“And you realize that Detectives Clark and Donaldson are drawing those same parallels.”
“Of course. As I’ve pointed out previously, I’m not naïve, nor am I stupid.”
“I didn’t think you were. And since you’re not either of those things, you’re also aware that they’re likely actively working on putting you in Atlanta two weeks ago.”
“I wasn’t. I haven’t left Savannah since I moved here.”
“Can you prove it?”
“I… don’t know. I’ve been locked inside, writing. I haven’t gone out much. I’ll have to think back and try to remember exactly what I was doing during the time when Ryan was… killed. When you don’t have to leave the house to work, and don’t have an active social life, the days tend to blend together.”
“How about a blog or social media post on that day? They’re a gold mine of location data.”
“As uncomfortable as I am with that knowledge, I wish I could say I’d been posting regularly. But I took a social media hiatus during the move, for obvious reasons, and haven’t been as active as normal recently. I informed my followers that I was going to focus on finishing my current book, so that my absence wouldn’t seem strange. In reality, I simply needed a break.”
Jack drummed his fingers on his desk. “What sort of phone do you have?”
She reached down into her purse, and then slid the phone across his desk. Jack studied it, and then opened a drawer to retrieve a charger. “I think this one will work.” He hooked it into his laptop. “We can access your frequent location data on your phone.”
“No you can’t.”
He glanced up. Arched a brow in inquisition.
“I turned it off,” she told him. “I’m a suspense writer, remember? One of my books featured a serial killer who accessed the frequent location data on his victim’s phones, and used it to plan the best place to ambush and abduct them.” She jerked a shoulder. “I guess I succeeded in creeping myself out, so I only turn it on if I need to use the GPS. And anyway, couldn’t I have just left my phone at home when I went to Atlanta to create an alibi of sorts? So I don’t see how that really proves anything.”
Jack found himself staring. “You know, I don’t think I’ve ever had a client actively trying to shoot down her own defense.”
“Sorry.” She pinked up again. “I guess I’m just used to thinking about things from two points of view – the protagonist’s and the antagonist’s.” Then her brows drew together. “And you do the same thing. You mentioned the point of view of the investigators earlier.”
“So I did. It’s one of the things that makes criminal defense more complicated than prosecution. The state’s case is essentially linear, from crime to suspect to establishing motive and opportunity. But the defense needs to be a little more creative in our approach. We refute their case either by showing fault with their evidence gathering or offering contradictory evidence of our own. And sometimes, although it’s less common, we even offer an alternate suspect, which results – as you pointed out – from thinking like an investigator.” He rubbed a hand across his chin. “I can’t say that I’ve ever considered the similarities between my job and that of a romance writer.”
“Don’t feel too badly. Most people underestimate the amount of thought and research that goes into writing a book, particularly when the term romance is involved.”
Jack studied her face for several moments, caught by that little flash of attitude. Her eyes were red, suggesting she may have shed a few tears between the police station and his office. Considering the repeated blows she’d experienced over the past few days, Jack figured that was understandable. But her defiant tone reminded him that the woman sitting before him wasn’t a coward. In fact, knowing her a little better, he found himself surprised that she’d fled Atlanta rather than standing her ground.
“I don’t have access to most of the physical evidence yet. And as my investigator reminds me, he can be quick, or he can be thorough, so I probably won’t have his report for a while. But what I do have is you, Caitlin. And what I hope is unfiltered access to your side of this story. But first things first: Do you have evidence of Lydia Fasteland’s harassment, since we have no police report to fall back on?”
She sighed. “In retrospect, that was a mistake on my part – not going to the police and asking for a restraining order. I know they don’t do much practically speaking, but at least they establish a record. I just never imagined it would come to this.”
“Many people don’t. And speaking as someone who has had to confront the looks on the faces of their families while defending the person who killed them, I have to recommend that ounce of prevention. Even if it doesn’t do much, practically speaking.”
Caitlin opened her mouth and then closed it. “You’ve defended… stalkers? Who killed their victims?”
“I’ve done my share of pro bono work, and I didn’t always get to have much say in what cases that entailed. So yeah. I’ve defended the constitutional rights of people I wouldn’t want in the same city with me, let alone in the same courtroom, on the same side of the aisle. But a fair trial is the cornerstone of our justice system. Even for society’s dregs.”
“Of course.” She let out another pent up breath. “And considering my current position in this glass house, I shouldn’t pick up stones. As far as evidence of the harassment goes, I do have my communications with several online book retailers regarding the possibility of getting malicious reviews deleted. I also have screenshots of some of the nasty comments she made to me on social media occasionally – before I blocked her and/or she got more creative – under her own name. And a couple of my friends can vouch that she tended to turn up where I was at a level that defied coincidence. Connie attempted to confront her one day when she took a table near us at a restaurant where we were eating lunch, but rather than make a scene I simply paid the tab and left. Again, I probably handled it all wrong, but I wasn’t in a place where I felt emotionally capable of dealing with it.”
“Why not?”
“You mean other than the fact that I’d been played for a fool?”
“That’s exactly what I mean. You don’t strike me as the type to tuck her tail between her legs. Unless this guy meant a lot more to you than you’ve indicated. Or there was something else going on.”
Caitlin blinked, and then she looked away, toward the window. Finally, a small sound escaped her, one that someone who wasn’t paying close attention might construe as a laugh. But Jack didn’t think it was a sound of amusement.
“It’s really ironic,” she said “that I just went on about my ability to look at things from both sides of the equation, to understand human nature and hidden motives. Apparently, that only applies to fiction, in my case. Or at least not to real-life people.”
“I’m gathering you’re referring to someone that you misjudged. In addition to Ryan Fasteland?”
She sighed, but then squared her shoulders. “Another man. Although that makes it sound like something romantic, and me a truly idiotic female, but it’s not like that. Well, maybe I’m an idiot, but not when it comes to romance. Not usually, anyway. Ryan is…” she trailed off, and then cleared her throat. “Ryan was the exception. This was me, trusting someone who has already proven himself to be untrustworthy, because I’m a sucker for giving people second chances. And third and fourth chances, in some cases. But I don’t see how this is relevant to my case.”
“Humor me.”
She hesitated, but then shrugged. “My parents were killed in a plane crash, along with their business partner – a man who was also my father’s college roommate. His fraternity brother. With the addition of Connie’s father, they were essentially the three amigos, best friends since they were eighteen. That’s why Connie reacted… as she did last night. Our families were tremendously close. Anyway, Connie’s father was an addict, drugs and alcohol, in and out of rehab – although he somehow managed to hold onto his license to practice medicine. Anyway, he wasn’t
an ideal candidate for godfather, to say the least. That role fell to William Easton, their business partner. He and his wife, Theresa, were named as mine and Lance’s guardians in my parents’ will.”
“And since he was killed along with your parents that made her your guardian?”
“Correct. And that, I’m afraid, was the beginning of her and Lance’s contentious relationship. Lance is my older brother and thought that he should be calling the shots when it came to me, despite the fact that he was only nineteen at the time and trying to hold the business together and complete his college workload and to grieve all at the same time. Theresa insisted that she be allowed to handle me while he focused on the company, and in hindsight, she was right. That gave Lance a chance to get himself together. But he never quite forgave her for it, and it laid the groundwork for their future head-butting, I guess. Anyway, to make a long story short, I ended up living with Theresa for several years. Along with her son, Peyton.”
“Ah,” Jack murmured after studying her face. “The plot thickens.”
“It’s not what you think,” she told him. “Or not entirely. Peyton is several years older than me, and handsome and charismatic. So yes, I developed the obligatory crush, despite the fact that we’d known each other since infancy. But he never acted inappropriately, at least not in a sexual manner. He did, however, rely on me to cover for him on numerous occasions when he’d partied too hard or snuck out of the house – or snuck into the house – or backed over the mailbox because he was drunk or high. By cover for him, I mean that I lied to his mom. And sometimes I loaned him money. Fairly significant amounts.”
“You were a young teen. Where were you getting significant amounts of money?”
“From my parents’ life insurance policy. I had a bank account set up for my personal expenses – clothes, extracurricular activities, what have you – that Theresa didn’t keep a super close eye on. She was far more interested in the goings on at the company, as she had a vested interest there. As long as I had what I needed, she didn’t really ask what I was doing with the money. Peyton knew that. So he…”
“Played on your schoolgirl crush in order to fund his habit.”
Caitlin looked sheepish. “Pretty much. But eventually, Lance found out what was going on, and went ballistic. A considerable portion of the money that had been earmarked for my education was gone. He threatened to take Theresa to court, threatened to have Peyton arrested. Needless to say, I went to live with Lance after that, and did so until I graduated from high school and went off to college.”
“I don’t like to make assumptions, but I’m gathering that this man, Peyton, is someone whom you recently gave a second chance.”
She nodded. “My brother pours most of the profits from the business back into it, and has for years. It’s part of the reason it’s so successful. He lives very modestly, taking a salary that’s often lower than what he pays the employees. He gives me a small annual salary as well, which is sort of absurd since I don’t actually do anything. However, it allowed me to write full time when I was trying to get published, and afterward while I was building a readership base. Anyway, I had sort of a popularity explosion with one of my books, and when added to my salary, ended up doing pretty well financially that year. Peyton… well, Peyton convinced me to help back him in a business idea he had, the specifics of which aren’t important. But needless to say, I lost a sizeable chunk of money, most of which I’m pretty sure went up Peyton’s nose. He ended up in rehab again in order to stay out of jail, and I didn’t really want to see him when he got out, despite his repeated attempts to do so. So it wasn’t just Ryan or his wife I was running away from. That situation just compounded my desire to leave. Really, I was fleeing my own… gullibility, I guess.”
“You give people the benefit of the doubt.”
She returned his gaze. “I like to think I’m more pragmatic than Pollyanna, but… yes, I guess I do.”
“Which makes you exactly the type of person I like to see on juries. It does surprise me a bit, though, given that you write books dealing with the darker side of human nature.”
“Ah, but that’s where the romance aspect comes in. The light which ultimately triumphs over the darkness.”
One side of his mouth slid into a smile. “And you believe that?”
“In happily ever after? Probably not anything so simplistic. But if the bad guy doesn’t get defeated and the good guy doesn’t get the girl, what’s the point of entertainment fiction? Real life sucks all too often.”
Jack blinked, realizing that he’d been staring at her for several moments without responding. And that he’d lost the thread of the conversation, which seemed to have completely unraveled.
With an uncomfortable shift of his shoulders, he tried to recall exactly what they’d been talking about…
Ah, yes. He’d wanted to know all the reasons she left Atlanta, and if any of them could be used against her. Because the fact that her ex had been stabbed to death a short while ago wouldn’t work in her favor. Unless they could prove conclusively that Caitlin wasn’t in the vicinity at the time of his murder.
“I want you to consult your calendar or your planner or your phone log or your neighbors. Anyone and anything you can think of that might offer proof you were in Savannah on the day Ryan Fasteland was killed. As you pointed out, the parallels are disturbing. From a legal point of view, your defense just became more challenging. More immediately, this information in conjunction with the incident at your residence last night raises further concern regarding your personal safety. Until we track down this Lydia Fasteland, I’d like you to exercise caution.”
She pinched the bridge of her nose. “I find it difficult to believe she had anything to do with this.”
“Including the note?”
“No, that I can believe.”
“Which suggests the possibility that she’s in Savannah. And aware of your home address. That’s concerning, even assuming she’s not responsible for her husband’s death.”
“You’re right, of course. I think I’m just having a difficult time believing any of this is actually happening. The trapped in a bad dream analogy is apt. Especially since little details keep cropping up, striking me as wrong.”
Jack’s gaze sharpened. “Like what?”
“I’m sure it’s nothing. Connie keeps reminding me that I wasn’t in charge of my faculties and therefore can’t place any stock in inconsistencies.”
“I repeat. Like what?”
“Like these glasses.” She pulled out a second pair, explained that they were designed for the computer. But they’d been in her purse when she’d retrieved it from the police station, while the glasses she was wearing, the ones she’d worn to the bar the other night, were sitting beside her computer. “It’s not a big red flag, of course. More of a pebble in my proverbial shoe.”
Small, but impossible to ignore. “I want you to write down everything you can think of, every inconsistency, as you said, no matter how seemingly minor. I also want copies of Mrs. Fasteland’s online harassment, as well as the names of your friends who witnessed it, should we need to obtain statements from them. Given the new developments, coupled with Detective Clark’s behavior, I feel strongly that our best defense is a strong offense in this case. I want to anticipate where the police will attempt to go, and circumvent them before they get there. The fact that they haven’t issued any warrants yet suggests that the evidence thus far either leans in your favor, or is at least ambiguous enough not to directly implicate you. But the autopsy results aren’t in yet, nor would most of the lab tests be completed. And as callous as it sounds, your lack of physical injuries is a strike against you and your version of events.”
“So you mentioned.” Caitlin rubbed her hands over her arms, as if fighting a sudden chill. “He should have been able to overpower me. I didn’t see him standing, but even… even lying on the floor I could tell that he was a pretty large man. Not as tall as you, maybe, but certainly bigger th
an me. And I was incapacitated. Theoretically.”
She stretched out her unblemished hands, studying them, and then looked back at Jack. “You don’t have to tell me that my relative physical wellbeing is an inconsistency that’s much more pressing than my mixed up glasses. I wish I had an explanation for it. I don’t.”
Jack again felt the unaccountable urge to offer her comfort. To reach across the desk and lay a hand over hers. Instead, he gave her a promise. “We’ll get to the bottom of it. Evan – my investigator – is running a background search on Henry Cox in addition to Lydia Fasteland. So we have several irons in the fire. In the meantime, while we’re waiting for those as well as the results of the autopsy, I want you to compile the information I asked. And anything else – anything at all – that you can think of.”
His intercom buzzed, his secretary’s voice coming through the speaker to remind him that he was due in court in thirty minutes. Not that he was likely to forget.
“I should be going,” Caitlin said, gathering her purse from the floor beside her feet. “Thank you for your time. I feel less overwhelmed after speaking with you.”
“You said your brother’s flight is delayed?”
“Yes. It looks like he won’t be in until this evening.”
“I’d like you to walk me through the crime scene later. I want to put both your recollections and the inconsistencies you’ve mentioned in context. I know this is difficult for you,” he said when her eyes showed dismay.
“But necessary,” she returned. “When would you like to meet?”
He gave her a time and she nodded. “That works for me.”
“Would you like to have lunch first?” he heard himself saying, although he wasn’t fully sure why. “It’ll give us a chance to talk some more in a neutral environment.”
Caitlin blinked, probably because she was trying to process exactly what he meant by that last bit of bullshit. If she figured it out, Jack hoped she would share with him, because he had no idea.
“Sure,” she finally said. “We could do that.”
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