ONE
Bayou City, Friday, May 22, 4:15 p.m.
Virginia Rodriguez struggled with the key outside while the telephone
rang inside and her dog yelped in the backyard. Finally, the lock
clicked. She kicked the door open, dropped everything on the kitchen
table, and grabbed the phone.
"What?" she demanded, watching helplessly as the grocery
sack and her shoulder bag spilled their contents across the table. Cans
and fresh vegetables tumbled to the floor. Her cell phone landed in a
chair. Her gun clanged into the empty dog food bowl.
"Sorry to bother you at home," said her boss, District
Attorney Wendell Boettcher, "but this is important."
"I'm off duty, Wen. Remember? You approved my vacation."
"I know, and you deserve one. You did a great job on the Bell
trial. Your closing should make the evening news, but I need you to
--"
"Absolutely not!" She swatted a mosquito and glanced at the
still open back door, then at the patio door where Denver, her black
Labrador, had added glass scratching to his attention-getting routine.
"Just hear me out," Wen persisted. "It's that federal
prosecutor, the one who went after those politicians on that sex
scandal. It's a tremendous growth opportunity for you, or I wouldn't
have called."
Right. Another frigging growth opportunity. What management offered
workers instead of decent wages. But not this time. She'd had all the
personal growth she could stand. "No. Give it to someone else. I'm
tired. I haven't had a full night's sleep in a month."
"I need you, Virginia. It's Stuart Fullerton, at the
Concord."
"Under no circumstances will I work with the head master of the
sleaze-talk-show school of criminal prosecution."
"You wouldn't exactly be working with him," said Wen.
"What, then?"
"He's dead."
"Dead?"
"Murdered," said Wen. "Just check out the scene before
the cops screw it up, then you can hand it off."
No! No more! She had to let Denver in before his glass scratching
drove her berserk. She had to get out of her hot lawyer suit and sagging
pantyhose. She wanted to get into a tub and soak the trial photos of las
victimas jovenes from her mind, then spend the evening making an
authentic Tex-Mex dinner for her authentic Tex-Mex child.
Wen interrupted her internal harangue. "Honest, Virginia. If you
don't want the case, you can reassign it. I promise."
No. She desperately needed a couple of weeks of pretending she had a
normal life like other single working women with children. Single
Working Woman With Child? Yes, that's what she was. A SWWWC. Move the
letters around a bit and she could be a web site, for the liberated
woman who has it all -- job she hates, child and dog to feed, laundry to
do, house to clean, promises to remember, no Prince Charming in view.
"Unless the Feds take it away from us," Wen added.
She stopped in mid-tirade. Maybe. Probably. With a name brand federal
prosecutor victim, the US Attorney's office might actually take it over.
Besides, she would be in town until after son Nick's graduation on
Thursday. She could shop for what he needed for the summer after they
got to the ranch. A new discount store was only an hour away.
"I really want you to take this one, Virginia."
Maybe she could make it work. Get the case started, get her name on
national television a few nights so that when she sent her resume to the
big firms, they'd know who she was. So maybe one of them would hire her
and pay her enough that she could make both the mortgage payment and
Nick's college tuition in the fall.
"Please, just get it started. That's all I'm asking."
Perhaps she could do it and not disappoint Nick, and this case really
could be the door marked "Exit." Scratching out a living in
the DA's office was getting old. Her body felt old. Her soul felt old.
Was this the way out? She sighed, disappointed with herself for doing
what Wen knew she would do when he called. "I'll check it out, but
I don't want any lip from you if I reassign it."
"You have my word," Wen said.
"Sure, Wen, I had your word I could take a vacation, too,"
she grumbled as she hung up the phone.
Springing into action, she stepped over cans, stashed the lettuce,
meat and cheese in the refrigerator, and scrawled a note. "Nick,
I'm on a case, but I'll be home early. I'll pick up a pizza. Sorry,
Mom."
Virginia anchored the note to the refrigerator with a magnet,
breathed deeply, and let the guilt go. Then she turned her cell phone
back on and stuffed it and her gun into her bag. Quickly she filled dog
bowls, let Denver in, and extracted the requisite promise. "You
going to behave if I leave you inside?"
Denver gave her his version of a grin, wagged his tail to emphasize
his good-dog status, and whined affirmatively in the "Rocky
Mountain High" pitch that earned him his name.
"You better," she threatened. "Piddle on the floor or
chew up anything, and it's off to the pound with you. Hasta la vista,
pal."
Denver lost the grin and answered with a whimper.
"Okay, I'll trust you this time." Virginia tugged her
pantyhose back into place and straightened her skirt, then she headed
for the door. In a final glance at the kitchen, she saw the avocados
under the table. Denver would think they were balls, and she'd
eventually find their moldy corpses under a piece of furniture. But no
time to worry about that now.
She locked the door and headed to her twelve-year-old pickup truck,
which was still parked in the driveway because the garage was still
littered with Nick's motorbike parts. She'd forgotten to pick up the
latest essential gizmo at the bike shop on her way home. And something
else was on Nick's list, Virginia mused as she got in the truck,
something she'd promised him on her way out the door this morning that
she wouldn't forget, something he absolutely had to have today.
What was it?
She thought for a moment, but couldn't remember. Whatever it was,
they'd have to get it tomorrow.
Leaving her neighborhood, deceptively named Country Club Estates by
its 1950s developer, her mind turned to her next challenge -- getting to
the Concord Hotel quickly and without mishap. One wrong turn and she'd
be stuck in the Friday afternoon dance-of-death for hours.
Weaving through neighborhood streets as long as she could, she made
it to the freeway without incident, merged into the nerve-racking
traffic, then turned on the radio for the high-in-the-sky road report on
the politically incorrect Bill & Bob Country Retro Show.
"We interrupt Charley Pride's Honky Tonk Blues album for
late-breaking news," Bill declared. "Federal prosecutor Stuart
Fullerton is reported to be a shooting victim at the swank Concord
Hotel. No word yet on his condition or who did it. What do you think,
Bob?"
"The Lord works in mysterious ways," quipped Bob. "All
you commuters out there supporting the cell phone industry, give us a
ring-a-ding and tell us what you think. Thirteenth caller wins a weekend
in a luxury suite at the Concord. You can check in just as soon as they
mop up the blood and gore."
Virginia fished her cell phone out of her bag and punched a
quick-dial number. "Turn on your radio," she said when Wen
answered. "Bill & Bob. Or your television. It's probably
everywhere by now. The jackals are on the prowl."
* * *
Virginia braked to a stop in front of the Concord. She noted the cop
cars and a crime scene unit van, but no sign of the medical examiner's
ghoul wagon and, thankfully, no news vans, either.
She checked her watch -- 4:45 p.m. Bill & Bob had scooped
everyone again, but it wouldn't take long for the rest of the pack of
dogs to find out. Virginia flipped her visor down to display her
park-anywhere District Attorney pass and dashed up the steps of the
chrome and glass hotel.
Several badge waves later, she stepped off the elevator at the
eighteenth floor. Who's left to serve and protect the other citizens?
she wondered as she scanned the hallway swarming with cops. She spied
Detective Jackson Smith standing outside room 1807 talking to another
officer and relaxed. With Smitty in charge, chances were the crime scene
had not been compromised entirely.
Smitty raised his head and breathed deeply through his Michelangelo's
David nose. He turned his sable eyes in her direction as if he'd
caught her scent and smiled, a tad too knowingly, then strolled toward
her. "Good to see you again, Virginia."
She met his eyes, hungry eyes, ojos hambrientos, and instantly
felt the panic of prey. She glanced away. Smitty had been a mistake. It
should never have happened. It would never happen again.
"You in charge?" Virginia asked the tall, precisely dressed
black man in her most assertive prosecutor's voice. The sharp tone added
an extra foot to her five-foot-one height in king-of-the-mountain games
with cops, lawyers, and judges.
Smitty gestured toward room 1807. "Victims are in there."
"Victims? More than one?"
"Two. Fullerton's wife was found with the gun, so I guess we've
got our shooter. She's in 1809. It has a connecting door to 1807."
"Has anyone questioned her?"
"Tried to beat it out of her," Smitty quipped.
Virginia frowned. She'd had one too many cases compromised by overly
aggressive police tactics for jokes about violating a defendant's rights
to play well with her.
"Don't worry," Smitty said. "Everything's kosher.
She's had her warning and is exercising her right to remain
silent."
Virginia sighed. "Has anybody called the medical examiner?"
"Twice."
"Call again. We can't do much until they get here. I saw the CSU
van outside. I assume they're observing protocol?"
"Yes, ma'am." Smitty clicked his heels good-soldier
fashion. "A criminalist tended to the widow, but I asked them to
hold off on a sweep of the rooms until the ME finishes. Anything else,
ma'am?"
Virginia ignored the question and the attitude and moved past him
into 1807. She first noticed flash bulbs blinking like lightning bugs in
a wall mirror behind an officer. Farther into the room, she saw a police
photographer with plastic bags over his shoes, edging his way around the
drapes-drawn darkened room. Taking another step, she saw the bodies,
joined like Siamese twins, back to belly, on the king-sized bed. Both
nude. Both male. The older male with a head wound embraced the younger
male who had been shot in the chest. Blood decorated the headboard and
ivory walls behind the bed. Blood-soaked bedding draped to the plush
teal carpet.
"Think she reloaded?" Virginia asked, alluding to the
oft-repeated advice that a prominent defense attorney gave women in his
country club luncheon speeches. "Ladies, if you just have to shoot
your husbands, remember one thing. Don't reload. You might get off by
claiming you thought he was a burglar when he came sneaking in late from
tomcatting, and you might get off if you catch him in the act and claim
it made you go insane. But if you reload, that's premeditated.
Premeditated will get you life in the pen, for sure. Might get you
death."
"Under these circumstances," Smitty said, "you'll
never get a murder conviction, not even if she reloaded twice."
"Be lucky to get her on manslaughter," Virginia muttered.
