Defensive Wounds Page 21

  “Get in the middle of a fight?”

  “Assign cases based on the attorney’s needs instead of the client’s. Every case is different and unpredictable, yes, but the guy would be out by now if I’d assigned his case to Bruce. I’m pretty sure of that.”

  “And that would be so much better for all concerned,” Frank said. “Britton got plenty of experience in the long run anyway. He’s got a police shooting trial going right now.”

  “I know. Now I wouldn’t have any qualms. He’s going to make you work for it,” she warned.

  “Not worried,” Frank assured her, then realized he had fallen into the attorney’s staccato style of talking. “Is there anything else you can tell us about Bruce, Marie, and Dennis Britton?”

  Maryann’s face stilled. “Only that they were strong, smart people. Whoever killed Marie and Bruce has killed the people who would have helped him when he gets caught.”

  “Thanks for assuming that’s going to happen.”

  A smile more like a grimace. “That’s what we try to tell our clients here. Crime doesn’t pay. Everyone, eventually, gets caught.”

  “Do they listen?” Angela asked.

  “If they did,” Maryann said, “we’d both be out of a job.”

  CHAPTER 26

  *

  Don’t panic.

  Theresa repeated these words to herself as she paced in circles around her kitchen floor. Don’t panic. Just because your daughter is missing, last seen with an almost-convicted rapist and murderer.

  I should have told her. I should have told her immediately, given her notice to Karla, taken her home, and hired an armed guard. Instead I had to give him the benefit of the doubt, try to wait out her interest. Rachael is halfway through a horrible death because I tried to be PC.

  If she’s not already dead.

  Unwanted images flashed quickly, but not quickly enough. A sweet necking session grows too insistent. Rachael hesitates, begins to protest, maybe not even that seriously but enough to set off the rage. First a slap, then a punch, marring her precious child’s face—

  Enough.

  She pulled out the white pages. There were only two Rosedales listed. One didn’t answer—who would not have an answering machine in this day and age?—and the other connected to a teenage boy who didn’t know a William. Theresa persisted until the poor kid rattled off the names of everyone in his family: Denise, Alex, Shane, Misty, and himself, Michael. Trying to help, he came up with a cousin named William, but that boy’s last name wasn’t Rosedale and he lived in New Mexico. He seemed about to move on to ancestors in the old country before Theresa regained enough presence of mind to thank him and hang up. Besides, anyone who’d been through what the Rosedales had been through would almost certainly have an unlisted phone number. Hell, Theresa had an unlisted phone number.

  Not that they deserved any sympathy for what they’d been through. Their own fault for raising such a monster.

  Political correctness had obviously been shown the door.

  She tried Rachael’s cell and got only that intensely annoying “The party you are trying to reach” message, because, of course, her battery had died and she hadn’t taken the time to recharge it before rushing off with the means of her own destruction. Cell phones came with GPS these days, but it didn’t work if the phone was off, and Rachael’s phone probably didn’t have that feature, because it was a cheap little prepaid number that they’d decided on after a few months of astronomical bills.

  Theresa had feared for her daughter nearly every day of the child’s life—every parent did—but this had to be the first time she felt positive, absolutely positive, of Rachael’s death. And what a death—this was a million times worse than a car accident or meningitis or a dorm fire or any of the worst of the worst fates she had imagined befalling her daughter in years past. And while most of those theoretical fates were at least partly Theresa’s fault, this one really was.

  She would call Frank. Frank would panic, scream at Theresa, and hold it against her for the rest of her life no matter how much he would deny it, but he could also put out a BOLO on the two kids and any vehicle registered to a William Rosedale. Provided William hadn’t borrowed a friend’s. Who was that dorky pal of his at the Ritz—Ray? He might know William’s favorite hangouts.

  But Frank first.

  She had dialed three numbers when the door to the garage opened and Rachael walked in.

  Her daughter didn’t merely walk; she floated.

  William did not follow, and Theresa heard the faint screech of tires as he left rubber marks on her driveway.

  Don’t scream, she told herself. Your daughter has the beatific smile of a saint in a painting. Her limbs move as if in a dream, because she’s in the throes of a budding love. Rachael’s entire world is momentarily perfect, with no buts or if-onlys. Theresa recognized the state because she’d been there herself, many years ago. These moments were so brief and so precious that to curtail one seemed a crime. So don’t scream.

  “WHERE THE HELL HAVE YOU BEEN?” she screamed.

  Rachael thumped back to earth. The serene look turned to shock, anger, and betrayal.

  “I’m sorry,” Theresa said instantly, knowing that her heart felt more broken than Rachael’s right now. “I’m sorry, honey. I didn’t want to shout, but I was so, so scared. I really thought you were dead.”

  It took Rachael another few seconds to produce any sound from her moving lips. “What?”

  “I’m so sorry, but I’m going to have to—Did you have a nice time with William?”

  Rachael stepped back, still holding on to her purse, as if she might have to make a run for it from this lunatic who’d taken over her mother’s body. “Yes-s.”

  “I’m so sorry, honey, but that’s what we have to talk about. I have to tell you something.” Theresa took a deep breath. “And it’s going to hurt.”

  CHAPTER 27

  *

  Maryann Mercer had a phone call, so she didn’t walk them out, leaving the two detectives free to roam the hallways. It was now 9:00 P.M., and Angela had that antsy bounce to her step that meant she needed to go home and make sure her kids went to bed on time. Frank said he wanted to look up the battle-ax and suggested Angela walk back to the station without him. His partner didn’t question why he wanted to talk to Sonia Battle or why he preferred to do so without her.

  There were lights on in some of the other offices, and he strolled, light-footed, feeling like a soldier who had parachuted behind enemy lines. All he needed was camo face paint and a flak jacket. He had no idea if Sonia would still be in her office but would have bet half his paycheck on it. She’d been at the convention all day and had no life outside her job. Of course she’d be in her office at 9:00 P.M. on a Thursday, catching up on paperwork, convinced that without her skills her poor downtrodden clients would be chewed up by the unfeeling machine that was the American criminal-justice system. And that’s exactly where he found her.

  She had a corner office, which meant nothing in this instance. No more than ten feet square and still only one window, bland carpeting, and fake-wood furniture. It looked, in short, exactly like the prosecutors’ offices. Add a few desks and it could be the homicide unit.

  Being female, she had a few items that could be called decor: a frame on her desk, a poster of Paris, and a Legolas action figure, which stood precarious guard atop a stack of manila folders held closed with neon-colored rubber bands.

  “Have you been to France?” he asked.

  She didn’t look up. “Of course not. What do you want?”

  “Why ‘of course’?”

  “Because I’m a frustrated middle-aged spinster, which means no traveling companion, not to mention that I live on a government salary that barely covers my rent and a parking space.” Now she did look up, pen still poised over a yellow legal pad. “I’m a bleeding-heart liberal with more compassion than sense, so my co-workers who actually have lives dump their unfinished work, dead-end cases, and on-call
holidays on me because they know I don’t. Dinner every night is fast food eaten over my kitchen sink, and my only consistent sexual relationship involves double-A batteries. Is there a stereotype I’ve missed?”

  “Are you wearing Birkenstocks?”

  She stuck her foot out from behind the desk, showing him one sensible black pump, but he thought he saw the hint of a smile tug at her lips. He took that as an invitation and slipped into one of the chairs opposite her desk.

  “Still in heels at eight-thirty P.M. Forget the moral dilemma of putting dangerous people back on the street—is the money really worth having to stuff yourself into suits and ties and heels all day, every day?”

  She said nothing, so he went on. “Dress codes in every other area of life have relaxed. Seems as if a courtroom is the only place left that still has rules. No pun intended. Maybe that’s why you lawyers like them.”

  “I got into law entirely for the fashion, yes. What do you want?”

  “To talk to you about William Rosedale.”

  “I can’t tell you anything. It’s all still privileged.”

  “He’s working with my niece. Two more people just turned up dead on his watch.”

  She swallowed but did not look away. “I was his attorney, even though just briefly. You know I can’t say a thing.”

  “Theresa’s daughter,” he pressed, figuring she hadn’t been kidding about that “more compassion than sense” crack.

  She frowned, flushed. “Actually, I can tell you everything I know without violating privilege. I was assigned to William only for the few hours between his family’s tax lawyer running away like a little girl and the moment I got Marie on board. Normally the state would let those few hours hang, but they’re really strict about juveniles not taking one breath without legal representation. Maryann gave me the basics—dead girl, his house, blood all over. I handle mostly drug charges, not homicides, so my only actions on his behalf were to advise his shell-shocked parents to hire Marie and to ask Marie to talk to the parents. I was off his case before I even learned the victim’s name. I billed about an hour and a half and spent maybe ninety seconds of it face-to-face with my client, which is probably why he doesn’t even remember me.”

  “Why Marie?”

  “I wanted him tried as a juvenile, and that’s not my area. Not that she did a lot of juvenile work, but she had co-chaired on that seventeen-year-old who divided his girlfriend into seven parts and wrapped each one in a garbage bag. She’d kept him in juvenile court, and I hoped she could do the same for William—which she did. If I’d held on to his case, he’d already be halfway through his postconviction motions with an injection date scheduled. I begged Marie to take the case.”

  “She didn’t want to?”

  Sonia picked up a coffee mug with a tag dangling near the handle, sipped, frowned, and set it back down. “Bloody murder among pretty children in the suburbs? Of course she did. Marie just liked to be begged.”

  “You knew her well.” He wondered just how well, and she flashed him a wicked grin to let him know she knew he was wondering. A warm little flush came to life in his stomach, startling him—probably just hunger. The building around them stood silent, as if they were the only two people left in it.

  “It would be difficult not to. Marie was pretty up front about her desires. Vulnerabilities, much less so.”

  “Could one or the other have gotten her killed?”

  Sonia sighed. “If I knew, I’d tell you.”

  “Really?”

  “As long as it wasn’t one of my clients, yes. My recitation of stereotypes aside, I’m not the knee-jerk reactionary you think I am. I’m not so stupid that I can’t see that when two people who knew each other—and well—are killed in the same time and place, then that’s probably because of something between those two people. But I don’t know what that is. I might know some of Marie’s dirty little secrets—like sometimes she’d puke up her lunch—and I might know some of Bruce’s dirty little secrets—like he loved a good lash to the coccyx—but I don’t know any of Bruce and Marie’s dirty little secrets.”

  Frank involuntarily began to picture Sonia naked and holding a whip, and it gave him that puzzling flush again so that he recrossed his legs and coughed. “Did they ever screw over a client? Or have a client think they screwed him over? Have a victim swear revenge?”

  “When they worked together here, we were all just starting out. They did smaller cases—theft, burglary, possession. Routine. Half the time the victims didn’t even come to court, and it would have been years ago.”

  “Maybe our guy’s been inside all this time.”

  She shook her head, the fine blond locks escaping from behind her ears. “Sorry. I got nothing. The fireworks during their tenure here burst from between Bruce and Marie, not among their clients or opposing parties.”

  “What about more recently? They kept in touch, at least until Bruce moved, right?”

  She agreed but still couldn’t offer any insights. She spoke with Marie occasionally but couldn’t think of any recent dramas in that attorney’s life. Frank watched carefully for some spark of envy or anger when she spoke of Bruce and Marie’s on-and-off relationship, and he saw none. Sonia showed much more emotion over talk of Dennis Britton than over either of the two victims. She hated the man, that was clear. But even she doubted that he would have killed either Bruce or Marie, and certainly not out of sexual jealousy.

  “I’ll be seeing him tomorrow,” Frank admitted without knowing why. “The officer-involved shooting.”

  “Wear brass undershorts,” she advised.

  “What about Bruce? Anything haunting his past? He got a little out there with his sex life—maybe he ran into someone a little too dominant? She wants to reconnect when he’s in town but finds him with Marie, someone equally dominant in her own way?”

  Sonia shook her head again, and he tried again. “Maybe it’s his wife. She’s finally realized that she played the fool for years, and all she’s got to show for it are some lousy child-support checks.”

  “I’ll bet they’re not too lousy. And I doubt she would have waited until now to kill him.”

  “So who would have?” he said at last.

  She didn’t respond immediately, and his radar perked up. “You’re thinking about someone.”

  “No, not someone. It’s just—You said haunting his past, and I just thought … The only case I’ve ever heard Bruce talk about as if he had a few regrets, it would be the Corwin case. His client tried to rob a lady at her ATM, and the gun went off—”

  “Tamika Johnson. Shot in front of her three children.”

  “Yeah,” Sonia agreed. “Bruce worked his usual magic, got a really reduced sentence, much more than he expected, because he didn’t know that one of the witnesses would go on a bender and completely discredit himself on the stand. Bruce and I were … um, seeing each other then. Usually after a trial he’d celebrate, drink himself silly, and then forget all about it by the middle of the following week. This one, three, four, six weeks later, he was still saying things like how his little boys would still be in grade school when this guy got out. For some reason that seemed to bother him.”

  “Can’t imagine why,” Frank said.

  Now Sonia flushed, and it had nothing to do with sexual tension. “Whatever. That’s the only thing I can think of.”

  Frank tried to step back. “His kids would have been only a little younger than the victim’s. Maybe that bugged him.”

  She picked up her mug again, swirled it, then put it down with the same expression of disgust as before.

  “People tend to get wiggy when kids in cases remind them of their own,” Frank added. In his opinion, people were wiggy about kids, period. This must have showed in his voice and seemed to mollify the also-childless Sonia, because she accepted his business card and agreed to call him if she thought of anything else.

  He didn’t find the idea entirely repulsive, which had to mean he’d been working too hard. Stand
ing, he felt his gaze fall on the framed photo on her desk. Three kittens in a basket, one reaching out a tentative paw to make first contact with that green stuff called grass. “You have cats?”

  Her face, which had relaxed into something remotely like friendliness, closed up again. “Of course. Fulfilling my role as the crazy cat lady for my apartment complex is a vital component of the frustrated-spinster stereotype. Let me show you out.”

  CHAPTER 28

  *

  FRIDAY

  Theresa stared out her car window, wondering what in the hell she thought she was doing.

  Rachael hadn’t believed her, of course. Maybe if Theresa had led into the topic without such an explosive beginning, she’d have had a better chance of convincing the girl. But once Rachael saw her as unbalanced, nothing Theresa said after that could adjust her opinion.

  “You’ve known him for ten minutes, Mom. I’ve been working with him every day for over a month now. He’s nice, he’s helpful—he’s so stable. I never see him get upset about anything no matter how many directions he’s jerked in. He’s so kind to Ray—that dweeby guy, you remember. Ray told me himself that they’ve been friends since grade school and that William has always looked out for him, even got him the job.”

  “I’m not saying he’s a raging ogre every minute of the day, Rachael. Ted Bundy was a very reliable employee, too.”

  “William is not Ted Bundy!”

  “Honey. He was found next to the body with her blood all over him. In his own home. They were seen leaving the school dance together. I know you don’t want to hear this, but how much more evidence could you possibly need?”

  “Then why is he not in jail? Your own justice system agrees with me, but that’s irrelevant to you. In your opinion I have the judgment of a ten-year-old!” Rachael said, and from there the conversation deteriorated into the familiar treatise on Theresa’s refusal to see that Rachael had grown up, which forced Theresa to point out that if Rachael couldn’t accept documented facts, then she hadn’t really grown up. After that, things got really rocky.