They followed Hank into a kitchen with a stained concrete floor and stainless steel appliances, cabinets, and countertops. Scott put on his glasses-he used to wear them just to appear smart to his rich clients; now, after sixteen years of reading the law, he actually needed them-and opened the murder book. He found the photos and evidence collection report for the kitchen.
'No blood was found in the kitchen?'
'Nope. But we got prints-his, hers, the maid's, and one unidentified set. Right there.' Hank pointed to a spot on the island counter where black fingerprint dust marred the shiny steel finish. 'Full hand prints. We figure male, and a big man from the size. He must've been leaning onto the counter.'
'You run them?'
Hank nodded. 'No match. He's not in the system.'
Hank pulled a drawer open. Inside were seven steel knives in a tray with molded spaces for eight knives. The biggest space was empty.
'Murder weapon,' Hank said. 'Butcher knife. Her prints are on it.'
'So Rex said. Would you open all the drawers and cabinets?'
Hank did, and Bobby filmed everything. 'Nice liquor cabinet. Trey liked the good stuff.'
'And the refrigerator, Hank.'
It was a double-wide with a freezer drawer below. Hank held the door open while Bobby squatted and filmed the contents and narrated.
'Beer… a bottle of wine… protein bars… lots of chocolate milk… and the biggest watermelon I've ever seen.'
Scott put his hands on his knees and peered into the refrigerator. The watermelon occupied one entire shelf. It had been split in half, lengthwise. The red pulp lay exposed like brain matter.
'Just the way we found it,' Hank said. 'Nothing's been touched.'
The kitchen opened onto a living room with leather furniture, a fireplace, a flat-screen television on the wall, and a bank of windows that offered a stunning view of the beach and sea. Scott's mind conjured up scenes from Rebecca's life here, with another man, the same scenes he had played over and over the last two years, like reruns of his favorite show. Now he had the actual setting for those scenes. His emotions rose again, so he consciously forced himself to focus on his job as her lawyer instead of his regrets as her husband.
Think like a lawyer, not like a man.
'No evidence was collected from the living room,' Hank said. 'Let's go upstairs first, then we'll come back down to the crime scene. You might need some fresh air after that.'
They climbed a set of stairs to the third floor which had two guest bedrooms and baths and a home theater. No evidence had been discovered or collected from any of the third-floor rooms, so Hank led them up another set of stairs to the pilothouse.
'Trey's office.'
Wood-framed windows surrounded the space. The street was visible out the front, the beach and sea out the back. The room was wood and leather with a wet bar. Golf trophies crowded shelves, and photos of Trey with other famous golfers and framed golf magazines with Trey on the covers hung on the walls. In one corner three putters stood against the wall and balls waited below on a putting mat that ran the length of the room, as if Trey had practiced his putting that morning. In another corner sat a massive white golf bag with Trey Rawlins in black script down the side.
'You go through the bag?' Scott asked.
'Nothing except golf balls and condoms.'
' Condoms? '
Hank shrugged. 'For the rain delays, I guess.'
'I'd hate to drag that bag up those stairs,' Bobby said.
'He didn't have to.' Hank went over to the wood wall and opened a closet-except it wasn't a closet. It was a dumb waiter big enough for a pro golf bag-or a human being. Hank pushed a button inside the door; the elevator slowly descended.
'Opens down in the garage,' Hank said. 'No prints, no blood.'
'The killer could have entered the house that way.'
'She didn't have to, Scott. She lived here.'
Scott stepped over to the desk. A phone, a pad, and a pen sat at the ready. There was a vacant space front and center.
'Laptop was right there.' Hank pulled the desk drawers open for Bobby to film. He opened a lower drawer and said, 'Trey kept this one locked.'
'Why?'
'See for yourself.'
Bobby aimed the camera down and whistled. 'Chocolate milk wasn't the only thing Trey had a taste for.'
Scott came around the desk. Inside the drawer were dozens of DVDs with naked girls on the covers and titles like Fleshcapades and Virgin Territory. Scott's eyes met Bobby's, and he knew they were thinking the same thought: all-American boys don't watch pornography. Bobby couldn't restrain a smile.
'Got porn?'
They weren't shocked; porn was part of the culture now. They were excited-not by the porn-but by the crack in the 'good Trey' they had seen on TV. Was Trey Rawlins another star athlete whose perfect public image belied a dark private life? Nothing excites a criminal defense lawyer more than a victim's dark side revealed-it takes the jury's focus off the defendant and puts it on the victim. A savvy defense lawyer puts the victim on trial. Would Scott put Trey on trial to save Rebecca's life?
'Aw, hell,' Hank said, 'you can rent this stuff at the family video store. Stay at the best hotels and you can get room service and hardcore. Myself, I'd rather watch football-less violent.'
'Maybe so, but porn doesn't exactly fit his golden boy image.'
'Everyone's got their secrets,' Hank said.
'Question is,' Bobby said, 'did Trey Rawlins have any other secrets?'
They pondered that possibility for a moment, then Hank said, 'Let's do it.'
They followed Hank downstairs and to the door leading into the master bedroom. Hank stopped and reached to his back pocket then handed a small plastic trash bag to each of them.
'What's this for?' Scott asked.
'So you don't contaminate the crime scene.'
Hank opened the door, and Scott stepped inside a dark space that smelled like his mother's bedroom the day she had died. Death had its own smell.
'Brace yourself, boys.'
Hank hit a switch, and bright lights illuminated the room like an OR.
' Jesus.'
The blood took Scott's breath away.
The bedroom was stark white-white bed, white walls, white tile floor, white furniture, white curtains. The blood offered the only color. It was everywhere. It didn't seem possible that one human body contained that much blood.
'Didn't take luminol to find the blood at this crime scene,' Hank said. 'Knife cut his aorta, heart pumped till it gave out.'
Scott stared at the bloody bed where his wife had had sex with another man… and where that man had died. He thought he had long ago come to terms with the fact that his wife had lain with another man. He was wrong. He was just now coming to terms with that fact-with that image-of Rebecca and another man-in that bed-having sex… and then someone stabbing that butcher knife into his chest while he slept. Had Rebecca been that someone? His face flashed hot. He couldn't seem to get a breath in the stale air.
'Scotty, you don't look so good.'
'Use the bag!' Hank said.
Hank opened the French doors. The sea breeze blew in and freshened the air. After a few minutes, Scott could breathe again. He tried to block the image of his wife and Trey from his mind and to think like a lawyer
