Charles: We met at a ball through mutual friends. I believe it was at the Huntsworth’s house, but I cannot remember for certain. Regardless, in the course of polite conversation, it was made known to me that Mr. Thiroux is an artist. I expressed interest in his art, and we fostered a social relationship.
Prosecutor: Did you see one another outside of large social gatherings?
Charles: Yes. I began to model for Mr. Thiroux for his sketches. He sketches in pencil, then paints in oils.
Prosecutor: Were you alone with him during these artistic sessions? Where did they occur?
Charles: Yes, we were alone. They were in his studio on Royal Street, where he currently resides.
Prosecutor: Did you pose in costumes, or gowns?
Charles: Sometimes in costumes or gowns. Other times they were natural poses.
Prosecutor: On those “other times” are you implying, forgive me if I am making an incorrect assumption, but are you saying that by natural poses you mean you disrobed during these drawing sessions?
Charles: Yes. John did at least three nudes of me. He was interested in capturing the physical form of a more voluptuous woman and I was flattered to do so.
Prosecutor: Indeed. Why did you stop posing in this illustrious manner for Mr. Thiroux?
Charles: Because during our final session, which was last June, he threatened me with a knife when I complained that I was stiff and required a break.
Prosecutor: Threatened you with a knife? Where did he get this knife from? Tell us exactly what happened during this shocking encounter.
Charles: I was sitting on the divan, not reclining, but sitting upright, front facing, legs crossed, palms pressed on the sofa.
Prosecutor: What were you wearing?
Charles: Nothing. And my shoulders were sore from the extensive session and I asked permission to take a turn about the room. But John said no without even looking at me. He was completely absorbed in his sketch. However, I was truly uncomfortable and feeling a jabbing headache beginning behind my eyes, so I requested for the second time some relief, explaining my discomfort. Before I was even aware what he was about, he was in front of me, a knife in his hand, which he waved wildly in my face. I don’t know where he got the knife from as I never saw him draw it. But he told me to shut up, to sit still, or he would stick me.
Prosecutor: Where those his exact words? Sit still or I’ll stick you?
Charles: Yes.
Prosecutor: Had Mr. Thiroux been drinking?
Charles: Yes. I saw him drink two full glasses of absinthe in the hour preceding the incident.
Prosecutor: No further questions. Thank you, Mrs. Charles.
* * *
CONGRESSMAN’S WIFE POSED NUDE
FOR POTENTIAL MURDERER!
January 8, 1850- Yesterday saw the further attempt by the prosecution to malign the character of defendant John Thiroux and show that he has a history of violence. For those in attendance at the courtroom, it was a scene setting worthy of the theater. The attractive and artistic defendant, the charming attorneys for both sides, the gruff judge, and the pretty and bountiful wife of two-time Congressman Pierre Charles were all present playing their respective parts.
The trial commenced again at ten A.M., and every eye in the room turned when Mrs. Charles swept in to the room in her modish gold paisley print silk day dress, raven curls spilling over her curvy shoulders. She took the stand with confidence and alacrity, speaking her oath in clear, melodic tones, hand delicately placed on the Bible.
Only the defense knew at that point why Mrs. Charles had been called to witness, though many, this reporter included, correctly concluded that Mrs. Charles and Mr. Thiroux were acquainted from residing in the same social circles. It should have been anticipated that a gentleman as charming and innocuous as the defendant would have no difficulty in securing women, even those gently bred, to serve as inspiration for his art. Such a revelation raised a murmur in the courtroom, but no more than was required to express the acknowledgement of the sense of Mrs. Charles’s statement. Bored ladies with absent husbands will accept compliments where they are received, and no greater flattery exists than the request to preserve a woman’s face and figure in oil.
I think it is safe to assume, however, given the collective gasp from those present, that nary a soul anticipated that Mrs. Charles would confess, without so much as a blink or a blush, that she had, in fact, posed for Mr. Thiroux’s artistic renderings as nature had presented her.
Even more stunning was the revelation that Mr. Thiroux lost his temper with the charming and vulnerable Mrs. Charles in such an offensive manner. It is not surprising to discover the defendant was enjoying an open bottle for this encounter, nor does it present him as in control, respectful of women, and thoroughly misunderstood as the defense would have you believe.
A great number of questions arise from this testimony, not the least of which is whether or not Congressman Charles was aware of his wife’s very liberal and forthcoming support of the arts.
* * *
Naples Daily News
July 17, 2007
As testimony continues in the trial of Dr. Rafe Marino for the murder of his girlfriend, Jessie Michaels, the defense shifted tactics slightly yesterday in the courtroom. Up until this point, the defense has focused on the lack of evidence being presented, and insisting that what forensic trace evidence was present at the scene was the result of the victim having a relationship with the accused. But now the defense has taken a more aggressive stance, suggesting that a woman such as Jessie Michaels, a former stripper and drug user, and an alcoholic at the time of her death, led a double life. One in which she was the middle class suburban girlfriend of the upstanding and charming young doctor, another in which she frequented strip clubs and mixed alcohol and recreational drugs. The defense suggested that such behavior could have brought her into contact with her murderer.
Throughout the course of the trial, Dr. Marino has adamantly declared his love and affection for the victim.
Chapter Ten
Sara left Gabriel’s and drove back to her apartment, scratching a return message on the bottom of his note to her. She couldn’t stay, not without access to her computer, and no idea how long it would be before he returned. It had been a mistake to leave her laptop and Angel at her place. She missed her kitten, was worried about her.
And those sketches had shaken her. Had shown her that this was real, no matter in the distant past. This had happened and it wasn’t a puzzle or a murder mystery weekend to solve. It was a woman and her life. Just as real as her mother had been.
Growing up in the congested traffic of Naples and the surrounding areas with laborious commutes on inadequate infrastructure, Sara hadn’t thought twice about getting an apartment twenty minutes from the French Quarter. But she was starting to see why Gabriel had expressed surprise. The convenience of the Quarter with walking distance to food and shopping was appealing, and the drive to Kenner was getting annoying. Or she should say the drive from Kenner. What kind of Freudian slip was that?
She had already pulled in to her assigned parking spot when she realized there was someone at the door of her apartment. Instinctively, she reversed and pulled in to the spot opposite hers and sat with the engine idling, watching the man knock repeatedly and actually peek into the window right next to her front door. He looked very normal, average height and weight, short brown hair barely visible under a baseball hat, dressed in tan khakis and a green golf shirt. There was a package or thick envelope in his hand, and a phone balanced on top.
The rational, reasonable thing to do would be to get out of the car, approach him, and inquire what he wanted. But Sara wasn’t about to do that. Observing from her car felt safer, even if it was highly likely the man was selling magazines or offering religious flyers. Or he was a reporter.
That was likely her paranoia rearing its ugly head, but she didn’t want to risk it. She had nothing to say to the press. Other than an expletive that involv
ed four letters followed by the word off.
Her phone ringing caused her to jump. “Shit.” Sara let out a breath and yanked the phone out of her purse, eyes still on the guy. He was pressing the doorbell again, lingering longer than was appropriate for a salesman.
Caller ID showed it was Gabriel. “Hello?”
“Hi. Where did you go?”
“Back to my place. Didn’t you get my note?” Gabriel sounded irritated with her, but she was too distracted by the man in front of her to bother to try and appease him.
“Yeah, but why? You just came over and then you left again.”
“You left too.” So there. “I went for coffee and you left.”
“But I came back.”
“So did I.”
“But then you left again.”
If she weren’t so distracted by her tenacious doorman, she would have laughed. “We’ve established that. We both left and came back and I left a second time and didn’t come back, because I didn’t know when you were coming back.”
“I wasn’t long,” he said, a little petulantly.
“Okay.” Now Mr. Nice Guy was actually trying the knob to her apartment, giving it a turn and a shove. It didn’t open, obviously, since she was neurotic when it came to locking her door. Maybe she should call the police. Though a guy aggressively knocking on her door wasn’t exactly threatening even if he had tried the knob. They would think she was a loon, and all it would do would be to call attention to her.
“Sara? Is everything okay?”
“Yeah…” Sara turned her car off, frustrated with herself and her fear. “Stay on the phone with me, okay? I’m in the parking lot and there’s a guy at my apartment door, and he won’t go away. I think I need to see what he wants.”
“Does he look dangerous?”
“No. He looks like a Little League coach actually. But he’s been hovering for a good five minutes so I think I need to just see what he wants and get rid of him.”
“Okay, I’ll be right here.”
It was ridiculous to think that having Gabriel on the phone with her, fifteen miles away, was going to prevent her from bodily harm, but for some reason it was extremely comforting.
“I think I found a birth certificate for Anne Donovan’s daughter,” he said.
Sara was getting out of the car and crossing the parking lot. “Are you serious?” Sara briefly wondered if she should confess she knew who Anne’s daughter was- that she had all along. But if she did Gabriel would want the whole truth, and she wasn’t prepared to tell that yet.
“Yes. Her name was Margaret Donovan, and she was six years old at the time of Anne’s death. I have no idea what happened to her though, but it’s a starting point. If we could find descendants of Anne, we could actually do something with the blood flakes that have been preserved from the knife found at the scene.”
“How? We don’t have John Thiroux’s DNA. If we found blood that didn’t belong to Anne, based on a comp to a descendant, it doesn’t tell us anything except that someone else was in the room, which of course we knew, since someone killed her.”
“Well-
“Hang on, Gabriel.” Sara was behind the guy and he had turned around curiously. She kept the phone at her ear but moved the mouthpiece down towards her chin. “Can I help you?”
Giving her a friendly smile, the man raised the envelope in his hand and waved it back and forth. “Are you Sara Michaels? I have a delivery for you.”
“Thanks.” She held out her hand, still weirded out by his behavior. He wasn’t a mailman, and he wasn’t wearing a delivery uniform. No truck with FedEx or UPS on it in the parking lot either.
“Can you sign here? I’m glad you showed up. I can’t leave this kind of thing on a doorstep. I don’t get paid until I can say I put it directly in your hand.”
That made the hair on the back of her neck stand up. “What kind of thing?” She propped her phone on her shoulder and signed the paper he held out for her, using what amounted to an S followed by a slash. It seemed like a bad idea to use her official signature, but she wasn’t going to argue either. She wanted him off of her sidewalk.
“Usually court documents. Subpoenas, stuff like that.” He shrugged and gave her an apologetic smile. “Sorry.”
“Well, who sent it?” Sara glanced down at the envelope. It had a return address, but no name.
“All I can tell you is what it says right there.” He tapped the return address.
It told her nothing, other than it had a Naples address. Heart pounding she said, “Okay, thanks.” It had to be from her lawyer. He was the only one who knew her current address. Just paperwork from the house sale, or something regarding Rafe’s trial. He was just trying to keep her informed and up-to-date.
It wasn’t a warrant for her arrest or anything like that. They didn’t mail something like that to you. They just showed up and slapped cuffs on you.
“Have a great day.” He waved and jogged down the path to the parking lot.
“Yeah. You, too,” she murmured absently, fixing her phone so she could talk. “Hey, it’s just a delivery guy. He gave me a package.”
“Oh, okay. Good. So what were we talking about?”
Sara turned, saw the guy had gotten in to his car and was pulling away, and then opened her apartment door. Locking it behind her, she told Gabriel honestly, “I have no idea. And I think I should go. I think this package is from my lawyer and I should probably check it out.”
Glancing around her apartment, she spotted Angel reclining on the sofa arm, sound asleep. Tossing her purse down, she tore open the envelope, not even wanting to wait until she was off the phone. She needed to see it was just house or banking documents. Something to do with probate court. Boring. Nothing more, nothing less.
“Your lawyer? What do you have a lawyer for?”
“For settling my mom’s estate and stuff…” Sara frowned. The papers she was pulling out didn’t feel like forms or documents. They felt glossy, like…
Pictures. She gasped as she saw the image of her mother, dead, blood everywhere, on the wall, the bed, her mother’s neck, shoulders, chest, stomach, arms.
“Oh, God,” she said, flipping through the stack in her hand. “Jesus Christ.”
“What?”
Sara struggled to take deep breaths, to not throw up. To not give in to the fear and shock that was crawling up her throat and cutting off her air.
“Sara. What is in the package?” Gabriel’s voice was calm and commanding.
“Pictures. Of my mother. Dead.” She got to the last one, taken through her mother’s bedroom window at a downward trajectory. It showed the wounds on her mother’s chest in brutal, gory detail, her naked flesh ravaged by the knife and her killer.
Sara rammed it back into the envelope. “I’m going to be sick.”
Her stomach heaved and she choked on the heels of a gag. She had seen the crime scene photos in court, but that had been brief, a quick flashing in front of her as the prosecutor had tried to unnerve her. She’d never had time to study them, to take in their full glossy gore.
“Sara, listen to me. Put the pictures back in the envelope and close it. Do you understand?”
“I already did,” she said, voice trembling, tears in her eyes, as she swallowed hard, the urge to vomit thankfully dissipating. “Did you request these pictures for the book?”
“No, of course not. I would never do that without asking your permission. But I wouldn’t use crime scene photos anyway. And if I did want documents from your mother’s case I would have them sent to me, not you.”
That was true, that all made sense. “So who would send these to me?”
Even before the words were completely out, Sara felt fear creeping up. Someone knew where she was, her address. No one had access to those photos except the police and those involved in Rafe’s court case. She pulled the pile of photos back out of the envelope and found the one taken at a downward angle. Were these truly police shots of the scene or were they ta
ken before the police arrived? By the killer.
“Oh, God, what if the murderer sent these to me?” Skin clammy, she looked around her apartment again. She hadn’t even checked the windows or the other rooms. Angel leaped off the couch, the movement startling her. “He knows where I am.”
“Sara, I’m coming over. What’s your address?”
“Uh…” She couldn’t think. Couldn’t remember her address. Maybe she’d never known it. The blood spatters in the picture she was clutching blurred, her head swimming, and she had the horrific realization that she was going to faint. She fought and clung to reality, forcing her eyes open and air into her lungs, groping for the wall. The black spots and the ringing in her ears retreated and she managed to stay standing.
Cramming the pictures back into the envelope again and closing the metal tabs, she dropped it onto the coffee table and shifted a magazine over top of it. “Sorry, I can’t remember my address. I just moved here.”
Like he didn’t know that. God, she was losing it. Yet she forced herself to pick up the envelope yet again and read off her address from the front to Gabriel. How ironic. The person who had sent her the photos knew where she was more than she did.
* * *
Gabriel could actually fly. He could manipulate air and space and the laws of physics with his immortal body and his demonic, bastardized angel powers. He was tempted to use his talents to reach Sara quicker, but he wasn’t sure how he would explain arriving without a car. He could also project his voice, his thoughts, into a mortal’s mind, and he could soothe Sara, offer words of comfort or reassurance, but the risk was that she would think the voices in her head were signs of insanity, and he certainly didn’t want that.
So he would have to be patient, and mortal, and he would have to drive his car on I-10 West like anyone else would under the circumstances.
Which didn’t make him at all happy.
It was twenty minutes before he pulled into Sara’s apartment complex, and if he had used any sort of common sense, he would have called her back. He should have used the drive to talk to her, to calm her down. Though she hadn’t sounded hysterical. She had sounded almost numb, which worried him just as much, if not more so.
Dark Secrets: A Paranormal Romance Anthology Page 44
