The Michaela Bancroft Mysteries 1-3 (64 page)

"No." She didn't want Ethan to find out about this. "Call Joe. He'll be able to help."

She thought about her parents for a minute and was thankful that the two of them had taken a well-earned vacation for their fortieth wedding anniversary. They were on an African safari—something her father had always wanted to do. She could straighten all this out by the time they returned. But it wasn't good that Jude was also gone. She needed him right now.

Emotion rose up in the back of her throat, making her feel like she was choking. She swallowed it, refusing to allow any of this to get to her. This was one big mistake. One helluva mistake, and she would find the answers, because she refused to be framed for murder and spend her life in jail.

THIS WAS LUDICROUS. PETERS AND SOME OTHER detective—a woman named Singer—had her inside an interrogation room. They were throwing questions at her right and left. She felt like a boxer inside a ring—right hook followed by a double left. If she could only pass out and then wake up to find them all gone.

"When did you meet Mr. Taber?" Peters asked.

"I don't know. I think four months ago. It was about the time I started taking polo lessons. Robert Nightingale introduced us."

"And what was your relationship like?"

"We didn't have one. We were acquaintances. That's it. I saw him at the polo grounds on occasion and we played polo together."

"So, you never spent any other time with Mr. Taber outside of the polo grounds?" Singer asked. She was an attractive, short-haired blonde who looked more like a soccer mom than a hard-nosed detective.

"Once, actually. A group of us went over to Sorvino's for dinner one night after practice. Ed Mitchell, the owner of the grounds, wanted to meet with us about the charity event."

Singer didn't respond. She left the room.

"Think about it, Ms. Bancroft, is there maybe another time or two that you
associated
with Mr. Taber?" Peters asked.

She tried to find the right answer to get him off her back. "You know what? No. What is this about?"

Singer came back in holding a set of ropes that looked like the one she'd given Sterling yesterday. "Do you recognize these?" she asked.

"Sure. I sell them at Round the Bend. They're roping ropes."

"Uh-huh, and did Mr. Taber get these from you?"

"He did."

"But I thought that you said that you didn't have a relationship outside the polo facility with Mr. Taber."

"I didn't."

"Do you want to explain the ropes?"

Michaela detailed the incident that had led Sterling Taber to walk out of her shop with the ropes.

Singer and Peters eyed each other. "You and Mr. Taber never used these ropes
together
?"

Michaela sat up straight, aghast at the question. "Are you kidding me? First, we could not have had time, considering he got them just before the polo match, and as far as spending any time with him, that wasn't going to happen. I didn't even like the man. He was repulsive to me…"

Oh how stupid.
How could she have allowed herself to say such a stupid, stupid thing? Oh no, no, no. She could tell by the looks on the cops' faces that she'd helped put another nail into her coffin. Coffee! Maybe coffee would help her brain connect at this ungodly hour.

Singer and Peters looked at each other again. "Ms. Bancroft, we have it from a source close to Mr. Taber that the two of you had a sexual relationship and that Mr. Taber had certain fetishes." Singer held up the ropes.

Michaela's jaw dropped. Now not only was she as dumb as paint on a fence, she was speechless.

"Do you care to comment?" Singer asked.

It took her a few seconds.
Brain connect. Brain connect
. "What source? You are kidding me." She shook her head. "No, no. This is some kind of joke. Who told you that?"

"We can't reveal sources. But this person claims that Mr. Taber frequently discussed your relationship."

"Well, whoever it was is lying. That is not true. Not even close."

Peters sat down and pulled the chair up, his face now only inches from hers. Michaela could smell coffee on his breath. Her stomach soured as he spoke in an accusatory tone. "Is that why you killed him? Because he was spreading rumors that the two of you were sleeping together? Or did you kill him because you were having sex with him and he was dating another woman? Did you murder Sterling Taber because you were jealous? As I said, we have your fingerprints on the mallet. They match what's in the computer. Lucky for us when you applied for a license to teach autistic children, you were fingerprinted by the county."

"I did not kill him. I never slept with him. That's crazy. It's just not true!"

"Why would he say it then?"

"I don't know!" Michaela now knew what it must feel like to be a cornered dog—one being kicked and beaten for no reason. And, as her brain further connected, she realized that it looked like she needed a lawyer, and panic started to set in.

"Ms. Bancroft, you still have the right to contact an attorney."

"I think that would be a—"

Before she could finish there was a knock at the door. Singer opened it. On the other side stood a shorter version of her friend Joe. The man stretched out his hand. "I'm Anthony Pellegrino. I'm counselor for Ms. Bancroft here."

Yes, the man was definitely related to Joe. Same last name, same round stomach, wavy black hair slicked off his face, and warm brown eyes. A first cousin was her guess. It looked like Camden had called Joe, and he'd obviously gone to work rapidly, rounding up one of his cousins to save the day. Anthony looked to be doing well for himself. He wore a pinstriped silk navy suit, crisp white button-down shirt with a rose-colored tie—Italian, for sure. Joe had a barrage of cousins. He blamed it on his devoutly Catholic family. He claimed there were some he hadn't even met.

Michaela had learned over the years that Joe's many cousins worked at anything from garbage truck driver to chef…but an attorney? That was a new one on her. Still, at that moment she felt grateful, albeit a bit surprised, to see Mr. Anthony Pellegrino enter the room to represent her.

The attorney removed a handful of papers from a leather briefcase. He took his time—deliberate and slow, almost achingly so for Michaela. She wanted to get out of there. "It's my understanding that you've charged my client with murdering a Mr. Sterling Taber."

"That's correct," Peters said.

"On what grounds?"

"The murder weapon belongs to your client and her fingerprints were on the weapon."

"The murder weapon being the polo mallet I read about in your report," Pellegrino said.

"Yes."

"Of course her fingerprints are on the mallet. It's her freaking mallet. I don't see what that's got to do with anything." Pellegrino shook his head and looked as if he were about to laugh. Michaela wasn't sure how to take it, because she was about to cry. "You are so joking here. You do realize that it would take nothing for the real killer to slip on a pair of gloves and there you go? No wonder Ms. Bancroft's fingerprints are the only ones. Anyone can see that. You don't have to be detective to figure that one, eh, folks?" Pellegrino smiled. "You, my friends, have a weak case and I'm sure that you know it. I'd like to confer with my client alone."

Both detectives left the room. Pellegrino stuck out a hand. "Joe sent me over. I'm a cousin."

"I figured. I would normally say that it would be nice to meet you, but…"

He waved his hand at her. "I understand. So, did you off the guy?"

It took her a few seconds to process his question. "Of course not!"

"You can tell me, I'm your lawyer."

"No way. I didn't kill anyone."

"Yeah, Joe says you're a good lady. I think I did pretty good with them cops, huh?"

What did he mean by that? "Yes," she said. "I think so. Wouldn't
you
know? I, uh, have never been in a situation like this."

"Oh yeah, me either. Crazy, man. Kinda cool, like one of them cops-and-lawyer shows."

Michaela crossed her arms and stared at him. "What kind of law do you practice?"

"Who, me?" He pointed at himself and then flattened down his silk tie. "Yeah, well, I'm a tax attorney, you know."

"Perfect." She put her face in her hands.

"Don't cry on me. I don't do so good with tear jags."

"Out of all the cousins you guys seem to have, there's no criminal defense attorney?"

"Oh yeah, there is. That'd be Pauly, but he's out in Chicago, you know. But look, I can get you out of this. Like I said, it don't take a genius to see they got a weak case. We just gotta get your bail posted."

"Right." Anthony Pellegrino may not have been a criminal defense attorney, but he was all she had right now.

"Okay, so here's the deal. They got your prints on the murder weapon. But it was your mallet, so they gotta prove you had time. They got a motive with this thing, though."

"Uh-huh, me sleeping with Sterling. Do you know who told them such a thing?"

Pellegrino looked down at his notes. "Do you know a Lucia Sorvino?"

"What? Pepe's teenage daughter?"

"Says here she's twenty."

"I know who she is. We're not friends. But she's served me a platter of lasagna from time to time at her father's restaurant. I had a little disagreement yesterday morning with her father before the event. She was there and her brother showed up. I don't even really know the girl. Why would she say something like that?"

"I don't know, but the police have it on file."

"This is craziness!"

"I'm going to level with you. This Peters dude, he's a jerk, a real uptight cop, and I think he'd like to wrap this thing up because Taber was from a highfalutin family who lives up in Santa Barbara. He don't want no heat, so if you look like a good suspect, then that's the angle he's gonna pursue for now. But Joe says you got a friend here in the department."

She nodded. "Jude Davis. He's a homicide detective."

"He might be able to help us out. Have you spoken with him?"

"No. He's on a cruise with his daughter. He won't be back until Friday."

"Huh. Five days. Okay, so while we're waiting for your friend to come back from his vacation, there is a hearing arranged for first thing this morning. The judge will likely set bond, but it won't be cheap."

"How much?"

"Murder case? You're looking at a quarter mil."

"Two hundred fifty thousand dollars! I don't have that kind of cash right now."

"You only have to come up with ten percent of it."

Michaela sighed. She didn't even have
that
amount of liquid assets at the moment. She'd put most of her cash from her inheritance into building up the autism riding center and for the special equipment needed, along with the extra horses she'd bought. The money that hadn't gone into the center she'd invested in the tack shop, and she was working on just enough capital to keep her business running and pay her bills. Oh God, she couldn't turn back now. She'd been down the road toward bankruptcy a few short years ago, and she refused to go back there. "That's still a lot."

"What about your parents, friends, property?"

She cringed at any of those thoughts. Definitely not her parents. She couldn't ask any friends. She wouldn't do that to them. But her property? Uncle Lou's place. That was her only option. "My ranch. If I have to."

"Good. I talked with your friend Camden and had her pack an outfit for you for this morning. By the time they take you back to your cell, the clothes should be there."

Her eyes stung with tears.
Her cell
. The one hour she spent inside the jail cell in the wee hours she'd paced back and forth, her mind full of rage, fear, and shock. Then Peters had come for her and she'd been in the interrogation room ever since.

Pellegrino smiled warmly at her. "It's gonna be okay. We'll get through the morning. You'll be home by noon. That's my job, and after that we'll get to work on your defense and I will get to work on these clowns here and continue to remind them that everything they have is circumstantial and weak."

How was he going to work on anything? He was a
tax attorney
, for crying out loud, but she didn't have it in her to bring that up right now. All she wanted was to get the hell out of there. She nodded and tried to smile back in return, but she wasn't sure at all how she was going to make it through the morning.

IT WASN'T TWENTY-FIVE GRAND THAT GOT Michaela out of jail but rather fifty, and the thought of leveraging Uncle Lou's place made her ill. Apparently the judge thought she was a flight risk because she had the financial means to "get away." Please! Where would she go? She had a barn filled with horses that were family to her, a handful of children she gave riding lessons to whom she adored, parents who lived two miles from her that she saw at least once a week, and a circle of friends she couldn't live without. She almost laughed when the old curmudgeon of a judge brought up the idea that she might flee. It was as ridiculous as the notion that she had been sleeping with Sterling. She had every intention of speaking with Lucia Sorvino to find out why in the world she was spreading such vicious lies. That girl had some explaining to do. Didn't she know what rumors could do to a person's life? Try on
destroy it
for size!

Joe showed up at the courthouse to take her home, while her new attorney shook her hand and said he'd be in touch with her by the end of the day. "I'd go with you, but I want to see what I can line up for you before we talk again. Joey, take care of her."

"Always do." Joe opened the passenger door to his minivan. Once he was behind the wheel, he looked over at her. "What the hell happened, girl?"

"I wish I knew. One minute I'm riding in the match, the next I find Sterling dead in my store, then when it's all over with, I head home and just as I've finally fallen asleep, it sounds like a herd of my horses are trying to break the door down, and outside stand Starsky and Hutch."

"At least you haven't lost your sense of humor."

"I think I'm still in shock. Look, I'm in trouble, Joe. I can see it in Detective Peters's eyes. He thinks that I did this and so does that woman cop. I can't go to jail. I didn't kill anyone. And by the way, thanks for sending in Anthony…but a tax attorney?" Michaela felt something under her on the car seat and picked up a half-eaten cheeseburger, which she'd sat on. "What in the…"