Ride the Lightning Page 10

  Either my tone or my simple politeness registered. The smile was awkward like he was afraid his face might crack, but it was genuine.

  "I'll do my best, ma'am."

  "Please call me Juliana."

  "Pretty name for a pretty lady. What can I tell you?"

  "Who wanted your wife dead and why? Her death was personal."

  The shock spreading across his face told me that no one, not even Maddie, had ever asked him that simple question. He dropped his head to his hands and when he looked up again his eyes were wet with tears.

  "I have lain in my bed every night since I've been here asking myself that. The god's honest truth is that I don't know."

  There was no nice way to ask the next question. "Billy Ray, could she have been cheating on you with somebody from the club where she worked?"

  "No," was all he said.

  My raised eyebrows must have conveyed the question.

  "We were happy. I loved her to the moon and back, and she felt the same. Yeah, she danced, but she was no whore. We needed another year of us both working all the overtime we could get, and we'd have had everything paid off. We were going to start a business. I'm good with engines and motors and she was taking a bookkeeping class. We were going to add to the house and have a couple of kids. Sarah Jean wasn't just a good wife. She was a good woman. I don't care what that paper I signed said; I never accused her of anything. She was my angel."

  The raw emotion in his voice cemented my resolve.

  "This is going to sound weird. Please describe the living room for me."

  His rambling answer broke my heart. Drawing on the metal table with his fingertip, he placed every bit of furniture, every knick-knack, and every detail correctly. He'd obviously been there in his mind a thousand times.

  "What about the living room rug?"

  "It was oval, with pink roses on it. She liked the way it looked on the hardwood floors. Why do you ask?"

  Maddie and I looked at each other. She pursed her lips and nodded. Our exchange wasn't missed by Billy Ray. For a second, he looked like the cop he'd been. The problem is that I wasn't ready to show all my cards yet.

  The half-lie came easy. "Because that rug is missing and isn't on the evidence voucher. We're nailing down the details."

  I was afraid that he'd keep pursuing it, but to my relief and surprise, he said, "Did you find her diary?"

  The diary again.

  I have a good poker face and acted like I'd never heard of it before. "No, we didn't. Where should I look and why is it important?"

  "She's always kept one. All the way back to when she was a girl. She wrote in it every night. The days before she was killed, and I swear on my mother's memory that I had nothing to do with it, she'd been writing more than usual."

  "Where did she keep it?"

  "I don't know."

  I must not have as good of a poker face as I thought because he laughed.

  "It was a game with her. She never let me see where she kept it."

  I thought back to the small house. If the diary was even there, it could be in any one of a hundred places. Then an idea hit me.

  "Mr. Simpson, I believe you. I believe you didn't kill your wife. I also believe she wasn't cheating on you. There is no way something like that would stay a secret at the dance club. It also wasn't random. It was too brutal and too personal. That leaves two choices. Either she discovered something that needed to stay a secret or that someone needed you out of commission. What were you assigned to around the time of her death?"

  He folded his arms behind his head and stared into the harsh fluorescent lights. Maddie put down her notepad and fidgeted in the silence. I maintained my hard-won lawyer calm but still jumped when he finally spoke.

  "There wasn't really anything special beyond typical mid-sized town police stuff. Breaking up fights, arresting drunk drivers, and pulling husbands off their wives when things got loud. You know, the usual."

  I kept my voice measured. He was deep in his train of thought, and I didn't want to interrupt his memories, only prompt and direct them. "Was there anything new or unusual going on?"

  "Come to think of it, there was."

  The seconds crawled while I let him gather his thoughts.

  "We'd been arresting college kids with a new kind of dope. Punks that'd do anything to get high. No clue where it was coming from. Fights and overdoses and thefts were on the rise. I'd popped a truck driver for his third DUI, and he had drugs on him. It came in tiny glass bottles. He said he could tell me the source in exchange for a deal."

  At that moment, my mouth was so dry that I would have traded my mother's Houston penthouse for the water bottle I'd left in Maddie's car. This was the crux of an interview. The moment when everything changed.

  "What happened then?"

  "Not much. I let the police chief know, and he passed the offer on to the prosecutor. I'd heard they brought the sheriff in because this guy lived out in the county. Shit went sideways a couple of weeks later so I don't have any more information."

  Maddie's knuckles were white on her pen as she transcribed her client's words. She knew what I was about to ask.

  "Do you remember the name of the truck driver?"

  "Jeez, that was a lifetime ago. He worked for a company that moved chemical waste and stuff like old motor oil from businesses in the county. He used to work there before he got the new job. Cyrus something. In fact, back then, he used to run with one of Sarah Jean's regulars, some dude named Duane."

  A face appeared in my mind, angry and sweating under the bill of a baseball cap.

  "Duane Edwards?"

  "Yeah, that's him. How'd you know?"

  I'd made a fundamental error. To Billy Ray, I was a Texas lawyer interested in his case. He didn't know about my connection to the club.

  Thinking fast, I said, "We've been looking at the club, and the name came up in the credit card receipts."

  I'm not sure if my lie satisfied him or not, but he didn't persist. Prison has a way of killing off a person's curiosity and desire to question authority. I decided to change the subject and wrap up the interview. There was no nice or easy way to ask the last question.

  "Why did you confess?"

  "I wish I could tell you. I don't even remember doing it."

  That got my attention. I gestured at him to continue.

  "Funny, I told all this to my so-called lawyer. No one else has ever asked."

  I leaned toward him. "I'm asking."

  "I've had a lot of time to piece it together. Stuff comes back to me in flashes, but a lot of it is gone. I stopped at the Lightning. Sarah wasn't there that night. I wanted to have a drink after my shift. There were other police and deputies there. A couple of beers, no big deal, we did it all the time. Next thing I remember is I'm in the back of a sheriff's cruiser in a bloody shirt and they're telling me I killed my wife. Fast forward, I don't know how long, and I'm awake in a cell and the prosecutor is saying murder one and asking me if I wanted to plead out and save the state the cost of a trial. I'm not shittin' you. I've seen the vid and I don't remember any of it. Nobody believed me, not even my shitbag lawyer."

  I thought back to the taped confession. It was a rambling mess that made sure it highlighted all the details of the fight, the beating, and Sarah Jean's death after rough sex on their bed. All the details that didn't mesh with the realities of the crime scene. I also remembered the soda can that rarely left Simpson's hand during the entire performance.

  "I know this is going to sound crazy, but do you remember having a dry mouth when you came to?"

  "Like the fucking Sahara. I was so thirsty for the next couple of days that the lukewarm piss out of the faucet in my cell tasted like it was from God's own pond. Why?"

  "I'm not sure yet. Only a theory I'm chewing on. We'll talk soon."

  The man who left the interview room stood straighter and walked taller than the surly dickbag who'd insulted me an hour before. I wasn't sure I could make good on anything. Still
, he knew I believed him and that carried weight.

  Maddie and I stayed quiet during the shuttle ride back and until the gates had closed behind us. Even a mid-list criminal defense attorney like her knows the walls have ears. When the county line was behind us, she pulled over and faced me.

  "What was that last part all about?"

  "It's not something I've seen often, but I have seen it. I'm sure Billy Ray was drugged. Specifically, I think they dosed him with scopolamine. Rohypnol is also a possibility, but this sounds like Devil's Breath."

  Her silence asked the question.

  "They call it the zombie drug. That's hyperbolic, but if you know what you're doing, it makes the subject open to suggestion and unable to resist. It also fucks up memory formation, and the kicker is that it leaves you with a parched mouth. Remember how he was guzzling soda all through the interview?"

  "Would the cops have that on hand?"

  "It was a truth serum used by interrogators back in the twenties. It's certainly not SOP anymore. It's easy enough to make if you have the ingredients and the skill not to kill the subject. A halfway decent chemist could make it. The same kind of chemist who could purify solvents into a designer drug."

  "What are you talking about?"

  "Let's get on the road to that law firm of yours. I need to talk to Sasha, and I'm ready for a drink."

  CHAPTER 27

  I wasn't sure what I expected when she turned on the street bordering the placid lake. Around me, was a struggling neighborhood of empty lots mixed in with newer homes and a lot of FOR SALE signs. In short, I wasn't seeing success. I didn't say anything but sensed Maddie's amusement.

  The reason behind her humor was apparent when she pulled into a drive lined with trees. At the top of a knoll stood a palace fit for a robber baron.

  Maddie popped the trunk and said, "Welcome to the firm. Yeah, I could rent a house in town, but why?"

  I've been inside a lot of mansions but had never seen anything quite like this. The center front of the house was a three-story leaded glass atrium with balconies on every floor. The lingering sunlight turned the panes into refracting crystals throwing countless rainbows around the vast space. An expansive wraparound porch shaded the first floor and door-sized sliding glass panels caught every breeze.

  "Wow," was all I could say.

  "Be it ever so humble. Drop your bag and let's go find Jo. This time of day, she'll be in the bar. It's almost cocktail hour."

  "You don't have to ask me twice. Lead the way."

  The bar turned out to be a screened veranda that spanned the back of the house. Large trees kept the Mississippi sun at bay, and a green lawn sloped toward a cliff overlooking the water. A tall woman looked up from the fruit she was chopping when we entered. Her cargo shorts and polo shirt seemed out of place in all this opulence.

  "I would like to introduce Juliana Martin," Maddie said with a comic flourish.

  She put down the knife and wiped her hands.

  "My business cards say Joanna Sinclair. Please call me Jo."

  I shook her slightly sticky hand, and she went back to her fruit. "It's daiquiri night. You don't have any weird allergies do you?"

  "No, I don't. And allow me to say that this house is stunning."

  "It is off the chain, isn't it? I can't claim to have contributed much. My great-great- grandparents were kind of a big deal around here. I'm the current lucky occupant with a trust fund that pays the bills and upkeep on it. Grab a chair. Maddie, ring the bell and summon the clans."

  She hit an intercom button and said, "Come on, girls. It's five o'clock somewhere, and we have a guest."

  Sasha waggled her eyebrows at me and plopped into one of the overstuffed wicker chairs. She was followed by an intense younger woman introduced to me as Gina Wallace, the resident family law jock. No one drank until we all had a glass of colorful frozen froth.

  Jo raised her drink and said, "Aunt Raylene is at bingo tonight, so we may as well get started. Ladies, men may work from sun to sun, but women's work is never done, unless of course, it's cocktail hour. Welcome to our guest."

  We clinked glasses and the rum-laced sweetness slid down my throat. I already liked this place.

  * * *

  A soft knock and the squeak of antique hinges pulled me into consciousness.

  "What time is it?" I stretched and threw back the fluffy quilt.

  "I'm guessing it's an hour later than you think it is. I decided you could use the sleep," said Maddie as she handed me a cup of coffee.

  "Freestyling again. I swear I get no respect from my crew at all."

  The coffee was strong and swirled with sweet cream. The tiniest bit of a hangover hovered behind my eyes, but it wasn't unpleasant. Fueled by pizza and daiquiris, the laughter lasted until the small hours of the morning. After the second drink, the party morphed into an informal staff meeting where they discussed and riffed on the firm's cases. It got funnier with every round. I let Maddie give the update on Billy Ray's situation. I was holding more cards than I was willing to reveal at this point. Even with my caution, I thoroughly enjoyed the company. Maddie showed me to a guest room with a large brass bed and charming old-fashioned bathroom, and I was out as soon as I hit the pillow. She was right about one thing. I'd enjoyed the sleep.

  "Come down to the kitchen when you're ready. Breakfast is every woman for herself around here. Gina has left for the downtown office, Sasha's in her lab, and Jo would like to talk to you before we head back to Biloxi. Turn right at the bottom of the staircase and follow the smell."

  "Will do. See you in a few."

  "Take your time," was all she said as she closed the door.

  After a quick shower in the elaborate tile-lined enclosure, I slicked my hair back into a braid, dressed in another iteration of yesterday's biker black, and headed to the kitchen. I wasn't even close to being topped off with coffee.

  * * *

  After another mug and a blueberry muffin, I got lost making my way to Jo's lair on the top floor. I returned to the balcony overlooking the atrium to get my bearings, boggled by the sheer size and grandeur of this house. I was ready to take another run at it when I heard footsteps behind me.

  "Pretty intimidating isn't it? Follow me."

  It appeared that Jo's fashion sense consisted of send me one of every color. Today's polo shirt was peacock blue. After several twists and turns, she opened a set of eight-foot-tall pocket doors.

  "Welcome to mission control. Please take a seat. Would you like some tea?"

  I sank into a chintz armchair and said, "I'm a lawyer. It has caffeine. You don't have to ask."

  After she disappeared into what I assumed was a kitchen nook, I checked out the surroundings. This was the master suite for the mogul who'd built this place. A wall of windows with a balcony overlooked the lake. A canopy bed was visible through a door at the other end of a room that was roughly twice the size of my apartment back at the club. My mother's high-rise roost in Houston seemed nouveau cheap compared to the inlaid gilt wood and rose quartz accents in the door and window frames. A huge desk, shockingly modern against the art deco décor, sported three widescreen monitors, a pair of keyboards, and stacks of files.

  "I do appellate work and transactional federal cases. I leave the courtroom to Gina and Maddie. I'm not much on the dress code."

  I accepted the tea. I'd expected a wafer-thin Victorian set. Instead, she handed me a heavy mug emblazoned with Lawyers Do It In Their Briefs.

  Jo turned her office chair around to face me. "What's so funny?" she said.

  "Nothing. What can I do for you other than thank you for your hospitality?"

  "It was the least I could do. I wanted to apologize for Maddie's stunt in your office when she threatened Agent Price. I didn't know about it, or I would have stopped her."

  So, she'd been bluffing.

  "I'll counter with an apology for pulling a shotgun on one of your associates. I was in a bad mood that day."

  "Shall we call it even? I wa
nt to thank you for this. I can write it up. It's a compelling story, and I know how to get a judge's attention. But I have to have some breadcrumbs to follow. Time's running out."

  The vision of the party paperwork popped into my head. "I know. I have to be honest with you. All we have right now is a fucked up crime scene and a lot of suppositions."

  "You've won cases on less. I've been doing my reading. You were something else back in Dallas. A serious hot rod. More tea?"

  She wasn't the first one to say that, but it felt like a million years ago. "Sure, and while we're being coy, I have a feeling that if I ran a PACER search, I'd find your name all over serious law for serious people. You're the type of hired gun we used to bring in to tidy up the paperwork."

  She raised her eyebrows and said, "Guilty as charged. Okay, we got the bona fides out of the way. I'm working on the ineffective assistance of counsel argument. You asked good questions at the prison, and Maddie's notes are useful. I can tie them back to the police statements and the transcript. Also the forensic work you did. However, I need more and I need it within a couple of weeks to make this work."

  "I'll get right on that. How about I solve it?"

  She didn't take the bait. "Friday's good. That would give me the weekend."

  I wanted to tell her my suspicions. I also knew she was smart enough to already suspect it. Without proof, the information didn't give her anything. It would be just talking, and Jo Sinclair didn't seem like a woman who wasted words.

  I stood. "Then I'd better get back to work."

  "Don't forget to stop and see Sasha or she'll be insufferable."

  "Where is she hidden in this maze? She strikes me as a basement dweller."

  "Close. I let her convert the old carriage house into a mad scientist lab. Go out the back door of the bar and follow the path. It's only a minute or so. Close enough for convenience, but far enough away that I don't have to listen to her thrash metal. I'm more of a Sinatra girl."

  "I can honestly say I have never been anywhere near a law firm like this one."