Trial by Fire

by Nancy Taylor Rosenberg

  “Did Stella’s father know about this?”

  “No,” Brad said, flicking his ashes. “Last Boy Scout, remember? He was our inside man. If we did a really shoddy job, we made sure Tony went out to inspect it. Most of the stuff is hard to detect once the building goes up, but he let a lot of small stuff pass. You know, he didn’t mind looking the other way on things that couldn’t hurt anyone.”

  “The cave-in wasn’t a small thing,” Winters said. “How did he react?”

  “Tony only found out about the rebar problem after the damn floor caved in.” Brad pointed a finger at him. “We didn’t cause this by ourselves,” he said. “I’m not about to take full responsibility for those kids getting killed. The property was on a landfill, and the development company never advised us of that fact. If they had, we would have reinforced the foundation.”

  “Tell me about the night of the fire,” Winters said, quickly checking the tape recorder to make certain he was recording.

  “After the cave-in,” Brad said, “Tony panicked. I mean, we were all going nuts, but Tony posed a more serious problem. He wanted us to turn ourselves in once he found out we hadn’t used rebar in the foundation.” Brad paused and wiped the sweat off his face with his hand. “He took a sample of the foundation home with him, then told me he was going to turn it over to the authorities the following day. He said he couldn’t live with something like that on his conscience. I told him we’d all be sued and never work again, but he refused to listen. I even offered him money, a shitload of money if you want to know the truth.”

  “So,” Winters said, “you were the man arguing with Stella’s father on the lawn that night?”

  “Yes, ” Brad answered, another cigarette hitting the floor. This one he didn’t stomp out, though. He just let it simmer. “When Tony wouldn’t go along with the program, I decided to see if I could get the sample of the foundation back, thinking it would buy us more time. Clem insisted his brother would come around, but I knew better. The brothers weren’t even speaking to each other by this time. If Tony said he was going to the authorities, I knew it was a done deal.”

  “Did you find this sample?” Winters asked, trailing his fingers across the table.

  “I went in through the basement window,” he said. “I was afraid if I turned the lights on, someone might see them under the door, so I used my cigarette lighter to see what I was doing. I found the concrete block and left. I guess I dropped the lighter somewhere in the basement, or it fell out of my pocket when I crawled back out through the window.”

  “What about the fire?” Winters said, arching an eyebrow.

  “I didn’t purposely set it,” Brad said defensively. “I must have ignited some dry papers or connected with something flammable when I was walking around in the dark. I didn’t smell smoke or anything, but of course, we both know the house went up in flames.” He stroked the side of his face. “When I saw how seriously Stella was burned, my heart wrenched in two. She was such a pretty girl before the accident. Seeing her all scarred up like that was the saddest day of my life.”

  “Your heart must not have wrenched too long,” Winters said. “You married the damn woman.”

  Brad laughed, but it wasn’t genuine, more of a nervous response. “It was a pretty strange situation, I admit,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “But I had to do something for them, you know. I felt responsible, so I decided this was the thing to do.” When Winters didn’t seem impressed, he added, “I raised Stella’s brother, treated him like my own son. I also paid for her hospital bills and all the reconstructive surgery she had done. I mean, I’m not a monster or anything. I did my best to make amends.”

  “Bully for you,” Winters said, having almost had his fill of Brad Emerson. He glanced at his watch. It was past ten, and the Dallas police should have called him by now. He had waited all day to question Brad, hoping to have more ammunition. “Did you shoot Tom Randall?”

  “I’m not your shooter, pal,” Brad said, his palms on the table. “Clem was the marksman. He took Randall out himself.”

  Winters repositioned himself in the seat. “Because Randall saw you on the lawn that night?”

  “Sort of,” Brad said, a smile flickering on his lips. “See, after the tragedy, I denied ever being at the house. Clem would have killed me in a second if he’d known I had anything to do with the fire. So, I tracked down Randall and gave him five G’s to say Stella was responsible, then get his ass out of town. I knew no one would ever prosecute her. Hell, she was just a kid, and her face was ruined. I had to place the blame on someone or Clem would have eventually found out the truth.” He let out a whistle. “Hell, you knew Clem. You know he was a tough son-of-a-bitch. I bet he enjoyed popping Randall.”

  “Why would Cataloni kill Randall?” Winters asked. “Randall was willing to testify against Stella. Didn’t he believe Stella killed his brother? Isn’t that what you told me?”

  Brad looked as if his lies were strangling him. His face was red, and his eyes bulged in their sockets. “I’m not saying anything else until I talk to my attorney.”

  “Let me tell you how it went down,” Winters said, his voice booming out over the small room. “You shot Tom Randall because he saw you on the lawn that night. When Stella told you he was back in town, you knew you had to take him out. You couldn’t take a chance that the truth would come out, that you bribed him to incriminate your own wife. What you feared the most, though, was Clem Cataloni. If he found out that you were responsible for his brother’s death, you knew he would kill you.” Winters tapped the top of the tape recorder, then smirked. “You told us that yourself, Emerson. Hell, I think you might be right. You better wait for your attorney.”

  “I wasn’t afraid of Clem,” Brad said, trying to retract his earlier statements.

  “You and Clem might have been buddies sixteen years ago,” Winters countered, “but once you married Stella, you went to the top of his shit list. Without additional evidence, though, Clem knew the courts would never convict her.”

  “You can’t prove any of this,” Brad said, his voice shaking.

  “Well,” Winters said, “you might be right, Emerson, but we’re certainly going to try.”

  When Stella saw Winters get up and leave, she assumed the interview was over. Brad was staring at the one-way glass, though, as if he knew she was there. A hard ball of rage formed in her stomach, and she wanted to rip the flesh right off his body. She pounded the glass with her fists instead, stopping only when she saw Winters step back in the room.

  The detective had a piece of paper in his hands, and was waving it in front of Brad’s face. “While we were having our little talk,” the detective said, his voice coming out over the speakers in the observation booth, “the Dallas P.D. was searching your house. We found the receipt for the gun you used to shoot Randall, and the airlines just verified that you booked a flight from Dallas to Houston the morning of the murder. Another bonus came through … we’ve matched your fingerprints to the ones we lifted from the murder weapon. Because your prints weren’t on file, it took us a while to put this together.” He paused and cackled. “You’re a little sloppy, Emerson. You’re about as good at murder as you were at pouring foundations. Dropping the murder weapon at the scene of the crime is stupid, but only an idiot would fail to wipe off his fingerprints.”

  Brad’s eyes blazed, but he didn’t speak.

  “You’ve got balls, though,” Winters continued, his voice laced with venom now. “I’ve got to hand it to you. To cause a woman’s parents to die, scar her for life, then end up married to her takes one hell of an asshole.” He stood, slamming his chair back to the table. “I’ve been a cop a long time,” he told him. “I’ve dealt with murderers, rapists, men so mean and callous they couldn’t be classified as human beings. But I’ll tell you the God’s honest truth,” he said, looking the other man squarely in the eye. “In my entire career, I’ve never met a bastard as sick as you.”

  Stella’s palms were press
ed against the glass. Dropping her hands to her sides, she stood perfectly still, taking a final look at the man who had been her husband.

  She watched as Winters left the interview room, taking his tape recorder with him. A few moments later, a uniformed officer entered and led Brad away.

  Her skin pricked as she sensed another presence beside her. Craning her neck around, she searched the shadows thinking Winters had come in without her knowledge. In her emotional state, Stella knew she was probably imagining things, but it was as if her father were in the room with her. She closed her eyes, bringing forth his face, the sound of his voice, the distinctive smell of his aftershave. Was he telling her to go on with her life? Did he know what Brad had done to her? She wanted to shake her fist in fury, cry out at the top of her lungs. She couldn’t walk away. She’d waited too long to extract her vengeance, rid herself of the hate. She took a deep breath, then slowly let it out. She would leave the evil here, she decided, with Brad, the man who had created it.

  Stella walked to the door and stopped, looking back into the darkness. “It’s okay, Dad,” she whispered. “You don’t have to worry about me anymore.”

  Excerpt from Abuse of Power

  You are invited to preview an excerpt from Nancy Taylor Rosenberg’s latest triumph—

  ABUSE OF POWER

  A riveting legal thriller sizzling with suspense

  Seated on a bench outside Department 22 of the Ventura County Superior Court, the male police officer was dressed his black regulation uniform. The small redheaded woman at his side wore a pink cotton blazer over a simple white dress. Her feet were encased in scuffed black flats, her knees chafed and bony.

  Rachel Simmons glanced to her left at Jimmy Townsend. Testifying was no more stressful to him than writing a speeding ticket. She detested going to court. How could Townsend sleep when her insides were quivering? “Wake up,” she said, nudging him with her elbow when she saw two men coming down the corridor.

  “What the—” Townsend said, bolting upright on the wooden bench. A heavyset man in his late thirties, he had unruly brown hair and a round, jowly face. His chin was peculiar, almost inverted. Only a few inches of his neck were visible. His upper body was so densely padded that his shoulders had a tendency to bunch up around his ears.

  Two men were conversing a few feet away. Michael Atwater was the D.A. assigned to their case. Dennis Colter was a D.A. as well. Rachel had attended high school with him in San Diego, but she doubted if he would recognize her after so many years. She glanced at Atwater, then quickly looked away.

  “I don’t care what Judge Sanders said,” Atwater was saying. “If you plead it right, you can get an extra six years tacked on to his sentence. The oral copulation is a separate and distinct crime. Sanders has his head up his asshole. If he gives you any more problems, tell him to call me. He must have slept through the last judicial sentencing conference.”

  Once Dennis Colter darted into the adjoining courtroom, Mike Atwater walked over to where Rachel was sitting. “We’ll probably call you in about ten minutes,” he told her, ignoring the officer seated beside her.

  At six-four, Mike Atwater had the most athletic body Rachel had ever seen. A slender man, he carried most of his height in his legs. His hair was brown and neatly trimmed. He combed it straight back from his face, keeping it in place with some type of hair product that made it look as if he had just stepped out of the shower. His eyes were dark and heavily hooded. Before becoming an attorney, he had made a name for himself as a world-class runner, breaking records in the indoor mile. “You look exhausted,’ he said. “Did you work last night?”

  “Yes,” Rachel said, staring at her hands, “I work every night.” She could not make eye contact with him. When she did, she became a specimen under a microscope. She raised her gaze to his slender wrists, the gold cuff links in his starched white shirt, the clear polish on his fingernails. It was his body, however, that amazed her. The way he carried himself, the way he moved. She was a runner herself, but she had never competed or broken records. She wondered how it would feel to walk around inside such a terrific machine. A body like Atwater’s wasn’t developed through weight lifting or training. Everything about him was supple and loose, as if someone had just oiled all his joints. When he moved, it was like a wave rolling across the floor. “I’m assigned to the graveyard shift at the P.D, but I also have an extra job as a security officer at State Farm Insurance in Simi Valley,” she said. “I work there on my days off.”

  “I see,” Atwater said, stroking the side of his face. “Did you get the flowers?”

  “Ah, yes,” Rachel gushed, fidgeting in her seat. “They were beautiful. I don’t know how to thank you.”

  “You just did,” Atwater said, turning and slapping open the double doors to the courtroom.

  “Flowers?” Townsend said, scowling. “Mike Atwater sent you flowers? He’s an egotistical prick. I’ve worked with him on five other cases. In case you didn’t notice, the asshole didn’t even speak to me. What am I, a log or something?”

  Rachel shrugged. “I have no idea why he sent them, Jimmy. All I did was go to lunch with him in the cafeteria last week when he called me down to go over my testimony. The next day I got two dozen red roses. When the delivery guy rang my doorbell, I thought he had the wrong house.”

  “Sort of extravagant, don’t you think?” Townsend said, slouching down in his seat.

  The doors leading into the courtroom swung open, and Rachel jumped. “Officer Simmons,” the bailiff said, “they’re ready for you now.”

  Rachel had driven to the station to pick up Townsend so he could go straight home after court and not have to return his police unit. His house was only a few blocks from her own. The officer had been experiencing financial problems and had sold his extra car the previous month. “Where should we meet?” she asked. “I don’t want to sit out here after I testify.”

  “They probably won’t be finished with me until almost noon,” Townsend said. “Meet me in the cafeteria. We’ll grab some lunch.”

  Rachel stood and smoothed down her knee-length skirt, wishing it covered more of her legs. She was embarrassed that she had not worn hose, but when she had rushed home at eight o’clock that morning, she had been unable to find a pair without a run. She was additionally annoyed that she had not worn her uniform. Wearing it made her feel more authoritative and confident. She’d had only ten minutes to shower, though, and getting suited up took time.

  She looked straight ahead as she walked down the aisle to the witness stand. At thirty-four, her unassuming appearance and quiet demeanor made her appear several years younger. Her fair skin was dusted with freckles, the majority of them sprinkled across her nose and cheeks. When she was frightened or angry, her eyes turned green, shifting back to a nondescript gray when she was ill or exhausted as she was today. Her mouth was small and dainty, her cheekbones clearly defined.

  Rachel took her seat in the witness stand. Once she had been sworn in, Mike Atwater stood and spoke, his voice clear and resonant. “Officer Simmons,” he said, “will you advise the court where you are presently employed?”

  ‘The Oak Grove Police Department,” she said, moving the skinny microphone closer to her mouth.

  “How long have you been a police officer?”

  “Approximately two years.”

  “What did you do before you became a police officer?”

  “I worked as a sales clerk at Robinson’s department store,” she said, her speech somewhat hesitant.

  “How long did you work as a salesclerk?”

  “Approximately six months,” she said. “Before that I was a housewife.” She paused and coughed to cover her embarrassment. Most of the officers in the department held college degrees. Rachel had never made it past high school. Even though her grades had been good, she had not been able to save enough money to pay her tuition. “My husband was a landscape architect,” she added, attempting to give credit to her modest accomplishments. “I wasn�
�t only a housewife, I handled all the books for him, made his appointments, things like that. I was his partner in the business.”

  Atwater circled to the front of the counsel table, then advanced to the witness box. “Why did you decide to enter law enforcement?”

  Rachel blinked several times, her eyelids a pale shade of pink. On one lid was a star-shaped mole, right under her eyebrow. “My husband died three years ago. I have two children. The job paid well, the benefits were excellent, and I thought I could cut back on my childcare expenses by working odd hours.”

  Atwater yanked on his cuffs, a jerky motion he made frequently. “So your decision was strictly financial, right?”

  Rachel stared hard at him. What was it he wanted her to say? They weren’t simply shooting the breeze as they had the day in the cafeteria. Every question the attorney asked had a purpose behind it. “I didn’t decide to become a police officer strictly for financial reasons,” she said, thrusting her chin forward. “I’m honest. I’m a hard worker. I’ve never broken the law. I decided I might be able to serve my community.”

  Atwater issued a feral smile, showing only a glimpse of his teeth. Pivoting on his heels, he marched back to the counsel table. “Before you became a police officer, were you ever the victim of a violent crime?”

  Something Rachel had told him in confidence the attorney was now entering into an official court record. No one in the department knew what had happened to her as a child. She didn’t want her fellow officers to perceive her as a victim. “I-I was kidnapped while returning home from the grocery store,” she said. “I was ten years old at the time.” Her memories of that day came in quick, disconnected flashes. She saw the man’s hands moving across her naked body. Her muscles twitched at the sound of the camera shutter clicking. Balling her hands into fists, she pressed them against her temples, trying to make the images go away.