With Mitch in Chicago the defense team didn't seem to know how to handle the situation. Or maybe they didn't care, she thought. They knew a lost cause when they saw one.
And she was a lost cause. How could she beat a murder charge when she didn't have an alibi for the last thirty-two hours?
Since Mitch and Jason had left the house Sunday morning, Royce had been alone. Not even Jenny had been with her as she'd packed up the contents of her parents' home. She'd been so careful—coming and going—no one had seen her.
Buck up, Royce. Remember, you'll never walk alone. But now her father's comforting words did little to console her. Anger welled up inside her, intensifying with each thought. If only she understood why she'd been targeted.
And why Caroline Rambeau had been murdered.
Her money, she reasoned. Caroline was just a few months from inheriting a trust that would make her one of the richest women in the country. Ward Farenholt had been executor of that trust for years.
The money had to be the key. What had Paul Talbott told her? Most crimes fell into two categories: crimes of passion and crimes of greed.
If only she could talk to Mitch, she'd have a better idea of what to do. He hadn't deserted her, had he? True, he liked to be on the winning side, but surely he'd stick with her. Or had she become a political liability?
Some inner sensitivity that she didn't quite comprehend told her Mitch had suffered loss and betrayal. He understood what she was going through and would never desert her. Still, so many terrible things had happened that she couldn't help worrying he might toss her aside.
This seemed out of character—but then did she really know Mitch? Once she would have sworn Talia and Val were above reproach, but now she questioned their motives. God help her, she even wondered about Wally. When it came right down to it, she could rely only on herself.
"That's my bunk." A short Vietnamese woman interrupted Royce's thoughts, speaking with a heavy accent.
Royce looked down from the top bunk at the three Vietnamese women who'd come into the cell just after she had. Small but wiry, they stood shoulder to shoulder, itching to take her on. The Vietnamese gangs were notorious for their brutality.
But beneath Royce's debilitating sense of hopelessness rage simmered raw and primitive. She was sick of everyone ganging up on her. She'd had enough. Now was the time to fight back and she didn't give a damn if they beat her senseless.
No one—but no one—was going to take advantage of her. The spark of anger—in an instant—became full-blown fury.
She swung down from the top bunk as if she were capitulating to their demands. At the last second she kicked up one foot and rammed it into the gut of the woman Royce instinctively knew was the leader. The woman collapsed, doubled over in pain. Royce grabbed another woman and dragged her over to the toilet in the corner. She shoved her head into the bowl.
The third woman jumped on Royce's back, her fingers clawing at Royce's eyes. But Royce refused to let go, banging the woman's head against the rim of the toilet bowl. For an instant Royce was surprised at her own strength and the depth of her fury, barely recognizing the primal urge to survive.
Finally, the woman screamed, "Stop."
Royce let go and the woman slumped to the floor. Whirling around, hardly conscious of the blood dripping from the scratch on her cheek, Royce charged the woman who'd been on her back, knocking her against the cell's metal bars.
A surge of adrenaline gave her unusual strength; a riptide of past injustices spurred her to fight until her tormentors were vanquished. Or she died. At this point Royce didn't care which.
"Hey! What's going on in there?" called a guard from the cell door.
Royce let go of the woman and drew back, the sudden interruption stunning her. What was she doing? She'd never attacked anyone like this, but her animal instincts cautioned her. Inside the gray-bar Hilton—as the prisoners called jail —only the strong survived.
She kept the side of her face with the scratch away from the guard. "Nothing's happening."
The guard looked at them suspiciously, but the Vietnamese women didn't contradict Royce. They all knew the rules of the jungle. Snitches were as good as dead.
The guard walked away and Royce turned to the three women, who were now huddled together on one bunk, looking at her as if she were crazy. "Leave me alone or I'll beat the hell out of you."
Mitch checked his watch. Almost six. Jesus H. Christ. This was unbelievably late. Most judges knocked off at four. The expert witness the prosecution had called was boring as hell. Even the jury foreman was nodding off. It was a dead cinch that Mitch would win this case—after they waded through days of tedious testimony and a parade of experts about as interesting as tapioca.
Toying with his pencil Mitch detected someone staring at him. He eased his chair sideways and gazed across the courtroom. Paul.
What the hell was he doing here? Jenny, Mitch thought, then quickly changed his mind. No. Royce. Something had happened to Royce. Something terrible.
It was the longest twenty minutes of his life until the witness completed his testimony, and the judge adjourned the court. Mitch rushed to the back of the courtroom. Paul put his hand on Mitch's shoulder, and he was positive Royce was dead. What else could bring Paul halfway across the country and make him look this grim?
"Royce has been arrested for Caroline Rambeau's murder."
It took a second for the words to register. "Caroline Rambeau? Who'd want to kill her and try to pin it on Royce?"
"Beats me." Paul jammed his fists in his trouser pockets. "I've always felt there was something strange about this case."
Mitch refused to believe this was happening. "They can't have any proof."
"I haven't talked to the detective in charge, but I hear they have physical evidence implicating Royce."
Mitch turned away, damning his own arrogance. Early on he'd been dead certain he could beat the charges and save Royce. But day by day he'd discovered his pride had been assaulted by an unknown enemy—one bent on destroying Royce. He'd saved numerous felons, a few murderers, and even a starving cougar. Hell, he'd pioneered the challenge to DNA.
But he couldn't save an innocent woman. He'd isolated her, setting her up, making sure no one knew where she was and no one saw her. No alibi.
"Paul," Mitch said, realizing his voice was barely above a whisper, "see what you can find out."
"I will... but—"
Paul didn't have to spell it out to Mitch. He knew the truth. He'd gambled and lost.
CHAPTER 25
Paul ducked under the yellow and black crime scene tape at Caroline Rambeau's Nob Hill home and yelled, "Yo, Wilson, you there?"
"Yeah, in the living room. Come in."
After Paul had told Mitch about Royce's arrest, he'd returned to the airport, where the jet he'd chartered flew him back to San Francisco in record time. Shit! He'd never seen Mitch as traumatized as he was when he heard the news.
That's why Paul had flown halfway across the country to tell him personally. It didn't take a rocket scientist to realize Mitch was nuts about Royce. And Paul had known exactly what Mitch would tell him to do: Throw everything you've got into this case.
Paul had to confess he hadn't seen this one coming. Was he losing his touch? Who would have thought Caroline Rambeau would be murdered? Or that the police would find Royce's prints at the scene as well as other evidence she'd been there?
The perp was clever, Paul granted, but somewhere he'd made a mistake. And Paul wouldn't give up until he found it. There was no perfect crime.
Inside the marble foyer that spoke of money—lots of old money—Paul whisked out a book of matches. Christ, nothing, but nothing, smelled like death. The sulfur from matches helped mask the odor of decaying flesh, but not much.
He couldn't help remembering the last time he'd been here. There hadn't been any hint of trouble. How wrong he'd been.
He walked into the living room where evidence technicians were combing t
he carpet, using hand-held mini-vacs that sucked everything loose into special filters. Later the bits of hair and fibers would be analyzed as possible evidence.
The outline of Caroline Rambeau's body had been drawn in red chalk on the arctic white carpet, but a bloodstain covered an area two feet on either side of where her body had been.
Whoa! That's a lot of blood.
A charge of excitement jolted Paul. He hated to admit it, but he found murder stimulating. The ultimate crime. Was there anything more precious than life? No. And for a detective nothing was more satisfying than finding a killer. It was a challenge he missed.
Tom Wilson was the homicide detective in charge of the investigation. When Paul had called him and told him to meet him at the scene, Tom had readily agreed. He didn't have to be reminded he'd be in jail if Paul had rolled over on him.
But Paul hadn't told anyone that Tom had taken the money during the drug bust that had cost Paul his job. He figured Tom had more than paid for his crime. He'd taken the money to help his kid, but the boy had died of leukemia anyway.
"Over here," Tom called to Paul.
He crossed the plush carpet, his feet sinking in as if he were walking on a sponge. He came up to Tom, who had the murder book spread out on a card table marked SFPD. The blue binder contained the chronological record of the investigation and the various reports from the coroner and the crime techs.
"Who discovered the body?" Paul inquired.
"Brent and Wade Farenholt. Caroline was supposed to come to dinner. When she didn't show or answer the phone, Eleanor sent them over."
"And the last person to see her alive?"
"The Farenholts. She'd been at their home."
Paul mulled over the information. The statistics were overwhelming that the last person to see the victim alive or the person who discovered the body was the perp. But there were exceptions. So far, nothing about this case followed the rules.
"What happens to the fortune Caroline was about to inherit?" Paul asked.
"Some distant cousin living in Rome is about to become a very rich lady."
"Rome, huh?" Paul decided to take another look at the phony Italian count. "May I see the photos?"
Tom took a stack of crime scene photos out of the special pouch in the back of the murder book. Even in death Caroline was exceptionally beautiful. She wore an ivory peignoir set trimmed in marabou fur with matching mules. She'd been shot in the abdomen and the blood showed up in the photos with astonishing clarity. He could just imagine the jury gagging.
"Here's how we figure it," Tom said, obviously anxious to show off his skills. "The victim let in the perp. No sign of forced entry."
Paul had already noted that, but didn't point it out. He also noticed Wilson's years of training kept him professional, referring to the killer as "the perp." The papers had trumpeted Royce's arrest, but to the police she was innocent until proven guilty.
Paul intended to be the one to clear her name.
"Caroline was comfortable enough to have a Coke with the perp," Wilson continued, pointing to one photo showing two Coke cans on a small round table. "They sat in those wing chairs, chatting."
Paul glanced across the room at the two white brocade wing chairs and the antique table between them. It was exactly where he'd sat when he'd interviewed Caroline, pretending to be a reporter from Town and Country. He examined the photo more closely. "No glasses? They were drinking out of cans?"
"Yep. We got the perp's prints on one can."
"Rich, classy women like Caroline don't serve guests drinks in cans."
Wilson shrugged off the observation. "They must have argued. Caroline Rambeau stood up and the perp shot her here." Wilson pointed to his gut, which slopped over a belt that was already on the last hole.
Paul nodded, not because he agreed with Wilson's scenario, but because he knew Abigail Carnivali, like the media, would build her case on the jealousy theory. The women had fought over Brent Farenholt.
"Were Royce Winston's prints found on anything but the Coke can?"
"Nah." Tom shook his head. "We cut the pearl buttons off the victim's gown. We're cookin' them."
Paul doubted that the heat chamber filled with Super Glue would reveal any latent prints. The killer was too careful to make an obvious slip.
"Now, this is the good part." Wilson chuckled and Paul winced. He'd almost forgotten the gallows humor that was a cop's way of dealing with all the shit they saw every day.
"The shot wasn't fatal. But the perp sat in that chair"— Tom pointed to one of the wing chairs—"drank a Coke, and waited for Caroline to die."
"Jeee-sus." Paul whistled. "A wacko."
"Wait. It gets better." Wilson pulled out another photo. "The perp moved this phone close to Caroline. See, it's on the floor not far from her head."
Paul looked at the photo and saw the phone had been moved from the sofa table, its cord stretched taut to position it close to Caroline.
"You see, the perp wanted her to suffer, to know she was going to die." Wilson shook his head, disgusted. "The phone was so close that if only she'd dialed 9-1-1, she would have lived."
Paul turned away. For some reason he imagined Val sprawled on the floor at the mercy of some psycho. He managed to keep his voice steady. "How long did it take for her to die?"
"Coroner figures she lived close to three hours."
"What kind of a person does something like this?" Paul directed the question to himself. Serial killers were charmers. Mass murderers were sullen, antisocial. But what about this killer? What kind of a person was he looking for?
"Unfuckingbelievable." Paul leafed through the photos once more. "What about the bruise on Caroline's wrist?"
Beside each subject a ruler had been placed to compare size and scale. This bruise was very large and had unusual curved edges. The vibrant purple color meant the victim had been alive when the injury had occurred.
"No sign of a fight. The bruise doesn't have anything to do with the crime."
Paul walked across the room and borrowed a magnifying glass from one of the evidence techs. He took a close look at the bruise, taking his time to examine it from several angles.
"Check that bruise again, Wilson. I think you'll find Caroline tried to trick her killer. She pretended to be dead—then made a grab for the phone. The perp stepped on her wrist. I'm willing to bet the perp stood on it until she died."
Paul took the elevator to the fifth floor condominium Gian Viscotti was leasing. The building wasn't far from Caroline's home. And like the murdered woman's building Gian's building was tasteful, a reminder of generations of inherited wealth, an echelon of society that welcomed only their brethren.
Before he knocked on the double doors of Gian's condo, Paul checked his watch. Seven minutes flat. He hadn't been walking fast, but that's how long it had taken him to get here from Caroline's. Late at night Gian could easily have made it between the two buildings without being noticed.
The tall man who answered Paul's knock was even more handsome than the photographs Paul had seen. Dark hair, dark brooding eyes. Italian-looking, all right, especially for a guy from Dalhart, Texas.
"Yes?" Gian said with the merest hint of an Italian accent.
Paul flashed his ID card that identified him as a private detective. He closed it with a snap before Gian could look closely, a trick that often deceived people into thinking he was a policeman. "I need to ask you a few questions about Caroline Rambeau."
"I already gave a statement," Gian said, but he stepped aside, allowing Paul to enter and quickly note the expensive furniture, the clusters of family photographs in sterling silver frames, and the crystal ashtray overflowing with ground-out half-smoked cigarettes.
"I'm just here to clarify a few details." Paul took out a small notebook he kept in his jacket pocket for occasions such as this. People expected you to take notes—it made them more comfortable. "You and the deceased had just terminated your relationship, correct?"
"Yes," Gian ad
mitted, gesturing for Paul to take a seat.
Paul sat and studied Gian's clothes. Where would you buy white lizard loafers? And why would you? Well, they did complete his Continental look: navy blazer with a red scarf flamboyantly tucked in the pocket and white linen slacks with creases as sharp as a stiletto.
Gian whisked a gold cigarette case out of his pocket and lit a cigarette. He took a deep draw and blew the smoke over his shoulder away from Paul before responding. "Caroline and I decided to date other people."
"Whose idea was that?"
"Hers," Gian reluctantly admitted.
"When was that?"
"Friday afternoon."
Paul scribbled a note to remind himself to buy some flowers to cheer up Val. "Did you see her after that?"
"No." Gian ground out the half-smoked cigarette and tossed it into the mound of cigarettes in the crystal ashtray.
The guy was polished, Paul granted. Just a touch of an Italian accent, not overdone. Outrageously handsome, but still masculine. The kind of guy likely to land himself an heiress. But why was he so nervous that he was chain-smoking?
"Did Caroline call it quits because she found out your real name is Billy Joe Williams and you haven't got a pot to piss in?"
There were several seconds of total, astonished silence. This was information the police didn't yet have, so whoever had done the initial interview couldn't have hit Gian with this.
"No," Gian said quietly, defeat in his voice. "I'd been pressing Caroline to marry me. She kept putting me off... like she did every other man who was interested in her."
Paul mentally rolled the dice, knowing there was something more. He wanted to get it out of Gian before the police did. It was a point of pride now; he wanted to nail the perp himself. After all, he'd been working on this case long before Caroline's murder.
"Look, I don't care who you really are. If you didn't kill Caroline, it doesn't matter, but I have to know exactly what your relationship with her was like."
Sawyer, Meryl Page 30
