“And?” Billie asked, knowing there was always more to Sally’s stories.
“Adam’s right. Handel’s already invested in Fredrickson’s because he’s invested in you. He married you, didn’t he? So talk to him. Let him help, even if only as a listening ear for you to vent. He needs you to trust him, to confide in him.”
“Why? Did he say something?” Billie asked, suddenly afraid her perfect world was about to crumble.
“No. He doesn’t have to. Billie, he’s your husband!” Sally dropped her head on the desk and bumped it repeatedly against the surface, auburn curls flopping.
“I suppose that’s your way of saying I’m really dense.”
She straightened, a small smile of satisfaction on her lips. “Now don’t go putting words in my mouth.”
“Right.” Billie pulled open the door but glanced back. “Thanks, Sally. If anybody needs me, I’ll be down in the cellar.”
•••••
Handel pulled into traffic and sped up, eager to be home and spend what was left of the evening with Billie. The jury had been selected, the date had been set to begin, and Judge Matthews had reminded them all that this was a high profile case and she better not hear of anyone discussing any part of the trial or she would rethink her position on sequestering. Handel wasn’t due back in court until Monday. He had the whole weekend to remind his new wife just whom she was married to. The past couple of weeks they had slept apart more than together, him spending lonely nights in the city working. He would be happy when it was over. Maybe they could get away to Maui for a few days or take a few weeks and visit all the islands – if Billie would trust her staff at the winery and leave it all behind.
Traffic slowed to a crawl on the freeway and he flipped the radio on as a distraction from the boredom of his commute. Smooth jazz played softly over the speakers, soothing the edginess he always felt sitting in bumper-to-bumper traffic. Thunderclouds rolled in from the bay, but there was little chance of rain this time of year. All the hovering clouds managed to do was keep the stench of pollution at ground level. He wrinkled his nose and turned on the air-conditioner. It had climbed to eighty degrees in the heart of the city, but once he got out into the country the temp would drop into the low seventies. This time of year in the valley was usually pleasant, with gentle breezes and clear cerulean skies.
Cars began to move forward in the lane beside him and soon his lane inched forward as well. He changed the station on the radio to the evening news and listened to the drone of the newscaster with only half his attention. A familiar voice interrupted his wandering thoughts. The Deputy District Attorney usually spoke in a blustery sort of way that put his listeners on the defensive. But today Alec Melendez sounded calm and sure of himself when he’d answered the reporter’s questions outside the courtroom earlier.
“Mr. Kawasaki has maintained his innocence and pleaded not guilty,” the reporter said, “He was even quoted as saying he had nothing to hide and would testify in his own defense. Do you think that will be enough to sway members of the jury to his side?”
Melendez gave a short laugh. “Mr. Kawasaki’s attorney, Handel Parker, is a well-seasoned litigator, so I doubt he will allow his client to testify. No matter the smoke screen they throw up, I will prove to the jury without a shadow of a doubt that Sloane Kawasaki is not only guilty of illegal business practices and money laundering, but he was also an abusive husband who planned the murder of his own wife, and then proceeded to personally follow through with that murder even after a failed first attempt by a hired thug. Jimena Alvarez-Kawasaki deserves justice and I plan to see that she gets it.”
From the sound of it, the deputy DA was getting a head start on his opening statement – or running for office. He was definitely not stating proven facts, but rather innuendo from an unreliable source. Sloane’s secretary had admitted that she was jealous after he married Jimena and made up stories to anyone who would listen that her boss was connected with gangs. The so-called first failed murder attempt had been a hit and run. Someone side-swiped Jimena when she stepped out of her car on a busy downtown street. She was battered and bruised but nothing had been broken and the hit and run driver had never been found.
Other reporters yelling out further questions faded into the background as the newscaster tied up the story. “That was Deputy District Attorney Melendez outside the courtroom this afternoon after the jury selection ended and the trial date was set to begin next Wednesday.”
His cell phone buzzed over the speakers and he pushed the Bluetooth answer button. “Handel Parker here.” There was silence for a moment and he thought maybe he’d been disconnected. “Hello?”
“I have information for joo about joor murder case.” The man’s voice was deep and raspy, with a strong Mexican accent.
“Who is this?” he countered, eyes narrowed as he glanced in the rearview and changed lanes. “If you know something about Jimena Kawasaki’s murder, I am obligated to tell you to take it to the police.”
“Dat’s not going to happen. I don’t talk to no police. Only to joo.”
Handel’s mind raced. “Fine. Talk to me. What do you know?” He didn’t want to scare off a potential witness. If the man wouldn’t go to the police then he should at least hear him out. He was probably a crackpot. They’d certainly attracted plenty of them during the discovery phase.
“I don’t want to say over the phone. Can joo meet me by the dock…”
Handel cut him off. “No. That’s not going to happen,” he said, repeating the man’s words back at him. “Tell me what you know and I’ll decide whether it’s worth my time.”
All four lanes of cars came to a dead stop and Handel slammed on the brakes. He breathed a sigh of relief when the cars behind him managed to stop in time as well. Just what he didn’t need was to be in a freeway pileup.
The man sniffed. “Look, I need money. I’ll tell joo everything for two grand.”
Handel laughed. “I’m hanging up now.”
“No! Please. Listen. I’m telling the truth. I know who killed Jimena.”
The way the man said her name… it was personal. Intimate. Like he’d actually known her. Maybe he wasn’t a crackpot. “All right. I’m listening. But I need something from you before we can go any further. I’m not going to meet you or give you two-thousand dollars without a compelling reason.”
He heard traffic noise and a car horn over the speakers. “I loved her,” he said, his voice so quiet Handel had a hard time hearing. “Jimena was going to leave Kawasaki and go to Mexico with me. But her brother told her I was a heroin addict.”
“Manny?”
“Sí.” The small affirmative was filled with raw anger. “He didn’t want her to go. Said she had to stay married to that chapete,” he spit the word like a curse, “because she had made a vow.”
Handel suddenly had a heroin addict thrown into the mix of his trial. Not exactly someone above reproach, but that wouldn’t stop the prosecution from using him to prove Kawasaki had motive for killing his wife. Why hadn’t Manny mentioned this person before? Especially if the man was seeing his sister romantically and he knew about it. He rubbed a hand over his stubbly five o’clock shadow, thinking. “So you want me to believe that Jimena, a beautiful woman married to a rich man, would leave all that for you, a drug addict?”
“I quit eight months ago! I promised Jimena I was done with the life.”
“And what were you doing at the Kawasaki residence the night of the murder?”
“We were leaving for Mexico. She finally decided it was time. I went to pick her up but he…”
A guy on a Harley flew by his door, riding between lanes, and passing everyone with devil-may-care nonchalance in a leather vest and red bandanna. The loud thumping of the exhaust pipes drowned out the man’s words.
“… and when I woke up she was dead,” he finished.
Red taillights flared on the pickup in front of him as it suddenly came to a complete stop. Handel slammed on the brak
es. His dream of a getaway with Billie evaporated with a glance in the rearview mirror. A truck was bearing down and there was no way it could stop in time to avoid rolling right over him. He twisted the wheel hard to the right and pulled into the next lane without knowing for sure if there was enough space between vehicles. The screech of metal on metal as he slid past the edge of the pickup’s bumper drowned out the last of the man’s words. Handel was flung forward against the steering wheel when the truck slammed from behind. An explosive sound reverberated in his head and glass exploded around him.
“Mr. Parker? Mr. Parker?” He thought he heard a voice calling and then it faded away.
Other Novels by Barbara
The Fredrickson Winery Novels:
Entangled
Crushed
Savor
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Second Chances Series:
Running Home
Alias Raven Black
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Split Sense
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The Amish Bloodsuckers Trilogy:
Chosen
Shunned
Reckoning
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About the author
Barbara Ellen Brink lives in the great state of Minnesota with her husband and their two dogs, Rugby and Willow. Their two adult children wander in and out of their household through the revolving door of economic necessity.
Barbara spends much time writing, reading, motorcycling, running, and enjoying life with the family and friends that God has given her.
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Connect with me online
Twitter:
http://twitter.com/BarbaraEBrink
My Blog:
http://www.barbarasthinline.blogspot.com
My Webpage:
http://www.barbaraellenbrink.com
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Barbara Ellen Brink, Novelist
Crushed (The Fredrickson Winery Novels) Page 21