by Sandra Brown
Alex’s exit line had been well rehearsed, well timed and perfectly executed. The meeting had gone just as she had planned it, but she was vastly relieved that it was over.
Now, she peeled off one cloying piece of clothing after another. She would love to think that the worst was behind her, but she feared it was yet to come. The three men she had met today wouldn’t roll over and play dead. She would have to confront them again, and when she did, they wouldn’t be so overjoyed to see her.
Angus Minton seemed as full of goodwill as Santa Claus, but Alex knew that nobody in Angus’s position could be as harmless as he tried to pretend. He was the richest, most powerful man in the county. One didn’t achieve that status solely through benign leadership. He would fight to keep what he’d spent a lifetime cultivating.
Junior was a charmer who knew his way around women. The years had been kind to him. He’d changed little from the photographs Alex had seen of him as an adolescent. She also knew that he used his good looks to his advantage. It would be easy for her to like him. It would also be easy to suspect him of murder.
Reede Lambert was the toughest for her to pigeonhole because her impressions of him were the least specific. Unlike the others, she hadn’t been able to look him in the eye. Reede the man looked much harder and stronger than Reede the boy from her grandma’s picture box. Her first impression was that he was sullen, unfriendly, and dangerous.
She was certain that one of these men had killed her mother.
Celina Gaither had not been murdered by the accused, Buddy Hicks. Her grandmother, Merle Graham, had drummed that into little Alex’s head like a catechism all her life.
“It’ll be up to you, Alexandra, to set the record right,” Merle had told her almost daily. “That’s the least you can do for your mother.” At that point she usually glanced wistfully at one of the many framed photographs of her late daughter scattered throughout the house. Looking at the photographs would invariably make her cry, and nothing her granddaughter did could cheer her.
Until a few weeks ago, however, Alex hadn’t known who Merle suspected of killing Celina. Finding out had been the darkest hour of Alex’s life.
Responding to an urgent call from the nursing home doctor, she had sped up the interstate to Waco. The facility was quiet, immaculate, and staffed by caring professionals. Merle’s lifetime pension from the telephone company made it affordable. For all its amenities, it still had the gray smell of old age; despair and decay permeated its corridors.
When she had arrived that cold, dismal, rainy afternoon, Alex had been told that her grandmother was in critical condition. She entered the hushed private room and moved toward the hospital bed. Merle’s body had visibly deteriorated since Alex had visited only the week before. But her eyes were as alive as Fourth of July sparklers. Their glitter, however, was hostile.
“Don’t come in here,” Merle rasped on a shallow breath. “I don’t want to see you. It’s because of you!”
“What, Grandma?” Alex asked in dismay. “What are you talking about?”
“I don’t want you here.”
Embarrassed by the blatant rejection, Alex had glanced around at the attending physician and nurses. They shrugged their incomprehension. “Why don’t you want to see me? I’ve come all the way from Austin.”
“It’s your fault she died, you know. If it hadn’t been for you…” Merle moaned with pain and clutched her sheet with sticklike, bloodless fingers.
“Mother? You’re saying I’m responsible for Mother’s death?”
Merle’s eyes popped open. “Yes,” she hissed viciously.
“But I was just a baby, an infant,” Alex argued, desperately wetting her lips. “How could I—”
“Ask them.”
“Who, Grandma? Ask who?”
“The one who murdered her. Angus, Junior, Reede. But it was you… you… you…”
Alex had to be led from the room by the doctor several minutes after Merle lapsed into a deep coma. The ugly accusation had petrified her; it reverberated in her brain and assaulted her soul.
If Merle held Alex responsible for Celina’s death, so much of Alex’s upbringing could be explained. She had always wondered why Grandma Graham was never very affectionate with her. No matter how remarkable Alex’s achievements, they were never quite good enough to win her grandmother’s praise. She knew she was never considered as gifted, or clever, or charismatic as the smiling girl in the photographs that Merle looked at with such sad longing.
Alex didn’t resent her mother. Indeed, she idolized and adored her with the blind passion of a child who had grown up without her parents. She constantly worked toward being as good at everything as Celina had been, not only so she would be a worthy daughter, but in the desperate hope of earning her grandmother’s love and approval. So it came as a stunning blow to hear from her dying grandmother’s lips that she was responsible for Celina’s murder.
The doctor had tentatively suggested that she might want to have Mrs. Graham taken off the life support systems. “There’s nothing we can do for her now, Ms. Gaither.”
“Oh, yes, there is,” Alex had said with a ferocity that shocked him. “You can keep her alive. I’ll be in constant touch.”
Immediately upon her return to Austin, she began to research the murder case of Celina Graham Gaither. She spent many sleepless nights studying transcripts and court documents before approaching her boss, the district attorney of Travis County.
Greg Harper had shifted the smoking cigarette from one corner of his lips to the other. In the courtroom, Greg was the bane of guilty defendants, lying witnesses, and orderly judges. He talked too loud, smoked too much, drank in abundance, and wore five-hundred-dollar pinstriped suits with lizard boots that cost twice that much.
To say that he was flashy and egomaniacal would be gross understatements. He was shrewd, ambitious, ruthless, relentless, and profane, and would therefore probably carve out quite a niche for himself in state politics, which was his driving ambition. He believed in the reward system and appreciated raw talent. That’s why Alex was on his staff.
“You want to reopen a twenty-five-year-old murder case?” he asked her when she stated the purpose of the conference she’d requested. “Got a reason?”
“Because the victim was my mother.”
For the first time since she’d known him, Greg had asked a question he didn’t already know the answer to—or at least have a fairly good guess. “Jesus, Alex, I’m sorry. I didn’t know that.”
She gave a slight, dismissive shrug. “Well, it’s not something one advertises, is it?”
“When was this? How old were you?”
“An infant. I don’t remember her. She was only eighteen when she was killed.”
He ran his long, bony hand down his even longer, bonier face. “The case remains on the books as officially unsolved?”
“Not exactly. There was a suspect arrested and charged, but the case was dismissed without ever going to trial.”
“Fill me in, and make it short. I’m having lunch with the state attorney general today,” he said. “You’ve got ten minutes. Shoot.”
When she finished, Greg frowned and lit a cigarette from the smoldering tip of one he’d smoked down to the filter. “Goddamn, Alex, you didn’t say that the Mintons were involved. Your granny really believes that one of them iced your mother?”
“Or their friend, Reede Lambert.”
“By any chance, did she provide them with a motive?”
“Not specifically,” Alex said evasively, loath to tell him that Merle had cited her, Alex, as the motive. “Apparently, Celina was close friends with them.”
“Then why would one of them kill her?”
“That’s what I want to find out.”
“On the state’s time?”
“It’s a viable case, Greg,” she said tightly.
“All you’ve got is a hunch.”
“It’s stronger than a hunch.”
He gave a noncommit
tal grunt. “Are you sure this isn’t just a personal grudge?”
“Of course not.” Alex took umbrage. “I’m pursuing this from a strictly legal viewpoint. If Buddy Hicks had gone on trial and been convicted by a jury, I wouldn’t put so much stock in what Grandma told me. But it’s there in the public records.”
“How come she didn’t raise hell about the murder when it happened?”
“I asked her that myself. She didn’t have much money and she felt intimidated by the legal machinations. Besides, the murder had left her drained of energy. What little she had went into rearing me.”
It was now clear to Alex why, since her earliest recollections, her grandmother had pushed her toward the legal profession. Because it was expected of her, Alex had excelled in school and had ultimately graduated from the University of Texas Law School in the top ten percent of her class. The law was the profession Merle had chosen for her, but thankfully it was a field that intrigued and delighted Alex. Her curious mind enjoyed delving into its intricacies. She was well prepared to do what she must.
“Grandmother was just a widow lady, left with a baby to raise,” she said, building her case. “There was precious little she could do about the judge’s ruling at Hicks’s competency hearing. With what money she had, she packed up, left town, and never went back.”
Greg consulted his wristwatch. Then, anchoring his cigarette between his lips, he stood up and pulled on his suit jacket. “I can’t reopen a murder case without a shred of evidence or probable cause. You know that. I didn’t snatch you out of law school ’cause you were stupid. Gotta confess, though, that your shapely ass had something to do with it.”
“Thanks.”
Her disgust was obvious and it wasn’t because of his sexism, which was so brassy she knew it was insincere. “Look, Alex, this isn’t a teensy-weensy favor you’re asking of me,” he said. “Because of who these guys are, we’re talking earth-shattering shit here. Before I stick my neck out, I’ve got to have more to go on than your hunch and Granny’s ramblings.”
She followed him to the door of his office. “Come on, Greg, spare me the legal lingo. You’re only thinking of yourself.”
“You’re goddamn right I am. Constantly.”
His admission left her no room to maneuver. “At least grant me permission to investigate this murder when I’m not actively involved in other cases.”
“You know what a backlog we’ve got. We can’t get all the cases to court as it is now.”
“I’ll work overtime. I won’t shirk my other responsibilities. You know I won’t.”
“Alex—”
“Please, Greg.” She could see that he wanted her to withdraw the request, but she wouldn’t capitulate to anything less than a definite no. Her preliminary research had piqued her interest as a prosecutor and litigator, and her desperate desire to prove her grandmother wrong and absolve herself of any guilt further motivated her undertakings. “If I don’t produce something soon, I’ll drop it and you’ll never hear of it again.”
He studied her intent face. “Why don’t you just work out your frustrations with hot, illicit screwing like everybody else? At least half the guys in town would accommodate you, married or single.” She gave him a withering look. “Okay, okay. You can do some digging, but only in your spare time. Come up with something concrete. If I’m going to win votes, I can’t look or act like a goddamn fool, and neither can anybody else in this office. Now I’m late for lunch. ’Bye.”
Her caseload was heavy, and the time she had had to spend on her mother’s murder had been limited. She read everything she could get her hands on—newspaper accounts, transcripts of Buddy Hicks’s hearing—until she had the facts memorized.
They were basic and simple. Mr. Bud Hicks, who was mentally retarded, had been arrested near the murder scene with the victim’s blood on his clothing. At the time of his arrest, he had had in his possession the surgical instrument with which he had allegedly killed the victim. He was jailed, questioned, and charged. Within days there was a hearing. Judge Joseph Wallace had declared Hicks incompetent to stand trial and had confined him to a state mental hospital.
It seemed like an open-and-shut case. Just when she had begun to believe that Greg was right, that she was on a wild-goose chase, she had discovered a curious glitch in the transcript of Hicks’s hearing. After following up on it, she had approached Greg again, armed with a signed affidavit.
“Well, I’ve got it.” Triumphantly, she slapped the folder on top of the others cluttering his desk.
Greg scowled darkly. “Don’t be so friggin’ cheerful, and for crissake, stop slamming things around. I’ve got a bitchin’ hangover.” He mumbled his words through a dense screen of smoke. He stopped puffing on the cigarette only long enough to sip at a steaming cup of black coffee. “How was your weekend?”
“Wonderful. Far more productive than yours. Read that.”
Tentatively, he opened the file and scanned the contents with bleary eyes. “Hmm.” His initial reading was enough to grab his attention. Leaning back in his chair and propping his feet on the corner of his desk, he reread it more carefully. “This is from the doctor at the mental hospital where this Hicks fellow is incarcerated?”
“Was. He died a few months ago.”
“Interesting.”
“Interesting?” Alex cried, disappointed with the bland assessment. She left her chair, circled it, and stood behind it, gripping the upholstered back in agitation. “Greg, Buddy Hicks spent twenty-five years in that hospital for nothing.”
“You don’t know that yet. Don’t jump to conclusions.”
“His last attending psychiatrist said that Buddy Hicks was a model patient. He never demonstrated any violent tendencies. He had no apparent sex drive, and in the doctor’s expert opinion, he was incapable of committing a crime like the one that cost my mother her life. Admit that it looks fishy.”
He read several other briefs, then muttered, “It looks fishy, but it’s sure as hell not a smoking gun.”
“Short of a miracle, I won’t be able to produce any concrete evidence. The case is twenty-five years old. All I can hope for is enough probable cause to bring it before a grand jury. A confession from the real killer—because I’m convinced, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that Bud Hicks did not murder my mother—is a pipe dream. There’s also the slim possibility of smoking out an eyewitness.”
“Slim to none, Alex.”
“Why?”
“You’ve done enough homework, so you should know. The murder took place in a barn on Angus Minton’s ranch. Say his name anywhere in that county and the ground trembles. He’s a big enchilada. If there was an eyewitness, he wouldn’t testify against Minton because he’d be biting the hand that feeds him. Minton runs about a dozen enterprises in an area of the state where they’re gasping their last breath, economically speaking.
“Which brings us to another delicate area, in a case riddled with delicate areas.” Greg slurped his coffee and lit another cigarette. “The governor’s racing commission just gave Minton Enterprises the green light on building that horse-racing track in Purcell County.”
“I’m well aware of that. What bearing does it have?”
“You tell me.”
“None!” she shouted.
“Okay, I believe you. But if you start slinging accusations and casting aspersions on one of Texas’s favorite sons, how do you think that’s going to sit with the governor? He’s damn proud of his racing commission. He wants this pari-mutuel thing to get off the ground without a hitch. No controversy. No bad press. No shady deals. He wants everything above reproach and squeaky clean.
“So, if some smart-ass prosecutor starts shooting off her mouth, trying to connect somebody his hand-picked commission has given their coveted blessing to with a murder, the governor is going to be royally pissed off. And if said prosecutor works in this office, who do you think he’s going to be the most pissed off at? Moi.”
Alex didn’t argue with him. Inste
ad, she calmly said, “All right. I’ll resign from this office and do it on my own.”
“Jesus, you’re theatrical. You didn’t let me finish.” He pressed his intercom button and bellowed to his secretary to bring him more coffee. While she was carrying it in, he lit another cigarette.
“On the other hand,” he said around a gust of smoke, “I can’t stand that bastard who’s living in the governor’s mansion. I’ve made no secret of it, and it works both ways, though the sanctimonious sonofabitch won’t admit it. It would tickle me pissless to watch him squirm. Can you imagine him justifying why his commission picked, from the hordes of applicants, somebody associated with a murder?” He chuckled. “I get a hard-on just thinking about it.”
Alex found Greg’s motivation distasteful, but she was ecstatic that he was granting her permission. “So, I can reopen the case?”
“The case remains unsolved because Hicks was never brought to trial.” He lowered his feet, and his chair rocked forward jarringly. “I have to tell you, though—I’m doing this against my better judgment, and only because I trust your gut instincts. I like you, Alex. You proved yourself when you were interning here as a law student. Great ass aside, you’re good to have in our corner.”
He looked down at the material she’d compiled and fiddled with a corner of one folder. “I still think you’ve got a personal grudge against these guys, the town, whatever. I’m not saying it’s unjustified. It’s just not something you can build a case around. Without this shrink’s affidavit, I would have turned down your request. So, while you’re out there where the buffalo roam and the deer and antelope play, remember that my ass is in a sling, too.” He raised his eyes and stared at her balefully. “Don’t fuck up.”
“You mean, I can go to West Texas?”
“That’s where it happened, isn’t it?”
“Yes, but what about my caseload?”
“I’ll put interns on the preparations and ask for postponements. Meanwhile, I’ll talk to the D.A. in Purcell. We were in law school together. He’s perfect for what you’re trying to do. He’s not too bright, and he married above himself, so he’s always striving to please. I’ll ask him to give you whatever assistance you need.”
