When the judge left the room, Max mowed through the spectators to get to the restroom. Cathy stepped out quietly, checking over her notes. She made a quick pit stop by the ladies’ room, listening to the conversations among the spectators. They all seemed to have the same impression of today’s testimony that she had — that the defendant’s husband was lying, that the best friend was telling the truth …
Cathy’s instincts were rarely wrong.
She stepped out on the front steps of the courthouse. Media lined the sidewalk out front, some of them already broadcasting about the last few hours in the trial. She trotted past the television vans and hurried to the parking garage. Her Miata sat in a parking space on the top level, baking in the hot sun.
She slipped in and pushed the button to put the top down. As it retreated over her head, she saw an envelope stuck under her windshield wiper. What now? She opened the door and reached to grab it.
The flap was tucked inside the envelope and her name — Cat Cramer — was typed on the center of it. No return address.
She turned on her engine and sat idling as she pulled the typed note out.
Dear Curious Cat,
I’ve grieved that Leonard Miller’s bullet only hit your fiancé. Too bad you weren’t with him that day. You deserve what he got. But look at you, turning your tragedy into dollar signs.
Guilt or innocence is not something to be judged by a two-bit blogger with a drama-loving readership. Maybe it’s time you saw firsthand how speculation ruins lives. Judgment that has nothing to do with truth. See how it feels.
Enjoy the ride, if you survive it.
Your New Friend
Cathy dropped the note. Was this a threat of some kind, or just an angry reader trying to mess with her? The mention of Leonard Miller, who’d murdered her fiancé and walked away scot-free, dredged up the rippling anger that had plagued her in those first months after his death.
She swept her hair out of her eyes and looked around. There were a few others walking to their cars, a couple of cars pulling out of parking spaces. No one looking her way. Anyone could have left it anytime today. Her silver sports car wasn’t hard to spot, and all her readers knew she’d been attending this trial every day.
It occurred to her that she should call the police, but she had to get home and write her blog before the rest of the press beat her to the punch. Before pulling out of her space, she typed a text to her closest circle — her three siblings and Michael Hogan, one of her closest friends and the brother of her murdered fiancé.
Just found a note stuck on my windshield by some unsatisfied reader. Sort of a threat. Never dull.
Dropping the phone onto her seat and sticking the note and envelope under her purse so it wouldn’t blow away, she pulled out of the garage and into traffic, her long black hair flapping in the wind.
If the person who left the note was watching, she hoped she looked carefree and unflappable, even if it wasn’t true. Inside, she seethed. Her sense of justice cut like a razor, reminding her of the victims in the cases she was covering. She knew what it was like to have a killer walk away without a conviction, thumbing his nose at those who would never be the same.
For those victims, she wrote on, doing her part to make sure the killers paid. She hadn’t been able to help society by working as a prosecutor — that seemed more about making plea deals than putting criminals behind bars. Court cases weren’t about justice. They were about finding loopholes. One cleverly conceived scheme by either side could influence the jury, if a case ever made it to court in the first place. Her skills were better used doing her own investigations and alerting readers to evidence that judges suppressed.
She’d given up her job in the district attorney’s office and set to work writing about the cases that captured her attention … exposing the killers who spun their stories and manipulated the jurors. She was no longer constrained by suppressed evidence or gag orders.
Over the two years that she’d been doing this, she’d gotten several death threats. None of them had resulted in any attempts on her life. This one was probably just another scare tactic. When two million people followed your blog, a few of them were bound to be crazies.
But she wouldn’t let some cryptic note ruin her day. She had a blog to write. She’d worry about it later.
CHAPTER 3
Michael Hogan felt sorry for the woman whose husband had cheated on her, so he let her keep talking, even though he had places to be.
“This girl used to work as his secretary,” Laura Hancock said in a slow drawl, dabbing at her tears with the handkerchief he’d handed her. “She worked for my husband for three months, and I didn’t care one bit for her, so I made him fire her. Something about the way she dressed … all sexy and provocative-like … and the haughty way she acted with me. Like she had the upper hand in some game I didn’t even know we were playing.”
“Yes ma’am.” Michael wanted to cut her off — this was dragging on way too long.
“I didn’t know he kept seeing her. I mean … I knew there was something going on with him, or obviously I wouldn’t have hired you to follow him. But I didn’t have a clue it was her.”
Michael wished he hadn’t given her the picture of the two kissing in a parking lot in broad daylight. Maybe he should have just told her what he’d found. Images had a way of implanting themselves on a person’s mind. But she’d paid him to take pictures.
“What should I do?” she asked, looking up at him with wet eyes.
Oh, no. He wasn’t going there. “Ma’am, I don’t do counseling. I just get the facts, the timeline, the photos. I would encourage you not to make any immediate decisions. Talk to someone who can help you with this. Maybe a pastor?”
“I don’t go to church,” she said.
“Well, sometimes when you’re going through a tough time, a minister can help. Sometimes churches have counseling ministries and support groups.”
He could tell she wasn’t listening. “What do your other clients do when they find out their spouse has been stepping out on them? Do they file for divorce?”
“Honestly, I don’t know. I don’t do follow-up.”
She gave him a dull look, like he was the least helpful person she’d ever met. That was okay. He wasn’t going to cross the line from private investigator to marriage counselor, no matter what she needed.
She finally stacked up the pictures, shoved them back into their envelope, and headed out, armed with the ammunition she needed to force an ultimatum or slaughter her husband in court. But he didn’t feel good about it.
There was nothing rewarding in this work. Nothing at all.
The picture on his wall drew his gaze for the hundredth time today. His grandfather, his father, his two brothers and him in Panama City PD dress blues.
That was before he’d disgraced them all.
Right now, he had to go follow some dude who was supposed to be wheelchair-bound but shot hoops every afternoon with his buds. A few pictures of him doing jump shots, and the worker’s comp attorney who’d hired Michael would be happy.
Through the window, he watched the scorned woman go out to her car, parked beside the old, out-of-order gas pumps that reminded him every day that his office used to be a convenience store. It was the best he could get for the rent he could afford. The place was practically falling down. The roof leaked every time it rained, and he’d pulled the sheetrock off the ceiling in the back rooms, trying to fix the problem. But it would take a lot more than he’d been able to do on his own. Money was too tight, so he had to make do with buckets when storms hit.
His thoughts went back to the woman getting into her car, and he said a quiet prayer for her marriage. But there were times when it seemed that God had his hands over his ears. He hoped this wasn’t one of those times.
His phone chimed. He picked it up from his cluttered desk and saw the text from Cathy.
Just found a note stuck on my windshield by some unsatisfied reader. Sort of a threat. Neve
r dull.
Sort of a threat? What did that mean? Quickly, he pressed speed dial to call her. He heard the wind as the call went live. She must be in her car with the top down. “Hey, Michael. I shoulda known you’d call.”
“What are you talking about … a threat?”
“Somebody left a note saying they were gonna show me what it feels like to be judged … or something to that effect.”
That wasn’t so bad, Michael thought. “So … they didn’t say what they were going to do?”
“No. But it ended with, ‘Enjoy the ride, if you survive it.’ Oh, and the person mentioned Leonard Miller.”
Michael’s lower lip stiffened. “What did he say?”
“Seemed miffed that I wasn’t killed with Joe.”
Some unseen vice clamped across Michael’s rib cage. “Okay, you’ve got to call the police.”
“No, I don’t have time. I just got out of court and I have to get my blog written. Then I have to go to the TV station, because FOX News wants to interview me about the trial.”
“Cathy, call the police. If you don’t, I will.”
“But it’s just some whacko trying to scare me.”
“Fine. Maybe it is. But the police need to be aware.”
He heard a long, exaggerated groan. “All right. I’ll call them as soon as I get a minute.”
Sometimes she made him crazy. “No, now. I’m coming over, Cathy. I’ll meet you at your house.”
Again, that long, protracted groan. “All right, Michael. I’ll call them.” She paused. “Juliet’s calling. Why did I ever tell you guys? I gotta go.”
“See you in a few.”
“Right.”
She cut off the call, and he sat holding his phone, staring at it as if he could see the person who’d put that threat on Cathy’s car. He didn’t like it, and even if it was just another blowhard trying to incite fear, he would get to the bottom of it.
His subject would shoot hoops again tomorrow. This was more important right now.
CHAPTER 4
Cathy’s older sister sounded overly concerned, as usual. Cathy rolled her eyes and went back over the note.
“Do you want me to come over?” Juliet asked.
“No! Michael is coming. If you want to talk to him after the police leave to make sure I’m toeing the line and not flinging myself into the gunfire of a killer, call him. But honestly, if the police take too long, I don’t know what I’ll do. I have to get my blog out. People are waiting.”
“It’s not like their lives depend on reading your blog.”
“Thanks. I appreciate your support.”
“I’m just saying. That blog might get you killed. You’re talking about killers. They don’t like it.”
Juliet was only two years older — just thirty-four — but she acted like Cathy’s mother rather than her sister.
“Cathy, give the police a list of all the cases you’ve talked about lately. All the people you’ve tried and convicted in your blog.”
“I haven’t tried and convicted anybody, Juliet. I’ve just exposed things I’ve learned about their cases. We still have freedom of speech in this country.”
“Tell that to the guy who’s promised you a bumpy ride.” Cathy heard her nephew talking to her sister, Juliet answering. Then her sister was back. “Hey, have you talked to Jay?”
“No, I’ve been in court all day. I’m sure I’ll hear from him and Holly when they get my text.”
“I’m worried about him. He’s been so depressed.”
“Yeah, custody battles are brutal.”
“What if he doesn’t win?”
“It’ll kill him.” Cathy changed lanes and headed onto the exit ramp to her small house across the street from the beach.
“We just have to keep praying. You do still pray, don’t you, Cathy?”
She hated when her sister got on this subject. “Yes, Juliet, I pray.”
“I’m just asking. It’s not like you talk about it a lot.”
“And I don’t want to talk about it now. I have to go. I’m almost home, and I promised I’d call the police.”
“Call me the minute they leave.”
Cathy sighed. “I’ll call you when I’m finished with FOX.”
“No, Cathy. I need to know!”
“’Bye, Juliet.” Cathy hung up and dialed the police station, which she had on her speed dial, since she constantly had to call them to verify facts. This wasn’t 911-worthy.
She knew the sergeant who answered, and she told him she needed to file a complaint. He would send someone right over.
Maybe she’d have time to get some of her blog written before they showed up.
But as she pulled into her driveway, Michael drove up in his Trailblazer. Great. The guy was never late.
She pulled her car into the garage, then got out and watched Michael striding up her driveway. As always when she saw him, she thought of Joe. He looked so much like his brother. His charcoal eyes, his dark hair, the laugh lines, the way his mouth was shaped …
“You call ’em?” he asked as he approached her.
She turned away from him and tried to banish Joe’s image from her mind. “Yes, I called. They’re on their way.”
“Let me see the note.”
She leaned into her car and got the note, holding it by one corner, and handed it to him. He pulled some latex gloves out of his pocket and pulled them on, then took it carefully.
“Come on in,” she said. “It’s hot out here.”
He stood still, reading the note. She saw the color spreading across his tightening jaw, his cheeks, his ears. His eyes narrowed. “I don’t like this, Cathy.”
“Me either, but what can you do?”
She pushed the door open that led into her mud room, set down her things. He followed her into the kitchen. “How long ago did you call?”
“Like thirty seconds. It wasn’t a big hurry.”
He checked his watch, then met her eyes. “Go write. I’ll watch for them and let them in. I’m sure you have juicy stuff you want to get out.”
She grinned. “I do. When the jury went out today, Sara Chesney looked at her attorney and winked. I’m pretty sure no one else saw it. My readers are gonna love that.”
“So much for the grieving aunt.”
“Got that right. I’ll be in my office. If anybody tries to kill me, stop them, will ya?”
“Not funny.” She laughed as she headed back to her office.
Michael paced in Cathy’s living room as he waited for the police to arrive. Something about her house always made him feel comfort. Maybe it was because he’d seen Joe sitting on that couch so many times, his feet propped on her coffee table ottoman, watching a game on her 46-inch screen. Cathy and Joe had bought this house together to live in after they were married. She had moved in first, and Joe was going to join her after the knot was tied. But that day had never come.
Sometimes when Michael was in here, he could almost imagine Joe walking into the room from the kitchen, a Mountain Dew in his hand.
That old sense of failure tightened his chest again. Leonard Miller, his brother’s killer, was out on the streets somewhere, hiding out because of the public sentiment against him, probably continuing his life of crime.
How many more people would die before they finally got him off the streets? How many more cops?
Michael’s mouth went dry, and he went to the kitchen and reached into Cathy’s fridge, got out a bottled water. He heard a car in the driveway, and he looked out, saw the police car. Two men got out. Michael knew them both. They’d all entered the police academy together, but he had been promoted faster.
When his career ended, he’d been a detective in the Major Crimes Unit, while they were still patrolling the city.
He went to the door and opened it before they rang the bell. “Hey, guys,” he said. “Thanks for coming.”
“No problem.” Cryder shook his hand and came inside. “When I heard this call was from Cathy, I said
I’d take it.”
“Is she here?” Dillard asked.
“Yeah, she’s here.” Michael stepped into the hallway and called, “Cathy, they’re here!”
He heard her theatrical grunt.
“Cathy, did you hear me?”
“Yeah, I heard,” she said. “Show them the note, will you? I’m almost finished.”
He sighed and turned back. “She’s writing her blog.” He got the note, which he’d placed in a Ziploc bag, and set it down for them to read. “She’s not taking this too seriously, but it’s a pretty pointed threat.”
The cops read the note. “She have any idea who wrote it?” Dillard asked.
“No, none.”
Suddenly she floated into the room. “Hey, guys. Glad it’s you two they sent. You can hurry this along, can’t you?”
“Where was the note, Cathy?” Cryder asked.
She told them about finding the note on her windshield and Michael’s insistence that she call them. “It’s not that big of a deal. I get death threats sometimes. Occupational hazard.”
“Michael was right to make you report it,” Dillard said. “Just for the record.”
“Dust it, see if there are fingerprints,” Michael said. “See if there’s any security video in the parking garage that would show the person coming to her car.”
Cryder puffed up. “This is low priority, Hogan.”
“It shouldn’t be. It’s a death threat.”
Cryder turned back to Cathy. “Cathy, who have you made mad lately?”
She sighed. “How long do you have? This guy needs to get in line.”
“Might not even be a guy,” Michael said. “If the tape caught the person putting the note on her car, we’ll know that. Cathy, I want you to make a copy of the note before they take it. Leave it in the bag.”
She shrugged. “Okay.”
When she disappeared into her office, Michael turned back to his friends. “Guys, don’t blow this off. I’m thinking she needs a bodyguard. If you know anybody who’s interested in making some extra cash, let me know.”
Truth-Stained Lies Page 2