White Collared Part One: Mercy (2 page)

The cop picked up a desk phone and pressed an extension. “Is Mr. Deveroux expecting a Nicholas Trenton?”

She hadn’t stepped into a police station in ten years, but the memory of that harrowing day crashed into her with the force and velocity of a gunshot. Her chest tightened as she tried to breathe. In an attempt to ward off the anxiety attack, she counted backward from one hundred.

Her boss leaned over and whispered in her ear. “You’re okay. Breathe through your nose.”

Pressing her lips together, she sucked air through her nose, expanding her lungs with precious oxygen.
How had he known?

“Thank you,” the officer said into the phone. He hung up, picked up a notebook, flipped it open, and handed Mr. Trenton a pen. “You two need to sign in.”

Her boss signed his name before giving her the pen. Hands shaking, she supplied her barely legible information. After she gave back the notebook, the officer buzzed them in and pointed behind him. “Go through those doors to room three, second room on the left.”

As Mr. Trenton stepped in front of her, she surreptitiously obtained a small pill from her Tic Tac dispenser in her purse and slipped it in her mouth. When they got to the interrogation room, he knocked on the door.

Anticipation boiled in her blood. Something was wrong with how eager she was to meet her client, a man who would find himself under suspicion of his wife’s murder even if he was innocent of the crime.

Could she defend a man if she believed he was guilty?

As the door opened and her sight fell on the man hunched over a table, she had a feeling she’d soon find out.

Chapter Three

I
F JAXON DEVEROUX
had killed his wife, he was one hell of an actor.

He lifted his head, the despair and strain from the tragedy evident in his bloodshot brown eyes and pallid face. His thick, wavy black hair was in desperate need of a cut, and, judging by the dark stubble on his chin and cheeks, he’d obviously skipped shaving this morning. A faded, jagged scar through his left brow added to his allure.

He was still the most beautiful man she’d ever seen.

She hadn’t made the connection from his name, but she recognized him as one of the men standing next to Mr. Trenton in a picture she had clipped from a magazine. A local children’s hospital had dedicated a wing in the Deveroux name after his venture capital firm had donated $20 million. The confident glint in his eyes had captivated her even through the photograph.

He eyed her warily before his tortured gaze rested on his friend, communicating a silent plea for help. “Nick. Lyssa’s dead. Someone—”

“Jaxon, don’t say another word.” Her boss marched ahead of her into the room as if he’d done it a thousand times before. “Nicholas Trenton, attorney for Jaxon Deveroux.”

A gray-haired, potbellied detective stood to greet him. “Detective Lawrence.”

He shook her boss’s hand and then gripped the door handle, preparing to close it. She edged her way into the room seconds before it shut with a reverberating click.

Resting along the wall, she carefully appraised the space. It appeared almost identical to the one she’d set foot in ten years ago. No bigger than twelve by ten, the room contained three folding chairs and a rectangular metal table bolted to the worn beige linoleum floor.

Mr. Trenton tossed her a perfunctory glance as he sat beside Mr. Deveroux. “This is my assistant, Kate Martin.” He directed his attention to the detective who had positioned himself at the head of the table. “I assume you took Mr. Deveroux’s statement at the scene?”

Not having a chair in which to sit, she didn’t know what to do with herself. She couldn’t interrupt or Mr. Trenton would likely fire her, but he had brought her to work. With no alternative, she crouched and quietly unzipped her briefcase, retrieving a pen and legal pad to begin taking notes.

The detective nodded. “We did. He didn’t ask for a law—”

“I’ll want a copy of that statement.”

She watched her boss closely, marveling at the way he spoke with confident authority despite his inexperience in criminal law.

“Of course,” responded the cop, his lips curled with derision. “We’ll get it to you as soon as possible.”

Her heart continued to beat wildly from the combination of the resurgence of long-forgotten memories, the danger of standing in a testosterone-laden room with loaded guns, and a man suspected of brutally stabbing his wife to death.

Her boss softened his demeanor and lowered his voice. “What is the status of Mrs. Deveroux?”

“We’re currently still processing the body. The M.E. will transfer it within a couple of hours after my men have completed taking their photos.”

Mr. Deveroux slapped his hand on the table, startling her with his sudden outburst. “That body is my wife, Detective. She is not an
it,
” he shouted and then muttered under his breath almost to himself, “She never was.”

The room grew uncomfortably silent except for the laughter coming from the hallway and the quiet buzzing of the florescent lights. Torn between the inappropriate urge to applaud him for having the guts to speak up for his wife against the insensitive officer and the even more inappropriate desire to wrap her arms around him to console him, she did neither and instead chewed on the cap of her pen.

Detective Lawrence tipped his head to the side and folded his hands in front of him on the table in an obvious attempt at appearing remorseful. “Jaxon, I’m very sorry about the loss of your wife. I assure you, I will find the person responsible. I realize you’ve already answered some questions at your home, but I’m going to have to ask them again for the record. But in order to do my job to the best of my ability, I need you to be honest with me. If you don’t understand a question, please let me know and I’ll rephrase it for you. This interview is being video recorded as is our precinct’s policy. Do you understand?”

Mr. Deveroux shifted in his chair and crossed his legs. “Yes. But before we begin, will you please get Ms. Martin a chair? I do believe the young woman is part of my legal team and, therefore, has earned the right to sit at my side during this interview.”

Squirming, she tried to flatten herself against the wall. Both the detective and her boss glared at her as if they’d forgotten she was in the room. Maybe they had. But not Jaxon. Her chest filled with a foreign sensation, something bubbly, like she’d drunk a pop too fast.

As Detective Lawrence left the room, she pretended to examine the dusty floor, unable to find the courage to check if Mr. Trenton’s expression registered his disappointment.

This internship meant the world to her, and she’d do anything to keep it. She’d tracked Nicholas Trenton’s career since he’d made headlines by becoming a full senior partner in the state’s top law firm at age thirty, a feat never accomplished by anyone before or since. At that time, she’d been a junior in college with aspirations of becoming an attorney, and she’d chosen him as her future mentor. Everything she’d done in undergraduate and law school was in preparation to work by his side.

Detective Lawrence returned and placed the additional folding chair next to Mr. Trenton. He sat, annoyance evident in every wrinkle on his face. “I need you to tell me everything that happened in the last twenty-four hours leading up to the time you found your wife.”

She forced herself to keep her head held high as she took her seat, telling herself she belonged here. With Jaxon’s acknowledgment of her, she almost believed it.

Jaxon slid a questioning glance at Mr. Trenton, who nodded his permission to speak.

“Up until this morning . . .” His voice caught, and he coughed, clearing his throat. “I was in Chicago on business. Yesterday I had a breakfast meeting in the morning with potential investors and spent the afternoon closing a deal at the firm of Lebowitz, Hoffmyer, and Gold. I ate dinner in my hotel room around seven. This morning, I woke early and drove home.” He paused. “I came in through the garage, and Lyssa’s car was still there. I was surprised because she has a standing appointment to have her nails done every Tuesday morning, but I wasn’t worried.” He slid his wedding ring up and down his finger. “I called out her name as I climbed the stairs, and she didn’t respond. When I entered the bedroom . . . I . . . she was . . .” Her boss placed a hand on Jaxon’s back and whispered something in his ear.

After a long moment of silence, Detective Lawrence sat back in his chair. “I know this is hard for you. Take your time. Would you like a glass of water?”

“No.” Jaxon coughed again. “I . . . want to finish.” He took a breath, shuddered, and stared at the blank white wall in front of him, although Kate got the feeling he was seeing something else. Or rather . . . someone. “Her hands and feet were bound with blue rope. She was on her stomach, a white collar around her neck. Covered in blood. I ran to her to check if she was still breathing. The collar . . . kept me from accessing her pulse point. I touched her wrists; they were purple . . . but the ropes covered the pulse, so I tried to untie her.” He paused. “I couldn’t. She didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. I knew I was too late. I took my cell phone from my pocket and called nine-one-one. Then I left her there and went downstairs to wait for the police. That’s it.”

Kate recognized the anguish in his dark eyes, having seen the same look in hers every time she stared in the mirror. He didn’t cry, but every word from his lips was laced with sorrow and regret. She hadn’t cried either all those years ago. Her old therapist had said once she got over the shock, all the emotions she’d suppressed would eventually boil over and pour out of her.

She was still waiting.

“Thank you, Jaxon. I know that was hard and I appreciate you telling your story,” Detective Lawrence said in a soft tone. “Now I need to clarify a few things. When did you leave for Chicago?”

“We need you to clarify a few things for us, Katie.” The burly detective grinned at her, his yellow teeth reminding her of Uncle Tate’s. Both men smelled of chewing tobacco.

“I want to see my mom.” She needed to explain that it wasn’t her fault before the police told their version.

The detective peered over his shoulder at the pretty female cop standing in front of the door, keeping her hostage. The cop shook her head, and he glanced back at Katie. “She’s on her way, but we can’t allow you to see her until you tell us the truth.”

Why wouldn’t they believe her? She clenched her blood-soaked hands. “I told you the truth. I want to go home.”

“Sunday morning.” Jaxon’s deep voice brought Kate back to the present. She subtly brushed her chin against her shoulder to check if her boss had noticed her momentary lapse of attention.

“Where did you stay?” Detective Lawrence asked.

Jaxon rubbed his forehead. “The Waldorf Astoria on Walton.”

Kate’s knee bounced under the table. She clutched her hands on her thighs and pinched the flesh. Although slight, the pain worked to cease the motion.

“Did anyone stay with you?”

A muscle in Jaxon’s jaw jumped. “No.”

Frowning, the detective drummed his thick fingers on the table. “When did you last speak with your wife?”

Pain flashed in Jaxon’s eyes, and he swallowed hard. “Before I went to sleep.”

“What time was that?”

Jaxon thought it over. “Around eight or nine.”

“Can anyone confirm you were in your room?”

Waiting for Jaxon’s answer, Kate’s pulse increased. He required a strong alibi to avoid being a suspect in the murder.

“I’m sure room service can verify I had dinner.”

“And you stayed in your room all night?”

His index finger twitched. “I . . . went out to get ice.”

“What time?”

“After I spoke with my wife.”

“She had a lot of bruising on her body. Any idea of how she got that?”

“I . . . all I saw was the blood. She was covered in it.”

“Here’s a picture to remind you.” Detective Lawrence slapped down an eight-by-eleven photo.

Horrified and slightly nauseous yet unable to glance away, Kate stared at the picture of Alyssa Deveroux covered in thick welts, cuts, bruises, and stab wounds.

Mr. Trenton shot to his feet. “Jaxon, we’re leaving.” He picked up his briefcase and slammed it on the table, yanking her fascinated attention from the photo. “You’ve crossed a line, Detective. He just lost his wife, and he’s still in shock. To show him the crime scene photo is cruel.”

The detective sat still as a rock, quiet determination simmering below the surface. “I’ll do whatever it takes to find this killer even if it means upsetting your client. He’s having trouble remembering some of the details. Details that may help solve this case.”

“Nick, it’s all right,” Jaxon said, his skin so pale she could make out the blue veins underneath. “I’m fine.”

But he wasn’t fine. How could he be when instead of mourning, he had to defend himself to a stranger who cared nothing for Alyssa?

A heavy knock sounded. “Damn it,” cursed Detective Lawrence, striding to the door and opening it to reveal a younger officer. They spoke in hushed whispers. She couldn’t discern the words, but the detective stiffened.

The officer left and Detective Lawrence slunk back to his seat. He glowered at Jaxon. “The hotel confirmed you checked out using their television service at eight and left the key at the counter. Since the medical examiner has estimated time of death between four and six this morning, your alibi clears you of a murder charge, unless we learn something different. You’re free to go at this time, but we may have additional questions for you in the future, and while travel is not restricted, we’d appreciate it if you could remain available while we follow the leads in your wife’s death.”

Jaxon exhaled. “Of course.”

“Do you have anything you’d like to add before we complete this interview? Anything that may aid us in the investigation?”

He leaned across the table. “Find the monster that did this to my wife.”

And in that moment, as her pill finally kicked in and eased her racing heart, she wondered when she’d started thinking of her client not as Mr. Deveroux but as Jaxon.