by Leanna Floyd
The savvy attorney nodded. “Dr. Choung, what was the result of the toxicology screen on Abby Winters? Any drugs or alcohol in her system?”
“The screen came back positive with minimal traces of both alcohol and THC consumed in the 24 hours prior to her death.”
DeMato stopped and turned dramatically. “Let me get this straight—Abby Winters was pregnant with a fetus you described as healthy, and yet you’re telling us that she had drank alcohol and smoked or consumed cannabis in the previous 24 hours before her death?”
“That’s correct,” said Dr. Choung.
“Your Honor,” said DeMato, “Overwhelming clinical evidence shows—as compiled in this document—that alcohol and cannabis consumption by expectant women places their pregnancies in jeopardy and risks birth defects, brain impairment, and major physical underdevelopment in the fetus. If necessary, I can bring in an expert—many experts—who will testify that Abby Winters’ tox screen indicates that she was likely a regular consumer of both alcohol and cannabis despite being at least three to four months pregnant.”
“Are you disputing the validity of Dr. Choung’s opinion of the victim’s health and that of her unborn child, Ms. DeMato?” asked the Judge.
“No, Your Honor,” she replied. “I am simply making it clear that other medical experts would disagree.”
Carver roared to his feet. “Objection, Your Honor! Counsel is merely trying to smear the reputation of this poor young woman by painting her as an alcoholic and drug user—neither of which are true. Abby Winters is not on trial for her lifestyle, whatever it may have been. Alcohol and drugs were not responsible for her death. Bullets fired from a gun belonging to that man caused her death!”
The courtroom exploded with a chorus of competing voices until Ranier hammered her gavel. “Order! Order in this court, right now! Mr. Carver, your point is duly noted but Ms. DeMato’s challenge is relevant. While Ms. Winters and her lifestyle are not on trial here, they are relevant to the circumstances of her death.”
Brooke knew Carver was right, and DeMato was trying to portray Abby Winters as unstable, unlikeable, and destructive. No matter what the crime, the defense loved to blame the victim—especially when she was a woman, thought Brooke. Because even if Abby Winters was an unstable addict with borderline personality disorder, she didn’t deserve to have her life taken from her. No one did.
Chapter 20
Jacob threw his briefcase and suit jacket onto his sofa, grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge, and plopped on his couch. The sliding glass doors leading from the balcony into his living room splashed different shades of gold onto his walls that unraveled into deep scarlet and delicate pinks. Florida was beautiful year-round, even in the late fall and into winter when the sunshine often teased a mild day before sharp winds brought in clouds and lower temps.
Women could be like that, too, just one big tease. He’d sure met his share of them, with their spray tans and glossy hair, perfect makeup and killer smiles. But once he got over the thrill of the chase, he found they often had nothing real to offer. No passion, no opinions of their own, no desire to let down defenses and reveal their hearts.
But not Alicia—she wasn’t like that at all. Oh, she was beyond beautiful, but there was so much more to her. She was strong and funny, thoughtful and compassionate. As a single mom, she knew what it was like to love someone else more than herself. She kept her word, too—she had texted him earlier that day to say that she found a sitter for Charlie that following weekend if he still wanted to come down. He had texted her back and said he couldn’t wait. He’d tried to call her on the way home from work, but it went straight to voicemail. She was probably working late or doing something at Charlie’s school.
Jacob couldn’t wait to finally meet Alicia. Actually, he was surprised that he felt so strongly about her without having stared directly into those warm brown eyes he’d seen in pictures on her Facebook page. In some shots, they looked wide and innocent; while in others, they looked sensuous and sexy as hell. That girl definitely knew something about makeup and how to make love to the camera. Had she ever modeled? Sure, she had to have with that face and body, but he couldn’t remember. He even thought that she looked hot in her latest Snapchat pic with no makeup, her skin naturally radiant and her eyes bright.
Maybe it was better this way, though, not meeting at first. They were taking it slowly and were getting to know each other without the wonderful distraction of a physical attraction to one another. This way they actually got to know something about their lives, their hopes and dreams, their priorities and values. Ironically enough, something about this way of connecting felt purer and more honest, as if having the computer screen between them made it easier to be themselves.
Brooke acted like it was impossible that he and Alicia could care so much for each other without having met in person. He hadn’t liked her tone at all when he’d called on her on the way home from work. If he didn’t know better, he’d think Brooke was jealous. Nah, this was probably just her way of trying to protect him. The two of them were too close to let anyone, even Alicia, come between them.
Changing into a pair of sweats and a t-shirt, he knew he should go for a run, but all he wanted to do was close his eyes for just a moment. He turned on the TV and stretched out, promising himself he wouldn’t sleep, only rest. Almost an hour later, he woke up, realizing he had been dreaming about Alicia. They had been walking along a pier watching the sun set over the water, holding hands, talking, laughing, and whispering to each other. She smelled sweet, like jasmine, and her skin was warm and soft. He felt such a connection, like a spark flaring into flame.
How could he feel so close to someone he had never touched or kissed? His dream seemed so real, and his feelings lingered with such intensity. Yes, they definitely had this special, immediate attraction to each other. Even though they had never met face-to-face, it was as if they had known each other their entire lives. There was this unexplainable feeling of comfort. He absolutely had to meet her—as soon as possible.
Checking his phone, he saw there was still no message from her.
He sighed and looked for something to eat in the tiny kitchen, settling on a canned protein shake from the fridge, along with an apple, and the last quarter inch from a slab of Irish cheddar. Usually he was a health junkie, even if it were for the wrong reasons: his appearance, his vanity. His work schedule, though, was taking a toll. Most days the defense team had meals brought in from various local restaurants—deli sandwiches (Had he really eaten an entire pastrami on rye yesterday?), pizza, Thai or Mexican. Such comfort food was delicious but usually loaded with enough grease, calories, and fat that it caught up with him quickly. This past week, he’d noticed how snug his suit pants fit; the tightness in the waist was not something he was used to feeling.
Munching his apple, Jacob plopped down on the couch and opened his computer.
He was used to chatting with friends and flirting with various women simultaneously when he was online, but now things were different. He didn’t respond to them right away, and some, not at all. Alicia was his top priority. And as if willing her to message him, he felt a spike of adrenaline surge when his phone chimed to signal a new text.
Alicia: “You won’t believe what just happened! OMG, so scary.”
Jacob: “R u ok? What happened?”
The moments ticked by, but Alicia did not text him back.
Chapter 21
“The body of a 31-year-old woman was found in a drainage canal next to an industrial park near South Beach today,” said a solemn voice. “Her identity has not been released. According to our I-Team Investigators, though, it seems as though the Surfside Killer—or SSK as he’s been dubbed online—has claimed another victim. Here with more…”
Brooke looked up at the flat screen above the bar and saw images of Dade County police officers in dive suits emerging from the concrete canal. The anchorman’s paternal expression matched his serious tone as he continued the story.
“…Police spokesman Randy Walker refused to say whether the woman’s death—which he confirmed is being treated as a homicide—is the work of the ‘Surfside Killer’. Our I-Team’s Sandra Owen is on the scene with more. Sandra?”
“What’s a nice psychologist like you doing in a crazy place like this?”
Brooke turned sharply and smiled at seeing Kevin Majors, looking particularly rugged and handsome in a faded denim jacket and khaki pants. “Hey there!” she said, scooting to allow him to take the seat at the bar she’d saved. Kevin removed a battered leather backpack, the same one he’d had when they first met the week before outside the courthouse, from his shoulder and placed it beneath his barstool.
“Hope I didn’t keep you waiting long,” he said, removing his jacket to reveal a pale green polo shirt. Despite the chatter from the after-work crowd and the latest Beyoncé track in the background, the place was reasonably quiet. She didn’t frequent downtown Tampa much and found The Red Anchor to be surprisingly pleasant if a little dated with its glossy oak bar with a thick brass rail and leather barstools. Or maybe, its appeal was in contrast to the rowdier bars near campus with their college crowds. Brooke was grateful she’d let Kevin choose their meeting spot and had assumed correctly; his selection would provide them enough privacy for their discussion.
“Not at all,” she said. “Although your pickup line needs serious revision. I thought you said you were a writer,” she teased.
“Ouch,” he said and held his hand to his chest before laughing with her. “Okay, I admit, that was pretty bad.”
The bartender brought their drinks, a local microbrew stout for him and the house cab for her. “Cheers,” they said at the same time and tasted their drinks.
“I haven’t seen you at the courthouse lately,” Kevin said. “Busy week? Or are you just avoiding me?”
She smiled and wondered how much to trust those beautiful green eyes of his. “Yes, it’s been busy. I had to finalize my dissertation outline with my committee this week.”
He nodded and took another drink of his mud-colored pint. “You haven’t missed much. The two friends of the Barton brothers—Paul Read and Chris Sanders—both testified and clearly didn’t like having to tell the truth about their best buddies on the night of Abby Winters’ death.”
Brooke nodded and fidgeted with her cocktail napkin. “Are their friends as wealthy and polished as the Bartons?”
Kevin laughed and leaned in to her. “Wow—if you think the Bartons are ‘polished’ then I’ve still got a chance with you.”
Brooke elbowed him gently. “Don’t flatter yourself! You know what I mean! Maybe I should have asked if their friends are entitled players like the Bartons.”
“Yeah, I know what you meant,” said Kevin. His forearm was just barely touching Brooke’s elbow, and she found it surprisingly comfortable. The dark hairs on his arm matched the scruffy beard, which had filled in more since their first meeting. And those emerald eyes… no, she couldn’t deny that Kevin Majors was an attractive guy. All the more reason for her to be careful.
“Actually,” he continued, “the two friends, Read and Sanders, don’t seem like the Bartons at all. They strike me more as followers, guys who might not be the sharpest knives in the drawer, but are loyal. Especially if the Bartons are picking up the tab and providing the latest recreational substances.”
“Sounds like you’re quite the profiler,” Brooke said.
Kevin shrugged and said, “I form impressions of people pretty quickly. Most of the time, they’re spot on.”
“I’m sure that’s true,” she said, enjoying his surprise at her compliment. “What do you make of Zach Barton?”
“Hmm, I think he’s a pretty shrewd guy, actually. He plays the role of playboy very well, but he’s invested in a couple of start-ups that have added millions to his net worth. He’s made more money than his famous father in a fraction of the time it took his dad.”
“What kind of start-ups?” she asked. “Tech?”
“One’s a gaming app, Shark Bait, that caught on and has a huge following and…”
“Yeah, I’ve played that before. I had no idea Barton was responsible. Why haven’t I read this in all the trial coverage?”
“Because, like I said, Barton’s smart. He has a half-dozen shell companies involved in ownership, and even though he or his brother are on the board of all of them, no one has traced them back to him as the primary stockholder. Three of their companies are based offshore, two in the Caymans, one in Belize.”
“What’s the other successful start-up? You mentioned two.” Brooke realized her wine glass was almost empty. She also felt her stomach growl. “This place serve food?”
“Yes, it does; burgers are good, but the shrimp po’boys are great. I’ll order another round and settle our tab here while you grab us a table over there.” Kevin nodded toward the small grouping of tables and booths on the other side of the bar.
As they moved to a table and ordered sandwiches, Brooke had the distinct feeling that this was beginning to resemble a date much more than an exchange of information about the Barton trial. And oddly enough, she did feel a little like she was cheating on Jacob. But with the trial coming between them, they hadn’t been able to hang out much in the past week.
“You were about to tell me about Zach Barton’s other start-up when my stomach interrupted us,” she said.
Kevin smiled and nodded, “Right. Okay, so Shark Bait is one and the other is a bit more admirable. It’s a biotech firm with a patent on a plant-based agent to clean up oil spills and remove industrial waste from natural water sources. Green Wave, it’s called.”
“Never heard of it,” she said. “But you’re right—it does sound much more admirable, and potentially more lucrative, than Shark Bait. Where is it based?”
“Miami. But again, several shell companies involved, with Barton holding majority shares in the background. They’re just starting to negotiate contracts with several international oil and gas companies. Once they go public, we’re talking hundreds of millions of dollars if my research is any indication.”
“That’s serious money,” she said, “no wonder Zach, and his potential shareholders, are so eager to keep him and his murder trial at a distance. Regardless of the faulty logic, few investors want their majority stockholder in prison for murdering a young woman and her unborn child.”
“Exactly,” Kevin said, “not so good for PR.”
Their waitress brought out their sandwiches, and they smelled delicious. Brooke and Kevin began eating, and the po’boys tasted just as good as promised. After a few bites and an onion ring smothered in ketchup, Brooke said, “Two questions, Kevin. First, why did Abby Winters want to talk to you the week before she was killed? Do you think it had anything to do with why she was killed? And second, why haven’t you included this information in your coverage of the trial so far?”
“Technically, that’s three questions,” he said, wiping his mouth, “I’ll start with your last question first.”
Brooke nodded and ate another crispy, golden onion ring. She knew she shouldn’t eat fried food, after all it had been almost a week since she’d gotten a swim in, but she couldn’t resist the batter-fried crunch.
“I’ve been working on a major feature article—think Vanity Fair or The New York Times’ Sunday Magazine—on Zach Barton that presents a lot of information that hasn’t really come out in the other coverage so far. I’m mostly finished with it and shopping it now in hopes I’ll get a big host interested in publishing it when a verdict is reached in the trial. Despite my earlier pickup line, I’m a decent writer, and something like this could change the course of my career.”
“Wow—good for you,” she said and meant it, “good luck. I’d love to read it… if you want any feedback before it’s published, let me know.”
Kevin tilted his head and his glistening green eyes bore into her. The trace of a smile formed on his lips, and then he shook his head.
“What?�
�� she said. “Did I…?”
“Nothing—sorry,” he said, “I just don’t know quite what to make of you. One minute, I think you might be as attracted to me as I am to you. The next, I wonder if you’re just bullshitting the hell out of me so you can keep pumping me for information. And I’ll be damned, if I don’t keep telling it to you!” He pushed away his plate, empty except for half an onion ring, and finished the last of his beer.
“Sorry,” Brooke said, “I didn’t mean to offend you, Kevin. I was just… offering.”
“And I might take you up on it,” he said, “but right now, I should probably head back to the office and work on an assignment for our weekend edition. Most of the stuff you read from news sites online over the weekend is usually written days or weeks earlier. Unless there’s a big story breaking, we don’t like working weekends more than anybody else.”
“Of course,” she said, trying not to show her disappointment and still unsure whether she had said something wrong. “I guess you’re not going to answer my first question then?”
Kevin smiled and then outright laughed. “You remind me of myself, you know that?”
“Is that good or bad?”
“I’m not sure yet,” he said and laughed again. “Actually, I don’t know the answer to your question. Abby Winters contacted me through the Florida First website general mailbox. I wrote her back, she called me and just said that she had some information on the Barton family that was a ‘big story’—her words. The next day, she called back and left me a message cancelling our meeting. Four days later, she was dead.”
“So, it could just be coincidence? Her attempt to sell you the promise of a big story without much substance?” Brooke speculated.
“Maybe,” he said, “but don’t you think it’s strange that the man who took her life is Zach Barton? In my line of work, that’s a coincidence screaming for a closer look.”
“Agreed,” she said, suddenly tired and eager to get home and have time to unwind and process everything she’d learned that night. “But in my line of work, a coincidence is often just that—a coincidence.”