Unlike Minor, Holly didn’t have the advantage of wealthy and influential parents. Her father had died when she was only twelve, plunging the family into poverty. Holly had struggled to become an attorney, working as a cop while she went to an inexpensive Dallas law school, studying all night after putting in a full day. Her education was now catching up to her, though, and she was fearful that she would end up mired in a low-level position for the remainder of her career, stuck in a cramped and miserable office like the one she was working in now. She wasn’t deluding herself any longer like so many others with similar backgrounds, people who thought foolishly that if they passed the bar and became accredited attorneys, the future would fall into place and the name on their law degrees would be insignificant.
Holly’s father had found himself in a similar situation. After twenty-five years with Mobil Oil, he had competed for an executive position and lost. She remembered the shattered look on his face the day he had come home from work and told her mother. “I didn’t look good enough on paper, honey,” he’d said. “They don’t care that I can do the job, that I have more experience than all the other candidates put together. Graduating from a city college instead of a first-rate university is all they care about. They bypassed me over a lousy piece of paper.”
The following morning had been the worst day of Holly’s life. She had been a spunky twelve-year-old and the light of her father’s life. They weren’t wealthy, but they were a happy family and lived a rich life. When she went to the garage that morning to get her bicycle out to go to school, Holly’s childhood abruptly ended. Dangling from a rope attached to the rafters was her father’s lifeless body, the feet brushing back and forth against the seat of Holly’s shiny red bike.
Once Minor noted her presence in the room, Holly took a seat in a highbacked leather chair facing his desk. “Janet said you wanted to see me,” she said. “What’s going on?”
“I think we have something,” Minor said excitedly. “With Randall’s statement we might be able to reopen the case and successfully prosecute it.”
“What are you saying?” she said. “You think we have enough to prosecute Randall? I don’t agree, Frank. I mean, Stella’s been after me for ages to reopen the case, but I—”
“Why would we prosecute Randall?” he said. “He just handed us the guilty party. I spoke to him outside, and he assured me he’s willing to testify.”
“Stella?” Holly exclaimed. “You can’t be serious, Frank.”
“Why not?” he said. “If you ask me, your friend from Dallas might just turn out to be a murderer.”
Holly crossed her legs, then uncrossed them, then a few moments later crossed them again. “I guess you’re right,” she finally said. “In good conscience, I agree that we can’t simply overlook Randall’s statements, but if we attempt to prosecute someone as high-placed as Stella Cataloni, the media will eat it up like cotton candy. Both of us could go down the drain on a case like this. If we do move forward, we better make certain we know what we’re doing, that we have the goods to make the charges stick.” She stopped and studied his face, trying to figure out what he was thinking. “And don’t forget the Pelham case. People will see the scars on Stella’s face and instantly classify her as a victim.”
Instead of responding to her reasoning and backing off, Frank Minor found her comments enormously titillating. He was beginning to see the wealth of opportunity in a case as sensational as this one, particularly now that Stella’s success in the Pelham case had given her a certain celebrity status with the media. “On the other hand, both our careers could be made on this case,” he told her. “Would you be willing to try it? Because you worked with Stella in Dallas, the dynamics would be perfect. Who wouldn’t want to cover this story? Two women prosecutors going at it in the courtroom, one time coworkers, one of them on trial for murder and arson.” The more he thought about it, the more animated he became. “More than careers are at stake here, Oppenheimer. We could both haul in a shitload of cash. Book rights, movie rights, you name it.”
“Hmmm,” Holly said, curling a strand of her hair around her finger. “I don’t know, Frank. Stella is my friend. I mean, we haven’t been that close since I moved away, but from what I know of her, she’s a decent woman who’s already been through a terrible ordeal.” She shrugged. “The way you’re presenting it sounds cruel and opportunistic. I don’t know if I want to be a part of something like that.”
“What if Stella Cataloni did kill her parents?” he said, eager to persuade her. “Did you tell her what Randall said? How did she react?”
“You saw her with Randall,” she said, grimacing. “How do you think she reacted? She went ballistic. I almost had to call someone in to help me restrain her.”
“See,” Minor said, pointing a finger at her, “the woman’s violent. I think she did it, and if she did, she should damn well pay.”
“Look,” Holly said, “Stella has always been high strung and impulsive. Everyone knows she can explode if you push the right buttons. This isn’t the first time I’ve seen her lose it. I once saw her go ballistic right in the courtroom.” Her eyes glazed over. “Growman controls her, you know. He’s taught her to use her temperament to good advantage.” She began picking the lint off her skirt. “No one can crack a witness like Stella Cataloni.”
Once Holly looked up, Minor drove his point home. “Are you going to let someone get away with murder just because of a casual relationship?” Then his voice elevated even more and he shouted, “Two people died here, remember, not just one. We’re talking double homicide, Oppenheimer.” He reached behind him to his credenza, pulled out a file, and removed a stack of photos. “Take a look at these,” he said, sliding the photos to the edge of his desk. “Then tell me this is something we should file away and forget.”
Holly shuddered as she looked at the gruesome crime scene photos. The bodies of Stella’s parents had been so badly burned that they looked like blackened logs out of a fireplace. Holly had to turn the pictures around to see any semblance of humanity. “Where was her father’s body found?”
“In the hall somewhere,” Minor said. “That’s not the important issue. Didn’t you hear Winters? The fire originated right around Cataloni’s bed. Just because her father’s body wasn’t found in the same location doesn’t mean anything. The man could have staggered down the hall after she set him on fire, then collapsed and died.”
Holly tossed the pictures back on his desk and sighed. “Well, you’re right about it being an ugly crime. It’s funny, you know,” she said. “People think one murder is the same as another.” She sucked in a deep breath and then slowly let it out. “But these poor people were cremated alive, Frank. They must have died in agony.”
“So, your little friend doesn’t look so sweet and innocent anymore, huh?” he said with a smirk.
Holly was stoic, unreadable. “She’s still one of us,” she said. “Randall might be a self-serving asshole who just spoon-fed us a fistful of lies.”
“You need this case,” Minor said, his lip curling in a sadistic smile. “If you want to get ahead, Oppenheimer, you have to develop the killer instinct. You’ve lost three cases in a row now. Don’t you think it’s time you bring in a big one?”
Holly’s eyes narrowed, but she quickly checked her resentment. “You’re the boss,” she said, standing and turning to leave. “Whatever you decide, I guess I’ll have to find a way to live with it.”
Once she was outside Minor’s office, Holly’s demeanor shifted, and she hummed to herself as she made her way down the corridor. When she reached her office, she saw Janet Hernandez typing on her word processor. “So you admire Stella, huh?” she said. Janet didn’t answer. Sometimes she tried to get the upper hand by giving Holly the silent treatment. “Interesting,” Holly said, feeling a rush of pure pleasure.
chapter
THREE
Stella paid the cabdriver and then hiked up the stairs to her brother’s apartment, located in a densely populat
ed area near the Houston Astrodome. She rang the bell and waited until he came and opened it, pleased that she had found him at home. “Stella,” Mario Cataloni said, his handsome face spread in a broad grin, “what are you doing in Houston? Were you waiting long? I was in the darkroom developing some prints.”
Stella stepped into his arms and hugged him, burying her head against his chest. He was tall, his hair dark like Stella’s, and above his lip was a neatly trimmed mustache. He wore a pair of snug-fitting Levi’s and no shirt, his feet encased in his customary cowboy boots, his upper body glistening with perspiration. Around his neck was the gold crucifix that Stella had given him on his sixteenth birthday.
When she pulled back, she punched him playfully in the stomach, connecting with a solid ridge of muscle. “It’s good to see you, you handsome devil,” she said. “Do I have to get on a plane and fly here just to see what’s going on with my baby brother? I called this morning, but you must not have heard the phone.”
Mario laughed, rubbing his stomach. “Hey, Stel, that hurt. You’ve got to quit beating up on me now. I’m not a kid anymore, in case you haven’t noticed.”
“Let me see,” Stella said, grinning as she circled him. “Nope, I guess not. What are you going to be next month? The big three-oh? Scary, huh?”
“Yeah,” he said, “getting old sucks, but then you should know all about it.”
While Mario laughed, Stella sneered, displaying the tough demeanor she always put on for him. “You little shit,” she said, kicking the toe of his boot. “Are we going to stand here all day in the heat, or are you going to invite me in? I thought we’d go for lunch.”
Once she stepped inside, Stella shook her head in dismay. When Mario had lived with her and her husband, she had tasted his sloppiness firsthand, but now that he was a man, she had expected him to take better care of himself. The apartment was large, with two good-sized bedrooms and a third Mario had converted into a darkroom. He had nice furnishings, so that wasn’t the problem. Favoring contemporary decor, her brother had decorated his apartment with black marble tables and white overstuffed sofas, strange lamps made out of stainless steel that looked as if they belonged in an office instead of a home. The walls were covered with poster-size photos that Mario had taken over the years. Most of them were head shots of pretty young women advertising some type of product, but some of them were landscapes and nature shots.
“I hear you’re doing some serious work,” Stella said, walking over to study one of the images. ‘ ‘Didn’t you have an exhibition recently? This is really good stuff, guy. I’m proud of you.”
“I just finished a shoot for a dog food company,” Mario said, with a grimace. “I’d like to concentrate on more serious stuff, but it doesn’t pay the rent.”
As a professional photographer, Mario traveled a great deal, but for Stella there was still no excuse for living in a garbage dump. Newspapers were scattered all over the floor, fast-food wrappers and empty, leaking cups covered almost every solid surface, ashtrays were spilling over with butts, and the white sofas were stained and dirty. “This is disgusting,” she said. “They have a new invention. It’s called a trash can. One of these days you should try it.”
“Quit being a mother, Stel,” Mario said, firing up a cigarette and exhaling a stream of smoke in her face. “I like living like this. What’s the big deal?”
“Put on a shirt and we’ll go,” she said. “You haven’t had lunch already, have you?”
“To tell you the truth,” he answered, “I just had breakfast about thirty minutes ago.”
“Great,” Stella said. “Is there anything to eat in this place?”
“There’s some lunch meat in the refrigerator. Help yourself. I have to check on my prints.”
Stella busied herself as she always did, picking up the living room and then moving to the kitchen and a sink full of dirty dishes. Opening the door to the refrigerator, she glanced inside and then closed it, deciding to pass on lunch. Seeing a solitary apple in a bowl on the counter, Stella nibbled on it while she worked.
Mario emerged from the darkroom and they almost had a head-on collision as Stella came down the hall, her finger depressed on a can of air freshener.
Finally, when she saw some improvement, she took a seat on one of the white sofas in the living room and proceeded to tell Mario what had transpired at the police station.
“That fucking bastard,” he snarled, jumping to his feet. “After what he did to us, how could he possibly make an accusation like that?”
Stella watched as Mario circled the room, flexing his muscles and slamming his right fist into his opposite palm. “Calm down,” she said, sorry now that she had told him. “There’s nothing we can do. Besides, no one will take Randall’s accusations seriously. You should see him. He’s a joke, a buffoon.”
Don’t kid yourself, Stella,” her brother said. There are people in this town who’d pay good money to see you fall on your face.”
Stella tilted her head and gave him a curious look. “You don’t mean—”
“You know Uncle Clem has always believed you were behind Dad’s death,” he said. “And that old goat … what’s his name? You know, Stella, the cop that busted you the first time.”
“Carl Winters,” Stella said.
“Well, he’s always been after you,” he said. “It’s like he thinks you’re some big criminal that got away, like something out of that stupid show, ‘The Fugitive.’ He’s going to keep after you until the day he dies.”
Stella laughed, thinking his analysis of Winters was fairly accurate.
Mario, though, didn’t think it was funny. “Look, I live here, Stella,” he said. “I know all the rumors that have flown around this town. For the first six months after I moved back, I got stopped by the Houston P.D. every other day. Don’t tell me Uncle Clem wasn’t behind it, because I know damn well that he was.”
Stella looked down at her hands. Instead of helping her and Mario after the fire, their family had turned against them. “Is he still a captain at the police department?”
“Retired about six months ago,” Mario said, “but believe me, he can still pull his weight with the rank and file. When he hears about this new development, well, I just don’t know what he’ll do.” Disappearing into the kitchen, he returned with an open bottle of red wine. “Want some?” he said, swinging the bottle toward Stella.
Stella waved it away. “Why would Uncle Clem harass you?”
“How do I know?” Mario said, flicking the hairs on his mustache. “He’s a maniac, if you ask me. Maybe he thinks we were in it together. A friend of mine was in a bar watching your TV interview after the Pelham trial. The guy sitting next to him knew our name from the fire and said he’d heard we were sleeping together. That’s why we had to get rid of our parents.”
“God,” Stella said, picking up a throw pillow and hugging it to her chest, “you really think Uncle Clem would say something that sick?”
“I bet Randall’s stupid family started that rumor. I guess they thought if they told everyone we were lovers, then people would think I was the one who got you pregnant.”
“Wonderful,” she said, her brows knitted in outrage. “Randall probably made that story up himself, Mario. It sounds like something he’d do.”
“I should go over there and break both of his fucking legs,” Mario said, taking another slug of wine and then wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Shit, I’ve been wanting to get my hands on this guy for years. Do you know where he’s staying? I‘11 get a couple of my friends and we’ll teach him a lesson he’ll never forget.”
“No,” Stella shouted. “Don’t even talk that way. That’s all we need right now.” She started sniffing as if she were about to break down. “I didn’t mean to blow up like that and slap him. I only wanted to confront him face to face. When I saw him, though, I just went crazy. I couldn’t stop myself.”
Her brother placed the bottle of wine on a coffee table and sat down next to Ste
lla on the sofa. For some time they just stared out over the room in silence.
“I love you, Stel,” Mario said. “I can’t let anyone hurt you. You’ve been hurt enough. If it hadn’t been for you, I wouldn’t even be alive today.” He looked away, his voice low and strained. “How do you think I feel? I don’t have a mark on me. Every time I think of your scars, I wonder why it wasn’t me.”
“Don’t start on this, Mario,” Stella said, patting her eyes with a tissue. “Please, you know how it upsets me when you talk this way.”
Mario persisted. “Having a few scars wouldn’t be the end of the world for a guy,” he told her. “I remember how Mom used to always say you would be Miss Texas one day, even make it to the Miss America pageant.”
Stella stroked his hand. “All mothers have silly dreams like that,” she said. “That doesn’t mean they’re realistic. Besides, I never wanted to be a beauty queen. That was Momma’s dream, not mine.”
You were just so beautiful, Stella,” Mario continued. “Why did it have to be you?”
Stella knew she was about to break down, but she suppressed her tears. She was the one who had to be strong. It was her strength that had always carried them. She had often thought that if Mario had died in the fire along with their parents, she would have committed suicide. Instead, she had undergone the agony of repeated operations and skin grafts, knowing she had to look normal enough to go out in public and hold down a job if she was going to find a way to support her fourteen-year-old brother.
Trial by Fire Page 5