by Karen Leabo
“No blood there,” Kyle said. “But there was a little bit in the washing machine.” More than that quarter-size stain she’d described could account for.
“Did you check her clothes? Everything in her closets and drawers?”
“No bloody clothes found.”
“So maybe she did her dirty deed in the nude,” Clewis said with a leer. “Or she might have ditched the bloody clothes.”
“If she was so careful, then why would she be dumb enough to hide Rodin’s wallet and keys under her mattress?”
“She probably had no idea things would heat up so quickly, and she intended to dispose of them later. She couldn’t take a chance leaving them in his room. Anyone who saw them would know he hadn’t left without them. And she wouldn’t want to dispose of them with the body. She was counting on the body not being quickly identified if it turned up.”
“Yeah, that makes sense, I guess,” Kyle reluctantly agreed.
Clewis gnawed on his lower lip. “So you think she did it?”
Kyle thought long and hard before he spoke, but he still couldn’t come up with a definite answer. “Sometimes I do, and sometimes I don’t. If she did do it, she’s one cool cookie and a helluva lot smarter than your average murderer.”
“And if she didn’t, what are the alternatives?”
Kyle sighed. There weren’t many. “Someone else did it, in her house.”
“So someone was with Rodin the night he disappeared, because he didn’t show up at his buddy’s house. Then, after the babe went to sleep that night, this unknown perpetrator dragged Rodin back into the babe’s house. Then this unknown perp offed Rodin, wrapped him in the shower curtain and the rug, then left with the body—all without our little suspect knowing a thing.”
The theory was patently ridiculous, and Kyle resented Clewis’s patronizing tone.
“Without a body, we can’t even guess at the time of death,” Kyle said. “Maybe the murder took place while Jess was out the next day. She went to help her sister pack and was gone several hours.”
Clewis smiled indulgently and shook his head. “No way. That’s why I’m a homicide detective and you’re in missing persons. Face it, Branson, that sweet-faced little girl offed her boyfriend. And I’m going to prove it.”
“Your Honor,” the assistant district attorney said, “due to the particularly cold-blooded and heinous nature of this crime, I’m requesting that the amount of bail be set at one million dollars.”
Jess’s heart went into her throat. Dear God, where would she come up with that kind of money, even the percentage she would need to get a bond? In Massachusetts, her bail had been only twenty-five thousand.
Marva Babcock, Jess’s lawyer, was instantly on her feet. “Your Honor, there’s been no body and no murder weapon found,” she pointed out. “We’re not even sure any crime has been committed. The prosecution’s evidence is primarily circumstantial. Furthermore, my client is a respected, law-abiding citizen with a career and strong family ties in the area. She isn’t likely to flee. I respectfully request that bail be set at twenty-five thousand.”
The judge, a grandfatherly man with eyes of cold steel, frowned, then proclaimed, “Bail is hereby set at one hundred thousand dollars.” He looked straight at Jess as he spoke, and she got the feeling he was silently warning her that she’d better not prove him wrong by skipping town.
It was tempting, but of course she wouldn’t flee. She’d always played by the book, and even though the rules had worked against her at times, she wouldn’t change her ways now. The justice system had once failed to protect her but had eventually cleared her of all wrongdoing. Surely that’s how it would work this time.
She nodded solemnly at the judge, indicating she’d heard him loud and clear.
Her gaze drifted toward Kyle Branson, sitting to the right and slightly behind her. She’d noticed him watching her throughout the proceedings. Even when she was looking straight ahead, she could sometimes feel his gaze on her. Oddly, his interest hadn’t made her uncomfortable. In fact, despite the way he’d treated her over the past couple of days, she believed that he was one of only a handful of people in the world who didn’t automatically believe she was guilty.
He’d been required to testify as to his part in the investigation of Terry’s disappearance. After his aggressive interrogation the day before, she’d been prepared for him to annihilate her at the arraignment. But his testimony had been strictly factual, no emotion showing on his chiseled face. She couldn’t honestly say he’d tried to shed a more favorable light on her, but neither had he gone out of his way to make her appear guilty.
Unfortunately, the evidence did that well enough, without anyone’s help.
Jess had been as surprised and shocked as anyone to hear what the search of her house had turned up. She’d known about the stain on her carpet, of course, and she was pretty sure how it got there. But evidence of blood—and lots of it—in the tub and sink was a shock, and a little harder to find a rational explanation for.
She also hadn’t realized that a knife was missing from her good Chicago Cutlery kitchen set.
“A hundred G’s,” Marva whispered in her ear. “That’s good.”
Marva wasn’t anyone’s stereotype of a slick lawyer. She was heavyset, in her midfifties and black. Lynn, of all people, had found her through one of her professors at UMKC. Jess had nearly dropped her teeth when she’d first laid eyes on Marva, but she’d soon had to scold herself for making snap judgments based on appearance. Marva was as sharp and deadly as a poison dart.
The arraignment was over quickly. In fact, the past twenty-four hours had gone by in a blur of phone calls, hasty conferences, food hardly tasted, a hard bed barely slept in. She’d been numb, in shock, she realized now. Thank goodness Lynn had proved to have a head on her shoulders, after all. She’d taken care of everything.
“How soon can you arrange for a bond to be posted?” Jess asked Marva. Two guards stood by, waiting to take her back to her hated jail cell.
“Before lunch—you just wait and see,” Marva said, patting her client maternally on the shoulder. “Do you have ten thousand dollars to put up for the bond? If not—”
“I’ve got it,” Jess said, thinking of the little nest egg she’d been saving. This would just about wipe out her savings account. She had no idea how she would pay Marva, but the attorney hadn’t seemed concerned. “Lynn, did you bring my Money Market checkbook?”
“Got it right here,” Lynn said. “Although, I’m telling you, it was damn near impossible to find anything after those cops got through trashing the place. They just dumped everything on the floor and left it there.”
Jess didn’t care about the mess. She would gladly spend the next week cleaning up, if only she could be at home. She wrote out a check for ten thousand and handed it to Marva. Then the guards took her away.
Cameras flashed and microphones were shoved in her face as she left the courtroom. She’d been prepared for scrutiny from the press, had already planned out her strategy with Marva. Instead of the standard “no comment” so many crime suspects hid behind, she paused and spoke to the reporters.
“I’d like to talk with you all,” she said pleasantly. “I’d like the chance to tell my side of the story. But my lawyer advised me not to. I’m sorry.”
“Do you think you’ll get off?” one voice from the crowd asked.
“Did you do it?” another, farther back, demanded.
“I can’t answer any questions,” she said again, then turned to continue on her way. Apparently they believed her, because they didn’t follow.
As she turned the corner, she skidded to a stop to avoid hitting a man standing in her path. The man was Kyle Branson.
“Oh,” she said, and stared at him idiotically.
“How are you?” he asked.
“How do you think?” she countered. “How would you be in my position?”
“Dumb question, I guess,” he said.
She shook her h
ead. “No, I’m the one being dumb, snapping at you like that. I appreciate what you did back there.”
He appeared confused. “What did I do?”
“When you testified. You sounded...impartial.” He was standing close enough that she could smell his aftershave. It was a different one this time, not the one Terry had worn. She liked it.
“I haven’t exactly done you any favors,” he said.
“No, but you could have treated me a lot worse than you did. I’m grateful for any small thing at this point. So have you made up your mind? Do you think I did it?”
“Jess,” Marva cautioned, but Jess held up her hand to forestall her lawyer’s objections. For some reason, it was important to know what Branson thought. He knew more about the case than anyone. If he believed there was even a chance she was innocent, then a jury might, too.
“It looks bad for you, Jess,” he said.
“But...?”
He shrugged. “Beats me why I’m still not sure, but I’m not.”
She latched on to his opinion and held it close to her heart. It gave her hope.
“’Thank you,” she said before the guards urged her away from the detective and on down the hall.
True to her word, Marva managed to spring Jess from jail just as a guard brought her an unappetizing lunch on a tray. She gladly turned her back on the food and waltzed out of her cell with visions of Taco Bell in her mind. The numbness was receding, her senses returning. After fewer than twenty-four hours in jail, she was ready to fight for her freedom.
She spent the afternoon answering questions for Marva, who made Branson’s interrogation look like a stroll in the park. With her skillful questioning, she helped Jess to remember details she hadn’t recalled before—nothing that proved terribly significant as yet, but that might eventually.
That evening she spent a couple of hours cleaning up the mess the evidence team had made. Lynn hadn’t exaggerated. Drawers were overturned, cushions had been pulled off furniture and a hunk of her hall carpeting was missing. Apparently the men had cut away the section with the bloodstain for further analysis.
And they weren’t done yet. They were digging up her yard while her landlord, Mr. Glorioso, yelled at them from behind the yellow crime-scene tape. She couldn’t blame him. If they applied the same delicate touch they’d used with her house, it would take years to put the landscaping back in order.
It was almost dark, but she could still hear the clanking of shovels.
“I can’t take any more,” Jess declared at just after eight o’clock. “I’m going to bed.”
Lynn looked up from her place on the couch, where she’d been studying one of Terry’s law books. Other books were spread out all around her, bristling with scraps of paper where she’d marked interesting passages.
“Okay,” she said, “but first listen to this. ‘The State of Missouri v. Langley Bostwitch,’ 1936. Apparently this guy slit his mother’s throat and hid the body—”
“Lynn, please!” Jess exploded. “If I hear one more word about stabbings and hidden bodies, I’m going to scream!”
“But this guy used a great defense and he got off.”
“Tell me in the morning. I’m going to bed.” At Lynn’s crestfallen expression, Jess softened her admonition with a smile. Funny how strong a person could be when circumstances dictated, she mused as she climbed the stairs. She never would have guessed Lynn would prove such a veritable pillar of strength and common sense.
As tired as she was, Jess had trouble falling asleep. She kept going over and over the days preceding Terry’s disappearance, trying to remember anything—anything at all—that might have been overlooked. She didn’t come up with a single useful scrap, however, and shortly before midnight she managed to fall into an uneasy sleep.
At about two, the phone jarred her instantly awake. Her first thought was that maybe Terry had been found alive and well and they were going to let her off the hook. Even as she grabbed for the receiver, she realized she was being hopelessly optimistic.
“Hello?” she answered cautiously.
“Why did you kill me?” The voice was a hoarse, muffled whisper, like someone speaking through layers of gauze.
Terry? Speaking to her from the beyond? She shook her head to clear it of the last vestiges of sleep. A spirit wouldn’t need to use the telephone.
“Who is this?” she demanded sharply. A phone prank. It had to be.
“Why did you kill me?” the voice repeated.
“Terry?” It really did sound like Terry. Her heart pounded furiously.
“I loved you. We could have worked things out—”
“Shut up!” She knew she should just hang up. But she couldn’t help responding in anger. “This isn’t funny.”
“No, murder isn’t funny. At least tell them where you hid the body, so I can rest in peace.”
Jess hurled the vilest insult she could think of at the caller, then slammed down the phone. Who would play such a vicious prank?
An immediate answer came to mind. Who had delivered twenty pizzas to his former employer’s office and charged it to the employer’s credit card? Who had used weed killer to write obscenities on the neighbor’s lawn when he’d had an argument with said neighbor over his yowling tomcat? Who had made chocolate pudding with Ex-Lax and served it to an old girlfriend he’d been mad at?
Terry. Of course, Terry, the ultimate practical joker. The son of a bitch had set this whole thing up to frame her for his murder.
Chapter 4
Kyle’s stomach was tied in knots as he watched, through a two-way mirror, while Bill Clewis verbally abused his murder suspect in the interview room. Not that Kyle hadn’t been just as tough on her when he’d been the one in charge of interrogation. The difference was that Clewis seemed to enjoy his suspect’s discomfort.
“I have no idea what happened to my knife,” Jess said, her voice a monotone, her hands folded demurely on the scarred table in front of her. She’d displayed little emotion during the ordeal. In fact her attorney, Marva Babcock, had shown more outrage than Jess, frequently objecting to Clewis’s relentless hammering when it became repetitive.
“And when was the first time you noticed it missing?” Clewis asked.
“I didn’t notice. I was told that the evidence team was taking my set of knives, and why.”
“You’re a very neat and precise person—is that a fair statement?”
She thought a moment. “Yes.”
“And you enter your kitchen...how many times a day?”
“Maybe between five and ten.”
“Yet you didn’t notice that knife missing?”
“No. I haven’t done much cooking in the past few days.”
“When was the last time you remember seeing that knife, Ms. Robinson?”
She sighed. “I don’t know. I’m not even sure precisely which knife is missing. I cooked some chicken a couple of weeks ago, and I used the deboning knife from the same set. If any of the knives had been missing then, I probably would have noticed.”
“Besides deboning chicken, what do you use those knives for?”
There was a pregnant pause. “Carving up exboyfriends.”
“Jess!” the attorney scolded. “This is no time for sarcam.”
“Vegetables,” Jess said hastily. “I make a lot of salads. And I’m sorry, but what do you want me to say? Does it really matter what I use a knife for, unless I really did use it the way you think I did?”
“I think we should call a halt to this session,” Marva said. “My client is close to exhaustion.”
“Amen to that,” Kyle mumbled.
“Just a few more questions,” Clewis said. “Fifteen more minutes, all right?”
“Fine, just get on with it,” Jess said, slumping back into her chair.
Of course Clewis would want to continue, Kyle thought. When the suspect was exhausted, that was the best time to catch her in a lie.
As Clewis went over old territory, Kyle jotted in
his notebook: “Interesting that she didn’t invent a story about the knife, like, ‘I lost it years ago,’ or ‘I accidentally bent the blade and had to throw it away.’”
“What are you doing in here, Branson?”
The voice behind him made him jump. He swiveled and found Lt. Jon Easley, head of homicide, standing beside him, chewing on the mangled end of a Bic pen. He’d quit smoking a couple of months ago and had immediately put on twenty pounds, adding to his already impressive girth. Horn-rimmed glasses, a white crew cut and polyester suits added to Easley’s less-than-cool image, but there was no sharper cop in the whole department.
“Clewis wanted me to observe the interrogation,” Kyle replied, returning his gaze to the shell-shocked woman and her tormentor. “He thought I might be able to spot inconsistencies from when I questioned her.”
“And?”
“Nothing. She’s remarkably composed today, cooler than when I talked to her.”
“Composed? What about that ‘carving up exboyfriends’ crack?”
“That was the first time in four hours she’s said anything out of the ordinary. Either she’s telling the truth or she’s one cool cookie.”
“Which do you vote for?”
Kyle pursed his lips. “Not sure.”
“Wait,” Jess said as Clewis started to close his notebook. “There’s something else.” She exchanged a hooded glance with Marva, who simply closed her eyes as if praying for patience.
Kyle leaned forward.
“This could be interesting,” Easley said, echoing Kyle’s thoughts.
“Yes, Ms. Robinson?” Clewis said with his pseudopolite smile. “Did you just happen to remember something?”
“No. It’s something that happened last night. My attorney doesn’t want me to bring it up, but I think you should know. I got a phone call last night. A crank call.”
“Go on.”
“The man said he was Terry. He talked in this funny voice, and he asked me why did I kill him, where did I hide the body.”
Clewis wasn’t even taking notes, but Kyle did. “And what,” Clewis asked, “did you reply?”