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Mitch sprawled onto the sofa, feeling a little better after his brutal workout, a stinging shower and ingesting a few calories. “All right, Bethy, lay it on me. Say what you have to say.”
“First, Mitch, Daniel wants you to know that he doesn’t—that no one at work thinks you killed anyone. The notion is preposterous.”
As hard as he was trying to remain detached, his coworkers’ faith in him touched something soft inside him. “Thank you. That means a lot.”
“That said, are you out of your mind?”
Mitch sat up, startled by her vehemence. “Excuse me?” He’d been expecting a much gentler approach from Beth. Some sympathy, maybe.
“You practically told a law enforcement officer to go to hell. I don’t care if he’s related to you. He was acting in his official capacity.”
Mitch shook his head. “It might have looked that way to you, but it was personal. He was doing his level best to embarrass me.”
“Why?” Beth asked. “Why would he do that?”
He looked at her, an angry retort on the tip of his tongue, then squelched whatever he’d been about to say. She was asking out of genuine concern, not prurient interest.
“A long and ugly family history,” he finally said. “Dwayne doesn’t have my best interest at heart.”
“So why don’t you stand up to him? Accept his challenge, prove him wrong.”
“Look, I appreciate your concern. But the police couldn’t possibly have any evidence against me. I didn’t kill Robby, and I don’t know anything about how he died. He was my buddy.”
“Mitch.” Beth stood and began pacing. “Who do you work for?”
“Is this a trick question?”
“You work for Project Justice,” she said, in a hurry to make her point. “And what is Project Justice’s mission statement?”
His gaze lingered on her trim calves and thighs. “To free those unjustly imprisoned for crimes they did not commit.” Every employee was required to memorize that statement and be able to quote it backward and forward.
“And how many people in this country are sitting in prison, right now, for crimes they didn’t commit?”
“You’re sounding a lot like Raleigh.” And he didn’t mean that as a compliment.
“Just answer.”
“The answer is unknown.”
“True. But it’s in the hundreds, possibly the thousands. How many people has Project Justice exonerated?”
The total was always posted in the lobby, but he hadn’t looked at it lately. “Sixty-three?”
“Seventy-two,” she corrected him.
“Look,” he said sensibly. “The police are on a fishing expedition. They couldn’t possibly have any evidence against me.”
Suddenly Beth sat down next to him, her face inches from his. “Mitch, listen to yourself. Do you have any idea how many of our clients were convicted on really bad evidence? Circumstantial evidence? Or no evidence? I’ll answer for you. A lot. And do you know what a lot of them say?”
Mitch could only shake his head. He’d never seen Beth grandstand like this. She could speak eloquently when called for, if it was about DNA or fibers or soil samples. But she never made impassioned speeches. Not around him, anyway.
Impatient, she answered the question for him. “They say, ‘If I’d known this could happen, I would have taken it more seriously.’” She skewered him so effectively with those big baby-blue eyes that he was afraid she’d soon push him out onto the patio and pop him onto his gas grill. “They say, ‘I would have hired a lawyer from the very beginning.’ Do you want to be one of those people? Do you want to hide your head in the sand until the cops show up with a warrant and handcuffs?”
The room went deathly quiet. Not even the air-conditioning fan whirred to break the silence. He couldn’t hear a bird outside or a passing car. Just the sound of his heart pounding in his ears.
Beth, all rosy-cheeked with her passion, was the sexiest thing he’d ever seen.
Clearly she was waiting for him to say something.
“You think I should go to Coot’s Bayou and answer their questions?”
Beth seemed to remember herself. She scooted a few inches away from him, looked down and cleared her throat. “Yes.”
“And you think I need to hire a lawyer?”
Beth, looking a bit shell-shocked by her own outburst, squeaked out an answer. “Don’t you dare let the police question you without one. Raleigh will go. Eventually you might have to hire someone from the area who knows the local justice system, but she said she can handle the preliminary questioning.”
“Won’t hiring a lawyer just make it look like I have something to hide?” He couldn’t believe he was actually considering taking Beth’s advice. But she had made several good points.
“You know what cops do when a suspect agrees to be questioned without a lawyer, right? They stand up and cheer. You used to work for a police department.”
“Just computer stuff,” he said with a shrug. “I wasn’t anywhere near where they questioned suspects.”
“Well, know this. A good interrogator can trip you up six ways to Sunday, and every word you say can come back to haunt you during a trial. Let Raleigh be there for you.”
“Raleigh has her own cases to manage,” he argued, even though arguing was the first step toward defeat. He should have refused to even discuss this with Beth. But he couldn’t bring himself to fling any more harsh words at her. “Traveling to Louisiana to answer ridiculous accusations flung at a coworker falls way outside her job description.”
“Daniel made it clear,” Beth said quietly. “You are his—everyone’s—priority right now.”
“I appreciate this unnecessary outpouring of concern,” he tried again. “But as I’ve said before—”
“He’s going to fire you, Mitch!” Beth said suddenly.
“What?”
“Or suspend you or put you on paid leave or something,” she amended. “But he said he can’t have a murder suspect working at Project Justice. It could jeopardize everything he’s worked for.”
“Ah. So the concern isn’t really for me.”
“You’re being deliberately obtuse. Would you please just get your ass over to Louisiana to answer the damn charges?”
“Do I have a choice?” He was getting pissed off all over again, though he knew Beth was only the messenger. A suddenly sexy messenger. Every time her passion rose, so did his. Sure, he’d thought about what it would be like to go to bed with her. She was more than average pretty with a curvy little body that begged for a man’s most lavish attention. But he’d always dismissed the notion as ridiculous—first because they were coworkers, second because they were friends, and third…well, third, she needed a nice boyfriend. She’d gone to a private Catholic girls’ school, for cryin’ out loud. And he was a Cajun street punk. He didn’t know the first thing about how to treat a sweet, classy woman like Beth.
“Just give the word,” she said, unaware of where his thoughts had skipped, “and Raleigh will arrange for a meeting tomorrow morning. The two of you will drive down first thing.”
Dammit all to hell. This wasn’t going to go away. “Fine. I’ll go. But I want you there, too.”
“M-me? Why?”
“Because you know physical evidence better than anybody. If they have anything—anything at all—I want your take on it. Because if they claim they found something, it’s bogus.” He didn’t add that he wanted a friendly face in the room while those asses in Coot’s Bayou grilled him. Raleigh was a formidable ally, but she was not exactly warm and fuzzy.
“I’ll clear it with Daniel,” Beth said.
“Then I’ll go. But only so I can prove y’all wrong.” It galled Mitch to give in to his brother’s manipulations. But if that was what it took to make this problem go away, he’d do it.
“And ditch the attitude.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“This isn’t funny!”
He actually smiled. “I’m not used to seeing you all bossy. It’s kind of a turn-on.”
She didn’t respond to his flirting. Not at all. Instead she stood stiffly and grabbed her purse. “We’ll meet at the office at eight tomorrow morning. And would it hurt you to maybe wear something besides holey jeans and a T-shirt?” With that parting shot, she whooshed out of his living room, out the front door, leaving Mitch to stare at the little hitch in her hips, completely flummoxed.
He’d thought he had a pretty good handle on Beth McClelland, but her behavior was odd to say the least. Well, what could he expect? Before today, she hadn’t known anything of his sordid past. Now she knew he’d been a car thief. And that he had a half brother he’d never mentioned.
He was afraid she would know a whole lot more about him that he didn’t want her to know before this ordeal was finished. And their easy friendship might be over.
CHAPTER THREE
THE COOT’S BAYOUpolice headquarters hadn’t changed a bit in the past ten years. Oh, the interrogation room where they brought Mitch might have received a fresh coat of paint to cover graffiti left there by suspects, going from gray to a sickly green, but new graffiti had replaced the old. Likewise, the furniture was new, but the table’s veneer was already peeling up, and the cheap metal chairs were bent out of shape, wobbling uncomfortably.
But the smell—a nauseating mixture of burned coffee, stale cigarettes, sweat and fear—was exactly the same.
Sitting here made Mitch feel seventeen years old again. But this time, they weren’t questioning him about a missing car.
At least they hadn’t let his brother interrogate him. Mitch never would have been able to hold on to his temper if he’d had to answer to that smug bastard.
Instead, the cop questioning him—Lieutenant Gary Addlestein—was a fortyish man with the shape and overall charm of a fire hydrant, and he clearly thought Mitch was guilty. Every question he shot Mitch’s way dripped with skepticism. Every answer Mitch gave resulted in the guy raising a suspicious eyebrow and staring, saying nothing, waiting for Mitch to fill the silence with some incriminating additions to his story.
Raleigh had warned him about that. She’d counseled Mitch to answer as briefly as possible, then resist adding or clarifying anything unless asked specifically.
Although Mitch had been the one to insist, he had second thoughts about the wisdom of including Beth. It wasn’t that he doubted her abilities. She definitely knew her stuff. The very first thing she’d done was request to see the security video from the grocery store where he and Robby had stolen the Monte Carlo.
Not that Mitch would attempt to deny it was him and Robby on the tape, and that they had, indeed, stolen a car. But she made note of the date and time on the video, the license plate of the car, the clothing each of them was wearing—any of which might become crucial when it came down to establishing a time line for the evening’s events.
“So, let me get this straight,” Raleigh said. “This video footage is the sum total of the evidence you have against my client?”
“That, and his admission of guilt in the car theft.”
“The car theft has nothing to do with the murder. And I will move to bar any mention of that alleged crime during a trial, if it comes to that. The charges were dropped. Mitch’s arrest record was expunged.”
“Yeah, that was a sweet little deal you worked out, courtesy of your billionaire boss,” Detective Addlestein drawled. “But the cops in this department have long memories.”
“Robby and Mitch spent lots of evenings together. They were friends,” Raleigh continued. “The fact they happened to be together the night Robby may have disappeared doesn’t say much. You have no motive. You have no murder weapon, no trace evidence, no witnesses. My client has no history of violence.”
“No history of violence?” Addlestein hooted. “The kid was in a fight every other weekend.”
Mitch tried not to cringe. This was exactly the subject he didn’t want to discuss. He glanced over at Beth. Her face revealed nothing.
“I don’t see that any assault charges were ever filed.”
“No one bothers to file charges over street fighting, long as both parties are still breathing when it’s over. Doesn’t mean your client wasn’t prone to violence.”
“Throwing a punch now and then isn’t the same as shooting someone with a gun. It’s well established my client never owned a gun and didn’t even like guns. Have you even talked to Mitch’s mother?”
Mitch nudged Raleigh with his foot. He did not want his mother dragged into this.
Raleigh ignored his hint. “Mr. Delacroix maintains he was home in bed less than an hour after the surveillance video was taken, because he had to work the next day. His mother could corroborate this.”
Or she could throw him to the wolves. Mitch wasn’t close to his mom and had no way of knowing whether she would try to help him, or hammer nails into his coffin by making him look like a liar.
“An hour isn’t much time to joyride,” Raleigh continued, “have an argument, shoot someone, dispose of the body and the car, and arrive home to kiss your mother good-night.”
The cop leaned back in his chair, as if bored by Raleigh’s arguments. “Well, now, she was probably questioned after the car theft, if sonny-boy here tried to use her as an alibi. At the time, she might have said what time he came home. But all of that information is gone now. Expunged. Destroyed.”
“You and I both know you never really throw that stuff away,” Raleigh argued.
Addlestein shrugged helplessly.
Great. Getting his arrest record expunged was supposed to help Mitch. Now it was biting him in the butt.
“What about Larry?” Mitch asked suddenly.
“Who?” Raleigh and the detective asked at the same time.
“Crazy Larry. He was with us that night.”
The cop suddenly looked more alert. “First I’ve heard of it.”
“I never mentioned it before because I didn’t want to drag him into the car theft thing. And, let’s face it, being a known associate of Crazy Larry wasn’t likely to help me twelve years ago. But now it could.”
“You’re talking about Larry Montague.”
“Yeah, that’s him. You should talk to him. He was with Robby after I went home. And if he knew something, even if he just saw something, it’s not likely he would have gone voluntarily to the police.”
Addlestein scribbled something on his pad. “Last I knew, Larry Montague was homeless. He floats in and out of the area. I’ll talk to him—if I can find him.”
“I can locate him,” Mitch said. “It’s what I’m good at.” Addlestein knew that. He’d been a young detective on the force when Mitch had worked for the CBPD. “Give me his full name and his social and I’ll find him.”
“I can do that, but I doubt you’ll have any luck tracing him by computer. I’m betting the guy flies under the wire. Off the grid.”
As most homeless people did. But it was worth a try. Even homeless people left traces in cyberspace from time to time—arrest records, usually, but sometimes admissions information in hospitals or homeless shelters.
“Is there anything else?” Raleigh asked. “Because if not, we have things to do.”
Addlestein pursed his lips and ran his palm over his silver crew cut. He didn’t want to let Mitch go, but it seemed pretty obvious he didn’t have enough to hold him. Score one for the good guys. Mitch couldn’t wait to get out of this place and breathe some fresh air.
