State's Evidence: A Beverly Mendoza Legal Thriller

by Flowers, R. Barri

  “Yeah, that would be a big help,” O’Dell said skeptically.

  A doctor from the ER approached the gathering. He was in his fifties, perspiring, and had sad blue eyes. Beverly knew instinctively that he had just worked on Maxine Crawford.

  “How is she?” O’Dell asked in confirmation.

  Frowning, the doctor said, “Under the circumstances, she could be a lot worse.” He sighed raggedly. “Mrs. Crawford was raped and sodomized. Also suffered some bad bruises, probably from trying to fight off her attacker. But...she’ll live—”

  “Can I talk to her now?” O’Dell asked eagerly.

  “Not tonight, I’m afraid. We’ve given Mrs. Crawford a tranquilizer to calm her down...help her to sleep. She’s resting now. We’ll keep her overnight to be on the safe side.”

  Grant stepped forward. “Did she say anything about who might have done this?”

  “Not a thing,” the doctor said unapologetically. “Sorry. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have other patients to tend to.”

  They watched as he walked away, stopping only long enough to confer with a nurse.

  “Looks like it’s going to be a long night,” grumbled O’Dell, scratching his pate.

  “I’m sure you’re used to it, O’Dell,” Grant said coldly. “Isn’t that what you detectives live for?”

  “Being used to long nights and enjoying them are two different things, Counselor.” O’Dell glared at him, then nodded at Beverly with a softer expression. “See you around.”

  “Bye, Joe.” She forced a tight smile at him. After he left, Beverly turned to Grant with a hard look. “What’s wrong with you?”

  “Nothing.” He cast his eyes downward.

  She wasn’t buying it. “Why were you so rude to Joe?”

  “Didn’t mean to be.” Grant took a handkerchief from his pocket and blew his nose loudly. “Guess I was just reacting—or overreacting—to all the crap that goes on in this town.”

  “What crap is that?” She assumed it was something other than the norm.

  “Crime, criminals, courtrooms—everything we have to go through to deal with all of it. Makes you wonder if we’re fighting a losing battle.”

  “Even the small victories count,” Beverly responded. Was there more to this than he was letting on? She decided not to press it. “I have to go,” she told him. She wanted to get back to Jaime, reassure him that she would always love him as her child, even if she loved a man.

  It was still too soon to tell if that man was Grant.

  He brushed against her, causing Beverly’s body to react unbidden.

  “I should be leaving, too. Nothing more for me to do here.”

  At Beverly’s car—a white Subaru Impreza—Grant kissed her softly on the lips.

  “I’m glad I have you, Bev,” he said affectionately.

  “I feel the same way about you,” she told him.

  Grant’s eyes crinkled. “Say hi to Jaime for me.”

  “I will,” Beverly promised, though not sure her son would be in any mood to receive it.

  Grant was still waving when she drove off, as seen through the rear view mirror. She could still feel the tantalizing taste of his lips on hers.

  Were they really meant to be together or was this merely temporary fulfillment of their sexual and emotional needs before they went their separate ways?

  * * *

  Grant watched Beverly’s car disappear from sight. Already he missed being with her. And being inside her hot Latina body. He hoped that they could get past any hang-ups her son might have about them being together. Maybe if he’d had children, he would be able to better relate to them having a conniption over his ex wife dating someone else. But since she refused to have children and he was in no position to make her, the best he could do was give his ex the freedom she so craved and move on himself.

  He did and worked his ass off to get where he was today. I’m not about to let the judge’s bad luck interfere with that.

  Grant stared pensively into the night before heading back into the hospital to make sure that all the bases were covered. The last thing he wanted was some more surprises, even if he had to keep Beverly in the dark for her own good.

  CHAPTER SIX

  The small television on the dresser served as little more than background noise to the heavier sounds of grunts and groans coming from the bed. Manuel buried his face in her large breasts, practically suffocating as they pressed against his nose. Sweat poured from her body like running water while she cradled him, pinning his legs down with her thighs.

  She pulled his face from between her breasts and licked his lips, savoring the taste like fine wine. She slid up and down his hard penis, constricting around him as her excitement grew. He clutched her ass cheeks and began to lift her up and down on him, his excitement building as the time neared to get off inside her.

  Only she got there first and came all over him while her body quivered violently. She screamed into his ear while climaxing, practically shattering his eardrum.

  Now it was his turn. Manuel rolled his old lady off him and moved on top. He clutched her breasts tightly and started ramming his erection into her like a man possessed. He muttered a couple of expletives as he ejaculated inside her tight vagina, relishing the sensation, before collapsing atop her.

  Kissing her mouth, he grinned sweetly. “Was it good, baby?”

  She flashed dreamy eyes at him. “Always, Manuel,” she sighed. “Can’t get enough of you, hon.”

  “I know,” he said confidently. He wished the same could be said of her. But the truth was that she could only satisfy him up to a point. The rest was left to others. She didn’t have to know all his business, though.

  They shared a cigarette while regaining their equilibrium and playing footsies. Manuel glanced at the tube. An Asian broad was reporting the news. She said a judge had been executed this night, and his wife seriously injured. The suspect was still at large.

  This intrigued him.

  He hated all judges. They were assholes. They sat on benches, looking down at the rest of them like they were the scum of the earth. He’d had his fair share of run-ins with them and always felt they were damned lucky they didn’t meet under other circumstances. On the streets he could do some serious damage to the bastards and bitches that ruled the criminal courts like they were their private property.

  Which made it all the more rewarding that this judge had gotten his but good. And the wife had, too...

  The mere contemplation suddenly had his libido working again. Manuel turned to his old lady and she knew that it was time for a replay, whether she wanted it or not.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Detective Stone Palmer hand brushed his short graying hair and shifted his lean body in the desk chair. He had been a homicide detective for the Wilameta County Sheriff’s Department for the last fifteen years, but was currently doing double-duty for the Missing Persons Division due to budget cuts and a reduced workforce. In his years on the force, Stone had seen it all: serial killers, mass murderers, sexual psychopaths, domestic violence turned deadly, runaways found murdered and buried in shallow graves, and every other morbid homicide you could think of.

  No two cases were ever quite alike. He supposed that was what made the job interesting, along with the fact that he was damned good at what he did. That included investigating missing persons, where he left no rock unturned to get at the truth, no matter how painful. Even if other detectives avoided that detail like the plague, considering it too inactive and often lacking a real challenge.

  At thirty-nine and still married to his high school sweetheart for twenty years now, Stone had all the challenge he needed at home. Two of the kids were still there and two others were off in college. They were never too far away to call and ask for money, which he usually gave them, admittedly a sucker when it came to his children.

  He trained his gray-blue eyes on the man standing at the side of his desk. Caucasian with wavy black hair, he guessed him to be in his e
arly thirties, probably about his own height of six-four, with the type of solid upper body that made Stone believe that he lifted weights. His square-jawed face was unshaven and bags beneath sloe colored eyes suggested a man too long without sleep. He wore a wrinkled gray suit, as if thrown on just for the occasion.

  The man had identified himself as Chuck Murray and stormed into the office worried about his wife’s whereabouts.

  “Why don’t you have a seat,” Stone urged nicely, feeling uncomfortable looking up at the clearly agitated man.

  After a sigh, Chuck sat in one of two aging chairs across the desk, stretching his long legs out.

  “How long has your wife been missing, Mr. Murray?” Stone asked routinely. He hoped the man didn’t say one or two hours. Even three or four.

  “She never came home last night,” he answered tersely.

  “What time does she normally come home?”

  “Around seven o’clock.”

  Stone glanced at his watch. It was ten a.m. He did the arithmetic. Just over fourteen hours. They usually needed at least twenty-four hours before a missing person case became official. But there was something about this one that made him suspicious. Call it instincts or a general mistrust of nervous men who maybe had reason to fear the worst for a wife missing less than a day.

  “What’s your wife’s name, sir?” Stone looked at him coolly.

  “Adrienne.” Chuck’s lower lip twitched.

  Stone took a mental note. “Where was Adrienne supposed to be before she came home?”

  “At work.”

  “Where does she work?”

  “At a telemarketing firm.”

  Stone jotted this down. “Doing what?”

  Chuck tilted his head. “She’s an administrative assistant.”

  “Adrienne never called to say she might be late or was going to spend the night with a girlfriend or something?”

  “No!” Chuck snapped. “Adrienne would not have just gone off for the hell of it without letting me know. That’s not her style.”

  I’ll take your word for that at the moment. Maybe she had a reason for not wanting to come home, Stone mused. Or could be that something—or someone—really had prevented her from doing so.

  “Did you call her office?” he asked the husband.

  Chuck nodded. “Yeah, and they said she left around six-thirty.”

  “Alone?”

  “I didn’t ask. Why?”

  “Because it could tell us where she might have gone, sir—and who with.”

  “She doesn’t really socialize with the people at work,” Chuck said.

  “Things can change,” Stone suggested thoughtfully. “Friendships form at work. Even sometimes a workplace romance—”

  Chuck glared at him. “What the hell are you trying to say?”

  Stone peered back. When a man got that defensive over what was a legitimate question under the circumstances, it usually meant that the prospect was not entirely without merit. At least to him. But now was not the time to jump too far into conclusions, although that was part of his job.

  “I’m trying to say that there are any number of reasons why your wife may not have come home last night. In my line of work, you have to keep an open mind.”

  “I’m open to anything that makes sense,” Chuck said, rubbing his long nose. “But if you’re insinuating that my wife was having an affair, you’re wrong. We’re in love and not having any marital problems.”

  So you say. Stone looked at him with misgiving. What couple in America doesn’t have any marital problems?

  “Could have been a miscommunication—” he told the husband as a possibility. “Maybe you and your wife weren’t on the same page when she left for work.”

  Chuck dismissed this with a twist of his head. “There was no miscommunication. Something’s happened to Adrienne. I can feel it.”

  Stone wasn’t convinced. By the same token he couldn’t rule it out either. “I can understand your concern, Mr. Murray, but the fact is, your wife hasn’t even been missing for twenty-four hours. Technically, that makes her not really missing. Does your wife always come straight home from work?”

  Chuck regarded the question like it was incomprehensible. “Adrienne likes to jog sometimes after work,” he admitted, as if just remembering this. “There’s a park across from her office where she runs.”

  “And that park would be?”

  “Belle Park.”

  Stone wrote this down, familiar with the area. “Do you know if she was planning to jog after work last night?”

  Chuck paused. “We never talked about it,” he claimed.

  “So then she could have gone jogging?”

  He shrugged. “Yeah, I suppose. Adrienne keeps some running clothes and shoes in her car to change into at work.”

  “I see.” Stone looked across his desk, thoughts running through his mind.

  Chuck picked up on it, eyes widening. “So you think Adrienne went running and someone attacked her?”

  “Not really sure what to think at this point,” Stone responded candidly. He wondered if the man was being straight with him across the board on his wife’s disappearance. Or was there more to this that he wasn’t sharing? “I’ll look into this and see what I can find out. I’ll need a recent photograph of your wife, where she works, daily schedule, type of car she drives and license plate number. And also your address and phone number.”

  “No problem.” Chuck removed the wallet from his back pocket and pulled out a photograph, sliding it across the desk. “It was taken in June at a company picnic. I have larger pictures of her at home if you want them.”

  “This will do for now.” Stone studied the photo of the two of them. Adrienne Murray was a pretty lady: blonde, blue-eyed, slender. She looked to be in her late twenties, early thirties. The type of lady one might never want to let go of.

  And it was that very thought that troubled Stone most at this point of the investigation. He had been around long enough to know that many men could not bear the thought of losing their wife to another man—or a woman. It wasn’t uncommon to see men commit murder to hang onto the wife forever in their own warped minds.

  But it was still too soon to know if this missing woman had fallen prey to foul play. Or if she had simply left her husband, even if just for a night. Stone didn’t rule out that Murray could well return home to find his wife waiting for him with some kind of explanation as to her whereabouts for more than fourteen hours.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Detective Joe O’Dell stood at the door of Judge Sheldon Crawford’s house. He glanced at the unmarked sedan on the street, where a detective sat, assigned to protect the judge’s wife, Maxine Crawford 24/7. The order was expected to stay in effect for as long as her attacker and husband’s killer remained at large.

  It had been two days since the crime occurred and O’Dell looked forward to finally being able to talk to the only living witness, having been rebuffed in his attempts to interview her during her hospital stay. He understood that Maxine Crawford was still in the grieving process and recovering from her own victimization, but some things could not wait any longer. He had a job to do and he intended to do it, even if he had been ordered to take it easy on the lady.

  O’Dell rang the doorbell. He thought of the other night at the hospital and Grant Nunez almost defending her honor, as if Maxine Crawford were his lover. Even that didn’t seem totally absurd, in spite of Nunez’s apparent thing going on with Beverly Mendoza, as reported through the grapevine. Maxine Crawford was obviously a good deal younger than her late husband and, by most accounts including his, a good-looking lady. Perhaps Nunez had more than a legal interest in the widow’s health and welfare.

  The intriguing possibilities ran through O’Dell’s mind for a moment or two before the door opened. Maxine Crawford stood barefoot on the other side, wearing a full-length lavender chenille robe and a towel wrapped around her hair. Her face was free of makeup, but showed little sign of the ordeal she’d
been put through, save for a slight ruddiness on the right cheek of her light brown face.

  Obviously she still had a lot to deal with, the detective mused, feeling a trifle guilty he had to intrude upon her at this time.

  He took out his I.D. “Mrs. Crawford, I’m Detective O’Dell, Eagles Landing P.D., Homicide. I’m investigating your husband’s death.” And your survival in spite of the sexual attack. He paused for some reason while she kept her brown eyes pinned on him as if they had nowhere else to go. “I tried to talk to you at the hospital last night, but—”

  “Come in, Detective.” She turned and walked away.

  O’Dell switched the book of mug shots he held from one hand to the other and went inside, closing the pine door behind him. The Tudor home was as impressive on the inside as out, from what he could see, right down to the European furniture and expensive artwork hanging on the living room walls. Certainly a hell of a lot more than he could even dream of with his salary. Now he knew why judges became judges. It meant easy street, if this was any indication.

  That was, until the master of the house ended up with his brains blown out.

  “Would you like some coffee, Detective?” his host asked.

  “That sounds good,” he responded, the aroma drifting from the kitchen invigorating.

  “Cream? Sugar?”

  “Just sugar.”

  While she disappeared, O’Dell visually inspected the security. Or lack of.

  According to their initial investigation, there had been no sign of a forced break in. Meaning that the attacker either had a key or was invited in. The latter seemed an unlikely possibility, considering that the Crawfords were having sex when the attack occurred. Unless, of course, the killer had been invited in beforehand. But, noted O’Dell, the Mrs. had told the police that no one was in the house except them when they retired to their room.

  At least not that she was aware of.

  O’Dell ventured across the cork flooring over to the security system on the wall off the foyer. Surprisingly it was an older, cheaper model than some of the current high tech systems that seemed made for a house like this. Which was odd, considering everything else he’d seen looked to be as modern and high priced as they came. There was evidence that the system had been tampered with, causing the alarm to malfunction when it was needed most.