Accused (41 page)

"Hank Kowalski's got no use for money. All he needs to be happy is a fishing rod and bait." The D.A. finished off his whiskey and stood. "Oh, prints on the whiskey bottle match the set on the kitchen counter, but the prints from the tape don't match either of the other sets. And Hank said thanks."

"For what?"

"The whiskey."

"That proves Pete Puckett was in Trey's house the day he was murdered."

"Figure because Trey was screwing his kid?"

"That's a good motive."

"Would be for me. But I thought Pete was playing in Florida that day?"

"He DQ'd, flew home that afternoon. But not to Austin where he lives. Karen got his flight—he flew from Orlando into Houston Hobby, arrived at four. Which puts him at Trey's house by five."

"In the kitchen."

"Where that knife was."

"That makes him a material witness."

"Or a killer. He had the motive, the means, and the opportunity."

"I always liked Pete. Everyone I know likes Pete."

"His WM squared rating is eighty-eight percent."

"WM what?"

Scott shook his head. "The cartel and the mob, they had motives, too. And they're professionals. They wouldn't have left prints behind."

"They wouldn't have left your wife behind either. Not alive." The D.A. grunted. "Seventeen days till trial, Scott. We could ask the judge for a continuance, give us some time to investigate Pete, the mob, the cartel."

"You mean, suspects with motives?"

"Yeah, I mean that."

"Rex, she's innocent. Dismiss the charges and find the killer."

"I'd rather find the killer then dismiss the charges. Look, Scott, I still think she did it, but no motive, that bothers me."

"It should."

"Guess if I dismiss the charges, I could always indict her again—no statute of limitations on murder. Course, she might make a run for the border."

"With what? She's broke, too."

"Good point."

"She took a polygraph yesterday."

"You're probably not telling me this because she failed?"

"Inconclusive."

"That's not the same as truthful."

"It raises questions whether she's guilty."

"But it doesn't answer them. Who did it? The polygraph."

"Gus Grimes."

"Gus is good. And conservative. He doesn't jump the gun, say someone's lying when they might not be. From him, inconclusive ain't bad. But—"

"But what?"

"As I recall, the house inventory listed prescription drugs, Prozac and beta-blockers."

Scott nodded. "In Trey's bathroom. So?"

"So some folks figure they can beat a polygraph by taking beta-blockers and anti-anxiety drugs right before the test."

"Gus said it only tests anxiety levels."

"Yep."

"Rebecca didn't know Trey was taking that stuff."

"I'm sure."

Scott pulled out his cell phone and called Gus. He was surf fishing, but he answered.

"Gus, if Rebecca took a beta-blocker or an anti-anxiety drug before the polygraph, would that have affected the result?"

"Did she?"

"I don't know. I'm talking to the D.A. about it."

"Well, it'd pretty much guarantee an inconclusive result. Artificially reduces the subject's respiration, which is what the machine measures—changes in respiration."

"Thanks, Gus."

"You bet. Say hi to Rex."

Scott hung up and looked at the D.A.

"Well?"

"Gus says hi."

"About the test?"

"You're right."

"Inconclusive means the case still comes down to her fingerprints on the murder weapon." The D.A. sat quietly. "Why were her prints on the knife?"

"I don't know."

"Tell me why, Scott—get me past that before trial, and I'll drop the charges."

"I saw Trey's boat today."

"You went to the yacht club?"

Scott nodded. "With the D.A. Nice boat."

"I could live on it. I loved to pilot it."

"You can drive that big boat?"

"Sure. We'd take it down the coast to Padre Island, we did that right before Ike hit, so the boat didn't get damaged. I wanted to take it to Cancún."

Scott picked up a sea shell and flung it into the surf.

"Pete Puckett was in the house that Thursday. The day Trey was killed."

"When?"

"While you were in Houston."

"He broke in?"

"No."

"But Trey was at the club all day, practicing."

"No, he wasn't. He left the club at noon, came home."

"Why?"

"To meet Billie Jean. She was there, too. Pete's prints were on the kitchen counter, right next to the knife drawer. But your prints were on the knife. I need to know why."

"I cut stuff with those knives all the time."

The time had come to tell her the whole truth. Scott turned to her and took her by the shoulders.

"Rebecca—your prints weren't aligned on the knife like you were cutting something, with the blade pointing up. The prints prove that you were holding that knife with the blade pointing down … as if to stab something."

"Or someone."

"Do you remember ever using that knife that way?"

"No. Never."

"Your prints prove you did. Sometime. For something."

She shook her head. He released her shoulders.

"And wouldn't Rosie have washed the knives after you used them?"

"Sure. Or put them in the dishwasher. She came that day."

"Did you use that knife that day? Or that night?"

"I don't think so. I ate lunch in Houston, we had dinner out. Scott, we were drinking a lot … and the cocaine … I don't remember much from that night."

He looked at her.

"I'd remember if I killed him."

THIRTY-FIVE

Fireworks exploded in the night sky over the Gulf of Mexico.

Two nights later, they were sitting in folding chairs lined up on the seawall for the Fourth of July celebration. Boo and her mother sat side by side at one end.

"You're a complicated woman," Boo said.

Mother smiled. "Is that a compliment?"

"It means we don't understand you."

"Boo, a woman's life is a complicated life."

"That's something else I'll understand when I'm older?"

"Yes."

Boo watched the fireworks for a while then said, "Mother, if you don't go to prison, do you want to come back to us?"

"Do you want me back?"

"We're at that age—we need a mother."

"Yes, you do."

"We …
we
need a mother."

Louis and Pajamae sat at the other end. "You decide yet?" he said.

"Decide what?"

"If Mr. Fenney's gonna be your daddy."

"I did something real bad, Louis."

"What's that?"

"When I said prayers last night, I asked God to send Miz Fenney to that prison."

"Why?"

"So Mr. Fenney doesn't marry her."

" 'Cause you figure if he does, there won't be no place for you?"

"Unh-huh."

"Well, you ain't figuring right, girl. You Mr. Fenney's daughter, so if he marries her again, you're part of a package deal, see? She gotta take it or leave it, the whole package. Ain't no picking and choosing."

"You think?"

"I know."

The night sky exploded in red and white sparkles.

"That was a nice one."

"Real nice."

Karen and Bobby sat in the middle. Bobby was trying out names on her.

"Sam?

"Ron?

"Cole?

"Clay?"

Karen groaned.

"Is it time?" Bobby asked.

"No. Junior just gave me a big kick to the ribs."

"Let me feel."

Bobby placed his palms on her belly.

Scott was happy for his old friend. He had finally found someone to share his life. Funny. After twenty-five years of Bobby Herrin envying Scott Fenney, Scott now envied Bobby.

Scott sat between Louis and Carlos, who was bouncing Maria on his lap and pointing at the fireworks. Consuela was knitting a little sweater for the baby. Louis leaned toward Scott.

"Mr. Fenney, I'm thinking about going back to school, getting my high school diploma, maybe go to college. I like learning things."

"That's good thinking."

Louis now pointed past Scott. "We got company."

Down the seawall, three Latino men were walking toward them: Benito Estrada and his thugs. Scott stood and walked toward the men. Louis and Carlos were on his heels. Benito waved like a kid come to play.

"
Buenas noches,
Scott."

"What brings you out, Benito?"

Benito waved a hand to the sky. "The fireworks. I never miss the fireworks. The Island, she is beautiful at night."

"Why'd you bring bodyguards for the fireworks?"

"Them? Oh, they come with the job, like Obama and the Secret Service." Benito glanced over at the others. "Your daughters?"

"Yes."

"Cute kids. I hope to have children one day."

"Might want to change your line of work first. Be hard to tell your kids not to use drugs if you're selling them."

"Five more years, Scott, then I am retiring."

"But will the cartel let you retire?"

His expression turned serious. "That is the question."

"You could quit now, leave the Island, start over somewhere, use your business skills in a more productive—and legal—way."

"I will never leave. I was born on the Island, and I will die on the Island." His eyes seemed to go away for a moment, then he said, "Scott, may we talk privately?"

They stepped down the seawall then Benito stopped and said, "Scott, this subpoena, it is a mistake."

"Why?"

"Because the cartel is watching this closely. Do not bring them into it. Things could get ugly."

"Is that a threat?"

"No. Just friendly advice. Like I told you, I do not do violence. But they do. They kill women, kids, dogs—they do not care. You bring them into this, you endanger your family."

"I could send them home."

"You cannot hide from the
Muertos
. They are here now, in America. And they are here to stay."

How does a lawyer zealously represent his client pursuant to the rule of law when some people make their own rules?

"Do you deliver personally to Senator Armstrong's daughter?"

"You know about her?"

Scott nodded. "And I know what happened to Trey's cocaine."

"What?"

"Those construction workers down the street, they stole it."

"You are sure?"

"They told Carlos."

Benito gazed at the fireworks in the sky above them. "He was my friend, and I did not trust him. I hope I did not get my friend killed."

The next installment of "Murder on the Beach" aired that night on the late news.

"This is Renée Ramirez live from Galveston. Rebecca Fenney might have less than three weeks of freedom left—her murder trial starts in fifteen days—but she seemed unconcerned tonight as she enjoyed the fireworks on the seawall."

The picture cut to the Fenney family on the seawall.

"She taped us!" Rebecca said.

Scott, Rebecca, Bobby, and Karen were in the living room watching the TV.

Back to Renée Ramirez. "And here she enjoyed something else. Or should I say, someone else."

The picture went to a shadowy night scene on the beach. Two people strolling along the surf. A bare-chested man and a woman in a white bikini. The woman stopped and kissed the man. Then she skipped down the beach and removed her bikini and ran into the water. The man followed her and embraced her and they …

"Oh, my God," Rebecca said.

"Uh-oh," Bobby said.

"That's not you and …?" Karen said. "Oh, boy."

Renée Ramirez had secretly filmed them that night on the beach three weeks before. It was clearly Rebecca—her red hair glowed in the moonlight—but it was not clearly Scott. The tape ended, and the screen returned to Renée Ramirez.

"This was only ten days after Trey's death, and Rebecca Fenney was acting like a college girl on spring break. But I'm sure she loved Trey."