Arson Takes a Dare: The Third Marisa Adair Mystery Adventure (Marisa Adair Mysteries Book 3) (21 page)

“Protest noted.” The judge waved a hand. “Answer the defense attorney’s questions.”

Hart’s eyes moved behind his silver-framed glasses, his thick brows rising in agitation. “I thought witnesses had to be sworn in and have to pledge to tell the truth—”

“We’re using a different procedure today, Mr. Hart.” The judge’s mouth twisted. “We know you’re going to lie, regardless of any promises to tell the truth.”

Hart gasped and started to rise. “I never—”

“I doubt that.” Jayna Camden raised her voice. “Stay in your seat, Mr. Hart, or I’ll have you placed in the county jail until you decide to cooperate.”

Hart fell back into the seat. His large hands gripped the rail in front of him.

The judge nodded in satisfaction. “Proceed, Mr. Thornton.”

“Why did you agree to fund the purchase of a gentleman’s club for Sheriff Creeter?” Jason asked.

The heavy features flushed. The retired teacher shot a suspicious glance toward Sheriff Creeter’s place in the corner. “It’s a good investment opportunity.”

“You’re a retired educator,” Jason said. “Why would you buy a strip club?”

“I wanted to invest my money, and Sheriff Creeter offered a compelling business deal.” On the rail, Fulton’s knuckles were white.

The judge shook her head in sad resignation. “You see? You’re a liar.”

“I’ve watched a lot of courtroom dramas on television. This is a travesty.” Gripping the rail, Fulton Hart started to rise.

The judge tapped her chin with a pen. “There’s traffic court. There’s family court. Think of this as experimental court.”

“I’m not finished, Mr. Hart. Sit down.” Jason walked to the defense table and opened his shiny briefcase. He pulled out a stack of papers. Ignoring Marisa’s urgent hisses, he approached Fulton Hart.

“Mr. Hart, I have in my hand the printouts of emails between you and Sheriff Knox Creeter.” Jason shook the sheaf of papers. “When he took office, the new sheriff discovered that the former sheriff, in charge of the county thirty years ago, had received a complaint against you. The former sheriff subsequently made the complaint disappear. The current Sheriff Knox Creeter agreed to keep your secret if you financed the club for him. Sheriff Creeter also referenced an arrangement between you and the little girl’s parents. You bought the parents’ silence.”

“How did you get into my email?” The old man’s breathing was rough. “Did you have a warrant?”

“Your user name is Fulton Hart and your password is password.” Jason shrugged. “I didn’t need a warrant to crack your simple security.”

“Now wait a minute.” Hart pointed at Maurice. “Isn’t the prosecutor supposed to cross examine me? Isn’t he supposed to let me tell my side?”

Maurice rose to his feet. He passed Jason and approached Hart. “You don’t have a side, per se.” His inky face seeming to absorb the light, he turned to the audience. “We have the girl’s parents here to verify the information in the emails.” His accent was an exotic Parisian breeze in the country courtroom.

Marisa craned her neck. An elderly man rose to his feet. It was the same face as the one on the target at the retired sheriff’s home
. He’s Alisa’s father
, she thought
.
He shuffled to the closed double doors. He didn’t move as if the room was on fire, but he also didn’t tarry.

Officer Landis grasped the old man’s arm and whispered in his ear. He escorted the old man back to his seat in the audience.

“What happened thirty years ago was a miscommunication.” Hart’s face was tight with fear. “Alisa Atkins was a shy, pretty little girl with red hair. I’ve always loved children with red hair. Her father was cold and distant. Her mother ignored her. I paid lots of attention to her at school. I praised her schoolwork. The child started coming by my classroom whenever she could. I gave her something she couldn’t get at home. Love and attention.”

Marisa buried her hands in Laithe’s fur.
My father and mother didn’t give me love and attention. My hair is reddish in the sun. What if Fulton Hart had targeted me, and not Alisa?

Laithe brought up his head to lick a tear from her cheek.

“I bought Alisa all sorts of lovely things and I spent time with her. The little bitch turned on me.” Hart stared at the prosecutor. “I couldn’t have her spreading her malicious story all around the county. I simply told her parents I’d be happy to help them get back onto their feet. All they had to do was squelch the miscommunication.”

Maurice stepped closer to Hart. “That little girl, now a grown woman, was recently murdered, Mr. Hart. Did you decide to do your own squelching?”

Fulton Hart sputtered. “I never killed anyone!”

Lieutenant Dreamus Camden approached the witness chair. “Fulton Hart, you’re under arrest for human trafficking and molesting a child.” Without turning around, he raised his voice. “Officer Landis, please place Willie Atkins, Alisa’s father, under arrest for human trafficking. Also take Sheriff Creeter into custody for conspiracy to facilitate human trafficking, obstruction of justice, and anything else you can find online that might stick.”

The woman in the seat next to Atkins rose. “Willie, this is all your fault! I told you—”

“Shut up, woman! It’s your fault for only having one baby, and a damned girl to boot. I needed sons to work the farm. I couldn’t do it alone.”

The old woman shook. “You can’t blame me. Alisa paid for herself many times over!” Tears flowed down her wrinkled cheeks.

“Landis, take in Mrs. Adkins as well,” Dreamus ordered. “She knew what was going on and didn’t protect her daughter.”

The officer grimly herded the protesting men and the crying woman to the anteroom and closed the door on their rising protests. He returned to his post at the back of the courtroom.

Dreamus powered up a laptop computer on a table perpendicular to the judge’s platform. He pressed a button, and a white screen descended from the ceiling. A video flashed on the screen. “Hospital surveillance footage from the time before and after Alisa’s murder shows a tall person entering the hospital in disguise.” The image on the screen changed. “Now you see the person, dressed as an Emergency Medical Technician complete with hat, heavy jacket, and gloves, sauntering onto Alisa’s unit.”

As the figure moved on the screen in slow motion, Dreamus used a laser pointer. “The person goes to the edge of the nursing station counter. He places his clipboard on the counter, opens it, and leans over it. We can’t see his right hand. Tendrils of smoke rise from the side of the counter. Alarmed staff and the police officer I’d posted outside Alisa’s room rush to the smoke. The EMT picks up the clipboard and disappears into Alisa’s room. When he pops out of the room, concerned people are still gathered at the edge of the counter.”

The lieutenant straightened and turned to Jason.

Jason rose from his seat next to Marisa. “I call Elizabeth Furlong to the stand.”

Urgent music with a deep beat filled the courtroom. Elizabeth Furlong rose from her seat at the back of the room. Her tall, slim figure was emphasized by the pencil-straight purple skirt and skin-tight lavender sweater. She held her phone over her head, twisting it in time to the music as she danced up the aisle. Under the short skirt, her long, golden-brown legs flashed as she executed a leaping pirouette over the swinging door. Her spike heels slashed the air as she flipped to the witness stand.

Judge Jayna Camden pulled off her half glasses and gawked at Elizabeth. “What the hell?”

Jason plucked the cell phone from her hand and stopped the music.

Her dark hair swung at her jaw and shoulder in asymmetrical wings as she smiled at the judge. “I’m Elizabeth Furlong, the interim Chief Financial Officer for the hospital, soon to be permanent.” She waved at Alex, who glared at her. “I’m also Marisa Adair’s official spokesperson. I suppose that’s why I am here today, to speak for her. The poor little thing certainly can’t speak for herself.”

Elizabeth leaned forward, her hand outstretched and her breasts barely restrained. “Give me back my phone.”

“No.” Jason slid the device into his jacket pocket.

Elizabeth pouted, her large breasts jiggling in the low-cut sweater top when she crossed her arms. She brightened, her pout forgotten. She stared around the courtroom. “In addition to CEO, I mean CFO, and spokesperson, I’ve also been chosen to appear on the popular television show
Prancing with the Stars
.”

The defense attorney pointed to Fred and Clara. “Are those the people who promised you an appearance on the show?”

“Yes! Hello!” Elizabeth waved at the elderly couple. They didn’t wave back. Her huge smile faded. 

“I regret to inform you that was a ruse.” Jason didn’t look heartbroken. “Ms. Furlong, there’s no history about you available before twenty years ago. The couple’s mission was to get your fingerprints and your DNA so they could search your background.”

The color faded from Elizabeth’s face and her slim hands clenched the rail in front of her.

“You claim you’re a professional spokesperson and aspiring television star. Don’t tell me you’re speechless.” Jason retrieved a stack of papers from his briefcase.

“Why are you doing this?” Elizabeth choked.

“Because you’re six feet tall, and so is the murderer of Alisa Atkins.” Jason flipped through the pages. “When you were twenty years old, you changed your name.”

Elizabeth straightened. “Many people change their names. It’s not a crime.”

“You grew up in the Amish community just outside town.
Rumspringa
, or ‘running around’, is the time for an Amish teen to make up his or her own mind to either stay in the Amish world or leave it. In your case, you decided to stay. You married an Amish man, had three children, and seemed content. Then, when you were twenty years old, you fled in the middle of the night, leaving your young child, toddler, and infant behind with their father.”

Elizabeth’s mouth drooped. “You make it sound so harsh. I wasn’t cut out for motherhood. I needed to get my education and make my way in the world. My husband would never have allowed me to do it, so I had to leave.”

“Now, you use blackmail and threats to further your career.” Jason pulled her phone out of his jacket pocket.

“Wait a minute,” Elizabeth said. She licked her lips. “I don’t use blackmail and threats. I use a form of
quid pro quo
. Do you know what that means?”

Jason’s mouth quirked up on one end in a smile. “Loosely, it means ‘something for something’ in Latin.”

Smug, Elizabeth settled back in the seat, as if she’d scored over the defense attorney.

“Alisa Atkins spent a lot of time on the internet, looking for victims to bully,” Jason said. “She found you, Elizabeth, and she contacted you. Rather than adding you to her list of targets, she offered you a deal. If you paid her, she wouldn’t tell your husband where to find you.”

“I didn’t kill her,” Elizabeth insisted. “And you can’t prove I did.”

“I do have a complaint signed by your husband,” Jason said. “He’s seeking a quarter of a million dollars in back child support. Even more than the money, which he will donate to his community, he’s looking forward to the publicity.”

Maurice rose to his feet in a fluid motion. “Ms. Furlong, do you request my assistance on the stand? Fulton Hart asked for my help just moments ago.”

“I saw the kind of help you give.” Elizabeth turned her face away.

“Officer Landis, please place Elizabeth Furlong under arrest and put her with the others.” Dreamus rose from his place at the computer. “And Jason, hang on to her phone. We don’t want her trying to teach dance moves to our other detainees.”

“Diana aka Dee Forrest, please take the stand.” Jason waited.

Diana strode to the box. Her neat suit, smooth bun, and glasses seemed a lifetime away from her stiletto heels and bikini.

Jason turned to Dreamus. The detective’s hands moved on the laptop’s keys. The grainy surveillance footage was paused, the image of the EMT filling the screen.

“You’re tall enough to be the person in the picture,” Jason stated. “Are you?”

“No,” Diana replied. “I’m an exotic dancer at night. I’m a licensed realtor during the day. I don’t kill damaged women. I’m their advocate.”

“What do you mean?” Jason asked.

“When I met Marisa Adair, I was an alcoholic and I was addicted to painkillers,” Diana answered. “I thought all I could do was dance. I was an aging stripper. I hated to think what would happen when I became too old to draw customers to my stage.”

Diana twisted to face the defense table. “Through her friendship and love, Marisa taught me I could do anything, including quitting drinking and painkillers. She helped me get clean and sober. She gave me emotional support as I completed the real estate program. When I told her I was going to buy the gentleman’s club, she didn’t laugh. She applauded.”

“I thought you entered the real estate profession to get away from the club,” Jason said. “Why would you buy it?”

“Most of the women who dance come from childhoods of abuse, neglect, and violence.” Diana’s face softened in pity. “Many of them are alcoholics and addicted to drugs. I want to build a club in which women can dance without giving away anything of themselves. If they don’t choose to take off their clothes, they don’t have to undress. If they don’t want to mingle with customers between sets, they won’t be required to fraternize.”