“Obviously, I disagree,” LaBelle said calmly. “These photos are graphic, but they also remove all doubt as to whether the defendant was engaged in, um, unusual sexual practices with the deceased, which clearly relates to motive. They also show that she possessed chains similar if not identical to the ones used to string up McNaughton’s corpse. The pictures show her engaging in violent fantasies and, in my opinion, rather enjoying it.”
“This is not evidence!” Ben said. “This is a peep show!”
“Now, Mr. Kincaid—”
“This is beyond the pale, your honor. Trying to smear a young woman by showing her enjoying herself sexually—it’s just a cheap ploy to turn the jury against her. It’s sexist and disgusting!”
“I certainly agree with the disgusting part,” LaBelle said under his breath.
“Gentlemen, please.” Judge Cable held up his hands. “I don’t believe in trial by ambush and I don’t like last-minute evidence and I especially don’t like”—his face pinched together—“smut of this variety in my courtroom. But I can’t deny that it’s relevant. I’m going to allow it. If the defense needs additional time to prepare its response, I’ll grant it.”
Ben’s eyes flared. “Your honor—”
“I’ve ruled, counsel.”
“This is an appeal issue, your honor. And I’m moving for a mistrial.”
“I can’t say that I’m surprised. But the trial goes on. With the photos.”
“Your honor, I—”
“Don’t get yourself thrown into jail,” Judge Cable snapped. “Your new associate seems very capable, but I’d hate to see her have to try this case by herself, wouldn’t you?”
Ben was furious, but he buttoned his lip. The judge’s ruling was wrong, flat-out wrong, and the damage this would do to Keri’s case was incalculable.
Silently, he watched as the bailiff passed the photos to the jury so they could examine them one by one. The reactions were varied—shock, embarrassment, horror, revulsion. They were all a little different. But none of them was good.
Once the judge gave him the nod to start cross-ex, Ben didn’t hold back.
“Are you a professional Peeping Tom, or was this a first for you?”
LaBelle was on his feet. “Your honor, that’s grossly offensive.”
“I find this witness grossly offensive!” Ben returned.
Judge Cable raised his gavel. “Mr. Kincaid, watch yourself,” he warned. “I think you’re entitled to inquire into the circumstances surrounding the taking of these photos. Just be careful how you do it.”
Ben took a deep breath and started again. “Would you please explain to the jury how you came to be snapping pictures through the window of two private citizens having consensual sex?”
Wesley was unruffled, although some of the boyish élan seemed to have drained out of his face. “I was on assignment.”
Ben blinked. “An assignment—from the police?”
“That’s correct.”
“Before the murder? Why would the police department have been investigating Keri Dalcanton?”
“We weren’t. We were investigating Joe McNaughton.”
Ben was pleased to hear the buzz from the gallery. It was comforting to think he wasn’t the only one who was totally and utterly confused. “Why would they be investigating one of their own officers?”
“The investigation was instigated by Internal Affairs.”
“And why?”
He hesitated. “It pertained to McNaughton’s investigation of Antonio Catrona.”
Curiouser and curiouser. “Did they think McNaughton was on the take?”
“Frankly, I don’t know what they thought, and they didn’t explain it to me. Whenever someone investigates an organized crime figure—excuse me, an alleged organized crime figure—there’s a concern that the officer might be turned. It’s happened before.”
“Did you have any evidence that Joe McNaughton had been bought off?”
“No. None. But he had begun an intense affair with a woman half his age with unusual sexual proclivities—shortly after he initiated the investigation. The young woman was known to work in a strip club operated by a holding company believed to be owned by Antonio Catrona. Something of a coincidence, don’t you think? My superiors perceived this as, at the very least, an area of … weakness. A way that he could be influenced. So they asked me to investigate.”
“And you did? You and your little camera?”
“I’m a cop. I follow orders.”
“So you conducted a secret investigation of your friend.”
“Yes. I’ve said that already.”
“Do you realize you probably broke about a dozen laws when you took these shots? Like invasion of privacy laws?”
“I’m a cop, not a lawyer. I try to solve crimes, not cover them up.”
Ben let that pass. “Why didn’t you show anyone these pictures before last night?”
Wesley shrugged. “After Joe’s death, the IA investigation was naturally terminated. I put the pics in storage. I didn’t see any use for them at that point, and I didn’t want them to cause any unnecessary grief to Joe’s widow.”
“What changed your mind?”
Wesley nodded toward the prosecution table. “D.A. LaBelle. I told him about the photos last night while we were preparing for trial. He insisted that I collect them and bring them to court.”
I’ll bet he did, Ben thought. “Did it not bother you that you were spying on your alleged friend and colleague? That you were betraying his trust?”
“Who was betraying anyone? I didn’t think for a minute that Joe did anything wrong and I expected my investigation to prove it.”
“I doubt if Joe would’ve been so sanguine about it if he’d known you were photographing him having sex.”
“Oh, I don’t know. Remember, he’d told me all about it in great detail. He didn’t have to, but he did. He was having sex—great sex—with a very young woman, doing new things, getting it regular. You know how it is. Guys like to brag about that sort of thing.” He glanced down at the packet of pictures. “I don’t think Joe would’ve minded so much. In fact, I think he might’ve put them up in his locker.”
There was no graceful segue out of this cross-ex, so Ben just ended it. Judge Cable recessed for the day, and the reporters raced out the back, happily toting several salacious tidbits for the evening news.
“You’ve got a lawsuit against that creep,” Ben told Keri, “and against the Tulsa P.D. for authorizing him. Invasion of privacy. It’s a slam-dunk, and I’ll be happy to file it for you.”
She nodded. “But that’s not going to do me much good, is it? Not if I’m in prison.”
Or worse, Ben thought but did not say. “Let’s meet back at the office in one hour,” Ben told Christina. “Strategy meeting.”
He began gathering his materials, thinking about what they might do next. Honestly, what could they do? Ben wondered, as he watched the jurors file out of the courtroom. Even those who suspected she was guilty could not possibly have loathed her with the intensity that they did now. They would never forget those photographs. They would never like her. No matter what Ben did or said, they would always see the cheap amoral slut who pleasured herself in bizarre ways. Who got her jollies pretending to inflict pain. Who had a taste for violence.
Or, in other words, exactly the sort of person who would commit murder.
33
“BEN, I’M WORRIED.”
Ben glanced up from his desk. Christina was standing in the doorway, her shoulders drooping, her head hung low. She was her usual cute strawberry blond self, one of the few women he had ever known who actually looked good in a business suit. But the inevitable toil of trial was beginning to wear on her. She looked stressed, tired.
What time was it, anyway? A quick glance at the digital readout on his phone gave him the bad news. It was well past his bedtime—and hers, too.
“You’ve got nothing to worry about,” he said reassuringly.
“Go home and get some rest.”
“I’m concerned about the coroner,” she said, as if she hadn’t heard him. “He’s going to be an important witness for the prosecution. Maybe the most important one.”
Ben shook his head. As long as Andrea McNaughton remained on the witness list, there was no way the coroner could be the “most important.” Still, he would be critical to the prosecution’s effort to tie the murder to Keri. “So what’s your worry?”
“I don’t think I should do this witness. He’s too important. You take him.”
Ben pushed away from his desk. “Christina, you’ll be fine. I have every confidence in you.”
“Yeah, but that’s just because you’re a nice guy. I’ve never done this before and we both know it.”
“You’ve watched me do it a hundred times. And you’ve watched some good attorneys, too. You’ll be fine.”
“What if I freeze up? What if I clutch? What if the coroner makes me look like a fool?”
“Bob? He won’t.”
“You don’t know that. This case is too important to be taking risks.”
“Putting you in charge of a witness isn’t a risk. It’s a sure bet.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do.” He reached out and lightly touched her shoulder. “There’s no one I’d rather be trying this case with. Seriously.”
She smiled a little, but did not appear much comforted.
All right. Then he’d try the bad-cop routine. “Look, Christina, are you going to be my partner or not? Because if you are, you’re going to have to earn your keep.”
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me. I’ve got no use for a partner who chokes every time a trial gets hairy. Because as you well know, every trial gets hairy, at one point or another. That’s why people hire lawyers.”
“But—”
“No buts. You’ll be great. Assuming you don’t develop an ulcer between now and tomorrow morning. So go home and get some rest, okay?”
She shook her head. “I think I’ll review my cross-ex outline again.”
“Read my lips, Christina. Go home.”
“I just want to make sure I haven’t missed anything.”
He twirled her around and gave her a gentle push toward the door. “Leave. Depart. Vamoose. That’s an order.”
She smiled slightly, then nodded. “All right.” She looked up at him, then tentatively reached out, her fingers brushing the side of his face. “Thanks.”
“No problem.”
She hesitated another moment, her eyes locked on his. Finally, she turned and headed for the outer door.
Then stopped. “Hey, who said you could give me orders, anyway? We’re partners, remember?”
“My apologies. It’s just an expression.”
“Well … okay. But don’t let it happen again.”
“Ben, I’m worried.”
Once again, Ben looked up from his desk. Was he experiencing déjà vu? Or was he caught in some pretrial time loop?
Neither, as it turned out. The words were the same, but the woman standing in his doorway this time was platinum blond rather than strawberry blond and she was his client, not his partner.
Keri looked as if she had been exercising. She was wearing a halter top with an exposed midriff, short shorts, and sneakers. He could see beads of perspiration in various places all over her body.
Sweat. Sexy sweat.
“I’m sorry if I’m disturbing you,” she said. “I was just in the neighborhood.”
“The neighborhood of the seventh floor?”
“Seriously. I was out jogging, and Warren Place is a good location for it. Well lit.”
“Why on earth would you be jogging at this time of night?”
She shrugged, and Ben tried not to notice the effect that had on her sport bra. “I had to burn off some steam. Couldn’t sleep. And …”
“Yes?”
Keri twisted her fingers around themselves. “And to be honest … I wanted to see you.”
Ben crossed his office to her, although he was careful to keep a few feet between them. “What’s wrong, Keri?”
“I don’t know exactly. I guess it’s—all those things LaBelle said in court today. The way he tried to make me look like—well, you know. Some kind of tramp. Like I spend my whole life dreaming up new kinds of kinky sex.”
Kinky sex was not a phrase Ben ever needed to hear coming out of her mouth. Especially when they were in the office alone. “Don’t let it get to you. It’s a standard prosecution technique.”
“Yes, but it’s working. I saw the way the jurors looked at me when they filed out of the courtroom today. Not that they’ve ever looked at me with eyes of love. But today was … different. Worse. Before, it was like, ‘I wonder if you’re capable of murder.’ But today it was more like, ‘I wonder if there’s anything you’re not capable of.’ ”
“It always looks bleak during the prosecution phase. After all, I can cross, but that only goes so far. Things will improve once the defense starts.”
“I hope so. But still, I—I—” All at once, she surged forward. She wrapped her arms around him and buried her face against his chest. “Ben, I’m so scared.”
Ben gently laid his hand atop her silver hair, trying to pretend he didn’t feel a reaction the instant they made contact. “I’m sure this is difficult for you. But you have to be strong.”
“It’s more than just hard. I can’t sleep. I can’t eat. I wake up every morning with a horrible burning sensation in my stomach. I—I—really don’t know if I can stand it much longer.” She squeezed closer, her tear-stained cheek burning against his shirt.
Ben felt his pulse racing. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “This must be awful for you.” He could feel her warm breasts heaving against him, her warm lips pressed against his neck. “Please know that we’re doing everything we can to give you the best possible defense.”
“I know that,” she said, her voice cracked and broken. “But I’m still scared,”
“Keri, when we put on our case—”
“Which is what exactly? Do we even have a case?” Her words came out in broken gasps. “I’ve told you this before, Ben—I can’t testify. I just can’t do it.”
“You don’t necessarily have to …”
“You say that, but who else can deny all those awful things they said in court today? Who else can tell them what really happened?”
“We don’t have to answer this question yet,” Ben said, knowing that would not be much comfort. “When the prosecution rests, we’ll see where we are then.”
“Oh, Ben. I’m so scared. So so scared. I need—I need—”
A moment later, their lips were locked in a passionate, intense kiss. Ben pulled her close to him, swallowing her up, embracing her in every way possible. Keri’s lips broke away from his, then began kissing him everywhere, on his neck, his forehead, his ear. Ben’s hands slipped under her halter top. She began fumbling with the buttons on his shirt.
They fell back against his desk, knocking off reams of paper. “I need you,” she said breathlessly. “I need you so much.”
“We can’t do this,” Ben said, but his voice wasn’t convincing, not even to himself.
“Please,” she whispered, pulling him closer.
“No.” Ben broke away, bracing himself against a chair. “We can’t do this.”
“But why?”
“You know why. It isn’t right. Not now. Not till the trial is over.”
“But, Ben,” she cried, “if you knew how I feel—”
“I feel the same way, Keri. But we can’t.” He walked away from her, to the opposite side of the room, an effort which required more strength than anything he’d ever done in his life. “Keri—I’ll see you in court tomorrow morning.”
“Is this your way of dismissing me?”
“I think it’s best. You know how important this trial is. To you, more than anyone. I have to keep a clear head.”
; She pushed off the desk, rearranging her scant clothing. “You’re right. I don’t know what came over me. I just lost control.” She laughed bitterly. “Maybe what LaBelle says about me is true.”
“Don’t say that. Not even in jest. You’re a beautiful person, Keri. I can’t imagine how you’ve survived all that you’ve been through. And when this trial is over—well, things will be different. But for now, we have to focus on the trial. The trial, and nothing but the trial.”
“I know. I’ll go.” She finished pulling herself together and started toward the door. Before she left, though, she quietly crossed the room and planted her lips softly on Ben’s cheek.
“I love you,” she whispered.
34
KIRK WAS CROUCHED IN an alleyway beside a Dumpster, his forehead pressed against his knees. He was not having a pleasant evening. Too many inescapable truths hounded his brain. There was no hope for him, he realized now. The priest had been right. God knew what Kirk had done. He would always know. Somehow, Kirk had fooled himself into thinking he could erase his crimes, eliminate all the traces, but now he realized that had been a child’s fantasy. No amount of pain or self-inflicted misery could ever alter the truth.
He was damned, pure and simple.
He saw something glistening at the other end of the alley. Winking at him. Something translucent and … sharp.
A broken bottle, if he wasn’t mistaken. A green-tinted jagged edge, just waiting for someone to come close enough for it to do some permanent damage.
The idea formed in Kirk’s brain with such immediate clarity that he wondered why it hadn’t occurred to him before. Enough with these halfway gestures—picking fights and mutilating his body. One swift stroke across the jugular with that bottle and he would be out of his misery permanently.
Unless the priest was right. Unless there really was a God, and he really did punish those who committed sins. Like suicide. The unforgivable sin, that was what his Sunday school teacher used to call it. Unforgivable—because you were dead before you had a chance to ask.
But to be free of this torment, released …
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