the bar.” He looked her over lasciviously. “I’ve been wanting us to get together—” He hadn’t really, but she had been coming onto him for months.
Penelope beamed. “Really?”
Manuel grinned convincingly. “I’m here, ain’t I?”
She parted razor thin bangs. “Come on in...”
He did, locking the door behind him.
They didn’t waste any time with the formalities. They both knew why he was there, or at least part of the reason. The other part he was keeping to himself for now.
She took him to her bedroom. There they stripped and he was on top of her in a flash, spreading her legs wide. He played with her breasts and pinched her nipples, watching Penelope react gleefully as they turned rock hard. He made sure she enjoyed her final moments as she ground her hips against him and whimpered to his powerful thrusts.
“Ohh, ahh, you feel so good, Manuel,” she cooed.
“Yeah, so do you, baby,” he returned, feeling her clamping around his penis like a vise while she climaxed.
As his orgasm released deep inside her, Manuel placed his hands around the whore’s neck and began squeezing the life out of her. Penelope’s eyes were agape with terror and she tried to break free of his hold, but proved no match for his strength and determination.
Manuel took out his switchblade and gave it a workout, finishing the job and putting Penelope out of her misery.
He left her limp, naked, bloodied body for someone else to find and weep over.
It was time to go back home and make peace again with his old lady.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
K. Conrad Ortega showed his I.D., allowing him to enter the area at the police station where attorneys met with their clients. It was a routine he had become quite accustomed to since embarking on a career as a public defender. At thirty-eight, an even six feet, with closely cropped dapple-gray hair, Ortega knew he wasn’t exactly Johnny Cochran when the man kicked ass in the courtroom back in the day. But that didn’t mean he worked any less hard for the people he defended. Even someone accused of killing a popular judge in this town and sexually violating his wife still deserved the presumption of innocence and a fair trial.
If it went that far.
Ortega went over the facts as he knew them pertaining to the accused. Rafael Santiago was a thirty-two-year-old Cuban. He had lived in the U.S. since 1980, coming over in the Muriel boatlift. After serving time for a petty crime, he had raised his criminality a notch by strangling his pregnant girlfriend.
It was Judge Crawford who had sentenced Santiago to life in prison and to whom he swore vengeance, if he ever got out—which Santiago did after serving just over twelve years with time off for good behavior.
Ortega put his briefcase on the table. This was the kind of case all lawyers lived for. Especially those who were trying to make a name for themselves and move into the salary range of the elite defense lawyers of the world where not enough Latino attorneys had made their mark.
But Ortega wasn’t ready to think about having a multimillion-dollar house built from the ground up just yet. First he had to win this case, if at all possible. Then he’d let the chips fall where they may.
The door opened and he watched the shackled prisoner being led in by a burly officer. Rafael Santiago was dressed in orange jail overalls and looked smug, as if he didn’t give a damn what happened from this point on. Or perhaps he failed to recognize the serious implications of his situation.
Ortega had the officer remove the shackles and cuffs, which he did reluctantly.
“You can leave us alone,” Ortega instructed the officer.
“I’ll be right outside if you need me,” he said.
“Thanks.” Ortega turned to his would-be client, who looked him up and down, as if he could do better. He doubted it. Not for what they paid public defenders. “I’m K. Conrad Ortega and I’ve been assigned to represent you.”
Santiago sneered, running a hand through his short, shiny black hair. “I’m supposed to be impressed, or what?”
“I’m not here to impress you, man,” Ortega said, somewhat irritated, but determined to keep his cool for both of them. “Just here to offer you my assistance. Now have a seat and let’s talk about the case against you.”
When the accused seemed hesitant to sit, as if the chair was booby trapped, Ortega sat first. Finally Santiago joined him.
“You’re facing some very serious charges, Rafael,” Ortega said upfront. “If the State has its way, they may seek the death penalty if you’re convicted.”
Santiago seemed unperturbed by this. “That’s up to them, man. Can’t change what’s gone down. Or what’s gonna happen.”
“Are you saying you’re guilty of the charges?” Not that this would come across as a great surprise to Ortega. After all, at least half the people he represented were guilty. And most of them weren’t able to do much to help their own cause, which, in effect, boiled down to the same thing.
Nevertheless, the majority of those he came across swore on their mother’s grave that they were innocent, even when they weren’t. But then lying was usually the least of their problems.
“What difference does it make what I say?” spat Santiago with a flicker of contempt in his dark eyes.
“Could make a big difference,” Ortega responded. “If you are innocent and I believe you, I’ll go to bat for you as if you were my own brother.”
“And if I’m not, what you gonna do then—send me to the white wolves and black bears?”
Ortega smiled humorlessly. “I’m obligated to defend you either way,” he admitted. “All I’m looking for is the truth.”
But with that came a price. Any lawyer would tell you that the wrong truth would make it difficult to generate the necessary enthusiasm to mount a credible defense.
Yet anything was possible.
Santiago shifted uncomfortably. “They’ve got the wrong man!” he said flatly. “They’re trying to railroad me, man, for something I didn’t do!”
Ortega looked him in the eye, usually a sure fire indication of whether or not a person was being straight with him. “You’re telling me you didn’t shoot the judge three times at pointblank range? And then rape and sodomize his wife—?”
“I just got outta the pen, man,” Santiago answered, flipping hands caustically up in air. “You think I wanna go back right away for offing a judge and raping his woman? I ain’t crazy!”
Ortega was not immediately convinced. Far from it. “You were picked out of two lineups by Maxine Crawford, the judge’s widow,” he told the suspect. “One was a photo lineup; you know about the other. What do you make of that?”
“What the hell can I make of it?” Santiago hunched his shoulders brazenly. “People believe that all Latinos look and smell alike. C’mon, man, you know what I’m talkin’ ‘bout. I guess the judge’s wife saw o
nly what she wanted to see.”
Ortega mulled over his words. He did know from personal experience that some had trouble distinguishing one Hispanic from another. This was especially true when it came to Latinos in trouble with the law. But the reality was that they came in all different sizes, shapes, and shades just like everyone else. If Maxine Crawford identified Santiago as her attacker and husband’s killer, it couldn’t easily be dismissed as a simple case of mistaken identity.
Then there was any DNA evidence the police might have in their possession. It rarely pointed the finger in the wrong direction.
Ortega cast a narrow eye at the suspect in this case. He wasn’t buying Santiago’s weak explanation for why he was in the hot seat.
But what if Maxine Crawford had bought it? What if the witness saw what the cops wanted her to see instead of the real person who attacked her and Judge Crawford?
Was it possible that this could have been a case of mistaken identity? Or was this just a clever con by a man with nothing to lose, except quite possibly his life?
Ortega thought about the evidence he was aware of so far against Rafael Santiago. It was flimsy at best, aside from the eyewitness to the crime who also happened to be the second victim. Being traumatized as Maxine Crawford was could have affected her ability to get her facts straight.
He fixed his eyes on his client. “You swore vengeance against Judge Crawford for sending you up the river—” He left it there to gauge his reaction.
“Man, I swore vengeance against everyone back then,” Santiago claimed. “I was mad as hell about being sent to prison for killing that bitch!”
“You’re saying you were innocent of that, too?” Ortega batted his eyes skeptically.
Santiago snarled. “I killed her, man, all right! But she deserved it. She was two-timing me with my cousin. Went and got herself pregnant and expected me to take care of her and the bastard. Can you believe that?” He furrowed his mouth wickedly. “I’d have killed my homey, too, but he got away before I could put a bullet between his eyes!”
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