Wrong Chance (31 page)

“Cash,” Chance said, “I've always known you're a pathological liar.”

Hearing him say it with such nonchalance cut her to the quick.

“Never had a problem with it,” he said. “We all have our flaws. I only have a problem with it when your lying is directed at me, when it works against us and not for us.”

“I didn't know how to tell you—if I could tell you and keep you loving me. How could I tell you that I was a genetic mess and I couldn't make your dreams come true by bearing your children?” She dropped her head, dizzy with shame. “How, Chance, after I married you fully aware of your family ambitions?” She was quiet for a moment. “You don't know how badly I want to have a family to belong to. You don't know how it feels to spend your whole life in group homes and not having anyone in this world and no one willing to adopt you because they think you're a freak. And you definitely don't know a thing about knowing you're going to leave this world without bringing your own family into it. I disappear when I go. Not a trace that I ever existed.”

“Gee whiz, Cash. I'll never stop loving you. We could've freakin' adopted if you told me the truth. We still can.” He paused, letting that statement hang in the air. “What does family mean to you?”

She raised a brow. “Huh?”

“Don't be a pain in the turd cutter. I hate it when you stall like that.”

She thought for a moment. “To me…family is a group of people who will love one another no matter what. It means putting the people you care about first, being able to depend on one another regardless of favorable circumstances.”

“Well put,” he said as she crumbled the suicide letter in her fist and squeezed. “How about the Chancester, am I family, Cash?”

“Of course,” she said. “You're all the real family I have. I have your last name.”

“How far will you go to preserve your meaning of family, Mrs. Fox?”

This was a vacuous question she didn't have to give any thought to. “I'll do whatever I must for mine.”

“Then now it's time for your lies to work for us.”

Cash's brows pointed inward. “And by that you mean what exactly?”

“You always wanted to go South Africa. I got us a cozy place on the shore of Port Elizabeth. We can ditch this trash dump and push the restart button. Adopt a whole bunch of little Chances. I really miss you, Cash.”

“I miss you too, but none of that is possible now. The State of Ohio will prosecute you and convict you for the murders.” Then something else jumped to the front of her mind. “My God, Chance, you killed those people in Denver.”

“For crying out loud, the fuck faces had it coming. They deserved everything I did to them for abusing their pets,” he said without a smidgen of remorse. “Let's focus on the case here. The idiot cops think I killed my wife and her body hasn't turned up yet, but here you are in the flesh. County Prosecutor Ms. Scenario Davenport. Throw the case. Leave reasonable doubt in the minds of the jurors, and my lawyer will convince the world that Cashmaire Fox is the culprit and we'll spend the rest of our days making love and raising crumb snatchers in South Africa.”

“It's risky, Chance. You took a big gamble banking on me being your prosecutor.”

“Not. Thought you'd be a little more appreciative of the promotion I gave you.”

“You killed Marcus Jeffers, too?” That was a revelation, not a question. She got up and paced the length of the interview room. “You shouldn't have done that.”

“According to Christians, today is supposed to be Judgment Day. Let's allow God to deal with it.” Chance shrugged. “Marcus was an unfortunate schmuck. Good dude. Wrong game.”

“And what part of the game is this? You hated me when you excommunicated me in the hospital. Now we're in the interview room and you're on the chopping block for murdering our friends and you love me again and want to run away together. What number law of power is this?”

“I missed one of our so-called friends. Still kicking myself in the turd cutter for that slip-up. Can you really blame me for the hospital? I was angry, Cash. Shattered. One minute I had a son and the next I don't and no possibility of a family. And there is no strategic law for love.” He stood in her path, then kissed her. Their mouths locked. The kiss powerful and passionate. “Just like I remembered,” Chance said, sinking back into his chair. “Getting a boner over here. Think we got enough time to do a little grab ass?”

The door swung open and in came Aspen. Pissed. “The mayor's on the line for you.”

“Well, Mr. Fox,” Cash said like a no-nonsense prosecutor, “if you're not going to inform me where we can find your wife's body, the death penalty stays on the table and I'll see you in trial this September.”

Aspen turned her anger on Chance. “I have a good mind to kick your ass and make you clean my camera lens off.”

“You stupid, stupid bimbo. Did you not see what I did to your partner when he tried to kick the Chancester's ass?”

L
abor Day. Jazz lounged on the patio of her ultra-modern Spanish-tiled home that was lined with ten-foot hedges and a backyard that was exposed to the shore of Lake Erie. She soaked up the warm sun while taking in the picturesque view and inhaling the hickory flavoring pouring from a traditional kettle-styled grill. She wore a cotton-blue dainty short set with a sleeveless top. The chocolate skin of her long legs and slender arms gleamed of good health. An hour ago she had treated herself to a professional manicure and pedicure, an indulgence she hadn't been allowed since her wedding night. She had forgotten how good it felt to be pampered until the nail technician showed up at her home. Her polished toenails and designer sandals made her pretty feet look simply adorable.

Buank. Buank. Buank. Buank.

Her shaded gaze left the ebb and flow of the lake and found Jaden making a layup off an NBA-sized backboard she had installed when summer kicked in. That boy loves him some basketball, she thought as Cash pulled into the driveway and stepped out a convertible Lexus, wearing an eye-catching sundress and a pronounced straw hat.

“Hey girl, you look good,” Cash said, dropping her purse on an empty patio lounger.

Jazz blushed and waved her off, smile bright as daylight.

“Now if I can get you to shed that stupid ball cap and those uninspiring sunglasses, we'll be on to something.” Then: “I'm proud of you. And I'm looking forward to seeing that vibrant girl with gorgeous hair that I met in college.”

Buank. Buank. Buank. Buank.

Cash made herself useful by tending to the slabs of baby beef ribs on the grill.

“You're really gonna do it next week, aren't you?” Jazz decided to address a more pressing matter. Conversations about her appearance, she still wasn't ready to entertain, even if the tone stunk of positivity.

Cash said, “Could we please not go there?” She rotated the meat, then based it with a barbecue sauce whose ingredients had been a secret in Jazz's family since the turn of the eighteenth century. “I just want to get me a plate, lick this sauce off my fingers, and enjoy this day. Hope that's all right with you.”

“This Scenario Davenport business is tearing my conscience apart,” Jazz said, ignoring her. “I'm afraid if you keep it up and go through with prosecuting Chance, you'll regret it. We're family. I care about you and I don't want to see you in trouble.”

“Family?” Cash threw a look over her shoulder, then she went back to what she was doing.

Jazz saw something poisonous flash in Cash's eyes that dropped the temperature a few notches. Jazz rubbed her arms, coaxing the goosebumps away. She had to be sure she wasn't tripping, though. She needed to see Cash's eyes again to be certain. “Yeah, family.”

“Tell me something, Jazz. What does family mean to you?”

The angelic sound and easy tempo of Cash's voice made Jazz think she'd been mistaken about what she saw in Cash's gaze. “Family
is all anyone truly has in this life,” Jazz said with a smile in her voice. “And not all family is blood related. Neither is all blood relative's family. Despite all the dregs and the dross, family means everything. Family is the reason I kept my mouth shut and didn't go to the police with my suspicions about Yancee and my blood cousin. Family is the reason why I'm worried about your high-yellow self and this Scenario Davenport bull, Cash.”

Buank. Buank. Buank. Buank.

“Relax or you'll give yourself an ulcer.” Cash made herself comfortable in the patio lounger and followed Jazz's gaze to the basketball hoop. “Everything will work out this way. Trust me. I'll let Chance think I'm helping him get off, but I'm gonna prosecute Chance and put him away forever. In the process, I'll get retribution for Anderson, Yancee, and that asshole Leon.”

Jazz didn't flinch or become uncomfortable at the mention of Leon's name. She showed no emotion just like she didn't show any at his funeral.

Cash said, “This way I can personally save myself and the past can finally be the past.”

“What happens if Chance tells after you convict him?”

“He'll sound like an insane serial killer saying anything and no one will take his ramblings serious. Just like no one's trying to hear anything Charles Manson has to say after the fact or Jeffrey MacDonald.”

“Jeffrey MacDonald?”

“Murdered his whole family thirty-five, forty years ago. Said Charles Manson followers did it. Anyway, he still is coming up with media coverage today with tall tales about how it really happened. The same thing will happen to Chance if he says anything after conviction. And trust me, even if someone does listen to
him, it'll be fifty years from now and it won't matter because we'll all be ready for the grave or already in it.”

Shaking her head, Jazz said, “I don't like it.” She got up. “Watch the grill for me. I'm going to pick up my mom and them from the bus station.”

“Sure.”

“Jaden,” Jazz said, “you wanna ride?”

Buank. Buank. Buank. Buank.

O
n September 9, 2011, Criminal Defense Attorney Stormie Bishop watched with rapt attention as County Prosecutor Scenario Davenport made the young man in the witness box look like a Boy Scout who helped little old ladies cross busy streets. Her manila complexion exaggerated the color depth of her golden gaze, which sparkled and cut through the courtroom like a hypnotizing light show. Stormie liked her style. She was a formidable opponent, and her good looks and high-end clothing made Scenario a complete knockout.

She turned her back on him in such a way that Stormie understood that she was telling him to kiss her ass. He had used the tactic several times during his career. She calmly took her seat at the state's table and threw her golden gaze his way.

“Your witness, Counselor,” she said.

It was nothing for Stormie to make the man in the witness box look like a complete liar and the dope fiend he really was, who couldn't be trusted, but Stormie would take a different approach. He consulted his notes as Chance whispered something to him. Stormie shook his head, then rose from his seat.

Stormie Bishop was a master at commanding attention and casting spells on those who observed his magic. His white hair made people assume he was older than his forty-one years, but the chic way he
wore it slicked back made him come across as hip as a twenty-six-year-old. He wore a pair of jeans, a Ralph Lauren button-down, and a pair of expensive loafers. He knew that by presenting himself as laid-back and at ease in a formal setting, the twelve people he needed to persuade to deliver a not guilty verdict would be comfortable listening to him.

Stormie leaned on the witness box as if he and the young man were old buddies who were about to reminisce about the time they'd gotten pissy drunk at an Indians game. “Hello, Mr. Bradshaw,” Stormie said, giving the audience his profile view and the jurors firm eye contact.

“Hi,” he said with a shaky voice.

Stormie knew the young man was worried about if he'd be able to remember everything the prosecution had coached him not to say on record. His skin was so flushed from nervousness that he looked like a chemo patient.

“Your nickname is Scratch, right? Mind if I call you Scratch?”

“That's cool.”

“Scratch, you just shared with the court how you came to be in possession of Mr. Yancee Taylor's cell phone, correct?”

“Yeah, I stole it out of his car.”

“Other things happened that day, didn't they, Scratch?”

“Objection,” Scenario said. “He's leading the witness, Your Honor.”

“Don't worry about it, Your Honor. I'll rephrase.” Stormie focused on Scratch. “On Sunday, April twenty-fourth of this year, you were arrested by Detective Eubanks and Detective Skye. Do you remember that day?”

“Yeah, somewhat.”

“In an interview with the detectives you made several statements—”

“Objection, Your Honor.” Scenario shot to her feet. “The record will show that
Scratch
was under the influence of heroin during the April twenty-fourth interview. Therefore the information gleaned from the interview is inadmissible and has no relevance to these proceedings.”

“Your Honor, I am duty bound—not to mention it's my right—to prove to this court that my client, Mr. Chance Fox, is not culpable for the murders of Yancee Taylor, Anderson Smith, or Leon Page.”

“Mr. Bradshaw and his interview with the homicide detectives are not on trial here,” Scenario said. “Mr. Fox is. Therefore, the interview is not relevant.”

Judge Ronald Adrine smacked his gavel down. “You're in my castle, Ms. Davenport. I am capable of running it and I will
run
it.”