Death Row (11 page)

"Yes..." Baxter said slowly. "It looks that way."

"Not surprising, I suppose. After what she'd been through."

"How do you mean?"

Mike continued reading, not looking up. "Ever heard of the sole-survivor syndrome? She must've had it big time. Eight family members killed. I'll wager her life has been a nightmare of psychological recrimination. Guilt, anxiety, loneliness. Inability to connect with others. Most likely she never married. I'll bet she had few close friends, if any."

Baxter arched an eyebrow. "Speculating in advance of the facts? Not exactly standard detective procedure, is it?"

"Understanding people is what detective work is all about, Sergeant. If you can figure out the people, the rest of it is easy." He closed the file. "Too bad."

"That's it? Too bad?"

"I suppose Blackwell wants us to take a look at the scene, then sign off on the certificate of self-inflicted death."

"He wants us to investigate the crime."

"Yeah. All violent deaths have to be investigated. It's departmental policy. But I can guarantee you he doesn't want us to expend a lot of time and manpower on an obvious suicide."

"You haven't been to the scene. You've barely looked at the file. How can you know that it's a suicide?"

"Because I didn't just join the department yesterday, Baxter." He stood and grabbed his trench coat. "Let's get this over with. But first I think it would be best if I established some ground rules, right at the start."

If there had been a wall between them before, Mike sensed it had just become titanium-reinforced. "What did you have in mind?"

"Like, first of all, I'm in charge. I outrank you, I've got more seniority, and that means I'm the boss. I'm not going to put up with a partner who doesn't do what she's told, or is constantly challenging or second-guessing me."

"Is that all?"

"No, I'm just warming up. Second, I'm not your buddy, your friend, your counselor, or your father, so don't for a minute get the idea that I am. We work together. Period. End of story."

Baxter's voice was positively icy. "Anything else?"

"Yeah. I drive. Don't bother asking if you can drive my Trans Am. You can't. So, now that we've established our rules, let's-"

"Wait a minute. We're not done."

"And why is that?"

"Because you haven't heard my rules yet."

"
Your
rules? You don't get to-"

"First, I'm not putting up with any sexist crap. I don't care where we are or who we're with. At the scene of a crime or in the locker room. Doesn't matter. I won't put up with any salacious remarks, crude innuendos, or chauvinistic character slurs. If I hear anything like that, I'll report you in a New York minute."

"Is that a threat?"

"That's a promise, buster. Second, if you have any thoughts about trying to snuggle up to me or playing grabass in your Trans Am, forget it. I'm your partner, not your playmate. I'm not attracted to you and I never will be."

Now, that was a bit harsh. "Fine. Let's just-"

"I'm not done. You haven't heard my third rule yet."

"And that would be?"

She jabbed her blunt-nailed finger into his chest. "I do not, under any circumstances, want to hear any of your goddamn poems! I hate poems!" She folded her arms across her chest. "Any questions?"

"No," Mike said through clenched teeth. "I think we understand one another quite well."

"Good. Let's go!"

Mike unclenched his fists and jaw, wiped the grimace off his face, and started out the door. This was never going to work. Never. Never in a million
trillion
years!

There are constants in the universe, Mike mused.
Our echoes roll from soul to soul / And grow for ever and for ever,
as Tennyson said. Or,
A kiss is still a kiss
, as Dooley Wilson sang. The point was, some things never changed. And one of them, he realized as he trudged into the small house on Indianapolis, was that he hated crime scenes.

Something of a handicap for a homicide detective, but he'd managed to deal with it, over the years. He'd circumvented it. But he hadn't conquered it. And he supposed he never would.

A patrolman on duty pointed a finger. "Upstairs, Major."

Mike nodded and started up, Sergeant Baxter close behind.

She'd been discovered when the cleaning lady came in this morning. Rigor had already set in. Her naked body had an ashen green color, and the smell-well, there was one. Mike tried not to focus on it.

Absolutely beautiful, in a chilling way. Except for the head, of course. Because that had exploded all over the bed.

Spatters of blood and brain tissue were very much in evidence. Other than the mess on the bed, though, there were no signs that anything was amiss. Water still in the bath. (Evidently not a very soothing soak, Mike noted.) Phone on the hook. No sign of other persons. Just one little girl-or young woman, if Baxter insisted. One very sad young woman.

On the far side of the bed, Mike spotted a familiar figure looking away, toward the bathroom. He was thin, medium height, with straight brown hair and an increasingly sizable bald spot on the back of his head.

"Freeze," Mike said. "You're under arrest."

As he turned around, Ben Kincaid's face was wide-eyed with astonishment, followed by a moment of recognition, followed by a grimace. "Very amusing."

Sergeant Baxter looked concerned. "You know this man, Morelli?"

The corners of Mike's mouth crinkled. "He turns up a lot. Kind of a murder junkie."

Baxter approached Ben, all business. "This is a restricted crime scene, sir. Unless you're with the department-"

"I'm a lawyer," Ben tried to explain.

"Is that supposed to count for something?"

Mike proved once and for all that he really did have a mean streak. "To be precise, Sergeant-he's a defense attorney."

Baxter's hand slid inside her jacket, touching her weapon. "What are you doing here?"

"Tomlinson waved me up. I just wanted to have a look around."

"Why?" Baxter said, her face cold. "So you could rearrange things? Walk off with some incriminating evidence? Taint the scene so you can later allege police incompetence? This is my case, asshole, and I'm not going to let any legal crapola screw it up."

Ben adjusted his gaze wearily. "Mike, who is this woman?"

Baxter answered for him. "I'm Major Morelli's new partner. Sergeant Kate Baxter. And you're trespassing on a crime scene in violation of-"

"Relax, Baxter," Mike said, pushing between them. "Counselor Kincaid here is a friend. What's your interest in this case, Ben?"

"Do you have to ask? Ray Goldman's appeal is still pending."

Mike rolled his eyes. "You're kidding me. Are you still beating that dead horse? How long has he been on death row?"

"Seven years. Which is seven years too long."

Mike tilted his head toward Baxter. "Mr. Kincaid is referring to the sadistic bastard who tortured and killed Erin Faulkner's entire family."

"Ray Goldman is no sadist," Ben rejoined. "He's an educated, cultured, sensitive man. He's a gourmet cook."

"Oh, well, that proves he's innocent. Give it up, Ben. Your man did the crime."

"No," Ben said firmly, "he was just convicted of it."

"We had him dead to rights."

"The only thing you had was the testimony of the late Erin Faulkner. And yesterday, she showed up in my office and told me everything she said on the witness stand was a lie."

"What?"

"You heard me. She said DA Bullock pressured her, and she was young and malleable, and she made an identification she wasn't sure about. And as a result, Ray Goldman has lost seven years of his life."

"Wait a minute," Baxter said, forcing her way into the conversation. "Now that the woman has turned up dead, you're claiming she recanted her testimony?"

"You got it."

"Any witnesses?"

"Another lawyer in my office."

Baxter turned away, shaking her head. "I've heard of some sleazy defense-lawyer tricks in my time-"

"It's not a trick."

"Bull. You're trying to take advantage of the woman's death to get your creep off the hook. That's despicable."

"I'm telling the truth."

"Right. And the day after she cleanses her soul-to a defense lawyer of all people-she turns up dead. Now isn't that convenient?"

"No," Ben said, turning his eyes toward the bloodstained bed. "I don't find it convenient at all."

"Look," Mike said, holding up his hands, "I don't know what's going on here. But I've known Ben since college and I know damn well he wouldn't make up a story like this just to get his client off." He'd come up with something more credible, Mike thought silently.

Baxter stared at Mike, outraged. "So you're siding with the defense lawyer?"

"I'm not siding with anyone. I'm just telling you the facts. Ben's no liar. Of course, even if Erin Faulkner said it, that doesn't mean it's true." He dug his hands into his coat pockets, came up with nothing. Times like this, he really wished he hadn't quit smoking. "C'mon, Baxter. Let's finish working our suicide."

"How can you be sure it was suicide?" Ben asked.

Mike stopped. "What, you, too? She was found with the gun still in her hand."

"Hers?"

"No record of Erin Faulkner owning a gun. But it's hardly surprising she would have one. Given her past, she must have suffered from... mental disturbances. Survivor guilt. Hell, maybe she really did think her testimony was false, and she felt bad about it. Any of those could lead to suicide."

"I'm still not convinced," Baxter said.

"Look around you. Do you see any sign of a struggle? Any indication whatsoever that anyone else was here? No. And there's a reason for that. It's because no one else
was
here."

"Or maybe the assailant tidied up afterward. He had plenty of time."

"I'm with your partner," Ben said. "How can you be so sure?"

"Listen to me, kemo sabe. I've seen you when you get that I'm-on-a-mission-from-God look in your eyes, and I know it never turns out well. I also know you've been working on this Goldman case for years and that you'd do anything to get him off death row. But there's nothing here for you."

Ben stared at the bed. "I have to explore every possible avenue."

"Fine. You do what you have to do. But at the very least, you should let Christina work on a case that has a paying client. Otherwise, you're going to end up practicing out of the back of your van."

"Thanks for the financial advice."

"I'm just trying to help. I'm your friend, remember? I'm family. Sorta kinda."

"Yeah. But the fact that you're still carrying a torch for my sister doesn't mean you're right."

Baxter's head turned at that.

"I can tell you this for certain," Mike replied. "As soon as I get back to the office, the Erin Faulkner death is going to be a closed file."

"Is that so?" Baxter said, one fist on her hip.

"Yeah. That's so."

"In that case," Ben said, "since there's not going to be any official police investigation, can we at least agree to share information?"

"You're not listening to me, Ben. There's not going to be any information to share."

"You never know. Something might turn up. Let's keep each other informed of what we're doing."

"If it will make you happy, Ben, fine."

"It will." He smiled slightly. "I'll put a good word in for you at the family reunion."

"Please don't. The only person on earth your sister is less fond of than me is you."

"Good point." He crossed the room and extended his hand. "Pleasure meeting you, Sergeant Baxter."

"Was it?" She didn't shake.

Ben drew in his breath, then gave Mike a smile. "And good luck with the new partner, Mike. I think this is going to be the start of a beautiful friendship."

Did they know what he had done? Gabriel Aravena wondered. Did they know it was him?

Everyone who entered the FastTrak today seemed to be staring at him. Perhaps he was just imagining it. The delusion of a guilty conscience, that's what Dr. Bennett would say. But no matter how hard he tried to tell himself that-there were still those eyes! Those damned eyes, staring at him, constant, unrelenting. He'd like to rip them out and-

He clutched the cash drawer, trying to steady himself. Get a grip, Gabriel. You are too close. Too close to spoil it by doing something stupid now. So what if they are staring? If they're staring at anything, it's probably your great big womanlike breasts. It's probably the-

"Like... do you carry bras?"

Aravena's eyes narrowed as he peered down at the two blonde teenage girls leaning across the counter. "Why do you ask?"

"How about... because I need a bra?" the one on the left said. "Duh."

Aravena lowered his gaze, making no attempt to hide where his eyes were going. As far as he could tell, she actually had very little need for a bra.

Of course, he liked them like that.

"I'm sorry, miss. We don't carry clothing. This is a convenience store."

"I know what it is, Professor. I just thought, maybe, you might have a private stash of bras around." She began to giggle, then she and her friend skittered out the door, laughing all the way.

"Obnoxious little tramps." His assistant manager, April, had returned from the storage room. "What do they think this is, Sears?"

"I believe they were making a little joke. Or so they thought."

"I'm sorry, Gabe. Girls can be such bitches sometimes."

She would know, he supposed. April was only seventeen herself. She was five feet three and trim and athletic; he could tell from her arms that she worked out regularly. "It's nothing. Really."