by Kara Lennox
The lights were on. He supposed it was too much to hope that everyone had gone to bed. He wouldn’t get off that easily.
He eased the station wagon into its usual spot, ran up the window and turned off the engine. As he got out of the car, the absolute quiet struck him. After the noise of the cheering fans, then the Houston traffic, sirens and horns, the peace wrapped him up like a pig in blanket.
He’d always hated Coot’s Bayou. But maybe this place had its strong points. The quiet, the freshness of the air—when you were upwind of the refinery, at least—brought you a little closer to God.
The peaceful feeling lasted only until he went inside, placed his mother’s car keys in the bowl by the door, and entered the kitchen where the lights blazed.
His mother and Beth sat at the table playing a card game. He knew they heard him come in; it wasn’t like he’d attempted to be quiet. But at first they didn’t look at him.
Beth laid a card facedown into the discard pile. “Gin.”
“You got me again.” His mom shook her head, then finally looked at Mitch. Her eyes widened in alarm. “Oh, my God.”
That made Beth turn and look. Her mouth fell open, and she was out of her chair, grasping his arm, standing on her toes to peer into his face. “God, Mitch, are you okay?”
“I’m fine.” Then he remembered the blow he’d taken to the side of his face. He probably had the makings of a black eye. He stepped around Beth to the kitchen counter, where his mother’s ancient chrome toaster sat, and leaned down to have a look.
His reflection gave even him a start. He looked like something out of a horror movie, his face covered in dried blood, his left eye swollen and starting to bruise.
“You should go to the emergency room.” Beth’s voice trembled, though he didn’t know whether she was afraid or angry or some combination of the two.
“Now, hold on. It’s not that bad. Just a small cut. I didn’t realize it was bleeding, that’s why it looks so bad.” He tore off a paper towel, soaked it in cool water from the sink and wiped off his face.
“I’ll get you an ice pack,” Myra said quietly as she went to the freezer and rummaged around. “Here, I think this will work.” She handed him a bag of frozen peas. “Did you wreck my car?” She sounded really disappointed in him.
“No, the car is fine.”
“Then what happened?” Beth demanded hotly. “Hell, never mind, it’s obvious. You got into a brawl with someone. Couldn’t you have done that inside the parish? Did you have to break the law?”
He should tell her. She believed he’d been involved in a bar fight, and wasn’t that way worse than the reality? But somehow, he couldn’t get the words past his mouth.
“I’m going to bed,” Myra said. “I’ll leave you two to sort things out.”
“There’s nothing to sort,” Beth said. “Mitch appears to be intent on ruining any chance he has of beating the charges against him—”
“That’s not true.”
His mother left the kitchen without looking at him. She’d been angry with him before; he’d been a more-than-troublesome teenager. But she’d never given up on him.
And Beth…
“The only law I broke was to violate the terms of my bail,” he said. “I didn’t drink and drive, I didn’t assault anyone.” Not illegally, anyway. “I didn’t even drive fast.”
“Are you going to tell me where you were and what you were doing?”
“I was in Houston. I was keeping a promise.”
“And you ran into a door,” she said flatly.
He’d thought about lying—telling her he fell, or that he was mugged. But he wasn’t going to add lying on top of everything else. “No, someone hit me.”
“Was there a woman involved?”
So that’s what this was about? She thought he’d gotten into a fight over a woman?
“No. Not even close. You’re the only woman in my life.” As he said the words, he realized how strong and emphatic they were—and how true. He was involved with Beth, whether he wanted to be or not. She’d sneaked under his skin somehow.
Her face softened, but she looked wary, too. “I’m in your life? Is that what you call it?”
“’Fraid so. I never intended for that to happen. But I care about you.”
“Oh.” She sat back down in her chair. “That’s what guys say just before they tell you you deserve someone better. Or, ‘It’s not you, it’s me.’”
He could have easily said either of those things, and they’d have been true.
“Why won’t you tell me where you were, and what you were doing?” she asked.
“Because I’d rather have you angry with me than…” Than what? Repulsed? “Would it help if I said it won’t happen again?”
“You won’t go out at night and get beat up, or you won’t lie?”
He hadn’t lied. He just hadn’t volunteered the whole truth. But he sensed Beth didn’t want to quibble about semantics.
“I won’t mess with the cuff anymore,” he clarified.
“So you’re done with your contractual obligations?”
“Yes, for now.” He’d told his manager he couldn’t appear in any more fights until he was free of the charges against him. “Does Daniel know about—”
“That you outsmarted your monitoring cuff and disappeared? No. I was going to call him if you hadn’t shown up before one. But I didn’t want to admit I’d lost track of you. That was my job, you know. Yes, I was supposed to be evaluating evidence, but as your friend, I was supposed to keep you in compliance with your bond. I failed at that.”
“I’m sorry I worried you. But you have to believe me—it won’t happen again.”
“I want to trust you.” Her eyes brimmed with tears. “I wish I could.”
That hurt. But he had only himself to blame. Because it mattered what Beth thought about him. It mattered a lot. His mother’s disappointment bothered him. But Beth’s was like an ice pick straight through his heart.
Did that mean he loved her? Would it make her feel better if he told her that?
No, he couldn’t. He’d burdened her with enough; he wasn’t going to try to guilt her into further loyalty to him by telling her he loved her, especially when he wasn’t a hundred percent sure what he was feeling.
He only knew he didn’t want to hurt her again.
“Can you put the cuff back on without setting it off?” she asked suddenly.
“I think so.”
“Good. Tomorrow, I have to view Larry Montague’s autopsy. Then I have some work to do with Billy. Can I count on you to stay here, and stay out of trouble?”
“Yes.” He still felt tiny quills of jealousy making his skin prickle. But he’d forfeited any right he had to object to her spending time with anyone she wanted, for any reason.
For years now, he’d been working toward becoming an elite MMA fighter. Now that he was finally making headway, he had to ask himself: Was it worth it? Was it worth tossing aside the finest woman who’d ever crossed his path?
Unfortunately, the answer didn’t matter. He’d blown it with Beth. He was history.
WHEN BETH ARRIVED at the parish morgue at 6:45 the next morning, Larry Montague was already laid out on the dissection table. He’d been bathed and photographed, so she’d missed that part.
Dwayne was up in the observation room with her. He was out of uniform, in worn khaki shorts and a red YMCA T-shirt.
“What happened to his clothes?” Beth asked. Her voice sounded raspy; she’d spent a good part of last night crying into her pillow like a jilted teenager. A cool shower and lots of concealer had made her puffy eyes look respectable, but she couldn’t shake the frog in her throat.
“Sent to the lab for processing, I imagine.”
“So they’ll test the stains for DNA? Will they look for seeds and pollen that might tie him to another murder scene? And dirt—they should take samples of the dirt. Each area has its own signature of minerals, shells and diatoms that can be matched l
ike a fingerprint, you know. And insect larvae—”
“The lab is good,” Dwayne said, uncharacteristically sharp. “I’m sure they’ll do all the necessary testing.”
“I only ask because I tested the lipstick stain. There was a small amount of DNA present, but it was too degraded to give me a profile. Maybe with a larger sample, your lab could get better results.”
“I already pointed out that stain to one of the physical evidence squints,” he said.
“Good. Because I’ve narrowed it down to only a few brands and colors. If we find a witness, or even a suspect, who wears one of the matching lipsticks we can compare—”
“I got it, Beth.”
“Okay. I just want to be thorough.”
“You give a whole new meaning to that word.”
Maybe Dwayne had taken some flak for cooperating with his half-brother’s team of investigators. She tried not to take his sour mood personally.
Larry’s autopsy didn’t produce much in the way of surprises. His death was due to a single gunshot wound to the head, which had bled out. The bullet had gone all the way through his skull and out the other side and hadn’t been recovered, but judging from the size of the wound, the M.E. thought it was a small caliber.
Time of death was estimated at between 1 and 4 a.m. the night before the body was found.
“Do the police have any leads on where the actual killing took place?” Beth asked Dwayne casually.
“Nothing yet. But don’t be surprised if someone shows up at Myra’s house with a search warrant. The current theory is that, if Mitch killed Larry, he did it without leaving home. So the victim must have come to him.”
“And, what, his mother disposed of the body? Come on, Dwayne.”
“Maybe not his mother. Could have been…you.”
An uneasy sensation wiggled up Beth’s spine. “So now I’m a suspect?”
Dwayne just shrugged.
Apparently the cops didn’t know Mitch had left the house that night. Had they simply not checked with the monitoring company?
The rest of Larry’s autopsy had revealed Larry to be a man in very poor health, from the years of drinking, drugs and living on the street.
“If a bullet hadn’t killed him,” the M.E. said, “his liver would have given out within six months.”
“Somebody actually did Larry a favor,” Dwayne commented. “At least it was quick.”
“I doubt he’d see it that way,” Beth said coolly. She was still miffed at Dwayne’s insinuations. Whose side was he on?
One of the lab assistants who had left after taking some samples came back in. “Good news,” he announced. “The scrapings from under the deceased’s fingernails yielded DNA. I’m pretty sure I can get a profile from it.”
Finally, something was going their way. If the profile turned out to be someone other than Larry himself, and if that person had previously been in the system, they could find a match.
“I’m not sure how helpful that will be,” Dwayne said. “God knows how many people Larry struggled with over the last few days. Me and Mitch, for sure. And I doubt he cleans his fingernails on a regular basis.”
“But he did!” Beth said. “His friend at the homeless camp told me he’d spiffed himself up before meeting the mystery woman, and that he even cleaned his nails.”
“He specifically said that?” Dwayne asked.
Beth noticed, then, that Dwayne had several fresh scratches on his arms. An icky feeling squirmed under her skin, and suddenly she wondered if she was standing in the same room as a murderer.
What if Mitch was right? What if Dwayne was only pretending to be helpful, and instead was insinuating himself into the investigation so that he could be privy to what evidence the police and Project Justice were coming up with?
Beth had gotten sidetracked about the lipstick, thinking a woman was involved, when maybe that stain was irrelevant.
She needed to get out of that room, away from Dwayne, before she said or did anything that would give away her suspicions. Her cell phone rang, giving her the perfect excuse to step outside.
Caller ID told her it was someone at Project Justice. She answered as she stepped outside into the stairwell that led downstairs. “Beth McClelland.”
“Beth, it’s Cassie. We got a report back on the lipstick. It’s an off-brand called Genevieve Stay Put Color Glo. The shade is Youthful Coral. The case is very distinctive, gold with copper stripes.”
“That’s good work. Thanks.”
“You don’t sound that excited.”
“It’s just that I’m not really sure a woman is responsible for killing Larry Montague.”
“But she could be a witness, right? And she hasn’t come forward. So maybe she’s guilty, too.”
“Yes, you’re right.” Beth had to remember that she wasn’t trained as an investigator. A few weeks of the police academy and years spent collecting and analyzing evidence didn’t make her a detective. She needed to turn over what she’d discovered to Billy and let him lead the investigation.
Just as she disconnected, Dwayne exited right behind her. “Are you done observing?”
She nodded. Anything further, she could get from the official autopsy report.
“Good. I promised Linda I’d put in a full day in our garden.” He seemed in a hurry to get away from Beth. He certainly wasn’t as friendly toward her as he’d been on other occasions.
She’d just gotten into her car when the cell rang again. It was Raleigh.
“Hey. What’s up?” She tried to sound upbeat. If her depressed mood showed up in her voice, Raleigh would want to know what was wrong, and she simply wasn’t up to telling her about the latest fiasco with Mitch. Daniel didn’t tolerate clients who didn’t want to help themselves; there were many prison inmates on the foundation’s waiting list.
She was terrified of the thought that Daniel might cut Mitch off and apply their resources to someone who wasn’t skating on such thin ice.
“I’m on my way into town to meet with Buck Michoux again.” She sounded impatient.
“Is the local lawyer not working out?”
“He’s okay, just nervous. He’s never defended a death penalty case before. Don’t worry, Beth. If we end up going to trial, Daniel will hire a whole herd of top defense lawyers. I called you for another reason.”
“Oh?”
“I want to meet you for lunch, if you’re free. I have something to show you. It’s something you might find…unpleasant,” she warned.
“Something about Mitch?”
“I’m afraid so.”
Beth’s stomach fell. How much more could she take? She’d already decided to back off from any relationship, no matter how much it hurt. Did she need to know anything else?
But curiosity got the best of her. “Where do you want to meet?”
At twelve-thirty, Beth and Raleigh were seated at the Conch & Crab, the family-friendly bar and grill where Mitch and Beth had been looking for Larry only two days ago. Raleigh ordered a club sandwich, but Beth was still full from the huge breakfast Myra had cooked for her, so she settled for a side salad. She wasn’t really hungry after viewing the autopsy, anyway.
“I skipped breakfast,” Raleigh said after the waitress left.
“I wish I had. Remind me not to eat bacon and eggs before an autopsy.”
“How did it go?”
“No huge revelations, but there was biological material under Larry’s fingernails. They’re searching the database for a match. But I have to say, Dwayne Bell started acting real weird when he heard that news. And he has fresh scratches on his arm.”
Raleigh looked disturbed by that news. “He did struggle with Larry when he arrested him at the shack.”
“Yeah, but Mitch had control of Larry’s arms. I don’t remember any scratching or bleeding.”
“You think Dwayne…no. He’s been helping us to clear Mitch.”
“Or just pretending to.”
Raleigh took a sip of her soft
drink and mulled that over.
“So what is it you have to show me?” Beth asked, knowing she would have to face whatever this “unpleasant” news was sooner or later.
“It’s a video. Griffin was watching some cable sports show last night. Cage fighting.”
Beth felt her nose wrinkling in distaste. She liked and respected Raleigh’s new husband, a former investigative reporter who was now on the Project Justice staff. “What would he want to watch something like that for?”
Raleigh shrugged. “I don’t know, but it seems to be a popular sport these days.”
“So, what exactly is cage fighting, anyway? The bartender I met here the other day was talking about it, too. Is it where they throw two guys in a cage and see who comes out alive? Is that even legal?”
“It’s nothing like that, really. It’s more like boxing, but using martial arts and wrestling, too. They have timed rounds and a referee.”
“So why are you telling me this?”
Raleigh pulled her phone out of her purse. “One of the fighters last night was…well, I told Griffin it was impossible. But then I started watching and saw for myself. This is a clip we got off YouTube after the fight was over.”
Beth had a sick feeling in her stomach. She knew what was coming. And now everything that had happened last night made sense. And those two times she had seen Mitch beating up inanimate objects—he was training.
She almost told Raleigh she didn’t need to see, that Mitch had gone AWOL last night. But some part of her had to look. She had to know the worst.
Raleigh handed the phone to her after starting the video. Even on the small screen, she could see that one of the fighters was unmistakably Mitch Delacroix. He called himself Mickey Croix, the Cagey Cajun, but it was him.
She watched, mesmerized, as the two men beat each other up. Even squinting, peering through her lashes, it still was enough to make her want to throw up.
The blow that had cut Mitch’s forehead came toward the end of the video. As soon as she’d seen blood, she’d almost thrust the phone away. But only a few seconds remained; Mitch, roaring like an enraged animal, picked up his opponent and slammed him facedown into the mat.
