Reckless

by Selena Montgomery

  Cereal sat on the breakfast bar where the chair had fallen. Milk congealed around oat rings that bubbled in the heat. The kitchen sink held a butter knife bent at the tip and mismatched forks with plastic handles. Mildew crept around the fixtures, black and grimy. The deceased hadn’t been much of a housekeeper.

  In the center of the room rested the body, blood pooled near the legs and lower torso. A gaunt pale face stared blankly at the popcorn ceiling. The room’s only window held a box fan that hadn’t been turned on for a while, judging from the smell. Two days gone, and not a soul had noticed. Not until the smell had permeated the next-door neighbor’s home, who called in a complaint about the odor.

  Moving to his deputy’s position, he asked, “Know who’ve we got, Richardson?”

  Deputy Cheryl Richardson glanced up, set down her camera and inclined her head. “No official ID yet, Sheriff, but that weasel, Emmit Purdy, confirmed—” She stopped, seeing movement behind him. “Out. Right now.”

  “This is my building.” A bald head with protruding ears poked into the doorway. When he caught sight of Luke, he hurried forward. “Sheriff Calder! I need to speak with you. I’ve got a right to my money.”

  Cheryl waved him back. “Do not enter, Mr. Purdy. I told you to wait for me downstairs.”

  “The sheriff can make me leave if he wants to, girlie.” The super crossed into the room, a bony finger pointing to the body. Sidestepping the overturned chair, he made a beeline for the half-opened drawer, muttering as he snatched at the handle. Luke moved to stop him, but Cheryl was faster.

  “Mr. Purdy! This is a crime scene.” Cheryl shoved him away from the dresser and clutched his arm to remove him. Purdy aimed his captured elbow at her stomach, which Cheryl easily evaded. Instead, Cheryl hooked a leg behind him and tumbled Purdy to the floor. With efficient motions, she had him on his stomach, a foot planted between his shoulder blades, his hands manacled in hers. “And the name is Deputy Richardson, not girlie.”

  “Purdy.” Luke advanced toward the fallen man. “Don’t make Deputy Richardson arrest you for assaulting an officer. Again.”

  Lifting his head awkwardly, Purdy complained, “I just wanted to look in the drawer, Sheriff. That meth-head Clay Griffin, Sheriff, owed me rent, the bum. Coming and going and dealing, driving a new car and buying all kinds fancy equipment, but never able to make the rent on time. I want my money,” he announced dolefully.

  Luke motioned to Cheryl to release Purdy, and she reluctantly lifted her boot and freed his hands. While Purdy scrambled up, she planted herself between him and the dresser with its half-opened drawer. She gritted out, “Do not enter the premises again, Mr. Purdy. Next time, you’re going to the station.”

  Mr. Purdy sputtered, “Can’t keep me out of my own apartment. I watch television. I’ve got rights.” He tried to skirt around her, and when she blocked his path, he spun on his heel and faced Luke, whining, “I think he kept his stash in that there drawer. I’ve got bills to pay, and he owes me rent. Just let me get what’s mine and I’ll be on my way.”

  Hiding a grin, Luke stepped forward and draped an arm around the older man’s spindly shoulders. The flush on Cheryl’s cheek meant that she had her temper by a very fine thread. With an insistent grip, he steered the super toward the door. “Mr. Purdy. We’ve been over this before. This is a crime scene. Until we’ve finished up in here, you can’t come inside. You can’t claim property, and you can’t touch anything. Remember?”

  “But, Sheriff, the man owes me money. And if he’s dead, how’s he gonna pay? You tell me that? People die around here or get arrested and they never have to pay. How’s decent folks supposed to make a living?”

  “Stop renting to deadbeats and hoodlums,” muttered Cheryl as she returned to her post by the deceased.

  “Whatcha say?” Mr. Purdy shot an angry look at the back of her head. When she didn’t respond, he appealed to Luke, “I just try to make sure everybody’s got a place to lay their heads at night. I don’t discriminate, not like some folks. I say money’s green, you’re right with me. I don’t put nobody on the street.”

  “Of course you don’t, Mr. Purdy.” Luke nodded in support, guiding the man steadily to the door. He didn’t add that Purdy’s indifference to the source of income explained his high-default rate. “The Palace has just had a run of bad luck.”

  Hearing the sympathy, Mr. Purdy hung his bald head and shook it limply, glancing back forlornly at the drawer. He stopped in the hallway and glared at Cheryl, who refused to look up. Thwarted, he turned his attention to Luke and fixed his face with a placating smile that revealed yellowing teeth. “I’m trying to make an honest living, Sheriff. Like every man’s gotta right to.”

  “Absolutely,” Luke replied, bracing his arm on the doorjamb, effectively blocking the smaller man. “And it’s my job to make sure that you aren’t constantly bothered by a criminal element intent on preying on your residents.”

  “Good. Good.” Mr. Purdy sidled closer to Luke and whispered, “Any money you find in here belongs to me first, right?”

  “I’ll make a note in the file.” Luke clapped the man on the shoulder. “If you could do me a favor, Mr. Purdy?”

  “Yes, sir. Whatcha need?”

  “Run downstairs and let Deputy Brooks know that he can head back to the station. Chief Deputy Richardson and I will handle it from here. Also, please direct the ambulance to this apartment when they arrive, okay?”

  Puffing out, Purdy bobbed his head in assent. “Happy to, Sheriff. Anything for the law.” He started down the dimly lit hallway. He paused and turned. “You’ll check the drawers for me, right?”

  “I’ll make sure you get what you deserve, Mr. Purdy.” When Purdy disappeared around the corner, Luke returned to the victim’s prone form and squatted beside Cheryl. “He touch anything else in here?”

  “No, sir. Was afraid to come inside until I arrived, and I had Brooks take him downstairs to pull Griffin’s file.” Sliding seamlessly into her report, she continued, “Neighbor called in a complaint about the smells emanating from the apartment around nine A.M. Says she came over and knocked on the door, but no one answered. Deputy Brooks and I responded at nine twenty-seven A.M. and requested entry. When we received no response, we tried the door and found it unlatched. We entered the premises with Mr. Purdy and saw the body.”

  Cheryl pointed to the corpse. “The victim was stabbed in the thigh, Sheriff. Severed his femoral artery, from the looks of it.”

  “Strange way to kill a drug dealer,” Luke murmured. “Intimate.”

  “Intimate?”

  Nodding, Luke pointed at the ugly gash in the inner leg. “Most stab wounds are to obvious places. The throat, the heart. Easy to reach locations. Stabbing a man in the thigh is specific. Personal. The killer would likely know that the wound bleeds quickly, that a cut there is always fatal if not treated immediately.”

  “So his killer knew him.”

  “Probably.” Luke continued to study the body. “From the smell and the state of rigor, I’d say he died thirty-six to forty-eight hours ago, but the coroner can confirm.”

  “The body doesn’t appear to have been moved. Whoever stabbed him left him here to die.” She gestured to the floor. “He didn’t try to crawl to the phone or get help. Just bled to death.”

  “Any sign of the weapon?”

  “No, sir. The only knife in the apartment is in the sink, and this wound looks too clean to have come from something that dull.” Cheryl speculated, “I assume the killer took the knife with him.”

  “Makes sense. Anything else?”

  She jerked her chin at the television set. “Sir, that flat screen costs a cool three thousand. My husband James has been drooling over them ever since Hopkin’s Electronics got one in stock. And my kids got that Xbox for Christmas. Four hundred bucks.”

  “Yet the vic’s got a broken couch and a crate as furniture. And according to Purdy’s rant, he also has a brand-new car.”

  “A Hummer,” Cher
yl offered with an arched brow. “Brooks is having it impounded.”

  Luke released a low whistle. “Have Brooks run a title search and see who offered our local dealer credit or if they took cash.”

  “Will do.” She rose and walked to the drawer that Purdy tried to open. “Last thing, sir. The drawers were empty when we arrived. The top one was shut, and the bottom one barely opens. Whoever was here pulled out the middle drawer and left it open. Purdy thinks it’s where Griffin kept his stash.”

  “So they steal his drugs but not the merchandise.”

  “Perhaps. I’m dusting it for residue and prints. Purdy got his hands on it before, so we’ll have to account for his prints too. I’d like to send it to the lab for testing.”

  “You thinking this was a drug deal gone sour?”

  “Yes, sir. Sad, but not unexpected. Clay Griffin has been in trouble since he was a kid. In fact, I collared him my first day on the job. He lived at the Center for a while when I was there, but even Mrs. Faraday couldn’t keep him on the narrow.”

  From his crouch near the body, Luke lifted one of Clay’s hands to his nose. He sniffed once, then took a deeper draught. “Pine oil.”

  Cheryl frowned. “Sir?”

  “His hand smells like pine oil. And there’s some residue on the skin.” Luke turned the hand palm up. “Under the fingernails and on the tips. There’s something sticky. Not meth.”

  “You could smell pine oil through that stink?”

  Luke quirked the corner of his mouth. “We all have our talents, Richardson.” He gently replaced the hand and moved down to the shoes. “Same smell here, but mixed with something earthier. There’s soil in the grooves. Have the lab run tests on the shoes and whatever is under his nails.”

  Cheryl took notes and glanced at her boss. “You don’t think this is a drug deal.”

  Rising to his feet, Luke gave a diffident shrug. “Don’t know. Just seems to me, if you’re going to kill a man over a drug deal, you’d take the three thousand in merchandise and the fifty-thousand-dollar truck and not just what’s in a drawer.”

  Chagrined that she missed the details, she murmured, “Of course, sir. I wasn’t thinking.”

  “Deputy, when a drug dealer dies, nine times out of ten, the killer was one of his own.” He walked to the door. “This simply might be time number ten.”

  Kell Jameson curled manicured fingers on the jury rail and leaned in close. “The prosecutor expects you to believe that my client is a maniac. That the man you watched on Tuesday nights for eleven seasons simply snapped. That a terrible accident, brought on by age and outrage, should be treated as vehicular homicide. Paul Brodie played America’s father—both on television and in real life. The Brodie Foundation sends children to summer camp at Lake Harrell, giving them a chance to know a different way to live. When his co-star Denise Terry faced a crippling disease, he donated millions for her care. When his on-screen daughter, Nicole Monroe, struggled with alcoholism and drug addiction, he didn’t turn away. He placed her in rehab and stayed by her side. When his nephew, the actor—”

  “Objection, Your Honor.” Chére Debue, the prosecutor, stood up, head shaking. “This isn’t the sentencing hearing, Judge. These facts are not relevant to the case.”

  Kell turned quickly to face the judge, her face grim. “I disagree. Your Honor, these facts are essential to this case. More importantly, they are central to my closing argument, which is not subject to objection by the prosecution, which she may have forgotten. The Georgia Rules of Criminal Procedure clearly allow an attorney to offer information during closing arguments that may aid the jury in reaching its decision, where such information is not a misstatement, prejudicial, or a personal attack.”

  The D.A. snorted. “I don’t see how recounting Mr. Brodie’s humanitarian efforts are germane to a case of road rage that made him leave a man in a burning car.”

  Before Kell could muster her objection, the judge barked out, “Attorneys, approach!”

  In a sleek black suit that stopped an inch shy of inappropriate, D.A. Debue strode up to the bench. In a tight whisper, she hissed, “She’s crossed the line, Your Honor. And, I must say, I am surprised that you’ve allowed her to make a mockery of your court. Ms. Jameson has turned this case into a circus, with you as the ringmaster. Cameras follow everyone. A juror had to be released because he couldn’t take the attention. Now, you’re allowing her to canonize a murderer because he reads cue cards well and looks like Santa Claus. I expected more of the courts, sir.”

  Kell watched in silent glee as Judge Harold Post darkened from his normally ruddy hue to a color approaching eggplant. Resisting the urge to speak, she simply stared at the judge and waited for the explosion. It wasn’t long in coming.

  “Enough.” Judge Post clamped his hand over the microphone. “That is enough, Ms. Debue.” Sputtering, he blasted in a low voice, “If anyone has crossed the line, you have. I allowed this case to move forward, expecting you to provide some scintilla of evidence that Paul Brodie had intentionally driven that man off the road. Instead, what you have produced is random theory strung together with innuendo. While I have half a mind to grant the defense’s motion for a directed verdict, for the sake of the Fulton County D.A.’s reputation, I will allow this farce to come to a merciful end.”

  “But, Your Honor—”

  “Objection overruled, Ms. Debue.”

  Removing his hand from the mike, he waved them away from the bench. He pronounced again, “Objection overruled.”

  Kell repressed a look of triumph and turned back to the rapt jury, projecting the mix of sorrow and compassion that had swayed juries in verdict after verdict. She pitched her voice soft, tinged by the traces of Southern honey that she had ruthlessly exorcised in law school and kept hidden until necessary. “Paul Brodie is an elderly man today. One who, on a rainy night, failed to notice that he cut off a driver on I–85. One who drove up beside that driver later to apologize. One who was terrified by the sight of a gun and tried to speed away. One who will always regret that his SUV slid across the slick asphalt and collided with the truck. One who will never forget the six rolls that ended tragically against the guardrail that night.”

  She fixed her sights on a man in his early thirties, one who had grown up, like her, with Paul Brodie’s American Dad spouting clichéd one-liners about family values and loyalty. Juror number seven would never hear about the sobriety test Paul had failed or the spiked levels of Viagra in his system that had acted like adrenaline in a man on too many legal pharmaceuticals. Evidence that had been tossed out because the police got overly excited about meeting a celebrity.

  “If you believe Paul Brodie, America’s dad, would intentionally drive a man to his death, that he would glory in the sight of a car exploding, then you do not know Paul Brodie. He not only welcomed us into his television home, but he has opened his very soul to you during this trial. Look inside, I implore each of you, and tell me if you see the ugly, bitter man the prosecution describes. If you don’t…” She paused here, letting the honey thicken and the image linger. “If you don’t, then you must return a verdict of not guilty and send Paul home to his family.”

  The moment on film would have called for her to hang her head, but Kell didn’t believe in overkill. Instead, she turned slowly on the Manolo Blahniks she treated herself to last month, made of a supple aubergine leather that matched her Calvin Klein suit with its pencil-thin skirt.

  Behind her, Juror Seven focused on the sculpted calves and generous curves that the tailored suit highlighted. Juror Four appreciated the purposeful yet graceful stride that belied three-inch heels made of splinters. For his part, Juror Eleven wondered if the stunning attorney wore more than the bare essentials beneath the jacket that framed her narrow waist in sharp relief.

  Kell wasn’t privy to the thoughts of the jurors, but none of them would have surprised her. She chose her wardrobe as carefully as her words. All designed to project femininity, accessibility and confidence and to mas
k the killer instinct that gave her a 90 percent win rate in court. Sliding into the seat beside her partner, David Trent, Kell listened to Judge Post as he offered jury instructions. Paul Brodie was led back to the court’s holding cell, with a reminder from Kell to speak to no one.

  When the jury filed out of the courtroom and the judge declared a recess, she leaned in to David. “Fifty says they’re back in under thirty minutes.”

  “Come on, Kell, not even you’re that good. It’ll take that long to get their lunch order straight.” David brushed a finger along the back of her hand. “But add a night at my place, and you’ve got a bet.”

  Kell and David did this dance at least once a week. Despite her resistance to the idea of expanding their relationship, David tried his best. As she did each time he asked, she queried, “Is the cat gone?”

  David scowled. “Pepper has been with me since college, Kell.”

  Kell’s hand disappeared into her lap, while the other drummed a restless tattoo on the defense table. “As long as the cat is in residence, I’m not. You know the rules.”

  “You won’t come over until I get rid of my best friend?”

  Allowing her eyes to go limpid, she touched his thigh lightly beneath the table. “We all have to make choices, David.” And he would never get rid of that cat.

  “Come on, Kell—”

  In her pocket, her cell phone came to life. “Hold that thought, David.” With the court on recess, she was free to remove the phone and flip open the receiver. “Kell Jameson.”

  “Kell? Kell, dear?”

  With three words, the past rushed in and crashed through her. Kell stiffened in her seat, her hand falling away from David’s leg. “Mrs. Faraday?”