Dodson took her down the narrow hall to his office. It was cramped and even more poorly lit than the front room. There was one tall, wood-framed window, but curtains had been drawn over it to keep out the afternoon sun. As her eyes adjusted Gail could see that every file folder, book, and piece of paper lay at exact right angles to the surface upon which it had been placed. Dodson went around his desk to sit in the black chair behind it. From below came a strange odor of dust, mildew, and rot, as though the subflooring had been flooded but never properly dried.
Gary Dodson propped her card on his brass pen holder, taking some time to get it exactly in the middle. "Civil trial practice. Commercial litigation. You're a sole practitioner? So am I." His smile left a long crease in his cheek.
"It's a constant fight for clients," she said.
"Yes indeed. Isn't that so?"
His skin seemed unnaturally pale, and Gail wondered if he lived upstairs, rarely going out, sending his secretary to do his shopping. The afternoon sun found a crack in the drawn curtains and sent a column of light angling to the floor. Cold air blew silently from a vent.
"Mr. Dodson, this has to do, in a way, with your wife. First let me say how sorry I am for your loss. Not only your wife but your child as well. Twelve years have passed, but it's something a person doesn't get over easily—if at all."
With elbows on the arms of the chair, the points of his shoulders rose as if suspending his desiccated body between them. He began absently to scratch at a scab on his hand. "That's very kind of you to say, Ms. Connor."
"I'm in Stuart because I've been retained by a relative of Kenneth Ray Clark. Based on a reinvestigation of the case, I am convinced that Mr. Clark was nowhere near your house when your wife was killed. This must come as a shock, of course, but I assure you it's true. I'm going to file an appeal, but the governor has signed his death warrant. We don't have much time."
"You say ... Clark wasn't there? My neighbor saw him."
"Mrs. Chastain was mistaken." Gail added, "It happens more frequently than police or prosecutors will admit."
The music that had been playing in the background finally worked its way into her consciousness. The radio on his credenza was tuned to a "lite FM" station—slow, soothing instrumentals that could drive her insane.
Beside the radio was a gold-framed photograph of a young blond woman holding a laughing baby on her lap.
Swiveling his chair, Dodson saw what she was looking at. "There they are. Amber and Darry. That's short for Darryl. They're beautiful, aren't they? I never got married again. I didn't have the heart for it. I loved my wife and child very much." He rocked slowly in his chair, leaning his head on his fist. His starched white cuff was fraying at the edge, and the button was cracked.
"I read about the warrant in the newspaper last week. They said the execution date had been set. April eleventh, isn't it? I'd almost forgotten that Kenneth Clark is still alive. I get so busy with my work, you know how that goes, and I hardly think about it anymore."
"I'm trying to save his life," Gail said. "He truly is innocent."
"Is he? Then he might end up being executed. The innocent perish and the guilty prosper. File the appeal if you like, it's all the same to me." He said, "I've had enough of death."
The constant chill breeze from the vent had its effect, and Gail crossed her arms. Her lightweight tweed jacket did little good. She crossed her legs as well, but her slacks failed to keep her ankles warm. "I wonder if you remember one of Amber's friends, a girl named Mary Jo, who used to work at River Pines with Amber? She drove a Corvette."
"Yes, I remember her."
"Do you know her last name?"
He pursed his lips, then said, "Hammond. Mary Jo Hammond. I believe they met at Indian River Community College, and it was she who suggested that Amber apply for the job at River Pines. Mary Jo was in accounting."
This was promising, Gail thought. "Where is Mary Jo now?"
"She married some fellow named ... Danziger. Can't remember his first name. He owned a night club in West Palm. Amber and I went to the wedding. I think they moved to South Beach, in your neck of the woods. Does this relate to your client in some way?"
"Possibly. I hope that Mary Jo might tell me who Amber knew at work. My theory is that she wasn't killed by a stranger—such as Kenny Ray Clark. When a woman is the victim, and she is attacked in the way that Amber was—"
"What way is that? She wasn't raped."
"I know, but ... her pajamas were left in a suggestive position. She was stabbed repeatedly, many more times than necessary, in the chest and abdomen. Forensic psychologists would say that this indicates an emotional connection. I'm sorry to ask you this, but is there any chance that your wife was involved with someone?"
Shaking his head, Dodson continued to pick at the scab. "The police asked me that too. No, my wife and I loved each other. We were very happy."
Gail could see dark, dried flesh under the nail on his forefinger. All his nails were long and yellowed, and they had cracked off unevenly, leaving some with points at the corners. She quickly looked away.
"Mr. Dodson, you used to work in the Stuart office of Hadley and Morgan, based in Palm Beach, and one of their clients was Whitney McGrath, who developed River Pines. In July 1988 you left Hadley and Morgan to open your own practice. Amber had stopped working at River Pines when she was pregnant, but she went back in September of '88, when Darry was six months old. Is that right?"
"You've been doing your homework."
"Did Amber know Whit McGrath?"
"Naturally. She worked for him—rather, for his company, JWM."
"Were they on good terms?"
"As far as I know."
"Is it remotely possible she could have been involved with him? And that you might not have been aware?"
Dodson's forefinger slowed on the back of his hand. "You believe that Whit McGrath killed my wife?"
"I don't know if he did or not. I'm looking into possibilities."
"Point one: That isn't a possibility. Point two: I don't discuss my clients." Dodson opened a paper clip and cleaned under his nail.
"You're .. .Whit McGrath's lawyer?"
"Yes."
"Really"
"Not his only lawyer. Mr. McGrath has several."
"How long have you represented him?"
"Oh, it's been quite a while, ever since I opened my own office."
"I see." But Gail did not see. Why would Whit McGrath hire this man whose office, whose very appearance, screamed failure? Was Gary Dodson telling the truth? Was he sane?
"What kind of cases do you handle for Mr. McGrath?"
"Various matters."
"Like what?"
Dodson raised a finger in admonition. "Do you talk about your clients, Ms. Connor?" The line in his left cheek deepened as he smiled in that lopsided way. "But as to your first question. The answer is no. My wife and Mr. McGrath were not involved. Amber was a loving and faithful wife and mother."
"Of course. I'm sorry."
His intercom buzzed. He picked it up, then checked his watch. "It's only four o'clock, Nelda. Have you finished everything? ... Yes, all right, go ahead, but make a note on your time sheet."
He dropped the handset back on the phone, then swung his chair toward Gail. "It's Friday. They always want to leave early on Friday, don't they?"
At the other end of the hall a door opened. A momentary noise of traffic, then a closing door. The click of a lock. Then nothing.
The light through the curtains had shifted, falling now in a Z-shaped line across his desk. Across his hand. His fraying cuff, his terrible nails.
Gail stood and put her purse over her shoulder. "Thank you for your time, Mr. Dodson. I should be going." She backed toward the hall. "Don't get up. I'll show myself out."
She had parked across the street. The sun shone brightly, but a chill had entered her bones. It took her a minute of sitting in the hot car before she felt warm enough to turn on the engine and open the win
dow.
She put the car into gear and glanced automatically in the rearview mirror. There was a pickup truck at the end of the block pointed in her direction. A black one, riding high off the ground. The sun glanced off its windshield, but she thought she could make out the shape of someone inside. Rusty Beck.
She hit the gas, and her tires squealed out of the parking place.
The truck didn't follow. She looked back several times, but it wasn't behind her. By the time she reached the bridge to Hutchinson Island, her nerves had settled, and she began to feel foolish. It had been an ordinary pickup truck, nothing more. Her fright had turned it into an apparition.
CHAPTER 15
Saturday morning, March 17
A good morning to sit on the beach. Bright and sunny, about seventy degrees. A few people were in swimming already. Jackie thought they were probably Canadians. The locals had more sense, waiting till May.
Irene leaned back on a wooden lounge chair and Jackie sat on the edge of the one next to it, facing her. Karen was walking barefoot in the surf, looking for shells, the wind blowing her sun-streaked hair around her head. She was mad at her mother for not sticking around. The three of them had taken the weathered gray boardwalk over the dunes of sea oats and sea grape, then gone down the stairs to the sand. The hotel was behind them, across the road.
Jackie would have invited Irene and Karen to her house, if it had been hers. It was her father's house. Jackie hadn't told him where she was going this morning and didn't plan to. She was aware of withholding a lot from her father lately.
At breakfast, Gail had taken three calls on her cell phone, walking away to keep Karen from hearing. Jackie knew what it was about. Gail was looking for witnesses. She had a week to put her case together before her papers were due in court. She was running flat-out. Everything else in the world but breathing came second. It was hard to explain it to an eleven-year-old, when you didn't want also to explain that your client could be executed if you didn't run fast enough.
Settling back on the chair, Irene kicked off her sandals. Her toenails were painted bright blue with yellow flower stickers on the big toes. She wiggled them. Her feet were small, like the rest of her. "What do you think? Karen painted them for me."
"They're cute." Jackie smiled, then said, "What are you doing this afternoon, Aunt Irene? If you're not busy, bring Karen over to the station. I'll show you around."
"What a good idea. I'm sure Karen would go for it."
"She can see the inside of a patrol car."
"Hey, what about me?"
"You too." Jackie unlaced her sneakers and set them under her lounger with the socks rolled inside. "I remember the day they assigned me a car. At first they put you with a partner so you can learn, but then they let you go out on your own. I drove by a bank with a lot of windows, and I saw my reflection. I'm like, wow. I drove around the block so I could see myself again. A cop car, and this woman in a uniform carrying a gun, and she's got her sunglasses on. I go, hey, you're looking good. I ran up onto a curb and almost hit a light pole."
Aunt Irene laughed and reached over to squeeze Jackie's hand. "You're such a treasure. Now why haven't we visited more?" She patted Jackie's bare knee. The sun came through the straw brim of Irene's hat and made flecks of light on her face. Irene was almost sixty, but she had pretty blue eyes, and she wore mascara and lipstick and bright pink earrings.
"How are you, darling? All right?"
Jackie picked a shell out of the sand and brushed it off. "I guess Gail told you we talked yesterday."
"About your mother, you mean." Irene watched the water. "I still miss Louise so much. There were four of us kids, you know. She was the baby. Our parents had the place on Sewall's Point, and one Thanksgiving Lou was driving from FSU, and your father gave her a speeding ticket. That's how they met, but you've heard that story. They married when she got out of college. She was only twenty-two."
Jackie could see it was no use talking to Aunt Irene, who refused to say a bad word about anyone, much less her favorite sister.
But Irene went on, "They weren't suited. She married too young, and it didn't work out. It happens in a lot of marriages. She left your father but she never meant to leave you and Alex. That simply isn't true."
Jackie tossed the shell into the dune. "In the two months before she died, she came to see us maybe four times. One other time, Dad took us to her apartment. She'd been drinking, so he brought us home."
"That must have hurt you terribly." A breeze picked up the hem of Irene's yellow cotton dress, and she tucked it under her knees. "What you need to understand is that your mother was so depressed. She could hardly function. She'd sleep twelve hours a day. I tried to get her some help, but she wouldn't follow through on it. You know she was a real estate agent, don't you? After she and your father split up, she found a job at a Century 21 office in West Palm through some friends. I don't know if she made a single sale. She borrowed some money from Ed and me to get by. I wanted her to come stay with us, but she said no, she couldn't be that far away from you kids. Darling, you were always in her thoughts."
"What happened between her and my father?" Jackie said. "Please don't tell me it's the usual thing between a husband and wife. I'd like the truth."
For several seconds Irene stared out at the ocean. "She fell in love with someone, and it ended very badly."
"Oh, I see." Jackie made a soft laugh. "She cheated on him. I was wondering if that was it."
"That's awfully judgmental." Irene swung her legs off the lounge chair. "Listen to me, Jackie. Your mother wasn't in the habit of looking for other men. She stayed married for fourteen years to a man she admired but couldn't please. Louise wasn't perfect, but Garlan expected perfection, and she suffered with every failure."
"Are you blaming him?”
"I'm not trying to place blame, only to explain to you how things were between them. You said you wanted to know, so let me finish. They had come to a rough spot in their marriage. They might have worked it out if... this other thing hadn't happened. The man was a builder. I think that's how they met, but I'm not sure. He was younger, and he was also married. Your mother would never have gone after him, but he pursued her. He flattered her, made reasons to see her, and sent her anonymous little gifts. She was in her mid-thirties, and all of a sudden a handsome young man wanted her. Louise was so innocent, really. She let herself believe he loved her. She thought he would leave his wife. For a few months she was head over heels, but it dawned on her that he'd just been using her. He'd never loved her. Louise called it off, but inside, she was devastated. She told your father everything and asked him to forgive her. He wouldn't. He said he could never feel the same about her again, that she had betrayed him. After that, Louise decided she had to leave. She wanted you and Alex to come with her, but Garlan was angry and hurt, and he wouldn't allow it. He hired a lawyer. Another woman might have fought back, but not Louise. She just crumbled. She blamed herself for everything."
Irene took Jackie's hand. "Oh, you mustn't think she didn't care. She did. She loved you and Alex more than anything. She would have found her way back to you, I'm sure of it. If only there had been more time."
Jackie finally took a breath. "What was his name?"
"She wouldn't say."
"Did she tell my father who it was?"
"No, she was afraid of what he might do. Garlan thought she was protecting this man, so of course that made things even worse between them."
"Do you think she killed herself? Did she drive off the road on purpose?"
"Of course not. It was an accident, that's all. A tragic, senseless, horrible accident that took her away much too soon. Oh, Jackie, darling, should I have told you all this? I think I've made you unhappy."
"You haven't. I'm glad you told me."
"Please don't blame your mother. Don't blame anyone, you'll destroy yourself that way. We're all so flawed, and we have to forgive each other."
Jackie hugged her. "I love you, Aunt Ir
ene."
Irene held her tightly, then kissed her cheek. "Your mother would be so proud of you. She loved you very much. Don't ever doubt that."
Jackie had to pull away and stand up. She looked out at the sea for a while, then reached down and picked up her shoes. "I think I'll go. If you want to bring Karen to the station, come about two-thirty. Call me."
"We'll see you then."
Jackie started to leave, then said, "Aunt Irene? Gail should tell Karen what's going on. It's not right to try to protect her, because she's going to find out anyway. Eleven is old enough."
Jackie went up the steps over the dune, then down to the road. The sound of the surf receded. The sun was warm on her back.
She remembered that last summer. The afternoon heat, the unmoving air. Walking into the barn, hearing voices. Her mother's soft laughter. Whit McGrath in his boots, tall and blond, looking around to see who was there, tugging on Jackie's braid. Hey, little girl. You're growing up as pretty as your mama. Her mother turning away to pet his chestnut horse in the stall.
By September she was dead. Aunt Irene had said not to blame anyone. But someone had to bear responsibility. Her mother, for needing someone? Her father, for not loving her more? Or Whit, who wanted her? Maybe they were all to blame.
Gail had been right: It was more complicated than Jackie had thought. She had wanted an answer and still didn't have one.
Her phone rang as she was upstairs in her garage apartment working her way through some leftover potato chips and reading about the effect of cold weather on the rate of decomposition. The most commonly applied rule of thumb is that the body cools 1½ degrees Fahrenheit per hour—
Eyes still on the page, Jackie picked up the telephone. It was Gail.
She said, "I've found Mary Jo."
"That was fast. How'd you do it?"
"Well, actually, Hector did. It seems that Gary told me the truth. Mary Jo and her husband left Stuart in 1988 and moved to Miami to open a bar on South Beach. It didn't last long, though. The bar went bankrupt, the husband ran off with another woman, and Mary Jo went to Fort Pierce. That's not far, is it? How long would it take to get there?"
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