The phone or more specifically, Griff, jarred my daydream.
“Trudeau lawyered-up. There’s a hearing at three o’clock. No doubt he’ll enter a not-guilty plea and post bail. Why don’t you call Beth and tell her to get a restraining order? Better safe than sorry.”
I called Beth and told her to go directly to the DA’s office and request that Ex Parte orders for both herself and Brooke be included in Keith’s three-o’clock bail hearing. The DA, or more likely the assistant DA, Casey Dawes, would be there for the prosecution and could request the restraining order for emergency protection.
At three o’clock I slipped into the last row of seats in courtroom C. Keith Trudeau was whispering something to Gerard Becker, a scumbag defense attorney who represented others at the same level of humanity. Unfortunately, Trudeau cut a rather sharp figure. He was well over six feet, chiseled and lean, obviously a regular at some testosterone laden fitness club. He was wearing a European-cut, charcoal gray suit, white shirt and red tie. His hair was buff-colored and combed straight back from his face, all in all, a young Clint Eastwood.
“How do you plead?” Judge Canavan asked.
“Not-guilty,” Your Honor.”
Surprise, surprise, I thought. I knew Casey wouldn’t be able to keep him, but she gave it her best shot.
“Your Honor,” she said. “Keith Trudeau has a history of beating his wife who is now resting on a slab in the ME’s office. His work requires travel thus providing him the opportunity to disappear. The people request remand until trial.”
“Bail is set at fifty-thousand.” Judge Canavan let his gavel fall.
“Can we at least get a restraining order to protect Mrs. Elizabeth Jones, the victim’s sister and Brooke Trudeau, the victim’s daughter?”
“Done,” the judge said. “Next case.”
“Wait a minute, Your Honor.” Keith Trudeau stepped forward ignoring Becker’s hand on his chest.
Judge Canavan looked over wire-rimmed glasses at Trudeau. “Don’t push me, Mr. Trudeau. Consider it a gift that you’re walking out of my courtroom. I’m in a generous mood.”
“Let’s go,” Becker said.”
I stepped up to the prosecution’s desk. Casey was slipping files into an overstuffed brief case.
“Nice work.”
She dropped the strap of her bag onto her shoulder and tilted slightly under the weight of it. “He’s a bastard.”
I smiled. “And in good hands.”
NINE
At six thirty Griff tapped on my apartment door with his usual half-knock then opened it and stepped inside.
“Why do you always do that?”
“Do what?”
“That little knock.”
He shrugged. “What if you’re doing something you don’t want me to see? It gives you a moment before I come in. It’s respectful.”
“I don’t want a moment. I want you,” I said wrapping my arms around his waist as he leaned beyond me and set a bottle of German Riesling on the counter.
“Well you’ve got me and respect. What girl would argue with that?”
“You should have been a lawyer.”
“No thanks.” He walked to the cabinet and took out two stemmed wine glasses. “I heard our boy walked.”
“For fifty-thousand and a restraining order to keep him away from Beth and Brooke.”
“We both know how effective a restraining order will be against Trudeau.”
I nodded. “Casey will be all over him the minute he violates it. She made that clear.”
Griff poured our wine then carried his glass into the bathroom. I heard the shower start. Unlike a woman, who needs a variety of options when deciding what to wear, Griff kept a Red Sox tee shirt and a pair of worn out jeans in the bottom drawer of my dresser. Every night he spent at my house, which was most except for the nights he had Allie, he wore the same ensemble. I couldn’t have done it myself, but for him it worked.
“Smells great,” he said kissing the back of my neck as I poured mushroom wine sauce into a sauté pan of chicken breasts.
He set the table, served the salad, topped off our glasses and pulled out my chair for me before sitting down. I like a man who can work a kitchen as well as a crime scene.
“What did you find out at the bar?” I asked.
“Not much. The bartender recognized the picture I showed him. Trudeau was there, watching the game. Gina put Shirley’s time of death around four a.m. The game ended at ten. He said he was home around eleven-thirty. My assumption is that he came home to an empty house, suspected what was happening and went looking for her.”
“But Trudeau told the police that Shirley was in bed asleep when he got home and she was gone when he woke up in the morning.”
“He lied.”
“What time was her train leaving?”
“One a.m. I think she was already gone when he got home. He found her at the Amtrak station and dragged her into the field, or she ran into the field to get away from him. He hit her, one thing led to another and whether he meant to or not, he killed her. A nice tidy conviction.”
“You’re leaving out the elephant in the room,” I said. “Her hands were cleaned. That opens up a huge reasonable doubt for the defense.”
“Husbands kill their wives every day.”
“But they don’t wash their hands.”
After sharing the kitchen clean up, we moved into the living room. I made it through one rerun of Criminal Minds before my eyes lids started to droop.
“I’m going to bed,” I said and set my half-finished Riesling on the coffee table.
“Me too. Right after I check the score of the game.
Griff was surfing for the Red Sox game when I closed the bedroom door. I’ve come to accept the fact that few things are more important than the playoffs. I was surprised when he slipped into bed behind me just ten minutes later pulling my back against his chest.
“Mmm,” he said nuzzling my neck. “I’ll take this over a baseball game any day.”
“What’s the score?”
“Nine to one, bottom of the eighth.”
I smiled in the dark. “Not even close.”
“Nope,” he said.
His hand drifted to my stomach and he absently traced one of the scars that I’d left there years ago. I reached down and slid his hand away from it.
“Sorry,” he whispered. “I wasn’t thinking.”
“I know,” I said and patted his hand.
The randomly placed scars I’d created so many years ago had become like birthmarks on my skin, so much a part of me that I barely noticed them. I hadn’t touched a razorblade for over fifteen years. And it wasn’t the string of shrinks I’ve seen, it was getting the hell out of my parent’s house that cured me.
TEN
On Saturday, Griff and I went to the mall to check out the Kindle, the Nook and the iPad Mini. Allie was a reader. After hearing far more than necessary about 3G, e-ink, LCD screens and Wi-Fi, we opted for a Kindle and headed to Gritty’s Pub.
After a respectable two beers each and an appetizer of fire-breathing buffalo wings, we stood on the brick landing at Eliza’s and rang the bell.
The door swung open. “Hi Dad.” An entourage of pre-teens peered over Allie’s shoulders.
“Happy birthday, birthday girl,” Griff said and extended the intricately decorated gift bag I’d created in the car after a pit stop at Rite-Aid.
“Cool, thanks,” she said then glanced at me. “I hope you picked this out and didn’t leave the gift buying to him.”
“It was all him, but I think you’ll be happy.”
Allie rolled her eyes and groaned. “Not another Barbie, Dad. I’m fourteen.”
“No Barbies this year, wise guy.” He tugged on the straw-colored braid that hung down her back and we followed her through the entryway.
“Mom and Neil are in the kitchen,” she said sticking one finger into her mouth and faking a gag for the enjoyment of her friends. “C’mon,” she
said to the gaggle of girls. They left us and headed for the family room where Justin Bieber was front and center on the flat screen twisting and turning like he was dodging a Taser.
“Perfect timing as always,” Eliza said stepping into the hallway. “I’m just putting it on the table.”
I took that as a dig that I hadn’t been there to help with the preparation. Screw you, I thought, but said, “I’ll take the clean-up.”
She tossed me a smile and we took our seats. Neil was wearing sunglasses and removed them with a pout at Eliza’s request like a little kid wearing a baseball hat to dinner. I could smell the mousse in his hair, nary a one out of place, arranged to perfection just like the table before me. Fresh cut lavender irises stood like sentries in a two-foot tall crystal cylinder vase. They were flanked by butter yellow soy candles that gave way to a lime colored linen tablecloth and hand thrown ceramic plates heaped with chicken cordon-bleu, red bliss potatoes and rosemary asparagus. Poor Griff, I thought. He’d lost all this and now dined at my Ikea table set with Fiesta Ware from Target eating whatever promised to be the quickest option in my Betty Crocker Cookbook. A piece of chicken melted in my mouth and I hoped I made it up to him in other ways.
The girls moved past us en masse, heading for the kitchen and the pizzas that lined the counter top.
“Use plates,” Eliza called over her shoulder. “I don’t want cheese all over my carpets.”
“I read about that woman that was killed at the Amtrak station,” Neil said. “You two have anything to do with that?”
“Yeah, I used a tire iron,” Griff answered.
“Huh?” Neil looked up. A thin string of asparagus hung from his bottom lip and I wished Allie were there to enjoy it with me.
I shook my head. “That’s low.”
“Oh, I get it.” Neil laughed.
Quick on the uptake, I thought and kicked Griff under the table. He didn’t look at me, but I saw him smirk, pleased with himself.
“Actually, we’re both on the case,” he said.
“It’s the husband’s, right?” Neil asked. “Isn’t it always the husband?”
Griff shrugged. “Not always, but this one’s looking that way.”
“What was she beaten with?”
“Why do you need to know that? It’s heartbreaking.” Eliza said. “And brings back memories. Not good ones.”
Neil’s eyes shifted from Eliza to Griff. “What’s that mean?”
“I volunteered at the womens’ shelter when I was in college,” Eliza said. “I saw some angry husbands, but nothing like this.”
“Has he been arrested?” Neil asked.
He reached for the bowl of potatoes and I noticed that his fingers were unusually long and thin, almost dainty. I didn’t think I could date a guy whose hands were more feminine than my own.
“Out on bail with a restraining order,” Griff said then added, “This is delicious, El.”
She looked up at him and smiled. “Thanks.”
I could tell from the tone of her response that she was appreciative not of Griff’s compliment but of the fact that he was trying to steer the conversation away from the violence of his work.
My cell phone interrupted and I stepped out of the room to answer it. As I went into the hallway I heard Neil.
“Do you think he beat her to death with his hands or did he have a weapon?”
A fucking ton of bricks, I thought. “Hello?” It was Casey.
“Hate to interrupt your Saturday night, but I thought you might want to know that Trudeau violated the restraining order.”
“What happened?”
“He went to Beth Jones’ house demanding to see his daughter. Sounds like it got out of control pretty fast. She called the station and they picked him up.”
“He won’t be getting out again now.”
“Not for a while at least,” she said.
“We’ll head over to Beth’s and keep you posted. Thanks, Casey.” Before I’d taken two steps back toward the dining room, my phone rang again. It was Beth.
“Britt? He was here. He came right…he tried to take Brooke. I…I…”
“Beth, calm down. I know. The Assistant D.A called. I know Keith violated the order.”
“How could that happen? You said we’d be safe. This is why my sister’s dead. This is the reason…the police…they don’t do anything…they can’t keep anyone safe. And Shirley’s dead because…because…” Her voice broke.
“Beth, are you alone?”
“My husband’s here, he’s taking the kids to his parents’ house.”
“We’re on our way.”
I stepped back into the room. Three sets of eyes begged an explanation after hearing my half of the conversation.
“Trudeau violated the order. They picked him up at Beth’s. She’s frantic.” Griff wiped his mouth on the green linen napkin and dropped it beside his plate then looked at Eliza. “Sorry.”
“The guy’s nuts, huh?” Neil grinned.
“Looks that way,” Griff said.
Neil shoved a small potato into his mouth, his cheek bulging. “Guess I should have gone into another line of work. You people have all the fun.”
“Tell that to Shirley Trudeau,” I said, leaving out the word asshole, which I so wanted to tag onto the end of my sentence.
“Where’re you going?” Allie asked spreading herself across the front door when she saw us putting on our coats. “We haven’t even had the cake.”
Griff pulled her to him and kissed the top of her head. “Gotta take a rain check, honey. Duty calls.”
“What about if I call?” she asked then immediately changed tactics. “It’s okay Dad, I understand and I forgive you. I know it doesn’t mean you don’t love me if you have to go to work.”
I smiled listening to the phrase I’d heard Griff drill into her for the past six years. His persistence had paid off.
He leaned into her and whispered, “That makes one understanding woman living in this house.”
Allie giggled and swung the door wide.
“Call me after you open your present,” Griff said to her from across the driveway.
Allie saluted and closed the door.
ELEVEN
Griff pulled the car into Beth Jones’ driveway and cut the engine.
“Should we go in together?” I asked.
“Why not?”
“I don’t want to overwhelm her.” I nodded toward the cruiser parked in front of us. A uniform leaned against the driver’s side door cleaning his fingernails, obviously bored with his protection detail. With this guy representing the force, it was no wonder Beth was short on faith.
“She called us, remember?”
“She called me,” I said.
“So you’re welcome and I’m not?”
“That’s not what I’m saying, but I might get more out of her without you. I don’t think she feels an unwavering trust in men right now.”
“I apologize for my gender, but I still have to do my job. How about if I put on my knight in armor persona?”
Between my work in family law and my own history, my trust in men often gets blurry. Griff was used to it. Now, like any good knight, he was giving me time to back pedal and I retreated. “I thought your shining armor was reserved for me?”
“I’ll just bring my shield, leave the lance in the car.”
“In that case you can come.”
We rang the bell and almost immediately Beth pulled back the curtain that blocked three small windows at the top of the door. After a series of locks tumbled free, she opened the door a few inches and looked at us. Her face was pale and made paler still by the purple bruise on her cheek. I waited for her to broaden the width of the open door so we could step inside, but she didn’t.
“Can we come in, Beth?” I asked.
She looked at me for a few seconds, wary as a timid dog then stepped back and dropped her hands to her sides, nodding for us to enter.
The shades were drawn and a
desk lamp in the corner gave off the only light.
It didn’t feel like the same house or woman we’d dealt with forty-eight hours ago.
“Where are the children?” I asked.
“At my in-laws. Andy, my husband, just left with them, he’s taking them to his parents’ house.”
“Why didn’t you go with them?”
She gave me a half-smile, mocking my question then winced and raised her hand to her cheek. “You sound like Andy. He’s furious that I didn’t. But I needed to get some clothes together and I want to drive my own car. I have to have a car, what if…” She sank onto the couch, tears making tracks down her cheeks. “Mostly, I just needed to be alone. The police have Keith. I’m safe for now.”
“What happened when he got here?”
She took a deep breath and sat up straight, her gaze landed on the pictures that lined the mantle. She kept her eyes on Shirley’s smiling face as she spoke. “Someone was banging, pounding on the door. I went to see who it was and as soon as I opened it Keith shoved his way in almost knocking me over.”
“Where was Brooke?”
“Downstairs playing with Jake. He told me to go get her and her things, that she was going with him where she belonged.”
“What did you do?”
“I told him that Brooke was staying with me, that until the trial was over it was the best place for her. That’s when he shoved me. I hit the corner of the table when I fell.”
She motioned to the coffee table and then laid her fingertips gently against her cheek, now a purple egg beneath her eye. “Thank God I’d been holding my cell phone. I hit 911 just before he kicked it out of my hand. It stayed on even though I couldn’t get to it. The operator must have heard Keith yelling at me and traced the call. Police showed up about ten minutes later.”
“What happened in the time between the phone call and their arrival?”
“He tried to get downstairs to Brooke. There was no way I was going to let him. I locked the door to the basement. It has one of those old fashioned skeleton keys and I threw it out the back door. Can you imagine? I locked a three and four-year-old in the basement. They’ll probably arrest me next, but it was all I could think of.” She wrung her hands together as she spoke.
The Church of the Holy Child Page 5