Suspicion of Vengeance (44 page)

Anthony stared at McGrath. "You would let an innocent man be put to death because you are afraid of what he would say?"

"Kenny Clark is a murderer. He killed Amber Dodson. Her husband shot himself because he was depressed. You and Ms. Connor drove him to it. I won't be extorted. I won't help you set a killer free. I won't do that."

The world contracted to a narrow view of Whitney McGrath's face.

"Qué malo. Un satanás verdadero."

The face spoke. "Take your pictures and get out."

The fibers the paper was made of began to let go. Anthony twisted the envelope still further and the glued seam tore open. His sweat had dampened the creases, and his fingers clamped tighter. The muscles in his forearms burned, but no less keenly than the knowledge that he had accomplished nothing. Less than nothing. And that Kenny Clark would soon be dead. Hatred for Whit McGrath had become a tangible thing, an animal clawing at his ribs, demanding release.

"Señor
Anthony, you are bleeding." Stopped at a traffic light, Hector looked at him from the driver's seat.

Anthony turned his hand over. The thin metal clasp of the envelope had sliced into his palm. It had not been sweat he had felt, but blood. He tossed the red-smeared, twisted envelope, with the photographs inside it, to the floor of the car and took out his handkerchief. The wound began to sting, now that he was conscious of it.

The light changed, and Hector drove forward. "That man. Someone should remove him."

The blood seeped from the cut. Anthony pressed down firmly with his handkerchief. The pain wasn't bad.

"Tell me what to do," Hector said.

"Nothing. Not now."

"When?" The angled sun sent the shadow of his heavy glasses across his face.

"I do not know."

"You can forget what he has done?"

"No, Hector. I won't forget." Anthony carefully lifted the cloth. The bleeding had stopped. "It's better not to be ruled by emotion. You make bad decisions that way. A man with a bullet in his head causes problems."

"He has a horse. He could be thrown." Hector guided the car onto the northbound ramp of the interstate. He waited for Anthony to speak.

Anthony refolded his handkerchief "I have a better idea."

Gail knew when he opened the door. It must have been written in his eyes. She slipped off the stool at the counter, barefoot, still in her robe.

"He said no, didn't he?"

Anthony took her into his arms. Her small breasts were warm and fragile against his chest. Her hair was damp at the crown when he pressed his lips to it. "Sweetheart, I'm sorry."

"Oh, God, Anthony, I thought he would do it. I thought—"

"So did I." He held her tightly. "We have to face the truth,
cielito.
Unless some miracle happens, Kenny is going to die. It's over. There's nothing more we can do." He closed his eyes. "I'm sorry. I promised you I would take care of it, and I couldn't."

"Please don't blame yourself." Gail tilted her head up. "Jackie said she would talk to Garlan."

"Well. It can't hurt."

"She wants copies of the photographs."

"I'll tell Hector." Anthony took a breath to steady himself. "You see, Gail? I told you, it's not good to care so much about a client. Something like this happens, and where are you then? We should call Kenny. He should know."

Gail tilted her face up and stroked Anthony's cheek. "In a little while. Come back to bed with me."

"Now?"

"Please. I need you, Anthony."

CHAPTER 27

Tuesday night, April 10

It was past eleven o'clock when the headlights on Garlan's Jeep Cherokee finally swung into the driveway. Jackie stood up from the kitchen table. Her father's heavy footsteps came across the porch, and she opened the back door before he got to it. He squinted as if the light hurt his eyes. Exhaustion bowed his shoulders.

"You're up late," he said.

"I need to talk to you." Jackie closed and locked the door. "It's important. Sorry it can't wait till tomorrow. I know you're tired."

He let out a breath. "Yeah. Quite a day." He poured himself some water. "Has this got something to do with Kenny Ray Clark? If so, maybe we don't need to get into it again."

Last night he had given her the lecture about the young cop who got involved in something that was none of her business and deserved the hell she caught from her chief Jackie had listened, biting her tongue.

"Mostly I wanted to talk to you about Whit McGrath."

He set the empty glass in the sink. "I had a call from the chief down in West Palm this afternoon. Seems that Quintana paid McGrath a visit and offered him cash to call the governor and ask for a stay. Nobody wanted to press charges, but he thought I'd be interested to hear about it. Is that what you've got on your mind?"

"He never offered money." Jackie picked up the envelope from the kitchen table and followed her father down the hall to his study.

He unbuckled his gun belt, a leather one he'd had longer than she could remember, an old-fashioned Sam Brown that hung low on his hips. He put it over a peg on the rack. His Stetson went on the top shelf. He ran his fingers through his short gray hair.

"Where is Quintana, by the way?"

Jackie said, "He and Gail left for the prison this afternoon. They picked up Kenny Clark's grandmother. They're coming back late tomorrow, maybe the next morning, depending. Are you going to be there?"

To witness the execution.

"No. Ron Kemp will represent the office." Her father tossed his jacket over the arm of the sofa. "I think Sonia Krause is going as well, maybe a few more people. I don't know." He glanced around at her. "I'm tired. What do you want to tell me?"

Jackie took the photographs out of the envelope.

He had his tie halfway out of his collar. He pulled it the rest of the way. "What are those?"

She handed them over. She had thought for a long time how to begin, but suddenly the words became jumbled in her head. "The reason Anthony went to see Whit McGrath was about those photos. They were taken at the bottom of a sinkhole on undeveloped property in River Pines. That car belonged to a Guatemalan family named Mendoza. They were murdered by Rusty Beck in 1988. He put their bodies in the trunk."

Her father stared at her, then shuffled quickly through the photographs. "Jackie, what the hell is going on?"

She told him. She spoke for nearly half an hour, stopping only when he asked a question or told her to slow down. He sat in his lounge chair, elbows on knees, and Jackie leaned on the edge of his desk.

"You suspected Gary Dodson at first, too, but his alibi threw you oft" Garlan let out a breath and rubbed his fingers over his chin.

Jackie went on, "When Gail was at Dodson's office, I realized how he had manipulated the time of death. By the time I got there, he'd killed himself"

"God almighty."

"Whit McGrath knew that Dodson was guilty. Anthony talked to him this morning and told Whit to call the governor or else he'd turn him in for the Mendozas. But Whit wouldn't do it. He wants Kenny Clark dead so he can't talk."

Her father had to get up and pace around for a little while. Finally he said, "There's still Glen Hopwood. He could talk."

"Right, but it's better to have one guy talking than two. If there's only one, and he's in prison, who's going to buy it?"

Her father picked up the photos and went through them slowly. "What have you got to link McGrath to this?"

"Nothing direct. We have oral statements from Clark and Hopwood. We know that Whit needed the property to be able to start construction."

"Can you prove he forged the deed?"

"No."

"That's not enough."

"With the photographs, can you get a search warrant for the sinkhole?"

"Maybe, but it won't be easy. I'd like to see what's in that trunk, but you know, Jackie, we could get shot down on a motion to suppress."

"Whit McGrath thinks he's above the law," she said.

"No one is above the law."

"Will you investigate based on what I've told you?"

"Absolutely."

The relief hit Jackie with such force that it left her momentarily breathless. She reached into the back pocket of her jeans, where she had put a folded sheet of paper. She had debated with herself whether to tell him, but decided there was no way around it.

"Dad? There's something else you should know. This is the Mendoza deed. Look at the notary."

He held the paper under the desk lamp, then leaned closer. She saw his jaw sag. "My God."

"Mama knew Whit McGrath from her real estate office, and I remember seeing him at the ranch. They were friends. She notarized it as a favor."

Her father handed the paper back. "Louise wouldn't have notarized a deed unless she'd seen the people sign it. Are you sure it's a forgery?"

With dismay, Jackie saw that she could hold nothing back. "Yes, sir, I am sure. Gary Dodson told me himself. He said Mama did it as a favor for Whit, but she didn't know the signatures were phony. Whit and Mama— She was in love with him. That's why she did it."

Her father stared at her. Jackie said, "Nobody told me. I sort of put two and two together. I'm sorry. If this comes out, I wanted you to know in advance."

His eyes closed and he turned away.

"People will talk, I guess. She's gone, so it won't hurt her, and the rest of us, well, there's nothing we can do about it. Dad, you can't blame her. I mean ... not for everything. Whit McGrath seduced her. She called it off, but you wouldn't take her back—"

"You know nothing about this, Jackie."

"I do. Not a lot, but something. I know that she was torn up by what she did. She wanted to come back, but you wouldn't let her. She moved away, and we didn't see her because you got custody. I thought it was because she didn't care, but that's not true."

"Are you blaming
me
?”

"No, sir. I just ... I wish you'd told us. Alex blames you. I guess because he doesn't know. Maybe you and he could talk about it someday." Jackie held on to the edge of the desk and forced herself to look at her father. "Everybody shares blame. I was mad at her. One time I told her I didn't love her. She cried, and I didn't care because I wanted to hurt her for leaving us. Aunt Irene said it was an accident, how she died. She said Mama wouldn't have killed herself. All I can do is try to believe it. But I know she was drunk that night, and I keep thinking she just didn't want to live."

"You're wrong about that, Jackie. She wasn't drunk. Not then, anyway. I made sure the sheriff in Palm Beach investigated thoroughly. You mother had been to a bar, and she'd had a couple of drinks. She drove out to the country to see about a real estate listing. She was there for two hours. The people said that when she left she was in a good mood, and they hadn't offered her anything to drink."

"But what about the bottle?"

"She had the bottle in her car, but her blood alcohol level was less than point-oh-two. There was some thought it could have been an accident, somebody hitting her from behind, because they found a dent in her rear bumper. But the only skid marks were her own tires. She was going seventy miles an hour into that curve, Jackie. The sad truth is, your mother was a victim of her own irresponsibihty."

"Why didn't you tell me all this? I thought for all these years that she'd killed herself"

"You thought that? I didn't discuss it with you because you were young. And it never came up."

The room was silent for a while, and then Garlan said, "You shouldn't have thought your mother didn't love you. She did. It wasn't much of a marriage, though. We had some problems."

"Yes. I know that."

He let out a breath and picked up the deed again. "All right. This may well become public, but there's nothing we can do about it. ITI start looking into this tomorrow. Rusty Beck. Good God almighty. You write me a report, put down everything you know about it. I want to get a statement from Quintana and Connor as well. I'll probably interview Glen Hopwood myself."

"And Kenny Clark," Jackie said.

"Well, that's ... not going to be easy, is it?"

"You can't let them execute him now."

He looked at her, smiling slightly as if she were making a joke. "I can't prevent it, Jackie."

"Why not? Call Governor Ward and tell him what you found out. He'd listen to you."

"Whoa. The fact that the Mendozas may have been—
may have been
—murdered doesn't prove that Clark is innocent. I couldn't give Bill Ward anything but hearsay."

"Ask Whit McGrath yourself Go ask him," Jackie said. "Ask him why he didn't turn Gary Dodson in. Ask him."

"If I could read minds, I wouldn't need a detective bureau."

"But you
know
Kenny is innocent."

"I do
not
know that. Jesus. I spent two hours in a meeting at the state attorney's office this afternoon because the governor wanted to know what's going on. There were six of us. Me, Ron Kemp, a guy from crime scene, and three prosecutors. We went over the same photographs you looked at. We read Gail Connor's statement. All it proves is that the air conditioner had been on at some point. It may have, been early that morning or the previous night. It's a question mark, but that's all it is. We reviewed the evidence for the umpteenth time. We considered Tina Hopwood's testimony, and we came to the conclusion that it just wasn't credible. Even if Kenny Clark did leave her trailer at ten o'clock, as she says, he could have gone straight to the Dodson house, and Mrs. Chastain could have been a little off about the time she saw him. There isn't an investigation in the world where everything fits perfectly."

"Mrs. Chastain was
wrong."

"Was she? I sent Ron Kemp to her house. He asked her, 'Is there
any
possibility that you could have been mistaken?' She said no. She got a clear look at Kenny Clark in broad daylight. Who are we to say she was wrong and we're right?"

"Dad, please. If you're not sure he's guilty, how can you let this happen? Do it for me. A favor. Not for Gail or Anthony, for me."

"Jackie, do I make exceptions for myself? Do I have to live by the same rules that I expect everyone else to follow? If I make an exception for you, it's like doing it for myself."