Maximum Security (9 page)

“Mrs. Rawlings?”

I freeze. I know that voice. It’s Tommy Fitzpatrick, Chatham’s Chief of Police.

“Yes,” Louisa replies. “That’s me.”

“You’re under arrest,” he says, “for the murder of your husband, Herbert Andrew Rawlings.”

Tommy Fitzpatrick looks only slightly surprised when I step into the doorway beside Louisa. He stands on the deck, warrant in hand, Detective Lieutenant Mitch Walker at his side. They’re the same height, and in the glare of the morning sunshine they look like uniformed negatives of each other: the Chief fair-skinned and strawberry blond; Mitch Walker swarthy and dark-haired. The Chief’s car sits in the driveway, engine running and lights swirling. Two cruisers idle behind it, a pair of troopers in each.

Mitch Walker recites Miranda warnings at Louisa and the Chief volunteers the warrant to me. I take it, though I know I needn’t bother. Tommy Fitzpatrick does it right—always. He wouldn’t have come here this morning unless one of his minions had jumped through all the proper procedural hoops beforehand. And my involvement in the case has nothing to do with it. Tommy would do it right even if the accused were
pro se,
representing herself.

Louisa’s smile has vanished. She turns away from Mitch Walker, ignores his monologue. Her dark, moist eyes dart from the Chief to me, panic beginning to set in. “There must be some misunderstanding,” she says, leaning into the doorknob with one hand, fingering her slender throat with the other. Her voice is raspy, barely more than a whisper.

No one answers. Instead, Tommy Fitzpatrick faces me. “Taylor Peterson hauled the body in at about four this morning,” he says, “with his first codfish catch of the day.”

Louisa gasps and I put my hands up, signaling her to be quiet. She covers her mouth with a fist.

“Peterson phoned the station,” the Chief continues. “We met him at the Fish Pier a few hours ago.”

I nod. Taylor Peterson is an old friend of mine. We went through grade school and high school together. He’s a fifth-generation Chathamite, a quiet man whose family has always made its living at sea. I wonder if any of his ancestors ever hauled in a comparable catch.

The Chief takes a deep breath. “We had plenty of company,” he says, “even at that hour. The Coast Guard boarded and a crew from the ME’s office was waiting; they did the post right away.”

My throat closes. A postmortem posthaste. Only the DA can make that happen. Geraldine Schilling must think she’s looking at a real one. And when Geraldine sees a real one, she sinks her teeth in like a pit bull. No doubt the ugly details are spelled out in the warrant I’m holding, but I don’t read it. Not yet.

The Chief still faces me, but he tilts his head toward Louisa. “I’m guessing your client would like to get dressed before we go.”

I nod again.

The Chief turns and signals to the first cruiser in the driveway and a petite female officer emerges from the passenger side. We stand mute until she joins us—even Mitch Walker has finally fallen silent—and then the Chief arches his pale eyebrows at me. He’s asking if I’d like to be the one to tell my client she’ll have company while she dresses. If not, he’ll do it for me.

“Louisa,” I tell her, “Officer…”

I know this cop’s name but it escapes me at the moment, so I check the narrow silver badge on the pocket of her long-sleeved navy blue shirt. Young. It’s hard to believe I forgot that one. She looks like she’s about twelve. “Officer Young will go with you and stay in the room while you change. It’s standard procedure.”

Louisa sizes up the freckle-faced policewoman and then turns her wide eyes back to me. Her expression says I must be joking. Little does she know. In the world of indignities that awaits her, this one is minuscule.

“Just do it,” I tell her. “Go get dressed. And keep your mouth shut.”

The Chief signals to the idling cruisers once more and, simultaneously, they cut their engines. Officer Young’s partner steps out from the driver’s side of the first car, two more male uniforms from the second. I check the last page of the warrant as they cross the deck and approach the kitchen door. I find what I knew I would find: they have judicial authority to search the premises.

I step back so they can enter. The Chief and Mitch Walker come inside first, the trio of uniforms in single file behind them. The last one in deposits an evidence crate just inside the door and each officer takes a pair of gloves, a fistful of bags, and a black marker from it. With a silent gesture, the Chief directs each of them to a different section of the house. I check their name tags to refresh my memory as they receive their assignments: Stahley to the second floor; Glover to the foyer and living room; Holt to the sunroom and kitchen.

Officer Holt’s hand is on the doorknob before I can speak. Not that I have a damned thing worth saying anyhow. He opens the door, then stops cold. He sends a surprised glance over his shoulder to the Chief, the faintest hint of a smile coming to his lips, and then stares into the sunroom again.

“Working,” the Kydd mumbles from inside. “I’m, uh, working here.”

If the place weren’t crawling with cops, I’d strangle the Kydd now instead of later.

Tommy Fitzpatrick crosses the length of the kitchen and stands behind Officer Holt. Mitch Walker follows.

The Kydd clears his throat. “Gentlemen,” he says, as if he’d been expecting them.

All three of them nod at him. “Mr. Kydd,” they say, almost in unison.

The Kydd emerges from the sunroom, careful not to brush against Officer Holt as he slips past. “I was, uh, working in there,” he says again.

All three cops take him in from head to toe: his stubbled chin; his beltless pants; his bare feet.

Now it’s my turn to clear my throat. I tap the warrant I’m holding when the Kydd looks my way.

“Ah,” he says, as if the universe makes sense to him now. “I can, uh, finish up later.” He gestures toward the sunroom as if he’s trying to sell the place. “Please,” he says to Officer Holt, “go right ahead. I’ll just, um…”

He looks over at me and I glare back.

“I’ll just wait right here. That’s what I’ll do.”

That’s what he’ll do, all right. I head back toward the kitchen door and out to the deck, leaving the Kydd to deal with law enforcement on his own.

Tommy Fitzpatrick is right behind me. I figure since Officer Holt is searching the sunroom, Mitch Walker must be enjoying a little private time with the Kydd. Mitch probably hasn’t had this much fun in years. I remind myself again to strangle the Kydd as soon as time permits.

The Chief leans on the deck railing beside me, both of us looking out at the crashing waves. Winds are brisk today, seas rough. “Have you read it?” he asks.

He’s referring to the warrant.

“Not yet,” I tell him. “Want to give me a sneak preview?”

He leans down a little farther, clasps his hands together and rests on his forearms. “Your client’s story didn’t check out,” he says. “She lied to us about where she was last Sunday.”

I keep my eyes on the waves and wait.

“She did go to her club,” the Chief continues, “and she played nine holes, just as she said. But she didn’t eat. She never made it to the grill.”

I turn from the water and look at him.

“Seems she had something else to do,” he adds.

Tommy Fitzpatrick knows me well enough to know I won’t react. He looks out at the waves and apparently decides to move on. “Official cause of death is drowning,” he says to the pounding surf.

I nod, knowing there’s more.

“Secondary to head trauma,” he says.

I feel a tiny surge of hope. Head trauma isn’t inconsistent with a boating accident. It doesn’t necessarily rule out suicide either.

“The body was bound,” Tommy adds. “Wrists and ankles.”

I’m embarrassed more than anything else. Embarrassed by my millisecond of hope. I should know better by now.

Officer Glover lays a hand on top of Louisa’s head as she lowers herself into the backseat of the cruiser. She swats at him. “Don’t touch me,” she says, enunciating her Southern-speak precisely. “Keep your hands to yourself, young man.”

Glover backs away from her, looks first at the Chief and then at Mitch Walker. Mitch pops a stick of gum into his mouth and elbows the Kydd. “She’s a feisty one, hey, Counselor?” He grins and holds out the yellow pack, offering the Kydd a stick of Juicy Fruit.

The Kydd shakes his head. He looks pale, a little bit sick.

The troopers finished the evidence search quickly, filling their crate with items of little significance, as far as I could tell. The notable exception, of course, was Herb Rawlings’s handwritten apology. Officer Holt brought the solitary page from the sunroom, bagged it, and delivered it to the Chief instead of the evidence crate. Tommy Fitzpatrick scanned it quickly at first, then read it over more carefully, and then stared across the room at me. He asked nothing.

The Commonwealth’s lab technicians weren’t so speedy. The duo arrived in time to put an end to my oceanside conversation with the Chief and then spent hours dusting, brushing, and photographing. They scrutinized the entire house, even spent a good chunk of time in the basement. Their efforts struck me as overkill, given that Herb Rawlings perished at sea. The two huddled periodically, compared notes, and then continued their work. Unlike the Chatham cops, the state guys were secretive about the items they confiscated, carrying lidded crates out to their van every half hour or so. They didn’t wrap it up until more than three hours after they’d arrived. And by then, I was worried.

The Chief starts toward his car and slaps the Kydd on the back as he passes. “The DA wants to arraign this afternoon,” he says to me.

The DA seems to be in quite a hurry. The autopsy, the arrest, and the arraignment all in the space of twelve hours. At this rate, I expect she’ll schedule the trial to begin next Monday.

“At open session,” the Chief continues, “unless an earlier slot opens up.”

Open session starts at four o’clock each day in Judge Leon Long’s courtroom. No matter what case is in progress before him, Judge Long adjourns at four to tend to what he calls the “untidy” business of the system: matters no one put on the regular docket because no one saw them coming. Matters like Rinky Snow. And Louisa Rawlings.

The two cruisers back out of the driveway, lights active but sirens mute. Louisa stares straight ahead from the backseat of the lead car. She’s wearing a calf-length beige trench coat, a matching broad-rimmed hat, nylons, and heels. Teardrop diamonds glisten on her earlobes. Her jaw is rigid, her eyes hidden behind Versace sunglasses.

The Chief backs up next. Mitch Walker is in the passenger seat, still grinning and chewing his gum. He waves to the Kydd. The Kydd stares at him but doesn’t wave back.

Just like that, they’re gone. We stand silent for a moment in the oyster-shell driveway, the Kydd seemingly oblivious to the fact that I’m still planning to strangle him.

“Now where were we,” I ask, “before we were so rudely interrupted?”

He stares at me, blank.

“Oh, I know.” I feign a sudden recollection. “You were offering your opinion—your professional opinion, I believe it was—about the course this case is certain to follow.”

His eyes move to his feet—his bare feet.

“Any other opinions you’d like to share?”

He takes a deep breath, looks up at me again, and shakes his head. “What do we do now?” he asks.

I should tell him that
we
don’t do anything now, that
we
no longer work on this case, that
we
disqualified ourselves the minute
we
got involved with the client.

But I can’t. There’s more to be done than one person can do. And most of it should’ve been done yesterday. I need help and, as always, the Kydd is it.

“First of all,” I tell him, “we establish a few ground rules.”

He nods emphatically. He knows what’s coming.

“
If
she’s lucky enough to be back in her own home at the end of the day, you aren’t to be anywhere near the place.”

“I know,” he says, still nodding.

“You don’t set foot on this property again unless I’m with you.”

“Okay.” He stares at his feet.

“And no matter where she is, you act as her lawyer, nothing else.”

“I get it.”

“Every word that passes between you two had better be about the case. Nothing else.”

He looks up at me. “I get it,” he says again. “I swear I do.”

His eyes tell me he does.

“Marty,” he says, “would you do me a favor?”

“A
favor
?” He’s out of his mind.

He swallows hard. “Would you not mention this to Harry?”

Harry. Another problem. I’m silent for a few seconds, as if I’m thinking it over, but I’m not. I already know I won’t tell Harry. Questions about my motive would plague me if I did.

“If he sees anything between the two of you that makes him ask the question, I won’t lie,” I tell the Kydd. “But I won’t bring it up either.”

“Thanks,” he says. “So what do we do now?”

“We split up. You head to the courthouse. Get into lockup if you can. Nobody questions her. Nobody talks to her. She doesn’t utter a word. Not even to the janitor.”

He nods. He knows this drill. He’s done it before.

“And call me if it looks like arraignment will happen before four,” I add. “I’ll keep my cell turned on.”

“Where will you be?” he asks.

“At the Fish Pier. I want to have a word with Taylor Peterson and his crew, if I can find them.” I fish my keys from my pocket and head for the Thunderbird.

When I back up, the Kydd is planted right where I left him. He makes me think of Lot’s wife, after she looked back at Sodom and turned into a pillar of salt. I stop in front of him and roll down my window. “Before you head to lockup, Kydd, remember the rules.”

He squares his shoulders in the morning sunshine, no doubt bracing for a continuing lecture on the Canons of Professional Conduct.

“Lockup’s a lot like the corner grocery store,” I tell him instead. “No shirt. No shoes. No service.”