Either that, or it could backfire and Jaime might grow even more distant from Grant. Beverly suspected it could impact her relationship with both her son and Grant.
“I want to be a doctor,” Jaime said, surprising Beverly. Last she knew, he had talked about wanting to be a hip-hop singer. Or an entomologist.
“Good choice.” Grant nodded, impressed. “Why a doctor?”
“That way maybe I can find a cure for my Grandpa’s Alzheimer’s disease and people like him.”
Beverly and Grant exchanged sad glances. She had not realized that Jaime was so deeply affected by his grandfather’s condition, so as to influence his career choice at this stage of his young life. She wondered if he somehow feared that it might be genetic, and that she and eventually he would come down with it.
“Maybe you can,” Grant said with feeling. “Who says you can’t make a difference someday in battling this terrible disease?”
Yes, why not? At some point someone had to develop a means to fight the ravages of Alzheimer’s disease. If Jaime really wanted to be a doctor—and that was a big if at age twelve—then she would do everything in her power to see to it that he achieved his dream.
But she suspected that he was speaking more out of frustration and fears than real dreams. Only time would tell.
The waiter brought their food.
Grant and Beverly spoke briefly about the Rafael Santiago case before returning to other conversation as they strove to keep Jaime part of the dinner chat.
“Are you a Golden State Warriors fan?” Grant asked Jaime, knowing they were the nearest pro sports team to Eagles Landing, albeit some fifty miles away.
“Not really,” he said dispassionately. “They suck.”
Grant chuckled. “Can’t argue with you there. Well, how about the Orlando Magic?”
“Dwight Howard is awesome!” Jaime said animatedly.
Looks like I may have found a soft spot in him, Grant mused. “If you’re interested, I can get tickets to the upcoming Warriors/Magic game.”
Jaime’s eyes lit up. “Really?”
“Really.” Grant smiled, aware that he had indeed made a breakthrough. One that was sorely needed if he was to succeed in getting closer to Beverly. “I have a friend who works in the team’s front office. He can get me front row seats. Maybe even arrange for an autograph or two from players.” Hopefully Howard would do the honors.
“Cool.” Jaime’s face flushed with excitement. “Can I bring my friend Paco? He loves the Warriors, even though they suck.”
Grant laughed, even as Beverly winced. “Yes, certainly Paco is more than welcome to join us,” he promised, and eyed Beverly. “And even your mother.”
“I wouldn’t miss it,” Beverly declared, ecstatic over the prospect of some Grant and Jaime male bonding as well as the three of them spending more quality time together.
Grant smiled. “I was hoping you’d say that. We can even drop by my judge’s chambers beforehand. I can give Jaime and Paco the grand tour.”
“Wow!” Jaime smiled broadly. “That would be great! Paco will think it’s cool, too.”
Beverly watched with amusement, as she hadn’t seen Jaime this excited in a long time. She was seeing a whole new side of Grant. Evidently he had more of a way with kids than he’d let on. She wondered what other secrets he may have been keeping bottled up inside.
“I think it’s great as well,” she offered enthusiastically. Especially considering that she had not seen Grant’s new chambers since he had taken Judge Crawford’s place. Beverly imagined that as Judge Nunez, Grant would make an immediate impact in the war against crime, leaving his own mark.
For the first time Beverly began to believe there was actually hope after all that her son and her lover could learn to like each other. Someday it could even turn to love, an emotion that Beverly could also see taking shape between her and Grant, if things continued to blossom in their relationship.
* * *
On Monday morning Beverly met with detective, Joe O’Dell, and her co-counsel, Gail Kennedy. At twenty-five, Gail was one of the bright young prosecutors in the D.A.’s office. An African-American, she had a beautiful pecan complexion and a retro blonde curly Afro, which may have turned heads as much as her tall, shapely physique. Her duties as second chair would primarily be note taking, paperwork, interviewing witnesses, and sometimes getting coffee. Beverly hoped the experience would be invaluable, as it had been for her when she was coming up the ranks.
The three were going over the evidence in the Rafael Santiago case.
“There may be a problem with the DNA on the semen taken from Maxine Crawford,” said Gail.
“What?” Beverly asked, though the answer was obvious, given what she knew about the case.
“She had intercourse with Judge Crawford just before being raped by Santiago.” Gail colored, glancing across the table at O’Dell. He did not seem to be particularly affected one way or the other. “And it appears that she also engaged in anal sex with the judge before Maxine was sodomized. Samples of his semen were removed from her anus—along with that of Rafael Santiago.”
“Damn,” O’Dell hummed as if news to him. “So Judge Crawford liked it both ways.”
“Apparently,” Beverly said, wondering if this was actually turning him on. “Obviously Maxine Crawford did as well. But it was their right as a married couple to engage in any sexual acts they chose. What Santiago did to her was a different matter altogether.”
Gail looked up from her notes. “Unfortunately both Santiago’s and Judge Crawford’s semen were found in Maxine’s vagina and anus; meaning it may be tricky in distinguishing which man was responsible for any tears or other trauma she experienced as a result of the sexual assault. This could undermine both the rape and sodomy cases and make it more difficult to rely on the DNA evidence pertaining to the semen.”
Beverly was thinking the same thing, but was counting on the preponderance of the evidence against Santiago to work in their favor. “What about the genital hair samples taken from Maxine Crawford?”
“We should have the preliminary results in a few days,” Gail answered.”
“Let’s hope that Judge Crawford and Rafael Santiago aren’t cut from the same cloth in that respect,” Beverly said colorlessly. “Once we have the DNA match of Santiago’s genital hairs inside Maxine’s vagina, anus, or both, it’ll bolster our case against him as a sexual assaulter.”
She looked at O’Dell. He was one of the better looking detectives on the force and happily involved in a long term relationship. He and his girlfriend had recently produced a beautiful little girl that O’Dell doted over like she was the most precious thing in the world.
Beverly was glad to see that O’Dell didn’t seem to show any lingering effects from the cold shoulder that Grant had given him at the hospital the night Judge Crawford was killed. Or maybe I was overreacting in the feeling that there was some genuine animosity between the two men.
“Joe, I understand that Santiago has an alibi for the time in question,” Beverly said, some anxiety in her voice. “Are we going to be able to get around that without hurting the case? After all, Santiago couldn’t have been in two places at the same time.”
O’Dell’s face hardened. “His alibi is a bunch of bull! Any man who hides behind his Mama isn’t much of a man as far as I’m concerned.”
“But is it possible the jury might actually believe Santiago’s story? Or his mother’s testimony?” Beverly had seen as much, even when the weight of evidence was stacked against the defendant.
“What do you think?” O’Dell tossed back with a sneer. “The woman is scared to death of her son. She would say anything he told her to, including confess to the crime herself. No damned jury in their right mind is going to give Santiago’s so-called ‘alibi’ any credibility. Not when the facts come out—”
“Where are we on hard evidence, Joe?” Beverly gazed at him, then Gail, and back again.
“We’ve got Maxine Crawford
’s positive I.D. of the suspect,” O’Dell said firmly. “We also know that Santiago swore he’d get even with Judge Crawford for putting him away, and had the will and means to do it—”
“What about the murder weapon?” Beverly asked dubiously.
O’Dell bowed his head lamentably. “Haven’t been able to locate it—yet. Chances are the asshole tossed it into the lake, which is right across the street from the judge’s house. It’s being scoured, but I don’t hold out much hope of finding anything. Between the currents, depth, and muck in the water, it will take a miracle to find the gun.”
“Well, let’s hope for one, as we really could use that ‘smoking’ gun to lock this case up,” Beverly stressed, aware that many so-called open and shut cases had been lost without the most crucial piece of evidence. The judge had been shot with a .25 caliber automatic. Not the most powerful of weapons, she knew, but enough to fall even the strongest man at pointblank range. Especially when shot three times. It would be a persuasive piece of evidence to dangle in front of the jury.
“There’s enough other evidence to get a conviction,” argued O’Dell. “We’ve got the bullets and shell casings, which are being matched against some found at the place Santiago was staying. Fibers from clothing at the scene of the crime are also being tested with clothes owned by the suspect. It will all fit, take my word for it.”
“With all due respect, Joe,” groaned Beverly, “we need more than your word or my prosecuting abilities to win this case. What about fingerprints?”
“The man wore gloves, according to Mrs. Crawford.” O’Dell scratched his head, clearly uncomfortable. “But we’re checking for prints anyway.”
“Any other witnesses?”
“One of the neighbors saw a man running down the street around the time this happened. But she didn’t get a look at his face.”
“Let’s get her in here, Gail,” Beverly ordered. “Maybe this woman saw more than she thinks she did. At least she can give us a description of the clothing worn by the man seen fleeing.”
“Will do.” Gail jotted this down.
O’Dell leaned forward. “And I’ll poke around and see what I can find out from Santiago’s ex cellmate.”
“Good idea.” Beverly closed her folder, grateful that the trial was still weeks away.
She was sure this case was winnable even if they fell short on some key evidence. The suspect had all but confessed to the killing when he threatened Judge Crawford’s life and apparently never backed down from the threat. He had also been fingered by Maxine Crawford as the man who sexually assaulted her and shot her husband to death.
Trials had been won with less.
But they would still have to prove Santiago’s guilt in a court of law.
And she planned to.
Or she would have to watch Rafael Santiago walk, a free man who got away with cold-blooded murder.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
“I appreciate your coming in, Chuck.” Stone nodded politely. He watched the primary suspect in his wife’s death take a seat. He’d learned that Chuck worked as a car salesman, and frequently moved from job to job.
Chuck coughed nervously. “Like I said, I want to cooperate any way I can to help find Adrienne’s killer.”
“That’s good to know.” Stone slid his chair closer to the desk. “Why don’t you begin by telling me about your relationship with your wife?”
Chuck gazed at him uneasily, then shrugged. “What do you want to know?”
“Did she ever cheat on you?”
“No. Why would you ask that?”
“It’s my job to ask that,” Stone responded curtly, “and anything else that might help find her killer.”
Chuck sniffed. “I understand.”
Stone took a moment. “So you never suspected your wife of having an affair with another man?”
“Never,” he insisted. “We loved each other. She never would have slept with someone else.”
“And what if she had, Chuck? How would you have felt?”
Chuck’s eyes became slits. “How would anyone feel?” he snapped. “It would have hurt like hell!”
“Have you ever hit your wife?” Stone stared at him accusingly.
Chuck’s head tilted pensively. “No. Did someone say I had?”
“Why would you think that, Chuck?” Stone could see that he was becoming flustered. Perhaps feeling guilty on maybe more levels than one.
“Because this...friend...of Adrienne’s—Erica Flanagan—was always trying to stir up trouble between us,” Chuck claimed. “She hates me for some reason.”
“And what reason would that be?” Stone locked eyes with him.
Chuck shrugged. “Hell if I know. I think she was jealous that Adrienne had a man and she couldn’t seem to hold onto one.”
Stone suspected that he had to reach deep to come up with that one, doubting Murray believed it himself. He played along for now. “So you’re saying you actually think Erica would make such an accusation that you beat the hell out of your wife purely out of spite?”
Chuck shifted his gaze. “I wouldn’t put anything past that bitch.” He paused, turning back to Stone. “So, is that what this meeting is all about?”
“No,” Stone said tersely. “It’s about you, Chuck, and the brutal murder of your wife.”
Chuck twisted in the chair. “You think I killed Adrienne?”
“Did you?” Stone honed in on the husband’s face.
“No—I did not kill my wife!”
“Did you visit her at work on the day she was killed?”
“No!” Chuck insisted.
We’ll see about that, mused Stone skeptically. “Where were you between six-thirty and seven-thirty the night your wife died, Chuck?”
“At home.”
“Alone?”
“Yes, alone.”
“Not good enough, Chuck,” Stone snapped. “You’re going to have to do a hell of a lot better than that!”
Chuck put his hands to his head. “I can’t believe this! Why on earth would I kill my wife, then come to you to report her missing?”
“Maybe because you wanted to cover your ass.” Stone’s brow furrowed. “It wouldn’t be the first time a man killed his wife and tried to make it seem like someone else did it.”
Chuck lunged to his feet. “I don’t have to listen to this anymore. Not without my lawyer!”
Stone stood up, making it clear that he was not intimidated by this show of indignation from the suspect. But he also wanted to keep the man talking, without violating his rights. “Sit down, Chuck. This is strictly informal,” he indicated.
Chuck glared at him for a long moment. “I don’t think so. Sounds more like you’ve got your mind made up and are way off base. Unless you’re arresting me here and now, I don’t think I have anything else to say to you, except through my attorney—!”
Stone held his disappointment in check. “If that’s the way you feel.” He sensed that he was looking at a guilty man in some respect. Perhaps Chuck Murray was only guilty of loving Adrienne too much when maybe it was not being reciprocated equally. But Stone somehow sensed it went deeper than that. Maybe to the point of wife battering and murder. “You’re free to go,” he told him. “But I suggest you get together with your lawyer quickly. You may need representation soon. And do us both a favor, Chuck—don’t try and leave the state.”
Chuck’s nostrils grew with ire and he stomped out.
* * *
Stone watched him disappear before Lieutenant Bruce Kramer came into the room. He had been observing the interrogation in another room through a one-way window.
Kramer was forty-eight and wide-bodied. Two inches shorter than Stone, he had a walnut complexion, shaved head, and thick mustache. “I’d say we probably have our man,” he said in a deep voice. “Or had him.”
“Murray definitely knows something he’s not saying,” Stone said positively, not willing to go beyond that for now. “But we don’t have enough yet to make an ar
rest.”
“Then get enough!” warned Kramer, his hard features crinkled. “If this man strangled and sliced up his wife, before tossing her into the lake like a rag doll, I don’t want him deciding he may as well add another woman or two to the list for the hell of it so long as he’s a free man. Do you understand what I’m saying, Palmer?”
Stone held his gaze respectfully. “Yeah I think I do.” All too well. He either brought in Chuck for Adrienne Murray’s murder or someone else—and soon. Otherwise my ass is grass and I’m looking at the lawnmower.
Stone felt the pressure and wouldn’t buckle under. After receiving several commendations over the years for excellent and professional work, he wasn’t about to mess things up now. Not if he could help it.
Detective Chang walked into the room. The look on his face told Stone that he wouldn’t like what he had to say.
“The body of a prostitute named Penelope Grijalva was found this afternoon in an apartment on Broadway.” Chang glanced at a paper in his hand. “She’d been rotting there for a few days, till the stench became more than the neighbors could handle. The preliminary report is that she was strangled, raped, and cut up badly, much like Adrienne Murray—”
Stone and Kramer looked at each other, and then read the report.
“You think this could have been done by the same person?” Kramer asked Stone bluntly.
Stone hated to think that they had a serial killer on their hands, because it went against the grain—especially if Chuck Murray had killed his wife. It didn’t figure that he would exhibit the same rage against other women with whom he didn’t have the same vested interest. But the similarities could hardly be overlooked and were ominous to say the least.
“It’s too early to tell,” Stone responded as his way of saying he needed more time to work with. But he had a feeling there wouldn’t be any.
“Better get Murray back in here!” ordered Kramer, brows stitched. “And have him bring his lawyer along. Something tells me he’s going to need good representation.”
Stone had an APB put out on Chuck Murray. He had a bad feeling that if Murray was the one they were looking for, he wasn’t in this alone. Only Stone wasn’t sure where else to point the finger at the moment.
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