“Correction,” Robin said. “Hennessey heard the judge’s half of the conversation. He can’t say who was on the other end of the phone. What if it was the person who murdered Mrs. Carasco telling the judge that the job was done?”
“It does seem like a big coincidence that the judge drove up just when Lattimore ran out of his house,” Mark said.
“Which could have been planned if the person who killed Mrs. Carasco was also the person who called the restaurant,” Robin added.
Mark looked at Jeff. “It would be interesting to know how well Mr. and Mrs. Carasco got along. But that’s not something we’d be spending time learning about unless Joe Lattimore is our client.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Elizabeth Carasco’s funeral was held at St. Francis, the largest Catholic church in Portland, and there was a full house. Betsy was prominent in Portland society, politically active, a member of the best clubs, and a fixture at charity galas. Everyone liked her, and many of her friends felt sorry for her because of the man she’d married.
Anthony Carasco’s reputation in Portland society was as bad as his reputation in the bar. Everyone knew about his affairs, his gambling, and his shadowy relations with the worst elements in society. No one could figure out why Betsy had married Carasco or why she stayed with him.
Carasco didn’t care what Portland society thought about him. He had grown up poor and had clawed his way up. Carasco felt nothing but contempt for people who’d been born into luxury.
The front rows on either side of the aisle were reserved for family. When Carasco entered the church, he glanced toward the row on the right side. Helen Raptis had commandeered the front pew for her family and had left no room on it for her daughter’s husband. When the judge walked down the aisle, Helen cast a malevolent look in his direction. She held it for a few seconds before bringing her eyes back to the coffin that sat on a riser at the front of the church. Carasco wasn’t surprised by her anger. He couldn’t stand the bitch, and he knew that the feeling was mutual.
Elizabeth Carasco had been born a Raptis, one of Oregon’s wealthiest families. Carl Raptis had made his seed money in a general store in Portland in the 1860s when Oregon was the country’s newest state. One of the sons had started a prosperous farm in Eastern Oregon. Another got into logging and struck it rich when timber became the mainstay of the Oregon economy. By the end of the twentieth century, when the timber industry was dying, the family kept ahead of the curve by investing in technology and sportswear.
Helen Raptis, the matriarch of the family, was in her sixties, but plastic surgeons, a personal trainer, and great hairdressers and makeup artists had conspired to make her look much younger. She was a shade over six feet with jet-black hair, blue eyes, and tight, tanned skin. A product of Georgetown and Wharton, she had made a seamless transition to the throne of Raptis Enterprises when her husband had died from a heart attack.
Anthony found a seat at the front on the side of the aisle across from the Raptis clan. He had no family in Oregon, and the rest of the pew was taken up by his friends and acquaintances.
The service went smoothly, and the fireworks didn’t start until it ended. Mourners blocked the aisles, and Carasco was stopped every few feet by people offering condolences. By the time he got outside, so had the Raptis clan. Carasco made a beeline toward the limousine that was going to take him to the cemetery, but Helen Raptis stepped in front of him halfway down the steps to the street. Standing behind her was Leo Boyce, an ex–Special Forces officer who was head of security for Helen and her enterprises. Boyce was tall and compact. He never said much, and his stony silence and hard, unwavering stare intimidated most people. But Boyce didn’t scare Carasco. He had people he could call who were just as tough and way more ruthless than Raptis’s bodyguard.
Raptis stood so close that Carasco could smell her minty mouthwash, and she spoke so softly that only Carasco could hear her.
“I know you killed my Betsy, you low-life piece of shit, and I’m going to see you pay.”
“I can see that you’re suffering, Helen, so I’m not going to take offense. But you should check your facts before making wild accusations. I was at dinner with several witnesses when Betsy was murdered, and the police already have the killer in custody.”
“That bullshit won’t fly with me,” Helen said, her anger barely contained. “You’re not man enough to murder my daughter yourself. You’re the type of coward who hires someone to do his killing.”
“Why in the world would I kill Betsy?”
Helen stared at Carasco for a second. Then she slapped him hard enough to snap his head sideways.
“You lying sack of shit.”
Carasco took a step back. His fists curled, but he reined himself in because Boyce was inches away.
“That one is a freebie,” he said. “Do it again, and I’ll have you arrested for assault.”
“Betsy told me she was going to divorce you, and I have pictures of you and your whore at that riverside apartment. I know you’re counting on inheriting Betsy’s money, but I will spend every cent I have to break her will. And I’m also going to see you sent to prison.”
Raptis spun on her heel and walked away with her head held high and her back rigid. Carasco watched her get into the car that was taking her to her daughter’s grave. He seemed unruffled, but he was afraid. Helen Raptis was a very powerful woman with many
