My dad was the perfect mixture of Ward Cleaver, Danny Tanner, and Father Knows Best all rolled into one handsome, barely aging Anthony Hopkins look alike. I trusted no one else to give me advice. Ever. I told him about Rory’s reaction to the case, the way the town seemed so sure, and how everyone hated me for choosing the wrong side even though my nagging gut instinct said otherwise.
“Well, it’s about time.”
“Excuse me?”
“Do you have any idea how much money I spent on law school?”
I assumed it a rhetorical question and remained silent, even though I had a reasonably close ballpark figure in mind based on the statements I’d seen.
“I’m glad you’re finally going to use all that education.”
“What are you talking about? I’ve been a lawyer for a long time.”
“Grace, you are the brightest star I have, and I sat here watching you take case after case you could have won in your sleep. I was beginning to think all those nights we stayed up studying for the bar exam were wasted. Now, finally, you get to use that big, beautiful brain. Don’t be afraid of it, honey.”
“Won in my sleep?” I worked my ass off to win all those cases, and it pissed me off that he was reducing my career to a matter of trivia.
“Oh, don’t get kerfluffled.” Daddy spoke his own language. “You did a great job, and I’m not saying otherwise, but all those other opponents were too easy for you. You need a challenge, a worthy adversary. And now, you have one.”
“Are you trying to say I was lazy?” I’d lost sleep, boyfriends, and friends because I threw myself into making sure my clients won their cases. There wasn’t one damn lazy thing about it. I clenched the phone tighter, ready to slam it down if he took this much further.
He laughed. “Not at all, cranky pants. You picked a safe zone and stayed in it. I’m coming to Texas to watch you in court. I want to see my girl battle it out.”
I leaned back in the chair. He’d spent too many nights studying with me and later helping me read case law for it to be believable that he thought I was lazy. Then what was bothering me?
“What if I lose?” There it was. I couldn’t stand the thought of disappointing him, and my voice wavered. “What if someone who doesn’t deserve to go to jail, goes to jail? Amazing Grace won’t be so amazing if she loses, right Dad?”
“Oh, honey. You will always be amazing and wonderful, some of my best work.” He chuckled, then after a moment sobered. “You fight so hard and you win because if you believe it, you make sure everyone else does too. Remember Brett Hawkings?” Of course I did. He’d been my first real case, a DUI. “We all know he was drunk as a skunk, and by the time you were finished, he practically got an award from the mayor. You’re the best of the best, baby. Don’t you doubt yourself.”
Nothing like a little flattery to renew my happy outlook on life. I’d spent all my teenage years, and the better part of my adult life, running from advice I should have listened to way sooner. Life would have been much easier.
“Okay.”
“Now, you get off the phone and prove your client didn’t do it. Then you call me, so I can say I told you so.”
“Thanks, Dad. I love you.”
“I love you. Call soon. Tell Hope to go back to school.”
Rory burst through my door at the exact moment I put the receiver in the cradle. She thrust a newspaper under my nose.
Quinn fails Polygraph. A full half page spread included pictures of the Quinns, their house, and Emily alive and happy--all photos that had been included in the police file.
I stood and snatched the paper from her hand, then paced, skimming the article. A source inside the police department? Bastards.
I read a few more paragraphs, looked up at Rory, and back down at the paper to continue.
Authorities have concluded with no forced entry and the amount of rage involved in the murder of four-year-old Emily, Gabrielle Quinn will be spending the rest of her life in prison. The prosecutor, Blane Sheperd, stated he will not seek the death penalty. He prefers the defendant spend the rest of her life facing the horrors of prison as she is forced to remember the sweet smile of the beautiful little girl, and the way she extinguished the life that once grew inside her.
I spun and faced Rory, shaking the paper at her. “Who writes this shit? Some wannabe novelist?” I stomped to the front door, paper still in hand.
“Where are you going?”
“To break a date and maybe a leg.”
* * * *
I strode across the street and straight into Blane’s office. His secretary didn’t stand quickly enough to stop me. I flung his door open. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
“Well, good morning, again.” A wry grin said he might have sensed this visit had nothing to do with kisses under a canopy of tree branches in the morning sun.
“Don’t good morning me. You sent pictures to the press? You gave an interview that’s prejudicial and it’s”--I sputtered for words--“bullshit.”
“Quite the mouth you have, Grace.”
“And quite the cheater you are.”
His skin paled. Maybe I’d struck a nerve there and wonder-boy wasn’t wonderful after all.
After a moment, a slow smile spread over his lips. “I don’t have to cheat to win, baby. I have the evidence and the facts.”
“Evidence? Really? Where’s your smoking gun? Your bloody glove? You have shit. Nothing.” No murder weapon had been found. The newspaper source said they’d taken every sharp object and blade they could find and tested them all. Not a single item had been positively identified as the weapon used. Of course, Blane explained that away. He told the reporter he believed the parents had disposed of it before calling the authorities.
Bastard. I threw the newspaper on his floor and turned to go prove my client innocent.
Before I reached the door, he moved between me and the exit. “Whoa. Whoa. Whoa.” He put a hand up in the universal sign for stop. I drew back in the Grace Wade sign for get the hell out of my way or I’ll hurt you. “I have evidence, Grace, and maybe it’s time we sit down and talk about it.”
I crossed my arms and glared up at him. “Okay, smart guy. Show me the evidence. Prove you don’t need to cheat to win.”
“All right. But let’s have a seat.” When I cocked my head to the side and shot him my best go-to-hell glare, he smiled. “We aren’t enemies, Grace. I promise. Just sit down.”
I shook my head. “No. I don’t want to sit down and have a leisurely chat. I want to know what makes you so damn sure you have the right person. Why her?”
“I’m not going to tell you my whole case, Grace.” He ran a finger over my jaw.
I jerked my head out of his reach. “Then what do you want to chat about? The weather in godforsaken Texas? The feeling of all this down-home southern hospitality? I’m not interested.”
“Grace, come on.”
My breath broke as he drew his lips from my ear to my chin. “Show me the evidence I would get with a discovery motion.” I stifled a moan as he dug his fingertips into my hip, pulling me closer. “Um, I want in that house, and I, uh… I want to see what you think is your big piece of ah-ha.” I lifted my hands, waved them in spirit fingers reminiscent of twelfth grade cheer camp.
He moved back a step, then smiled and rocked back on his heels. “I have her confession.”
“No, you don’t.” I shook my head and smirked. “Confession? Unrecorded. Out of context.” I ticked the words off on my fingers. “Did I mention unrecorded? And she never signed a confession.”
“Three officers heard it.”
“Three officers who didn’t think to turn on a tape recorder or a video camera? Three officers who dropped the ball. I’ll make them look like incompetent rookies. Go ahead. Put ’em on the stand. I dare you.”
“I have a little girl with fifty-seven stab wounds on a three foot body. Seen the pictures yet?” A small crowd
gathered outside his office, their whispers and unintelligible murmurs floated on the air.
“And not one of Gabrielle Quinn with any blood on her clothes, hands, or body.”
He pursed his lips and shook his head. “You want in the house?” He snatched his Armani jacket that perfectly matched his custom fitted Armani pants from a coat tree and shoved his arms into the sleeves. “Let’s go.”
I followed him to the street where he’d parked his flashy car in front of the building. As I popped his car door open, he grasped my shoulder. “How many cases have you lost, Grace?”
Not to brag, but… “None. And I don’t intend to start now.”
Chapter 10
I watched out the window as he drove. The houses, all two-story cookie cutters, had garages facing the front. A group of boys, maybe middle school age, played ball in the street, and two little girls sat in the grass having a tea party picnic.
“Tell me about the family.” I had nothing to lose by asking.
Blane pulled into the driveway and shut off the car. “Nathan works in shipping at the factory. Gabrielle is a stay at home mom, usual money problems for a family with two kids, credit cards, car payments, a house they overpaid for. Their little boy is an average seven-year-old with video games and T-ball on Tuesdays.”
“So, they’re living the American dream?”
He shrugged a shoulder. “I don’t know that the American dream includes murdering your daughter.”
“Well, I don’t know that they did.”
“You’re right. I meant she.” He turned to me and raised his eyebrows while a smirk turned his lips heavenward. “Grace, the police did a canvas. No one heard anything or saw anyone out of the ordinary. No random dogs barked. No security lights popped on. Whoever did this lived in the house. I guarantee it isn’t dad, and the boy is a normal little kid. That leaves a slightly off center mother who had problems dealing with a difficult little girl.”
Difficult? This was the first I’d heard of that. “You don’t even have the murder weapon.”
“I will. It’s just a matter of time.”
I laughed and looked at the house. A police sticker still attached to the front door proclaimed it off-limits, but only a few small pieces of crime tape attached to a couple of bushes blew in the breeze. For eight months, the house had been sealed, abandoned by its owners.
I chewed on the inside of my cheek. What made this the magic week he arrested Gabrielle? The thoughts spinning through my head didn’t make me like him better.
“You brought Gabrielle in now because Rory and I opened a law office and you were scared she’d take the case.” The words came slowly, first with no conviction, then with a big gotcha flourish at the finish.
“I’m not afraid of Rory. She said months ago she wasn’t taking the case. I arrested Gabrielle Quinn because it was time.” As though he needed to reinforce the notion, he repeated, “I’m not afraid of Rory.”
“I would be. She doesn’t lose.”
“Neither do you, and still, I’m not over here thinking of dropping the charges.” He held out a hand, palm up. “Steady as a rock.”
I gave him five and smiled. “You should be shaking. You have nothing. I specialize in making prosecutors who have nothing look stupid. It’s a skill.”
“Grace, I’ll get her confession in before the jury, and there’s nothing you can do about it.”
“I’m not worried about that confession. My little sister hasn’t had a day of law school and she could shred it.”
I stepped from the car and walked up the twisting sidewalk past a Barbie car that had withstood sunlight and heat to gleam a bright pink in the front yard. On the porch, three dead ferns dripped leaves onto the wooden platform, and a baseball bat sat ignored against the doorframe.
“Evidence collection. Tsk. Tsk. Tsk. I would have had them collect everything in the house. Every toy, piece of furniture… This house would be empty about now.” I brushed past him onto the porch and kicked at a loose board.
He hurried up the steps after me. “Do you not care that she did it?”
I spun around and spoke quickly, the thoughts in my mind racing off my tongue. “What if she didn’t? What if there is someone out there preying on little kids, and you can’t see it because you’re convinced that Gabrielle Quinn is a murderer? What ifs are everywhere, Blane.”
“Not in my world.”
“Well, your world is a little narrow then.”
“She was three, Grace.”
“And it’s a tragedy that her life was cut so short, but you are only making it worse by putting the wrong person on trial.” He opened the door, and I pulled it shut not quite ready to go inside. “How do you know it isn’t him?”
“It’s not.”
“Prove it.”
“He loved the little girl.”
“And she didn’t?” I’d looked into the saddest eyes I’d ever seen when Gabrielle lifted her head that first time we met.
“Grace, have you ever been around a three-year-old who is allergic to almost every single thing you can feed her? Who still wets the bed every night and who shrieks at dogs barking down the street? Who wakes her mom up at all hours because she heard a clock tick and it scared her?”
I shrugged. “Loud clock.”
He shook his head, waved a hand out in front him. “Beside the point. Difficult three-year-olds cause moms to snap all the time.”
“And that description fits Emily?” His words weren’t nearly as important as the meaning behind them. “If you think Gabby went around the bend, then why first degree? Why not second? Heat of the moment?”
“You don’t cover up heat of the moment to the point the police can’t even find a murder weapon.”
I shook my head. He’d been in cowpoke country a little too long if he honestly believed what he said, but I wasn’t about to play that card until we were in front of a jury of Gabrielle’s peers. “What if the killer took it with him?”
“There is no other killer.” He pulled a key from the little black mailbox attached to the brick and opened the door. “And I’ll prove it. Come on. Let’s start in Mom’s room, give her story the thorough investigation it deserves.”
I wrinkled my nose at the musty smell of a house abandoned and followed him up the stairs. Twelve steps from main floor to the second floor, another nine footsteps down to the parents’ bedroom. I wrote that on a mental Post-it. The bed, still unmade, extended from the far wall to about halfway to the middle of the room and faced a television on top of a chest of drawers to the left of the door. One of the two windows had been boarded up--probably necessitated by the town rock thrower. Blane headed to one of the two doors on a near wall. “The bathroom.”
It needed a good cleaning, but only because it had been ignored for more than half a year. Otherwise, it was a normal, lived-in house.
“Gabrielle Quinn called the police at seven forty-seven a.m.” He knew the facts without the aid of the unopened file clutched in his hand. “It took four minutes for the first officers to arrive. The first thing they did after phoning the coroner was check the bathtub and showers. There was no evidence that any had been used.”
“Did Gabby have any blood on her?”
He shook his head. “No.”
I already knew there was no blood on my client, but wanted him to get into the habit of admitting it. I investigated the polish on one of my nails as though savoring the victory, but instead focused my thoughts on his other statements. Why would he think a dry shower and tub damned Gabby, especially if she came away blood free? Didn’t that mean she couldn’t have taken a shower to wash the blood off?
But more than that, why wasn’t she covered in blood? Surely, a mother would go to her child in grief. Take the small body in her arms, hold it to her. Blood wouldn’t necessarily have meant she’d killed her kid. To my way of thinking, the lack of blood was even more damning. She should have been covered in it. Of course, her
husband may have held her back. Right then, I didn’t know, but made it a priority to find out.
I slid a long look at Blane. What was his story, other than wanting to win? Something beneath the surface, something about him and his words that I couldn’t quite pin down, irked me.
I filed everything away for later. Now wasn’t the time. Instead, I’d go along with what he said, not voice my deep ringing worries over it all. Give them nothing, take everything. That was my motto.
I placed a hand on my hip.
“If the shower had been wet, you would have found that just as damning because then it would mean she cleaned up before you got here. The dry shower and or lack of water in the tub means nothing.” By the time I got finished, it wouldn’t anyway.
He pursed his lips. “Moving on then.” He stomped to the hamper and flipped the lid open in a move designed by some academy award-winning director of the most dramatic movie ever taped. With raised eyebrows and a thin line for lips, he turned to face me. “We asked for her pajamas.” He walked to a dresser between the two doors. “She didn’t take them out of here. Your girl took them from the dresser. And the coroner put time of death around midnight. That’s plenty of time to commit a murder, do a little laundry, give the house a good scrub, then phone it in.”
That was the ace up his sleeve? I mentally scoffed. “Or it could have been the babysitter, or someone she let in the house.”
“The neighbors said no one came or went.” He frowned. “I know you think we’re all a bunch of hicks, but the police checked. They canvassed and went door to door in the whole neighborhood. No one saw anything.”
What did these people do? Stare out their windows all night long? “I’ve done my share of babysitting, and let me tell you, the neighbors of the people I sat for never knew when I was sneaking my boyfriend in. There are backdoors and sliding windows. Easy peasy.”
“That’s reaching.”
I rolled my eyes. “Well, all you have are folded PJs, a dry bathtub, and a confession that will never see the light of day. That’s reaching.” But it would look bad in front of a jury, especially with the time of death versus time of emergency call issue.
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