From down the street, Scott saw Louis and Pajamae shooting hoops on the basketball court next to the beach house. Boo was a tomboy, but Pajamae was an athlete. She was long and lean and faster than anyone in fifth grade, girls or boys. She played point guard on her 11-12U rec team in Highland Park. The rich little white girls couldn't stay on the court with Pajamae Jones-Fenney. Her dream was to get a college scholarship and then play women's pro basketball-after she got braces.
She would have teeth that looked like pearls.
Driving back from Houston, he had made a decision: even though this case would likely cost him the federal judgeship, he would defend Rebecca, he would prove her innocent, and then he would return to Dallas and provide for his girls-even if it meant returning to a corner office on the sixty-second floor, even if it meant representing rich clients who could pay $750 an hour, even if it meant becoming a name partner in Ford Fenney and making a million dollars every year. He would do what he had to do, and he would do it for his girls. His daughters would not be WAGs or groupies or porn stars or seventeen and having affairs with older men. His daughters would go to Wellesley College so they could be strong, educated, independent women who did not have to lie to survive in a man's world. His daughters would have a chance at a good life, even if their father had to give up his chance and be a rich lawyer again.
A man takes care of his children.
Scott got out of the red Corvette. He had returned from the tournament and picked up Bobby on the way over to Trey's house. The guard had given them entry to the garage. Bobby pulled up in the Jetta and got out with the tote bag containing the fingerprint evidence Scott had collected that day from Tess McBride, Lacy Parker, Riley Hager, and their husbands. He had met Trey's women, all of whom had loved sex with Trey but hadn't loved him and none of whom had heard Trey mention marriage to Rebecca, and their husbands, all of whom seemed completely clueless. They were still suspects, but Pete Puckett was the prime suspect. He wasn't clueless; he knew about Trey and Billie Jean.
'Nice wheels, Mr. Fenney,' Louis said.
He and Pajamae had come over to check out the Corvette. Now Boo and Rebecca walked up. She was wearing a confused expression and a green bikini and looking every inch the hottest WAG on tour. He held the keys out to her.
'The car is yours.'
'How?'
'Melvyn Burke-Trey's lawyer-he said title's in your name.'
'Trey never told me.'
'That's not all he didn't tell you.'
'Like what?'
'Let's take a walk.'
They went to the beach and walked to the water's edge and stood in silence. Far down the beach the white condo towers shone in the bright sunlight. Closer to them the sound of nail guns firing on full throttle could be heard from a new beach house going up on ten-foot stilts. Ike's seventeen-foot storm surge was in the past, and human beings are adept at putting the past in the past. Except Scott. He was living his past.
Rebecca finally sighed and said, 'Tell me.'
'Tess McBride, Lacy Parker, Riley Hager, Billie Jean Puckett… Trey had affairs with all of them.'
Her expression told Scott that she did not know.
'No. He was faithful to me.'
'I talked to all of them. They admitted it. Except Billie Jean. She ran.'
She looked away, but Scott saw her tears.
'That's why she came to the funeral,' Rebecca said. 'Billie Jean.'
'Pete threatened me with a one-iron today at the tournament.'
'That's Pete.'
'He also threatened to kill Trey if he didn't stay away from Billie Jean. Brett McBride witnessed it. Happened in the locker room at the Challenge, one week before Trey was murdered.'
She faced him.
'My God-you think Pete killed Trey?'
'He had a motive. But the grand jury indicted you.'
'I don't think they killed him, boss.'
Carlos wore work clothes and work boots but looked no worse for the wear after a week on the roofing job when he climbed the back stairs to the deck where Scott was sitting. Rebecca had wanted some time alone on the beach. Carlos plopped down in a chair.
'Why not?'
'They're illegals, up here for the work. But a couple of 'em, they got gang tatts. Bad dudes. They'd slice you up for smokes. And they saw the rich dude and the red-haired woman coming and going.'
'So why don't you think they did it?'
' 'Cause after killing him, they would've raped her and then killed her and stolen everything in the place and probably torched the house then made a run for the border. These are not criminal masterminds, boss.'
He held up a big plastic bag with five beer bottles inside.
'Still, I got their prints.'
'Give those to Bobby. Good work, Carlos. And thanks, I know that wasn't fun.'
Carlos held up several green bills. 'Hey, I made twenty-five bucks.'
'An hour?'
'A day.'
Carlos stood and started to the sliding glass door but turned back.
'Oh, boss, those workers, they saw another woman down there, at the house.'
'When?'
'Same day he was killed. A blonde girl. And a man-a big man.'
TWENTY
Billie Jean was blonde, and Pete was big.
If Scott could obtain their fingerprints and prove they were in the Rawlins house the day Trey was murdered, he could establish (a) motive-Trey was having sex with Pete's seventeen-year-old daughter, (b) means-the knife was in the kitchen drawer, and (c) opportunity-if those were Pete's prints on the counter, that would confirm his presence in the kitchen that day. He could have taken the butcher knife from the drawer and stabbed Trey Rawlins. With that evidence, the D.A. might dismiss the indictment against Rebecca Fenney and ask the grand jury to indict Pete Puckett. So Scott had returned to the tournament the next afternoon to find Pete and Billie Jean Puckett, but he had found Nick Madden instead.
'Look, Legend,' Nick was saying into his cell phone, 'you gotta play one year at UT then you can go pro, okay? 'One and done,' that's the NBA rule. Hell, you don't even have to go to classes. The tutors will get you through the first semester, then once the season starts, you just play basketball. When the season ends in March, you can bail, wait for the draft… and that big check. Until then, hook 'em horns, baby.'
He disconnected and shook his head at Scott.
'High school player.'
'He already thinks he's a legend?'
'No, that's his real name. Legend. Kid's six-ten, top basketball prospect in the state, but he doesn't want to play even one year of college ball. Wants to go straight to the pros. He asked me, Mr. Madden, what am I gonna major in? Like he's gonna major in pre-med. I said, pre-NBA. Kid can't balance a checkbook, but he'll be worth fifty million time he's twenty.'
Nick was standing by the putting green drinking a beer. It was Saturday, the third round of the tournament.
'Where's Pete?' Scott said.
