Authors: Jilliane Hoffman
7
She practically threw the cart up against the wall of her office, next to a tall, overgrown stack of dispo boxes – pesky final case dispositions that she had yet to get to – grabbed her purse from the desk drawer, stepped over another stack and hurried back out the door. She hollered an informative, ‘I’ll be back!’ to her secretary, Thelma – who was busy watching
The Jerry Springer Show
on a portable TV/radio stuck up under her desk and who didn’t really care where she was going or when she’d be back anyway – and then headed down the hall, hastily trying to retouch her lip gloss and check her cellphone for messages as she did. It wasn’t even eleven yet and a lot of attorneys were still stuck in court across the street – their doors open and offices empty – but as she rounded the corner past the secretary for Judge Stalder’s division, she spotted her best friend, Dayanara, at her desk on the phone.
‘Oh good, you’re here,’ Julia said in a hushed voice as she rushed in the door, stuffed the cell and the lip gloss back in her purse, and grabbed the
Herald
off the top of Day’s perfectly stacked in-box. The room, as always, smelled of lemon Pledge, Windex and Cuban coffee. There were no dispos on Dayanara’s floor, no files waiting to be put away on her file cabinet – just a clock radio, a Tupperwared bag of Pilon coffee and a bottle of Dial hand sanitizer. Even on the small side table where she brewed
café cubano
for twenty every afternoon, there was nary an expresso bean or a sugar grain in sight. If the two of them hadn’t been such good friends for such a long time, Julia might have allowed Dayanara’s obsessive-compulsive disorder to make her feel inadequate, but aside from being insanely jealous that Day was in a normal judge’s division, there was no competition between them. ‘Can I borrow this?’ she whispered, heading back for the door without really waiting for an answer.
‘Hold on a moment, sir,’ Day said and let the phone slip down into her neck. ‘I haven’t read the funnies yet. Don’t crinkle it.’
‘Not a problem,’ Julia said, backing out with a quick wave. ‘Sorry to interrupt.’
‘Are we doing lunch?’
‘Can’t. Not today.’
‘Are you in trial?’
‘Tomorrow. Want to try a domestic on an excited utterance with me?’
‘Hmmm … no. Thanks for asking. Where are you off to, then?’
‘I’ll tell you later!’Julia called out behind her as she made her way down the hall to the security door that led out to the elevator bay, ‘but you won’t believe it when I do!’
NO SUSPECTS IN GABLES MASSACRE
blared the front-page headline in her hands. She hadn’t had the time to actually read the article this morning before heading out to work, but now every detail mattered – every name, every title, was important to know and remember and catalogue away in her brain. She looked anxiously around the elevator bay and nodded with a checked smile at a couple of prosecutors waiting with her to go down.
Her eyes flew across the page: Jennifer Leigh Marquette, age thirty-two. Emma Louise Marquette, age six. Daniel Elan Marquette, age three. Sophie Marie Marquette, age six weeks. A small, grainy black and white picture of a smiling Jennifer ran under the headline, but even though the picture was bad, Julia could still see she’d been a pretty woman with a sweet, infectious grin that took over her entire face. It was funny how the press always seemed to find the absolute happiest-looking photos of murder victims to print alongside stories of their violent deaths.
… found early Sunday morning by police responding to a 911 call … brutally slain at their four-bedroom home in a quiet, upscale section of Coral Gables … veteran police chief Elias Vasquez refused to release further details … described the crime scene as ‘one of the most disturbing’ he’d ever visited … watched as Miami-Dade Crime Scene techs removed items from the home all day … no suspects have been identified … pending the notification of New Jersey relatives … services have not yet been scheduled …
A strange, icy chill ran through her as she reached the bold-faced subhead a little further down the page.
PHYSICIAN DAD STILL CRITICAL; COMMUNITY, HOSPITAL PRAY FOR RECOVERY
Dr David Alain Marquette, age thirty-four. Another grainy picture smiled softly back at her, obviously a professional headshot. He was young, so maybe it was a med-school graduation photo. Disquietingly normal by all appearances, it was not the crazed Charlie Manson mug she might have expected, given what she knew the man was soon to be charged with. In fact, like his wife, David Marquette, too, was good-looking, with an all-American type of boyish charm that came across even in a snapshot. Their children must have been beautiful, she thought without really thinking. Another chill raced down her spine.
… discovered near death inside the home … to undergo emergency surgery this morning … no further details on his condition were available … young, orthopedic surgeon from Chicago with a growing practice on Miami Beach … operated out of Mount Sinai Hospital … some famous clients in the sporting world, including Florida Marlins pitching phenom … loving father and husband … many friends and colleagues still in shock … relatives brace for another possible funeral …
She stuffed the paper into her purse as the doors opened onto the crowded lobby and made a mental note to buy Day another one.
Rick was already there waiting, chatting with the Division Chief of Narcotics and Pete Walsh, the office’s only employment lawyer. ‘Ready?’ he asked, jingling his keys in his hand as she walked up. ‘We’ll take my car. I’m right here in the main lot.’
‘Sounds good,’ she said, feeling the eyes of the other two men follow them as they headed out the door together. She’d have to get used to the funny looks and raised eyebrows, she supposed, if they were going to work together. The match had been lit – the rumors would be next.
‘Do you have to be back for court?’ he asked as they stepped outside.
‘No. I have nothing on this afternoon,’ she replied.
‘Good. I’m not sure how long we’ll be. We may even take a run over to the ME’s later,’ he said, crossing the lot to where a shiny black BMW 525i sat. He clicked the alarm and held open the passenger door for her. ‘So, are you ready for your first homicide?’
A disturbing image suddenly popped into Julia’s head.
We’re talking three little kiddies bludgeoned and stabbed in their sleep by their daddy.
‘Are the bodies still there?’ she asked hesitantly as she stepped inside the car. ‘At the scene?’
Another amused look crossed his face. ‘I hope not. They’d be pretty ripe by now, Julia. They were found yesterday,’ he replied, shutting the door.
‘Oh yeah,’ she said to no one but herself in the empty car. Strike two. Officially on the case less than twenty minutes and she already sounded like a moron.
He climbed in the front seat and looked at her with concern before turning on the engine. ‘Why? Would it bother you?’
Hell yeah,
she wanted to say.
Four dead bodies and a blood-splattered house might freak me out, yes, when the biggest scene I’ve been to so far is a DUI roadblock on the 4th of July.
But, of course, she didn’t. ‘No,’ she answered with a shake of her head. ‘I just wanted to prepare myself if they were.’
Richard Bellido fascinated her, impressed her, intrigued her, scared her. Long before she’d actually met the man, she’d heard of his reputation. Everyone who practiced criminal law in Miami had. He was arguably the office’s best litigator, earning his coveted spot in Major Crimes after less than seven years in the office, and was rumored to be in line one day for even greater things than the prestigious title of the unit’s Division Chief. He’d tried some of the most notorious, heinous murders in Miami history, including, most recently, Ronnie Sikes, the Jekyll/Hyde Miami-Dade police detective who’d fed what remained of his unfaithful wife to his backyard kiddie pool full of pet piranhas. Courted throughout the years by several different US Attorneys in Miami, Rick had turned down more than one chance to become an esteemed federal prosecutor, choosing, as the stories went, to try murders instead of plumped-up racketeering violations. But it wasn’t just his intimidating trial skills that had the US Attorneys still asking him out and the Governor searching for his name on judicial nominating appointment lists. Tall, dark and handsome with a spicy Cuban twist, his age and experience, ethnic good looks and last name were an asset to any law enforcement office with a South Florida constituency.
Whether it was his reputation or his imposing, well-tailored presence that commandeered a courtroom when he pushed open its doors, Julia still wasn’t quite sure, but she’d been in enough of them before enough judges over the past two years in felonies to have seen it happen herself. And she’d felt it happen herself, too. Normally she didn’t let people impress her, but like a TV evangelist, or a smooth-talking politician, Rick Bellido just had this mesmerizing, authoritative, commanding way about him. What he said to a judge was often taken as gospel; what he asked of a jury was usually done. His days in the division pits long over, his colleagues now were all Major Crimes prosecutors, specialized unit Division Chiefs, local politicians, police chiefs, and high-paid, big-name defense attorneys. And so Julia had been more than just a little surprised when he’d sat down next to her in court a few weeks ago and struck up a conversation while he waited for a defendant to be brought over from the jail. Surprised and flattered. And, even though he was seventeen years older – or maybe
because
he was seventeen years older – definitely attracted. Casual cups of coffee had turned into a couple of off-campus lunches on Miami Beach and then finally, unexpectedly, Friday night. She hadn’t heard from him since, which made this, their first moment alone, all the more awkward. Even though there were so many things to discuss, she had no idea what to say right now, so she opted for nothing and looked out the passenger window.
‘Don’t let Charley get to you,’ he said, breaking the silence after they’d pulled out of the parking lot and onto 14th Street. ‘He just likes you to know who’s in charge. He does it to everyone.’
Somehow she doubted that, but it was still nice to hear. ‘I’ll try to remember that,’ she said softly.
More awkward silence.
‘I didn’t pick you because of us,’ he said finally, as the car pulled up to a light. ‘Let’s get that elephant out of the way right now.’ He turned to look at her, leaning an elbow on the console and taking off his Ray-Bans. ‘I meant what I said back there. I like what I see in the courtroom, Julia. You’ve definitely got talent and that intrigues me. You’ve got this kind of gritty, rebellious, “take no shit” attitude, which reminds me a little of C. J. Townsend, a prosecutor who used to be with our office. When this came up, I thought of you. I think,’ he paused for a second. ‘Well, I think you can make things interesting.’ He smiled. The crinkle of crow’s feet softened and warmed his otherwise intense brown eyes. ‘And I like interesting.’
‘Thank you,’ was the best she could manage, returning the smile herself.
‘Of course, what happened the other night was fun, too. And I definitely think we should do that again,’ he said, lowering his voice to just above a whisper. Without warning, he leaned over and kissed her on the lips, his hand finding its way through the tangle of her thick, long, dark waves to the back of her neck, wrapping around it and pulling her closer. She remembered Friday night, the water from the shower spilling off his muscular back like a waterfall, those warm, experienced hands in complete control of her body, shampooing her hair, then running over her shoulders, rubbing the rich lather all over her skin. The moment felt a little forbidden, a little embarrassing, totally exciting, just as it had then, and she kissed him back, her tongue finding his, her fingers running underneath his jacket, tracing the crisp starch lines in his dress shirt. The beep of a horn pulled them both back to the present.
‘I’ll do my best,’ she said softly, touching a finger to her lips. ‘That I can promise you.’
He slipped his sunglasses back on. ‘Good,’ he said with another smile, as the car pulled away from the green light. It was all he needed to say.
8
‘Crime Scene has already videoed,’ Rick said as the Beamer pulled up in front of a pretty mint-green house with beautiful carved oak and etched glass double front doors. Yellow crime-scene tape crisscrossed one of the doors, blue roofing tarp covered a missing glass panel. Under an expansive overhang, a couple of MDPD uniforms stood guard, chatting. Above them, a witch, dressed in a flowing black gown and neon purple striped socks, had crashed head-on into the stucco. Two obvious undercover cars – a Chevy Impala and a Ford Taurus – blocked an MDPD Crime Scene van into the driveway, and police cruisers from both Coral Gables and Miami-Dade PD dotted the perimeter of the corner house. Across the street, Julia spotted a blue Channel Seven news van, its forty-foot satellite antenna artfully dodging not just telephone lines, but the towering, old eucalyptus and ficus trees that shaded the stately block.
‘So you’ll get to see what it looked like yesterday when the uniforms went in and before the techs trampled over everything important,’ Rick continued, looking past her at the house himself. It’s always good to visit the actual scene, no matter what the crime. That’s not always practical, I know, but a scene never looks the same in pictures or on video as it does in person. It’s like going to a hotel, you know? The room’s either better or worse than what you’d expected when you looked at the brochure or went on the website. Plus, when you get your detectives on the stand and they’re describing a scene, you can
see
it. You know what the house smells like; how you could hear the neighbors upstairs arguing. There’s even a taste peculiar to each crime scene. Then you can take what you’ve seen and tasted and heard and felt and you can tell the story to the jury the way it needs to be told, with the detail it needs to be told in.’
In the front yard, tiny, handmade ghosts danced in the thinning branches of an oak tree. As Rick talked, Julia watched them spin and twist in the breeze. On the neat front lawn, she could see a tricycle, a slip-and-slide, an oversized bouncy ball stuck in the bushes. The green canvas top of an elaborate wood swing set peeked over a black iron fence that ran alongside the house. Behind the fence was probably a pool full of even more toys. Toys that would never be used again. A strange, uncomfortable,
heavy
feeling settled in her stomach, like she’d swallowed an entire jar of peanut butter and it had gotten stuck on the way down. It was hard to imagine this Norman Rockwell house was a crime scene. It was really hard to imagine just what might be waiting inside that would still warrant the presence of so many police officers …
Besides the sudden shock of nerves that had turned her Lucky Charms to rubber cement, Julia felt a little ashamed, too. She’d never worked what Charley Rifkin would call a ‘real’ homicide before, but she still knew how they were investigated. Everything personal, anything private, inside that house was now subject to unlimited inspection by complete strangers. That meant drawers would be picked over, the tiniest of boxes opened, notes read, closets pilfered. And even though she’d never met young Jennifer Leigh, who was only four years older than herself, she still knew that there were things in that pretty mint house of hers that she’d never intended for anyone to see or read or hear. Ever. Because every woman had something – love letters, racy Saturday-night lingerie, pictures, a revealing journal. Now dozens of hands would be rifling through those special somethings – Julia’s included – touching them, photographing them, commenting on them, interpreting them. Perhaps what was most ironic, she thought grimly, was that even when the case did finally end – however that ending might come to pass – those private special somethings would still forever be stored away in some evidence locker, administratively categorized under Florida law as a very public record. She made a mental note to clean out her own cluttered closets when she got home tonight.
‘Ready?’ Rick asked, turning off the engine.
A sudden, hard
thwack
on the driver’s side window made her jump in her skin. Standing outside Rick’s window, in a slightly rumpled blue suit and a dress shirt the color of chewed Bazooka bubblegum, with microphone in hand, was Channel Seven field reporter Edward ‘Teddy’ Brennan. Julia recognized him from the
Trauma News at Ten,
although she thought he looked smaller in person than he did on TV. And, thanks to the metrosexual wonders of make-up, a lot tanner, too.
‘Hey there! Teddy Brennan, Channel Seven News,’ he yelled. ‘Can I talk with you?’
Behind Brennan stood Willie Nelson with a big, expensive camera on his shoulder. Sporting a foot-long faded yellow-white beard and matching braid down his back, unfashionably ripped jeans and a
Dark Side Of The Moon
T-shirt that looked like it probably came from the 1973 Pink Floyd concert tour of the same name, the only thing missing was the guitar.
‘I should have figured he’d still be lurking around,’ Rick grumbled. ‘Watch yourself around this guy, Julia. Brennan’s a shit. I’ll handle all the press on this,’ he warned in a low voice, opening his door. It wasn’t a date, so she immediately opened hers and stepped out.
‘Mr Bellido, is this officially your case now?’ Brennan asked, following Rick as he walked past the police barricades and onto the sidewalk. ‘Can you identify any suspects for us yet? Your office looking at making an arrest sometime soon? Should people be worried there’s a murderer on the loose? How about warning the anxious public with a description, some details, maybe?’
‘Alright, step back,’ said one of the uniforms who had walked across the lawn. He pointed at Brennan and his roadie. ‘Behind the horse. That’s what it’s there for, guys.’
Brennan ignored him, and, as if he’d just gotten a great idea, practically ran back behind the car over to where Julia stood on the grass. ‘Are you with the State Attorney’s, too?’ he asked.
Taken off guard, she nodded.
Like a shark to chum, the questions hit hard and fast. ‘How’d they die in there, huh? Is it true they were mutilated? Is this a ritual killing? What about the father? Have you guys questioned him? Is he gonna die, too? Why doesn’t your office want to make a statement on this?’
Julia turned away toward the house, and quickly followed Rick up the brick walk, careful to keep her eyes on anyone and anything but Teddy Brennan. Just the nod had probably given him too much. She knew she had a crappy poker face – heaven forbid it was a look from her that silently confirmed to the media that David Marquette was not just a suspect, but
the
suspect.
Damn
. Hopefully Charley Rifkin and the State Attorney himself wouldn’t see her nodding dumbly on the ten o’clock news. On the marigold-lined path before her she spotted what remained of a colorful chalk hopscotch board, its playing pieces of rocks and bottle caps still deliberately scattered inside the numbered boxes, as if the game was still in play. Next to it, someone had scribbled ‘Emma Luvs Tiler Stamm’ inside a lopsided heart. Someone else had tried to scratch out ‘Emma’ and write ‘Vicki’. She stepped over the marigolds and walked on the lawn.
‘This isn’t a press conference, Mr Brennan,’ Rick called out behind him as he opened the front door and he and Julia stepped into a huge marble foyer. ‘When I want to hold one, I’ll let you know.’ The door closed behind them with a thud.
‘Scumbag,’ Rick said under his breath as they stepped down into an enormous living room. Voices could be heard down one of the halls that shot off the living room. ‘Latarrino?’ he called out, disappearing down one of them.
She stood there in awe. She’d never been in such a big house. Such a perfect house. A stunning stone staircase, wrapped in a decorative wrought-iron railing, hugged a two-story faux-painted wall. The floor was a polished marble with square Brazilian cherry wood inlays. Expensive knick-knacks lined the shelves of an ornate curio cabinet and family pictures dotted an oversized buffet table. But for the thin coating of black dust that covered the glass coffee table and window sills, everything looked
Architectural Digest
perfect. At least from where she stood. The same foreboding, uneasy feeling she’d experienced in the car was back with a vengeance. It was like a horror movie. Any moment now she was going to find out why people were leaving the theater screaming.
‘You coming?’ Rick called out, walking back in.
She nodded. Something crunched under her feet.
‘Careful. Uniforms had to break the window to gain entry when they responded. I guess it hasn’t all been cleaned up. Don’t slip.’
She followed Rick into what looked like a busy, cluttered all-white kitchen. The latest decorator gadgets and appliances crammed marble countertops, as did miscellaneous baskets of kitchen junk, and stacks of cookbooks and cooking magazines. Jennifer must have been quite the chef – or at least liked to look like she was. Julia herself had trouble boiling water. Next to the sink she saw that cleaned baby bottles had been carefully laid out on paper towels, dishes for the morning left to dry in the dish rack. A morning that never came, she thought somberly. The always-happy Wiggles smiled at her from atop a pile of children’s books on the breakfast bar, next to a stack of clear evidence bags and red evidence tape and the smallest baseball mitt she’d ever seen; a Wiffle ball and plastic bat sat on the bar stool below. Standing around the kitchen’s island, with their backs all to her, were two guys in
MDPD CRIME SCENE
polo shirts, another uniform, and what looked like a plain-clothes detective, the sleeves of his dress shirt rolled up to the elbows, a Glock holstered to his hip. A set of legs stuck out from a cabinet underneath the island’s sink.
‘He’s having trouble with the trap,’ said the plain-clothes with a chuckle as Rick walked up. ‘Like you need a degree in fucking rocket science to be a plumber. Yo, Satty, you want me to call Roto-Rooter to help you do your goddamned job?’
‘Fuck you, Brill,’ said a voice from under the sink.
‘Hey, guys …’ Rick said, his voice trailing off in a not-so-subtle way. He nodded behind him in Julia’s direction. ‘You want to watch yourselves?’
‘Whoa, excuse me,’ said the plain-clothes, turning around. Short and stocky with an extra-f handlebar mustache, he had a conspicuous, perfectly round bald spot in the back of his head that made Julia think of the dead patch of lawn left behind when you put a kiddie pool away at the end of the summer. He looked her up and down with what was either a half-smile of approval or a smirk of disappointment. She couldn’t tell which. ‘Didn’t realize you brought company with you, Ricky.’
‘Steve Brill, this is Julia Valenciano. She’s working this with me. Julia, Steve’s a detective with the Gables.’
‘Are you interning?’ asked Brill.
‘She’s a prosecutor, you ass,’ Rick shot back.
‘Whoops, I’m sorry,’ said the detective, raising his hands up. ‘I’m just gonna shut up now.’
‘Finally,’ said the voice under the sink.
‘You got it?’ asked Brill.
‘No, I don’t got it. But you’re finally gonna shut up.’ The room snickered.
‘That’s it. I’m calling in a plumber, you incompetent—’ Brill looked over at Julia again, hesitated, then finished his thought,‘—jerk.’ The next two seconds passed in awkward silence. She turned away, pretending to look out the sliding glass doors that led to a tropical backyard and the pool. And more uniforms.
Julia now knew what it must have felt like to be the first female sportscaster let into the men’s locker room. She wasn’t just the sole woman on this scene – a fact she was already acutely aware of – but she was also at least ten years younger than everyone else in the room, and, to put the icing on the cake, she was a lawyer. There were women in law enforcement – lots, in fact – but no matter what the person keeping track of the quotas in the front office might say, it was still a boys club. And if they could, most of those club members would gladly hang a ‘No Girls Allowed!’ sign on their station doors if the federal government would just let them. Then there was the fact that she was an attorney. Just because cops and prosecutors worked the same side of a case didn’t always make them the best of friends. It was well known around any courthouse that cops didn’t like lawyers. While ASAs had more redeeming qualities than their defense counterparts, they also had the unfortunate job of breaking bad news.
So sorry, but the career criminal you stopped with the stolen goods on his front seat who gave a full confession will be going home today because something went wrong.
Wrong with the stop, the search, the evidence, the confession, the ID, the law. And no one liked the bearer of bad news, especially when the bearer bore the ultimate power to drop charges. Top it off with a substantial age gap and pre-file conferences could get downright hostile.
‘What are you guys doing?’ asked Rick when no one said anything.
‘Cleaning out the asshole’s sewer line – what the hell do ya think we’re doing? We’re taking the traps.’ He looked back over at Julia. ‘Oh shit. Sorry for the language. Again.’
She shook her head. ‘That’s okay. Please, don’t worry about me.’
‘Speaking of sewers,’ said the legs with what sounded like a laugh.
‘Keep at it, Satty,’ Brill said, giving the leg closest to him a half-hearted kick. ‘And don’t forget your day job, now.’
‘Never. Besides,’ the legs said with a final grunt, ‘I got it. Hand me a bag.’
‘Where’s Latarrino?’ asked Rick, looking around.
‘Yeah, I’m happy to see you, too, Ricky. Thanks for exchanging pleasantries,’ Brill quipped. ‘Lat’s upstairs. Master bedroom, I think.’
‘You’re looking good, Steve,’ Rick said, slapping the detective’s shoulder. ‘The Rogaine looks like it’s working.’
‘That’s better,’ replied the detective with a laugh.
‘Okay, Julia, let’s head up,’ said Rick, turning to her. ‘That’s where the bodies were found. Let me show you what we got.’
‘Hey, Ricky, can we arrest this asshole yet?’ called out Brill.
‘Soon,’ Rick yelled back from the living room. ‘Let’s see what the dad of the year has to say when the anesthesia wears off. And besides, I’m not picking up the tab he’s running over at Ryder, Steve.’ The state of Florida was ultimately responsible for providing medical care to any person in their custody. Arresting David Marquette now might make for a nice lead-in on the five o’clock news, but it also potentially could mean footing the bill for his surgery and hospital stay. In a setting where an aspirin cost upwards of twelve bucks a dose, that could amount to a pretty outrageous sum. One that Julia figured the taxpayers of Miami-Dade County probably wouldn’t like to hear they’d be shouldering.