by Mary Burton
“The jury is going to come back with a murder one conviction.”
“I don’t think so.” Feigned smugness aside, she didn’t know any more about the trial’s outcome than Levi. Juries could be fickle.
He crossed his leg over his knee and adjusted his cuff. “I want to talk again about a plea deal.”
She’d hoped her summation yesterday might have prompted a deal. “Let’s hear it.”
“Samantha killed her husband.”
“No one is contesting that. The issue at hand is if the killing was cold-blooded murder or self-defense.”
“I’ve read the files, and I know the woman suffered at her husband’s hand. I’m not an unfeeling bastard when it comes to these things. Between you and me, I think his brutality drove her to desperation. But the fact is no one can take the law into their own hands.”
“What are you saying?”
“I want to be generous. Second-degree murder. She does fifteen years with credit for time served.”
Charlotte’s laughter sounded genuine and might have been if she weren’t fighting for a woman’s life. She wiped away a pretend tear. “You know, Levi, I’ve already had a trying day, and I was just thinking how nice it would be to have a good laugh. And bless your heart, you have done just that.”
He arched a brow. “It wasn’t meant to be funny.”
“Of course it was,” she said, letting the humor drain from her gaze. “In fact, I need to believe it was a joke, otherwise I might take it as an insult. Because no one in this town is naïve enough to believe that I am going to let my twenty-nine-year-old client, the mother of an eight- and ten-year-old, spend the next fifteen years of her life in jail and miss every important moment of her children’s lives.”
“I’m sorry for those children. I really am. But she killed her husband.”
“In self-defense. Stan White was a brutal man who systematically abused his wife the entire ten years they were married. When he tried to murder her in cold blood, she defended herself and he died as a result. She does not deserve to serve one more day behind bars. She deserves to be with her children. And judging by the jury’s faces yesterday, she won’t go to jail. She will be acquitted.”
He sat back in his chair, his expression curious and probing. “Why are you doing this?”
“Doing what?”
“Defending a nobody. I’ve seen some of the clients you’ve handled. Big bucks. Big money. Why did you ride in on your white horse to defend this woman? You are pissing away your valuable time on Samantha White.”
A nobody. The words rattled in her head. “I appreciate your concern, Levi. But my time is my own to manage as I see fit.”
He leaned forward, a conspirator’s smile on his lips. “I’d hate to think of all the billable hours that went down the toilet on this case. I mean, an office this fancy has got to cost a fortune, and with less income coming in, well, I’m wondering how long you can hold on.”
As long as it takes. “Again your concern touches me so deeply but I can promise you the firm is quite solid and prepared to back Ms. White even through an appeal.”
“An appeal? You’ve got to be kidding. Samantha White is going to do jail time.”
“No, she is not.”
Annoyance flashed in his eyes. “I always figured you for a smart woman.”
“Good for you. Underestimating me is always a mistake.”
He tugged at his shirt cuffs. “Are you going to take the plea deal or not?”
The scrapper in her wanted to reach over the desk and smack him hard. But she’d learned that acting out led to unfortunate consequences. She smiled brightly and rose. “Not.”
For a moment he did not rise but studied her with narrowed eyes. “So you’re going to ride this out to a very bitter and disappointing end?”
“I suppose you will be disappointed when you lose, won’t you?” She moved toward the door. “Now if you will excuse me, Levi, I’ve got work to do.”
He stood, his posture stiff with annoyance. “You’re making a mistake.”
“Have a nice day, Levi.”
“Voluntary manslaughter. Eight years with the possibility of parole in five years.”
She hesitated. He’d sweetened the pot, another indication he was worried. Next year was an election year, and he wanted the conviction on his record.
“You owe it to your client to tell her about this deal. Five years is a hell of a better deal than life.”
Five years would be painful but it wasn’t a lifetime. And she owed it to Samantha to tell her about the deal. “I’ll pass it on.”
“Deal is on the table for twenty-four hours.” He moved past her in quick strides.
When she heard the front reception door close, she gripped the edge of her office door so tightly her knuckles ached. She wanted to slam the door over and over again until the wood splintered. Anger had been a constant in her life, and she’d long ago learned to control it. So, she released her grip, carefully removed her jacket, and hung it on the back of her door.
Angie appeared in her doorway. “So what do you think that house call was all about?”
“He’s scared.”
“He didn’t sound scared.”
“He was. I could smell it on him. He’s offered a plea. Manslaughter. Eight years with the possibility of parole in five years.”
“Damn. That’s a long way from life for murder one. You want to tell Samantha or do you want me to?”
“I’ll do it.” She shook her head. “He’s not usually the kind to cave.”
“If you plea, he has a conviction, and his record remains pristine. He’s got ambitions. And that makes him predictable.”
“Maybe. He said he felt sorry for Samantha.”
“Do you really believe that?”
“No.”
Rokov and Sinclair had gone to Diane Young’s apartment but it was locked tight. There were no signs of forced entry or break-in and neighbors had reported nothing out of the ordinary. She ran a business from her house, one neighbor had said, and it wasn’t unusual for her to go days at a time without being seen. Without a search warrant they’d have to wait to enter the apartment.
None of the neighbors had pictures of Diane, so he’d contacted the Department of Motor Vehicles and requested a picture of her driver’s license. The contact at DMV had complained the computers were again down but promised an image by end of business.
Now as the day wound to a close for the nine-to-fivers, Rokov cut down a side street toward the medical examiner’s office. Jennifer Sinclair reached for a power bar in her purse and ripped open the wrapper.
“How can you eat that?” Rokov said.
She glanced at the bar as if searching for a problem. “What? I’m hungry.”
He shook his head. “Do you ever sit and eat a meal?”
“I’m sitting now.”
“At a table.”
“Hey, I’ve conquered half the battle.” She bit into the bar.
“I’m talking about eating at a table with chairs and a hot meal.”
“Please. I’m single. I eat in front of the computer, on the fly, or if I’m lucky, with the television.”
“You never sat down with your family to share a meal?”
“Good Lord, no. Dad and I always ate in front of the television. TV was our version of family interaction.”
“What about discussions on politics or family matters?”
Her eyes sparkled with amusement. “I know you got the Old Country thing going with your family. But that’s not the way of with Clan Sinclair. Dad and I were the masters of avoiding any deep conversation. I’d venture to say if not for the television, World War Three might have erupted in our home between me and my dad.”
“Shameful.”
“Did you and your ex sit at the table?”
He frowned. “Sometimes. But she was on the go with her job, so we rarely were in the same city together.”
She peeled away more of the bar’s wrapper. “
Was it her job that broke you two up?”
He shot her a glance. “Kinda personal, don’t you think, Sinclair?”
She shrugged. “Hey, we’ve been partners over a year, and you’ve never mentioned her.”
He tapped his left hand on the steering wheel. The tan lines of his wedding band had finally faded. It had taken longer because he’d refused to remove the ring until the divorce was final. “She wanted to live in California. She loved her work. And she did not want children. We both realized we wanted very different things out of life.”
“No room for compromise?”
He shrugged, wondering how they’d ended up on this line of conversation. Partners shared more with each other than their own families, but he had never discussed his divorce with anyone. “Not for her.”
“Do you miss her?”
The question caught him short, and for a moment he thought carefully about the question. “No.”
She nodded her approval. “So now that you’re officially single, have you been out there tripping the light fantastic?”
“Not much time,” he said.
“You still living with your grandmother?” The teasing edge added bite to the words.
He felt no need to apologize. “I have my own place. I’ve been with my grandmother the last couple of weeks because my sister, Anna, is out of town. Anna has lived with Grandmother since her fall.”
She shifted in the seat toward him. “It’s touching. the way you all look out for her. But isn’t it weird living with your grandmother?”
“I usually stay with her one night, Sinclair, so Anna can get a break. But for the record, if my grandmother needed me more, I’d be there. She took care of me when I was little and my parents worked eighteen-hour days. Now it’s my turn.”
“You’re a good guy, Danny-boy. Some chick, maybe someone like Charlotte Wellington, is gonna snap you up.” She frowned and pretended to think. “Of course, Ms. Wellington has got high maintenance written all over her.”
Charlotte wasn’t like his ex. On the surface there were similarities. But under the glitz there was more to Charlotte. “Sinclair, you care way too much for my private life.”
“I’m living vicariously through you, Danny-boy. My love life is a wasteland. Plus, I like to watch you get revved up when I mention her name. Charlotte. Charlotte. Charlotte.”
“Amusing.” He drove down the parkway and soon pulled up in front of the regional medical examiner’s office. “Do you remember that woman who was talking to Charlotte Wellington?”
“Tall, olive skin, dark hair.”
“Yeah. It strike you as odd that Wellington would be representing her?”
“She’s doing the pro bono thing more, I hear.”
“No, her partner is. She’s only committed to the Samantha White case.”
“So she’s doing another case. What’s the dif?”
“Wellington tensed up when the girl started talking to her. She looked almost ... sad.”
“Maybe she feels sorry for the girl.”
“It’s more than that.”
“How so?”
“Don’t know yet.” He parked the car and turned off the ignition. “I called in to the clerk of the court and got the girl’s name. Sooner Tate. Eighteen. Arrest report said she works for the carnival.”
“Really?”
“Got charged with shoplifting.”
“So how did she hook up with Wellington?”
“That’s the mystery. The clerk said Charlotte just appeared and told the judge she was counsel for the defense.”
“And why do you care?”
He shook his head. “Good question.”
“You just got out of a marriage with Ms. Career. Now you’re sniffing around another.”
“Doing no such thing.” Annoyance snapping, Rokov grabbed his notebook and got out. His partner had a knack for finding the right nerve and twisting.
“Good because the image of you two cuddling over wine ...” She pretended to shudder. “Twilight Zone.”
“We haven’t been on a date.” Technically true.
“Good because, dude, good working men and princesses don’t last.”
“You’re getting to be a pain, Sinclair.”
She grinned. “I do try.”
He opened the front door of the medical examiner’s office for her and she walked past. “Diane Young bills herself as a fortune teller. You believe in fortune tellers?”
She barked a laugh. “No and hell no. Tell me you don’t.”
“My grandmother is considered a Seer. Many in the Russian community come to see her for advice.”
“Ever occur to you that she’s just an experienced older woman with good common sense?”
“She told my cousin last year she’d have two boys before the year ended. We all laughed because Sue said she never wanted kids. She gave birth to twin boys last week.” They walked up to the front desk, showed their badges, and signed the visitor’s log. Rokov led the way to the elevators and punched the down button.
“I’ve met Sue. She talks tough but is a marshmallow when it comes to babies.”
“Grandmother said my brother would injure his leg when he went to college. He broke it in three places.”
“He was a soccer player. A forward center, if I remember. Not a stretch.”
“She said you will be married by this time next year.”
“Oh, she did?” Sinclair planted her hands on her hips. “So she tell you anything else about my Prince Charming?”
“No.”
“Too bad.” Sinclair folded her arms over her chest. “She’s got good instincts. Not special powers.”
“We’ll see.” The doors opened. “Time to go to work, Sinclair.”
They moved down the tiled hallway toward the double set of metal doors. The air had grown thicker with the scent of bleach and cleaners as they’d traveled deeper down the hallway. Above, a fluorescent light buzzed.
“Dr. Henson said she’d start the autopsy by five,” Rokov said.
Sinclair checked her watch. “Which is right about now.”
Rokov pushed through the door, and they found Dr. Henson standing beside the stainless steel gurney, which held the sheet-draped body of their victim. Henson’s red hair was tucked up in a surgical cap as green as the gown, which covered scrubs, and she wore gloves and booties over her feet. On the other side of the gurney was her similarly garbed, though short and heavier, assistant.
The gurney was situated over a drain and pushed close to a sink. The tiled back wall sported a stainless work counter outfitted with a gruesome collection of saws and other instruments.
Henson pulled back the sheet covering the victim. “Just in time, detectives. Suit up, and we can have a look at your victim.”
The detectives donned gowns and gloves and moved toward the table. Both stiffened just a little as Henson dragged the sheet from the victim’s naked body.
Suspended from the ceiling was a microphone, which Dr. Henson could control with a pedal under the examine table. The doctor pressed the button with her foot and said in a clear voice, “It’s October nineteenth, five p.m. and I have in attendance, Detectives Jennifer Sinclair and Daniel Rokov with the Alexandria Police Department and my assistant, Nancy Farmer. I have rolled the victim’s prints and submitted them to forensics, and we are waiting for an identification.”
“We might have a possible on her identity,” Rokov said. “I’m waiting on a picture from DMV.”
Dr. Henson reviewed the victim’s stats for the tape recorder as she moved up to the head of the table. “There is trauma to her hands and feet, all caused by wooden stakes being driven through her extremities. Judging by the wounds, I’d say those assaults were done post mortem.”
“What about the tattoo on her head?” Rokov said.
“It’s fresh. There’s slight bruising around the letters, which tells me she was alive when this was done. The letters are in a crude block style.” She pulled a ruler from the ex
am tray. “And measure one-and-a-half inches in height. The letters stretch the full length of her forehead.”
Rokov drew in a breath at he stared at the dead woman’s pale, sunken face. The skin on the face was particularly thin so receiving a tattoo would have been painful. Judging by the thickness of the letters and the careful lines, he guessed the act took several hours. “What about cause of death?”
Dr. Henson shook her head. “No gun or knife wounds. Bruising around the throat but her windpipe is not crushed. There is water in her lungs. I’ll know better when I open her up and run blood tests.”
And so they stood watching the doctor complete a thorough external examination. She noted scars, bruises, other tattoos, moles, and any bit of information that could catch a killer. No telling what piece of evidence would be the one that would eventually catch the killer, so it all had to be collected and noted.
Henson studied the victim’s hand and then, using a clipper, snapped off bits of nails painted hot pink. She studied the nails under a microscope. “We might have a little DNA, folks. Looks like she might have scratched him.”
Rokov watched as she bagged the clippings. “Great. You think you can rush through the results?”
“Backlog is high now, but I’m sure I can make a compelling argument. Still, it will be at least a week.”
“As soon as you have DNA, I’ll run it through CODIS.” CODIS was a national database containing DNA profiles from unsolved crimes, missing persons, and the convicted. “The killer is so careful and practiced, I’ll bet money this is not his first time.”
Once the evidence had been tagged, the doctor continued with her external exam. Only when she’d inspected the body fully did she reach for her scalpel and make the Y-incision on the victim’s chest.
Though stoic, Rokov reminded himself that the body on the table no longer carried the soul or life of the woman. She felt nothing. She was beyond this world. And her body was no more than evidence that would help him catch her killer. And yet as the sharp tip of the blade breached the skin, he could not quite quell the anger and sense of violation. The killer had violated and terrorized her, and now it felt like they were doing the same.
Dr. Henson reported that the victim’s heart, lungs, liver, and other vital organs all were a healthy weight. When she opened the lungs, she said, “It looks like she drowned.”