Touch of Evil (6 page)

“Yes, sir. I like to think so.” She fought back a smile.

He executed a three-point turn, then clicked down his left-turn signal with a finger. “Then maybe there’s hope for you after all.”

“I don’t want you hiring a lawyer,” Laney insisted. Sitting across from Ross in the interview room, she looked as exhausted as he felt, with her long hair disheveled and her T-shirt and sweatpants rumpled from her sleepless night. Yet her hazel eyes sparked with the defiance that had made her such a handful in her teenage years, the same defiance that often led her mother to regularly shake her head and say,
That little girl of mine, she surely does dance to her own beat.

Ross wondered, was he imagining a trace of resentment, too, that he would offer to pay his friend Dan Henderson to represent her? While his and his sisters’ late father had left them and their mother a comfortable financial cushion, Laney’s side of the family had always had to scrimp. But they were proud, too, proud enough to tire of their rich cousins’ hand-me-downs and Ross’s mother’s charity.

“I don’t know why I’ve been dragging this out,” Laney told him. “I have nothing to hide. Nothing at all. As long as they send in someone who’ll really listen this time.”

She made a face, clearly thinking of Roger Savoy’s obvious suspicion.

“You’ve been sitting here for hours,” Ross said. “You’re tired, upset, probably hungry.”

“No. Well, not hungry, anyway. One of the deputies—a nice one—brought in breakfast.” She nodded toward the empty coffee cup, crumb-stained paper plate, and napkins on the rectangular folding table between them.

“The point is,” he said, “you’re in no shape to defend yourself when someone tries to box you in a corner.”

“I’m the victim in this,” she insisted. “Why should I need to defend myself?”

“Because you pissed them off last night, when you brought up the race thing. Or you pissed off Chief Deputy Savoy.”

“Well, what else would you call a
noose,
Ross? A noose hung in the kitchen of the house where I live?”

He stared at her, wondering how Laney and her sisters’ family background had impacted the way they viewed things. He knew Aunt Ava’s marriage to a mixed-race man had raised eyebrows back in the day, but times had changed, even in East Texas.

As if Laney had read his mind, she said, “I don’t expect you to understand. You never had to deal with the comments, the kind of things people say when they don’t think anybody
different
is around. And then, if I say anything, anything at all, they…most of the time they just come up with something awkward, usually about how I shouldn’t take it wrong and how
they’re
not prejudiced. But other times…” Her expression faltered.

“Okay, I get that part,” Ross said. Or at least as much as a white man born into money could. Certainly he’d heard complaints from Laney and her sisters on occasion, had even intervened when some ignorant drunk had the poor sense to spout off in his presence. “But last night you were talking about Jake and Caleb, not just Hart’s death or the noose left in your kitchen. What’s this all about, Laney? Really?”

She shook her head before looking down and picking at her thumbnail. “I only want to say it once, so you can tell the deputy to come in. See if you can get the nice one. Deputy Whittaker, I think his name is.”

Ross touched her wrist and waited until she looked up at him to speak. “I don’t think you understand. If they believe you hung that rope yourself and this is all some sort of hoax,
they’ll charge you. Which is why I still think you should let me call Dan.”

“Then they’ll be thinking I really did do something. Why else does anybody lawyer up?”

“Because innocent people do get charged. And sometimes they get convicted. You can’t afford to be naive here.”

Laney looked up at him, anger flashing in her eyes. “I’m not a child, Ross. And you’re not my father. I’m perfectly able to make my own decisions.”

Under other circumstances, Ross would be glad she was finally growing up and pulling away from her longtime dependence on him. But there was too much at stake here. And as the only living male in his extended family, Ross had been raised from childhood to feel a keen sense of responsibility. He thought of his mother’s and Aunt Ava’s laundry list of expectations, not only for home repair and leadership of the charitable foundation established in his grandfather’s name, but for help with any needed heavy lifting…

Your cousin Trudy’s getting a new freezer…I told her, of course, that you’d help her husband move it. What did she think? That’d you’d let her pick up that heavy thing with that back of hers?

With their daughters’ boyfriends…

You need to have a talk with this Erik your sister Gwen is seeing. Sure, he cleans up nice and speaks well, but see if you can find out who his people are. And what kind of a job allows him to keep such late hours with my daughter?

And, first and foremost, with free medical care.

Think you could stop by and see your cousin Dara? She’s got some sort of fungal situation with her toes.

Ross didn’t mind helping out upon occasion, but for his own sanity, he had to set strict limits (Dara, for example, was referred with lightning speed to a podiatrist) to prevent his family from completely taking over his life. When he did help, his sisters and his cousins were quick to give him grief at
the slightest hint that he considered himself some kind of paterfamilias. And none of them was as prickly on the subject as his youngest cousin, twenty-two-year-old Laney, who considered herself liberated—except when she wanted his aid or advice.

“Listen, Laney,” he said. “Three men are dead, and you’ve clearly been threatened. Which makes this ‘you’re not the boss of me’ crap sound pretty silly.”

She slid back from the table, her short nails digging hard into the edge. “I’m a grown woman now, Ross. I—I was living with Jake. I moved in after, you know, after he was diagnosed. Around the same time you got sick.”

“So I heard,” he said. “Right before I heard he’d died, along with Hart and Caleb. Your entire band gone, and you never once called me or responded to the messages I left you?”

He was surprised to find it hurt him. Since he’d moved back from Houston after Anne’s death, Laney had driven him half-crazy, her weekly calls escalating to almost daily conversations. She phoned or dropped by to chat about her every romantic, career, or financial wrinkle and complain about her sisters, mother, and aunt, who she felt certain were conspiring to clip her songbird’s wings.

It probably said a lot about the state of his social life since his breakup with Justine that he’d actually started to look forward to the interruptions, even the hair-raising drama of her day-to-day existence. He had missed her when her calls stopped so abruptly after he fell ill.

She looked up at him, her defiance dissolving into tears that trembled on her lashes. “I’m sorry, Ross. I should have. I thought of you a hundred times, but you were so sick. Mama and Aunt Helene said I’d kill you with all my drama.”

“Laney, you know better. You had to know I’d want to—”

“I just couldn’t say the words. Couldn’t imagine telling you that Jake was—” Choking back a sob, she clapped a hand over her mouth. “I—I loved him, Ross. I loved all those guys.
They were my friends, my life, the one place in this town I knew I fit in. And I’d trade everything I have, my plans, my future, all of it, if I could go back to the last night we all played together.”

“Oh, Laney.” He shook his head. “I’m so sorry.”

“I’ve missed you, Ross. Really missed you.” Her tears were flowing freely. “And I was so afraid you’d—”

Ross rose to embrace her. “It was a viral infection, that’s all. A bit of bad luck, but I’m fine now.” He was so much taller than she, he found himself speaking to the part in her hair. “And more than strong enough to help if you’ll just let me.”

First Clown:

What is he that builds stronger than either the mason, the shipwright, or the carpenter?

Second Clown:

The gallows-maker; for that frame outlives a thousand tenants.

—William Shakespeare,
Hamlet,
Act V, Scene 1

Following a knock, Justine Wofford walked into the interview room, much to Ross’s surprise.

The walls of the cramped and dingy room squeezed, and a spasm of regret passed through him. If he hadn’t gotten sick as he had, would his plan have borne fruit by now? Would he have been able to convince her he had broken off what they had in order to start a new type of relationship, one conducted in the open, or would she have turned her back on him forever?

Months after the fact, it was far too late to think of such things, especially with his cousin’s life and freedom on the line.

“Thought you were taking a few days off,” he said to cover his discomfort.

Justine looked a little washed-out, but her dark eyes were focused. She looked more alert than she had any right to be, given her circumstances. More appealing, too, with her dark hair long and loose about her shoulders—still reminding him, as ever, of his first crush, Wonder Woman.

Justine slipped inside, moving with an easy grace that belied both her injury and height. In her hand, she carried several yellow pencils, still smelling of the sharpener, and a colorful pair of spiral notebooks, the kind kids went through by the handful every school year. “After you stopped by to see me, I decided it might be best to handle this myself before I head home. If you don’t mind, Miss Thibodeaux.”

“Fine with me,” Laney said as her gaze drifted over the sheriff’s informal attire, the total lack of makeup, and the bandage on the side of her head. Looking concerned, she added, “Are you okay? I heard someone hit you yesterday when you went to talk to Caleb’s mom.”

“I had a good doctor.” Justine flicked a barely perceptible smile at Ross. “But thanks for asking.”

“I’ve been there,” Laney added, sounding nervous for someone who had claimed to want to talk. “That’s a pretty dicey neighborhood.”

“Someone should tell the cops,” Justine said dryly as she gestured toward two of the four chairs around the table.

Once all three were seated, the sheriff flipped open a notebook, but kept it in her lap, out of sight beneath the table’s edge. “I wanted to tell you how sorry I am about Caleb’s death, Miss Thibodeaux. I’m sure it’s been horribly upsetting, losing three people so close to you within such a short time.”

Laney folded her arms across her stomach, her body rocking as she spoke. “I wish…I still can’t believe they’re all gone. I want them back. I want everything back the way it used to be.”

“I understand what that’s like.” Justine’s dark eyes were sympathetic. “I lost my husband last year, and I still imagine I can see him. I catch glimpses sometimes, in the barn, out on the back porch…”.

Ross looked away, troubled by the pain in her voice, the way it lived in her eyes. It was a pain he still caught sight of in
the mirror sometimes, a pain he doubted he would ever shake completely. The broken echo of his own voice filled the corridor of a Houston trauma center.

I never should have let her leave angry. Never should’ve let her leave.

He pulled himself back, aggravated to think Justine Wofford might stoop to using her familiarity with grief to lower his cousin’s and his own defenses. Because Justine knew about his wife, Anne. Knew because he’d brought up her death in the hope that Justine might open up about her loss, too. He’d hoped to bring light and fresh air to the deep, black river he sensed flowing just beneath her surface.

Instead, she’d shut him down, after he’d handed her this unholy ammunition.

“Laney,” he warned, his tone flattening like a nail’s head beneath a blow. “I think we’d better talk to that attorney.”

Ignoring him, Laney spoke directly to the sheriff. “I wasn’t imagining last night, when Ross and I found that
thing
out in the kitchen. It had to be a warning. Telling me I’d be next.”

Justine nodded gravely, never taking her eyes off Laney. She didn’t remind Ross of some comic-book creation now, nor even of the lover whose absence left him feeling more alone than ever, but a predator. A hunting cat, closing in to clamp its jaws around the throat of innocence.

And there was not a damned thing he could do to stop her. With Laney refusing his help, insisting she was an adult, as she certainly was at twenty-two, Ross could do no more than sit and listen and try to stop the sheriff if things went too far.

But rather than accusing, Justine asked the question that had been on his mind. “Why would anyone want to hurt you, Miss Thibodeaux—or may I call you Laney?”

Laney waved her hand. “Sure, everyone does. And I don’t know why someone would do that, unless they’re trying to
keep me quiet. Because they know I’ve figured it out. I know there’s no way all three of them killed themselves. Especially not Jake. That’s crazy.”

Justine jotted something quickly in a notebook and then looked up, perplexed. “I’m curious, Laney. When did you come to that conclusion? Because after Jake died, I spoke with you a couple of times, at least, but you never gave me any indication you disagreed with the medical examiner’s ruling. Or did I miss something?”

Laney started picking at her nails again, her eyes avoiding the sheriff’s sharpening gaze.

“I was too shocked to think anything,” Laney said. “And at first, it did seem possible, especially after the way Hart died the week before. But the more I thought about it, the more it didn’t add up. And once I heard about Caleb, I knew for certain. Caleb never would’ve killed himself. He was trying to do better, trying for his kids’ sake.”

“Let’s stick to Jake for the moment,” Justine urged, pausing for a moment to flip open the other spiral and scratch out another note. “You told me he was really upset about Hart. You said he blamed himself for not keeping better tabs on his friend after his divorce. And Jake had some kind of medical problem, too, right?”

Ross interrupted. “Jake Willets had serious health issues. He didn’t have a regular physician—no medical insurance—so he apparently put off going to a doctor until he ended up in my ER one night back in July. He presented with severe limb weakness. The symptoms were suggestive…”

“Of what?” Justine prompted.

“Ross thought it looked like multiple sclerosis,” Laney answered. “So he got Jake in to see a good doctor in Dallas. A neurologist.”

“And did this doctor confirm it?” Justine asked.

Laney shook her head, her eyes full of tears. “Worse than MS, at least in Jake’s mind. He was diagnosed with ALS.”

“Lou Gehrig’s disease,” Ross explained, giving the progressive neuromuscular disorder its better-known name.

Justine nodded, comprehending, and Ross read sympathy in her expression. “That’s the one that slowly freezes you, right? Locks your mind inside a dying body?”

Ross nodded, thinking that was as succinct an explanation as he’d heard of a hellaciously complex condition.

Justine looked at him. “Is that why you thought—”

“He was only thirty-two,” Laney blurted. “It was so unfair. And he couldn’t play his instruments. His hands stopped working. He couldn’t even…”

“Couldn’t even what?” Justine asked.

Though she never broke eye contact, the movement of her right arm hinted she was writing. For all Ross knew, she was scratching out a grocery list, but still, it made him nervous. As he suspected it was meant to.

Laney glanced at Ross, then looked away and answered quietly, “Couldn’t even touch me.”

“How did he react to these changes?”

“How do you think? How would you?” Laney wiped her eyes as grief and anger echoed in the small space. “We were going to do something with our music. And I’m not just talking about playing the Tin Roof or even music festivals in Austin and New Orleans. We recorded demo tracks before Jake got too sick—before any of them started dying. Our agent says they’re really good. And other people in the industry do, too.”

“People around here know Laney,” Ross said. “Every time I’m out with her in public, she gets stopped for autographs.”

Though Laney blushed, new interest sparked in Justine’s dark gaze.

“I’ve heard you and I’m not surprised,” she said. “And I understand you wrote most of the songs yourself, too?”

Laney nodded, a troubled look drifting like a rain-soaked mist behind her eyes. “Jake and I were planning to get married.
We were planning to spend our lives together…somewhere far away where we’d both fit in.”

“Laney,”
Ross said, surprised to hear this news. But not surprised that Laney had kept it from the family. Aunt Ava might have liked Laney singing in the church choir, but she and Ross’s mother both objected, loudly and often, to Laney “carrying on with those seedy musician types” at the local dance hall. And though the rest of the family had been known to show support by going to listen to her music, the consensus was that Laney ought to find herself a “fallback” career, or at least a husband with a stable job and benefits.

Laney didn’t meet his gaze. “It wasn’t fair.”

Justine glanced up from yet another note and shook her head. “
Life
isn’t fair. I can understand why you would feel upset, even angry when your boyfriend decided to follow Hart without asking what
you
wanted.”

“No,” Laney cried out, rising abruptly. “No. Jake didn’t hang himself. He wouldn’t do that to me. He knew I still loved him. He knew I’d never leave.”

“So if Jake wouldn’t kill himself, who would?” Justine asked her. “And who’d want to kill Hart Tyson and Caleb LeJeune, for that matter?”

Laney shook her head. “I don’t know
who.
I only know someone did.”

“Did they have enemies? Were they threatened? Any conflicts you know of?”

Laney shrugged. “Hart and his ex-wife fought like mad cats—”

“He mentioned the divorce in his note.”

“And Caleb got into more than his share of bar brawls,” Laney went on, “but none of it seemed serious, and why would anybody hang Jake?”

“So what about race, Miss Thibodeaux? You ever hear threats? Ugly comments?”

Flushing, Laney shook her head. “Hart got the occasional
dumb remark from some moron or other on his umpteenth beer, but I don’t remember anything serious.”

“I couldn’t come up with any enemies, either,” Justine explained, “and I found no reason your boyfriend might’ve been purposely killed. Only explanations for why he might take his own life.”

“Except Jake couldn’t have, at least not that way,” Ross chimed in. “He was so weak, I can’t imagine him doing it on his own. Not unless he’d improved markedly from the last time I saw him.”

Laney shook her head. “No, no. He was getting worse. So even if he’d wanted to, he couldn’t have gotten out there alone without a car. He was found about a twenty-minute drive from the apartment.”

“None of his friends admitted taking him,” Justine said, “so we assumed he hitchhiked.”

“Even if he did,” Ross argued, “there’s no way he could have manipulated a rope and knots without help, unless…There
were
knots, weren’t there? He didn’t just wrap the rope around the tree’s base and…”

Again, he hesitated, unwilling to distress Laney by painting such an ugly picture.

“Go on, Ross,” Laney urged him. “Whatever you were going to say, I want to hear it.”

No longer bothering with notes, Justine only watched expectantly, but he could swear he heard the whir of gears behind her pale face. He saw pain there, too, in the tightness of her jaw, the careful arrangement of her features.

Was it only physical, or was his presence getting to her, as hers was to him?

“Sometimes a determined suicide only has to loop the belt or rope or what have you around his neck and lean forward against it.” Ross gentled his voice, as if that alone could blunt the edges of his harsh words. “He uses his body weight to do the work of strangulation.”

“But Mr. Willets was found…” Justine looked at Laney. “You’re sure you want to hear this?”

Laney nodded tightly. “I owe Jake that much.”

“The rope was tied to the base of a big live oak,” Justine continued. “A noose—an old-fashioned noose tied with a hangman’s knot—was apparently thrown over a thick branch about ten feet off the ground. There was a fallen tree, quite a large one, and we surmised that Mr. Willets stood on the trunk, then placed the noose around his neck and stepped off.” Justine ignored Ross’s shaking head. “Cause of death, according to the medical examiner, was cardiac arrest due to some kind of nerve reflex.”

“Vagal inhibition.” Ross looked at his cousin. “That means death was virtually instantaneous. He didn’t feel it, Laney. He didn’t suffer.”

“Thank God for that, at least.” She closed her eyes as if in prayer.

Across from her, Justine looked more disturbed than ever, her gaze unfocused and unblinking. Her face went even paler than before.

“Are you feeling all right?” Ross asked her, thinking this conversation might have been wasted on a woman so obviously in need of rest. “I can get a deputy.”

“No,” she snapped. “It’s not that. I was just thinking of the crime scene. But I’m afraid I’m mixing up the three—I’m not at my best this morning. So I’ll want to go back and take a look at the notes and photos, everything we have.”

“So you believe me?” Laney sounded hopeful. “You’re thinking this was murder?”

The sheriff rose, but slowly. “I’m thinking all three hangings deserve a second look,” she said, before focusing a sharp glance on Laney. “But if I find out you set up that ‘break-in’ last night to manipulate us—”

“Laney didn’t.” Ross stood, too, interposing himself between his cousin and his former lover. “She wouldn’t. I’m
telling you, I heard the back door close when I came in. And then she was right there behind me a few seconds later.”

Justine arched a dark brow, her skepticism clear. “You know what’s interesting about that?”

“What?” Ross asked, his breath catching at her satisfied expression.