Pool of Lies

by J. M. Zambrano

  “She has no idea what that is,” said Sam to Rae.

  “What’s she talking about?” Morgan demanded, brushing past Rae to get to his side.

  Rae watched Sam guide Morgan into the chair behind Freddie’s desk. “It’s going to be all right,” he said.

  “That’s what we thought when Jerome died.”

  The hateful tone Morgan used confirmed Rae’s picture of Jerome Bayfield as a cold, miserly tyrant.

  “It’s going to be fine, dear.” Sam rubbed Morgan’s arm.

  The intimacy implied in Sam’s words and touch made Rae uneasy. “I need to get back to my office. They’re expecting me.” Rae wished. Truth be told, she was supposed to be at her home office working on a projection of the GST tax that had been skipped.

  She watched more looks pass between Sam and Morgan, as Morgan shrugged off her moment of weakness. They really don’t need words, they’ve been together so long. Apart yet not apart. They’ve had to get major mileage out of a glance.

  “The check is a dead end, Mrs. Esposito. Fredricka’s not going to change her story,” said Sam.

  Story? Don’t touch that one, Rae.

  But, that cat-killer curiosity was honing her senses, making her say it out loud. “So, it’s a lie? You pressured Fredricka into lying?”

  “You have no idea what you’re talking about.” Sam’s voice burst into flames. “All you have is the GST tax. I’ll take whatever blame is due for that.”

  All? Isn’t that enough? What could be worse?

  But she knew now what something so insignificant as the date on a check could really be—not just a theory she only half-believed. One dead Kevin sure didn’t need a check. And Sam couldn’t leave Morgan out there as the last to see the kid alive. If Kevin was in the office on that Friday afternoon, there had better have been a check written.

  Rae dove for the front door and gave the knob a mighty twist, then nearly landed on her butt as someone on the other side turned the knob and pushed inward at the same time.

  Rae struggled for balance as Veronica brushed past her with barely a greeting. A stocky young uniformed officer followed her like a puppy without a leash.

  “Detective Sanchez,” began Sam, gearing up to make nice, placing himself between Veronica and Morgan.

  With a curt nod of her head, Veronica shoved some paperwork at him and then continued on without slowing until she faced Morgan, who had retreated to a point just beyond Freddie’s desk. The looks were darting between Sam and Morgan again as Sam glanced up from the paperwork Veronica had given him.

  “Morgan Bayfield-Farris,” said Veronica, “you are under arrest for the murder of Kevin Cantrell.”

  Rae watched numbly while Sam wasted no time in hopping behind Freddie’s desk, grabbing the phone and hitting speed dial.

  “You have the right to remain silent. If you waive that right, anything you say may be used against you in a court of law.”

  Rae strained to hear what Sam was saying on the phone, but his hand was cupped around the mouthpiece. Got to be Stan Eisley. Rae felt an unbearable sadness wash over her. She’d wanted justice for Deidre, but justice for Kevin? Did he deserve justice? And wasn’t it only a few weeks ago that she’d been asking herself if Deidre was worthy of all their efforts?

  I don’t want these thoughts. But Rae couldn’t shake them as she watched the scene unfold.

  Morgan stood impassively while the young male cop put the cuffs on her. It looked to Rae as if he was trying to be gentle. Morgan Bayfield-Farris didn’t look like a criminal. She looked like a trapped animal that had given up.

  “You have the right to an attorney.”

  “He’s on his way,” Sam interrupted. “Don’t say a word,” he instructed Morgan.

  Morgan gave Sam a wan smile and a mouthed thank you.

  Veronica continued her Mirandising as if Sam didn’t exist. “If you cannot afford an attorney…”

  Rae let out an involuntary snort at the idea of an indigent Morgan Bayfield-Farris. Veronica rattled off the rest, all the while eying Rae as if she were a nut case.

  Then Veronica plucked Morgan’s Brahmin handbag from Freddie’s desk. Last Rae remembered, the beautiful leather bag had been in Sam’s hands. Veronica plopped it into an evidence bag and headed for the door.

  But what about Sam, Rae wondered. Accessory?

  With a quick nod of her head, Veronica signaled. When Rae didn’t move, Veronica said, “Let’s go.”

  “But, what about…” Rae looked at Sam.

  “Tell Stan Eisley we’ll meet him at the station,” Veronica said to Sam.

  Rae hurried out the door, trying to keep up with Veronica. “I need to talk to you.”

  “We’ll talk at the station.”

  The young cop helped Morgan into the back seat of the squad car, protected her head just like on TV.

  “No. We’ve got to talk now,” insisted Rae.

  “What is it?”

  “What about Sam Garvin?”

  “What about him?” Veronica tapped her foot impatiently as she watched her backup officer climb into the driver’s seat of the car. “My warrant is only for Morgan Farris and her purse.”

  “At least you could’ve given me a heads-up.”

  “You weren’t supposed to be here. Besides, the informant just came forward. I had to scramble like mad to get the warrant. Now get your butt in gear and follow me back to the station.”

  While following Veronica back to Lakewood P.D., Rae's mind constructed various scenarios to explain the turn things had taken.

  An informant came forward? Did this mean they finally got their hands on JJ Camacho, and he implicated Morgan? Was this whole thing just about money?

  No way. Unless Morgan Bayfield-Farris was one award-quality actress. Morgan and Sam, the ill-fated lovers, paired for life like a couple of wild geese—they did not kill their love-child, either directly or through a hit man. Rae would have staked her life on this. Well, not her life. And yesterday she’d have had a different take on it.

  But the arrest had been for Kevin’s murder. And Kevin seemed like a really bad seed. A loco weed in the pasture.

  Would someone of JJ Camacho’s ilk lie to save his ass? You bet he would. Stop it, Rae. You’ll know soon enough from Veronica. But how in hell did Veronica know Morgan would be there? Rae’s mental processing had slowed her driving and taken her attention away from Veronica, and now the detective’s car was nowhere in sight.

  *****

  As Rae pulled into guest parking at the Lakewood Civic Complex, she noted Veronica’s car parked and empty in the police section.

  Not yet eleven in the morning, and heat waves danced along the asphalt parking area. Rae pitched her suit jacket into the back seat, grabbed her briefcase and exited. Damn skirt always ended up around her thighs by the time she got from the driver’s seat of her SUV to the ground. Once she felt established in her new job, she’d go back to jeans. And boots. The damn shoes still weren’t broken in.

  Inside the building, she hurried past security. The guards all knew her by name now.

  Still no sign of Veronica. How’d she do that? And with a prisoner in tow. Rae pulled out her key card as she hurried down the corridor, then quickly keyed into the department offices.

  When she passed the interrogation room, she caught sight of Veronica, Morgan and a youngish guy in a suit. Must be somebody from Stan Eisley’s office. But what could Stan be doing that was more important than being at his number one client’s side?

  More importantly, where was Sam Garvin?

  Rae briefly greeted the co-workers she passed before holing up in the cubicle that had been assigned as her work space.

  Her first order of business was to check for messages on her cell that had been silent longer than usual. For good reason. She'd forgotten to turn it on. Dumb-ass thing to forget. Especially today. She found one from her son. His text message read: Sorry mist u. Try from Miami.

  What’s with Miami?

  Have new
z.

  News? What news?

  Her finger hovered over the call back icon. Not now, she couldn’t deal with any more news. Not personal news anyway. These cubicles didn’t really have walls. Just partitions. Not like Veronica’s office, which had real walls. Stop it. She couldn’t halt the processing of minutia.

  She brought Stephen’s text message up again. Why couldn’t he have left a voicemail? Then she could tell something from his tone. Why didn’t he end the text Luv, Stephen, like a letter? Wishful thinking. She knew guys didn’t do that, especially to their mothers.

  “Well,” said Veronica from the doorway, “that was one big, fat nothing.”

  “Did you really expect an instant confession?”

  “There was enough Demerol in her purse to sedate a horse,” Veronica said.

  “What was she doing carrying it around in her purse?”

  “She used it to treat her migraines. It's the brand name for meperidine, one of the drugs that turned up on Kevin's tox screen in such a high ratio that it suppressed his breathing and killed him.” Veronica kept her voice low, then added, “Let's go to my office. Bring along whatever you've got from your Bayfield visits.”

  Once inside Veronica's office with the door closed, Rae watched the detective sink down in her chair and cup her head in her hands. “I have a really bad feeling about this.” Veronica's dark mane fell over her face, momentarily obscuring it from Rae's vision. “She's being processed for release as we speak.”

  “What did you expect? She's rich.”

  Veronica looked up through angry eyes. “Don't start with that liberal crap.”

  “Don't you start up with me. I'm not even liberal, in case you haven't noticed.”

  Veronica shook her head, as if to erase the unwarranted jab at Rae. Probably the nearest thing to an apology she'd get.

  “What did you find out about the GST tax?”

  “Sam Garvin admitted it hadn't been paid. He took full responsibility. Said Morgan didn't know anything about it.”

  Veronica was quiet for a moment, as she appeared to consider possibilities. “I don't think the tax has anything to do with Kevin's death,” she finally said, “but it's something we could use for leverage to maybe get Sam Garvin to implicate Morgan.”

  “In your dreams.”

  “What?”

  “First, tax evasion isn't your jurisdiction--it's federal.”

  “I know that. I'm talking about using it as Garvin's possible motive for conspiring with Morgan to kill Kevin.”

  “He'll file a supplementary return, pay the tax, pay the penalties,” said Rae, “but he'll never roll on Morgan. Nor her on him.”

  “How can you be so sure? We'll do some checking, try to come up with an Achilles heel on one of them,” Veronica said.

  “Won't do you a bit of good. They're like a pair of wild geese.”

  “Geese?” Veronica raised an eyebrow.

  “They mate for life. Did I mention that Sam Garvin is Deidre's biological father?”

  Veronica seemed to puff up with a giant intake of breath that she held, then exhaled with a hiss. “Just how long have you had that little piece of information?”

  Rae consulted her watch. “About an hour, give or take--”

  “You're not going to tell me they were married, common-law or anything?”

  “No. I'm pretty sure they weren't. Why?”

  “Because that would make her marriage to Nate Farris invalid.”

  “What possible relevance--”

  “If Nate Farris was not Morgan Bayfield's legal husband, then there would be no chance of him later asserting marital privilege when he was called to testify at her trial. If there is a trial. I can see this whole thing going south.”

  “What about the informant? You got a warrant. It must have been a solid lead.”

  “It seemed so at the time. Since Mr. Farris is not picking up my calls, I may have been overly optimistic.”

  “Nasty Nate is your informant? How'd you manage that?”

  “He came to us. Said his wife had been using injectable Demerol for years because it was the only thing that relieved her worst migraines. He believes she used it on Kevin.”

  “I thought a husband couldn't testify against his wife.” Rae's already low opinion of Nate Farris took a new plunge.

  “Mr. Farris said he was willing to waive his right to spousal privilege.”

  “Can he do that?”

  “According to the ADA I worked with to get the warrant, he can in a felony case. He's the witness. The potential witness. We don't need Morgan's permission for him to testify.”

  “You mentioned looking for an Achilles heel. Looks to me like you've already found him. I don't know about the Achilles part.”

  “He may have reason,” Veronica snapped back. “He thinks the lady may have been gearing up to use her latest supply of Demerol on him.” Veronica paused. “Now it makes sense. Morgan and Sam.”

  “Yeah, who'd have thought? Did Nate tell you Morgan would be at Sam's office?”

  “His best guess. She wasn't at home when he left.”

  “That's a pretty big leap,” Rae said. “She could have been…shopping.”

  “It doesn't matter,” Veronica said, “if all I have is the Demerol. It's useless without Nate Farris's testimony. Do you have anything else for me?”

  “Sam asked if I was wearing a wire.”

  “I wish you had been.”

  “I wouldn't do that. Wear a wire. But, I've got something else. It may not seem important at first glance.”

  “Let me be the judge of that.” Veronica motioned toward the guest chair across her desk.

  Rae settled down in it, relieved to see the fire sweep back into the detective's eyes.

  Nate Farris was sweating profusely, even with the air conditioning on in his Lexus. So, he'd done it. There was no going back now. Literally, no going back.

  He hoped he'd have the opportunity to clean out his office, realizing that he should have done that before visiting Veronica Sanchez. If she arrested Sam, too, he'd have the chance after all. But he really hadn't been privy to what was going to be the next step. The Sanchez woman and the black ADA she'd brought in--big guy with gray fuzz for hair--had left him alone while they went off to another room and talked, he guessed, about how credible he appeared to them.

  Hell, he didn't even know if they'd get their warrant. He might even have more time than he really wanted. What if they didn't believe him?

  His cell phone twanged. Nate glanced down at the caller ID box. Damn. Stan Eisley's number like an announcement: We know what you did.

  Not necessarily, he told himself. A million reasons why Stan could be calling. Well, at least…maybe…a couple of reasons?

  Who was he kidding? Stan Eisley called Morgan or Sam, never him--the appendage husband. The real estate attorney, whom he consulted from time to time, who wasn't even a partner in the firm was who called him.

  Nate let the call go to voicemail, waited a bit and then pressed the code for his mailbox. You have one new message. New message: “Nathan, this is Stan Eisley.” The man's deep baritone resonated. “I'm with Sam Garvin at the Bayfield office. We have an emergency situation. You need to get here as soon as possible.”

  That didn't necessarily mean they knew. It could mean Morgan had been arrested, and they were still clueless as to his part. Yes, that was the likeliest explanation.

  Just to be sure, he pushed return call. Stan answered on the third ring.

  “Nathan? Are you alone?”

  “I'm in my car. What's the emergency?”

  “Not over the phone. How long will it take you to get here?”

  “I'm in Northglenn,” he lied. “Depending on the traffic, half an hour? Maybe forty minutes.”

  “We'll wait.”

  We? He wondered how many that included. “Uh, is Morgan there? When I left home, her car was gone.” It was a legitimate question.

  “No,” replied Stan. “Morgan is not her
e.” Then the connection terminated.

  Nate was just about five minutes from the office, but he'd now have to kill at least half an hour. Shakily, he pulled into a WalMart complex and parked as his cell signaled another incoming call. Thinking it was Stan again, he almost picked it up. A glance at caller ID told him differently. Detective Sanchez. He let the call go to voicemail

  *****

  “What is it? What's the emergency?” Nate looked from Stan Eisley to Sam Garvin, playing his part to the hilt. “Where's my wife? I called home, and she didn't pick up.”

  “Sit down,” Stan invited coldly, in that bigger-than-he-was tone that Nate hated.

  Nate could never look at Stan without remembering his surprise at their first meeting. The managing partner of RS&E was small and lean--probably didn't weigh over a hundred thirty pounds. The man clearly didn't match his voice. But his steel-gray eyes had knocked any cocky sense of size superiority right out of Nate at that first encounter.

  Today was no different. Worse, in fact. They were in Sam's office. Nate felt like a schoolboy called in to see the principal.

  “I think you have a pretty good idea where your wife is. We know where you went this morning.”

  “I don't know where Morgan is. So, tell me, where is it you think I went this morning?”

  Then it occurred to him that maybe he should seem more worried about Morgan's health or safety. Oh, that should've been his first reaction. “Has she been in an accident? Is she in the hospital?” he asked a bit too loudly.

  “Cut the crap, Nathan. Morgan was arrested. You know all about it.”

  Sam Garvin sat sphinx-like, regarding Nate as if he were a worm. Not the demeanor of a man worried about his own possible implication in a murder.

  “I…I…” Nate stuttered.

  “Don't,” interrupted Stan. “No more lies, please. We know you went to Detective Sanchez at Lakewood PD and gave her access to privileged marital communications between yourself and my client. You gave her medical information about your wife, which you are precluded from divulging by both the HIPAA law and the statutes covering marital communications.”