Bitch Factor (2 page)

“Foolish sentimentality.”

Belle ignored the sarcasm. “Dann can’t leave his house without being harassed, sometimes physically attacked. People throw eggs, beer bottles—”

“Baby killers make terrific targets.”

“Something in his eyes told me to call and check on him this afternoon.” Belle tapped the desk with the eraser end of a well-chewed wooden pencil. “He was too cheerful, just too damn cheerful.”

“So you think he’ll run during the holiday break.”

Belle nodded. “Expecting no one to miss him until court reconvenes after New Year’s.”

“By then, he’ll be as gone as a spit in the Gulf.” Before Dixie resigned as a Harris County Assistant District Attorney, she and Belle had often found themselves opponents: Texas’ Hottest Defense Lawyer vs. the State’s Courtroom Bitch, as one yellow-press headline had put it.

Dixie didn’t mind a good fight; justice demanded it. But after ten years as ADA, with one too many bad guys beating the system, her bitch quotient had maxed out. Being a continual badass hardened a person, first on the outside, like a beetle’s armor, then on the inside. When Dixie felt her very core turning stone-cold mean, she hadn’t liked herself much. Now she was content working the legal fringes, rounding up bail jumpers and runaways. Someday she’d figure out what to do with the rest of her life.

She studied Parker Dann’s mug shot: thick brows, an insolent stare, a hard mouth. He looked guilty as hell.

“From Dann’s point of view, Flannigan, and considering the way the trial has gone so far, running could make sense. Sometimes justice is a damn poor gamble.”

In Belle’s eyes, her clients were never guilty. But Dixie
remembered this case from local news reports. Driving while intoxicated, Parker Dann had allegedly struck and killed eleven-year-old Elizabeth Keyes. The cops found Dann’s car parked in his driveway, three blocks from the crime scene, front headlight smashed, the girl’s blood and tissue on the bumper. Dixie was afraid her friend’s loyalty might, this time, be misplaced.

A snapshot clipped inside the folder showed three brown-eyed, smiling girls seated on a brick hearth hung with Christmas stockings.
The Keyes children
, the photo was labeled,
Courtney, Betsy, Ellie
. Betsy, the oldest, sat in the middle, arms spread wide to embrace her sisters’ shoulders.

Beneath the snapshot was a news photo from Dann’s arraignment—Betsy’s family in the courtroom, the mother wan and teary-eyed, the father flushed, angry. Courtney, about nine, perched at the edge of her seat, studying Parker Dann with serious eyes and a determined mouth. Wisps of dark hair had wriggled free from a tightly drawn ponytail to flop across her forehead and feather around her ears. One hand clutched the bench in front of her; the other arm rested protectively around her smaller sister, who sat solemnly turning pages in a worn picture book.

Dixie looked back at the Christmas photo, dated five months before Betsy’s death. Big grins spread across all three young faces. If Dann was guilty, he had ripped this family’s life apart and deserved whatever the jury handed down.

“I know what you’re thinking, Flannigan. It looks bad. Hell, I know it looks bad, but trust me, every piece of evidence against him is circumstantial.”

“The kid should’ve waited for an eyewitness before crossing that street.”

Belle tossed her a fierce glare, crossed her arms over the coffee stain, and
thup-thupped
behind the desk to stare out the window.

“The DA is still trying to come up with someone who saw Dann driving the car on the morning of the accident. And I’m still looking for a witness who saw
somebody else
driving Dann’s car.”

Belle had good instincts. Dann might actually be innocent—not likely, but possible. Dixie decided to ease up on the needling. “The DA’s staff could be digging as dry a hole as you are.”

“Could be.” Belle turned and slapped her pencil down hard on the desktop. “But that
idiot
will
clinch
a conviction by running.”

“Maybe he hasn’t skipped. Maybe he’s doing some last-minute shopping.” Which was exactly what Dixie should be doing. “Or tying one on. You’ve tried his favorite watering holes, I take it?”

“He swears he hasn’t touched a drop since the accident.”

“And you believe him?”

“Don’t be such a skeptic. People
can
change, you know.”

“Right. And the government can reduce spending.”

“It’s possible he’s out shopping or visiting someone… but he doesn’t have any family here—”

“And you have a hunch.” Dixie grinned. In law school, she and Belle had both been chastised for listening to some inner voice that goaded them to inexplicable decisions. Ordinarily, she’d have been glad to help her friend follow a hunch. “Look, Ric.” Dixie hoped the college nickname would soften her refusal. “I have to pass—”

“Flannigan, I know this is the worst possible time, with the holidays and all—”

“—on this one. I’m already in Dutch with Amy for being gone at Thanksgiving.”

Belle sighed. “How
is
your sister?”

“Stubborn as ever. Still wants me to lead the kind of storybook life she does.”

“You’re all she has left. She doesn’t want to lose you.”

“Bullshit. Amy has a money-magnet husband and the world’s greatest son—who, by the way, will be disappointed as hell if I don’t show up on time for tree-trimming in two hours.” Dixie hesitated. “Besides, the bail bondsman won’t issue a contract until Dann’s officially missing.”

“I don’t want the bondsman involved.” When Dixie frowned, Belle hurried on. “If we can get Dann back here
before court convenes on January fourth, no one else will have to know—”

“Including the jury.”

“Especially
the jury. Dixie, trust me, he won’t have a chance, otherwise.”

“Ouch! You sure know how to pass around the guilt.” Though she didn’t share Belle’s conviction of Dann’s innocence, she had to admit the jury would crucify him if they learned he’d jumped bail. “Despite my bleeding heart, I must remind you of one other minor consideration—”

“Your fee. Of course. I’ll pay it myself.”

Dixie raised an eyebrow. “You?” Belle Richards could squeeze a buck hard enough to make George Washington weep green ink.

“Well… not me,
personally
, but Richards, Blackmon and Drake.”

“Which means it ultimately comes out of Dann’s substantial retainer.” Dixie’s grin widened. “Now that’s a bit of irony I can appreciate.” She skimmed Dann’s background sheet. It listed seven residences in five different states in the past three years. “A drifter.”

“A salesman. And a damn good one, according to his tax returns.”

“Forty-two years old. This doesn’t mention any exes.” One of the most frequent places to find a skip was with an ex-spouse.

“Never married.”

Dixie looked up. “Is he gay?”

Belle shrugged. “He tried to hit on me.”

“No priors?”

“Picked up twice for DWI—”

“And you want to put this hairball back on the road to kill another kid?”

“He’s
innocent
, Flannigan, until
proven
guilty. Remember?”

Dixie shook her head. “You’ll always be a soft touch, Ric.”

Dann’s file listed next of kin in Bozeman, Montana, and a second contact in Canada—a long haul if he decided to head
for home ground. Most Houston skips beat feet for the Mexican border, scarcely a day’s drive, but since Dann wasn’t a local, he’d probably opt for familiar territory. If so, it’d take some heavy traveling to round him up and get back in time for dinner on Christmas night.

“Look at it this way,” Belle persisted. “If he’s skipped, then he’s already on the street where he can ‘kill another kid,’ as you put it. The only way justice can be served is if we bring him back to stand trial.”

“Yeah, well, you know what I think of Texas justice.” Dixie slid the Christmas snapshot of the Keyes girls from under its paper clip and compared it to the news photo taken the previous May in the courtroom, the two girls looking bewildered and older than their years. Her mouth filled with bitterness. It galled her to know the man who killed Betsy was running free while the family sat with an empty chair at the Christmas table this year.

She turned the snapshot over. On the back, in big, loopy, girlish script was written,
The Keyes 3-2gether Forever
.

“You know I wouldn’t ask you to do this,” Belle coaxed, “if it wasn’t important. I hope you can find him quickly—”

“Ric, he’s probably draped over a bar stool within a few blocks of his house. Which means that
if
I decide to look for him, this will be the quickest ten thousand bucks I ever made.”

“Ten thousand?”

“He’s out on a hundred thousand dollars bail, right? At ten percent, you’re getting my preferred customer discount.”

“On second thought, I hope he gives you a merry damn chase.”

Dixie got to her feet. “Tell you what. If I find this guy tonight, I’ll keep him tucked away nice and tight until midnight on January third. That way you can worry all through the holidays and feel grateful as hell when he walks in before the judge drops his gavel.”

Glancing at the darkening sky beyond Belle’s window, Dixie headed for the door. If she wasn’t home when Amy arrived, the evening would start with Dixie’s feeble apology,
and she hated that. She hoped to enjoy a pleasant evening with no arguments.

“You’d really do it, wouldn’t you?” Belle said. “Keep Dann hidden away and let me sweat.”

“Just want you to feel you’re getting your money’s worth.” She closed Dann’s file and slipped the Christmas photo into her pocket.

“Flanni?”

Dixie raised an eyebrow at the familiar nickname.

“If I’m wrong, if Dann really is guilty, he won’t be easy to bring in. He’s already facing a manslaughter charge. Adding one more felony to his record won’t seem too high a risk to a desperate man. He could be dangerous.”

“Don’t let Amy hear that. She already worries too much.” Dixie snapped a rubber band around the folder.

“Dixie, this case—”

“I’ll let you know later tonight whether you’ll need to find another skip tracer.” Dixie grinned and rained a few Hershey’s Hugs in the middle of Belle’s desk. “Meanwhile, sweeten up, Ric. It’s almost Christmas.”

But as she pushed through the mahogany doors, thinking of those two dark-eyed girls with a dead sister, Dixie’s own holiday spirit fell like loose gravestones.

Courtney Keyes looked at the room full of reeking flowers and darkly clad grown-ups standing around in hushed groups and thought a cuss word. She didn’t want to go into that room.

Courtney had never said a cuss word out loud, not even the D-word, because Mama had about the best ears in the world.
(“If I ever hear you girls talking filth, I’ll wash your mouths out with Tide”)
But Courtney
thought
cuss words plenty of times, especially the F-word, because she liked the sound of it.

This time, though, she wasn’t even specific. She tightened her lips and thought:
Cuss word! Cuss word! Cuss word!

Ellie tugged at Courtney’s hand to get attention. “I want to see Betsy.”

“Okay, shhh. You can see Betsy in a minute.”

There were no other kids in the room, which meant she and Ellie would STAND OUT. Everyone would know who they were and either whisper to each other as they walked by or cluck like their neighbor Mrs. Witherspoon. (”
I swear, those girls were so close, it must be awful for them, like cutting off an arm. Thank the good Lord the little ones still have each other.”)

“I want to see Betsy NOW.”

“Okay, Ellie. Just be quiet for another minute.”

One way Courtney was like Betsy was that neither liked to STAND OUT. Being the oldest, though, Betsy naturally took the lead, and sometimes she got too damn bossy, especially when Mama left her IN CHARGE. Courtney ignored her, which made Betsy really mad. But mostly Betsy had a magical way of making things happen without causing a fuss. Now Courtney was the oldest and wished she had paid more attention to her sister’s magic.

She slid her gaze toward the object she’d been avoiding, the long box on the table crowded with flowers at the back of the room. The COFFIN.

Having never seen a coffin before, except on TV, she expected it to be black. Instead, it was a pearly grayish-white, a puke color, but not as bad as black.

Betsy would hate being here today, being the center of attention, with everybody standing around whispering and walking by to look at her inside the box. Courtney wanted to yell, “Go away! She’s our sister. We want to be alone with her.” Of course, she’d never do that.

“COURTNEY, I WANT TO SEE BETSY!”

Oh, fuck, Ellie
,
now you’ve done it
.

But it wasn’t as bad as she expected. Only
half the
people in the room turned to look at them. Mama, surrounded by a knot of ladies, hadn’t even heard, and Daddy Travis was outside smoking with some men.

Courtney straightened her shoulders, clasped Ellie’s hand tighter, and started toward the coffin. Actually, Ellie had been pulling her toward the coffin all along; now Courtney stopped resisting. Too bad Ellie wasn’t the oldest. Ellie
loved
to STAND OUT.

Courtney avoided looking inside the box until she stood right beside it. She had never seen a dead person before, except on TV, of course, which didn’t count because everybody knew the actors weren’t really dead. She’d had a cat once that died. The cat didn’t look any different, except it got
stiff. But one time Mama ran over a dog—Mama didn’t mean to, it darted right in front of her car—and the dog looked really gross, its head all mashed and bloody.

Mama said
Betsy
was run over by a car.

“Courtney, I can’t SEE!”

“Okay, Ellie, I’ll pick you up, but be quiet.”

First, she had to make sure it wasn’t too gross. She didn’t want Ellie having nightmares about her own sister. She peeked real quick—and it wasn’t gross at all.