The Cheater

by Nancy Taylor Rosenberg

  Lily had to admit the Stuckys’ defense was clever. She hoped the prosecution had enough evidence to prove their case. The problem was it was all circumstantial. Juries today wanted hard evidence such as DNA. It wasn’t easy for a jury to convict a white, educated person for any crime, let alone murder. If the defendants were innocent, which Lily didn’t believe was the case, it would be a terrible miscarriage of justice, especially since the Stuckys had just buried their child.

  The greatest weakness in the case was the Stuckys’ claim that they’d taken turns giving Brian his daily medication. Lily feared this might pave the way to reasonable doubt. In the weeks prior to his death, Brian Stucky’s muscles had grown so weak that he’d had trouble walking and holding his head up. Any parent in his right mind would have sought immediate medical attention. But shockingly, everyone involved with the boy had turned a blind eye: teachers, doctors, bus drivers, neighbors. This made the parents’ neglect seem less offensive.

  Lily’s stomach turned when she saw Elizabeth Stucky smiling and chatting with her attorney. She probably had the gall to file her own malpractice suit, although the law precluded her from collecting if she was convicted. A newspaper article had said her father was the director of the prestigious music academy in Santa Barbara, and her mother was heir to a tobacco fortune. Why would she commit such an unspeakable crime, and at the same time forever tarnish her reputation in the community?

  Something didn’t add up.

  It wasn’t the money, Lily decided. The money was like a bonus, just pocket change for Elizabeth’s spending sprees. She felt certain Elizabeth could get what she wanted with or without the insurance money. Something else bothered her, something she couldn’t quite put her finger on. The way Elizabeth dressed, her perfectly coiffed hair, even her manicured fingernails, struck Lily as somehow relevant.

  When her husband tapped her on her shoulder, Elizabeth’s expression instantly soured. Ah, Lily thought, beginning to put it together. Ronald Stucky was an embarrassment to her. Being an accountant wasn’t an important enough job. He was too ordinary, and she doubted if he meshed well with his wife’s sophisticated friends. But Elizabeth hadn’t killed her husband. To back it up a few steps, Lily was curious as to why Elizabeth had married him to begin with. Had she been pregnant? Doubtful, as she would have simply aborted the baby. Was it love? The only person Elizabeth loved was herself.

  Why have a child? Lily asked herself. Then again, a child was like a toy, something you acquired after your dream house and your new Mercedes.

  One of the first things a good defense attorney would attack was motive. He would show that if the Stuckys had needed money, Elizabeth’s parents would have simply given it to her.

  Another theory began to gel in Lily’s mind. Ronald Stucky was guilty, she believed, but only due to the fact that he did nothing to stop his wife. He was obviously “pussy-whipped,” as Bryce crudely called it. Ronald could have been terrified that if he didn’t go along with his wife’s plan, she would do to him what she had done to their son. Either that or she would testify that he was the one behind the boy’s death.

  Lily decided she would invite Kidwell to her chambers when they adjourned. She might think like a prosecutor, but she was a judge now, and a judge was supposed to remain unbiased, as Hennessey had rudely reminded her the other day. But regardless of her position, she was a human being and a mother.

  The district attorney had blown up a photo of Brian Stucky on an easel. Lily had tried not to look at it, knowing it would upset her, the precise reason Kidwell had positioned it within view of the jurors. She turned to it now, seeing the face of an innocent young boy with blond hair and beautiful blue eyes. But she detected a sense of sadness in his expression, as if he had somehow foreseen his fate. Don’t worry, baby, she thought.I’m going to make certain they pay for what they did to you.

  Lily prayed she could live up to her promise.

  EIGHTEEN

  WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 29

  DALLAS, TEXAS

  The FBI plane touched down at Love Field in Dallas at seven-fifteen in the morning. When Mary disembarked, she saw a distinguished-looking man in a dark pin-striped suit with FBI stamped all over him. She started to call Adams and protest, but she knew it was futile. He probably hadn’t told her he was calling in someone from the Dallas Field Office because he didn’t want to argue with her. She collected her garment bag, computer case, and overnight bag, then exited the plane.

  The day was gorgeous, the sun out, the air brisk and refreshing. It wasn’t California, Mary thought, but it was far warmer than rural Virginia this time of year.

  He walked over and clasped her hand. “Special Agent Brooks East,” he said. “Here, let me help you.” He took the two cases from Mary, then began walking. “How was your flight?”

  “Not bad.” Neither was Agent Brooks, Mary thought, giving him a once-over. His hands were large but soft, his nails neatly manicured. He hadn’t felt the need to assert his masculinity by crunching the bones in her hand, which was a relief. These were hallmarks of a good lover. Most women didn’t consider a man’s hands important until they ended up with a pair of sandpaper mitts groping their body. Looking to be in his mid-thirties, Agent East was a handsome man. “Have you been briefed on this situation, Agent East?”

  “Call me Brooks,” he said, smiling. “You’re in Texas now. We’re not that big on formalities.” He fell serious. “I received an e-mail from SAC John Adams late last night. I’m curious as to why ISU is interested in the Waverly homicide. The body was found in San Bernardino, not Dallas.”

  “I’m aware of that,” Mary said, relieved that Adams hadn’t mentioned the tape or the other homicides. “Are you coming along when I speak to Mrs. Waverly?”

  “Those were my orders,” East said, shrugging. “Your SAC said you weren’t familiar with the city. I guess that means I’m your driver.”

  When they reached his vehicle, he popped the trunk and put her belongings inside, then held the passenger door open for her. “I hear your staying at the Wyndham Hotel. It’s a nice place and centrally located. How long do you expect to be in town?”

  “I’m not sure yet,” Mary told him. “Best guess is a few days.”

  East ducked inside the car and cranked the ignition. “Do you like ribs?”

  Mary laughed. “Absolutely.”

  “Dallas has some of the best rib joints around. We also have some terrific nightlife, if you’re interested. Are you married?”

  Straight to the point, Mary thought, loving it. “No, and you?”

  “Single.”

  Mary crossed her legs, moving her foot in circles until one of her heels slid off her ankle. When she cleared her throat to get his attention, he glanced over at her, then quickly looked away. She wouldn’t mind getting to know Agent East better. No, not a bit. When the chemistry was this intoxicating, you went with the flow or wondered about it forever. Of course, the FBI, like most law enforcement agencies, preferred their agents didn’t fraternize, but it was an impossible rule to enforce. Anytime you put the opposite sexes in close proximity to one another, things happened. Her relationship with Lowell Redstone was stagnant. Her mother hated him, which meant the relationship would soon be history. Anyone who laughed at such a statement didn’t know Thelma Stevens. “Maybe I’ll finish up early today.”

  “Sounds like a plan,” East said. “I’ll take you to dinner at Sonny Bryan’s, the best barbecue house in town. Then later, if you’re game, we can hit some spots in Deep Ellum.”

  “I think I’ve heard about that place. Isn’t it a historical district or something?”

  “You’re probably thinking of the West End? Deep Ellum is historical, as well, but for different reasons. The first building built by and for blacks in Dallas, the Grand Temple of the Black Knights of Pythias, was in Deep Ellum. It used to be the best place around for live music. Right now the main calling card is nightclubs.” He pulled into a parking lot for IHOP. “I assume you haven’t had brea
kfast yet. Hungry?”

  “Always,” Mary said, smiling.

  Once they were seated and ordered their food, she said, “This might seem like a strange question, but I may end up staying here over the weekend. Is there a Baptist church in walking distance of the hotel?”

  “You don’t have to walk to church,” he said. “I belong to First Baptist. I’ll swing by and pick you up.”

  Well groomed, gainfully employed, and a Baptist. There was no way her mother would toss this fish back into the pond.

  “I don’t have time to talk right now,” Shana Forrester told her mother. “Call me around nine tonight.”

  Lily was in her chambers with the door closed, waiting for James Kidwell to arrive. He’d rushed out of the courtroom before she had a chance to tell him she wanted to speak to him. Jeannie had caught him in his office, and he was on his way. Lily had decided to squeeze in a call to her daughter. “Are you in class?”

  “I wouldn’t answer the phone if I was in class.”

  Only a handful of words had passed between them, and Lily was already annoyed. “I don’t want to call you back tonight, Shana. In fact, I want you to fly home this weekend.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I want to see you.”

  “Come up here if you want to see me,” Shana tossed back. “Damn it, Mom, I’m up to my eyeballs here. The reading alone is killing me.”

  “I’m in the middle of a trial, honey. You didn’t even come home for Thanksgiving.”

  “How could I come for Thanksgiving?” the girl said, chuckling. “You’re married to a turkey. How is he, anyway? Has he been staying away from the Twinkies?”

  “That’s not funny, Shana.”

  “Yes, it is,” she said. “I hate Ventura, Mom. You should have stayed in Santa Barbara.”

  “I love you, honey. Please try to understand—”

  “I love you, too. I’ll check my schedule, okay? Maybe Brett and I can fly down for Christmas, if you promise to keep Bryce on a leash.”

  “Are you serious about this boy?”

  “He’s not a boy, Mother, and yeah, I care about him. That doesn’t mean we’re going to get engaged anytime soon. He’s working on his doctorate, so we don’t have a lot of time to be together. If we come for Christmas, you’ll have a chance to get to know him.”

  “Christmas seems so far away,” Lily said emotionally. “I miss you.”

  “Yeah, well, right now Christmas is the best I can do. By the way, I need more money in my bank account. I’m down to fifty dollars.”

  “What happened to all the money I gave you?”

  “You haven’t given me any money since the first of the year. I spent most of it on books, remember? Look, I’m about to go into the law library, so I have to hang up. Call me later if you want to talk more.”

  After Lily disconnected, she sat there, amazed at how confident and independent Shana had become. Even as a child, she was a spit-fire.

  Tall and slender like Lily, Shana had also inherited Lily’s curly red hair. They looked so much alike, people occasionally mistook them for sisters. But Lily was an introvert and Shana was charismatic. In school, she’d formed her own posse, girls who followed her around and worshipped her. She remembered how Shana manipulated them to clean her room, do her homework, and even let her wear their favorite outfits.

  Then suddenly Shana’s carefree young life had been torn apart, and the same violent criminal had come back to tarnish her first year as a college student. So much had gone wrong, Lily thought, far more than the rapes.

  Lily was suddenly hurled back in time. She was inside the house after the rapes. She had moved back a few weeks after the attacks.

  “Shana,” Lily yelled, having just come home from work. “Come on, we’re late.”

  John had a pile of raw hamburger in a big bowl and was mixing it with ketchup, raw egg, and onions. He was making his second favorite dish after roast chicken: meatloaf. When she came through the door, he wiped his red-smeared hands on a paper towel, and Lily instantly thought of the blood-splattered body of Bobby Hernandez. Shana appeared in the kitchen, dressed neatly in a white blouse, a black skirt, and the low heels they had purchased for her to wear to the last school dance. Her hair was pulled back with a clip at the nape, the way Lily frequently wore her hair, and she looked more like fifteen than thirteen. Her eyes were solemn.

  “Go ahead and get in the car, sweetie,” Lily said. “You look so pretty. I just have to run to the bathroom.”

  “Isn’t she gorgeous?” John said, walking over and grabbing Shana around the waist and hugging her.

  Just as he started to kiss her, she pulled away and glared at him. “Stop it. I told you not to do that anymore. I’m too old for that stuff.”

  John stepped back, his mouth open, obviously hurt. Exchanging only detached eye contact with him when he looked at her for an explanation for Shana’s behavior, Lily rushed to the master bedroom and closed the door behind her, removing a bottle from the medicine cabinet. She dropped to her knees in front of the white porcelain bowl, fearing she was about to vomit. Shana was pulling away from her father, not knowing why she felt the way she did, uncertain who to trust, isolating herself from other young people. Standing and removing a Valium from the bottle, she tossed it in her mouth and leaned down to the sink, swallowing it with tap water. There was only one pill left. She would have to get the prescription refilled tomorrow.

  The Ventura Police Department was housed in a dark brown building, on a street named after a sergeant who had been killed in the line of duty: Dowell Drive. The detective met them in the lobby. Lily had known her for years.

  Detective Margie Thomas was close to retirement—or beyond, for that matter, probably surpassing the twenty-year mark several years back and electing to stay on as long as she could pass the physical. There was no doubt that this was her life and adjustments following her retirement would be difficult. Her hair was tinted a shade too dark to be flattering; she was heavy in the lower section of her body, making it look like she had an old-fashioned bustle underneath her navy-blue cotton shirtwaist dress. With thick, painted-on eyebrows and eyes almost a shade of lavender, she made Lily think of Elizabeth Taylor during her boozy, blubbery days.

  Margie took one of Shana’s hands, sat down on the lobby sofa with her, and just looked her over. “How you doing, doll?” she asked. “Boy, are you a pretty thing. You’ve got your mom to thank for that hair, that’s for sure.”

  Shana didn’t smile and slipped her hand from the detective’s. “I’m doing fine,” she answered politely. “I’d feel a lot better if you caught him, though.”

  Realizing she had never discussed this possibility with Shana, Lily wondered if she thought about this often, maybe at night in her room before she went to sleep, or in the early hours when she got up before everyone else. If only Lily could assure her that he would never hurt her again, that she’d made certain of it.

  “Okay, this is what we’re going to do today,” Margie said, her voice light and breezy, as if they were going to do something fun. “I’ve prepared some pictures of men who resemble the man you and your mother described. All have backgrounds that make them possible suspects. I’m going to let you sit at my desk, Shana, and look at half the pictures. Your mom will sit in the other room and look at the other half, and then you’ll exchange. If you see someone who resembles the man that attacked you, you’ll write down the number by his name. You may see several faces and not be certain, but that’s okay. Just be sure to write down all the numbers. She paused and looked at Shana only, aware that Lily was all too familiar with the routine. “If you do see someone, then we can try to get this man in for a real lineup so you can be absolutely certain.” She stopped and stood, adding, “Any questions and I’ll be right across the room. Okay?”

  Lily started thumbing through the photos, seeing a number of men she’d prosecuted who were back on the street and trying to recall the particulars of each case. One face she remembered fr
om years back, noting how he’d aged and recalling the ten or twelve counts of indecent exposure she’d pled and plea-bargained down to two counts and ninety days in jail. They called these men “weenie waggers,” and statistics proved they seldom committed more serious offenses. Shouldn’t even be in the lineup, Lily thought.

  After about ten minutes, she was tempted to pick up the phone on the desk of the small, glass-enclosed office and call the Oxnard PD to see if she could reach Detective Cunningham. It was too early, though, so she continued to look at the faces, no longer actually seeing them, letting her thoughts roam.