Eye of the Storm (3 page)

It was an ongoing conversation. "No. And I know I should," she said, heading her friend off at the pass. "I just haven't been able to really focus on what it is I want to do next. It's all a little overwhelming, you know?"

"I do," Laura said. "But it's important that you figure out what you want. Besides, even if it's only temporary, it beats hanging out at the mailbox waiting for Netflix."

"Although when we're talking Tatum Channing..." Simone shrugged.

"'Nuff said," Laura said, shifting the cart back into gear. "Same time tomorrow?"

"Absolutely." Simone smiled. "As you so eloquently pointed out, I haven't got all that much on my agenda."

"Guess I know where I rank."

"Hey, just commenting on my very dull life."

"Be careful what you pray for," Laura quipped, laughing as she pulled away from the curb, heading for the next house on the cul-de-sac. Simone waved goodbye and then turned back toward the house, thumbing through the mail. Predictably it consisted of bills and junk mail, the junk only slightly outweighing the bills.

She quickly sorted things into two groups, bills on top, everything else on the bottom. As she moved the final catalog to the back of the pile, a card fell out, drifting in the breeze to land at the foot of a pot of moss roses.

She bent to retrieve it, surprised to find a postcard rather than the advertisement she'd expected. The photograph on the front showed an overforested mountain, the thick undergrowth making it look hot and oppressive. Simone shivered, memory flashing with intense clarity.

It was just a postcard.

She drew in a shaky breath and turned it over, her heart stutter-stepping as she read the message.

Trip is fine, but storm is coming. Must seek cover.

—M

The card fluttered from her fingers as she struggled to breathe. Then with a force of sheer will, she cleared her head, banishing her roiling emotions, and leaned over to once more retrieve the postcard, tucking it into the pocket of her jeans.

Once inside the house, she threw the mail on the credenza in the hallway and walked into the kitchen, her movements rote as she opened the pantry and began removing cans of green beans and peas.

Three minutes later the shelf was empty, and Simone carefully peeled back a Velcroed square of wallpaper. Despite the fact that her stomach was churning, her fingers were steady as she reached for a knife and levered it between two planks of the shiplap wall. There was a click, and then the bottom plank swung free, revealing a dark cavity.

Simone reached inside and pulled out a plastic-wrapped package. Pushing the wood back into place, she replaced the wallpaper, and then the cans. Certain that everything had been returned to normal, she crossed to the table and opened the package.

The gun was in pieces, but it took only a few seconds to put it together, the magazine sliding into place with a gratifying click. She slid it into the waistband of her jeans, the metal cold against the small of her back, then reached for the passport, flipping to the photograph, satisfied that it was a good enough likeness to serve her purpose.

Next she grabbed a black leather wallet, checking the contents briefly. Driver's license, social security, even a library card. The pictures were all of her, the name matching the one on the passport. She closed the wallet and picked up a manila envelope. Inside, she thumbed through four stacks of bills. A hundred thousand should take care of her needs. At least until she'd sorted things out.

The only remaining item in the package was a cell phone. She took it and shoved it into her purse, along with the wallet, envelope and folded square of plastic.

Then with a shuddering sigh, she removed her old wallet, cell phone and key ring, placing them on the table. Her current life summed up in paper, plastic and leather.

She turned slowly, her eyes falling on the divorce decree. All it needed was a signature. A line of ink, and her marriage would be nothing more than a memory. The thought broke her heart. But then sometimes life made decisions for you.

She grabbed a pen and scribbled her name.

What was it Laura had said?

Be careful what you pray for.

"SO IT'S YOUR TESTIMONY, Mr. Zabara, that you had never met the victim?" Reece Sheridan stepped forward slightly, shifting so that he could see both the defendant and the jury. Juror number nine was fidgeting with his jacket zipper and juror number six was rubbing her temples, her headache a result, no doubt, of the long and admittedly convoluted testimony.

"I don't know how many different ways I can say it. I don't know the woman." Zabara's tone bordered on arrogance. He'd been unshakable so far, Reece's cross-examination yielding exactly nothing.

But that was about to change.

"But you had seen her at the bar where you worked?" Reece stepped back, slumping his shoulders a bit in a staged effort to build Zabara's confidence.

"Yeah, I seen her. Although I wouldn't have known it until the cops showed me her picture." He shot a befuddled look at the jury and juror number two smiled.

"So it would be fair to say that before seeing the police photo, you wouldn't have been able to pick her out of a lineup."

"No way." Zabara shook his head, waving his hands to underscore the point.

"Then tell us, Mr. Zabara, how is it that you knew she had a tattoo?"

Juror number nine's hand stilled, six's head shot up, and two frowned at the question.

"I'm sorry. I don't know what you're talking about." Reece heard the rustle of paper behind him as the defense attorney tried to make sense of his line of questioning.

"The tattoo you mentioned earlier."

"I didn't mention a tattoo."

"Not specifically, no. What you said—" Reece reached for his notes, pretending to consult them, giving the jury a moment to process "—was that 'a woman wearing the rose and blade wasn't no innocent—'"

"Objection." The defense attorney actually rose to his feet, a sure sign Reece had hit pay dirt.

Reece held up a hand. "If you'd prefer to have the court reporter read it back verbatim..."

"I assume you have the record marked?" the judge asked.

"I have it right here." He held up a sticky-noted piece of paper.

"You may approach." The judge motioned him forward, reviewed the sheet and then handed it back, her attention focusing on the other attorney. "I'm overruling the objection. Your client opened the door, so Mr. Sheridan has every right to go through it."

The defense attorney sat down, running a hand through his hair. Zabara shifted uneasily, darting glances at the now rapt jury.

"So you knew she had a tattoo?"

"I must've seen it in the police picture."

"Is this the picture?" Reece held up the photo.

"Yeah"

"It's a head shot, Mr. Zabara. The tattoo was just below her left breast. There was no way you could have seen it in this photograph." He handed the picture to the court officer, who in turn handed it to the jury foreman to pass among the jurors.

"In fact, Mr. Zabara, wouldn't it be fair to say that the only way you could have seen the tattoo was if Ms. Olivera was naked?"

"I told you I didn't know the woman. So no way did I see her naked."

"Unless you raped her."

"Objection." The defense attorney's voice rang through the silent court.

"Withdrawn." Reece moved closer to Zabara, closing the noose with every step. "So tell us, Mr. Zabara, if you've never seen the victim naked, and the tattoo wasn't in the photograph, how did you know about the rose and blade?"

"I must've read about it in the paper, or heard it on the news."

Reece shook his head with a grim smile. "Wasn't in the papers. The police held it back. You saw the tattoo when you raped her, didn't you, Mr. Zabara?"

"I didn't know her." He stressed the words, his composure clearly crumbling.

"You didn't have to. All you had to do was follow her home from the bar, wait for the right opportunity and then break in." Reece moved to within a few inches of the box, careful to avoid blocking the jury's view. "Was it something she did, or was she an easy mark?"

"The bitch had it coming," Zabara spat out, his face contorting with anger. "She thought she was better than me. Better than everyone from across the bay. But she was nothing. A slut who forgot where she came from."

"And so you showed her?" It was a statement, not a question. But Reece raised his voice at the end, just to cover his bases.

The defense attorney stood up, but not before Zabara sneered his answer. "Yeah. And then I slit her throat."

"No further questions." Reece held on to his smile, turning to walk back to the prosecutor's table.

"Redirect?" the judge asked.

But the defense attorney shook his head, cutting his losses. There'd be a last-minute plea. And then no doubt some attempts at appeal. But for all practical purposes, it was over.

Slam dunk. Zabara would be lucky to avoid the needle.

"Nice play," Tim Whitman whispered as Reece sat down. Tim had started with the D.A.'s office about the same time as Reece, the two of them working together for more years than Reece liked to admit.

Truth was, he couldn't do this forever.  He either needed to run for D.A. or start his own practice. The former appealed, but wanting it wasn't the same as winning the coveted position.

But the reality was that he preferred prosecuting to defending. Finding a weak spot and then going for the jugular suited his style far more than a plush corner office with a harbor view. Maybe it sounded coldhearted, but every time he maneuvered some scum bag into admitting his guilt, the man was off the streets for good—or at least a couple of decades.

He'd felt the same way during his stint with the Rangers, but those kinds of missions weren't conducive to raising a kid. Martin had deserved more. And so Reece had reinvented himself and landed here. Not all that much of a transformation, really. He'd just traded intel for deposition, both the key to the interrogative.

"The bastard set himself up," Reece responded. "All I had to do was connect the dots."

"It was more than that, and you know it. A lot of prosecutors would have missed the reference."

"They wouldn't have lasted in this business if they had." He shrugged, focusing on the judge, who had called a recess for the day and instructed the jury to be in court bright and early Monday morning.

The long weekend would give them a lot of time to think. But he didn't have any doubt as to where they'd end up. The man had admitted his guilt. Reece started to pack up his paperwork, his thoughts already moving on to his next trial. Tim could bring this one home on his own.

"You thought any more about my proposal?" Tim had decided to take on the rigors of private practice, and was in the planning phase of starting his own firm. For the past couple of months, he'd been trying to convince Reece to come along for the ride.

"I just don't know if I'm ready."

"Ready? Hell, you're past ready." Tim laughed, reaching into his briefcase. "You know as well as I do that it's time for a change. Look, I even had business cards made up." Tim held out the embossed card for Reece to see.

Sheridan and Whitman. Attorneys-at-Law.

"You're not playing fair." Reece held out the card. "Putting my name first."

"Hey," Tim laughed, waving for him to keep the card. "Whatever it takes. You up for a drink? We can talk about it some more."

"Let me check my messages first." Reece stuck the card in his wallet and then reached for his cell phone, clicking it on. Not that he anticipated much there. His cases were pretty much all in order, and he hadn't a social life to speak of. Not since the separation.

He pushed the thought away, banishing the image of Simone as well. His ex-wife was just that—ex. Although until she signed the papers, it wouldn't be final. The cell phone vibrated in his hand, and he glanced down to check the text message.

Martin. From Simone's.

A shiver of anticipation worked its way up his spine, and Reece frowned as if one gesture could negate the other.

"Bad news?" Tim's voice broke through his ruminations.

"No." Reece shook his head. "Just my brother. He's in town for spring break. Staying at Simone's."

Tim's eyebrows shot up in question. "Alone?"

"Jesus, Tim, get your mind out of the gutter. He's my brother. Besides, he's just a kid."

"He's almost out of college." His friend frowned in speculation. "And he wouldn't be the first guy to fall for an older woman."

"Oh, come off it. Simone wouldn't do something like that." Nor would Martin.

"Probably not." Tim shrugged. "Forget I said anything. We still on for that drink?"

"One. And then I need to head over to Simone's." Tim opened his mouth, but Reece lifted a hand to hold him off. "To see Martin. That's what the message is about."

"Right."

Tim ducked his head to avoid eye contact, but not before Reece saw the twinkle in his eye. "What?" He grabbed his briefcase and headed for the courtroom doors.

"Nothing." Tim paused, then sighed. "It's just that for a divorced guy, you still seem to spend an awful lot of time with your ex. Weren't you just there last week?"

"We're not divorced. At least not yet. And there was a problem with the plumbing. I volunteered to help. Hell, it's only been four months. Old patterns are hard to break. Besides, I told you I'm going to see Martin. Not Simone."

"And maybe get her to sign the papers?" Tim prodded.

The idea made his stomach ache, but then he'd always hated change. Even hated moving a chair or a photograph. Everything in its place and all that. It had driven Simone nuts. "Yeah. That's a good idea. And then maybe I can finally put this all behind me."

Tim wisely stayed quiet, but his expression remained skeptical. "Well, I think you need a drink first for fortification."

Reece nodded, wondering how it was that he could undermine some of the best criminal minds in Nueces County and still not be able to understand his wife.

Ex-wife.

Whatever
.

*****

SIMONE STOOD in the driveway, trying to make up her mind. She was wasting valuable minutes, but beyond the postcard, she'd seen no real signs of danger. Her quandary was pedestrian at best, but in some obscurely intangible way important. She needed transportation, but she hated the idea of taking anything that didn't clearly belong to her.

The car was still registered in both of their names. And though Reece had given it to her in the settlement, the ink on the papers wasn't yet dry and she preferred the idea of traveling without baggage.

On the other hand, if she called a taxi, she'd leave trace, at least to the point where she got out. In truth, neither option appealed, and she cursed herself for her indecision. She had grown soft. A fact that only irritated her into further inertia.

She ran a hand through her hair and opted for the car. It seemed the lesser of two evils. Eventually Reece would get the car back, but by then she'd be long gone. Her disappearance would cause questions, but with Maurice's help, they'd never find her.

Her past wasn't something she'd wish on anyone. Especially not Reece. Which meant that getting away clean was imperative.

She moved toward the car, noting automatically the music drifting from the open window above. Martin was still upstairs.

Forcing her face into a mask of banality, she slowed her stride. Just a quick jaunt to the market. Home in a flash. The words echoed inside her head as she edged nearer to the Honda parked in front of the open bay.

She reached the car with no sign of her brother-in-law and breathed a sigh of relief. She fumbled through her purse for a moment before remembering that the keys were on the ring she'd left inside on the table.

Swallowing a muttered oath at her stupidity, she walked to the back door and into the kitchen. She picked up the key ring, and separated the Honda key from the others, working to inch it off of the split metal ring.

The key popped free, and she closed her fingers around it, dropping the key ring back on the table. With a last look around the kitchen, she turned back to the door, already reaching for the screen, freezing when her inner alarm bells sounded with ferocity.

All five senses went on immediate alert as she tried to locate the source of danger. But before she could fully mobilize, the soft hiss of a bullet ripped through the dirt in the garden just outside the door, embedding with a hollow thunk in the wood at the base of the house.

Hitting the floor, she rolled into a crouch, pulling the Sig Sauer from the small of her back. It had been a hell of a long time since she'd handled a gun, but instinct overrode everything else and she swiveled, sighting the gun as she sought out the bullet's source.

The wind blew lazily through the palm trees out back, the tall elephant grass bending almost double. She could smell salt and sand, and just a hint of sulfur. But there were no other shots. Except for the breeze, the backyard was quiet.

The silence was unnerving, something about it ringing false. And then she remembered Martin's radio. It had been blaring out the window.