One Deadly Sister

poised, and confident. She wore her brown hair very short and swished around in sassy disorder. A slight ribbon of midriff peeked between her sleeveless white blouse and knee-length denim skirt. “I didn’t think you’d come.”

“God knows why I’m here, I certainly don’t.”

“I’m really pleased. Sis, you’re really….”

She threw him a bored look and interrupted, “Don’t call me, Sis. Don’t ever call me, Sis. Who was the nice-looking woman who just left?”

“Someone from the office, Meg—I can’t remember her last name. She’s trying to help me, but it looks like I’ll be fired.”

“She is not just someone—that’s obvious. Are you friends with her at the office? What does she do?”

“Stockbroker. She comes by my office every day.”

“Didn’t you notice her clothes? I recognize those slacks, Italian Prato linen, very in. I have no idea where to buy something like that, Palm Beach, I suppose.”

She motioned with her hand and the policeman positioned by the wall first hesitated and then came over. “Officer, would you please let me see your logbook? I need the name, address and phone number of that young woman who just left here. Thank you.”

The young officer was bewildered, “Ah, I don’t think—we don’t—we’re not supposed to do that.”

Ray raised his hand and started to speak. His sister shushed him and kept going, “Just now, to get in here, I was required to write down that same information about myself. Your prisoner has a right to know who you’re permitting in here to see him. That log is a public record, and it didn’t suddenly become confidential. The sergeant over there, what’s his name?”

The officer appeared panicky, as though wondering if he should disclose the sergeant’s name. “That’s Sergeant Lewis.”

“Tell him I’d like to speak with him, please.”

Ray sat astonished. The puzzled officer called for the sergeant, who walked over. With his white hair and slight bend, he appeared to be past retirement age, but was still in good shape, no doughnut paunch on this cop. She politely repeated her request.

The sergeant replied, “Miss, I see you’re from Philadelphia. We do things different in Florida.”

She gave him a courteous smile and repeated, “We do things different in Florida? Is that what you said? What’s a good-looking cop like you doing with such an old cliche? Please put me in touch with the DA immediately. You people are interfering with the defense in a capital case.”

The sergeant chuckled, “Okay, show the young lady the log book. And Miss, if you’re going to storm through Florida like a Cat 5, you should know that we don’t have District Attorneys down here. That’s what I meant by doing things differently. Florida is divided into judicial districts, each with a state attorney who does the prosecuting. Just say SA, and everyone will know you’re cool.”

She gave him a smile so warm and beautiful he no doubt would tell his grandkids about it. “Thank you Sergeant Lewis and I apologize for my attitude. I’ll appreciate any additional help you can give me.”

She leaned toward Ray and whispered, “You can close your mouth now.”

“What have they done with my little sister?”

The officer brought the logbook over and she started copying. “Wake up, Raymond. Can’t you read people? That woman is a perfectly polished piece of work. She comes in here offering her help, and you don’t even find out her name?” She glanced down at her writing. “Megan Emerson.” She stared at him. “Emerson, Emerson, got it? She’s darling. Where is your head? The question remains, whose side is she on, and why is she helping someone like you?”

“She was just here on business from the office. Do you realize everyone is this room thinks you’re a lawyer?”

“Not my problem. Okay, here we go. I read about the murder in your local paper. Tell me your story. Give me the short version now, we can do nuance later. Make it fast. I need to crash someplace, I drove straight through.”

Each time he told his story, it sounded more implausible to him. He barely got started when she interrupted him. “Who did you say invited you to that Saturday night party?”

“Her, that Meg Emerson.”

She put down her pad and pencil and gave him a frustrated smirk. “Let me get this straight. The young woman who just came in here to visit you—even though you’re in jail accused of murder—the one that just happens, by some amazing coincidence, to buzz around your desk every day, gave a party and invited you?”

“Yes…?”

“Geez Louise!”

“I know what you’re thinking, Sandy, but Meg Emerson isn’t interested in me. She’s a big deal broker, really in the fast lane. She took over a bank trust department straight out of college, made them a ton of money. They were thrilled, gave her a marvelous title, a splendid office, and paid her peanuts.”

“She probably quit the bank and went into securities sales where she could be paid on commission,” Sandy guessed.

“Exactly, and she’s breaking all sales records at E.J. Bradford. I know, I run the back office and my crew processes all the paperwork. The hottest stockbroker they’ve ever had and one of the top producers in the southeast.”

“Next she’ll take over her boss’s job.”

“She doesn’t want his job, she makes double his pay already, and next year it’ll be triple. Her dream is to start her own brokerage business and to buy her clothes in Milan.”

“That explains the upscale outfit she wore.”

“You should see the list of high-powered names she does business with—people you see interviewed on news shows. She flies around the country meeting securities analysts and giving speeches. Her condo apartment is incredible. I’m just not in her league.”

“Geez, perhaps someone should explain that to her.”

He continued with the bizarre story leading up to his arrest. She interrupted occasionally to get the spelling of a place or name. While the narrative went on, and his sister made notes, he noticed that all the other visitors and the young officer had left. Visiting hours were over. Sergeant Lewis remained, evidently permitting them to stay.

When Ray finished she said, “Self-confidence is one thing, but wearing a thong at seventy? I think age twenty-five should be the absolute limit. Obviously, she set you up. Loraine’s a bad, bad girl, and she’s used you. I know something about users. But I don’t get why she came up with the rape or the Barner shooting. You said you didn’t have sex with her Saturday morning at the motel. Did she come on to you at all?”

“Does lying naked on the bed with her legs spread count?”

“Then forget about her being the one who was just raped. Unless she’s an inflatable doll, she wouldn’t be eager for sex so soon. For some reason, she actually did want to have sex with you again, probably to tie you closer. Anyway, she read you like a book, apparently an easy thing to do in your case. I’m beginning to doubt your judgment when it comes to women. I remember your ex-wife was a doozey too. You married the first girl who was nice to you, didn’t you? Mom told me she wrote on her body?”

“I didn’t know mom knew that.”

“On her body, you mean like on her hand?”

“No, on her breasts and stomach. Can we talk about it later?”

“You mean sexy words like, come and get it?”

“No, bizarre symbols. I’m not sure. I never got that close. Never got to see the boob job I paid for either.”

“Never got close? Poor guy, I never thought about that. Let’s see, you went without getting laid starting a couple of years before the divorce, I’ll bet, and then tried to catch up with a seventy-year-old.”

“She appeared younger by candlelight.”

“Of course she did, and after a few drinks and with the flickering candlelight, at times she even seemed to move—almost lifelike.”

“Oh, she was lifelike alright. I’m not going to explain further.”