Chapter 11
"Wolves don't lose sleep over the opinion of sheep." ~Aristotle
Axel
“I’m not saying anything until my lawyer arrives.” For two hours now, I have sat in this boring six-by-six room with nothing but two chairs, a table, and a ceiling camera.
The temperature started at 75° but now, it hovers around 90°. Judging from how my shirt sticks to my torso and sweat drips down my face, the humidity must be ninety-percent. With no idea how long it’ll take for my mouthpiece to arrive, I lie on my back under the table and catch a few Z’s.
Sometime later, the door slams and jolts me awake. Disoriented, I have no clue how much time has passed. While I slept, the cops must’ve switched on the air conditioning, a clear sign the games are about to begin.
A Fed, I’ve studied every interrogation trick and am frankly, insulted. “Has my solicitor arrived?”
The officer, a woman near retirement age, shakes her head. “You don’t have to talk, but there’s no law saying I can’t. Please sit.”
I straddle the chair across from her and nod. This is a most dangerous time for a criminal. If I flinch or appear distressed, AI will help them determine what upset me and use it as a focal point in their investigation.
The gray-haired inquisitor smiles, places her wrinkled elbows on the table, and teepees her fingers at her mouth. “Why did you leave your wife alone on your honeymoon?”
I’ve been asking myself the same question. “Lawyer, please.”
“Did you and Brittany Babcock have sex in theTiki Beach Tavern’s restroom?” She removes her reading glasses, wipes them clean, then flicks her gaze to the ceiling camera.
Saying nothing, showing no emotion, I lean forward, cross my arms, and stare back at her.
A poker player, she deals out the victim’s crime scene photos. “Joanne Cormack is a carbon copy of your ex-lover. Whose idea was the threesome? Yours or theirs?”
As my mind whirrs at this new accusation, the detective cackles. “Do you think being an FBI bigshot would prevent us from prosecuting you?”
I’m confused. How did we go from prints on a pocketbook to sex with two women?
“Did it get too physical? If you confess to accidentally killing her, we can reduce the charge to manslaughter. Otherwise, you could be facing life in prison.”
I want to deny everything and tell her to shove these bogus charges up her ass, but this is the kind of reaction she is hoping for; a chink in my armor to get me to start talking.
“Did you know Joanne was a prostitute? From what we’ve discovered, she liked it rough. Was your wife too boring in bed? Is this why you had your ex find you a more interesting hook-up?”
As she degrades my integrity, it becomes harder and harder to keep my trap shut. Where is this coming from? No doubt, the locals have found damning evidence. I pray Trever has the answers once they finally release me.
Dropping the good cop guise, the veteran investigator tosses more disturbing images onto the flat surface. The purse containing my fingerprint lies on top. Another photo displays its contents, including Joanne’s driver’s license and credit cards.
Earlier, at the morgue, I noted how the victim and Brittany had matching bleached blond cuts. Wearing the same shade of lipstick and coverup, the two could be sisters.
“This isn’t the first time you’ve been in trouble, is it? You were an angry kid. Mommy issues.”
The unwanted memories make me bite down on my tongue. My mother beat the shit out of me whenever she could. The one time I fought back, she called the cops. Despite my extensive bruises, the authorities believed the adult in the room. The state should’ve kept my juvenile records hidden. How the hell did these local-yokels get ahold of them?
No matter. My counselor will have a field day devouring these yahoos. I raise one brow, a move I perfected in the mirror, and smile.
Rattled, the tops of her cheeks brighten as she drops her gaze. “This is your last chance. Take my offer of manslaughter.”
“Lawyer.” I neither nod nor shake my head. If they play this back in court, no one can claim I declined or accepted her deal.
Once she collects her pictures, she places them in her folder and stands. At the door, she swivels toward me.
“I still don’t understand why you offered to have the FBI aid in our investigation. You must’ve known we would uncover your guilt.” Shaking her head, she departs and again, I slide under the table, but this time, sleep refuses to come.
Where’s their evidence? Was Joanne hiding in the stalls when Brittany brought us in there? If so, for what reason? Why switch purses? Calming my mind, I close my eyes and recall the fateful evening. The restroom had one dim yellow light, making it hard to see myself. Much like in Europe, the gender- free bathroom contained three stalls. Focused on the Danbury meetup and rattled by my ex, I hadn’t checked them.
Hours later, my lawyer, Andy Quinn, enters the room. Squatting on his heels, he sticks his head under the table. He must’ve left in a hurry. Instead of a designer suit, gold cuff links, and a striped tie, he wears khaki cargo shorts with a white collared shirt.
After he yanks me from my sleeping spot, I stand and hold out my hand. “Thanks for coming.”
The solicitor’s confident grip contradicts his grim countenance. “No problem. Did you say anything to anyone?”
“No. Not a word, but I’m dying to know what they have on me.” A tidal wave of dread threatens to take me out, but I swallow hard and hold my shit together.
Sensing my worry, the experienced and expensive lawyer slaps me on the back. “Hang tight. They’re finding us a private room.”
Once we’re led to a broom closet, I unfold two chairs. Elbows in, he waves an electronic wand and checks for listening devices.
When he’s convinced no one listens in, he opens a recording app on his cell phone and places it on his knees. “Tell me everything.”
I explain the honeymoon beach house, the knock on the door, and Brittany’s proposal. Then, I describe in detail the events at the tavern, including the sexual encounter ruse, my wife’s unexpected arrival, and the assassin who got away.
“So, you never met with her so-called informant.” His question, while logical, makes my fists clench, and ears ring.
Sure, I know I fucked up, and it pisses me off.
“I didn’t, but my wife did.” Using his perfect segue, I mention Danbury in the hotel bar and my cornfield conference.
“How long did you date your ex-partner?” Leaning forward in the claustrophobic space, he studies me, no doubt looking for a reaction.
“We weren’t in a relationship, if that’s what you’re asking. We slept together on and off for perhaps three months. We both agreed the only thing we had in common was a healthy sex drive and didn’t pursue more. I haven’t seen or spoken to her in over two years. Now, she claims we were in love. She’s delusional.” Speaking my truth to an impartial party has a cathartic effect and my mind quiets.
Frowning, Quinn taps a finger on his bare knee. “Last year, I understand you broke a few rules while rescuing Gwen from her now dead ex-husband.”
“At my boss’ instruction. He insisted I go undercover, so to speak.” When I raise my brows, the solicitor chuckles.
“I’m glad this worked out for you. Now, let me tell you what I’ve discovered so far. Joanne was found strangled in the bar’s bathroom soon after you left. I’m sorry, but I have to ask. At any time, did you have sex with Ms. Cormack?” The question throws me, and for a moment, I feel like I’ve entered an alternate reality.
“My God, no. What aren’t you telling me?” Inhaling, I hold my breath and brace for the tsunami.
Sighing, eyes glued to my face, my lawyer removes his elbows from his knees and stretches back. “She had your DNA inside her.”
“Impossible!” Someone set me up. But who and how?
“Did you and Brittany have sex?” The lawyer asks this as one might inquire about the weather.
“Hell to the no.” I rake my hand across my bearded chin, and recall I have an alibi. “Ask her. She’ll tell you.”
“Your ex, my friend, has bolted. I’ve already hired Patten Securities to find her.” His news sends a venomous spike of dread through my veins.
“Have you ever used a sperm bank?” Following the man’s logic, I pause and wish to fuck I could answer in the affirmative. At least then, I could explain how my swimmers ended up in the dead woman.
“No, never.”
“I’m going to need a list of former sex partners.” He hands me a piece of paper, and as I write, long-forgotten faces flash in my mind’s eye.
When finished, I click the pen and frown at my hen scratches. “None of them holds a candle to my wife.”
“Which is how it should be.” As Quinn folds the yellow-lined paper and sticks it in his pocket, dollar signs float in front of my eyes.
This defense lawyer is one of the best, but he doesn’t come cheap. Gwen and I were saving for a house. She’s going to be so disappointed.
Before we go any further, I should explain my financial situation. “Listen, Mr. Quinn…”
“Andy, please.”
“While I appreciate you dropping everything to come to my aid, I’m not sure I can afford your services.”
“Don’t worry about it. Lucky and I go way back. We’ll figure something out.”
“Thank you.” Now, more than ever, I need to find Ledbetter. I can arrange it so Patten and his team get the reward, which can be used to pay my legal fees.