Dread Champion (33 page)

“Where's my dad?” a muffled voice from the video demanded off camera.“I want to see him
right now!
I want to talk to the detectives!”

The onscreen Darren Welk pressed back in his chair, eyes wide. “No!” He shot out a hand and grabbed the surprised detective's wrist. “You're not talking to my son. You've got your man.” He stabbed his chest with a finger. “Leave Brett out of this.”

The detective eyed him coldly.He picked the man's hand off his wrist as if it were a giant spider. “We've got our man?” He lowered his chin, staring at Welk. “Is that a confession, Mr.Welk?”

Darren Welk's mouth opened, then snapped shut. His gaze narrowed, darkened, his shoulders straightening. Suddenly he slammed a fist into the table. “I want to see a lawyer!”

His face froze on the screen, mouth in a snarl and teeth bared, eyebrows jammed together. Next to Chelsea, Gloria sucked in an audible breath. No one in the courtroom moved, all staring at the anger, the
hatred,
in that face. Chelsea's eyes moved back and forth between Darren Welk and his son. Brett sat in utter stillness, as if one move would make him explode.What
was
it? Chelsea's mind scurried for an answer. Everything about Darren Welk reeked of guilt. But Brett. Something about Brett …

With a funereal air Stan Breckshire approached the television. He studied the frozen face onscreen, then trailed his eyes to Darren Welk, pulling the stares of everyone in the courtroom with him. Welk flushed, averted his eyes to his grasped fingers. Suspicion, cloying and rancid, steeped the jury box.

“Your Honor,” Stan Breckshire pronounced, the words dripping with meaning, “I have no more questions.”

Terrance Clyde cross-examined.When defense was through, Stan pushed out of his chair with an air of finality and leaned across the table on spread fingers. “The prosecution rests,” he announced.

THIRTY-EIGHT

Sweat trickled between Rogelio's shoulder blades as he weeded in the hot sun, his fingers automatically moving, mind far away.

Tomorrow evening Milt planned to air his story. The reporter had gotten a lot of information from Tracey, but there were still a few loose ends, he'd said. He needed this evening to try to put it all together. Exactly how Milt had gotten Tracey to talk remained a mystery. Rogelio wasn't sure he wanted to know.

Mama Yolanda still knew nothing. Rogelio had first wanted to hear from Milt. But he couldn't put off telling her any longer. He'd have to talk to her tonight. Kristin too. His heart skipped beats over
that
thought. All he could do was hope and pray for the words to make Kristin understand. Surely she would feel differently once she heard all he'd learned about the man who was raising their daughter. Surely all this would work out. Somehow.

God,
he prayed silently
,
fingers grasping and pulling,
don't forget our bargain.

“Y
OU CAN SEE THE
guilt in every move of Darren Welk's body,” Lynn Trudy declared to reporters as they gathered in the hall after lunch. “That videotape says it all.”

Milt Waking watched Bill film happily away. The guy's tongue was practically hanging out of his mouth. Milt slithered a gaze to Lynn and shuddered. Today her pants were spangled with glitter, her too-tight knit shirt a hot pink. Not a good combination with her long purple nails, which continually scuttled through the air like crabs as she spoke. She'd apparently rinsed her spiky hair over the weekend, its new hue a deep red. Milt wondered about a woman who'd think of changing hair color in the midst of her sister's murder trial.

“Ms. Trudy, what's your latest thought on the phantom caller?” a reporter asked.

She turned to him, eyes flashing. “My thought is, why in the world haven't they caught who did it?” She glared at the reporter as if it were his fault. “It's obviously someone who wants Darren Welk found innocent, even when he most assuredly is not. How many people like that do you see attending this trial?” She cast a meaningful look across the hallway at Brett Welk's back. The reporters' eyes followed hers.

“Are you suggesting his son is behind the calls?” Pens dangled with anticipation.

“I will say no more.” Lynn Trudy's plucked eyebrows rose.“Look at the facts before you. They speak for themselves.”

Milt hung back, viewing the scene. Same old questions day after day. Oh, the questions he'd soon be asking this woman.
Ms. Trudy, did you know your sister sold a baby to aman of highly questionable repute? Did you know that your niece was involved?

He couldn't wait to see the look on her face.

S
TAN
B
RECKSHIRE REPRESSED
a smirk as he listened to the first two witnesses for the defense. Past boyfriends of the deceased. This second one, all muscles and tan and hair, looked a good fifteen years younger than Shawna Welk.What a slut she'd been.

Ol' T. C. and smarty-pants Erica were certainly dragging the trenches. They had so little of a defense to present. The most they could do was try to poke holes in his case, and Stan knew they'd managed to do little of that. So Shawna Welk had gone through a slew of boyfriends? Her husband had cheated on her, hadn't he? Stan could see the argument coming. If she'd been with these men, she'd probably been with more and perhaps had run off with one of them. Stan's comeback for his closing argument already ran through his head. So she'd run off with a supposed boyfriend, had she? Who was he? How come no one knew of him? Why was no man missing, as Shawna was?

Stan tapped the prosecution table. He wondered what other shenanigans T. C. would try to pull. He remembered the infamous story of a former murder case sans body. The defense attorney, in his closing remarks, had dramatically declared to the court that the “deceased” was not dead at all and would in fact enter through the courtroom doors in the next moment. All heads had turned expectantly toward the entrance. Of course, the dead woman did not enter the courtroom. But the defense attorney had made his point.Any of the jurors who'd looked, he emphasized, could not vote guilty, for they'd harbored just that much doubt.

How very cunning. Except for one thing. The jurors had noticed that only one person in the courtroom had not turned to look toward the door—the defendant.

Verdict: guilty.

Stan smiled to himself. It just didn't pay to get too cute.

He slid a look at his jury. Clay and Henry were dutifully taking notes. Other jury members took notes, too. Funny how Chelsea Adams had all of a sudden decided to join them. But these two men seemed in control, influential. One of these would be his foreman. And he had 'em both; he'd bet on it.

Young Mr. Macho left the stand. T. C. called his third witness. Another boyfriend. Stan drummed fingers against his leg.Ho hum.

K
ERRA SQUEEZED
B
RETT'S HAND
in empathy as Barry “Buddy” Hottsteter assumed the witness chair with a tinge of defiance. He looked about six foot two, with black hair in a ponytail and a leathered face.Not a man Kerra would want to meet in a dark alley. How Brett must feel, seeing this parade of his stepmother's “other men.” Kerra stole a look at the back of Darren Welk's head, wondering what he was thinking. Did he even care? He, the husband who'd apparently had a string of women?

He leaned over and whispered in Terrance Clyde's ear. The attorney whispered back. Erica Salvador rose to question Buddy, her ever present high heels clicking. Buddy watched her approach with a mixture of wariness and superiority—
Ican handle you,Miss Lawyer.

“Mr.Hottsteter.” Erica stopped in front of him, hands clasped at her waist. “Good afternoon. I understand you're not too happy about being here, is that true?”

“You could say that.”

“And why would that be?”

He gave her a look. “I don't like talking about my affairs in public.”

“Hm.”The corner of Erica's mouth turned up slightly. “Interesting use of words. Let's talk about your ‘affair' with Shawna Welk. When did it begin?”

“Three months before she was killed.”

Erica's face hardened at the word. “And did it continue right up to the time she disappeared?”

“Yes.”

“Where did you manage to meet with her during these three months?”

“In my apartment in Salinas.”

“You live alone?”

“Yeah.”

“Was this during the day or evening?”

Buddy Hottsteter shrugged. “Both.Whenever we could.”

“I see.” Erica shot Darren Welk a glance of empathy. Kerra noticed Brett's hand twitch.

“Where were you on the night of February fifteenth, Mr. Hottsteter?”

He assumed a bored look. “Like I told the detectives, I was in my apartment, asleep.”

“Anyone who can confirm that?”

“No.”His eyes narrowed.

Erica folded her arms.“Isn't it true that three nights before Shawna Welk disappeared, a neighbor of yours heard you two fighting in your apartment and called to ask you to keep your voices down?”

Buddy glared at her.Wild hope flared in Kerra's chest. Her lips parted as she looked to Brett in surprise. His face remained impassive. She sent a piercing look toward the jury, Aunt Chelsea.

“It wasn't much of an argument.”

“Really?” Erica walked with determination to the defense table and picked up her notes.Her finger slid halfway down the top page, then stopped.“Your neighbor, a Mr.Allen Foxmeyer, did not call you and say”—she consulted the notes—“‘You are shouting so loud,my pictures on the wall are rattling'?”

Buddy flicked his eyes.“He's an old man; he's easily rattled.”

Erica tapped a nail against the papers. “What were you arguing about?”

“Can't remember.”

The defense attorney sighed. She read her notes again. “According to the police report,Mr. Foxmeyer said he heard you shout, ‘I'm not rich enough to leave your husband for, is that it?' True, Mr. Hottsteter?”

“I don't know.”

Erica tossed the papers on the defense table. “You sure? I could always call Mr. Foxmeyer to testify. And do remember you're under oath.”

Buddy's mouth worked, the expression on his face venom.

“Can you remember?”

“Fine. I said it.”

“You wanted Shawna to leave her husband?”

“Yeah. So what?”

“And you were angry when she wouldn't?”

No answer.

“Mr. Hottsteter?”

“Yes, okay? I was mad. It passed.”

“When did it pass?”

“When Darren Welk killed her!”

Erica stared daggers at him.“Your Honor,” she said in quiet malice, “I request that the witness's unwarranted remark be struck from the record.”

“Granted.” Judge Chanson instructed the jury to ignore the statement.

“Let's try again,” Erica said. “When did your anger at Shawna Welk ‘pass'?”

Buddy glanced from her to the judge, uncertainty flicking across his forehead. In a heartbeat it was gone. “When she was killed,” he said, drawing out each word. He cocked his head in contempt.

Erica smiled knowingly. Her eyes slid over Buddy Hottsteter as if he were scum. “Did
you
kill her?”

“Of course not; that's ridiculous!”

“You just said your anger was quelled once she was gone, isn't that so?”

“I didn't mean that! I just meant …”He shifted in his seat. “I just meant that once she was dead, I felt sorry for her, that's all.”

“Once she was dead,” Erica repeated.

“Yeah.”

The attorney nodded slowly, her gaze at him piercing. “I see. I have no further questions then.”

She returned to her seat with a meaningful raise of her eyebrows.

Stan Breckshire stood to try to redeem the witness as much as he could. Kerra hardly noticed. She tugged at Brett's hand, casting a questioning glance to Buddy. “Please,” her expression begged, “tell me, could he have killed Shawna?”

Brett's face slackened. His eyes filled with empathy, as if he realized for the first time the extent of her fears—for his dad, for him. For them. He tried to smile but his lips twisted. Slowly he raised a shoulder. Then patted her hand.

Sickness roiled through Kerra's stomach. Clearly, he wanted her to cling to her hope. Even though he had none.

THIRTY-NINE

...after the revealing video of the defendant, an obviously defiant boyfriend of Shawna Welk's testified for the defense, opening up questions regarding his own motive for her murder…

Milt's evening news report flowed through his head as he pulled into the parking lot of Tracey's seedy apartment building.With his recent scoops about the case, no doubt his number of viewers had increased significantly.And when he'd privately told his news director, Ron, about the story he was working on, the guy nearly choked.

Milt jerked off his tie and smoothed his hair.He'd phoned Tracey, saying he wanted to see her again. His gut told him she was holding out on him about the money. By the time this night was over, he expected to have a few more answers.

As Milt started to open the door, a familiar spike-haired figure stomped into the parking lot from the direction of Tracey's apartment. Lynn Trudy's head was bent, her arms pumping as she hissed what had to be curses under her breath. Milt ducked down in the seat. Seconds later he heard a car start. Cautiously he raised his head in time to see her screech out of the lot and in front of an oncoming truck. The driver's horn blared.

Milt sat a moment, puzzling.

At Tracey's door he rapped twice and heard the scurry of approaching feet. “I told you I'm not going to talk to you anymore!” Tracey yelled from inside.

“Tracey? It's me,Milt.”

Immediately he heard the door unlock. Tracey opened it and stood breathing hard, clad in a clingy black dress, her legs and feet bare. “Oh, I'm so glad it's you.”Her eyes closed in relief.