Sense of Deception (3 page)

“Good. That's good. Still, I'll be dropping off copies of the case files of Wendy McLain and Donna Andrews to your house as soon as you're free.”

I stared openmouthed at him. “Wendy McLain and Donna Andrews, sir?”

“Yes.”

“As in the two other girls murdered by Don Corzo?”

“Yes.”

I looked at Dutch to see if he understood what Gaston's angle was. Dutch seemed as puzzled as I felt. I turned my attention back to the director. “But . . . I thought I wasn't supposed to comment on the case against Corzo, sir?”

“You're not. However, if you notice anything in the case file that might be of interest to us, or something you feel we should pursue, please pull it out and attach it with a paper clip to the front of the file. If a map is needed, please get one and attach it the same way. Agent Rivers here will be tasked with studying the files in the evening to see if anything sticks out that will need to be followed up on. Agent Rivers, perhaps what should jump out at you are those items paper-clipped to the front of the file.”

Dutch offered the director a sly grin. “Yes, sir. I understand perfectly, sir.”

“Excellent,” Gaston said, pushing his chair back and getting to his feet. “And now, if you'll excuse me, I will wait outside for you, Agent Rivers, and give you some time with your wife.”

“Thank you, sir,” I said, so relieved that he'd forgiven me.

Gaston stepped to the door. “You're welcome.” After opening
it, however, he paused and eyed me over his shoulder. “By the way, Abigail, try not to incite a prison riot before we can get you out of here, all right?”

I nodded. Vigorously. Because I knew that the director wasn't even close to kidding.

After he'd gone, Dutch stepped forward to scoop me up into a hug. I sighed contentedly and he kissed the top of my head. “Sorry we can't spring you from this joint until tomorrow.”

I smirked against his shirt. “But a small part of you is sorta hoping that a night in jail is gonna teach me a lesson, huh?”

“It's like you
know
me.”

I rolled my eyes and looked up at him. “What're you gonna do with your night off?” The image of an impromptu poker game and a cloud of cigar smoke blossomed in my mind's eye.

Dutch held me tighter, folding my head back into his chest. “I'm gonna miss my wife,” he said. “Lots.”

“Good answer, cowboy. You been saving that one up?”

He chuckled. “No. It just came to me. But not bad for one off the cuff, huh?”

“I'd give it more brownie points if I didn't know that invites for an impromptu poker game have already been sent out.”

Dutch stiffened and I knew I had him. At that moment his phone buzzed from his back pocket and he stiffened again. “That'll be Oscar,” I said, my radar homing in on the message as well as if it'd come to me directly. “He can make it.”

Dutch's chest shook again with quiet laughter. “I can't get away with anything around you, can I?”

“Nope,” I said, tilting my head back to stare up into his gorgeous midnight blues. “And don't you forget it.”

He stroked my cheek and then his good humor seemed to leave him and he got all serious on me. “You gonna be okay in here, Edgar?”

“I'll be fine,” I assured him. “I even have a nice cellmate. She gave me a Twix.”

He cocked his head. “Only one cellmate? I figured county would put at least four to a cell.”

“She was supposed to have a cell all to herself, but solitary's all booked up and I guess they're really overcrowded in here.”

My hubby's brow shot up. “Why is she supposed to have a cell all to herself?”

I shrugged again. “She's on death row and they don't like those guys to mix with the general population, I guess.”

Dutch gripped me by the shoulders. “What the hell do you mean they put you in the same cell with a death row inmate?” And then he looked to the door, ready to hurtle through it and cause a big scene.

“Hey,” I said, grabbing his arms in return. “It's okay, Dutch. She's cool. I swear.”

“Abby,” he said, his voice very stern, “you don't understand. The reason they don't mix death row inmates with the general population is because they have nothing left to lose. They can kill without fear of retribution because there's no stick left to hold over their heads.”

“Yeah, but I swear, she's cool. We had a good chat and she's really nice.”

And then Dutch blinked and if it was possible, he appeared even more alarmed. “You haven't told her that you work for us, have you?”

“No,” I said quickly. And yeah, you probably noticed that was one of those not-quite-a-lie but not-quite-the-truth statements again.

He narrowed his eyes. “You're sure?”

I held up three fingers. “Scout's honor.”

“Okay, well, don't. The last thing I need is for you to get your ass kicked while I'm having the guys over for a poker game.”

I grinned. “True dat, pal. I'd
definitely
hold that over your head for the rest of your life.”

He let go of my arms but hugged me to him again. “Please be careful, okay?”

“I will, honey. I promise.”

*   *   *

A
fter Dutch and I said our good-byes, I was handcuffed and led back to the cell I shared with Skylar. When I got there, it was empty and Stern Eyes informed me that I'd missed the call to dinner. She dumped me at the door without offering to take me down to the cafeteria, and I understood pretty quick that I was being punished for the way that Gaston had ordered her around.

“Bitch,” I muttered after the cell door closed and Stern Eyes had walked away. My stomach grumbled to let me know that it would also be contributing to the swear jar quarter collection. After listening to an hour of Stoopid Stephanie Snitch's testimony, and then my go-around with the judge, my total for the day had definitely risen into the double digits, so what was a few extra quarters?

I looked over the cell for something to do or read, but it was fairly sparse as jail cells go. My gaze eventually landed on Skylar's side of the space and I saw that she had just a few items on the small shelf behind her bunk. I glanced toward the door, but then realized that I'd have plenty of advance warning if I wanted to do a little snooping. I'd hear the inmates coming back from the cafeteria and the door would of course give that loud buzzing sound before it opened.

Moving over to the small shelf, I bent double, hoping to find a book or something to read while she was away. Luck was with me when I spied a well-worn paperback with the image of a man and
a woman embracing in a passionate kiss. I smiled. I'm a sucker for a good romance novel.

Picking up the book, I snuck back across the cell and settled into my bunk for a little reading time. As I opened it, however, something slipped out onto my lap.

At first I thought it was Skylar's bookmark, but then I saw that it was actually a photograph of Skylar in younger, happier days with her arms wrapped tightly around a boy, who resembled her, grinning from ear to ear. He'd lost several of his teeth, but in front of him was a birthday cake with the words
Happy Birthday, Noah!
There were nine candles on the cake.

My chest constricted a bit as I took in his image, which was flat and plastic looking—a clear sign to my intuitive mind that Noah was deceased.

My gaze drifted to Skylar and her radiant smile. She was beaming at the camera; holding her son close, she looked like someone who had everything in the world she needed to be happy.

I then scanned the background looking for the other party guests, but the shutter had been trained only on Skylar and her son. I flipped the photo over and read, “May 29, 2004.”

I didn't know when Noah had died, but I did note that he would be nearly twenty years old now if he'd lived. Flipping the photo back over, I gazed for a time at Noah's sweet face, with his bright blue eyes, lean features, and broad smile, which mirrored his mother's. I wondered how long after this photo had been taken that the vibrant young boy's life had been snuffed out. It pained me to think that someone so young, with such promise, could have met such an abrupt and untimely end.

“You poor little guy,” I murmured, caressing his image with my fingers. I wondered if his mother had done the same thing in the years she'd held on to the photo.

At that moment there was a loud buzz and my cell door began to roll open. Accompanying this was the sort of sound that large crowds make—a sort of milling of voices that blend together to make nothing that's said discernible except for the occasional higher pitch of laughter.

I scooted out of my bunk and rushed the paperback and the photo back to Skylar's side, setting it back exactly as I'd found it before darting for my bunk again. When Skylar walked into the cell, I was lying back, idly staring up at the ceiling.

“How was dinner?” I asked, my stomach giving a little gurgle.

She wore a small smirk and she came over to my side, unzipping her orange jumpsuit to pull something out of the T-shirt underneath. “Here,” she said, handing me two packages of peanut butter crackers. “I figured they wouldn't escort you down for dinner. They're mean here at county. They never cut the newbies a break.”

I took the crackers greedily before remembering my manners. “Thanks,” I said. “I really appreciate it. I'm starving.”

Skylar shuffled over to her bunk and lay back on her cot. It was quite obvious that her mood had shifted. She'd been somewhat open to me before I'd been taken away to meet the boys, but now I could see that she had withdrawn again. I couldn't tell why, but maybe it's just what happens when you spend a decade in prison on death row. Pretty soon, I would imagine, mentally you just fold in on yourself, and it becomes hard to interact with people or even to show a spark of personality.

Skylar closed her eyes as if she were tired, but I had the impression that it was more of a meditative posture than anything else. I crossed my legs on the bunk and nibbled at the crackers, watching my cellmate studiously. “Hey, Skylar?” I said.

“Yeah?”

“Will you tell me about your son?”

She didn't answer me for a long time, and I was beginning to think she wasn't going to when she said, “He was my whole world. He was my sun and my moon and everything I lived for. Now that he's gone, I have nothing left and I just wish the state would hurry up and get it over with.”

I scanned her energy for the second time and I didn't like the signals I was picking up. Skylar's energy indicated that her life would come to an abrupt end—soon. And what really, really bothered me was the specific energy surrounding her death, because there was no justice to it. In fact, it felt like a murder. I should know—I've been around enough murder investigations to sense exactly when a death goes from something that feels energetically “justified” to something much darker.

Now, I have my own views on capital punishment. I'm definitely not a member of the “Let 'em all burn in hell!” camp, but there are instances when I'm not wholly against the idea of sticking a needle in the arm of a serial killer either. Some crimes are just so heinous, so cruel, so unspeakable, and the people who commit them so inherently evil that when it comes to snuffing out their lives, I think, “Yep.” And I can tell you that there's a feeling in the ether—the spiritual energy—surrounding these particularly evil doers when they are put to death that reads, to my intuitive mind at least, that justice has been served. And yet, I've also come across instances when someone has been convicted of a capital crime and put to death and the ether surrounding that capital sentence felt somewhat unfair, if not quite unjust.

Capital punishment is not a black-and-white issue, even spiritually, it seems.

With Skylar, however, when I focused on her impending death, it felt like she was about to actually be murdered unjustly by the state, and that really bothered me.

“How old was Noah when he . . . passed?” I asked her.

Skylar's chest lifted with a deep breath and she sighed out her reply. “Nine.”

My mind flashed back to the photo and I felt that pang in my heart again. “That's a great age,” I said. I knew I was probably being a pest, but I wanted to keep her talking. I felt the strongest urge to figure out her story and see if I could help her. Why, I couldn't quite put into words, but it was there, that feeling that I was somehow mingled with her future—that I might even be her last hope. “So tell me what happened,” I said softly.

She opened her eyes and turned her head a little to look at me. “What do you see?”

“About what happened to your son?”

She nodded.

I concentrated, focusing my gaze on the opposite wall away from her face. “It's a little murky, but I keep seeing a knife.”

I heard a tiny gasp escape her lips. “That's true.”

“As for who was wielding it, I swear it's someone you know.”

My gaze traveled back to Skylar. She sat up and looked me level in the eyes, but all I saw there was confusion.

“Miller!” my favorite guard yelled. Skylar and I both jumped as the CO appeared at the bars again. “Stand up, grab your personal items, come to the bars, and put your hands through the window.”

Skylar and I exchanged a look before she got obediently to her feet, pulled up her bedding—folding it quickly and putting her book into the space between her pillow and blanket—then shuffled over and obeyed the command to put her hands through the opening, while balancing her belongings on her arms.

“Where're you taking her?” I asked.

“None of your business,” said Stern.

“Ah,” I said. “Tomorrow, I'll be sure to sing your praises to the FBI director so that he can pass them on to the warden.”

Stern Eyes glared hard at me. Good thing I'm immune to that whole “if looks could kill” thing. “A spot opened up in solitary,” the CO said grudgingly as she snapped the cuffs on Skylar. “And since you seem to have friends in high places, you get this ten by ten all to yourself.”