“I’ve already been hypnotized by a shrink and it didn’t help. All I recall is the clicking noise I told you about and seeing my father’s face when he raised something in the air.”
“You need something to stimulate your memory,” the investigator continued. “If I could put you inside that house again, recreate the fire exactly, it might all come back.”
“Well, you can’t do that,” Stella said, flicking her fingernails.
“Yes, I can,” Brenda said. “I picked up the plans for the house today. I’ve already faxed them to Oracle Laboratories in Dallas. I have the coroner’s reports, the arson investigator’s findings, the police reports, and photographs of the evidence collected, everything but the missing pieces of metal. I know where the bodies were found. All I need from you, Stella, is a description of the furnishings and how they were positioned in the house, along with some snapshots of your mother and father.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said.
“Okay,” Brenda said, “we’re planning on recreating the crime by using forensic animation. Meaning, the jurors will see a partial depiction of what occurred that night, but without the feeling that they are actually present. They’ll just see a computer-generated program, similar to an animated videotape. With a little extra effort and the right equipment, we can take it to another level.” She stroked the side of her face, hoping she wasn’t promising too much. Something this complex normally took months. They didn’t have months, but with the right people, she believed it could be done. “I can put you in a virtual reality environment at the lab, and it will be almost identical to reliving that night. It could be terribly traumatic, Stella. Do you think you can handle it?”
“This is all on a computer, right?” Stella said, not understanding why Brenda was making such a big deal. “I mean, you’re not going to set me on fire, so I can’t see how it could be so traumatic.”
“Good,” she said, “let’s get busy right now.” She pulled a yellow pad out of her briefcase and placed it on the table. “Start by telling me everything you remember from the night of the fire. Oh, and I need those photos.”
“I don’t have them,” Stella said. “I told you everything was destroyed in the fire.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” Brenda said. ‘Til start working on that aspect of it today. As soon as the hearing’s over tomorrow morning, we’ll fly back to Dallas and make all the arrangements.”
The house was located in the Bellaire section of Houston. It was constructed out of red brick, and the yard was shaded by mature elms and cedars. At nine o’clock that evening, the front of the house was dark, and from all appearances, no one was home. The only light burning was in the master bedroom, located at the rear of the house.
Holly stepped out of the bathroom, a towel wrapped around her wet hair. Dressed in a transparent lace negligee, she snapped at the man in the bed, “I told you to go. My ex-husband is bringing Tiffany home any minute. I don’t want him to see your car in the driveway. He doesn’t like me to entertain men when my daughter is in the house.”
The man was resting face down on the bed. His skin glistened with perspiration, his back and arms solid muscle.
“Are you deaf?” Holly shouted. “You promised you’d be gone by the time I got out of the shower. Why are you still here?”
He groaned, rolling over onto his back and staring up at the ceiling. “We have to talk,” he said tensely. “I can’t do what you want, Holly. There’s no way I’ll testify against my sister.”
Her face hardened. “You’ll do exactly what I say,” she said. “If you don’t, the only person you’ll be fucking is your cellmate at Huntsville.”
She threw her head back and laughed, a sinister, grating sound that caused Mario to flinch. “Correct that, okay?” she said. “They’ll be fucking you, sweetie. You’ll be on the receiving end.”
“God,” he said, rolling over and burying his face in the pillow, “how did I ever get involved with a bitch like you?”
Holly strode to the bed and smacked him on the buttocks. “A bitch, huh?” she said. “I might not seem like such a bitch after those hairy cons get a look at this tight little ass of yours. You’ll be the belle of the ball, Mario.”
“You’re despicable,” he said, leaping to his feet and grabbing his pants off the chair. He stepped into them and yanked up the zipper. “All you care about is your fucking career, making a big name for yourself at Stella’s expense.”
Holly leaned into his face. “And you, Mario?” she said, grabbing a handful of his chest hair and pulling on it. “What do you care about? A little coke and you’re in hog heaven. How are you going to get to heaven in prison?”
Mario knocked her hand away. “I’ll take my chances with the judge,” he muttered, his chest heaving. Then he looked out over the room. “I don’t have a bad record. This will be my first felony conviction. The only other time I was arrested, I was a juvenile, so they’ll probably just put me on probation.”
“Hey,” she said, “if you want to roll the dice, be my guest. They don’t like drug dealers in Texas, though,” she added. “I can almost guarantee you’ll go to prison. Besides,” she said, “I’ll argue for prison. I always get what I want when I set my mind to it. I got you, didn’t I?”
Mario grabbed his shirt and shoved his arms into the sleeves, his face flushed with rage. Finally dressed, he stormed out of the room, made his way through the house, then jumped in his Corvette and roared off.
chapter
ELEVEN
When Sarah Cataloni came to the door, she opened it only an inch. “What do you want?” she said.
Brenda Anderson flashed her shield. “D.A.‘s office,” she said, hoping the woman didn’t notice the city insignia for Dallas. “We need your help. Do you mind if I come in?”
“My husband isn’t here now,” the woman said, hiding her body behind the door. A small woman, with dull brown hair and a heavily lined face, she eyed the visitor on her porch with suspicion.
“Perhaps you can help us, then,” Brenda said. She had to get Stella’s aunt to drop her guard. “What we’re looking for are some snapshots of Stella Cataloni’s parents. We need them for the trial.”
“Why do you need pictures?” Sarah asked. “The poor people are dead.”
“Ah,” she said, “we want them to show the jury what they looked like. You know,” she continued, “that way the victims seem more real to them. It’s particularly important when a case is this old.”
“I don’t have any pictures,” Sarah said, trying to close the door. Brenda wouldn’t let her, though. She put her foot inside the threshold. “Clem threw them all away. They upset him too much.”
Guilt, Brenda thought. The man was so guilty, he couldn’t stand to look at his brother’s face. “Do you know any other relatives who might have pictures?”
“Maria has pictures,” she said. “She lives in San Francisco. She’s my husband’s first cousin. Would you like me to get her address?”
“Yes, please,” Brenda said. “And her phone number as well.”
Sarah Cataloni disappeared inside the house and then returned a few moments later. “I don’t think Stella is guilty,” she said. “Do you know where she is, Officer? Clem told me she made bail.”
“Of course,” Brenda said. She tried to maintain the same detached demeanor, but it was hard to quell her excitement. They had their first major witness, and Brenda had snatched her right out of the enemy camp. On the witness stand, every word out of Sarah Cataloni’s mouth would be solid gold. “Is there something you want me to tell Stella?”
Sarah sucked in a deep breath and then slowly let it out. “It was so awful, you know. My husband’s a fair man, but as in many families, there were problems. Clem and his brother were estranged at the time of his death. There was a great deal of animosity between them.”
“I see,” Brenda said slowly. “That doesn’t explain Captain Cataloni’s belief that your niece killed h
er parents. If you know something—”
Sarah brushed a few wispy strands of hair off her face. “Young people have few regrets,” she said, staring deep into Brenda’s eyes. “When you get a little older, perhaps you’ll understand. When you blame yourself, or you’re torn up over something you didn’t say or do, it’s the worst pain imaginable.”
Brenda nodded, but remained silent, fearful anything she might say would stop Sarah from continuing.
“Well, what I’m trying to say,” Sarah continued, “is a person must eventually find a way to relieve themselves of this burden. My husband could not right the wrongs with his brother, so he transferred his guilt to someone else. When Tom Randall said Stella was responsible for setting the fire, Clem believed him.” She paused, a birdlike hand appearing on the edge of the door. “He believed it, you see, because he wanted to believe it.”
If only I had brought a tape recorder, Brenda thought, knowing Stella’s aunt could recant her statements once she got to court. They would have to subpoena her right away, she decided, and depose her under oath.
“Wait,” Brenda said, seeing Sarah closing the door, “didn’t you want me to give a message to Stella?”
For several moments, Sarah was deep in thought. To Brenda, it seemed as if she had waited many years to say what she was about to say. “Tell Stella I’m sorry things ended up this way,” she said, “and that I do care about her. After the fire, I wanted to take Stella and Mario in to live with us, but Stella’s wounds were too severe, and of course, Clem wouldn’t hear of it. We did take Mario for a few days. That poor boy,” she said, her eyes misting over. She stopped and composed herself, dabbing at her eyes with her fingers. “There’s no use discussing it now. We had another young man staying with us back then, a foster child who was very troubled. It didn’t work out.”
Just as she was handing Anderson the paper with the address and phone number on it, a man with a scowl on his face appeared behind her and snatched it right out of her fingers. Brenda repeated the phone number several times in her mind, committing it to memory.
“Who are you?” Clem Cataloni said. “What are you doing at my house, bothering my wife this way?”
“I’ll just be going,” Brenda said, turning to head back down the steps.
“Come back here,” he shouted. “I want to see your identification. You’re not with the Houston D.A.‘s office. Stella sent you, didn’t she? You’re the damn Dallas investigator. What kind of underhanded—”
Brenda glanced back over her shoulder, but she didn’t stop. Cataloni was on his porch now, and she saw a bulge under his knit shirt that she knew was a handgun. Firing up the engine on her rental car, she sped away, leaving a streak of rubber on the asphalt driveway. Clementine Cataloni might not be a mobster, as Stella kept insisting, but Brenda had no difficulty now casting him as a killer.
After grabbing a quick dinner at a fast-food restaurant with Stella and advising her of what she had learned from Sarah Cataloni, Brenda headed off to her hotel room to continue compiling all the details Stella had given her on the fire, and to see if she could get in touch with Stella’s relative in San Francisco and obtain the necessary photos. They could proceed with or without them, she told Stella, but she wanted the program they created to be realistic. The photographs would help.
Stella returned to Mario’s. She called Sam the moment she stepped through the door. “How awful,” he said, once she had relayed the latest developments. “You mean your uncle was committing crimes while he was a police captain?”
“It’s more than just the pension scam,” Stella told him. “We suspect he may have started the fire to keep my father from exposing him. Then he shot Randall so they wouldn’t reopen the case.”
“You could be next, Stella,” he said, his voice edged with fear. “When are you coming back? I can’t just sit here and worry about you. It’s driving me crazy.”
“Don’t worry about me,” she said. “Brenda’s with me all the time. Besides, I’ve decided to fly back tomorrow afternoon.”
“I’ve missed you, Stella,” he said softly.
“I’ve missed you too.”
Stella hung up and went to take her clothes off in the guest room. Suddenly she stopped and remained perfectly still. Someone was inside the apartment. She heard footsteps coming from the direction of the living room. Panicked, she ran to the laundry room off the kitchen, shutting the door and locking it behind her. Then she remembered her skirt catching fire and realized the intruder might try to set a fire in the apartment. Afraid she would become trapped inside the small room, she cracked the door and peered out.
Mario was walking down the hall. “You scared me to death,” she cried. “Why didn’t you say something when you came in? Don’t sneak up on me like that.”
“This is my apartment, remember?” he said. He continued down the hall and then stopped, turning back around to face her. “What are you scared of, anyway? You’re not scared of me, I hope.”
“No,” Stella said, her heart still racing. She went into the bathroom and splashed cold water on her face. Mario followed her to the door, and she saw him in the mirror. “I’m sorry about the things I said the other day. You know, accusing you of shooting Randall and all. I think I know who’s behind this, Mario,” she told him. “Not just Randall’s death, but the fire as well.”
“Who?” he said.
“Uncle Clem,” she said. “I’ve been working with Brenda Anderson all day. She’s the investigator from Dallas Growman sent down. Do you want to hear what we found out?”
Mario grimaced, a whiff of Holly’s heavy cologne drifting to his nostrils. “Can’t I take a shower first?”
“Whatever,” Stella said, annoyed that he had waltzed back in as if nothing had ever happened, seemingly more concerned about his shower than listening to what she had to say. Leaving him standing in the hall, she headed to the living room and flopped down on one of the white sofas. Mario trailed after her, though, and stood just inside the entrance. “Does this mean your shower can wait?” she said. “I mean, I wouldn’t want to impose on you or anything.”
“Go ahead, Stella,” he said. “I’m listening.”
Mario slouched on the sofa across from her, stretching his long legs out in front of him. Once Stella had finished outlining the day’s events for him, she said, “Brenda checked with the other departments these police officers were with before transferring to Houston, and they all applied for disability before they put in for a transfer. In each instance they were turned down. They arrive in Houston, work six to eight months, and bingo, they’re retired on full pension.”
What his sister was saying made sense, but Mario knew his uncle would not fall easily. He recalled the time he’d spent at his uncle’s house while Stella was still hospitalized from her injuries. Finding the atmosphere at his uncle’s unbearable, Mario had climbed out of his window one night in an attempt to escape and find his sister. He’d only made it a block before his uncle had found him. Walking down a dark sidewalk at three in the morning, Mario had heard a car engine, and then a few moments later, found himself staring down the barrel of his uncle’s shotgun. “Get in the car,” his uncle had shouted. “I’m not about to raise a juvenile delinquent. You live in my house, you follow my rules. If you don’t, I’ll make arrangements for you to spend some time in juvenile hall.”
Mario closed his eyes and tried to look at it objectively. It was one thing for Stella to stand accused of a crime she didn’t commit, but she was turning the tables now and pursuing a man he felt certain was dangerous. Knowing his uncle, Mario decided he probably feared incarceration less than he feared public exposure. If he had killed his own brother to keep him from exposing him, he would not hesitate to silence Stella. “Can you prove this?” he asked. “If you can’t—”
“Of course we can prove it,” Stella said. She looked down at her hands nervously. “Well, maybe I’m being overly optimistic. We can prove the men applied for disability and were turned down,
that they were all members of the Knights of Columbus. We know they’re all classified as disabled now. Proving Uncle Clem arranged it all is something else, though. Brenda Anderson is checking, trying to see if the same doctor handled all the medical exams.” She sighed. “Of course, even if it was the same doctor, we’ll still have to connect him to Uncle Clem somehow.”
“So, you don’t have shit,” he said, tossing his hands in the air. “What? Are you going to run over there and accuse Uncle Clem now? That’s what you did to me. The only difference is Clem will shoot you.”
“I said I was sorry,” Stella said, downcast. “Can’t you accept my apology? I’ve been under a lot of stress.”
Mario gave her a scathing look.
Stella’s face softened. “I love you, guy. We’ve always been a team. I got frightened when you didn’t come to the jail to see me. I was certain you were trying to hide your involvement in Randall’s death.”
“I spent that night with my girlfriend,” he told her, pulling his cigarettes out of his pocket and lighting one. “I told you that already.”
“The stewardess?” she said.
“Yeah,” Mario said, refusing to meet her eyes.
“What’s her name?”
“Kelly,” he said, flicking his ashes on the carpet.
Stella bristled. Should she confront him, tell him she knew he was lying? If she did, he would probably vanish again, and she didn’t want that to happen. She decided to play along, hoping her brother’s lies were related to his drug use and she could embarrass him into telling her the truth. “Is she in town now? We need to talk to her, make certain she remembers the dates and times you were with her. Sometimes people get things confused in their mind.”
“I’m not accused of Randall’s death,” Mario said, puzzled. “Why do I need an alibi?”
Trial by Fire Page 19