'Bobby, maybe I am here on a guilt trip. I don't know. But I'm doing this because I don't think she's a murderer and because I don't want Boo to visit her mother in prison… and because I'm responsible for her.'
'She's not your wife anymore.'
'She's the mother of my child. I'll always be responsible for her. You'll understand, when that baby is born.'
Scott watched Rebecca with the girls on the beach. If he didn't defend her, if he didn't at least try to save her life, and she spent the rest of her life in prison, he-and Boo-would serve out the sentence with her. He could do the time-he had already served two years-but he couldn't do that to Boo.
'Bobby, I've got to do this. You and Karen don't. It's okay with me if you want to go back to Dallas.'
'Like that's gonna happen.'
He stuck a fist out to Scott. They bumped knuckles, a male-bonding ritual.
'We're brothers, Scotty.'
'Thanks. Now let's find the guy who put those prints on the kitchen counter. He's the killer.'
THIRTEEN
On the morning of September 8, 1900, thirty-seven thousand people lived on the Island, Galveston was the financial and shipping center of the southwestern United States, and the Strand in downtown was known as the Wall Street of the Southwest.
By the morning of September 9, 1900, six thousand people were dead, the Strand sat under fifteen feet of water, and Galveston lay in ruins. The 'Great Storm'-a Category 4 hurricane packing one-hundred-forty-miles-per- hour winds-had come ashore during the night. A hundred years later, that storm still ranked as the deadliest natural disaster in U.S. history, and Galveston still had not recovered its former glory.
'I'm still in shock,' the accountant said.
At nine the next morning, Scott sat in Tom Taylor's office located a block down from the Grand Opera House and above an art gallery in a renovated Victorian building on Postoffice Street in the Strand historical district. Tom had been Trey's CPA.
'I can't believe he's dead.'
Tom Taylor looked more like the lead singer for the Beach Boys than a certified public accountant. He wore jeans, a wild shirt, and a white puka shell necklace. His skin was tanned and his hair long and gray and held back by blue reading glasses pushed up over his forehead. His face was grim, and his hands were small.
'You really gonna do that? Defend your ex?'
'Apparently.'
'Well, I called Rex to make sure it was okay for me to talk to you, then Melvyn, since he's representing the estate. He said there's no accountant-client privilege, said you could subpoena me and the records anyway. So what do you want to know?'
'Who killed Trey?'
'That detective, on the morning show, he said your wife did.'
'Ex-wife. She didn't.'
'So, what, you're searching for the real killer, like Harrison Ford in that Fugitive movie? How does that involve me?'
'You handled Trey's money. People kill for money.'
'And love.'
'I'm betting on money.'
'I suppose you would.'
'How long had you known Trey?'
'Since he was born. I grew up with his dad, Jim Rawlins. Rex and Jim and me, we went to Kirwin High School together, played golf… Jim was the club pro.'
'Rex said his parents died in a car accident.'
Tom gave a somber nod. 'Six years ago. They were driving home from Austin, Trey's college graduation. He was all set to turn pro, but their deaths hit him hard. The boy was lost without his dad to coach him. Came home and started drinking, didn't stop for two years. I'd drive the seawall, see him sitting out on a jetty, drinking alone.'
'How'd he get it back together?'
'One day he just showed up at the club, started practicing again. Took him two years to get his game back. He worked up at that Dallas country club-' Tom grimaced. 'Sorry. Anyway, the rest is history.'
'Did Trey have problems with anyone?'
'What kind of problems?'
'Lawsuits, enemies…'
'You'll have to ask Melvyn about lawsuits, but we don't do enemies here on the Island, Scott. We're Sin City, live and let live-hell, you gotta be laid-back to live on a big sandbar waiting for the next hurricane to wash it away. Or half-crazy. We got our share of crazies but not enemies. You want enemies, you live in Houston. Galveston, it's more a state of mind than a place on a map. Think Key West with Catholics.'
'Did he still drink a lot?'
Tom shrugged. 'This is Galveston. Define 'a lot.' '
'Did he ever get arrested for DUI?'
'Not that I know of.'
'Did he owe anyone?'
'No, and I'd know if he did. I paid all his bills. Tried to get him to put money away for after the tour, but I wasn't too successful with that.'
'He spent a lot of money?'
'He burned through cash, damn near every dime he made. Paid four million for the beach house, half a million for the cars, two million for the boat, a million for the Malibu condo, about that much for the ski lodge in Beaver Creek…'
'You ever go inside the beach house?'
'Once. He had a party when they moved in.'
'Did he pay his taxes?'
'Every penny he owed. I did his returns. His tour earnings were wired directly to his bank account. His endorsement money was paid quarterly, went to SSI, they deducted their commissions, wired the rest to his account. I got all the statements.'
'Were you a signatory on the account?'
Tom nodded. 'Like I said, I paid his bills.' He looked Scott in the eye. 'I didn't steal his money. It's all documented.'
'You do the books for his foundation?'
A slight smile. 'Well, the Trey Rawlins Foundation for Kids, that was just a bank account. More of a PR deal.'
'Did you handle any money for Rebecca?'
'What money? As far as I know, only money she's got is what Trey gave her.'
'Did you do her tax returns?'
'No income to report.'
'Did he say anything to you about marrying her?'
'No. But you might ask Melvyn.'
'I will. What's SSI?'
'Sports Score International. Big sports agency. They represent hundreds of pro athletes.'
'Who's his agent?'
'Nick Madden. He's in their Houston office.'
