by James Glass
My stomach twisted. My appetite gone, I set the slice back in the box. “Do you really think that would happen in this case?”
She shrugged. “I doubt it, but I want to make sure we convict. I can’t do that if I’m left out of the loop.”
Bile crept up my throat. This trial wouldn’t let the past go. My worst fears of what my stepfather did that night and knowing my mother had condoned his actions, but not mine, made me want to vomit. If I did while on the stand, maybe the upchuck would shoot across the room, and hit her in the face. I couldn’t let Lucius win. I couldn’t let my mother win.
“Okay. Fine. Ask away.”
Veronica pressed the record button.
****
After three and a half hours of talking about my past and my mother, I was finally back in my Jeep, with the top down. The sun pounded me with tropical waves of heat as the wind assaulted my hair. My thoughts were all mixed together like jambalaya.
My cell chirped. The screen read ‘Lt. McVay.’ I tensed. Maybe a lead had finally come through. Or better yet, a suspect was in custody.
“Whatcha got, Ell-Tee?”
“SID lifted a print from the crime scene at the cabin. One that didn’t belong to either victim.”
“Please tell me it came back to someone with a record.”
“Yup. Came back with a hit. Name is Dexter Allen. Did seven years in Leavenworth for failure of a sentinel. Whatever the hell that means.”
“It means our guy was in the military. He was in charge of a post, standing guard, and something happened. When I was sent into Iraq, the Army brought charges up on a staff sergeant for the same thing. This sergeant was the platoon leader of a convoy who had dropped off a foot patrol in a small village outside Fallujah. Forty-five minutes later, he decided to gas up the vehicles in the convoy, so they drove to the nearest forward operating base which was thirty minutes away. As soon as the first vehicles were getting fuel, the foot patrol came across the radio—they’d been attacked by insurgents and needed backup. The platoon leader relayed they would come back as soon as all the vehicles were gassed up.
“The foot patrol repeated they were being pushed back and needed assistance ASAP. The platoon leader dismissed the request and continued to fuel up the trucks. It wasn’t until he heard ‘Bull Base’ come across the radio that they were enroute to the foot patrol’s location. Just so you know, Bull Base should never leave to respond to a distress. It would be like someone calling 9-1-1 and dispatch leaves to respond instead of sending a patrol car.
After hearing this, the sergeant ordered everyone to load up and haul ass to give assistance. He knew he’d screwed up. By the time his convoy arrived, the foot patrol had one man down.”
“What happened to the platoon leader?”
“He was court-martialed. During my investigation, I discovered this staff sergeant was doing a lot of illegal stuff in Iraq. Selling drugs and alcohol. Discharging his firearms in crowds, having sex with junior females for various favors. The judge stripped him of his rank and sentenced him to twelve years at Leavenworth, Kansas.” I swerved past a semi hauling timber. Dust settled in my sinuses, causing me to sneeze. “Does it say what Allen did?”
“No. All I have are the preliminaries on my desk. Carrubba is calling in some favors. With it being the weekend, that may not be possible until Monday, but he’s on the phone as we speak.”
My fingers tapped the steering wheel. “Lieutenant, do we have an address on Allen?”
“Address is in Suffolk, Virginia. The local authorities have been contacted. They’ll call me back once he’s in custody.”
“Is the DA working on extraditing him back here?”
“That’s my next call.”
Chapter 22
4:25 p.m.
When I entered the homicide division, McVay, Francisco, and Carrubba were standing in the break area in conversation. I walked over and Francisco poured me a cup of coffee. I turned to the lieutenant. “Is Dexter Allen in custody?”
His eyes darted to the floor. “No. Suffolk PD informed me after I got off the phone with you. They said it looks like no one’s lived at that address for some time.”
I must admit that stung a little. It would have been nice if our killer was in jail and waiting for our DA to get the paperwork to extradite Allen back here for trial. But rarely did things go so swimmingly.
“So what do we have so far?” I asked.
“Follow me,” Carrubba said. “We gathered lots of good information on your bad guy.” The four of us made our way back to Francisco’s desk. Carrubba opened the laptop. “Eight years ago, Dexter Allen was found guilty and sent to Leavenworth.”
I shrugged. “Yeah, the LT already told me that.”
“Okay, I wasn’t sure. But did he tell you Allen was the chief of the guard at Gitmo when the six detainees committed suicide?”
“No.” A surge of adrenaline coursed through my body. I shivered from the jolt. Everything started coming together. “When was he released?”
“Two months ago.”
“So now we know what his motive is—revenge.” I shook my head. “At this point, let’s assume he’s already killed his lawyer, the two investigators, and almost killed the judge. We should focus on the prosecutor and the jurors. He’s going after those who sent him to prison.”
Carrubba rubbed his temples. “The prosecutor won’t be a problem. The jurors, on the other hand, are different animals altogether. If Allen was able to get their names, we’re screwed.”
I sipped some coffee. The taste was bitter. My partner had forgotten to add creamer. “Then we need to go to the source.”
McVay raised a brow.
“The names would be in the court transcripts,” I said. “Find them and we find our jurors. But then we run across another problem.”
The lieutenant’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”
Carrubba tapped his pen on the desk. “All the jurors were in the military at the time of the court-martial. The ones who are still active will be easy to track down. But several must have retired or even been discharged by now. Those will present a problem.”
I set my cup on the desk. Something Detective Beauchamp had said was gnawing at me. “Speaking of judges, I wonder why he let Judge Wiggins live?”
Francisco plucked a hair from the sleeve of his suit. “Maybe Allen felt the judge’s actions in the trial didn’t justify killing him.”
“Yeah, maybe,” I said with hesitation.
McVay rubbed his chin. “Sounds more personal. Like Allen had an ax to grind.”
“When we find Allen, we can ask him, man.”
Carrubba grabbed his cell. “You have a weird way of saying ‘man,’ Francisco.”
Chapter 23
Sunday 6:15 p.m.
I walked into my aunties’ house carrying a stack of mail. Apparently, they hadn’t checked the mailbox in a few days. I handed the correspondence to Marti. She sported an aqua-blue blouse and yellow slacks. A pearl necklace with a black oval onyx hung around her neck. She flipped through the various catalogs and envelopes.
“We get anything interesting?” Tess called from the kitchen. She wore a light green sundress with a flowery pattern and an apron that read Kiss the Chef while she cooked dinner. Chicken parmesan, asparagus, and garlic bread. I moved to the kitchen and started prepping the salad.
Sunlight splashed over the beige countertops.
Marti lifted an envelope near her cheek. “No. Only Publisher’s Clearinghouse saying we may have won 5,000 dollars a week for life.”
“How exciting,” Tess mocked. “We need to call our friends and family right away.”
I chuckled, grabbed a bag of lettuce, tore it open, and dumped it into a large glass bowl. I removed a knife from the wooden block near the window and began slicing tomatoes, carrots, and a cucumber on a cutting board.
“How was your brunch with Harry this afternoon?” I asked Marti.
“He’s a charmer and the man has a great se
nse of humor. Every time he told a joke I found myself with my head thrown back, laughing like a lion roaring.” She caught a glimpse of herself in the wall mirror. Her smile faded, and she set the mail on the corner of the secretary in the living room.
Tess handed me a basket filled with garlic bread as she glanced at Marti. “What’s wrong?”
“It’s my neck. I’ve been noticing recently that it reminds me of someone else’s neck…the former Barbara Bush.”
Tess picked up a spatula and pointed toward the living room. “Oh, you need to stop that.”
“Stop what?” I asked, setting the basket on the dining room table. Maybe my laughter offended her somehow.
With the spatula, Tess lifted a piece of chicken topped with spaghetti sauce and mozzarella cheese from the cast-iron skillet and placed it on a plate. She used her fingers to tear the strings of cheese dangling on top of the chicken down to the pan, then wiped her hands on the apron. “Seems Harry, the good doctor, is a plastic surgeon. Ever since your aunt came home from her date last night, all she’s done is complain about her nose, ears, and whatever else she thinks could be fixed.” Tess retrieved another piece of chicken from the frying pan and set it on a second plate. “If you ask me, you look fine the way God made you.”
Tess touched her neck. “And what if I disagree?”
“That’s why we have makeup.” We all chuckled. “Besides, I saw Harry when he came to pick you up today. He’s got a dark blotch on his head that reminds me of Gorbachev.”
I covered my mouth with a hand, trying to stifle my laughter.
“I couldn’t tell if it was a birthmark, scar, or Agent Orange.”
Marti clutched her necklace. “You’re over-exaggerating.” She strutted across the floor and took a seat next to me. “Besides, it makes him look distinguished.”
“Are you kidding, little sister? He looks like he’s advertising the state of Texas with that thing on his forehead. If you ask me, it makes him look ridiculous. I wanted to take a washcloth and scrub it off.”
“Well no one’s asking you, Tess Marie.”
Tess untied her apron, set it on the counter and grabbed a plate. She winked at me and smiled. “He could at least cover it up with a hat. No one wants to look at that.” She walked over and took a seat.
Marti stood and entered the kitchen. She grabbed our plates and went back to the table.
I cut my chicken with a knife. “He really has a birthmark on his head the shape of Texas?”
Tess nodded. “Uh-huh.” She bit into a piece of garlic bread. Her eyes widened. “The thing is huge. It could be the eighth wonder of the world.”
My abs hurt from all the laughing. A tear escaped and dashed down my cheek. It felt like I was at the gym instead of here. No matter what was going on in my life, I could always count on my aunties to make me feel better.
“Oh, don’t listen to her. It’s a small birthmark that Tess is blowing way out of proportion.” Marti stabbed her asparagus. Her face brightened. “Besides, we’re going out again tomorrow night.”
She waved a hand at me. “Oh, that reminds me. There we were, sitting at his private box at Strickland’s today at brunch.”
“I didn’t know they had private seating there.”
“Well they don’t for normal people.”
Tess rolled her eyes. “Having a boyfriend who totes around the state of Texas on his forehead gets him some attention…and perks.”
Laughter escaped my lips again.
Marti pierced a slice of tomato with her fork. “Whatever. Anyway, we were sitting there having lunch when—”
Tess waved a hand. “What did you have?”
“You always interrupt me when I’m building up to something.”
“Well, I’m sorry. Go ahead and build away.”
One of the things I loved about my aunties was the playful banter back and forth. On tough days like today, it brought pleasure into my world.
“As I was saying, Harry and I were sitting there having a lovely brunch, and right in the middle of him telling me I’m the most attractive woman he’s seen in over a decade,” she batted her eyelashes, “in walks Jake Johnson.”
Tess sipped some tea. “Who’s Jake Johnson?”
“Oh, you know. He was the star quarterback at Eugene Falls High when Rebecca went there. You remember him, don’t you, Becca?”
I hated that nickname. It always made me feel like I was a child.
“Anyway, he runs his dad’s car lot off Highway 90. You know, the big one that has the billboard that reads, ‘If you want exciting, buy a lion, but if you want quality, buy a Johnson.’”
She used her hands to illustrate the point. “Anyway, Jake comes over because he remembers me…the man has a great memory. We start talking and I find out he’s available.”
“Please tell me you’re not playing matchmaker for me, Aunt Marti?”
“But he’s adorable, handsome, funny, and you need to go out since your divorce.”
I shook my head, picking at my salad with my fork, but not really interested in eating any of it at the moment. “What’s the catch?”
“He’s recently divorced too. Apparently being the star quarterback doesn’t guarantee a happily-ever-after with the head cheerleader.”
I scrunched my nose. “I don’t think so.”
Marti spread her hands out palms up. “Why not?”
“Jake was a conceited jerk in high school and I doubt much has changed.”
“C’mon. Give him a chance.”
“Well,” Tess said in a long, drawn out tone, “Any update on your mother, Lucifer’s fiancée?”
“It’s Lucius,” I corrected. “And it’s not good. Turns out the two met during some kind of pen pal prison program that blossomed into something more. She learned what he was in prison for and he somehow convinced her he was innocent.” I sipped some iced tea. “She was able to get one of those groups who think all prisoners have been wrongly convicted to look at his file. The wicked witch really thinks he’s innocent.”
Marti winked at me. “Tell us how you really feel.”
I dipped my bread in spaghetti sauce. “Her motive is to get his verdict overturned. That way, Lucius will have grounds to sue for a wrongful conviction or whatever his lawyer comes up with.”
Marti gasped. “Will the lawsuit name you personally?”
“Doubtful. That wouldn’t get his client any real money. They’ll go after the DA’s office, police department, and maybe even the State of Florida.”
“You think they have a chance?”
I bit into the bread. It tasted heavenly. I dipped it into the sauce and took another bite. “The District Attorney told me it takes a lot for a jury to overturn a retrial. But Lucius’s lawyer eviscerated me on Friday. I go back on the stand in the morning. Maybe I’ll be able to rebound.”
Tess pointed her fork at me. “Maybe you should look into your father’s death.”
“Why would I want to do that?”
“For starters, you need closure. Not to mention your mother had to have been involved to some degree. Add the fact the police never had any suspects. It just seems too convenient.”
“It’s been a long time. Besides, it’s a cold case now. The police aren’t going to reopen the investigation unless there’s new evidence.”
Marti grinned. Not your normal grin, but the kind of grin that’s mischievous. “Tess and I could go under cover. Be private eyes, you know.”
I raised a brow.
Tess ignored her sister’s remark. “You could request the files, couldn’t you?”
Over the years, I’d often thought of looking into the murder of my father. As painful as his death was, I don’t think I’d have the strength to actually do it. Once the case files were in my hands, and that was if Boston PD allowed me access to them, how could I bring myself to look at the crime scene photos of my dad? I wouldn’t want the pictures to tarnish the great memories the two of us had together. The only good thing my mother di
d was shield me from seeing my dead father that night.
I shrugged. “Maybe. But my plate is full between the trial and my current case.”
“Just think about it, will you?”
“Okay, okay.”
I stared out the dining room window. Two squirrels raced up the old oak tree Iʼd climbed as a kid.
Maybe it was time to seek closure…if that was even possible.
Chapter 24
9:10 p.m.
Sam greeted me as soon as I walked in the door. On long days, like today, it was great to have someone who appreciated my presence. I bent down and nuzzled my face in her fur.
I grabbed the leash from the hook near the door. “Come on, girl. Let’s go for a walk.”
My cell buzzed.
“Sergeant Watson.”
“Is this Rebecca?”
I should have checked caller ID before answering. “Who is this?”
“It’s Jake. Jake Johnson. From high school.”
Damn you, Aunt Marti.
“How are you, Jake? Been a long time.” My voice sounded more chipper then I intended. Maybe Jake wouldn’t read into it.
“Yes, it has. Did your Aunt Marti tell you I saw her today?”
“She did.”
“Anyway, she gave me your number. I hope you don’t mind me calling…especially so late. But I wanted to know if you’d like to go out for dinner sometime this week?”
Jake worked fast. Maybe it was from all those years selling cars.
“Thank you for the offer, but I’ve got court all week.” I knew it wouldn’t be the entire week, but he didn’t need to know.
He cleared his throat. Maybe rejection was new to him.
“It doesn’t have to be a date. Just two people having dinner talking about the past…or present.”
Sounds like a date to me.
“C’mon, what do you say, Rebecca?”
I clipped the leash onto Sam’s collar. She licked my cheek. Her hot breath smelled like rotten eggs. She licked my chin.