Death Row (31 page)

"Maybe there's nothing to put in the file."

"There is," Mike said firmly. "Something they didn't want to write down. Something you're not telling me about it."

"And how do you know? Is my face making the wrong kind of crinkly lines? Is it because you're such a damn good cop?"

"No. It's because you're such a damn good cop."

Baxter's eyes rose.

"Too good to be cut loose so unceremoniously without a compelling reason."

Baxter's eyes were black, like deep inky wells, neither capturing nor reflecting light. "There was a reason."

"I'm listening."

"And you're right. It had nothing to do with police work. I was..." She paused, breathing in and out deeply, several times. "I was involved with someone."

"Another cop."

She nodded.

"Your partner?"

"Worse. The chief."

Mike's eyes widened. "As in, chief of police? Hardesty? The old man?"

She pressed her hand against her forehead. "I can't explain it. It just... happened."

"What is he, like eighty-five or something?"

"Just fifty-two, Morelli. And for your information, a very handsome fifty-two."

"Jesus!" Mike stared out the car window. "No wonder you got the boot. Isn't he married?"

"Separated. Still-it wasn't a good idea."

"No kidding. How did it start?"

Baxter receded into her bucket seat. "We were working this case together. It was big-that's why he was personally involved. Corruption in the City Council. Big-time stuff. Late nights. Close quarters. One thing led to another."

Mike remained incredulous.
"Hardesty?"

"Look, I'm a human being, okay? Haven't you ever had a thing with someone at work?"

"As a matter of fact, no."

"Of course not. Not the Great and All-Powerful Major Morelli."

Mike fell silent for a moment. "Of course, when I started on the force, I was married. After my wife dumped me, I was more an object of pity around the office than anything else. No one was remotely interested."

"She dumped you?"

"Big time."

Baxter inched forward. She was physically closer to him than she had ever been before, not counting the times when they were about to tear out each other's throat. "Tell me about it."

"Not much to tell, really. She didn't feel that my career-not to mention my income-was accelerating as quickly as it should. So she ran off with some rich guy who was in medical school."

"It all came down to money?"

"Yeah." He paused. "Well, that's what I've always said. That's how I've explained it away." Why was he talking about this? He hadn't even told Ben this. But for some bizarre reason, he felt as if he wanted to tell her. "And there's an element of truth in it. But the more time passes, the more I realize I use that explanation-because I like that explanation."

"Why?"

"Because it absolves me. Makes it look as if I didn't do anything wrong. It was all her fault." His eyes turned outward, toward the cabin. "But I think the truth is, I was a pretty sucky husband. I worked too much and gave her too little. It was my job to make her happy, after all. And I didn't. That's why she left. I don't think it was the money so much as just that... she was bored. I bored her. Me and the life I was creating. She didn't want any part of it."

"It's not possible to make someone happy all the time," Baxter said. Her voice seemed softer than it had before. "No matter what you do."

"Yeah. But I could've done better. A lot better."

"You will. Next time."

"Next time." Mike laughed, but it was not a happy laugh. "I used to tell myself that. But time keeps on passing, and I become more and more obsessed with my work, and I don't see much happening in my personal life. Julia has gotten on with hers. She's been through several doctor boyfriends, got some highfalutin' nursing job. Even had a kid. A little boy." He drummed his fingers on the steering column. "I love kids. We always talked about having kids. But we never did."

"I'm sorry."

"No, I'm sorry. To waste your time with all this soap-opera crap."

"Don't do that." She reached out and touched him on the shoulder. "If I'm going to be your partner, I have to know... who you are. Don't push me away."

Mike looked at the hand still on his shoulder. He could feel heat radiating from it, from her. "I won't."

"And it isn't crap," she continued. "It's your life. My life. Such as they are. We all make mistakes. But we have to push on."

"Yeah?" Her head was moving closer to his, there in the darkness and the close quarters of the car. His head seemed to be closing the gap as well.

"It's too easy to crawl up in your shell and say forget it. It's over. That's not living. You have to take risks. You have to... reach out."

Their lips were barely an inch apart.

"Morelli?"

"Yeah?"

"What do you think about cops who engage in intimate relationships with their partners?"

"I think it's stupid. Unprofessional. Usually a sign of serious mental problems."

"Me, too," she whispered. "So are you going to kiss me or what?"

Their lips touched.

And barely an instant later, they heard the shot.

"What the hell was that?" Baxter said, pulling away from him.

"That was a gunshot. And it came from inside the cabin. Come on!"

Mike flew out of the car. He pounded on the front door of the cabin. "Open up! Police!"

No answer.

He looked at Baxter. "You wanna do it, or shall I?"

"Ladies first." She brought up her heel and kicked the door, right beside the knob. The wooden door splintered. Two more well-placed kicks and the door was open.

"Come on." Mike led the way into the front living area, through the kitchen-

Then stopped. They didn't have to go any farther.

Baxter's hand flew up, covering her mouth. "Oh, my God. Oh, no."

Mike stared silently at the grisly-and all-too-familiar-tableau.

The worst of it was that the walls of the cabin were white, so the blood and brains and tissue now splattered all over them stood out with dramatic intensity. It was like a scene from a madman's surgical ward, but the only patient present was Sheila Knight, and the only surgical instrument, such as it was, was the small pistol still clutched in her lifeless hand.

Ben stared grimly at the courtroom doors. "I don't think I should even go in there."

Christina looked at him with a gaze so intense he could not escape it. "C'mon, Ben-we've got a job to do."

"You've got a job to do. I should take a powder."

"Ben, it's been years since you were at Raven, Tucker & Tubb. You can't run from Judge Derek forever."

"I'm not running. At least not for my own benefit. I have to think of Ray. Derek isn't going to like what we have to say. Having me in the courtroom will only make it worse."

"Ben, I handled the last one, but now-"

"C'mon, Christina. Didn't I kill that spider in your office this morning?"

"Yes, but spiders are scary. Judge Derek is just an old egomaniac who's too handsome for his own good."

"You can handle the hearing. You'll be great."

"But your name is on the papers. If you don't show, it could seem as though you thought the case wasn't important. Derek might think you sluffed it off on some second-rate associate." She batted the strawberry-blonde hair tied up behind her head. "Since he doesn't know us well enough to realize that I am, in fact, the brains of the outfit."

"Fine. Then I'll come into the courtroom. But I won't say a word. You're in charge."

From the end of the corridor, they heard a familiar voice. "Is this a power meeting? Can I eavesdrop?" Jerry Weintraub, from the AG's office. Their ursine opponent. "I love this high-level strategic stuff."

"Perfectly ordinary, I can assure you," Ben murmured.

"Hey, I saw that motion you filed to transfer the case to another judge. What's the deal?" He jabbed Ben in the ribs. "Don't you have confidence in dear old Judge Derek?"

"I have confidence in his ability to railroad anyone he thinks is remotely connected to me."

"Tsk, tsk. Such shocking lack of faith in the judicial system." Weintraub tilted his head toward Christina. "So does that mean it's you and me in there?"

"I guess so. Is that a problem?"

"Not for me. I'd rather have you on the other side anyway."

Christina's eyes narrowed. "Because you enjoy the challenge of going up against a superior legal mind?"

He smiled. "Because I love the way your cheeks flush when you get all worked up."

Mike and Baxter sat on a sofa on the side of the cabin's bedroom while the crime-lab technicians went about their appointed tasks. There was a window just behind them that afforded a breathtaking view of Grand Lake, still and tranquil. But neither of them looked. Mike didn't want to see anything beautiful, anything that would stand in such stark contrast to the grisly scene before him. Which he also couldn't look at.

And he wasn't entirely comfortable looking at Sergeant Baxter, either.

One of the crime-lab tekkies, an emaciated man named Crowley, came over to Mike to report. "We're just about through, sir. Still got to take some photos and video. But the surfaces have been pretty well scoured."

"Find anything?"

"Not really, sir."

"Fingerprints?"

"Just hers."

"Including the weapon?"

"Yes, sir."

"Blood?"

"Only hers. Lots of it."

"What about the gun?"

"Already checked. It's registered to her."

Mike stretched. For some reason, his trench coat felt very uncomfortable all of the sudden. "What about the rest of the cabin?"

"We've found the usual stuff. Hair and fiber. Most of them match her or clothes in her suitcase. A few still unmatched, but nothing suspicious."

He nodded. "Thank you, Crowley."

"Of course, sir." Crowley skittered away.

Leaving Mike and Baxter alone again.

"I guess you know," he said, after a long while, "what this is going to do to our records. Our careers."

"What?" Baxter said, not turning her head. "The fact that we let a suspect we were surveilling die right under our noses?"

"Yeah. That."

"Doesn't seem like the stuff commendations are made of."

"The only thing that's going to piss off Blackwell more than this screwup is the fact that we've already wasted so much time on this case."

"Morelli, don't start. There's no way in hell this was a suicide."

"It sure looks like one."

"There's no note."

"That's not even unusual."

"The gun was in her hand. Again."

"True. But she was dressed this time, so don't go down that road."

"Sheila Knight had no reason to kill herself."

"She may have had the same reason Erin Faulkner did. And dealt with it in exactly the same way."

"You don't know that."

"No. I don't." He pushed himself to his feet. Their eyes met briefly, then both hurriedly looked away. "I don't know anything, right at the moment."

"You must admit, it's a hell of a coincidence."

"That's true," Mike acknowledged. "And I don't believe in coincidences. But what reason would anyone have to rub out Erin Faulkner-
and
her best friend?"

"That's what we have to find out, Morelli. Because if we could answer that question-we could blow this whole case wide open."

"Your honor," Christina began, "if you'll examine the attachments to our most recent brief, you'll find a series of affidavits relating to this case."

"If it please the court," Weintraub said, rising to his feet, "the state objects to the use of affidavits. I can't cross-examine an affidavit."

Christina had seen this coming. "Your honor, I'm aware of the evidentiary problem. But given the exigencies of time, I thought it best-"

"Time pressures don't allow her to trample the state's rights," Weintraub cut in.

"If the court would like to extend the execution date," Christina answered, "we can have a full-blown hearing and call witnesses and do the whole dog and pony show. But with the execution date not even a week away, there was only so much we could do. I would implore the court in the name of decency-"

Derek waved his hand. "Relax, counsel. No lecture necessary. I'll allow it. For the limited purposes of this hearing."

"Thank you, your honor."

She watched as Judge Derek fumbled with his stylish bifocals, ran a hand through his all-too-handsome graying temples, then rifled the pages of the brief. "Attachment A?"

"That's the one, your honor."

Derek grunted. "This better be good."

She couldn't resist. "It will be."

Derek peered at her through his half lenses, gave her a few moments of visual sternness, then returned his attention to the brief.

A narrow escape, Christina realized. Her legs were tingling. Did that mean her cheeks were flushing, too? Damn Weintraub-was that remark some strategic mind game, or was she really blotching up like a ink blotter?

"Exhibit One," she began, "is an affidavit from Michael Palmetto, the head of the organ clinic where Erin Faulkner worked before her death. He reports numerous instances of strange and inconsistent behavior on her part. Exhibit Two is from Dr. Hayley Bennett, a psychiatrist."

"I'm familiar with Dr. Bennett," Derek murmured. "She's appeared in this court in criminal matters on several occasions."

"She reports several instances of erratic behavior by Erin Faulkner-and her belief that Erin was hiding some secret."