Accused (11 page)

"You talk to Melvyn?"

"He sent a letter to Rebecca, at the jail."

The D.A. nodded. "Melvyn's prompt like that. Maybe they had a fight, your wife and Trey."

"Any evidence of a struggle?"

The D.A. shook his head. "Maybe there was another woman."

"He asked her to marry him … that night."

"So she said."

"She told you?"

"She gave a statement."

"I told her not to talk to the cops."

"She gave it before you called. Voluntarily. It's in the book."

"Did she confess?"

"Nope."

"She cooperated?"

"Yep."

"Do killers cooperate?"

"Only the dumb ones."

"She called nine-one-one. That seem unusual, for a killer to call the cops?"

"Somewhat."

"Anything of value missing?"

"Not that we know of."

"Did the cops give her a chance to check?"

"Nope."

"So motive could've been robbery?"

"Except for her prints on the knife. Butcher. Eight-inch blade."

"Did you trace ownership?"

The D.A. nodded. "To their kitchen. Matched set. Which qualifies as 'means'."

"
A kitchen knife?
She probably put her prints on it cutting a steak."

The Assistant D.A. returned carrying a big clasp envelope. He handed it to the D.A. then resumed his position along the wall. The D.A. put on his reading glasses, released the clasp, and removed a large plastic bag. Inside the bag was a long knife.

"Except her prints aren't aligned on the knife that way, like she was cutting something. They're aligned this way—"

The D.A. grasped the handle through the plastic with the blade pointing down.

—"like she was stabbing someone."

The D.A. held the knife out to Scott. He hesitated a moment—he had held a murder weapon once before, the gun that had killed Clark McCall, but not the bullet that had actually cut a hole through his brain and ended his life—then took the knife. There was still blood on the blade. He tried to block out the image that flashed through his mind of Rebecca holding this knife as the D.A. had and driving the sharp blade into Trey Rawlins' chest. He raised his eyes to the D.A. and knew that his mind was displaying the same image. There was a moment of silence as they regarded each other, the D.A. assessing Scott's reaction to the murder weapon bearing his ex-wife's fingerprints, Scott trying to hide his thoughts of a jury returning a "guilty" verdict in
The State of Texas vs. Rebecca Fenney.
He placed on the desk the knife that had cut a hole in Trey Rawlins' chest and ended his life.

"Did you know him?"

The D.A. nodded. "Since the day he was born. I grew up with his dad. His folks were killed six years ago, drunk driver crossed over, hit them on the highway. Devastated the boy, he was real close to his folks, especially his dad … golf pro out at the club, taught Trey how to play. Took the boy a few years to pull himself together, but he did. I was real proud of him."

Scott turned to the Assistant D.A. "You're about Trey's age. Did you know him?"

The Assistant D.A. shook his head. "He was a year older than me. We didn't run in the same circles. He was a star athlete. I wasn't."

The D.A. aimed a thumb at his assistant. "Drama club."

"Did Trey use drugs?"

"She say he did dope?"

"No. I'm just asking. He was of that age."

"Oh. Well, he drank pretty hard after his folks died, but he got that under control when he started golfing again. But dope? No way. Nothing was found at the home, and if Trey was a doper, I would've known it. We know every dealer on the Island and we watch them. It's a small island."

The D.A. exhaled and ran his hand through his hair.

"Trey was a real good boy. Started that foundation for kids, donated a million bucks for Ike recovery, hung out at the club when he wasn't on tour, taught kids, played with the members … hell, he even tried to fix my golf swing—course, that would've required surgery." The D.A. paused. "Scott, don't tear him down."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, standard defense tactic these days is to put the victim on trial, drag his life through the mud, make the jury think he deserved to die—like the killer did society a favor."

"I don't do that."

"Good. 'Cause he was our hero."

A. Scott Fenney knew something about being a hero. He knew people wanted their heroes, but their heroes were just people—with all the faults of other people. And when those faults are revealed—as they always are—the people come down hard on their heroes.

"Was sand recovered from the bed or his body?"

The D.A. seemed surprised by that question. "Matter of fact. Why?"

"They had sex on the beach that night."

The D.A. shrugged. "One of the advantages of living on the Island."

"Maybe, but why would she kill him right after having sex?"

The Assistant D.A. chuckled and said, "Maybe she didn't have an orgasm."

The D.A. grimaced then pointed a finger at the sailfish on the wall.

"Be the fish, Ted." To Scott: "You gonna introduce that at trial, the sex on the beach? Your wife and another man?"

"Goes to motive, like you said."

The D.A. removed his reading glasses. "You know, thirty-eight years of practicing law, I figured I'd pretty much seen it all. But a lawyer defending his ex charged with murdering the man she left him for? Scott, that ain't normal. Lawyers don't do that. Hell,
men
don't do that. Why are you doing that? Why are you defending your wife?"

"I don't want my daughter to visit her mother in prison."

"You might be the best lawyer in Texas, Scott, but you're not the only lawyer in Texas."

"I'm the best she can afford."

"There's always the public defender."

"Like I said, I don't want my daughter visiting her mother in prison."

"But have you thought this through? The downside for you? What this case could do to your reputation? After what you did in the McCall case, I'd hate to see you become a …"

"Punch line?"

An empathetic nod from the D.A.

"Better I end up a punch line that she end up a prison inmate."

"Well, you're a better man than me."

"Or crazier."

"Or that. Don't believe I could defend my ex, not after what she did to me."

His eyes showed that his thoughts had gone to another place and time. Scott tried to snap him back to the moment.

"She said the cops asked her to take a polygraph."

"What?" The D.A. was back in the present. "Oh, yeah, but you called, told the cops to lay off. But the invitation's still open."

"Will you drop the charges if she passes?"

"Will she plead guilty if she fails?"

They both knew that polygraphs were inadmissible in a court of law. And the D.A. knew Scott wasn't about to submit his client to a polygraph because it would only hurt her; the D.A. would never dismiss charges on a polygraph, not with her prints on the murder weapon. And a failed test would be made public, taint the jury pool. There was no upside to Rebecca's taking a polygraph test: it might be ninety-five percent reliable, but that other five percent could get her life in prison.

"Motive, Rex—why would she do it?"

"I don't know. But it'll come out. Always does. There's always a reason for one human being to kill another. Might be a stupid reason, but there's a reason."

"You really think she stabbed him then slept in his blood?"

"You really think she slept through his murder? Someone came into that room and stabbed him while she was sleeping right next to him, and she didn't wake up?"

"She said they were drinking pretty hard at Gaido's."

"Which means she could have killed him then passed out next to him. Or maybe she lay in his blood to raise just such a question."

"That seem reasonable to you?"

"Scott, we had a murder case down here where the wife caught her husband with his mistress in a hotel parking lot so she hit him with her car then circled the lot and ran over him three more times. Big Mercedes-Benz sedan with the V-8. And we had those three astronauts in that love-triangle case—female astronaut drove from Houston to Florida to kill another female astronaut, wore a diaper so she could drive straight through. When it comes to love, nothing's reasonable. Or unreasonable."

"My wife wears a diaper now," Bobby said as if to himself. After a moment of the awkward silence that followed, he looked up and saw everyone looking at him. He shrugged. "She's pregnant. Bladder issues."

The D.A. grunted.

"You got anything, Bobby?" Scott said. "Other than the diaper update?"

"Autopsy report?"

The D.A. pointed at the binder. "In the book. Preliminary report, anyway. Cause of death was sharp force injury. Knife severed his aorta. He bled out."

"Toxicology?"

"Pending."

"DNA?"

"Also pending."

"Can we see the crime scene?"

The D.A. nodded. "Figured you'd want to see it, so we left it exactly as we found it, except for the body. When?"

"Now."

"I'll have my investigator open the house for you." The D.A. put his reading glasses on, picked up his phone, and dialed. He spoke into the phone. "Hank? Rex. Meet Scott Fenney and Bobby Herrin at the Rawlins house … Yeah, they're representing the Fenney woman … His ex … That's what I said … Give him full access … Now." He hung up. "You'll like Hank. Ex-FBI, worked the Drug Task Force down on the border. Retired here, for the fishing. I talked him into working for me."

"Why can't Rebecca get back into her house?" Scott asked.

"It's not her house."

"She lived there."

The D.A. turned his palms up. "Take it up with Melvyn and the sister."

"Who's the judge on this case?"

"Shelby Morgan. Forty, attractive, single."

"Attractive?"

"Shelby's a gal … and ambitious—never a good trait in a judge, male or female. But she's BOI, from an old-line family, like Ted here, so she's our judge. She wants to move up, been waiting for a case like this for years, something with potential."

"For what?"

"Publicity. This case could be her stepping stone."

"Great."

The D.A. chuckled. "You'll like her … about as much as hemorrhoids. Speaking of which, I need to warn you."

"What about?"

"Renée Ramirez. Houston TV reporter, she covers the Galveston beat. Good-looking gal, but annoying as hell. She's an IBC—Islander by choice. BOIs don't trust IBCs."

"I dodged her at the jail yesterday."

The D.A. nodded. "She's a looker, ain't she? Got the body of a Playmate and the bite of a pit bull. And she's got her teeth into this case, been calling every day. I don't try my cases in the press, Scott, so she won't get anything from this office. But she's been pining for a network job, might see this case as her ticket, so watch out for her."

"The American way, everyone using a murder case to move up in the world." Scott shook his head. "What about her clothes?"

"Oh, Renée dresses real nice—tight pants, short skirts—she's got great legs and—"

"Not
her
clothes. Rebecca's."

"Oh."

"Can we take them?"

The D.A. nodded. "Just let Hank watch what you take."

"What about her makeup?"

"Isn't there a law says a woman's entitled to makeup?"

"Jewelry?"

"Talk to Melvyn."

"Thanks, Rex."

The D.A. nodded then said, "Scott, you ever been to a murder scene?"

"No."

"Well … it ain't like on TV."

Scott picked up the murder book and stood. He and Bobby walked to the door, but Scott turned back and said, "There's a good explanation."

"For what?"

"Her prints on the knife."

"I'd like to hear that explanation … when you figure it out."

"She's the only suspect?"

The D.A. gestured at the bloody butcher knife on the desk. "Only her prints on the murder weapon."

"She didn't have a motive to murder. You know anyone who did?"

"Who'd want to kill Trey?"

"Rex—that's what I intend to find out."

ELEVEN

"Trey Rawlins was the Island's favorite son—he's dead and you're defending your ex-wife who killed him, but you want the senator to make you a federal judge?"