Sense of Deception (35 page)

“Remember the smudged fingerprints of Skylar's found on the handle that weren't bloody?” I said. “I think that Chris wanted to make it really clear that the knife belonged to Skylar. I think that he wanted to frame her for Noah's murder all along. I think that he had some sort of elaborate plan to kill Noah using the knife, then murder Skylar, stage her murder to look like suicide, and have everyone think she killed Noah in a rage before taking her own life.”

“But wouldn't everyone assume that a killer had broken in, killed them both, and just used a knife from the kitchen?” Brice asked.

Before answering him, I went back to the table and fished around for another photo. Bringing it back to the board, I tacked it up so that everyone could see it. “See this?” I said, pointing to the house phone, lying on the floor near the closet. “That phone was found in the exact same spot where Skylar claimed that the intruder had jumped out to attack her. Now, that's important because when Dioli talked to us a few days ago, he said that when he delivered the death notification to Chris, Noah's dad had shown him his cell phone, which he claimed had rung in the middle of the night but he'd been too tired to answer it, and only when Dioli showed up did he realize the importance of the call.

“That's why Dioli didn't look to Chris as a possible suspect. Chris's cell was his alibi. Also, in the murder file itself, Dioli confirms that phone records indicate that a call was made from Skylar's landline to Chris's phone at the exact time of the murder.

“Now, the really interesting thing that I also didn't connect was that, in the file, Dioli notes that he wanted to present the call at trial to show that Noah had made one last desperate attempt
to get help, but, he notes, the DA kicked the call log out because the medical examiner's report showed that Noah wouldn't have been capable of doing anything like dialing the house phone or even hitting redial. He was either rendered unconscious or dead within moments of being stabbed. Dioli didn't investigate the anomaly further because he really likes to ignore things that don't make his case add up. I myself discounted Chris for a lot of reasons, but when I read that the phone call from Skylar's house had been sent to Chris's cell, I'd just assumed he'd been home too. I hadn't even considered that Chris had wanted it to look like that all along.

“Anyway, the way I see it is that, after stabbing his son, Chris's gloved hands literally have blood on them. Maybe the blood has soaked through, so he takes off his gloves momentarily so as not to get blood on Skylar's phone, and he's not worried about leaving a print on it, because he's the ex, and he was just there for Noah's birthday, so his prints would be in the house, or maybe he planned to wipe the phone down after, anyway; the point is that
he's
the one who dials his cell, and while he's waiting for the call to go through, he's walking toward the closet area, and maybe that's when he also picks up the baseball. He's probably worked it all out to establish his alibi this way. I mean, it's believable, right?” Several heads in the room nodded. I continued. “Right—so, he's in the middle of making that call when Skylar walks into the room, interrupting him, but doesn't even see Chris because she's too focused on Noah, who's on the floor.

“As he watches his ex-wife bend down to their son, Chris must've realized that he's left the knife next to Noah, and he's wondering what to do, and then he just decides to attack and kill her, but she gets away. In a panic he dives out the window and runs off, hoping that the call to his cell at his house is enough to establish
that he wasn't there. On his way out of the window, however, he drops the baseball, which Dennis then picks up, and he inadvertently helps Chris out by closing the window and putting the screen back in place.”

“That's a pretty elaborate plan, Edgar,” Dutch said.

“Do you have a better theory?” I asked him.

“No,” he said, with a slight smile. “But what I also don't have is a motive.”

“I know,” I admitted. “Being angry at Noah for picking his mom over him is a little thin.”

“I have a question,” Brice said.

“Shoot,” I told him.

“If Chris switched out the knife, and Skylar swears she used the murder weapon to chop up the salad that night, wouldn't there be an extra knife at the scene?”

I went back to the table and rummaged through the CSI inventory of everything that was in the house that night, including the kitchen's contents. Running my finger down the page, I let out a breath of relief when it landed on the one I was looking for. “There was,” I said, and held the list out to Brice. “See? ‘One utility knife, wood handle, Chinese symbol. Six and a half inches.' This is the duplicate knife to the one used to murder Noah, which is on this list, here.” I picked up a separate list, which inventoried the contents of Noah's room, where the murder weapon was found.

“Utility knife—wood handle, Japanese symbol on blade. Six and a half inches,” Candice said. “Sweet Jesus, you'd think they would've noticed a duplicate knife!”

“Obviously someone mistook the symbol on the knife from the drawer for Chinese, and the person who inventoried Noah's bedroom knew it to be Japanese, but still, I agree, they overlooked
quite a few things on this case to make their theory that Skylar did it stick,” I said.

“We still need a motive,” Dutch said. “Or, something usable to bring Chris in for questioning.”

Brice glanced at the wall above my head where the clock was. “It's ten to ten,” he said.

My stomach muscles clenched. I pulled out my cell and called Cal. It rolled to voice mail. I left him an urgent message to call me back before he went into court. Once I'd hung up, everyone in the room looked grim. “We're so close,” I told them. “We can't give up now.”

“Abs,” Dutch said softly. “There isn't enough to give Cal before the appeal.”

“I know,” I told him. “And he'll lose. But we'll still have a shot at the Board of Pardons.”

“They've never granted clemency,” Candice reminded me, her expression pained as if it hurt her to say that.

“True,” I said. “But there's always a first time, and no
way
am I giving up now.” Turning to Brice, I said, “Have you had any luck rushing the labs on the blood from the baseball?”

“I put in another call about an hour ago,” he said. “He said no way can he get us DNA matches until tomorrow, but he will probably be able to narrow the spectrum of possibility down to around ninety-seven percent by ten a.m. In other words, he'll be matching certain isotopes, blood type, and other science-sounding stuff to give us at least a ninety-seven percent likelihood that the blood on the ball is Noah's.”

“I like those odds,” I said. “And if we can at least nail Miller for shooting Gallagher, we can also grill him about his son's murder.”

Oscar said, “In order to get a warrant for the hunting rifle,
Cooper, we'll need to show the judge that we have probable cause, and it needs to be more than what we have on hand, because Miller has money and connections.”

I reached again for the baseball. “I have just the plan,” I told him. “I'm calling it: two birds, one baseball.”

*   *   *

T
wo hours later I got a quick call from Cal. The appellate court had upheld Skylar's conviction and impending execution. He had an appointment to meet with the Board of Pardons at four, but Skylar was already scheduled to be put to death at midnight.

I had to work hard to slow the rapid uptick in my heart rate upon hearing that, because I couldn't afford to appear anything but confident as I strode down the walk and into that familiar Starbucks.

Chris Miller was sitting in the far corner, watching the door. The Starbucks was empty of anyone who actually worked there. Candice was behind the counter in a green apron, doing her best to appear like an earnest barista, intent on scrubbing down the counter and espresso machine. Brice sat at a table by the window, pretending to talk on his phone, and Dutch sat at another nearby table, wearing a baseball cap, a long-sleeved button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up, khaki shorts, and sandals. He was seemingly absorbed in the sports page.

I moved over to sit at the table with Chris. He considered me with a steely glare. “Elaina?”

I nodded. “You killed my boyfriend,” I said softly, managing also to get my voice to quiver and tears to form in my eyes.

“That's a hell of an accusation,” he told me. He wore a confident smile. The kind a snake adopts right before it springs for a mouse.

“But it's true,” I told him. “Dennis told me all about you. And I know you were the one to pay his bail.”

“You have proof?” he asked me, as if he couldn't believe some lowlife would dare confront him.

I nodded and lifted my purse, taking out the baseball covered in red gore and blue scribbling across the center. “You left this when you killed your little boy,” I told him. “Denny gave it to me because he knew you were going to try to kill him.”

Chris's eyes widened at the sight of the ball in my hand, but then his confidence returned. “Right,” he snapped. “You're delusional.”

“Denny didn't know who you were at first,” I told him. “But then he saw you on TV at Skylar Miller's trial, and he told me that you were the guy he saw coming out of the window that night. He knew you were the one that killed your little boy.” I was of course lying through my teeth, but Chris Miller didn't know that.

“My ex-wife killed my son,” he said angrily. “A crime for which she'll pay with her own life sometime around midnight.”

I studied him. “Not if I go to the FBI and tell them everything Dennis told me, and give them this ball. That's going to lead to some questions, Mr. Miller. And maybe even a press release.”

Miller glared hard at me. “What do you want?”

“This ball is for sale,” I said. “One million dollars.”

Chris laughed and shook his head. “You have a son of your own, don't you, Elaina?”

I was careful to appear shocked and scared by his statement. “You leave my son out of this,” I hissed.

Chris began to draw little lazy circles on the table with his finger. Speaking very softly, he said, “I know where you live, bitch. Don't think I can't take care of you too.”

Crap. That wasn't the confession I'd wanted, but I still had a
card to play. “You killed my boyfriend,” I repeated. “You owe me something for that.”

Chris sighed heavily, then reached into his back pocket. I stiffened, but he withdrew his wallet and pulled out a hundred. Tossing it on the table in front of me, he said, “Your boyfriend did me a favor, you know, closing the window and putting back that screen. Made it look like no one but Sky had ever been there. It worked out better than even I'd planned, and for that, you can keep the change.”

I shuddered for effect, set the ball on the table without meeting his eyes, and picked up the hundred. Taking a moment to gather my purse, I stood up and waited for him to pick up the ball. The second he did, I couldn't help but smile a little. “That autograph sort of says it all, don't you think?”

Lifting my gaze, I watched as Chris's brow lowered in confusion, and then he inspected the ball. Written across the brand-new baseball we'd purchased an hour before, and covered in smeared blood from Oscar's pricked finger, was the word
Murderer
.

Chris lifted his eyes back to me and realization dawned in his eyes. He then glanced at Candice behind the counter. She was staring at him with contempt. His eyes darted next to his left and saw that Dutch had set aside his paper and was also glaring at him. Swiveling his head to the right, he took in Brice, who'd stood up with a set of handcuffs in hand.

Chris dropped the ball on the table. It bounced once and I caught it, my hand now wrapped in a plastic bag, which I then folded over the ball and dropped back into my purse. “Game over, douche bag,” I told him, peeling back the collar of my shirt to reveal the wire taped to my chest.

Quicker than I could've expected it, Chris lunged at me. He grabbed me by the throat and pulled me hard to him as he also
kicked the table toward Dutch, who'd begun to spring to my aid. And then I felt the muzzle of a gun at my temple.

“Back off!” he yelled to everyone in the room. It was unnecessary. Nobody dared advance on him with me in his clutches.

It took me a few moments to recover myself, but then I was able to look around the room and assess the situation. Brice, Dutch, and Candice all had their guns drawn and aimed at Miller. He had me by the neck, and he was backed into a corner. I was still holding my purse.

Advantage team Abby.

As Miller shouted for everybody else to drop their weapons, I eased my hand into the big purse and wrapped my fingers around a small canister, placing my thumb just over the trigger. Calmly I said to all of them, “Guys, it's okay. Drop your guns and do what he says.”

I looked meaningfully at each of my protectors in turn, but Dutch was very reluctant to let his weapon go. Miller gripped me tighter and shouted at him, and I managed to mouth,
Please
to my husband, who finally did crouch to drop his weapon.

“You!” Miller shouted to Candice. “Get out here!” Candice came out from around the counter, her hands in the air. “On the floor!” Miller yelled next. “All of you get your asses on the floor, your hands behind your back!”

Brice was the first to comply. Candice followed, but Dutch resisted. My stubborn husband. I wanted to yell at him too, but before I had time to beg him to obey, Miller withdrew the gun from my temple and pointed it at Dutch. The warning in my head went off a millisecond before Miller pulled the trigger, and I managed, somehow, to get my elbow up in time to knock the gun's deadly aim away from its target. The gun went off, the bullet went wide, and I spun around to spray Miller in the face with a good
dose of Mace. He went down to the floor, writhing and covering his eyes with his left arm. I went under his arm and continued to spray his face, even as I dropped to my knees to land on the outstretched hand holding the gun. “You. Son. Of. A. BITCH!” I yelled, and he wriggled and tried to hit me with his free hand. I took the blow on the shoulder and just kept squirting him.