Where would I draw the line?
There is no line. In my profession one must never be drawn. Because if I can justify walking away from this homicide case, I can justify walking away from any. I’d be left representing small-time crooks and miscreants charged with misdemeanors and violations like shoplifting and pissing in public. That’s not why I went into Law.
Then why did I?
“Because you’re so fucking good?” Milt’s voice resonates in my head.
But no. Were that the case I would have ended my career in New York, would have walked away from the law the day I received the phone call from the assistant DA on the Glenn case, telling me Brandon was innocent. Innocent but no less dead.
“Kevin,” Milt once said, “some people are just made for this shit.”
Right now I’m not so sure.
I back out of Grandma’s room, coughing finally from the pungent odor of ruin, forearm pressed against my mouth.
“Flan, let’s take a look at Trevor’s room and get the hell out of here,” I say, mid-hack. I’ve already retained a retired fire inspector to examine the crime scene, prepare a report, and testify at trial, if necessary. “Let’s leave this to the experts.”
Trevor’s room is a whole new devastated hell. It’s easy to see now how fire inspectors concluded so quickly where the fire started. In the rear of the room, on the wall facing the bed, I immediately find the infamous V, the burn pattern that indicates the fire’s point of origin.
I look from there to the remains of the bed, the spot where Trevor burned.
Not Trevor, actually. Trevor’s body.
We received the autopsy reports this morning. Toxicology tests turned up nothing surprising. Still the medical examiner Dr. Derek Noonan concluded that Trevor Simms was dead before the fire ever started.
This fire, as in many arson cases, was apparently set to conceal the crime.
This changes everything while changing virtually nothing. Erin Simms, the prosecution will say, killed her unfaithful husband Trevor first by stabbing him with a knife in the stomach. The knife has yet to be recovered, but the weapon is believed to have had a three- to four-inch blade with a serrated edge. The ME’s report suggests that the perpetrator—
Suddenly the dead black room is spinning. A bright white border frames my entire field of vision, and a dull chime sounds incessantly in my ears. Faint here, I realize, and I may very well cause a cave-in on the fifteenth floor, unwittingly burying myself alive in the rubble. I need to get out of here, sure as I did the night of the fire. So I summon Flan and together we walk briskly back toward the stairwell.
Soon as I hit the stairs, I elbow Flan aside and start to run.
CHAPTER 22
“Missus?” I say.
Jake squints again at the page in his hand. “That’s what it says here on her witness statement.”
I finger the fading cut on my forehead, then the puffy yellow-green flesh just below my left eye. “She never mentioned she was married.”
“I don’t suppose you asked.”
“Maybe she was divorced,” Flan says from the other end of the conference room table.
“No, no.” Jake sets the statement down and points. “Says here ‘married.’ To one Mr. Bruce Beagan. No question about that.”
“Shit,” I say.
“What are you thinking, son?”
“I’m thinking maybe I did something worse than eat that hick’s Buffalo wings.”
Jake grins. “You mean, like, maybe you fucked his wife?”
Flan says, “Maybe the Buffalo wings were just the last straw.”
So Sherry is married. I try to recall a wedding band but I’m drawing a blank. Did I even look for one? If I spotted one, would it have mattered?
Or am I just like…?
“Mia Landow,” I say quietly. “She’s the first witness I want to speak to. I need to know whether Trevor told her he planned on going ahead with the wedding. If Trevor lied to her to get her into bed, we have motive. Even if Trevor didn’t lie to her, I want to know why she decided to spill her guts less than an hour before the ceremony. She didn’t come clean just then because her conscience was killing her—she had an objective. And I think that objective was to stop the wedding.”
“How about the maid of honor?” Jake says. “What do we know about her?”
I flip the page on my legal pad. “Tara Holland. Apparently, she’s like an older sister to Erin, even though they’re around the same age. Erin is convinced they’ve been friends since the beginning of time.”
“You doubt her?”
I consider the question. “I doubt Erin on just about everything she says,” I finally admit. “But I particularly doubt anyone who thinks they have the perfect friend. Loyalty only goes so far.”
Jake shoots me a look. So does Flan.
“But if Tara Holland is as protective of Erin as Erin thinks,” I continue, “then any motive that is attributed to Erin applies to Tara as well.”
Jake says, “The same can probably be said of Erin’s parents.”
“Flan,” I say, “I’d like you to interview Todd and Rebecca Downey separately. Tell them it’s simply routine, but we have to surprise them with this, not give them any extra time to make sure they have their stories straight. Record the interviews. Have them transcribed. Then we’ll look for any inconsistencies. But whatever you do, Flan, be polite and be discreet.”
Flan jots it all down. “Got it.”
“Jake, talk to your pals in the police department. Glean any information you can about Trevor’s sister Lauren Simms and her fiancé Gabe Guidry. Lauren is spending an awful lot of time with the other side and she’s pretty damned convinced that Erin’s our killer. I want to know why.”
“I’ll get what I can, son. But I’ve got to tell you, I’ve lost a lot of friends on the force since you came along.”
I instinctively fix him with a stare. “Cops dislike a good defense attorney, Jake? I’m shocked.”
“It’s not just how good you are, son.” A brief pause, then Jake’s back to raising his voice. “It’s how you do things. How you conduct yourself in and out of the courtroom.”
“Jake, I…” I hold my hand up, hold my tongue. “All right, we don’t have time for this. I’ve also got to hunt down Trevor’s best man Isaac Cassel and have a chat with him. There’s something more to his relationship with Erin than Erin’s letting on.”
“The best man had a thing for the bride?” Flan asks, as Jake continues to seethe.
“They were together before Trevor, and I don’t think Isaac ever truly let her go.”
“But if Isaac killed Trevor to get to Erin, he wouldn’t let her go down for murder, right?”
Hoshi buzzes us on the intercom. “Kevin, you have a guest.”
“Tell him to have a seat, I’ll be right there.” I turn back to our investigator. “Self-preservation is an incredibly powerful instinct, Flan. You can see that by looking into the eyes of just about any criminal defendant. Even as a motive for murder, self-preservation can never be underestimated.”
Flan mulls this over.
“Besides,” I say, “there’s another scenario we have to consider. Unfortunately, this alternative scenario doesn’t much help our client.”
“What is it?” Flan says.
“That someone else murdered Trevor. And that Erin lit the fire to clean it up for them, inadvertently killing ten innocents in the process.”
CHAPTER 23
“Where are we going today?” Josh says. “Back to Tommy Lambada?”
“Tommy Bahama,” I tell him as I accelerate onto H-1 West. “But no, not today. Today I have something special planned.”
I’ve thought a lot about the kid these past few days and I’ve come to a decision. There’s no reason at all that Josh shouldn’t get to know his father, even if his father doesn’t fancy playing a parental role in the boy’s life. I don’t know how long the kid will be in the islands. Great-aunt Naomi’s prognosis, I’
m told, is terminal. Eventually, another family member will have to step in or Josh will be placed in a foster home. Either way, I’d say that Josh is most likely headed back to the mainland in the months to come. Twenty or thirty years down the road, I suspect both Josh and his father will regret not having had the opportunity to spend some time together, to get to know each other, for however briefly, as father and son.
When I pull into King Kam Auto in Waipahu, Josh is asleep, so I nudge him. “We’re here, kid. Rise and shine.”
Josh groggily lifts his head, then makes a face reserved for broccoli as he scans the garage. “I thought we were going to Hawaiian Waters Adventure Park.”
“Not today.” I help the kid off with his seat belt. “I have to drop my Jeep off to be painted and pick up a rental car across the street. Let’s go.”
Justell is seated behind her desk browsing a copy of People when we enter the office. When I clear my throat, she looks up and offers a smile. Then she looks down at the kid and her dark eyes widen. “That Mongoose’s boy?”
I nod. Mongoose’s legal name is Sebastian Haslett, and from the few accounts Flan and I collected over the weekend, not at all a bad guy.
“That’s right,” I say. “Thought I’d bring Josh along when I brought in my Jeep, maybe get the two of them a bit reacquainted.”
Justell closes her magazine and makes googly eyes at the kid, but tells us Mongoose went out to lunch and isn’t expected back the rest of the day. I sigh. There goes my plan to park myself at the bar at Chili’s, while Josh and Sebastian enjoy a family reunion with some cheese fries and baby back ribs.
Justell picks up the phone and summons Sebastian’s second in command, a young guy named Dominic, who appears in the office before Justell even hangs up the receiver.
“Can I do for ya?” He spits his words out so fast even a New Yorker like myself is briefly taken aback.
As I tell him about the Jeep and Sebastian’s estimate, Dominic scratches his left ear and shoots a look at the kid, throwing him an uncomfortable smile. No question as to why this guy isn’t at lunch—he’s a hair over my six feet yet probably weighs a buck-twenty soaking wet. Food doesn’t seem to be high on his list of priorities. When Justell hands him the paperwork I filled out last week, his fingers tremble so badly the papers sound as though they’re being taken by the wind—although there is no wind, not so much as a breeze, I’m convinced, on the entire island of Oahu today. I’m dripping with sweat and cussing in my head Parker Canton, the ass-clown who calls himself a weatherman on one of the local stations. For some reason, Parker Canton thinks this killer heat is funny.
“We can do that, we can do that,” Dominic says, before launching into the process that Sebastian’s already explained.
Without hearing him speak a word, I could’ve told you Skinny Dom’s problem. Before I took on Erin’s case, I saw at least one of these guys in my office every week. I like small-time crystal meth cases, because the money’s quick and easy and I generally don’t have to worry about my client doing time. Just a stint in rehab. Stay clean for a year and he or she is fine. Sure, that’s exactly what we have here: dilated pupils, stretching across one blue iris and one brown; grinding teeth; impaired speech; jerky movements. No question, Skinny Dom likes his ice. Judging from his complexion and sunken cheeks, I’d say he’s been on the quartz for quite some time.
A momentary pause to catch his breath, then Dom’s on the dog track again, chasing the rabbit. “So, just leave the Jeep keys with Justell and make sure you grab any and all personal possessions, since we’re not responsible for those, then head over to our friends across the street, fill out a little more paperwork, and they’ll give you the keys to a nice, new rental, whatever you like, for example another Wrangler or they’ve got Mustang convertibles, nicey nice, Hummers and other SUVs—who doesn’t like a Hummer, right?—or you can go with something a little less conventional like a Mini Cooper or a Miata—then again, you’re not a chick, right?—or maybe something that might be fun to drive around the island, like say a dune buggy or a Harley or a hovercraft, am I right?”
As I hand the keys to the Jeep to Justell, Skinny Dom’s still behind me talking in my ear. He keeps going even as I thank him, as I give him the shaka so not to shake hands, even as I escort the kid by his nose-picking paw across the parking lot in the direction of the rental car agency.
Skinny Dom finally stops at the edge of King Kam Auto’s property, as though there were an invisible barrier he can’t cross. I’ll have to remember that.
“What’s wrong with that guy?” Josh says once we’re out of the icehead’s earshot.
I glance at the kid and shrug. “Too many yellow jellybeans, I guess.”
CHAPTER 24
At dusk I punch the doorbell to Erin’s Kaneohe home and listen to the peal. I have just a moment to glance back at my rented jet-black Maserati GranCabrio convertible parked in the driveway, before the door swings open and Erin greets me with an angry shake of the head and a shrug.
All right, so it wasn’t the most prudent financial move, me renting a vehicle I couldn’t afford even in the best of times. But upgrading at a rental agency is a slippery slope—you reach a point and you might as well go for it all, even if you are waiting out a shaky bail assignment. Besides, it’s only for five or six days. A week at most.
When I step inside, I’m surprised to find Erin’s parents standing in the dimly lit living room, both with their arms crossed, sneering at me.
“We were both accosted by your Mr. Ryan Flanagan today,” Rebecca starts, just as the door slams shut behind me.
I continue walking toward them despite Rebecca’s obvious rage. “Interviewed, you mean.”
“More like interrogated,” she says.
So much for “But whatever you do, Flan, be polite and be discreet.”
“I seriously doubt that,” I tell her. “I think you’re misinterpreting his—”
Rebecca raises her voice another few decibels. “He actually used the words, ‘Pop quiz, hotshot,’ when I asked him if I could pour myself a cup of coffee first.”
“He was a big Dennis Hopper fan,” I say. “Hopper’s death hit him pretty hard.”
“That doesn’t justify his behavior,” Todd says.
I hold up my hands. “Look, Mr. Flanagan’s been under a lot of stress lately. His estranged teenage daughter is visiting from the mainland, and she’s been quite the handful. But I assure you, whatever he did, it was because he felt it was in the best interest of your daughter’s defense.”
It’s the perfect segue back into the case and I don’t waste it. “Please,” I tell them, motioning to the dining room table, “everyone have a seat. There’s a lot of new information, and there are plenty of issues we have to discuss.”
Once everyone is seated and relatively calm, I begin with Trevor’s autopsy report.
“Stabbed?” Todd says as though he’s just had the wind knocked out of him. His eyes flutter to Rebecca, who escapes them by closing her own. A lone tear sneaks past her left eyelid and slaloms down the side of her nose.
Squeezing her fingers into a fist and placing it over her face, Rebecca asks, “What was he stabbed with?”
“The ME concludes Trevor was stabbed in the abdomen with a knife,” I say, “most likely something small like a switch with a three- to four-inch blade. It appears from the medical examiner’s analysis that Trevor had time enough to bleed to death before being consumed by the fire.”
Rebecca gazes at Todd, both eyes moist.
Todd puts an arm around her but doesn’t say anything.
Leaning forward I study all three of them, waiting for an explanation. But the entire table has suddenly fallen as still and silent as Stephen Colbert in a bear cave.
“Did they find the knife?” Todd finally says.
I shake my head, then I push my chair back and stand, an uneasiness growing in my stomach. I’d assumed during my first few visits to Erin’s house that she’d left the lights off, the c
andles aglow, to create a certain atmosphere. But with Erin’s parents sitting here, I’m no longer so sure. So I lift two lit candles off the mantel and walk them slowly back to the table, setting one in front of Rebecca Downey, the other in front of her daughter.
Before my eyes adjust, I flash on my initial meeting with Erin on Hidden Beach, how she immediately flinched from my touch in the sunlight. Now, in the subdued radiance of the candle, I scan Erin’s bare arms, from the tops of her shoulders to the tip of each finger. The scars are tough to make out now that her body’s tanned and she’s bathed in such scant light—but, make no mistake, they are there.
I look from Erin to her mother, because that’s how this often works. Rebecca’s scars are far more faded and buried some under the wrinkles of age. But they, too, are there.
“You’re a cutter,” I say quietly to Erin.
Tears in her eyes, she bows her head.
I ask, “Have you cut since you’ve come to Hawaii?”
“Yes,” she whispers.
“What did you use?”
“A Pteroco Legend.”
“A what?”
“It’s an automatic switchblade with a serrated edge.”
Todd leans his head back and stares into the vaulted ceiling, a helpless look creeping over his features. I follow his gaze to a lizard, who darts down a wooden rafter before vanishing into a crack at the base of the wall.
The whir of the ceiling fan mixes with the myriad of thoughts pinballing through my mind, such that I can barely focus.
I turn to Erin’s parents. “I take it from your reaction to Trevor’s autopsy report that you both knew about this.”
Rebecca nods her head.
“Anyone else?” I ask Erin. “Does anyone else know about your cutting?”
“Tara knows,” she says softly. “Mia knows. Isaac knows. And, worst of all, Lauren knows.”
Rebecca’s eyes light up. “You told Lauren?”
“Lauren’s known that I cut for a long time. I mean, you’d have to be blind. But she’s also caught me with the knife since I’ve been in Hawaii.”
“The switchblade?” I say.
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