"Rosie cleaned the house that morning, left at noon. So the house was empty all afternoon. Maybe one of those workers came in, got the layout, robbed the place, took the knife, came back later and killed Trey."
"You think those prints on the kitchen counter belong to one of those construction workers?" Bobby said.
"They'd have big hands. And they had a direct line of sight to the house, they would've seen everyone coming and going. They'd know Trey had fancy cars, money … and that they were out of town a lot."
"But if he left his prints in the kitchen, why not somewhere else in the house? And on the knife? And as far as we know, nothing was taken. Why would he come back just to stab Trey?"
Scott shook his head. "I don't know. But those construction workers are our only suspects."
"Rebecca's prints are on the murder weapon," Bobby said.
"She's innocent."
"Shawanda's fingerprints were on the murder weapon, the gun that killed Clark McCall—you thought she was guilty."
"I was wrong. I'm not going to make the same mistake again."
"What if this time it's not a mistake?"
"Bobby, you know her. You think she could've done that?"
"Scotty, I knew her thirteen years ago, when we were in law school. I don't know her now. All I know is her prints are on the knife that killed Trey Rawlins. That alone will get her life in prison." Bobby exhaled a cloud of cigar smoke, which Karen waved away. "Look, Scotty, I know criminal defense lawyers represent guilty people all the time—but we don't."
Scott turned back to Karen. "You never met Rebecca until yesterday. You interviewed her this morning. What's your evaluation?"
"She seemed credible. She shops all day, comes home, they go to dinner, Trey proposes, they get drunk, have sex on the beach—DNA will prove up that—and they go to bed at eleven. Preliminary autopsy report puts time of death between midnight and three. So an hour or two after they go to bed, she suddenly decides to stab him with a butcher knife? I don't buy it. And I think she'd make a good witness. She was very poised."
"Too poised," Bobby said. "If you'd been murdered five days ago, I wouldn't be speaking in complete sentences yet."
Karen smiled at him. "That's sweet."
"She's still in shock," Scott said. "This morning on the beach, she broke down. But I'm not sure we can put her on the stand."
"Scotty, if she doesn't want to spend the rest of her life in prison, she's got to take the stand and tell the jury she didn't do it," Bobby said. "And if she didn't, we've got to tell the jury who did. She had the means—the knife was in the kitchen—and the opportunity—Trey was sleeping in bed next to her—so it comes down to motive. Why would she do it? No will, no life insurance, no joint assets … and now she's homeless. She stood to lose everything and did."
"I'm running asset searches," Karen said. "And guys, I think we need to dig into Trey Rawlins big time. Boy hides his porn, might be something else he's hiding."
"Guns, porn, Viagra—not exactly the all-American boy in those commercials."
"Actually, Scotty," Bobby said, "that is all-American stuff today. But it doesn't fit his public image, drinking chocolate milk and cheering up sick kids, which gives us something to work with—juries hate two-faced defendants … and victims. Except you told the D.A. you wouldn't put Trey on trial."
"I know." Scott turned to Karen. "You're right. The 'good Trey' we saw on TV might not be the real Trey. Bobby, you go over to his country club tomorrow, find out what they know. Karen, you do your searches, dig up everything you can on Trey … and while you're at it, find out what you can about the judge. Looks like she's going to be on the prosecution team. Carlos, you hang out with those construction workers, see what they know. I'm going to see Trey's accountant. Anything else?"
Karen glanced at Bobby who glanced at Carlos who glanced at Scott.
"Spit it out."
"We've been thinking," Bobby said. "Maybe she should take a polygraph. We could find a private guy, keep it confidential. If she fails, we bury it. If she passes, we take it to the D.A. And at least we'd know what we're dealing with."
"And if she refuses?"
"That tells us what we need to know, too."
Scott considered the idea for a moment then sighed. "Find someone, Karen."
Maria grimaced and grunted, and a foul smell suddenly filled the air. Scott stood and handed the baby to Bobby.
"Here. You need the practice."
Bobby held the baby up and peeked inside her diaper. He made a face.
"Shit—that ain't guacamole."
Scott stepped to the railing and stared out to sea. The sun was orange at the horizon and shot yellow streaks across the water, the waves broke into whitecaps and rolled lazily ashore, the heat of the day had eased and the evening promised to be pleasant. Any other summer, this would be the perfect vacation. But not this summer.
"Bobby, maybe I am here on a guilt trip. I don't know. But I'm doing this because I don't think she's a murderer and because I don't want Boo to visit her mother in prison … and because I'm responsible for her."
"She's not your wife anymore."
"She's the mother of my child. I'll always be responsible for her. You'll understand, when that baby is born."
Scott watched Rebecca with the girls on the beach. If he didn't defend her, if he didn't at least try to save her life, and she spent the rest of her life in prison, he—and Boo—would serve out the sentence with her. He could do the time—he had already served two years—but he couldn't do that to Boo.
"Bobby, I've got to do this. You and Karen don't. It's okay with me if you want to go back to Dallas."
"Like that's gonna happen."
He stuck a fist out to Scott. They bumped knuckles, a male-bonding ritual.
"We're brothers, Scotty."
"Thanks. Now let's find the guy who put those prints on the kitchen counter. He's the killer."
THIRTEEN
On the morning of September 8, 1900, thirty-seven thousand people lived on the Island, Galveston was the financial and shipping center of the southwestern United States, and the Strand in downtown was known as the Wall Street of the Southwest.
By the morning of September 9, 1900, six thousand people were dead, the Strand sat under fifteen feet of water, and Galveston lay in ruins. The "Great Storm"—a Category 4 hurricane packing one-hundred-forty-miles-per-hour winds—had come ashore during the night. A hundred years later, that storm still ranked as the deadliest natural disaster in U.S. history, and Galveston still had not recovered its former glory.
"I'm still in shock," the accountant said.
At nine the next morning, Scott sat in Tom Taylor's office located a block down from the Grand Opera House and above an art gallery in a renovated Victorian building on Postoffice Street in the Strand historical district. Tom had been Trey's CPA.
"I can't believe he's dead."
Tom Taylor looked more like the lead singer for the Beach Boys than a certified public accountant. He wore jeans, a wild shirt, and a white puka shell necklace. His skin was tanned and his hair long and gray and held back by blue reading glasses pushed up over his forehead. His face was grim, and his hands were small.
"You really gonna do that? Defend your ex?"
"Apparently."
"Well, I called Rex to make sure it was okay for me to talk to you, then Melvyn, since he's representing the estate. He said there's no accountant-client privilege, said you could subpoena me and the records anyway. So what do you want to know?"
"Who killed Trey?"
"That detective, on the morning show, he said your wife did."
"Ex-wife. She didn't."
"So, what, you're searching for the real killer, like Harrison Ford in that
Fugitive
movie? How does that involve me?"
"You handled Trey's money. People kill for money."
"And love."
"I'm betting on money."
"I suppose you would."
"How long had you known Trey?"
"Since he was born. I grew up with his dad, Jim Rawlins. Rex and Jim and me, we went to Kirwin High School together, played golf … Jim was the club pro."
"Rex said his parents died in a car accident."
Tom gave a somber nod. "Six years ago. They were driving home from Austin, Trey's college graduation. He was all set to turn pro, but their deaths hit him hard. The boy was lost without his dad to coach him. Came home and started drinking, didn't stop for two years. I'd drive the seawall, see him sitting out on a jetty, drinking alone."
"How'd he get it back together?"
"One day he just showed up at the club, started practicing again. Took him two years to get his game back. He worked up at that Dallas country club—" Tom grimaced. "Sorry. Anyway, the rest is history."
"Did Trey have problems with anyone?"
"What kind of problems?"
"Lawsuits, enemies …"
"You'll have to ask Melvyn about lawsuits, but we don't do enemies here on the Island, Scott. We're Sin City, live and let live—hell, you gotta be laid-back to live on a big sandbar waiting for the next hurricane to wash it away. Or half-crazy. We got our share of crazies but not enemies. You want enemies, you live in Houston. Galveston, it's more a state of mind than a place on a map. Think Key West with Catholics."
"Did he still drink a lot?"
Tom shrugged. "This is Galveston. Define 'a lot.' "
"Did he ever get arrested for DUI?"
"Not that I know of."
"Did he owe anyone?"
"No, and I'd know if he did. I paid all his bills. Tried to get him to put money away for after the tour, but I wasn't too successful with that."
"He spent a lot of money?"
"He burned through cash, damn near every dime he made. Paid four million for the beach house, half a million for the cars, two million for the boat, a million for the Malibu condo, about that much for the ski lodge in Beaver Creek …"
"You ever go inside the beach house?"
"Once. He had a party when they moved in."
"Did he pay his taxes?"
"Every penny he owed. I did his returns. His tour earnings were wired directly to his bank account. His endorsement money was paid quarterly, went to SSI, they deducted their commissions, wired the rest to his account. I got all the statements."
"Were you a signatory on the account?"
Tom nodded. "Like I said, I paid his bills." He looked Scott in the eye. "I didn't steal his money. It's all documented."
"You do the books for his foundation?"
A slight smile. "Well, the Trey Rawlins Foundation for Kids, that was just a bank account. More of a PR deal."
"Did you handle any money for Rebecca?"
"What money? As far as I know, only money she's got is what Trey gave her."
"Did you do her tax returns?"
"No income to report."
"Did he say anything to you about marrying her?"
"No. But you might ask Melvyn."
"I will. What's SSI?"
"Sports Score International. Big sports agency. They represent hundreds of pro athletes."
"Who's his agent?"
"Nick Madden. He's in their Houston office."
FOURTEEN
An hour later, a sleek young receptionist wearing tight black Capris, high heels, and an intoxicating perfume escorted Scott down corridors adorned with images of famous athletes sporting product logos. She stopped at an open door and motioned Scott into an expansive corner office. At the far end, a young man stood facing the floor-to-ceiling window with an earpiece and microphone fixed to his skull.
"Give me a fucking break, Stu. Half a million a year to endorse your clubs? That's an insult. I won't take any deal to Pete for less than two million."
"That's Nick," the receptionist said. Then she left.
"Yes, Stu, I know Pete hasn't won since Reagan was in the White House … Yes, I know he's forty-nine and heading to the senior tour next year … Yes, I know he's not ranked in the top hundred … or five hundred …"
Nick Madden could have been Jerry Maguire's little brother. His black hair was slicked back and looked wet, he was wearing a blue golf shirt and khaki pants, and he was gesturing at a laptop perched on a table against the window; on the screensaver was a formula: WM
2
.
"WM squared, Stu, that's the only ranking that matters when it comes to endorsement money, and you know it. And our last poll numbers put Pete's WM squared ranking at eighty-eight percent. That's off the freakin' charts, Stu."
Sports Score International's offices were located on the fortieth floor of a skyscraper in downtown Houston. The windows offered big views of the city and the walls big blow-ups of more famous athletes in action: Kobe Bryant dunking a basketball, A-Rod batting a baseball, David Beckham kicking a soccer ball, Tom Brady throwing a football, Roger Federer hitting a tennis ball, Trey Rawlins swinging a golf club. One corner of the office looked like a golf pro shop with clubs propped against the wall and boxes of balls and shoes stacked on the floor. The rest of the office resembled a sports bar with air hockey and foosball tables, a pinball machine, and a bar with a flat-screen television on the wall above. The TV was broadcasting a golf tournament; the sound was muted but the byline read "Houston Classic."