by Jan Coffey
Benita interrupted the cozy chat she was having with the gray-haired woman sitting next to her as a text from her boss dinged on her phone. She scanned it quickly and wrote back: I’m going anyway.
A couple minutes later, Kathy Green took her place at the podium. Taking out a pad of paper, Benita jotted down some notes to bring up during her personal interview later.
With Green’s gratitude part of the speech done, the crowd hushed for the feature presentation.
“No parent should ever have to lose a child.” The very tall, immaculately dressed, and strikingly beautiful woman paused, making eye contact with a few people in the audience.
“It was a beautiful, warm and sunny Sunday morning in April. I called upstairs and begged and cursed, and finally went up myself to drag my daughter Stephanie out of bed. My husband, Claude, was making his world famous blueberry pancakes downstairs.”
Benita gauged the audience's reaction. They could identify with Kathy Green, with the routine. She was like them. She was one of them. A positive checkmark for any politician.
“Most of you in this room never met Stephanie,” Kathy said, clearly struggling with her emotions. “She was a beautiful sixteen-year-old, academically near the top of her class. She ran cross country and was co-captain in basketball and crew. She volunteered at the soup kitchen one afternoon a week, and from the time she was fourteen, she was fascinated with my husband's work as US District Court Judge in Waterbury.”
Benita wrote Judge Green's name on her pad. She'd left a couple of messages on his answering machine, but he hadn't returned her calls. She wasn't giving up.
“After breakfast, we went to church. Visited my mother at Heritage Village in Southbury. Watched a game together that afternoon on TV and had barbecued ribs for supper. I went to bed early that night to read one of my cozy mysteries. Stephanie was going out, as she often did on Sunday nights, and I remember feeling so proud of my daughter as she went out that door. As was her nature, she was spending the evening tutoring a troubled teenager down the street.”
Benita circled a name on the open page of her notebook.
“You know what happened. That same night, my daughter Stephanie was gang raped and murdered not too far from our house. There were six of them. All of them, the spawn of Satan. Not one responded to her cries. Not one reached out a hand to help her. Not one felt a pang of conscience or showed one shred of humanity for my beautiful, loving girl.”
No sound of clinking glass could be heard. No scrape of silverware. The servers stood, still as statues, staring at the podium. She held everyone and everything in her power, transfixed and silent.
“The impact of this crime against my daughter, against my family, was like a bomb exploding in my kitchen. It shattered our very existence,” Kathy Green said, her voice quavering. “The phone call, the police at the door, the mad rush to the hospital while we were yet to be told that it was too late.”
Benita studied her carefully. Kathy was looking searchingly into the faces of the audience.
“On the drive to the emergency room, I kept thinking that I'd forgotten to take Stephanie's crew sweatshirt out of the dryer and she’d want it for the next day. I was worried about her dentist appointment that Friday being too close to her after-school practice time. I was totally unaware that in a few minutes my heart would smash into a million little pieces.”
Benita took more notes on the page. Kathy Green was very good at this. It didn't matter that the people who filled this hall agreed or not with her fiscal conservativeness or her support of reinstating the death penalty in Connecticut. She was a mother who'd suffered. A mother who had pulled herself up out of the abyss of despair. She had their vote.
“Weeks, months, years later, I was still living in a nightmare that I’d hoped I could awaken from. The trials. The lies. The painful testimony I had to make and listen to at each of the trials. The wait…and then the disappointment as the sentences didn't match my loss, didn't heal my pain.”
Benita drew an arrow next to the name of all those serving time who had requested an appeal.
“And if my life wasn't shattered enough, my husband's nervous breakdown and then our divorce left me even more crushed. And then something happened. Something changed.”
Benita put the napkin next to her plate and gathered her things, mouthing an apology to people at her table and backing toward the door.
The candidate was still speaking, but Benita had heard this part of Kathy Green’s speech before. She was giving the credit for her transformation to God and to the people around her. Not to the grief experts or the therapists. But to the ordinary people around her. To the citizens of this state.
To be sure, Kathy Green had been through hell, Benita thought, but she also had a great speech writer.
Benita was almost ready for the interview next Monday.
CHAPTER 15
“Does your client have anything to hide? Are there going to be any surprises on her computer system that she would prefer the police not know about?”
Gavin had decided to call Farah Aziz before he arrived at Lacey’s house. She was one of the top criminal defense lawyers in state. He knew her from her days as a prosecutor in New Haven. Smart and shrewd with the instincts of a pit bull, she’d worked enough cases in her early years in the juvenile courts to know the kind of baggage Lacey would be carrying for the rest of her life.
“You mean, other than two separate sets of crime scene photographs?” Gavin asked.
“Forget I asked. I’ll ask her directly if she decides to hire me. Attorney/client privilege. Don't give me any more details.”
Through Terri, Gavin knew most of the skeletons in Lacey's closet.
“Tell her she shouldn’t call the police. She should call me first,” Farah told him. “But you’re assuming she doesn’t have a lawyer on retainer already.”
“I doubt she does. But I’ll be there in under an hour, so I’ll let you know.”
Gavin recalled something Terri had mentioned about the attorney who had represented Lacey sixteen years ago. The guy’s name was Calkey or something like that. An old timer who’d long since retired. He’d convinced Lacey and their family to take a plea bargain instead of going to trial. Terri had always felt guilty about that. Three years in prison for a fifteen-year-old for being stoned and in the wrong place at the wrong time.
“Gavin, are you there?”
“I’m here,” he said. “I was just thinking that law enforcement knows I’ve seen this second photo. I can’t sit on it too long.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Farah assured him. “Instead of Lacey reporting this new file, I’m going to do it for her. First, I have a certified forensic computer examiner who will check it out. She'll be able to get whatever clues might be in the system.”
“How long is that going to take?”
“If Lacey calls me this morning, I can get her computer to my expert this afternoon. Then I’ll call in the law. Of course, good luck to them in getting that computer without a court order anytime soon. And being Friday afternoon, that gives us enough time to dig into things.”
“The locals won’t be happy.”
“That’s between me and them. You’re out of it. And you know Lacey’s rights. She shouldn’t speak to them without her attorney present anyway.”
“Got it.” Gavin decided this was the best time to bring up the topic of money. Farah was also one of the highest paid attorneys in the state. He didn’t want Lacey to get sticker shock and shy away from the best. “And Farah, can you bill me instead of her? For most of your retainer and then your fee? And I don’t want her to know.”
There was a long pause on the line.
“Lacey hasn’t settled any of her sister’s estate,” he explained. “She’s going to have the life insurance and retirement funds soon enough, along with whatever else Terri had been saving up. But for right now, I’m guessing she’s running close to empty.”
“I’ll work up some numbers that wo
n’t break the bank,” Farah said good-naturedly, not pushing him on his motivations.
Ending the call, Gavin regretted not correcting Farah about her assumption that Lacey was his client. When it came to his work, if it was with NHPD or as a private investigator, he followed strict ethical rules.
Gavin turned on the radio to stop himself from overthinking the situation.
“…third time this month, a mutilated body has washed up on a Connecticut beach. State police are reporting the discovery of a headless torso of an unidentified male in Mystic. Authorities are not saying if they have any clues about who is responsible for these brutal murders…”
“Fucking Bratva,” Gavin cursed under his breath, knowing full well the butcher who was responsible.
CHAPTER 16
The lack of sleep, the photos on her computer, the three cups of coffee she’d gulped down this morning, had put Lacey into a near manic state. Her heart was racing. Her hand shook. She jumped at the normal old-house creaks as she paced from room to room. She couldn’t sit long enough to concentrate on any of her work. She was afraid to check her email. She felt sick to her stomach.
Eighteen cities and towns in thirteen years. In the past, she had a perfect solution for dealing with stress, with any kind of stress. She’d move. New apartment. New low wage job. New people who had no idea about her screwed up past. But coming back here was supposed to be the end of that, the end of a very painful trail. There was nowhere else left for her to go.
Lacey was drinking her fourth cup of coffee and staring blankly at the deep grooves on the old wooden kitchen table when the doorbell chimed. Gavin. Her heart thumped. Leaving the coffee mug in the sink, she took her time walking to the front door. She was totally surprised to look through the glass and find a short, thin young woman standing outside. The two black bags she had hanging from her shoulder gave away her identity.
Lacey unlatched and opened the door. “You’re the reporter. I’m sorry you’re here, but I left a—”
“Hi. Benita Gomez.” The young woman smiled, her hand outstretched, interrupting Lacey. “Ten o'clock. I did mention to you that I’d be prompt.”
The jacket of the navy blue business suit was askew because of the weight of the bags. Lacey shook her hand. Strong, confident fingers wrapped around hers. The skin was cool. “I called your office and left a message. They told me they’d get hold of you.”
“I’ve been on the road. They didn’t,” she replied in a stressed tone. “I’m coming directly from another event. Something wrong?”
“I’m sorry, Benita. Some urgent business has come up,” Lacey explained. “I have to postpone our interview.”
Dark lines immediately creased the young woman's forehead. “But you’re home and I'm already here. I promise this won't take more than ten minutes of your time,” Benita said in a persuasive tone. “This interview is for an article we’re running next week and I’m up against a deadline.”
Lacey didn't know if she could keep up the appearance of a relaxed attitude for any amount of time. Gavin had sent her a text when he’d left New Haven. He should have been here by now.
“I already took a lot of the information I need from your website,” the reporter persisted. “We could do it in five minutes. Please.”
Lacey didn’t want to do this, not for five seconds. But what else she could do now, other than keep pacing and feeling sick to her stomach until he got here? She opened the door reluctantly. “Five minutes.”
“Thank you. You don’t know how much I appreciate this.”
Lacey left the front door unlocked and led Benita Gomez to the living room. She was surprised when the reporter pulled a camera out of one of the bags as the two of them sat down.
“No,” Lacey objected immediately. “No photos.”
“I was hoping to take some pictures of you for the article.”
“You can use the headshot from the webpage. I'll send you a high resolution copy.”
It was obvious Benita was displeased, but she kept her tone friendly. “Action photos of you, looking like you’re working, would really look great in the paper. A picture’s worth a thousand words.”
“I know. That’s my business,” Lacey said curtly. “For today, the headshot will have to do.”
“Is a tape recorder okay?” she asked next.
Lacey’s impulse was to object to that, too. In fact, she just wanted the woman to go.
“Five minutes,” Gomez repeated, placing the tape recorder on her bag. “Just to start, briefly tell me about your business.”
Lacey realized her hands were shaking. She tucked them under her legs and tried to calm her agitation with a couple of deep breaths. “Watkins’s Photography. I—”
Benita interrupted right away. “And you bought your business from…?”
“Brett Orr. Two…two and a half months ago,” Lacey replied. The client list and equipment had changed hands, but Terri was the one who’d convinced her to branding their last name at the same time.
“Certainly a well-established business in town,” Gomez smiled. “So how is it going?”
“Great,” Lacey lied. To save face, she started reciting lines from her brochure regarding the kinds of services she offered. She sounded as enthusiastic as a wind-up doll. She went on to say how she was hoping to expand into media and video production.
The reporter held up a pen, interrupting her. “Why Westbury? You’re originally from Sherman. Why not start your business there?”
Lacey stared at her a moment, fighting back a pang of annoyance. Her past was public record. Anyone could know what happened sixteen years ago. She decided not to correct the woman, even though she was not originally from Sherman and had only lived there for four months.
“My grandfather's house was here in Westbury,” she said instead. “I live here now.”
The reporter took some notes.
“You’ve had a tragic life, your sister dying in a hit-and-run last month.” She made eye contact, pausing, acting like she cared.
Lacey looked away. The string of intelligent responses she’d put together and memorized for this interview blurred and faded into a mass of pointless sounds.
“But it is true that your parents died in a murder-suicide when you were in jail here in Connecticut.”
Lacey fixed her eyes on the woman’s face, her hands fisting involuntarily. Pain exploded in the back of her brain, threatening to split her head in two. “I don’t want to talk about my family.”
“Okay. Then what do you think of the sentence reduction appeals that have been filed by the lawyers of your friends who are still in prison for Stephanie Green's murder?”
“I don't think about them. I don't know anything about it. Those are not my…I do not follow any of that. Look, you're here to interview me about my business. Let’s stick to—”
“Since you've been back, have you been in contact with Stephanie Green's parents?”
Lacey stood up. “This interview is over.”
The reporter didn't move from her chair. “What's your opinion of Kathy Green's run for office? Will she have your vote?”
Lacey moved toward the door. “I’m asking you to leave now.”
“I'm giving you a chance to tell your side of the story, Lacey.” Benita Gomez was not moving. “Did you know that Kathy Green speaks of you in the same breath with all the others? I was at one of her campaign events today. She referred to you as a cold-blooded—”
“Out!” Lacey said, boiling over.
“Is everything okay?”
Gavin was standing in the open doorway behind her, his coat still on. Lacey glanced up at him, fighting back tears of fury. She’d been completely blindsided here.
“Would you please show Ms. Gomez to the door? We're done with our interview.”
Lacey slipped past him and stormed off toward the kitchen.
CHAPTER 17
“This is my cell phone number.” The reporter handed Gavin a business card. “I’m doing a
feature story on the Green case, with or without Miss Watkins's cooperation. It's up to her how she wants to come across in the article.”
Forceful, ambitious, and intentionally blind to the consequences of her stories, Benita Gomez belonged to that breed of journalists that Gavin had run into occasionally during his career. The ones with serious aspirations of greatness. Those who would step on anyone on their way to the top. Collateral damage was not their problem.
He closed the door on her and tossed the card onto a table in the hall. He hung his jacket on the pegboard then went in search of Lacey.
She was in the kitchen.
“She lied to me!” Lacey exploded as soon as he walked in.
Gavin's attention was drawn to the counters. It appeared that she had taken every box, bag, and spice bottle out of the cabinets. She'd done a half decent job of emptying the fridge, too. An extra-large metal mixing bowl was on the kitchen table. She was throwing things into the bowl without pausing to measure anything.
“A lying bitch! She said she was doing an article on my business. Liar!”
Crossing his arms and leaning one shoulder against the doorjamb, he watched her. This was so much better than the vulnerable, defeated Lacey of just a few minutes ago. Her older sister used to have a wicked temper. Everyone at the department had given Terri a wide berth whenever she’d unleashed it. And Gavin was currently watching some shared family genes in action.
“No sense of principle. No respect. Asshole!”
An egg crashed against the side of the bowl and a chunk of the shell disappeared into a cloud of dry ingredients. She poured enough oil over the top to drown everything beneath it. He was starting to enjoy the show.
