Last Light (13 page)

Lucy drove the short distance to the jail side of the sheriff’s offices. Up close, it was obvious that the jail had been added on more recently—expanding to make room for all those forfeiture cases?

The plight of the family she’d met last night still nagged at her. So much wrong with this town—or maybe it was her subconscious’s way of trying to figure out what she sensed was wrong with the Martin case. She’d need to find time to go through the crime scene photos in more detail—and the coroner’s report, the one that the defense had never received. She needed to drill down on that.

As soon as she freed her team. Sigh. She finished her coffee and left the Tahoe, taking only her cell phone, wallet, keys, and ID with her. Since no charges were being pursued, TK and David had been left to wait in the processing room. It was a large, open area with benches lined up against three walls facing the deputy’s desk.

Lucy introduced herself to the deputy on duty then turned to face the room. Its sole inhabitants were David and TK, each handcuffed to separate benches at one corner of the room. TK stood, her handcuffed wrist stretched across the bench. “Thank God you’re here. What took so long?”

“Sorry. Bailing out a pair of drunks wasn’t a priority.”

David flushed and looked sheepish.

“I wasn’t drunk,” TK protested. “Tell her, Ruiz.”

He nodded. “It’s the truth.”

“So what happened? You decided to take on three men because that’s your idea of fun?” The expression that flit across TK’s face told Lucy she’d hit close to home with her flippant remark. Proving yourself was one thing, but violence for fun? That crossed a line.

“I didn’t start it,” TK grumbled as if that was any kind of defense.

Lucy looked to David. He didn’t meet her glance, instead shifted his weight and rolled his shoulders into a lopsided shrug. “It was kind of a mutually-ensured-destruction thing.”

Funny, the more she heard him talk, the more she heard his real voice—or what she imagined to be his real voice, filled with wry sarcasm and emotional inflections that his ruined atonal one lacked.

“So that’s why you felt obligated to jump in?” Lucy asked.

“He didn’t jump in. Just tried to play Galahad and told the cops he had.” TK rolled her eyes. “As if I needed any help dealing with three drunks.”

“Actually, that’s exactly what I was afraid of,” David said. “Men around here have long memories of battles lost—memories that tend to fester until they can get payback. Figured if folks thought it was me—”

TK bristled at that until she intercepted Lucy’s glare—the same look Lucy used on her teenaged daughter. Nice to see it worked on former Marines as well.

“Doesn’t matter who’s taking the blame. Because we’re not here on vacation or to blow off steam or settle old scores. We’ve got a job to do and you two have just made it infinitely more difficult. Not to mention undermining any pretense of professionalism.”

“Don’t worry none about those boys,” a voice came from behind her. Lucy turned around. Leaning against the wall inside the door was a man in his forties wearing jeans and a khaki shirt. No insignia, but given the large pistol holstered at his belt and the way the deputy was watching, she guessed this was the sheriff.

“Sheriff Blackwell,” Lucy stepped toward him and extended her hand. “I’m Lucy Guardino of the Beacon Group.”

His grip was firm, his smile genuine. “Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Guardino. I was hoping we could speak. When you’re finished here.”

Lucy edged a glare toward TK and David. “Of course. I’d appreciate a few moments of your time to explain—”

He waved away her concerns. “Like I said, don’t worry none about my boys. Going to be a long time before they live down the fact that a filly took them down.” He turned his smile on TK before glancing at David. “Although I’m afraid the folks over at the Sweetbriar are asking that you clear out your stuff and not return. I’m sure you understand.”

The deputy approached, bearing handcuff keys and paperwork. Valencia was going to freak out when she got that credit card bill.

Blackwell touched two fingers to his forehead in a casual salute. “I’ll see you soon, Mrs. Guardino. And hoping not to see either one of you two back here again.” He left. The deputy released both David and TK.

“What now?” David asked, rubbing his wrist.

“David, you check in with the prison authorities; see if your visit with your father is still on for today.” Special visits like the one the Justice Project had arranged were at the warden’s discretion and subject to change.

“What about me?” TK asked, her tone tight with frustration.

Lucy inhaled and took a moment. “You serve the court order granting us access to the prosecution’s evidence. Go through every scrap of paper they have. I want the evidence inventoried, photographed, scanned, logged, and cross-referenced with what the defense gave us. Coordinate with Wash back home. Find me the holes in their case.”

TK bristled, her mouth open to protest at her sudden demotion to paper-pusher.

Lucy continued, “When David’s done he can help you. If I can’t get the sheriff’s cooperation, our stay here might be shorter than anticipated and we can’t leave without that evidence.”

LUCY WAS GLAD
she’d taken the time to shower and change before meeting with the sheriff. Re-opening a twenty-nine-year-old case considered solved was difficult enough without needing to apologize for the actions of her team. Not to mention the fact that Caleb Blackwell was also a witness who needed to be interviewed.

After meeting Augusta and hearing about her family’s forfeiture nightmare, she’d been prepared not to like the man, but she had to admit that he was charming. Assertive yet polite, direct without being overbearing—it reminded her that sheriffs were elected officials and thus politicians first and law enforcement officers second.

Blackwell’s office was in the back corner of the bullpen, the door open. Despite the early hour, a few minutes past seven, an administrative assistant sat at a desk in front of the door, busy typing on a computer, but she stopped and smiled at Lucy when she approached. “Can I help you?”

“Lucy Guardino of the Beacon Group. The sheriff asked to speak with me.”

“Of course, Mrs. Guardino. He’s expecting you. Can I bring you coffee?”

Before Lucy could answer, Blackwell appeared in his doorway. For a man of such average height and build, he radiated an intensity that was compelling.

“Trust me, say yes,” he said with a smile. “Anita brews the best coffee in the state.”

Anita blushed and nodded, moving from her desk to the coffee station along the other wall. Blackwell stood aside, motioning for Lucy to enter his domain.

It was a typical working office that reminded Lucy of her old one at the federal building back in Pittsburgh: papers stacked on every surface, whiteboards filled with notes, calendar with almost every date filled, the obligatory framed diplomas and commendations along with a flag, photo of the president, and one of Blackwell shaking hands with the governor.

Blackwell moved behind his desk, leaving Lucy with the choice of one of two matching leather chairs. She waited for him to sit before taking her own seat. For some reason that made him smile.

“So.” He leaned back in his chair. “I take it David Ruiz hired your company to convince the court to free his father? I admire you for taking on a challenge like that. Pretty much an open-and-shut case.”

“The Beacon Group is nonprofit and we don’t actually work with the courts—that’s up to the lawyers with the Justice Project. We’re here to record the facts of the case, see if there’s any new evidence that might be considered exculpatory.”

He considered that. “Seems to me the facts are pretty straightforward: one brother on a drug-crazed murder spree, the other protects him by shooting the homeowner who interrupted things, and after they’re caught with the murder weapon, they both confess to avoid the death penalty. Not sure how much simpler a case could be.”

Anita returned bearing two mugs of steaming coffee. She handed Blackwell his first, then gave Lucy hers. “Thanks, Anita, that will be all for now,” he said.

The interruption gave Lucy time to regroup and choose her approach. She totally understood why a sheriff would feel defensive about re-opening a closed case, even if it wasn’t one he had closed himself. Plus, Blackwell had been an important witness, sealing the fate of the Manning brothers.

“I think maybe that’s the beauty of working with an independent group like ours,” Lucy said. “We can assess the evidence and let the Justice Project know if they’re wasting their time.”

“Except you’re working with the defendant’s son.” He raised a skeptical eyebrow.

“I didn’t know about Mr. Ruiz’s connection to Michael Manning until after we arrived.” She leaned forward. “Confidentially, that’s one of the reasons why I’ll be interviewing witnesses such as yourself personally. That way there’s no chance of introducing any bias in our final report.”

“And the girl, Miss O’Connor? What’s her story? She seems quite the firecracker.”

“I do apologize that things got out of hand last night—”

He waved a hand, dismissing her apology. “The boys were drunk. It happens. Well, hitting on a pretty girl happens. The pretty girl knocking them flat on their asses? Not so often. Might want to keep her out of the public eye for the rest of your visit—gossip spreads faster than wildfire around here.”

She remembered the two clerks at the motel. “I agree. I’ve put her on records duty for the time being.”

“Sounds like a plan.” He began to push up from his chair to dismiss her, but Lucy remained seated.

“Just one more thing, Sheriff. While I have you here—I understand you were a witness in the case? You must have been very young. How traumatic. Are you okay to talk about it? We could do it now, save you time, if you like.”

He frowned, squinted down at her, then resumed his seat. “Of course. I suppose you’d need to speak with me sooner or later. Might as well get it out of the way.” He turned to his phone and hit a button. “Anita, hold my calls for the next fifteen minutes—except if the county commissioner calls with those budget figures, let me know. Otherwise no interruptions.”

“Of course, sir.”

He spread his hands wide, palms up. “I’m all yours, Mrs. Guardino.”

“Lucy, please.” She pulled her phone out, set it on the desk between them. “You don’t mind if I record this?”

“Of course not, go ahead.”

“Thanks. Tell me what happened that day—actually, let’s start the day before the killings. What do you remember from that day?”

He frowned in concentration as if it was an effort to remember. “Thursday? I don’t know. Went to school, came home, did what normal twelve-year-old kids do, watch TV, play video games.”

Lucy didn’t challenge him for more details, instead simply nodded. “And the next day, Friday?”

“Same. Except there was a football game. I was only in seventh grade so had just started going to the high school games. It was like a rite of passage, a lot like your parents letting you go trick-or-treating on Halloween with your friends and no grownups.”

“So you went to the game. Who do you remember seeing there? Tell me about it. Did you eat dinner there—hot dogs, popcorn?” She tried to guide him through a basic cognitive interview, but something was obstructing the process. He wasn’t responding like most witnesses. Usually, by incorporating sensory details, memories were easier to reconstruct.

“I’m sure, all that. But the main thing I remember—probably because of what happened later—was Mike Manning. He was a running back. That night he about blew away every record the school had. He was a real hero. Which is why I was so shocked the next morning when he almost ran me over in his brother’s truck. He was supposed to be a nice guy and all I was doing was riding my bike. I wasn’t bothering anyone.”

Lucy followed his lead and skipped ahead to Saturday. “Do you remember what time you got up? Why so early on a weekend?”

“Not sure what time it was, but the sun was barely up. Saturdays I got paid to watch Alan, a dollar an hour, so the sooner I got over there, the more money I’d make. It wasn’t really babysitting. Mrs. Martin was always there getting her chores and stuff done. More like practice babysitting.” He smiled at her. “Do you have children, Ms. Guardino?”

“A daughter.”

“Then you know how it is, trying to prepare them for the responsibilities of adulthood. My father was a firm believer in every man earning his keep and my mother believed it was never too soon to learn the value of taking charge of your life. A man has to be ready for anything, willing to do anything to protect his family. That’s what I learned at the hands of my parents. Perils of being the only heir to the family empire, I’m afraid.”

“Family empire?”

He gestured to the window with its expansive view of farmland. “Pretty much all the land you see and all the cattle grazing it belong to my family. The Blackwells were among the first settlers here. We kept this place and the people living here going through times of war, times of drought and famine, even economic collapse. Without my family, none of this,” now he gestured to the building and the people bustling outside his door, “would exist.”

Somehow he made the grandiose statements seem like simple recitation of facts rather than benevolent patronizing. Probably ingrained in him—after all, the county was named after his family.

She steered him back to the case. “Did you mind giving up your Saturdays like that? Hanging out with a kid half your age?”

“No. Alan and I played games, ran around in the woods behind their house. We’d stay out for hours. And then Mrs. Martin would call us in and give us cookies and milk, or sometimes coconut cake—she knew it was my favorite.”

“So that morning you got up and got on your bike and...What route did you take? What was the weather like? Did you see anyone?”

“It was nice, just cold enough I wore my windbreaker. I remember because later we had to throw it out—” His voice broke off, his gaze distant, before he allowed the memory to embrace him. “I could have cut across the fields if I went on foot, but that morning I took my bike. It was such a nice day. I rode down our drive to the highway along the river—I wasn’t supposed to ride on the highway because of how fast people drive, but since I was going to turn thirteen in a few days, my father had given me permission to start riding there. Then I turned up the lane that led to the Martins’ place. Hadn’t gone very far when a pickup truck comes speeding down, zigzagging all over the road like they weren’t even looking where they were going. Came right at me, about ran me off the road, then left me choking in their dust. But I got a good look at them: Mike Manning was driving and his crazy brother, Dicky, was in the passenger seat.”