The video showed that the night Donnettelli breathed his last, a whole parade of people were in or near his chambers throughout the evening, but no one in the early hours of the morning. The shooter had to be someone who knew the security cameras’ dead spots.
They had another video showing last Thursday when I’d stopped in to pick up Laurel and Palene. Damn. Once I retired from the Courthouse, I should have never entered it again.
From the list of people known to be in the Courthouse the evening before Donnettelli died, Sebastian and I made a suspect list: Judge Laurel Briggs and her Law Clerk Zena Royale, Judge Jurisa Haddes and her Law Clerk Keldon McKean, of course Team Donnettelli: his Law Clerk Peter Dune, his Court Reporter Noel Lemmon, and his Judicial Assistant Renee Reed, Supreme Court Law Clerk, Wade Mazour, Jose the custodian and one of his staff, and the Security Officer. Basically, because there weren’t any cameras in Donnettelli’s chambers or at the ends of hallways, no Courthouse employee could be eliminated.
For my money, Team Donnettelli in its entirety was suspect. If I’d worked for him, he’d have been dead long ago. But none of his staff looked sinister. Law Clerk Peter Dune looked like a long, lean Howdy Doody, and where Peter was concerned, life was a mission to make people laugh. Court Reporter Noel Lemmon was tall, too. But he was strongly built, athletic, and dark. Well-cut brown hair, attentive brown eyes. And little Renee Reed posed an enormous threat to stray ladybugs and spiders on the small side. She was always neat and clean but gave the impression she’d never seen a fashion magazine.
Sebastian opened the newspaper and handed me Sunday’s Lansing State Journal—with an above-the-fold photo of a couple of state senators, three judges, some law clerks, a court reporter—the list went on and on.
On the front lawn of Law Clerk Peter Dune’s house, police were cuffing the two senators. The men, having been inside Howdy Doodyville at an all-night poker party-turned-brawl, all tried to hide their faces from the camera.
But there was no mistake who they were.
The senators were taken into custody at 4:07 before the sun was up and were back in their own homes before lunch was served, so we scratched that party off our list.
The newspaper also reported that—from his chambers—Donnettelli had phoned Peter Dune at two in the morning. Nobody had a guess about what he was doing in his chambers at that hour.
And for the kicker, the detectives had the security video of Donnettelli and me in the hallway—that day he’d blackmailed me. With me finger-shooting him and promising to send him to hell without a handbasket.
Those recordings were overwritten every eight days, which meant somebody had gone out of his or her way to save it—just to make me look guilty. Some tech savvy person was working a long-term plan to frame me. When I left that day, Peter Dune had been standing there with Jurisa.
But Sebastian wasn’t done with his report. He looked altogether too serious when he told me preliminary tests showed my DNA from some old blood found on the barrel of the gun. That would be the gun that had fatally shot Donnettelli Thursday—just hours before my Friday opening.
When I reminded Sebastian I hadn’t been near Donnettelli since that day in the elevator, my loyal lawyer offhandedly reported some recent news: “50-year-old DNA just provided a break in the Boston Strangler murder case.” Subtle, Sebastian. Very subtle.
It was clear the detectives weren’t interested in looking for the real shooter. Years of hearing expert testimony, had taught me the chance of finding a usable print on a gun was less than five percent. I knew with a DNA tie to me and a shortage of law enforcement, the likelihood of them seriously looking for the real killer was also less than five percent. I needed to find the killer myself, I was certain—one-hundred percent.
I’d told everybody that I was pushing the gun Donnettelli had pointed at me, away, back toward him. Sebastian believed me.
Damn, just recalling it made me sweat. In that instant, I had wished Donnettelli dead, wished him shot, wished him away from me.
So, who wished me behind bars?
Chapter Thirteen
I bet more than one person was colluding to frame me, but—in that scenario—how does Donnettelli end up dead? I’d have put him as the lead colluder.
I needed answers and evidence. I was certain both were locked inside the Courthouse, in Donnettelli’s Chambers or his bench desk. Fortunately, I had friends in that Courthouse.
I dialed Laurel. On the second ring, she picked up, but was breathing hard. “This had better be good.” She sounded as serious as Laurel ever got.
I felt my face blush. “Oh,” I said. “Tell Michael I’m sorry for interrupting.” I started to hang up.
But Laurel burst into laughter. “Michael left an hour ago. I’m on the treadmill listening to GMA and de-spreading the parts of me that sit on the bench.”
Fewer bonbons might be the answer, but since I routinely camped out in a glass house eating my weight in coffee ice cream, I squashed that suggestion. I giggled. “I’m hoping you can help me sleuth through Donnettelli’s office. Maybe spy on Jurisa. I suspect they’ve been bird hunting, and I was their targeted pigeon.”
There was a longish pause, and then Laurel was back. “Count me in,” she said.
Another pause.
Then Laurel gasped.
What on earth? “Are you okay?”
“Charley horse,” she croaked. “Let’s talk later. Call Palene; she’s always up for undercover missions.” Before I could say goodbye, Laurel moaned and clicked off.
I dialed Palene.
“What’s up?” she said. “Need bail money?” Her warm voice was full of laughter.
“Ha. Ha. Better than bail money,” I said. “I need your help. Donnettelli and Jurisa were up to something before he . . . expired. And I need—”
“Those two were always trouble, and since his murder, Jurisa seems more canine than human. Possibly rabid.”
“I just need you to—”
“Sorry friend, I’m on my way to a week-long judicial-evidence-update class. I’ll help you after I return. In the meantime, I know Laurel will tell you everything.”
I wished her well and clicked off. Damn. Some things a girl just had to do herself. I’d have to get inside the Courthouse without violating bond conditions.
Damn GPS tether locked in my location at all times. But there were ways around the GPS, and I was not above using them. I recalled testimony about tether violations—it was true that tampering with the gizmo would set off an alarm, but I could at least confuse the signal and ruin the recording for a short time.
My gut told me that once I got in, I’d figure out what the hell had happened since I’d escaped that hole of injustice for judges.
As often as Laurel and Palene and I had reported Donnettelli, the Judicial Tenure Commission never investigated or provided any assistance, and it was their job to monitor judicial behavior on and off the bench. They weren’t going to help me now.
Someone hated me enough to croak Donnettelli and blame it on me, but who? What if killing him could have been a perk for someone who wanted to hurt me? That thought seemed a little ego-centric, but if I wanted to stay free, I had to consider all options, likely and unlikely.
I tugged up the right leg of my jeans and scratched my ankle. Damn tether. Damn uncomfortable. And damn ugly.
Chapter Fourteen
The salon’s backdoor, which opened into the rear parking lot, slammed, and I twisted in my chair to see who was about to pass by.
Margo stuck her head into my office. “Nice boot bracelet, and interesting choice camouflaging that hideous tether in your leg grass.”
“Haven’t you got bottles of shampoo to count?” I tried not to scrunch my nose at her. Fear of early wrinkles. I could give her sixty seconds; then, I had to press forward with my murderer hunt.
She sported a new row of
vibrant-blue braids intertwined with purple atop her dark roots, another step toward inventing her new look to go with her new life. “If you don’t mow that nasty leg hair, people might get the wrong idea about how we beautify our clients.”
I shot her my judicial eyebrow-chin combo. “I’ve been contemplating how to get inside the Courthouse with this damn tether on.”
“We can’t run this place with you directing us from jail,” Margo said, hands on hips.
“Someone in the Courthouse knows something. Donnettelli’s gun from his desk killed him. And you know I haven’t been near him or the Courthouse.” I admit I got a little louder than I’d intended.
“I’ll testify to that.” Margo reached into her shoulder bag and tossed a pink, furry, beaded thing at my head.
I snagged it. Eek. With a finger and thumb, I held it at arm’s length. “Why’d you scalp a Teletubby?”
“Just giving you a dose of your own advice.” She grinned like she was up to no good. “Remember the naughty pole dancer in your Courtroom?”
I did remember the pole dancer, who’d needed her costume to match. I’d been more creative than sympathetic. The irony didn’t escape me.
“No one will ever know you’re wearing it.” Margo cracked her Juicy Fruit.
I rolled my foot right then left and looked from the tether to the fluff. “Kind of cute.”
“This is just for you. And if it works as well as I expect, I’ll be opening a little side business.” She cruised her French manicure over her miniskirt, opened her bag, and whipped out a mini hot-glue gun.
“Thank you for thinking of me in my hour of need.”
“It’s pink; it’s cute; it fits over your tether, and it looks better than the grasslands. Totally you.” She latched onto the tether and aimed the hot-glue gun. She fired, smacked on the pink furry bling, and fingered it in place.
And there was the answer, plain as the Teletubby attached to my ankle. Disguises. I’d find my way into the Courthouse.
“You know I’m here for you, Judge,” Margo said with real sincerity.
“And if I get violated for tether obstruction, you’re bailing me out.” Pink fluff was certain to be high on their wicked-behavior radar. I expected some uniformed over-achieving monitor to crash in any second.
I nose-pointed toward my empty coffee mug. “Bedazzle my cup?” I slipped on my boots, and the blinged-out tether fit. I couldn’t stop myself from smiling.
Margo twirled to the coffee station. “You can’t fool me. You love the bling.” She whistled. “Need a new pink teddy, yeah-baby.”
Yeah, baby. Now I had to get in and look at the public records for those asbestos cases Donnettelli cared so much about. No more interruptions.
But in less than a minute, the backdoor buzzer announced Trisha, and three seconds later she peeked into my office. I stood and greeted her with a hug.
She pulled back and fired me a look of maternal concern. “You look shattered.”
“No right way to wear lack of sleep.”
Trisha placed a red can of extra-strength hairspray in my palm and headed toward the reception desk. “You’ve no scheduled clients for two hours. Why are you here so early?” she called at me while still moving forward.
Clutching the comforting hairspray, I followed her across the long room. “I can’t read your chicken-warrior scrolls. No shorthand in the appointment book, please.”
At the reception desk up front, I looked at the schedule book. “I wanted to manage the café deliveries.”
“The law students you hired arrived timely and are trained to please.” Trisha beamed pleasure. “They’re savage.”
“Not my law students anymore. The Dean politely swooped in to teach my classes until I’m no longer starring in murder headlines.” I couldn’t hide my sadness about losing the ability to teach law students I loved. “It also means we can’t fail, because I won’t have that extra income to repay the loan I took against my retirement.”
“Judge, you don’t have a thing to worry about.” Trisha wide-tooth grinned. She patted my hand, but then like a magic trick, her face turned to total disapproval. “But that interview you did last night on WILX—”
The tips of my ears burned. “Oh, you heard that, did you?”
“You’ve always been straight-to-the-point, Judge.” Trisha fanned her own face. “A bold move to offer free haircuts to anyone in the Courthouse.”
“I’m hoping they’ll come, and they’ll chat.”
“Frankly,” Trisha said, “I’m surprised Attorney Pearce approved it.”
“He didn’t.” And damn him, he had no right to make me feel guilty for trying to keep myself out of prison.
Trisha made a silent Oh. After a second, she gave me a knowing look. “He had a lawyerly tantrum?”
“For hours.” I hated to remember it. “But in the radio spot, I urged anyone with information to turn it over to me, Sebastian, and to the detectives.”
“So they couldn’t accuse you of interfering with the investigation.”
Trisha was a smart lady. Patting my hand again, she used her strongest voice and said, “Not to worry, Judge. Somebody knows, and somebody will talk. And Attorney Pearce adores you. He’ll be around with nothing but sweet talk. You’ll see.”
I loved Sebastian’s sweet talk, to be sure. But I need his best legal strategy to get me out of this mess.
Chapter Fifteen
Trisha and I went into the workroom, and I tightened the gap between us. “I need you to keep on top of the Courthouse gossip.”
At that moment, Carlye Brewer sashayed in.
“What’s alla this?” All of Carlye headed toward me like a swanky female freight train. “You bein’ in the headlines is what’s brung me here.”
What a surprise. “Gorgeous Gal, you could have just called,” I said. “But I’m so happy to see you.” And I was. I’d never seen Carlye outside of a courtroom. And she wasn’t on the county payroll.
She tossed her bag down between the second-and-third-chair-combined station and sat. A parrot rested on her shoulder—a real parrot.
I mulled over the politically correct way to ask a patron to perch her pet on the porch. Carlye was a grateful rehabilitated prostitute I’d kept off the streets and away from a killer pimp. She extended her hand toward me, and a tiny paper bag dangled from her thumb and forefinger.
Trisha punctuated her silent giggle with a giant question mark. It was apparent she recognized Carlye.
I accepted the brown bag and opened it. It could hold anything from a candy bar to a gilded bra to a lighted belly-button ring. I felt paper. And relief. I pulled out three sticky pads letter-shaped: I-O-U. “What’s this?”
“I’ve decided to work for you,” Carlye said.
Squawk.
“I mean we—me and my Shazam—to thank you for all you done for me.” Carlye handed me a pile of documents. “I am legit. I been to more hairdresser classes than anyone else you gonna get. And, you might forget alla those classes you sent me to. It’s all in here. Check it out.”
I flipped through, and she was right. She had been busy since I’d sentenced her and successfully released her from probation. “Impressive,” I said and returned the papers to her. I needed another stylist, but a felon?
Carlye gave me a big head-bob and planted her tools on the second-station granite, gazed into the mirror, and teased her bangs and her crown. “I seen alla your ads. Been figuring you’d need help, and I got lotsa clients who love my stylin’.”
“I’ve held off hiring spa staff and filling stylist stations—”
Carlye pulled out a black appointment book from her bag and gave it to me.
“Clients and appointments. Mostly men. They is all legit. Salon-johns.” She swirled her hips and returned to Station Two and kept arranging her things while she spoke. “They say I g
ot the best hands for all their needs: cuts, shaves, massages, manicures—the works.”
“You mean here? You’re bringing your clients here?” I asked her.
But she wasn’t listening. After she smoothed her hair, she sprayed and clamped the long back strands up with a green, red, and yellow feather that fluttered in front of her right ear. “I’m just loving this crimson hair color against my creamy toffee. I look de-lish.”
I hadn’t considered stylists as appetizers. I didn’t want to consider it now. “Enticing,” I said.
“My scheduled first day is full.” She grabbed a hand-held mirror and positioned it high over her head and looked up. “This lighting is good on my complexion. I’m gonna like it here.”
“Space hog.” Squawk. “Sunday Astronaut.” Squawk. Shazam was Carlye’s Amazon Parrot—part inheritance, part payment from a client, who’d died on her—literally, she explained, and we watched Shazam fly up into the rafters.
I was happy he didn’t tip over a hanging plant or knock crystals off the chandeliers. I acted as if flocks of raucous-feathered creatures swarmed me every day. But I discreetly slid out from under Shazam—no need to be his new favorite windshield. In some respects, all birds were alike.
“I do need to hire more stylists, and a manicurist.”
Carlye jumped and hugged me. I would have toppled over had we not backed into the countertop. “I knows I can help you like you helped me.”
Carlye released me, and it took a second to catch up on my breathing.
She was preparing her station for her first client. I had somehow agreed to hire her—but not her parrot. “I’m not licensed for pets,” I said.
I walked up front and handed Carlye’s appointment book to Trisha. “These need to be entered into the computer.”
“Shazam fends off bad karma,” Carlye said behind me.
Squawk. “Pic-a-nic baskets.” Shazam bumped a hanging spider plant, and crumbles of dirt floated down into the hair-washing sink.
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