Nothing But the Truth (17 page)

“Like it might have been staged?” Raleigh had asked.

“Yeah. One-car accident. Car hit a light post. Victim had enough alcohol in his blood that he shouldn’t have been able to find his car keys, much less drive the car seventeen miles from where he’d last been seen alive. A surprising amount of trauma to his body, given the specifics of the accident.

“But I couldn’t get my teeth into anything.”

The scenario made sense. If Louie had killed Michelle as revenge against Leo, someone might have evened the score. Leo himself could be responsible. He might have had Louie killed, not realizing he’d put the nail in his own son’s coffin.

After ending her conversation with the detective, Raleigh was still stumped. Who else, besides Michelle’s actual killer, wanted to stop Raleigh from exonerating Anthony? Was it some mob vendetta thing?

Her cell phone rang. Caller ID was blocked, which gave her pause. But curiosity got the better of her. “Raleigh Shinn.”

“Raleigh. This is Sergeant Bob Smythe with the Houston Police Department. I have some information for you involving the Anthony Simonetti case.”

The name sounded familiar, but she couldn’t quite place the man. “You’re one of the detectives I’ve been hounding about running the serial number on that gun?”

“Yes, that’s right.”

His voice was deep and smooth—the guy sounded like a late-night radio deejay, she caught herself thinking with a smile.

“Did you ID the gun?” she asked excitedly. Please, oh please let it belong to Louis Costanza. Without the bullet match it wasn’t a perfect slam dunk, but it would make for a good argument.

“I’d rather not discuss it over the phone. Can you meet me somewhere? I’ve found another piece of evidence that might be of use to you.”

“I can come to headquarters if you like.”

“Things are a mess here. Exterminators are here, spraying for cockroaches.”

Ew. “How about if I we meet at my office?”

“Perfect. I can be there at five—no, wait. My wife is gonna kill me if I don’t get home for dinner on time. Would you mind meeting after hours? Say, seven-thirty?”

“I can do that.” It would save her a drive through rush-hour traffic. Daniel would give her the use of a car and probably a bodyguard, too, knowing him. But he wouldn’t try to dissuade her from going. Solving this case was too important.

Yeah, he was willing to admit it, now that it didn’t matter: he’d fallen in love with her. When he’d tried to distance himself from her this morning, it hadn’t been because he was jealous of Jason. He’d done it because on some level he’d been terrified of his own feelings. He wasn’t the kind of guy who fell in love and spilled his messy emotions all over the place.

But apparently he was, because right now he had to fight the urge to turn around, drive back up that mile-long driveway, storm inside the house and tell Raleigh how he felt.

As angry as he was with her, though, his declaration might not come out just right.

Actions spoke louder than words. The same person who had initially tried to manipulate him into publishing a libelous story about Raleigh had to be the same person who had contacted CNI and provided them with all that bogus information. He doubted the network would reveal their source to him, and maybe not even to the cops. Journalists—and he used the term loosely here—were freakishly protective of sources.

But Griffin had one lead still to follow. He’d called the Johnson-Perrone Medical Center earlier to check on John Shinn’s postoperative condition. Raleigh’s father-in-law had apparently sailed through the surgery and was doing well. No way would Griffin be allowed to question him. But his wife? She was accessible. Maybe it was time to press Raleigh’s mother-in-law about that Swiss bank account.

“You haven’t eaten enough of that dinner to keep a bird alive,” Daniel observed. He’d been the perfect host, seeing to her every need. He’d even obtained the special food Copper’s vet had prescribed for him.

Raleigh smiled. “My dad used to say the same thing to me. I always lose my appetite when I’m nervous.”

“You’re more than just nervous.”

Damn Daniel for being so freaking observant. “Yeah, okay, maybe I’m a little upset over the situation with Griffin, too.”

“Romance is one area of my life at which I haven’t exactly excelled. So you can take any advice I foist on you with a grain of salt. But I have a feeling he’ll come around.”

Raleigh had her doubts about that. He’d been so,
so
angry, justifiably so. “Even if he does…I thought we had a chance at first. Griffin made me see that I was limiting myself. He made me feel…happy. For the first time in a long, long time.”

“And now you feel like you blew it.”

“It’s not just that I didn’t show any faith in him. Things were going wonky before that. He was the one pulling back, saying it couldn’t work for us because I’m still hung up on Jason.”

“Are you?”

“I’m not beyond hope! Lately I’ve been putting things into perspective. But I’m beginning to think Jason was only an excuse. Griffin pushed to get closer to me, and then when he finally did, he didn’t want me anymore.” And why she was telling this to Daniel Logan, her boss, of all people, she didn’t know.

But Daniel was perceptive. Maybe he could help her understand. He might not be in a relationship right now, but he was a man. Surely he understood how the male brain worked better than she did.

She wasn’t completely naive when it came to men. She had dated a few, even had some semi-serious boyfriends before she’d met Jason. But regarding Griffin, she felt as baffled as she had in junior high the first time she’d let a boy touch her breast and then he’d bragged about it to anyone who would listen.

Daniel shook his head. “I don’t think that’s what’s going on. I think Griffin Benedict very much wants you. I see it in the way he looked at you. You wounded him today. In the heart.”

Raleigh nodded. “As bad as things were, I’m afraid I made them much worse with my accusations. He probably won’t even talk to me after this.”

“Things often look bleakest just before a stroke of good luck. You can take it from an expert on the subject.”

Certainly Daniel had seen some very bleak times. All those years in prison, avoiding a lethal injection by mere days. She should stop feeling sorry for herself. Her prison had been one of her own making, a gilded cage with bars made from idealized memories of her husband.

At least she was free now. She could be grateful to Griffin for that.

Ten steps, and she was inside the lobby. Randall said he would park nearby, and she should call him when she was ready to go home.

Raleigh was surprised to see Celeste still at the front desk. Although the lobby stayed open all night, because Project Justice personnel often worked at odd hours, in the evening hours a night watchman was usually on duty.

“You’re working late.”

“Phil called in sick,” she said sourly. “Sick, my sweet patootie. He’s watching baseball, I just know it. Daniel’s sending someone to relieve me in a while. Till then, I’m stuck here.” She punched unhappily at a Mylar Happy Birthday balloon tied to her chair.

Raleigh hadn’t even realized Celeste was having a birthday. She really needed to reach out more to people at work. “Sorry. That bites.” She set her purse down on the reception desk.

Celeste shrugged. “It’s okay. I’ll get overtime pay. Thought you were on vacation.”

“Only sort of. I’m meeting a sergeant from the police department.”

“He’s already here. But he stepped outside to have a smoke.”

“Hmm.” She was sure she hadn’t seen anyone nearby on the street. Raleigh returned to the large double doors and peeked outside. Sure enough, a man in a suit was now leaning against the wall of her building, puffing on the dregs of a cigarette. He must have been stretching his legs a few moments earlier.

He was tall and slender, early forties, maybe, and he sported an enormous handlebar mustache and thick-framed black glasses that seemed out of place on his otherwise pleasant face.

He came instantly alert, straightening his stance. “Raleigh?”

“Yes. You must be Sergeant Smythe.”

“Yes, ma’am.” As they met halfway on the sidewalk, he reached into an inner pocket, flashed a badge for her, quickly returned it to his jacket, then offered her his hand. “It’s nice to see you again.”

“I…I’m sorry, have we met?” He did look familiar, but she couldn’t quite place him.

“Just once, briefly.” He sounded slightly irritated. Normally she was very good with faces and names, but she did meet a lot of law enforcement personnel in the course of her work.

She made a point to shake his hand warmly. Now was her chance to mend some fences. “I’m so glad you called. We don’t have time to waste. If Anthony is innocent, he needs to be freed, sooner rather than later.” Clearing Anthony’s name after he’d died of a lethal injection would be a hollow victory.

“Then you’ll want to come with me,” the sergeant said. “The evidence I found is in my trunk. I didn’t want to just carry it into your office. I know the press is covering you pretty closely.”

“I don’t want the press to know anything else until I’m good and ready.” She started to burn all over again, thinking about that bogus story CNI ran. But she pushed her irritation aside. She had to stay focused.

“My car is parked right around the corner. This is gonna blow your mind.”

“Okay, but…” She looked around nervously. This part of downtown Houston became a ghost town after hours, and it was quickly emptying of cars and pedestrians. Also, once the sun set, she wouldn’t be able to see much, given her dreadful night vision. “I
am
a police detective. I’ve just been checking out the area. I didn’t see any suspicious cars or people.”

She was being paranoid. She was with one of Houston’s finest, as safe as she could be under the circumstances.

“Let’s go, then.” As they walked, she asked, “So when did we meet?” Surely if she’d met anyone with that distinctive mustache, she would remember.

“We met when you were still working as a defense attorney. I was a witness in one of your trials—for the prosecution.”

“Ah. I hope I wasn’t too unpleasant toward you.” She was only half joking. Her cross-examinations could get nasty.

Smythe laughed. “You had to do your job. I actually admired your courage.”

“If so, you’re rare among police.”

They stopped at an unmarked Ford Taurus, an anonymous white. Probably picked up at a police auction. So many officers acquired their personal vehicles through the department.

Raleigh’s heart started beating faster. She couldn’t wait to see what Smythe had to show her. A piece of evidence she didn’t know about? Something that tended to rule out Anthony as a suspect, conveniently “lost” by someone in the department to make his job easier?

Something Smythe didn’t want to be seen with, or photographed with, which meant it was more than a piece of paper or a folder.

Smythe opened the trunk. Inside was a plain cardboard box, resting toward the back of the large space. The box was old, dusty. On the outside was written, in black marker,
Michelle Brewster P.E.
Physical Evidence.

Raleigh reached for the box. “May I?”

“Help yourself.” She pulled open two of the box flaps and leaned in so she could see the contents. Given how dim the lighting was, she had to get close to see.

Suddenly the trunk lid fell and hit her hard on the back of the head. “Ow! What the—” Before she could even finish a sentence, strong hands clamped around her waist and hauled her off her feet, pushing her into the trunk. She landed painfully on one shoulder as Sergeant Smythe—or whoever he was—folded her legs and stuffed her inside. As she screamed in pain and fury and outrage, he slapped a piece of duct tape over her mouth. She caught just a glimpse of triumph on the man’s face—and a crazed look in his eyes—before he slammed the lid shut, trapping her in the darkness.

She rolled over onto her back and beat on the trunk lid with her fists, then kicked with her feet. One of her shoes had fallen off.

“You don’t have the slightest idea who I am, do you?” he yelled at her through the trunk. “We met only two days ago.”

She scanned her memory banks, coming up blank.

“Don’t you ever watch the news?”

Then it came to her. Get rid of the mustache and the glasses, and she was looking at Paul Stratton, anchor of the Channel 6 Evening News, the man who had asked her about John Shinn in the hospital parking lot.

And he wanted her dead because…? Oh, no. Now she saw it. He had been the reporter to break the Michelle Brewster murder story—the first to name Anthony Simonetti a suspect, well before the police had arrested him. He’d earned some kind of award for his series on the case, if she recalled.

If she proved he’d been wrong, his reputation was on the line. But surely the person he most wanted out of the picture was Griffin, his competition for the coveted network job.

He’d been trying to solve two problems with one criminal campaign. Paul could easily have come up with twenty-thousand dollars—news anchors made plenty of money. As a reporter, one people recognized and trusted, he could get at all kinds of information, like bank account numbers and phone bills.

Raleigh screamed again, though she doubted anyone but Paul could hear her. She kicked and beat the trunk lid as the darkness threatened to smother her. But Paul Stratton wasn’t about to free her. The fact he had wanted her to know his identity meant he didn’t intend for her to live long enough to tell anyone what he’d done. She could only hope someone else would hear her and intervene.

Surely Randall hadn’t gone far with the limo. But the Taurus’s engine rumbled to life and the car lurched forward. He was getting away with his crime. She was being kidnapped.

She’d heard somewhere that if you were ever kidnapped and thrown into a car trunk, you should kick out the taillights and try to signal someone. But she didn’t see any taillights. It was completely dark.

So what did she have to work with? She’d left her purse, along with her cell phone, on Celeste’s desk. The trunk appeared clean, free of any tools or other junk. Except for the box. She quickly found it and reached inside. She found what felt like…bricks. Plain old bricks, probably just to weight the box down so Raleigh would have to lean in farther to grasp it and open it or pull it toward her.

As weapons went, she could do worse than bricks. She pulled two from the box, got a good grip on one in each and concealed them behind her body. When the trunk opened, she would be ready.