by Kara Lennox
“So,” he continued, “you’re telling me someone does an imitation of a turtle, they’re lying?”
Claudia released the door handle and seemed to gather her composure around her. “That was one of many signs that she felt threatened when certain subjects were broached. Each person is different, though. I have to observe a subject for some length of time to get a baseline of their usual body language, then note when that changes—”
“Yeah, okay.”
“You don’t believe me?”
He shrugged, unwilling to tell her what he really thought about hocus-pocus disguised as science. He much preferred the old-fashioned method of catching someone in a lie—breaking them down with tough interrogation.
“What I do is legitimate science, backed up by scores of studies—”
“Really, you don’t have to convince me. It’s not essential for me to understand your work to do my job, is it?”
“Well, no.”
“You just want me to interrogate Mary-Francis so she’ll tell us about this supposed new evidence, and you’ll observe.”
“Interrogate is rather a strong word. I don’t want you to put too much pressure on her. It could completely shut her down or cause her to end the interview.”
“Hmm.” He had his own way of questioning a suspect, a way that usually worked, honed by his experience with the Dallas Police Department. He’d have to play it by ear. “Any idea what this evidence is?”
“Only that it’s something shocking. But whatever it is, I want you to evaluate it from a cop’s point of view.”
“That means I ask hard questions.”
“I know. Just don’t bully her, or her stressed-out body language will override everything else.”
“Got it.”
They lapsed into silence. Claudia shifted in her seat, crossed and uncrossed her legs. Billy couldn’t help looking at the bit of leg she revealed as her skirt slid up.
Damn, hard to keep your eyes on the road when something like that was sitting next to you.
“So you really don’t believe in what I do,” she finally said.
He grinned. “That really bugs you, huh?”
“Yes.”
“Why? You must be used to skepticism.”
“Usually not from people in my own camp. I thought Daniel only hired open-minded investigators.”
“You’re saying I have a closed mind?”
“I think you refuse to open your mind to something that goes against your deeply held beliefs. In my business we call that—”
“Stop right there. You are not allowed to analyze me. That’s not part of the deal.”
“You didn’t object to my analysis during your initial employment screening.”
“’Cause if I had, I wouldn’t have gotten the job. My head is just fine, thanks. It doesn’t need shrinking.”
“Fine.” The single word came out sharp and punchy as a quick right jab. But after a few moments of tense silence, she spoke again, sounding much more relaxed. “I apologize. Analyzing everybody I spend time with is automatic for me.”
That was something Billy understood. Even now, years after his undercover work, he still evaluated every person he met in terms of potential threat. He still sat with his back to a wall. And he still kept a spare gun inside his boot.
Back in the day, he hadn’t been completely safe anywhere, not even behind locked doors. Ingratiating himself with one party of drug dealers made him a target for the other. He’d had a price on his head when Sheila was killed. His superiors had agreed that relocation to a different city, where his face wasn’t known, was the best course of action.
The Houston P.D. would have hired him, but he’d decided that he was done with police work. Getting the job with Project Justice had seemed like a godsend.
“Didn’t mean to overreact. But if you’re going to pick apart every word I say or every gesture I make, maybe you should keep your observations to yourself.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Afraid of what you might hear?”
“Let’s just say I don’t want to have to defend myself against incorrect assumptions. I’m a lover, not a fighter.” He smiled and hoped she took that in the spirit he’d intended—as a joke. Because even though he’d spent a good portion of his sleepless night last night fantasizing about her slender legs wrapped around his hips, he did not intend to become her lover.
Like most women, she would want way more from him than he was prepared to give.
* * *
BY THE TIME MARY-FRANCIS Torres was led into the interview room wearing handcuffs and leg irons, Claudia had set up her small video camera in one corner. She might want to analyze the video later, run it in slow motion to detect the rapid-fire expressions that were too fast for human eyes to catch.
Claudia had requested that she and Mary-Francis be seated face-to-face, no glass partition, no telephones, not even a table between them. The prison officials had reluctantly agreed after Daniel had intervened. Whatever people thought of Project Justice’s efforts to free inmates who shouldn’t be in prison, Daniel’s name had clout.
“Remove her handcuffs, please,” Claudia instructed the guard.
“I can’t do that, ma’am.”
“Yes, you can,” she said smoothly. It was essential that Claudia observe Mary-Francis’s entire body. Legs and feet often revealed a lot because people didn’t monitor those body parts as much as hands and facial expression.
With a bit more prodding, the guard finally did as Claudia asked, though he cautioned her and Billy that no touching was allowed.
Finally they were left alone, and Claudia was able to inspect her subject.
Mary-Francis Torres was forty-three years old, slightly overweight, with black-and-silver hair scraped into a tight ponytail. Before imprisonment she’d worn it in a bun, but she probably wasn’t allowed hairpins.
She looked as if she was holding up pretty well. But death row inmates, isolated from the rest of the population, didn’t have to worry about fights, or other inmates stealing their food. They were allowed books, sometimes a radio and an hour of outdoor recreation a day.
It was probably the most comfortable way to spend time in a maximum-security prison, not that Claudia would recommend it.
Prison had not yet humbled this woman. She still wore a belligerent expression, a subtle sneer that had not impressed the jury at her trial.
Claudia supposed she would be belligerent, too, if someone unjustly accused her of killing her husband. Assuming, of course, that she had a husband.
“Hello, Mary-Francis.” Claudia used her most soothing voice. “How are you doing?”
“How do you think?” Mary-Francis spoke with only a slight accent. She had emigrated to the U.S. when she was fifteen, Eduardo Torres’s child bride.
“Is there something you need?” Claudia asked. “Toiletries or books?”
Mary-Francis declined to answer the question, and instead looked pointedly at Billy. “Who is he?”
“Billy is my associate from Project Justice. He’ll be helping me evaluate whatever evidence you present.”
“He’s staring at me. Tell him to stop staring at me.”
Billy didn’t look away. He said nothing. Claudia wished he would try to put Mary-Francis at ease. A relaxed subject was much easier to read.
“Let’s get down to business, shall we?” Claudia said. “You said in your email that you have new evidence that will prove your innocence.”
Mary-Francis shot another look at Billy. “Not in front of him.”
“He has to be here,” Claudia said. “He is the only one who can decide whether Project Justice will take on your case.”
Mary-Francis pursed her lips in disapproval. “I have no patient-doctor privilege with him. This information can’t get out. It can’t go public. If certain people find out what I’m going to tell you, they could have me killed.”
Evidence of paranoia. That wasn’t a good sign. Claudia hoped this wasn’t a fool’s errand.
“Billy is entirely trustworthy,” Claudia said. “He would never reveal sensitive information to an outsider.”
“Not even for a lot of money? A whole lot of money? He might be wearing a nice shirt, but he looks like a gangbanger to me. The kind who would pop an old lady in the head and steal the rings right off her dead fingers.”
Claudia watched carefully for a reaction from Billy. But he took the insult as if Mary-Francis had been commenting on the weather. Which was one of the main reasons the man unnerved her, and why she’d been studying him on the way to Mountain View Correctional Facility. He showed nothing of his true feelings—not a single nonverbal clue. His every gesture and facial expression were carefully choreographed to project only what he wanted others to see. In her experience, only sociopaths could disguise their feelings so completely, and only because they didn’t have genuine feelings. All of which made Billy both challenging and scary.
“Look, Ms. Torres,” Billy said, finally breaking his silence, “you either have to talk with me here, or this interview is over. It’s not Dr. Ellison’s decision.”
Mary-Francis shot Billy a look of pure venom. “Fine. I will talk.” She sounded as if she was bestowing upon them a great honor. “The other day, my daughter, Angie, came to visit me. She never visits me, so I knew right away something was up.”
“You and your daughter aren’t close?” Billy asked, smoothly taking over the questioning.
“She thought I murdered her father. She wouldn’t speak one word to me. Now, suddenly, everything has changed. Eduardo must have contacted her.”
Claudia was shocked—and disappointed. Eduardo couldn’t possibly be alive. Was this simply a last-ditch, desperate effort of a condemned woman to stir something up?
Billy didn’t look shocked. “So you think your husband is alive? Because your daughter came to visit.”
“I know he is.”
“Maybe Angie simply had a change of heart.” Billy flashed a charming, completely phony smile. “Your execution has been scheduled. It could have made her realize she’s about to become an orphan.”
Claudia watched for variations in her subject’s posture, or telltale gestures that might indicate stress.
But everything remained the same. Mary-Francis faced them squarely, her hands folded on her lap, her shoulders down and relaxed.
“Angie asked me about something that was a secret between Eduardo and me. Something we agreed she shouldn’t know about. Since I never told Angie, Eduardo must have.”
Billy looked confused. “Maybe he told Angie this secret before he died.”
“If he had,” Mary-Francis said, “Angie would have come to me long before now. I know my daughter. She is an addict, and she would steal anything valuable and sell it for drug money.”
“So this secret between you and Eduardo,” Billy said. “It involves money?”
“It involves something valuable, yes…”
Ah, now Claudia could see it. Not deception per se, but evasiveness. Mary-Francis was uncomfortable talking about this secret, whatever it was. Claudia made a note of Mary-Francis’s tight mouth.
“Well, what is it?” Billy asked.
Mary-Francis seemed to be weighing her options. Finally she came to a decision. “Coins. We had a coin collection worth a good deal of money. After we caught Angie stealing from us, I worried she might discover the coins and try to pawn them. So I gave them to my sister, Theresa, for safekeeping. I told no one, not even Eduardo.”
“Why not Eduardo?” Billy wanted to know. “Didn’t you trust him?”
“Of course I trusted him! I was going to tell him, but it slipped my mind. And then he disappeared.”
Hand to the neck. Eyes squinting. Shoulders raised. Voice at a slightly higher pitch. Any one of those things could be a sign of deception. Together, Claudia felt absolutely confident they indicated Mary-Francis was lying.
“Ma’am,” Billy said, “excuse me for saying so, but your story is ridiculous.”
“I’ll explain better, then,” Mary-Francis said, losing her composure for the first time. “Eduardo was suspected of killing some drug dealer. The FBI was closing in, and Eduardo was scared of going to prison. I believe he fled to Mexico, thinking he would take the coins with him and sell them, so he could start over in comfort. But then he couldn’t find them because I’d moved them, and he couldn’t very well ask me about the matter. I was supposed to think he was dead.”
“Your loving husband wanted you to think he was dead?” Billy asked.
“He must have thought that would be better than going to prison,” she grumbled. “He knew the police would question me, and he figured I couldn’t tell them where he’d gone if I didn’t know.
“Later, he got in touch with Angie somehow, thinking she would help him find the coins.” Her words were rushed, a little desperate. “Maybe he promised her some money—Angie would believe anything he told her. She would do anything for him.
“But Angie couldn’t find the coins, either, so she came to me, thinking she could weasel where I’d hidden them, said she wanted to keep the coins safe, put them in a safe-deposit box, but that makes me laugh. She would turn them over to her father. Or sell them, probably for far less than they’re worth. My daughter is not the smartest—”
“How much are they worth?” Billy’s interruption halted Mary-Francis’s avalanche of words.
Her body language changed abruptly. While telling her story she had been leaning forward, her face open and animated, gesticulating with her hands. Now she pulled into herself and smoothed her hair, another self-soothing gesture.
“I don’t really know.”
Billy glanced at Claudia. She shook her head slightly.
“So your daughter asks about the coins,” Billy says, “and you draw the conclusion that your husband is alive.” He leaned back and folded his arms, a classic male territorial display designed to intimidate.
“You’re not getting it,” Mary-Francis said. “My daughter absolutely did not know about those coins before Eduardo disappeared. Now suddenly she’s full of questions. She knows. Because Eduardo told her.”
“So what do you want us to do?” Billy challenged. “Should we tell the police to let you out of jail because your daughter mentioned a coin collection? It’s preposterous.”
“I want you to find Eduardo. I know he is alive, and you must find him. He’s probably running out of money by now, and he’s desperate for the coins. Maybe you could set a trap. I can give you the names of friends and relatives he has both here and in Mexico. But first, I need for you to warn my sister. Sooner or later Angie will figure out I gave the coins to Theresa. Tell her to hide them well.”
“Why can’t you contact Theresa yourself?” Billy asked. “Advise her to move the coins to a safe-deposit box.”
“I can’t get hold of her. She doesn’t respond.” Tears sprang to Mary-Francis’s eyes. “She has my…oh, what is the word, where she can sign my name?”
“Power of attorney,” Billy supplied.
Mary-Francis nodded vigorously. “I am afraid she has turned her back on me like Angie.”
“If Eduardo is alive,” Claudia asked softly, “how do you explain all that blood?”
“Evidence can lie,” Mary-Francis said. “The police are corrupt.”
Billy was still stuck on the coins. “Mary-Francis, how valuable are those coins?” he asked again. “You must have some idea.”
Mary-Francis hesitated. “I’m not sure. They are old Spanish escudos, from sunken ships. Maybe a million dollars?”
CHAPTER TWO
“A MILLION BUCKS’ WORTH of old Spanish coins?” Billy said once they were safely back in his truck. “It better be Jean Lafitte’s treasure.”
“If they’re gold,” Claudia said, “they could be pretty pricey just based on the meltdown value alone. Historical significance would add to their value. She could be right.”
“I guess it doesn’t really matter what the coins are wort
h,” Billy said. “The question that concerns us is, does she really believe Eduardo is alive? If so, is she deluding herself?”
“She seems sincere to me.” Claudia sounded tired. “I’m starving. Can we stop somewhere and eat?”
“Sure. Any suggestions?” Billy didn’t recall seeing much in the way of classy restaurants in the closest town, Gatesville. Though it was the county seat and “the spur capital of the world,” it was definitely a small town.
“Any place is— Oh, look, a Tubby’s. Let’s go there.”
“Tubby’s? You’re kidding, right?” Claudia Ellison wanted to eat lunch at a greasy spoon with a gravel parking lot filled with beater cars and trucks?
“I have…fond childhood memories. But if you’d rather eat someplace else—”
“No, this is fine.” Billy tried to picture what Claudia’s childhood might have been like. He assumed she’d come from wealth. She had an aristocratic bearing and a way of speaking that he associated with old money. No Texas twang, so he doubted she came from around here. Maybe she’d eaten at Tubby’s while on a family vacation?
He had a hard time picturing little Claudia with her upper-class family, dining on ribs or chicken-fried steak. The mental image wouldn’t gel.
“I thought you’d be more of an upscale-French-restaurant sort of person,” he said once they were inside and seated at a booth with a faded green Formica table between them. Out of habit, Billy had selected the table and placed his back toward the wall, where he had a good view of the front door and a plate-glass window into the parking lot.
“Mais oui, I love ze French food. But this place…they have the best banana splits here.” She opened one of the plastic menus the waitress had dropped in front of them and gravely looked over the offerings as if about to make a decision of importance.
After a minute or two she looked up at him. “What? Why are you smiling?”
“I just never expected a Tubby’s restaurant to delight you, of all people.”
She suddenly became self-conscious, and he wished he hadn’t ribbed her about her lunch choice. “I guess I needed something happy to focus on after being in that prison.” She shivered delicately. “What an awful place.”