Sense of Deception (9 page)

I let the pups out as Dutch brought dinner into the kitchen and began to plate it. “Fine,” I said. “But next time you want to be thoughtful, maybe don't be
so
thoughtful, okay?”

My hubby grinned. “Deal.”

We headed to the dining room and sat down for dinner and I had to move some of Dutch's files aside to make room. “These should go in the study,” I told him, lifting the stack to a chair.

“Those are for you,” he said.

“Huh?”

“The other victims in the case against Corzo,” Dutch reminded me.

I sighed. I'd almost forgotten about Corzo. “I've been through Wendy McLain and Donna Andrews's files before, honey. I'm not sure what I'll be able to find.”

Dutch tucked into his food. “It doesn't have to be a big lead like the one you pulled out for us on Misty's case,” he said. “Even a small thing can lead to something bigger. Right now, we've got nothing. We're at the wall. No leads, no clue how to nail him, so just think about finding something small for us, and maybe while we're looking into it, we'll find something bigger. Corzo was careful—I'll give the son of a bitch that—but the evidence we found at Misty's crime scene proves he's not infallible.”

I eyed the stack moodily. “I'll look at them later.”

Dutch nodded. “So, tell me, how was the rest of your stay in county?”

I twirled some noodles on the end of my fork. “Solitary,” I said, and watched his face for a reaction.

He moved his own noodles around a bit. “No trouble, though?”

“Nope. It's hard to get into trouble when you're the only one in the cell.”

Dutch continued to shove his dinner around on his plate. I could tell he knew I was irked that he'd made the call to Cal. “I was just looking out for you, Edgar.”

“I know. But I'm not sure I needed it.”

Dutch finally lifted his gaze to me. “She's on death row for a reason. She's dangerous and they
never
should've put you two in the same cell together.”

He'd said that a tad forcefully and, while I could understand his
wanting to protect me, it still irritated me that he (a) thought I couldn't take care of myself and (b) didn't think I was a good judge of character. “See, that's where you're wrong, cowboy,” I said levelly. “Skylar Miller is neither dangerous nor deserving of the needle.”

“I looked her up,” Dutch said, without a hint of apology. “Abby, she killed her son. Her young son. Brutally. You gotta be pretty cold-blooded to kill your own flesh and blood like that.”

“She didn't kill her son,” I said firmly.

“Well, that's not what a jury of her peers said.”

“I know. Which is why I'm helping her. She was railroaded and that conviction is a total injustice.”

Dutch dropped his fork. “Wait . . . you're
helping
her? What does
that
mean?”

“I'm going to look into Noah's murder, and I'm going to try to save Skylar.”

Dutch stared at me rather incredulously. “Isn't she on her last appeal?”

“Yes.”

“Which she'll probably lose.”

I nodded.

“You know that Texas usually executes their death row inmates within hours of losing their last appeal, right?”

“I'm aware of the time constraints.”

“Why are you getting mad?”

“Why are
you
getting mad?”

“Because I love you and I don't want to see you get involved in a case you can't win.”

I glared at him. “Way to be supportive, Dutch, and also, way to trust my intuition! I mean it's fine to trust me when I'm looking in on one of
your
cases, but heaven forbid I should want to point my radar at a miscarriage of justice for a change.”

Dutch closed his eyes, took a deep breath, which he let out slowly. When he opened his eyes again, his whole demeanor had changed. “You're right. I'm sorry. I do trust you. It's just . . . I read a few of the articles about her online, Abby. The evidence against her speaks for itself.”

“I read those same articles, honey, and I know it looks bad, but my gut says she didn't do it, and it also says that I need to help her. I mean, I know it sounds crazy, but I don't think that it was a coincidence that I was paired up with her in that jail. I think that maybe her son is attempting to manipulate things a little from the other side.”

Dutch cocked his head. “Her son?”

I nodded, taking another bite of my dinner. “I can't explain it other than when I first met Skylar, there was an energy around her, one that I couldn't readily identify, and I was struck by the sudden urge to help her. I'm no medium, but sometimes spirits from the other side communicate with me in more subtle ways; they'll sort of point something out that I need to pay attention to, or they'll make me do something that feels a bit impulsive. I don't think that after meeting Skylar I could turn my back on her. I just feel like I've
got
to help her.”

Using air quotes, Dutch said, “Yes, but what does ‘helping' her mean?”

“Well, it means recruiting Candice and Oscar to do a little investigative work into Noah's murder.”

“Oscar's on vacation,” Dutch said.

“Forced vacation,” I corrected.

“Abby,” my husband replied with that note of irritation creeping into his tone again. “I told Oscar to take the week off to go hang out on a beach somewhere, not work on another investigation.”

“Oh, please,” I said with a dismissive wave. “Oscar has no idea
how to take time off. Hanging out on the beach alone somewhere is the equivalent to him of sitting inside a dungeon with nary a video game in sight.” Dutch folded his arms and lowered his brow, so I added, “Listen, in exchange for helping me on this case, I'm going to help Oscar find a house.”

“A house?”

“Yeah. He needs to get out of that crappy, run-down apartment of his. After that, I'm going to help him pick out some furniture, update his wardrobe, find a dog, and get a girlfriend.”

Dutch suddenly let out a deep laugh. “A total makeover, huh?”

I nodded. “The man is a disaster. I've let it go on for far too long. And I can't help him if he's on the beach somewhere.”

“He helps you, you fix his whole life.”

I pointed at my hubby. “Exactly.”

“Poor bastard.”

“I know. He barely saw it coming.”

Dutch studied me for a moment and then he said, “What's in it for Candice?”

“My undying gratitude.”

“So . . . not much.”

I pointed again to him and took a long tug on my beer. “Bingo.”

“Who else are you recruiting?”

I set the beer bottle down with a flourish. “Cal Douglas.”

His brow rose. “Really?”

“Yep. It was a busy day.”

“So you've got your team together. Need my help with anything?”

“You're volunteering?”

“I figure I need to before you recruit the rest of North America.”

I lifted my beer in a mock toast. “Ha. Ha. Ha-ha.”

“Seriously, do you need my help?”

I gave that some thought. “No, but thank you. I believe we've got it covered. At least for the moment. Besides, you guys have your hands full with the Corzo case.”

“True,” Dutch said with a sigh, pushing aside his plate. “I still can't believe that bastard walked yesterday.”

“You guys have a tail on him, though, right?” I asked as a jolt of alarm went through me.

“We do. But we've got to be careful. Corzo's attorney already sent us a letter saying that any obvious signs of a tail on his client would be seen as harassment.”

“That guy's a total scumball.”

“Yeah, but he's also a good lawyer, and we'll need to be careful. I've got Cox on Corzo tonight, and Wilson, Biggs, and Sutkowitz in rotation. Nobody likes the duty, but it's better than seeing another girl get murdered.”

I focused my radar on what Dutch had said. “He'll kill again if we don't stop him,” I said. “And if we don't bring new charges soon, he'll move to another town in another state, where it'll be easier to get away with it.”

Dutch got up and collected his plate, then motioned to mine and I nodded that he could take it. “If that's the case, then I'll clean up if you'll look through the files. But remember that anything you find can't be traced back to you. Otherwise, Matt's not going to take it into court.”

“In other words, I've got to find something obscure and make it look obvious?”

Dutch winked at me. “Exactly.”

I sighed and lifted the first file. “Just the way I want to spend my Friday night.”

A moment later Dutch set a second beer down next to me. “Thanks, babe. We owe you.”

I waved absently and opened the file, bracing myself for the task at hand. “Okay, Corzo. You might have been careful, but you'll need more than that with me on your case.” And with that, I got to work.

I
had vague memories of Dutch carrying me to bed sometime in the middle of the night. Right around one a.m. I'd nodded off, collapsing onto a pile of crime-scene photos and witness statements.

But my sleep had been restless and fitful, filled with horrible images of dead women, lying prone and strangled, staring sightlessly up into the camera capturing their last, frozen expressions. When I finally woke up around seven, I felt like I'd gotten very little rest.

Sitting up in bed, I blinked blearily and heard rustling out in the kitchen. “Dutch?” I called. My voice was hoarse and my throat felt a little raw.

He appeared in the doorway. “Morning,” he said, coming forward to sit on the bed next to me and offer me up a cup of coffee, heavy on the cream.

I took a sip and closed my eyes. There is nothing like that first sip of really good coffee, is there? “You are a god and I shall worship you forever.”

He chuckled. “My wife thinks I'm a god. Life is good.”

“I was talking to the coffee.”

He frowned. “Life is less good.”

“Should I remind you that you got lucky last night, and if you play your cards right, you'll probably get lucky again today?”

“Oh, yeah? Which cards will make it a sure thing?”

“Breakfast cards. Breakfast cards that involve bacon, eggs, and perhaps a muffin of some kind.”

“And will I be getting lucky before or after these breakfast cards get laid out on the table?”

I took another sip of coffee. God love him, he'd put a bit of nutmeg into the mix. Setting the cup aside, I wrapped my legs around him. “Now's good.”

After I'd again demonstrated my appreciation for him (and he for me—winning!), Dutch set out to make us breakfast. I followed him to the kitchen and warmed up the coffee in the microwave. No sooner had I sat down than there was a knock on the door. Dutch and I both looked at each other, then at the clock, then at the door. “You expecting anyone?” he asked me.

“Nope. You?”

“Nope,” he said with a little irritation. Glancing at the clock on the stove, he added, “It's seven forty-five in the morning. Who the hell knocks on the door before eight a.m. on a Saturday?”

The knock came again. Dutch looked at me expectantly and I groaned, sliding out of the chair to go answer the door. Covering myself with the silk robe I'd shambled into, I opened the door a crack and peered out. “Hey,” Oscar said.

I blinked. “Dude. Do you know what time it is?”

Oscar lifted his wrist and stared at his watch. “Seven forty-three.” He then looked back at me as if expecting me to be grateful for the info.

“What are you doing here?”

Oscar held up his phone. “I drove by this house this morning. It had a For Sale sign.”

I stared at the image, then back up to Oscar. “And?”

“And it's in my neighborhood. Maybe I should get it.”

“Oh, for the love of God,” I sighed, opening the door all the way and waving him inside.

Dutch leaned out from the kitchen and eyed Oscar with a mixture of curiosity and annoyance. “Good morning, sir,” Oscar said with a slight wave.

“Rodriguez,” Dutch replied. “You're here. In my home. On a Saturday. Before eight.”

Oscar nodded, but then he sort of seemed to get it when he took in my robe and Dutch's pajama bottoms and T-shirt attire. The agent's cheeks reddened. “Uh . . . sorry. Did I get you guys up?”

I smiled sweetly at Oscar. “No, honey. We got each other up.”

Dutch ducked his chin to hide a smile and turned back to making breakfast, while Oscar's face flushed even more. Clearing his throat, he said, “Maybe I should come back later?”

I waved a hand at him. “Oh, forget it. You're here now. Dutch can throw a few more eggs and sausages on. You might as well join us for breakfast. Now, come with me to the study. I'm feeling good about our chances of finding you the perfect home.”

Leading Oscar to the study, which was off the dining room, I felt my radar practically singing to me. Sometimes I'll feel so strongly about something that it almost seems like a memory that I'm recalling with great clarity. In my mind's eye when I'd told Oscar that he needed to buy a new place, I'd seen a simple bungalow of white stucco, with a prominent A-line roof, and a small but tidy yard. I'd also had a feeling that the home was farther east than where Dutch and I lived, and south of downtown, so after
hopping on Zillow, I scrolled over the area I felt drawn to and within ten minutes I'd actually found
that
house.

When I clicked on the address, the house came up for us and Oscar leaned in to peer at the pictures. “Oscar,” I told him with a flourish, “welcome to your new home.”

“Huh,” he said.

I blinked. “Don't blow me away with your enthusiasm.”

“It's kinda big, don't you think?”

“It's eighteen hundred square feet. That's hardly ‘big.'”

“But it's three bedrooms. Cooper, what am I gonna do with three bedrooms?”

I held up my hand and ticked off on my fingers. “Master bedroom, home office, guest bedroom slash extra storage.” When he still looked unconvinced, I read the description out loud. “‘Hardwood floors, granite countertops, new AC and furnace, separate shower and garden tub in master bath.' Honey, this house is awesome! And look, it just came on the market yesterday! If we call the Realtor after breakfast, I'll bet we can get you in for a showing today!”

Oscar frowned, clicking through more photos. “I don't know . . . ,” he mused.

I sighed and threw up my hands. Pointing to the screen, I said, “I'm not sure how to break it to you, buddy, but
that's
your new home.”

And then Oscar stopped clicking and he said, “Whoa.”

“What's ‘whoa'?”

He went back a photo. “There's a pool.”

I smiled. “And it's a nice pool at that.”

“And a hot tub.”

I pointed again to the screen, this time to the list of features. “And it's wired for sound throughout, even out to the hot tub.”

Oscar took out his phone, his fingers practically shaking with excitement. “What's the number to call?”

I chuckled and covered his phone with my hand. “You can't call
now
.”

“Why not?”

“Because it's just past eight a.m. on a Saturday morning. Seriously, if you were my client, I'd kill you if you called me that early.”

“Then when can I call?”

I closed the window to Zillow and pulled up my personal e-mail account. From there I typed in the name of a client who was also a real estate agent, and after finding her e-mail address, I sent her a quick note asking her to call me as soon as she got the message, as I had an eager client ready to make an offer on a house very, very soon.

Next I turned to Oscar and said, “Have you already applied for a mortgage?”

Oscar blinked. “Uh, no. I was sorta gonna pay cash.”

It was my turn to blink. “You were sorta . . . gonna . . . what?”

“It's only two hundred thousand, right?”

“You have two hundred thousand dollars
saved
? Like . . . in a checking account?”

Oscar shrugged. “Well, yeah. My rent's only five hundred a month, Cooper. My car's ten years old and I bought it for cash back then too. Most of my paycheck stays in the bank.”

Just then Dutch stepped into the doorway. “Breakfast is on,” he said. Then he must have caught my expression. “What's wrong?”

I stood there for a sec, slack-jawed, and looked from Dutch to Oscar, then back again. “He's got two hundred grand in his checking account,” I said. “He's gonna pay for his new house in
cash
.”

Dutch's eyes widened. “Good job, Oscar.”

“Thank you, sir,” Oscar said, with a bit of both embarrassment and pride.

Dutch nodded. “Eggs are getting cold,” he said. The man brooked no argument about getting to the table to eat a hot meal.

Oscar waited for me to lead the way and all I could do was shake my head. On the way to the dining room, we passed the large pickle jar that was half-full of shiny quarters, its other half full with various bills and pieces of paper with “I.O.U.” scrawled across the surface. That jar accounted for much of my savings.

Dutch seemed to read my body language as I passed the jar because he said, “Maybe this time next year you'll have sworn your way to paying off our mortgage.”

I stiffened, but Oscar made a choking sound and when I looked at him over my shoulder, he was covering his mouth to hide the smile and added a forced cough.

“Wiseass,” I growled, narrowing my eyes at Dutch.

He was having himself a pretty good chuckle. Just for that, I wasn't going to do the dishes.

Halfway through breakfast Oscar got a call. He looked at the display and excused himself from the table to take it in the living room. I frowned as he left because I knew he wasn't the type to take a call in the middle of the breakfast his boss had just prepared unless it was something important.

Across the table from me, Dutch didn't say anything, but I could tell he thought the same thing. We ate in silence for a few moments before he pointed to the stack of files he'd brought home for me to look through. “Did you get anything?”

I shook my head. “Nothing off Wendy McLain's murder, but I still haven't finished with Donna Andrews's file.”

Dutch sighed. “Damn,” he muttered.

I stabbed at a bit of hash brown with my fork. I wanted very much to give Dutch a lead that he could act on, but I'd scoured Wendy McLain's file for anything I could find that might link her murder back to Corzo. So far, I'd come up with bupkes. The small dent I'd made in Donna Andrews's folder wasn't leaving me too optimistic either. “I'm trying, honey,” I told him.

“I know, doll,” he said, reaching out to give my hand a squeeze. “I know.”

Oscar came back to the table, looking like he had news. “What's up?” I asked as he took his seat and put his napkin back in his lap.

“That was the lead detective on Skylar's case—Ray Dioli. He finally returned my call. I told him what we wanted, and he shut me right down.”

“Shit!” I swore, then glared angrily at the swear jar across the room. I was gonna go broke at this rate.

“Wait,” Oscar said. “You didn't let me finish. After he told me no way, he asked me who I was working for, and I told him that I was freelancing for you, and then he changed his whole tune.”

I blinked. “Changed his tune? What does that mean?”

Oscar lifted one shoulder in a slight shrug, and I took in the rather amused quirk to his lips. “He's heard of you.”

I blinked some more. “Heard of me?”

“Yep. Said his kid came to see you a few months ago. Do you remember reading a Chris Dioli?”

I searched my memory banks. For a long time, most of my clients were women, but for about the past year or so, I'd been getting more and more men, so some guy from a few months ago was not much to go on. “No,” I said.

“Well, I guess you hit it out of the park for Dioli's kid, Cooper, because he's now a huge fan. A lot of stuff you predicted for the kid has already happened, and you even told him to tell his dad to
lay off the sodium to cut down on his hypertension. You also told him that his dad needed to do something to lower his blood pressure, or he'd be cutting his life expectancy short. Turns out Dioli had had a doctor's appointment the very same day his kid came to see you,
and
at the same time, and while you were telling his kid about his hypertension, his doctor was saying the
exact
same thing to Ray.”

“Huh,” I said. Even though I've been predicting the futures of my clients for almost a decade now, I'm still surprised by how accurate the stuff that feels like it just rolls off my tongue can be.

“Anyway,” Oscar continued, “after I told him I was working with you because you'd taken an interest in the case, he changed his mind. He'd like to meet with us.”

I cocked my head at him, sensing Oscar was holding back something. “He'd
like
to meet with us, or he's
agreed
to meet with us?”

Oscar took a bigger interest in his food. “Uh, he sort of asked me if it was gonna be just me, or me and you, and when I said it was the two of us, he was happy.”

I squinted suspiciously at the agent. “Happy? Why was he
happy
, Oscar?”

Oscar cleared his throat and refused to look at me. Shoveling a sizable portion of eggs into his mouth, he mumbled, “He'd like to get your opinion on something.”

“A case?” I guessed, feeling my shoulders set with irritation.

Oscar shrugged. “I guess. He wasn't really specific.”

I glared at Oscar, but Dutch said, “What can it hurt, Edgar? You look into his case and he lets you look into his.”

I pointed to the stack of files to my left. “I've already got a full caseload, babe.”

“So you make up the terms before Dioli can rope you into another investigation. Tell him that in exchange for your first
impressions, you'll need a copy of the file on Skylar Miller. Once he agrees, spend a little time with him on his case, collect your copy of the murder file, and leave.”

I tapped my finger on the table. “Yeah, okay. I guess that's a good compromise. Oscar, when did Dioli want to meet?”

“I told him we'd see him in half an hour. And that was five minutes ago.” Oscar then paused to look me over while I gaped at him. “Cooper, you might want to shower first.”

I rushed through a very quick shower and got dressed in lightweight capris and a loose-fitting tank. The low overnight had been eighty degrees, and when Oscar and I rolled up to the APD substation in separate cars, my phone said it was already ninety-two. As I parked my car next to Oscar's, my phone rang, and I saw that it was Bonnie, my client the Realtor. I got out of the car and held up a finger to Oscar as he waited for me to walk with him into the building. I chatted quickly with Bonnie and made arrangements for her to meet Oscar at the house we'd found online at eleven. “You're not coming?” Oscar asked, the second I was off the phone with Bonnie.