Arson Takes a Dare: The Third Marisa Adair Mystery Adventure (Marisa Adair Mysteries Book 3)

by Jada Ryker

  Maupin bracketed one end of the row of attractive dancers from the club. At the other end, Diana was dressed in her conservative suit, her bun and glasses firmly in place. Her giant bag reposed in her lap.

  Marisa’s gaze shifted. Another long wooden bench held the amateur detectives. Fred, dressed in a dark suit that appeared too snug, had his arm on the back of the bench, touching Clara’s broad shoulders. Next to them, Althea and Clay were solemn. Althea’s eyes were glittering emeralds in her catlike face, while Clay’s face was as hard as rock. Burke Lee Creed, the famous Florida detective, was bent over his tablet. An older man dressed in a button-down shirt and jeans didn’t look familiar. Next to him, Berea Kenton, Verna, and Marisa’s mother Barbara possessed matching expressions of doom and giant bags. Movement caught Marisa’s attention. Punky, Princess, and Laithe peered out of the depths of each bag.

  Laithe met her eyes across the rows of benches. As if in response to a secret signal, he slid from the bag on Barbara’s lap. She bent over and tried to grab him. He flowed through her hands like orange-tinted water. Keeping his stomach low to the hardwood floor, he sidled under the benches like a scout on a reconnaissance mission. When he reached the low wall bisecting the courtroom, he leaped to the top of the wall. A short jump landed him in Marisa’s lap.

  The cat’s body warmed her freezing hands as his rough purr soothed Marisa’s raw soul. She sighed, hugging him under the plain wooden table.

  At the open double doors, people filed into the courtroom. Marisa gasped in surprise. Officer Landis and Officer Daviess were at the doors, acting as ushers. I thought they used bailiffs in courtrooms. Marisa blinked in disbelief. Each officer was paired with a familiar figure.

  The Knight in Shining Armor assisted Officer Landis, while the Fire Breathing Dragon helped Officer Daviess. The two were lower tier wrestlers, eking out meager livings on the wrestling circuit. They were not in their character costumes today. The Knight was wearing a powder blue leisure suit, while the Dragon was attired in a green jump suit with a high collar.

  Last spring, Marisa had participated in their wrestling show as Wanda Bra Woman. The show had gone off the always rickety rails, dissolving into a riot. Fred and Alex had rescued her from the rioting wrestling fans. I started out as a participant in the wrestling show last spring. When Fred and Alex used heavy equipment to save me, I turned into an observer, she thought.

  With the grace of a panther, Alex slid into the seat next to Tara. His suit was perfectly pressed. The dark blue tie matched his eyes. His black hair was spiked on top. His electronic tablet was gripped in his hands. His dark face was unreadable as he held Marisa’s gaze. He dropped one eyelid in a slow wink.

  Marisa was surprised. What is Alex trying to tell me?

  When fingers touched her arm, Marisa twisted in her chair. Her attorney looked radically different than the last time she’d seen him before Alisa’s murder. At the last addiction support meeting, with his arms covered with tattoos, his sturdy legs encased in leather biker chaps, and his body hung with enough chains to secure a junkyard, he had appeared tough and intimidating. Marisa knew Jason was actually a very intelligent and intuitive man. He’d also finished his law degree and recently passed the bar. Marisa was his first client.

  “How are you, Marisa?” Jason whispered.

  “It was confusing getting here to the courtroom.” Marisa frowned. “Officers I didn’t know first took me to a different courtroom upstairs. Then, they hauled me to this one in the basement. They used a giant key, one I’d imagine would fit the Tower of London.” She sighed. “Do you really think I can get bail, Jason?”

  “Don’t worry, Marisa. The only thing on your record is a DUI. You went through treatment. We’ll make a compelling case for the judge.” Jason’s gray suit and white shirt looked brand new. Tiny gold studs flashed at his ears. His hair was buzzed close to his scalp. His face was tight with tension, and his fists were clenched on the table.

  “What are you not telling me, Jason?”

  “Marisa, we have lived our lives outside the lines,” he replied. “You’re going to see some very odd coloring today.”

  A drop of perspiration on his smooth forehead caught and reflected the overhead light. It rolled down the side of his face and dripped on his white shirt. I’ve known Jason for years through the support group, Marisa thought. I’ve never seen him sweat. Even when he was on the verge of losing his home in the mortgage debacle, he didn’t perspire. She put her hand on top of his. The rough hand trembled under hers.

  A man passed through the swinging door set in the low wall. He paused at Marisa and Jason’s table. His face was the dark color of rich coffee, strong and hot. He extended a hand the size of a ham. “How are you, Marisa?” His French accent seemed in tune with his beautifully tailored charcoal suit, black shirt, and gray-and-black striped tie.

  “Maurice?” Marisa lowered her voice. “From the addiction group? What are you doing here?”

  His teeth flashed white against his dark skin, but his smile was devoid of humor. “I’m an Assistant Prosecutor. Our paths never crossed outside the support group. Now, it seems our destinies are entwined.”

  Jason rose from his seat to shake the older man’s hand. “You moved heaven and earth to help our fellow support group member Chase find the strength buried under years of hopelessness and despair. You’re a good man, Maurice.”

  “Jason, you’re the selfless leader of our little band of addicts.” Maurice ignored the hand, pulling the taller man into a hug. He released Jason. “You’re also skilled in helping people find the best within themselves, as well as helping them recognize the worst. You help people understand that to see the power of our addiction is to help take away its hold over us.”

  Marisa and Jason’s table was on the left side of the front sector of the courtroom. Maurice strode to the table in the right section.

  Dreamus moved to the front of the room. “Quiet, everyone. Once court is in session, no one may enter or leave the courtroom. Anyone who causes a disturbance will be removed to the anteroom.” He turned to a door behind the judge’s platform. “All rise, Judge Jayna Camden presiding.”

  Judge Jayna Camden? The lieutenant’s last name is Camden. Is the judge related to Dreamus? The judge’s even features and pale blonde hair reminded Marisa of the lieutenant.

  “Is the defense ready to present its case for bail?” The judge stared over her half glasses at Jason.

  “I thought the prosecution went first.” Marisa whispered.

  “You watch too much television.” Jason patted her hand. He rose. “I call Sheriff Knox Creeter to the stand.”

  The younger Sheriff Creeter? What the hell is he doing at my bail hearing? Marisa reached for Jason’s sleeve.

  He avoided her hand and strode to meet the sheriff at the witness box.

  Marisa met Maurice’s dark, liquid gaze. He raised one hand. Patience, the Assistant Prosecutor seemed to signal.

  “Your Honor, there’s been a misunderstanding.” Knox Creeter said. “I received a call from the courthouse, requesting my help with a potentially volatile trial. I got separated from my deputy. He’s around here somewhere, and I don’t have a cell signal. I need to find him.”

  “Sit down, Sheriff Creeter,” the judge ordered. “The defense has questions for you.”

  “Put your ass in the chair, son. Don’t make me come up there.”

  The crusty voice from the far side of the courtroom caused Marisa’s head to swivel. The retired sheriff was squeezed between Diana and Kitty, a waitress from the club. Luke Creeter looked as if he’d much rather stay in his seat between the women rather than discipline his wayward son. His blue denim shirt was clean and gleamed with pearl buttons down the front and on the breast pockets. His thick hair, brown with gray strands, was smoothed carefully over to one side. He raised a gnarled hand in Marisa’s direction.

  “Sheriff Knox Creeter, you’ve told many people, some of them present in this courtroom, about your plans t
o purchase a gentleman’s club,” Jason said. “Is that true?”

  “It’s not a secret. I’m going to buy the club.” His olive green uniform was pressed and clean, the star shining bright against the fabric. The shirt was tight, the overtaxed seams straining to hold the broad width of his shoulders. The uniform pants bulged with the sheriff’s thigh muscles. The black cowboy boots were scuffed.

  “In front of witnesses, you’ve also referred to a silent partner who is going help you with the funding. Please name the person for the court.” Jason waited.

  The sheriff straightened, the deep set dark eyes flashing in anger. He touched his long nose, marred with a bump from an old break. His clenched, square jaw was rigid with temper. “It’s none of your—or the court’s—business.”

  The judge leaned over to glare at the sheriff. “Answer the question, or I’ll find you in contempt.”

  “Fine.” The sheriff huffed out a breath. “Fulton Hart is the silent partner.”

  Marisa gasped. The teacher who molested Alisa?

  “Whose idea was the partnership, Sheriff Creeter?” Jason asked.

  “It was my idea,” the sheriff bragged. “I have the smarts to make the club a huge success. Fulton has the money for the funding.”

  Jason smiled. “No more questions.” He waited for the sheriff to leave the box. “Please don’t leave the courtroom just yet, Sheriff Creeter. Have a seat in the back.”

  “I can’t stay. I have sheriff work to do.”

  “The court is closed until I say otherwise. You will stay, Sheriff Creeter.” The judge pointed to an empty chair in the corner. “Sit.”

  The retired sheriff threw back his head and laughed. “That’s telling him! I like women with spunk!”

  “Order in the court.” The judge glared at Luke Creeter. She turned to Jason. “Mr. Thornton, please call your next defense witness.”

  “Thank you, Your Honor. I call Fulton Hart to the stand.”

  The former teacher was square and bulky. He looked like what he was: a former football star whose muscle had atrophied to fat. He overfilled the wide witness chair with his bulk, the sides of his thighs overlapping the edges of the seat. “I protest. Officer Josh Landis brought me here under false pretenses. He said the man who’d robbed my house last year was on trial, and I was needed to give eyewitness testimony.”

  “Protest noted.” The judge waved a hand. “Answer the defense attorney’s questions.”

  Hart’s eyes moved behind his silver-framed glasses, his thick brows rising in agitation. “I thought witnesses had to be sworn in and have to pledge to tell the truth—”

  “We’re using a different procedure today, Mr. Hart.” The judge’s mouth twisted. “We know you’re going to lie, regardless of any promises to tell the truth.”

  Hart gasped and started to rise. “I never—”

  “I doubt that.” Jayna Camden raised her voice. “Stay in your seat, Mr. Hart, or I’ll have you placed in the county jail until you decide to cooperate.”

  Hart fell back into the seat. His large hands gripped the rail in front of him.

  The judge nodded in satisfaction. “Proceed, Mr. Thornton.”

  “Why did you agree to fund the purchase of a gentleman’s club for Sheriff Creeter?” Jason asked.

  The heavy features flushed. The retired teacher shot a suspicious glance toward Sheriff Creeter’s place in the corner. “It’s a good investment opportunity.”

  “You’re a retired educator,” Jason said. “Why would you buy a strip club?”

  “I wanted to invest my money, and Sheriff Creeter offered a compelling business deal.” On the rail, Fulton’s knuckles were white.

  The judge shook her head in sad resignation. “You see? You’re a liar.”

  “I’ve watched a lot of courtroom dramas on television. This is a travesty.” Gripping the rail, Fulton Hart started to rise.

  The judge tapped her chin with a pen. “There’s traffic court. There’s family court. Think of this as experimental court.”

  “I’m not finished, Mr. Hart. Sit down.” Jason walked to the defense table and opened his shiny briefcase. He pulled out a stack of papers. Ignoring Marisa’s urgent hisses, he approached Fulton Hart.

  “Mr. Hart, I have in my hand the printouts of emails between you and Sheriff Knox Creeter.” Jason shook the sheaf of papers. “When he took office, the new sheriff discovered that the former sheriff, in charge of the county thirty years ago, had received a complaint against you. The former sheriff subsequently made the complaint disappear. The current Sheriff Knox Creeter agreed to keep your secret if you financed the club for him. Sheriff Creeter also referenced an arrangement between you and the little girl’s parents. You bought the parents’ silence.”

  “How did you get into my email?” The old man’s breathing was rough. “Did you have a warrant?”

  “Your user name is Fulton Hart and your password is password.” Jason shrugged. “I didn’t need a warrant to crack your simple security.”

  “Now wait a minute.” Hart pointed at Maurice. “Isn’t the prosecutor supposed to cross examine me? Isn’t he supposed to let me tell my side?”

  Maurice rose to his feet. He passed Jason and approached Hart. “You don’t have a side, per se.” His inky face seeming to absorb the light, he turned to the audience. “We have the girl’s parents here to verify the information in the emails.” His accent was an exotic Parisian breeze in the country courtroom.

  Marisa craned her neck. An elderly man rose to his feet. It was the same face as the one on the target at the retired sheriff’s home. He’s Alisa’s father, she thought. He shuffled to the closed double doors. He didn’t move as if the room was on fire, but he also didn’t tarry.

  Officer Landis grasped the old man’s arm and whispered in his ear. He escorted the old man back to his seat in the audience.

  “What happened thirty years ago was a miscommunication.” Hart’s face was tight with fear. “Alisa Atkins was a shy, pretty little girl with red hair. I’ve always loved children with red hair. Her father was cold and distant. Her mother ignored her. I paid lots of attention to her at school. I praised her schoolwork. The child started coming by my classroom whenever she could. I gave her something she couldn’t get at home. Love and attention.”

  Marisa buried her hands in Laithe’s fur. My father and mother didn’t give me love and attention. My hair is reddish in the sun. What if Fulton Hart had targeted me, and not Alisa?

  Laithe brought up his head to lick a tear from her cheek.

  “I bought Alisa all sorts of lovely things and I spent time with her. The little bitch turned on me.” Hart stared at the prosecutor. “I couldn’t have her spreading her malicious story all around the county. I simply told her parents I’d be happy to help them get back onto their feet. All they had to do was squelch the miscommunication.”

  Maurice stepped closer to Hart. “That little girl, now a grown woman, was recently murdered, Mr. Hart. Did you decide to do your own squelching?”

  Fulton Hart sputtered. “I never killed anyone!”

  Lieutenant Dreamus Camden approached the witness chair. “Fulton Hart, you’re under arrest for human trafficking and molesting a child.” Without turning around, he raised his voice. “Officer Landis, please place Willie Atkins, Alisa’s father, under arrest for human trafficking. Also take Sheriff Creeter into custody for conspiracy to facilitate human trafficking, obstruction of justice, and anything else you can find online that might stick.”

  The woman in the seat next to Atkins rose. “Willie, this is all your fault! I told you—”

  “Shut up, woman! It’s your fault for only having one baby, and a damned girl to boot. I needed sons to work the farm. I couldn’t do it alone.”

  The old woman shook. “You can’t blame me. Alisa paid for herself many times over!” Tears flowed down her wrinkled cheeks.

  “Landis, take in Mrs. Adkins as well,” Dreamus ordered. “She knew what was going on and didn’t protect
her daughter.”

  The officer grimly herded the protesting men and the crying woman to the anteroom and closed the door on their rising protests. He returned to his post at the back of the courtroom.

  Dreamus powered up a laptop computer on a table perpendicular to the judge’s platform. He pressed a button, and a white screen descended from the ceiling. A video flashed on the screen. “Hospital surveillance footage from the time before and after Alisa’s murder shows a tall person entering the hospital in disguise.” The image on the screen changed. “Now you see the person, dressed as an Emergency Medical Technician complete with hat, heavy jacket, and gloves, sauntering onto Alisa’s unit.”

  As the figure moved on the screen in slow motion, Dreamus used a laser pointer. “The person goes to the edge of the nursing station counter. He places his clipboard on the counter, opens it, and leans over it. We can’t see his right hand. Tendrils of smoke rise from the side of the counter. Alarmed staff and the police officer I’d posted outside Alisa’s room rush to the smoke. The EMT picks up the clipboard and disappears into Alisa’s room. When he pops out of the room, concerned people are still gathered at the edge of the counter.”

  The lieutenant straightened and turned to Jason.

  Jason rose from his seat next to Marisa. “I call Elizabeth Furlong to the stand.”

  Urgent music with a deep beat filled the courtroom. Elizabeth Furlong rose from her seat at the back of the room. Her tall, slim figure was emphasized by the pencil-straight purple skirt and skin-tight lavender sweater. She held her phone over her head, twisting it in time to the music as she danced up the aisle. Under the short skirt, her long, golden-brown legs flashed as she executed a leaping pirouette over the swinging door. Her spike heels slashed the air as she flipped to the witness stand.

  Judge Jayna Camden pulled off her half glasses and gawked at Elizabeth. “What the hell?”

  Jason plucked the cell phone from her hand and stopped the music.