Accused

A former dating show participant murdered his ex-wife/model then stuffed her body in a suitcase and fled to Canada where he hung himself in a hotel room.

— 'and the 'Gym Gunman'-'

A lonely man often rejected by women walked into a gym and gunned down twelve women.

— 'they're yesterday's news. She's today's news. Media tagged her the Guilty Groupie.'

'She wasn't a groupie, and she's not guilty. Did Boo see it?'

'No. I changed the channel.'

'Thanks.'

After dinner, Rebecca had taken the girls down to the beach to scour the sand for seashells. Consuela and Louis were on kitchen duty-he was teaching her Cajun cooking and she was teaching him Spanish-and Scott was holding Maria at the table on the back deck. She had her mother's sweet smile. The first day's investigation had dealt the defense team a few surprises, so they had gathered for their initial strategy session. Karen wore a maternity sundress and manned her laptop. Carlos wore a tight muscle shirt that exposed his biceps and tattoos. Bobby puffed on the D.A.'s big Cuban cigar like Fidel Castro.

'It's still tobacco,' Karen said.

'I'm not inhaling.'

'Famous last words.'

'Carlos,' Scott said, 'I know you're studying with Karen to be a paralegal, but I need you to do another job for a while.'

'Sure, boss.'

'You ever roof a house?'

Carlos chuckled. 'My folks came up from Mexico. I grew up roofing houses in East Dallas with my dad. I can roof a house in my sleep.'

'Good. There's a construction crew working at a house down the street from the crime scene. Mexican immigrants. Go over there tomorrow morning and see if you can hire on, get to know the men, find out if they know anything. Or did anything.'

'You mean, if they killed him?'

'Or know who did. Or saw anything. And take some baggies-if you can get their prints on something, bag it. But don't get caught.'

'All right… undercover work.'

'And Carlos-don't wear leather.'

Carlos grinned. 'Okay, boss.'

Scott turned to Karen. 'You get a timeline for Trey and Rebecca?'

'Right here.' She tapped on her laptop. 'Trey left for the country club at nine, practiced all day… Rebecca left about ten, spent the day shopping at the Galleria in Houston, got back at six… they went to Gaido's at seven. You know the rest.'

'Rosie cleaned the house that morning, left at noon. So the house was empty all afternoon. Maybe one of those workers came in, got the layout, robbed the place, took the knife, came back later and killed Trey.'

'You think those prints on the kitchen counter belong to one of those construction workers?' Bobby said.

'They'd have big hands. And they had a direct line of sight to the house, they would've seen everyone coming and going. They'd know Trey had fancy cars, money… and that they were out of town a lot.'

'But if he left his prints in the kitchen, why not somewhere else in the house? And on the knife? And as far as we know, nothing was taken. Why would he come back just to stab Trey?'

Scott shook his head. 'I don't know. But those construction workers are our only suspects.'

'Rebecca's prints are on the murder weapon,' Bobby said.

'She's innocent.'

'Shawanda's fingerprints were on the murder weapon, the gun that killed Clark McCall-you thought she was guilty.'

'I was wrong. I'm not going to make the same mistake again.'

'What if this time it's not a mistake?'

'Bobby, you know her. You think she could've done that?'

'Scotty, I knew her thirteen years ago, when we were in law school. I don't know her now. All I know is her prints are on the knife that killed Trey Rawlins. That alone will get her life in prison.' Bobby exhaled a cloud of cigar smoke, which Karen waved away. 'Look, Scotty, I know criminal defense lawyers represent guilty people all the time-but we don't.'

Scott turned back to Karen. 'You never met Rebecca until yesterday. You interviewed her this morning. What's your evaluation?'

'She seemed credible. She shops all day, comes home, they go to dinner, Trey proposes, they get drunk, have sex on the beach-DNA will prove up that-and they go to bed at eleven. Preliminary autopsy report puts time of death between midnight and three. So an hour or two after they go to bed, she suddenly decides to stab him with a butcher knife? I don't buy it. And I think she'd make a good witness. She was very poised.'

'Too poised,' Bobby said. 'If you'd been murdered five days ago, I wouldn't be speaking in complete sentences yet.'

Karen smiled at him. 'That's sweet.'

'She's still in shock,' Scott said. 'This morning on the beach, she broke down. But I'm not sure we can put her on the stand.'

'Scotty, if she doesn't want to spend the rest of her life in prison, she's got to take the stand and tell the jury she didn't do it,' Bobby said. 'And if she didn't, we've got to tell the jury who did. She had the means-the knife was in the kitchen-and the opportunity-Trey was sleeping in bed next to her-so it comes down to motive. Why would she do it? No will, no life insurance, no joint assets… and now she's homeless. She stood to lose everything and did.'

'I'm running asset searches,' Karen said. 'And guys, I think we need to dig into Trey Rawlins big time. Boy hides his porn, might be something else he's hiding.'

'Guns, porn, Viagra-not exactly the all-American boy in those commercials.'

'Actually, Scotty,' Bobby said, 'that is all-American stuff today. But it doesn't fit his public image, drinking chocolate milk and cheering up sick kids, which gives us something to work with-juries hate two-faced defendants… and victims. Except you told the D.A. you wouldn't put Trey on trial.'

'I know.' Scott turned to Karen. 'You're right. The 'good Trey' we saw on TV might not be the real Trey. Bobby, you go over to his country club tomorrow, find out what they know. Karen, you do your searches, dig up everything you can on Trey… and while you're at it, find out what you can about the judge. Looks like she's going to be on the prosecution team. Carlos, you hang out with those construction workers, see what they know. I'm going to see Trey's accountant. Anything else?'

Karen glanced at Bobby who glanced at Carlos who glanced at Scott.

'Spit it out.'

'We've been thinking,' Bobby said. 'Maybe she should take a polygraph. We could find a private guy, keep it confidential. If she fails, we bury it. If she passes, we take it to the D.A. And at least we'd know what we're dealing with.'

'And if she refuses?'

'That tells us what we need to know, too.'

Scott considered the idea for a moment then sighed. 'Find someone, Karen.'

Maria grimaced and grunted, and a foul smell suddenly filled the air. Scott stood and handed the baby to Bobby.

'Here. You need the practice.'

Bobby held the baby up and peeked inside her diaper. He made a face.

'Shit-that ain't guacamole.'

Scott stepped to the railing and stared out to sea. The sun was orange at the horizon and shot yellow streaks across the water, the waves broke into whitecaps and rolled lazily ashore, the heat of the day had eased and the evening promised to be pleasant. Any other summer, this would be the perfect vacation. But not this summer.