Dressed in a pair of baggy jeans and an oversized sweatshirt, Brenda wore her hair loose and free, her face devoid of makeup. This made her eyes seem somehow larger and more luminous, and she looked youthful and pretty, more like a college girl than the somber-faced, conservatively clad investigator Stella was accustomed to seeing at the courthouse. “I’ve never seen you with your hair down,” she told her. “You should wear it this way all the time. It does something wonderful to your eyes.”
“Really?” Brenda said, smiling as she fluffed her hair around her face. “Makes me look young, though, right?”
“What’s wrong with looking young?”
Once the pleasantries were concluded, the two women got down to business. Brenda set up her computer on the kitchen table, and Stella pulled out her yellow notepad, going over all the things she wanted the investigator to look into. Stella wrote out the discovery motion in longhand and waited while Brenda typed it on the computer, then hooked up her portable printer.
“Okay,” Stella said as she shoved the papers into a manila envelope, “if you hurry, you can get these filed today. I’m hoping Judge Maddox will rule on them by tomorrow morning. I have to get my hands on the evidence from the fire as soon as possible. We don’t have that long before the prelim.”
“Stella,” Anderson said, “we have to talk. I managed to get my hands on more information last night.”
“What?” Stella said. “Anything we can use?”
“I went out to dinner with the investigator I mentioned,” she said. “A few drinks, a few false promises, and I finally got him to loosen up and talk. Seems their witness saw a woman driving a white rental car with a Hertz sticker on the back, speeding away from the scene of the Randall homicide only moments after it occurred.”
Stella’s jaw dropped. “Repeat what you just said.”
“Victor Pilgrim, the witness I told you about,” Brenda continued. “He claims he saw a woman in a white rental car, a Hertz rental car to be specific. I don’t know how damaging this is. I mean, according to my contact, the guy didn’t see the woman’s face. He’s certain it was a woman, though, but what difference does that make? Think of all the traffic that must pass by that street. It was broad daylight and just seeing a woman is not going to amount to much.”
Stella’s heart pounded against her chest. “You’re wrong,” she said. “When I came to Houston, I rented a white Chevrolet Caprice from Hertz. I returned it the day of the murder.”
“Oh, boy,” Brenda said, compressing in her seat. “What time did you return it?”
“I’m not certain exactly,” Stella said, “but I think it was between one and one-thirty. You know, right before I got on the plane.”
“The M.E. has set the time of death around eleven,” she answered. “Can you account for your whereabouts from say nine in the morning to eleven?”
Stella shook her head. “I was here in the apartment, but I don’t have anyone to verify it.”
“Where was Mario?”
“Out,” she said, somewhat guarded. “Where he was doesn’t really matter, does it?”
“Shit,” Brenda said, “what in the hell is going on? Was the rental car here the entire time?”
“As far as I know,” Stella said, shrugging.
“It’s too big of a coincidence,” the investigator said, getting up to refill her coffee cup. “Someone must have known you were driving a white rental car. Either that, or Pilgrim is lying through his teeth.”
“They’re trying to frame me,” Stella exclaimed. “Didn’t I tell you the other day that they were setting me up?”
“Who?” Brenda said. “Randall is dead. If anyone wanted to harm you, wouldn’t it be Randall?”
“The police,” Stella answered, her lips so stiff they barely moved.
“No way,” Brenda said. “I don’t see it. Why would the police want to frame you?” She waved her hand in the air. “You’ve lost me, Stella. None of this makes sense. Winters might have a hard-on for you, but I doubt if he’d risk his pension just to nail you. Besides, I get chapped over all this police corruption and how everyone thinks we’re a bunch of crooks nowadays. I’ve never met a crooked cop and I’ve been in this business a long time.”
“It’s not just Winters,” Stella explained. “My uncle was a captain at the Houston P.D. until he retired six months ago. His full name is Clementine Cataloni, but he goes by Clem. He’s always believed I set the fire. He despises me, Brenda. Maybe he’s conspiring with Winters to put me away. Pilgrim could be their point man, don’t you see?”
Brenda stood, placing the envelope Stella had given her in her briefcase. She knew how desperate Stella must be, but she found her conspiracy theory unreasonable. Trying to console her, she said, “You may think what’s going on right now is frightening, Stel, but my mother always taught me that everything happens for a reason. Not only are we going to get you off, we’re going to get to the bottom of this once and for all.”
“I hope so,” Stella said, smiling weakly.
“Oh,” Brenda said, “you asked about Pilgrim’s personnel files. I printed out what I found. Maybe you’ll find something interesting.” She handed the paperwork to Stella. “Look at the time. I’d better run. If I don’t get to the courthouse right away, the clerk’s office will close for the day.”
Once she had left, Stella read through the information, seeing nothing noteworthy. She was about to set it aside when she noticed a sheet listing Pilgrim’s current status on the city payroll. Seeing the letter “D” listed in a column, Stella realized Victor Pilgrim must have retired on disability. There was nothing in the file to indicate he had ever worked under her uncle or Carl Winters, though. As Brenda had informed her earlier, they would have to get into the police files to obtain that type of information, and thus far Brenda had been unable to do so.
Deciding to give the material one more pass, Stella went back to Pilgrim’s original job application. He had not started his career with the Houston P.D. as they had first suspected, but had transferred from the Sheriffs Office in San Antonio only a few months prior to his injury. She read through the various individuals he had listed as references, seeing nothing that caught her eye. In the section that listed organizations and special awards or degrees, she finally saw something. Victor Pilgrim had once held an office in the Knights of Columbus.
“Okay,” Stella said, her voice echoing in the empty room. Clementine Cataloni had long been active in the Knights of Columbus. If she were the victim of some type of conspiracy, a certain pattern would surface linking the conspirators. Pilgrim, Winters, and her uncle all had the Houston P.D. as a common denominator. Now she had added the Knights of Columbus, at least where Victor Pilgrim and her uncle were concerned. If she remembered correctly, her uncle had once been the top dog in the Southwest region. It wasn’t much, but at least it was a start. Grabbing her purse, Stella gritted her teeth and headed for the door. It was time to pay the Grand Wizard, or whatever they called him, a little impromptu visit.
Driving the red Ford Fairlane Sam had rented, Stella turned into the driveway and made her way up a private paved road that led to her uncle’s sprawling estate near Rice University. Seeing the two-story white colonial and its elaborate terracing brought back memories of her childhood, riding in the backseat of her family’s battered station wagon. Every time they went to visit her aunt and uncle, her father had given Stella a lecture about the American dream and why his own father had immigrated to the United States from Sicily when he and his brother were children. She recalled how her father had always called her aunt and uncle their rich relations, bragging about how his brother had taken his modest income at the police department and parlayed it into a small fortune. Stella’s uncle had at one time owned a pizza parlor, as well as a dry cleaners, and numerous parcels of commercial real estate.
Her father never matched his brother’s success, however, no matter how hard he worked or how much he scrimped and saved. He’d taken the only job he could fi
nd that would guarantee him a steady income. He became a building inspector for the county.
Around the time of the fire, the brothers had a falling-out. Stella had always assumed her father’s failed attempt to mimic his brother’s success had made him bitter and envious. Stella and her brother were no longer allowed to mention their uncle’s name aloud in the presence of her father.
What exactly had transpired between the two men, Stella would never know, but she did recall her father making statements to the effect that his brother had abandoned the old ways and values. Only a few days before the fire she heard him call his brother a “no-good, two-bit crook,” going on to say that he was a disgrace to the Cataloni name.
Due to the bad blood between her father and his brother, Stella had been surprised that her uncle had been so distraught over her father’s death. She could never forget the first few days following the fire, though. Her uncle had come to the hospital to see her, ravaged by grief. Carl Winters had been present as well, and after taking her uncle outside the room to speak privately, her uncle had flown into an uncontrollable rage, causing the detective to have to subdue him.
Drugged and bandaged, her parents dead, her unborn child lost, Stella had listened as Carl Winters read her her rights, then told her she was being charged with murder in the deaths of her parents.
“God,” she said, trying to push back the horror of those awful moments. Instead of defending her, her uncle had turned against her. If anyone should be out for blood, she told herself, it should be her, not her uncle or Carl Winters. Her eyes dampened with tears, but she would not allow herself to indulge in self-pity. The past was the past, as Brad had always told her. She had to deal with the present if she wanted to survive.
Glancing in the rearview mirror before she got out of the car, Stella made certain her hair was positioned correctly to cover her scar, then exited and headed up the concrete walkway, bordered with blooming shrubs, to the front porch. Inhaling the scent of roses and gardenias, she rang the bell and waited for someone to come to the door.
Clementine Cataloni flung the door open and saw Stella on the porch. “What do you want?” he said gruffly. “I thought you were in jail.”
Stella had forgotten how much he resembled her father. For a moment, she was speechless. “I made bail,” she said. “I thought you’d want to see me since I’m in town. I mean, you are my uncle, and I wouldn’t mind seeing Aunt Sarah after all these years.”
“Oh, yeah?” he said, his lip curling. “Well, you were wrong. We don’t need your type around here.” He stepped back and had started to close the door when Stella grabbed the doorknob.
“Whether you believe it or not,” she said, “I didn’t set the fire, and I certainly didn’t kill Tom Randall. You’re my damn kin,” she continued, her voice rising. “Seems like you’d want to stand behind me. If for no other reason, out of respect for my father.”
“Tell it to the judge,” he said. “I don’t have time to listen to your lies. How did you get to be a D.A, huh? Don’t those people do background checks? Didn’t they know they hired a murderer?”
“You’ve never listened,” Stella yelled at him. “Maybe if you’d taken the time to listen to my side of the story, you would have realized that I didn’t do it. The very least you could have done was to try and help Mario, give him a home.” She paused and took a breath. “But no, you didn’t even do that. You took him in for a few days and then washed your hands of him. You believed that stupid buffoon, Winters, and all his sick lies. Mario and I weren’t sleeping together, any more than I was sleeping with Dad.”
“You and your brother,” he said, shaking his head. “How could you disgrace this family with your sick perversions? You’re not Catalonis.”
“If I hadn’t married Brad Emerson,” Stella continued, her voice fierce, “my brother would have ended up living with strangers.”
“Get off my property,” Clem Cataloni shouted, perspiration popping out on his forehead. “If you don’t, I’ll call the station and have you arrested for trespassing.”
“What happened between you and Dad?” Stella said, lowering her voice. “I remember you being really close at one time. He used to look up to you, admire you. What went wrong?”
The change of subject brought him up short. “Your father was a good man,” he said, momentarily setting aside his anger. “He was a simple man, though. He never understood what it took to make it in this country. I know one thing,” he said, his eyes narrow again. “Tony didn’t deserve the fate he met, what you did to him. Not even a damn dog deserves to be burned alive.”
“Did Victor Pilgrim work for you?” Stella said, stepping forward into the doorway, far enough so that she could see the inside of the living room and the hall leading to the kitchen and dining room. She spotted the plaque on the wall from the Knights of Columbus, right next to the glass case that housed his gun collection. Inside were several high-powered rifles, along with a dozen assorted handguns. “Were you in the Knights of Columbus together? You know,” she said, “you and Victor Pilgrim?”
“You fucking slut,” he shouted. “Get your lying, murderous ass off my porch before I get my gun after you. Coming here like this, asking me—
Before she could say anything else, her uncle shoved her out of the way and slammed the door in her face. Instead of becoming enraged at how he had treated her, though, Stella felt a rush of adrenaline. He might not have confirmed it with words and it was in no way proof of anything illegal, but she left convinced that her uncle and Victor Pilgrim knew each other. Just how well was something she’d have to find out. And the way things were shaping up, she’d have to find out fast.
Heading down the walkway to the car, she broke off a gardenia and held it up to her nose. If the state’s primary witness was connected to a powerful man like her uncle, she knew there was no one she could trust in the Houston area, no matter what kind of badge they carried or what kind of promises they made. Being a cop was like belonging to a secret society, and as a captain, her uncle had wielded considerable power among the many men he had commanded. That he had retired meant nothing. Once a cop, always a cop. Loyalties were as strong and unfailing as the blood bonds of large families.
Reaching the car, she glanced back at the house. Through a crack in the drapes she saw her aunt’s face peering out. The woman would be her trump card, she decided. If she couldn’t find out what her uncle was up to through other sources, she might be able to extract information from his wife. A moment later, she saw her uncle’s face flash in the window and grimaced as he grabbed her aunt by the shoulder and roughly pulled her away. Angry, loud voices followed. Stella had no doubt that her uncle was making his position perfectly clear. So much for her trump card, she thought. Crushing the gardenia in her fist, Stella tossed it on the ground, leaped into her rental car, and took off.
With her legs on top of her desk, Holly took a bite of pizza and then tossed the rest back in the box. “That was disgusting,” she told Carl Winters. “I can’t believe you talked me into eating it.”
The older detective was sprawled in a chair next to Holly’s desk. Unlike Frank Minor’s office, her work space was far from plush. With her own money she had purchased an oak bookcase to hold her law books and periodicals, and the county had assigned her three vinyl and chrome chairs. Instead of displaying her less than prestigious law degree, the walls were covered with framed Salvador Dali prints. The pictures on her desk were studio portraits of her ten-year-old daughter in a variety of elaborate dresses. Winters glanced at one and decided that the child must resemble her father. Her face was round and her hair dark, her lips full and pouty, not narrow like her mother’s. “Cute kid,” he said, picking up one of the pictures and then setting it back on the desk.
“Spoiled rotten,” Holly said, glancing at the photo and then over at the detective. “I spend more money on her clothes than I do on my own.”
Do say?” he said. In her customary mini-skirt, the district attorney’s legs
were like a flashing neon sign and Winters couldn’t stop himself from gawking. “Why’d you wear that long dress the other day in court?” he said. “Damn, woman, it’s a sin to hide those legs.”
“Really?” Holly said, rubbing her hand back and forth on her thigh and causing her skirt to slide up several more inches, then just sitting there and letting Winters feast to his heart’s content. Finally she set her feet on the ground and faced him. “Frank Minor thinks he can dictate what I wear now,” she said, grimacing. “He wants me to wear my hair tied back and granny dresses. He even insisted that I go to some old-timer’s store and buy a pair of lace-up shoes like the damn nuns wear.”
“Why?” Winters said, chuckling at Holly’s intensity. Even though he enjoyed seeing her legs, he didn’t think clothing was something to get all worked up over.
“Minor’s an idiot,” Holly snapped.
Winters laughed louder. “Other than that—”
“He thinks I’ll make a better impression on the jurors,” she continued, focusing on a spot over his head. “He wants me to appear more conservative. Since Stella is a woman and we worked together in Dallas, he doesn’t want the jurors to think my motive for prosecuting her is based on female jealousy or professional rivalry. You know, now that Stella has made a big name for herself with the Pelham case, every prosecutor in the state is supposedly green with envy.”
“I see,” Winters said slowly. Holly had some type of tank top on under her navy blue jacket, and now that her jacket was unbuttoned and she was leaning forward, he caught a glimpse of the top of her breasts. Creamy skin, luscious mounds. Before he could get his lust in check, Holly stood, circled behind him, and began massaging his neck and shoulders.
“Feel good?” she asked, pressing her chest into his back.
“I’ll give you an hour and a half to stop,” Winters said, trying to appear nonchalant while his heart was doing a tap dance inside his chest. He hadn’t had sex with a woman in over ten years. Until today he had thought these feelings were dormant. Long way from dormant, he thought, closing his legs so Holly didn’t spot his erection.
Trial by Fire Page 14
