Desperate Girls

3

BRYNN SAT amid a mountain of pillows, her files spread out around her on the king-size bed. She was supposed to be prepping for trial tonight, but she’d spent the past two hours digging for info on Jen’s case.

A shrill noise made her jump. She looked at the phone on the nightstand. No one was supposed to know she was here.

Another cringe-inducing sound, and she grabbed the phone. “Yes?”

“Hey, it’s me.” Bulldog.

She slid her laptop aside and leaned back against the pillows. “How’d you find me?”

“Are you kidding? I’m a fucking detective. How’s the Ritz?”

Ha. She and Ross were holed up in an extended-stay hotel north of Houston with a bunch of cranky businessmen.

Not that Brynn had socialized much. She’d purchased dinner in the gift shop before coming straight up to her room.

“It’s peachy,” she told him. “Where are you? And please tell me you’ve got something on Perez.”

“I do, but you’re not going to like it.”

“Damn.” She grabbed the single-serving wine bottle on the nightstand and took a swig.

“I talked to his baby mama again this morning. She still hasn’t seen him, but I tracked down one of his buddies, and sounds like Perez was talking about Vegas.”

“Vegas?” Brynn plunked the bottle down on the nightstand. “Tell me you’re kidding.”

“No. I’m working on confirmation.”

A sharp knock sounded at the door.

“Bull, hang on, okay?”

She crossed the room and peered through the peephole to see Ross standing in the hall, wearing jeans and his SMU Law T-shirt and holding a pizza box. Brynn unlatched the door and let him in.

“Bulldog’s on the phone,” she told him. “He thinks Perez might be in Las Vegas.”

“Vegas? What the hell?”

She grabbed the phone again and sat on the bed. “I thought he lost his job last month,” she said to Bulldog. “How does he have the money for Vegas?”

“I don’t know, but I plan to find out.”

Ross walked over and tapped the button for speakerphone. “Bull, hey, it’s Ross. Are you going up there?”

“If I have to.”

Ross looked at Brynn. “Reggie’s going to freak.”

“I’m freaking,” she said. “This guy’s our key witness. Without him, our defense collapses.”

“Calm down,” Bulldog said. “I’ll find the guy. You won’t need him until week two, earliest.”

“Yeah, but I can’t refer to his testimony in my opening statement and then have him not show up.” Brynn squeezed her eyes shut and tried to breathe.

“He’ll be there,” he said. “But I might have to go get him, all right? So put in a word with Reggie for me.”

Brynn gritted her teeth. She didn’t need this right now. Now, on top of everything else, she had to persuade her boss to cough up money for a trip to Las Vegas.

“Brynn?”

“I’ll talk to him,” she said. “If he won’t cover it, I will. We need that testimony.”

“I’ll find him. Trust me.”

He hung up, and Brynn looked at Ross.

“If Bulldog doesn’t find him, we’re screwed,” he said.

“I realize that. I’ll pay for the trip if Reggie won’t.”

“It’s not the cost I’m worried about.”

She could tell Ross was worried about the same thing she was. How did their deadbeat witness suddenly rustle up the cash to go to Vegas? The timing was beyond convenient.

Ross’s gaze landed on her luggage.

“Three suitcases, Brynn?”

“Yep.”

She didn’t mention she had a hanging bag in the closet, too.

“And what’s with all the bankers’ boxes?”

“Case files.”

“I thought Nicole had everything?”

Nicole was the paralegal coming to Dallas with them. She planned to be there for the beginning phase of the trial and then head back to Pine Rock.

“She has some of it,” Brynn said. “The most important stuff is with me.”

“Wolfe’s crew is going to need a moving van for all that. Ever heard of packing light? All I have is a garment bag.”

“Yeah, and you’re a guy. I need more than two ties and a pair of wingtips.”

She refused to feel guilty. She liked to have choices. She’d packed nine suits, twelve blouses, and a mere seven pairs of shoes. And she wasn’t ruling out going back for more if the trial dragged on.

Ross shook his head, and his attention landed on the computer sitting open on the bed. She watched his brow furrow as he read the headline on the news article. He leaned over and tapped open another article. And another. He clicked the page for the medical examiner’s office, and his frown deepened.

“Don’t tell me you’re looking for the autopsy report.”

“I just want to understand the basics,” she said. Which was more or less true. But the basics had led to some very disturbing details.

“Don’t do it.” He shot her a worried look. “You were friends with her. We both were. You shouldn’t read that stuff.”

Brynn closed her computer. She didn’t want to tell him it was too late. She’d already talked to a contact in the Sheridan Heights Police Department who had shared preliminary details from the autopsy over the phone. Jen had suffered two gunshot wounds to the abdomen, point-blank range.

“It doesn’t feel like Corby to me.”

Ross rested his hands on his hips and tipped his head back. “Brynn, come on.”

“Just listen.”

“I don’t want to hear this. I don’t want to remember her this way.”

“Neither do I, but I’m sorry, there are some things you have to know.” She waited for him to look at her. “Jen was shot at close range, for one thing. She nearly bled out on her floor and then died on the way to the hospital. That’s what the investigator told me.”

Ross just looked at her.

“Corby likes knives. We know that. This MO doesn’t fit with him at all. And where’d he get a gun within twenty-four hours of escaping from prison? It doesn’t add up. Plus, his were sexual homicides. All of his victims were raped. Jen wasn’t.” Brynn shook her head. “I don’t think this is Corby. It’s someone else, and everyone’s caught up in this manhunt for Corby, assuming he did this, when the person who really killed Jen could be walking away scot-free.”

“You really believe that?” Ross asked.

“We’re defense attorneys. You, of all people, should know we can’t rush to judgment, especially not at the beginning of an investigation.”

Ross picked up the pizza box.

“Where are you going?”

“To my room to work,” he said. “I know you, Brynn. It’s pointless to argue when you get this way. You get some idea, and you’re like a dog with a bone.” He held up the box. “Last chance for mushroom double-pepperoni. Want any?”

“No.”

“See you tomorrow. And you really should stop reading those reports about Jen. It isn’t healthy.” He walked out without looking back. Brynn stared at the door for a few moments, then latched it.

She went to the window and peered through the thick curtains at the crowded parking lot. Beyond it was an interstate busy with Saturday night traffic, people headed out to bars and restaurants. She thought of her sister and her brother-in-law’s college friend. She could be having Tex-Mex and margaritas right now, but instead she was working. Again. And it wasn’t just because of the trial Monday. Not even her sister knew that she’d worked every Saturday for the past seven months. It was her routine. Her choice.

Her coping mechanism.

When she worked, she didn’t have to think about what a mess she’d made of her personal life.

Another shrill noise made her jump. Cursing, she grabbed the phone. “Yeah?”

Silence.

Then “Ms. Holloran?”

“Yes?”

“This is Erik Morgan.”

“How did you—” She didn’t finish. Of course he knew where she was—he was picking her up in the morning.

“Everything all right there?”

“Fine. Yes. I’m just getting some work done.”

“I won’t keep you,” he said. “I wanted to let you know we processed your cell phone, and everything looks clean.”

“Clean?”

“No bugs or viruses or extraneous tracking software.”

She sank down onto the bed, unable to believe she was having this conversation. Sure, she knew phones could be used to track people, but she couldn’t really believe someone would do it to her. This whole thing seemed surreal. Imaginary.

But there was nothing imaginary about Jen’s death. Because of her job, Jen had always been careful about her security. And yet someone had broken into her home and shot her.

“Thanks for the update.” Brynn tried to sound casual.

“I’ll have it back to you in the morning.”

“All right.”

“Eight o’clock,” he reminded her.

“I’ll be ready,” she said with confidence.

But she wasn’t ready for any of this.

Lindsey Leary knew it was bad the second she set foot in the house. The humid air was thick with the coppery scent of blood. Lindsey made her way down the hallway, her paper shoe covers rasping softly against the hardwood floor.

She stopped in the doorway, and the officer behind her whistled.

“Damn. You ever seen so much blood?”

She tore her gaze away from the stain on the floor to look at the shattered patio door. A sheet of black plastic had been taped over the opening.

“Linds?”

She glanced at Dillon. “Huh?”

“You ever seen anything like this?”

“No.”

Although, actually, she had. Looking at the floor again, she remembered visiting her uncle’s farm in South Texas. He’d just slaughtered a pig, and Lindsey had arrived in time to see it being butchered in a giant cast-iron kettle by the back porch. The blood on the ground had been a similar shade of dark red, and Lindsey hadn’t been able to eat bacon for years.

She stepped closer to the stain. Bandages and other detritus from the paramedics lay scattered across the floor, and Lindsey didn’t envy the CSIs who’d had to sort through all this mess.

Dillon stepped back, covering his nose. “This heat isn’t helping.”

No, it wasn’t. Lindsey looked across the room at the busted-out door. Gaps in the plastic had let flies inside and let the air-conditioning escape. Today’s temp had hit one hundred degrees, and the interior of the house had probably gotten close to that.

Lindsey dug into the pocket of her blazer and realized she’d left her flashlight in her car. Before she could ask, Dillon handed over the Maglite from his duty belt. It was big enough to double as a club.

Lindsey scooped her long brown hair over her shoulder to keep it out of the way as she crouched down to examine the floor. Normally, she wore a ponytail to work, but she’d been on her way out to a bar when she’d gotten the call from Max Gorman. The veteran detective had asked for Lindsey’s take on the crime scene, and she’d been so flattered that she’d snagged a patrol officer and come over here on her night off.

“What’s with the glass there?” Dillon asked as she swept the beam of light over the shards. “That’s got to be, what, fifteen feet from the patio door?”

“I was just wondering that.” Lindsey stood up. She walked into the kitchen, where yellow evidence markers denoted places where CSIs had collected evidence.

Lindsey pulled her phone out and scrolled through the photos from Max. She found the one she was looking for, a shot of a mostly full bottle of merlot that had been sitting on the counter beside a bottle opener when detectives arrived at the scene. The bottle was now at the lab, being run for prints.

In Lindsey’s mind, what was more interesting than what had been found at this crime scene was what hadn’t been found: fingerprints, footprints, hair from the perpetrator. They’d found no murder weapon, slugs, or even shell casings. No communication from the killer, such as a note or a symbolic object, which might have been expected if you bought into the working assumption that Judge Ballard was murdered by the vengeful escaped convict James Corby.

But Lindsey didn’t buy into that. Not yet. And she didn’t like assumptions. Max didn’t, either, which was why he had wanted her opinion on this case.

She looked at the bottle opener again. “You know anything about wine?” She glanced at Dillon.

“I’m a Bud man.” He smiled and patted his gut. “Can’t you tell?”

“Yeah, I’m not much of a wine drinker, but this looks pricey.” She walked over and showed him the photograph of the bottle, something from Argentina.

Dillon shook his head, and Lindsey stepped over to open the fridge. Not much in it besides a few diet sodas, a Caesar salad kit, and a package of expensive T-bone steaks. Looked like Jen Ballard was trying to impress her date. On a hunch, Lindsey stepped over and peeked inside the oven, where she found two charred potatoes. A detective or a CSI had probably switched off the oven after showing up at the scene.

The wine told a story, Lindsey felt sure. She headed back through the living room, careful not to step on any shards of glass, and went back to the bedroom wing of the town house. The first bedroom had been converted into an office. The second was the master suite, which included a seating alcove and an attached bath.

Lindsey stepped into the bathroom, noting the Oriental rug on the floor. She couldn’t imagine springing for something like that and then sticking it in her bathroom, where it was sure to get trashed from all the dirt and grossness she routinely brought home on her shoes.

A hairbrush and a tube of lipstick sat atop the granite vanity alongside a neat row of perfume bottles, all French. Lindsey eyed the hairbrush and thought about Jen Ballard standing here brushing her hair in the final minutes of her life.

Lindsey stepped into the closet. Floor-to-ceiling shoe cubbies, built-in dresser. The closet could have been in a magazine, except that it was filled with dark pantsuits and boring black pumps. She opened the top dresser drawer.

The judge’s lingerie was another story—lacy and lots of colors.

She slid the drawer shut, feeling inexplicably guilty. She was a detective, for heaven’s sake.

“Anything interesting?” Dillon asked from the doorway.

“Maybe.”

Lindsey stood for a moment, staring at the vanity and remembering the crime-scene photo of the wineglass that had been sitting there. A bath towel lay crumpled on the floor beside the shower.

“So, I’m thinking she comes home, pours herself a drink, and puts the potatoes in the oven. Then she comes back here to shower and get ready.” She walked back down the hallway, retracing her steps to the bloodstain near the kitchen. “She reaches the living room, and he confronts her.”

“So the question is, was he here already, or did he break in while she was showering?” Dillon said.

That wasn’t the only question.

“Would have been noisy, breaking through that door,” Lindsey said.

“Maybe she didn’t hear him because of the running water.” Dillon leaned against the wall. Despite the beer paunch, he was a nice-looking man, with clear blue eyes and a trustworthy air about him. Not that Lindsey was looking or anything, because although they’d started in the same academy class, she now outranked him.

“I don’t know,” she said. “I’m leaning more toward him breaking in beforehand at some point, maybe while she was at work.”

He tipped up an eyebrow. “Then lying in wait?”

“Possibly.”

Lindsey crossed the living room, stopping beside a piano. The bench was pulled out, and on it sat a booklet of sheet music. Lindsey leaned closer. “‘Für Elise,’” she said, switching on the flashlight to reveal tiny bits of glass on the paper.

“What’s that?”

“The song.”

“You play?”

“No.”

Taking out her phone, she went through the living-room shots Max had sent. No one had photographed the sheet music, or if they had, Max hadn’t thought it important enough to send.

“Hey, you mind holding the flashlight?” She handed the light back to Dillon. “Shine it at an oblique angle, so the glass shows up.”

Dillon crouched beside her and held the light as Lindsey snapped several photos with her phone.

“You’ve got a theory, Linds. I can tell.”

“Maybe.” She stood up.

“See?” He smiled and stood, too. “This is why you’re the detective and I’m still a lowly uniform.”

She shot him a look. “You’re a uniform because you like women falling at your feet.” She took the flashlight back and returned to the patio door, sweeping the beam over the floor.

“You think the crime-scene techs missed the bits of glass on the sheet music there?” Dillon asked.

“It’s possible.”

“So . . . you’re thinking what?”

“I’m thinking . . .” She glanced around. “Questions, mostly. Why is there glass on the floor here by the door, but there’s none on the floor by the piano? And then there’s more glass there by the kitchen, where she was shot and killed?”

“Maybe the guy tracked it in with him?”

She walked over to the piano bench and stared down at the sheet music.

“Linds, come on.” Dillon checked his watch. “We’re not getting any younger, and I’ve got to get back.”

“I’m thinking . . . she comes home, pours a drink. Maybe she’s distracted or in a hurry, and she doesn’t notice the patio door is busted out.”

“So the killer’s already inside. Why doesn’t he ambush her right then?”

“I don’t know. Maybe he wants to draw it out. So she goes back to the bedroom to get ready for her date. Maybe he watches her undress and get in the shower. Then he comes back in here, scoops up some glass with the sheet music, and scatters it here on the floor where she’ll notice it for sure when she walks back into the kitchen. When she does, he’s waiting there. Her look of surprise, her fear, that’s what gets him off.”

Dillon stared at her. “Scary.”

“What?”

“The way your mind works.” He shook his head. “How do you come up with that?”

“Just . . . look at the scene.” Lindsey swept the flashlight over the floor, and something glinted under the piano. She crouched down and aimed the beam at it.

“Dillon.”

“I’ll be damned.” He knelt beside her. “How the hell did they miss that?”