Naked Justice (14 page)

“Oh, hell, I knew you would the minute you mentioned it.”

“I didn’t.”

“I did. After all, it’s stupid, irrational, fruitless, and almost certain to do you more harm than good. In other words, a case you couldn’t resist.”

Ben smiled wryly. “How’s the investigation going?”

Mike opened his desk drawer and jammed a toothpick in his mouth. He’d been off tobacco for six months, but he still needed the oral security of a wood sliver in his mouth from time to time. “There’s no investigation. We have our man. The evidence says he’s guilty. We’re taking him to trial.”

“And no one is considering any other angles?”

“What other angles?” Mike spread his arms across the desk. “Ben, you know me. I don’t jump to conclusions or try to take the easy way out. There is simply no evidence indicating anything other than the obvious: Wallace Barrett killed his wife and kids.”

“Okay. Tell me about this evidence.”

Mike shook his head. “You’re in the wrong office. Bullock is upstairs.”

“C’mon, Mike, you know how Bullock is. He’s not going to give me anything without making me refight World War Two. We’ll have motions and hearings and it will take days.”

Mike rolled the toothpick to the other side of his face. “Maybe you should sweet-talk him.”

“It wouldn’t help. He seems to be a bit angry with me.”

“He’s angry at
you?
” Mike’s eyes widened. “I’m surprised you’ll even speak to him, after what he did to you.”

Ben shrugged. “We need to put the past behind us.” Ben scooted his chair closer to Mike’s desk. “So anyway, old buddy old pal, what can you tell me about this case?”

Mike glanced at the open door. “What do you want to know?”

“What about the victims? How were they killed?”

“Dr. Koregai can give you more details, but basically, they all suffered fatal knife wounds.”

Ben nodded grimly. Knives would not be the typical weapon of choice for a professional hit man. Of course, that might well be why it was chosen. “Were the bodies moved?”

“Nope. D.R.T.” As Ben knew, that meant they were Dead Right There.

“Have you found the knife? Or knives?”

Mike shook his head no. “And frankly, we don’t expect to.”

“Why not?”

“Well, Ben, there’s a lot of ground between here and that tollbooth he smashed into on the Indian Nation Turnpike.”

“When I was in the Barrett house, I didn’t notice all that many signs of struggle.”

Mike shifted his weight uncomfortably. “By the time you arrived, much of the evidence had been photographed and removed. But you’re right. There were a few overturned chairs, vases, a coffee table. But not much.”

“Any prints?”

“Yeah, lots. All family members. Barrett’s prints were all over the place, but I suppose we can’t hold that against him, since he lived there.” Mike paused. “Have you seen the video?”

“Excuse me?”

“The video. It’s easy to get. There are three different versions on the market now.
Wallace Barrett’s Flight from Justice. Horror in the Heartland
. I forget the other one.”

“No, I haven’t seen it.”

“You’ll want to. It’s very exciting.”

“Do you think the prosecution will use it?”

“Would you?”

Ben nodded. Stupid question. “Anything that suggests a possible motive?”

“Motive might be too strong a word. Theory, I’d say.”

“Okay, what’s your theory, Sherlock?”

Mike paused. “Have you had any discussions with your client? Like about his relationship with his wife?”

“A little. Not much. Why?”

“You … might want to do that.”

Ben leaned forward anxiously. “What are you getting at, Mike?”

Mike hedged. “Again, the coroner can tell you more than I can. But some of the bruises we found on the wife’s face … don’t correlate to the knife wounds.”

Ben felt a fluttering sensation in his gut.

“We’ve had some reports from people who observed Barrett with his wife in public. Parties and such. And a rather detailed report from their neighbor.”

“Mike, you know that any time someone famous is arrested, a thousand would-be talk-show guests crawl out of the woodwork claiming to know something about them.”

“That’s true.”

“Be realistic. Wallace Barrett was a celebrity. If he was a wife beater, word would’ve gotten out.”

“I don’t know, Ben. Sometimes the darkest secrets stay hidden the longest. You know what Charles Churchill said.”

“Intimately.”

“Keep up appearances, there lies the test / The world will give thee credit for the rest. / Outward be fair, however foul within / Sin if thou wilt, but then in secret sin.”

Ben frowned. “Do you stay up late memorizing these things just so you can make me feel inferior?”

“Actually, yes.” Mike flashed a brilliant smile. “It’s my revenge for all those times you blew the intro to my big make-the-girls James Taylor number.”

“Mike, I don’t believe the mayor of the city could keep a history of domestic abuse secret. And I don’t think a jury will, either.”

“I don’t know, Ben. We’ve had 911 calls about alleged domestic disturbances sending us to Barrett’s place twice in the last three years. And then there’s the business about the picture.”

“The picture? What picture?”

“Didn’t you notice? The framed photo smashed against the wall in the living room.”

“What?”

“A picture of Caroline Barrett. And someone smashed it into a million pieces.”

Ben tried not to react. “Anyone could’ve smashed a photo.”

“Yes, anyone could, but why would they? Smashing a photo—that goes beyond rational motivation or murder for hire. That’s just mean. Hateful. It doesn’t make any sense. Unless you believe that Barrett lost control—”

“Well, I don’t.”

“We’ve had a lot of reports. Apparently he was notorious for his temper.”

“Everyone has a temper. But no one kills their daughters. That’s just— unthinkable.”

“Wrong. Everyone’s thinking it. And every member of your jury will be thinking it. And you’re not going to sway them unless you have some damn convincing evidence.”

Ben scooted forward. “Mike, I don’t want to tread on your toes, but apparently the crime scene investigation was pretty seriously botched. If that’s true, and the evidence is tainted, I need to know.”

“That’s why God invented cross-examination.”

“Mike, you know Bullock believes it’s his civic duty to get a conviction, no matter what. I can’t stand by and let him railroad an innocent man.” Ben leaned across the desk. “Will you help me?”

Mike’s toothpick rolled to the other side of his mouth. “I’m sorry, Ben. I can t.

“But—”

“Ben, I’m a cop. I work with the DA.”

“But—”

“
No.
” He pressed his hands against the desk. “I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry, too,” Ben said quietly. He grabbed his briefcase and headed toward the door.

“Of course, every competent defense attorney knows to scrutinize the blood evidence very carefully.”

Ben stopped.

“Particularly with all this new DNA stuff that no one understands. You can’t be too careful.”

Mike was staring out the window, not talking to anyone in particular.

“And only a fool would pass up a chance to talk to Caroline Barrett’s sister. Man, what a looker. Almost as pretty as her sister. The DA loves her.”

A smile crept across Ben’s face. “Thanks, Mike. You’re a good friend.”

Mike turned suddenly. “Are you still here? I thought you left hours ago.”

Ben nodded. “I did.”

D
EANNA WOULD HAVE BEEN
lying to herself had she pretended she was anxious to get home that day. Not that work was any great delight, but home was bound to be worse.

Last night had been sheer hell. Martha had locked herself up in her room and didn’t emerge until morning. Even then, she made a great point of ignoring Deanna, walking in wide circles around her, saying nothing, keeping a lofty and sullen expression plastered on her face. Social boycott, from your sixteen-year-old daughter. Ain’t life grand?

Tonight would undoubtedly be worse. Mom and Martha alone together, all night long. What fun!

She dropped her briefcase in the front hallway. “Martha. I’m home.”

There was no response. Well, that wasn’t a tremendous surprise.

Martha wasn’t in the living room. Normally, absent Buck, she would be watching one of those tabloid TV shows this time of the evening. But the living room was silent.

I suppose she’s holed up in her room, Deanna thought, protecting herself from undesirable contact with me. Well, enough’s enough. I didn’t change her diapers for three years so she could treat me like an untouchable.

She banged on Martha’s bedroom door. There was no answer. No noise, no stereo, no radio.

The short hairs on the back of Deanna’s neck stood on end. That was very odd. She tried the door.

It wasn’t locked. And Martha wasn’t inside.
Damn!

She ran back to the kitchen to check the refrigerator for messages.

Nothing there. Not a word.

Maybe the note fell off, she told herself, trying to stave off the incipient panic. Maybe Martha didn’t fasten it securely …

She bent down on her hands and knees and examined the floor. There was no note. But on the other side of the kitchen, under the table, she did notice something. A small flat colorful something.

She crawled under the table. There were two playing cards that evidently had fallen off the table and gotten lost. One was Sewers of Estaark. The other was the Vesuvian Doppelganger. Magic cards.

He’d been here.

And now Martha was gone.

Omigod, omigod, omigod. She pressed her hands against her chest, trying to calm herself. Don’t make too much of this, she thought. Don’t jump to any stupid conclusions. Wait for the facts.

What facts, you fool? Martha’s
gone
.

She threatened to run away, and she did.

What a stupid ignorant sorry excuse for a mother she was. How could she be so blind? She had practically pushed her daughter into that arrogant, abusive creep’s arms. She had been too protective, too smothering. And what did she have now? Nothing.

She laid her head down on the table. What a loser I am. My life is over. Just let me die now, before I do any more harm.

It was just about then that she heard the back screen door open.

Her head snapped up. She blew out of her chair, stumbling on a table leg, limping into the living room. “Martha!”

Martha was coming in from the backyard. Her face was flushed and glowing. She lifted her chin and made a wide arc around her mother.

“Oh no.” Deanna grabbed her arm. “What have you been doing?”

Martha slowly lowered her eyes and focused daggerlike on a point in the middle of Deanna’s face. “I was trying to get a tan. Is that all right with you? Or did I need your permission first?”

Deanna held out the two Magic cards. “I found these on the kitchen floor.”

Martha snatched them away. “Thanks.”

“Where did they come from?”

Martha looked at her as if she had lost her mind. “For your information, I was playing a solitaire game before I went outside.”

“Solitaire?”

“Right. As in, by myself. That should make you happy.” Martha jerked her arm free, then sulked away to her bedroom.

Deanna didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. A good argument could be made for either. She returned to the kitchen table, laid her head down again, and let the tears flow. God, she had been so scared. So afraid. Why didn’t anyone ever tell you how hard it was to raise children?

Because it would be the end of the human race, she realized.

A laugh broke out, involuntarily. She began to regain her composure. She had been so scared.

She laughed again, not really knowing why, and unfolded the evening paper. Perhaps the agonies of the world would take her mind off the agonies of the home.

She scanned the front page. The whole office had been abuzz about the mayor’s being arrested. She couldn’t get through the first paragraph without wincing. Those poor little girls. They would have been utterly lost, confused, and terrified. What they must have thought. Especially if their killer really was their own father.

She scanned the article to see if the police were pursuing any other suspects. There were some quotes from a press conference given by a Lieutenant Morelli in which he made it rather clear the police thought the mayor did it. A reporter had spoken to a neighbor who had seen the mayor dash out of his house around the time of the murder.

But the neighbor had more than that to say to the reporter. Deanna read the passage twice, just to make sure she got it right. The neighbor complained that he had seen suspicious persons in the neighborhood for several days—one male, one female. She read the descriptions.

Tall, lanky. Goatee. Fatigues. High-top sneakers.

She couldn’t have described Buck better herself.

And the girl?

Short, dark. Tank top. Blue headband.

She folded up the paper and slid it into her briefcase, as if hoping to hide the evidence. Could it be a coincidence? The descriptions were very general.

But both of them? Together?

She knew Martha and Buck had gone out together sometimes in the afternoons, even though they weren’t supposed to. But what on earth would they be doing in the mayor’s neighborhood?

A shiver trickled down her spine. Where the hell did Buck get all that money, anyway? He didn’t exactly look as if he were descended from royalty.

Deanna felt a cold, icy sensation oozing through the marrow of her bones and chilling the blood in her veins. What was happening here? What was happening to their lives?

She couldn’t sort this out. She couldn’t think clearly. All she could think about was the one central question that kept racing through her mind.

Her eyes darted involuntarily toward her daughter’s bedroom door.
Martha—!

Was it really you?

C
HRISTINA MET BEN AT
the door. “I found the sister,” she announced, beaming.

“That was quick.”