Truth-Stained Lies (2 page)

C
athy Cramer couldn’t wait for a recess. She’d sat on the hard wooden bench for four hours with only one ten-minute break, watching the drama play out in the murder trial. Her bones ached from being still, and she was only thirty-two. The older reporter sitting next to her was probably suffering. She could hear his joints cracking when he crossed his legs. Each time they broke for recess, he’d raced to the bathroom as if a kidney might burst out of his side and stumble to the bathroom itself.

The pretty young defendant showed no signs of cracking, even after three weeks of sitting under the world’s scrutiny, her hair slicked back in a severe bun each day. She was probably glad to be out of her cell this whole time, though Cathy would have been much happier to be hidden away if the same sorts of accusations had been hurled about her.

The accused child-killer was definitely guilty. Surely the
jury saw it. Cathy’s own readers of her investigative blog
Cat’s Curious
saw it clearly, even though they relied on what Cathy’s blog and the rest of the media interpreted into the court testimony.

The case, which was being tried right here in Cathy’s home town of Panama City, Florida, had doubled her readership in the last few months and netted her some heavy advertisers for her blog. Her past as an attorney, her deep intuition about these cases after her own experiences with murder, and her fearless way of nailing the truth, kept her fans reading.

If people ever stopped killing each other, she supposed she’d be out of work. She could always switch to debunking urban myths or exposing corporate crimes, if she couldn’t force herself to go back to practicing law. But until sociopaths developed consciences, Cathy was happy to do her part in championing the victims and dissecting the crimes for all to see.

At last, the judge called a recess until tomorrow. As the jury was led out of the room, Cathy locked onto the defendant’s face. Sara Chesney’s emotionless facade melted away, and she smiled at her attorney and gave him a wink.

Perfect. Cathy hoped no one else had seen that. Max, the reporter next to her, was focused on his notes. The TV camera had already cut off. The other reporters on the second row seemed to be watching the jurors’ faces. Maybe Cathy was the only one who’d caught it. If not, she could at least be the first to report it. She’d write about it this afternoon. What could it mean? That Sara felt the defense had pulled off their latest subliminal suggestions to the jury? That she and her attorney had a thing going?

Or was it just that the defendant was relieved to be out from under the judging eyes of those jurors and that camera?

Sara was handcuffed and led out, her pastel button-down shirt more wrinkled than it had been this morning. Cathy wondered if the woman had ever worn a button-down in her life before now. The pictures of her before her niece’s death showed that she preferred outfits that exposed skin and were at least a size too small. The schoolmarm image wasn’t fooling anyone.

When the judge left the room, Max mowed through the spectators to get to the restroom. Cathy stepped out quietly, checking over her notes. She made a quick pit stop by the ladies’ room, listening to the conversations among the spectators. They all seemed to have the same impression of today’s testimony that she had — that the defendant’s husband was lying, that the best friend was telling the truth …

Cathy’s instincts were rarely wrong.

She stepped out on the front steps of the courthouse. Media lined the sidewalk out front, some of them already broadcasting about the last few hours in the trial. She trotted past the television vans and hurried to the parking garage. Her Miata sat in a parking space on the top level, baking in the hot sun.

She slipped in and pushed the button to put the top down. As it retreated over her head, she saw an envelope stuck under her windshield wiper. What now? She opened the door and reached to grab it.

The flap was tucked inside the envelope and her name — Cat Cramer — was typed on the center of it. No return address.

She turned on her engine and sat idling as she pulled the typed note out.

Cathy dropped the note. Was this a threat of some kind, or just an angry reader trying to mess with her? The mention of Leonard Miller, who’d murdered her fiancé and walked away scot-free, dredged up the rippling anger that had plagued her in those first months after his death.

She swept her hair out of her eyes and looked around. There were a few others walking to their cars, a couple of cars pulling out of parking spaces. No one looking her way. Anyone could have left it anytime today. Her silver sports car wasn’t hard to spot, and all her readers knew she’d been attending this trial every day.

It occurred to her that she should call the police, but she had to get home and write her blog before the rest of the press beat her to the punch. Before pulling out of her space, she typed a text to her closest circle — her three siblings and Michael Hogan, one of her closest friends and the brother of her murdered fiancé.

Dropping the phone onto her seat and sticking the note and envelope under her purse so it wouldn’t blow away, she
pulled out of the garage and into traffic, her long black hair flapping in the wind.

If the person who left the note was watching, she hoped she looked carefree and unflappable, even if it wasn’t true. Inside, she seethed. Her sense of justice cut like a razor, reminding her of the victims in the cases she was covering. She knew what it was like to have a killer walk away without a conviction, thumbing his nose at those who would never be the same.

For those victims, she wrote on, doing her part to make sure the killers paid. She hadn’t been able to help society by working as a prosecutor — that seemed more about making plea deals than putting criminals behind bars. Court cases weren’t about justice. They were about finding loopholes. One cleverly conceived scheme by either side could influence the jury, if a case ever made it to court in the first place. Her skills were better used doing her own investigations and alerting readers to evidence that judges suppressed.

She’d given up her job in the district attorney’s office and set to work writing about the cases that captured her attention … exposing the killers who spun their stories and manipulated the jurors. She was no longer constrained by suppressed evidence or gag orders.

Over the two years that she’d been doing this, she’d gotten several death threats. None of them had resulted in any attempts on her life. This one was probably just another scare tactic. When two million people followed your blog, a few of them were bound to be crazies.

But she wouldn’t let some cryptic note ruin her day. She had a blog to write. She’d worry about it later.

M
ichael Hogan felt sorry for the woman whose husband had cheated on her, so he let her keep talking, even though he had places to be.

“This girl used to work as his secretary,” Laura Hancock said in a slow drawl, dabbing at her tears with the handkerchief he’d handed her. “She worked for my husband for three months, and I didn’t care one bit for her, so I made him fire her. Something about the way she dressed … all sexy and provocative-like … and the haughty way she acted with me. Like she had the upper hand in some game I didn’t even know we were playing.”

“Yes ma’am.” Michael wanted to cut her off — this was dragging on way too long.

“I didn’t know he kept seeing her. I mean … I knew there was something going on with him, or obviously I wouldn’t have hired you to follow him. But I didn’t have a clue it was her.”

Michael wished he hadn’t given her the picture of the two kissing in a parking lot in broad daylight. Maybe he should have just told her what he’d found. Images had a way of implanting themselves on a person’s mind. But she’d paid him to take pictures.

“What should I do?” she asked, looking up at him with wet eyes.

Oh, no. He wasn’t going there. “Ma’am, I don’t do counseling. I just get the facts, the timeline, the photos. I would encourage you not to make any immediate decisions. Talk to someone who can help you with this. Maybe a pastor?”

“I don’t go to church,” she said.

“Well, sometimes when you’re going through a tough time, a minister can help. Sometimes churches have counseling ministries and support groups.”

He could tell she wasn’t listening. “What do your other clients do when they find out their spouse has been stepping out on them? Do they file for divorce?”

“Honestly, I don’t know. I don’t do follow-up.”

She gave him a dull look, like he was the least helpful person she’d ever met. That was okay. He wasn’t going to cross the line from private investigator to marriage counselor, no matter what she needed.

She finally stacked up the pictures, shoved them back into their envelope, and headed out, armed with the ammunition she needed to force an ultimatum or slaughter her husband in court. But he didn’t feel good about it.

There was nothing rewarding in this work. Nothing at all.

The picture on his wall drew his gaze for the hundredth time today. His grandfather, his father, his two brothers and him in Panama City PD dress blues.

That was before he’d disgraced them all.

Right now, he had to go follow some dude who was supposed to be wheelchair-bound but shot hoops every afternoon with his buds. A few pictures of him doing jump shots, and the worker’s comp attorney who’d hired Michael would be happy.

Through the window, he watched the scorned woman go out to her car, parked beside the old, out-of-order gas pumps that reminded him every day that his office used to be a convenience store. It was the best he could get for the rent he could afford. The place was practically falling down. The roof leaked every time it rained, and he’d pulled the sheetrock off the ceiling in the back rooms, trying to fix the problem. But it would take a lot more than he’d been able to do on his own. Money was too tight, so he had to make do with buckets when storms hit.

His thoughts went back to the woman getting into her car, and he said a quiet prayer for her marriage. But there were times when it seemed that God had his hands over his ears. He hoped this wasn’t one of those times.

His phone chimed. He picked it up from his cluttered desk and saw the text from Cathy.

Sort of a threat? What did that mean? Quickly, he pressed speed dial to call her. He heard the wind as the call went live. She must be in her car with the top down. “Hey, Michael. I shoulda known you’d call.”

“What are you talking about … a threat?”

“Somebody left a note saying they were gonna show me what it feels like to be judged … or something to that effect.”

That wasn’t so bad, Michael thought. “So … they didn’t say what they were going to do?”

“No. But it ended with, ‘Enjoy the ride, if you survive it.’ Oh, and the person mentioned Leonard Miller.”

Michael’s lower lip stiffened. “What did he say?”

“Seemed miffed that I wasn’t killed with Joe.”

Some unseen vice clamped across Michael’s rib cage. “Okay, you’ve got to call the police.”

“No, I don’t have time. I just got out of court and I have to get my blog written. Then I have to go to the TV station, because FOX News wants to interview me about the trial.”

“Cathy, call the police. If you don’t, I will.”

“But it’s just some whacko trying to scare me.”

“Fine. Maybe it is. But the police need to be aware.”

He heard a long, exaggerated groan. “All right. I’ll call them as soon as I get a minute.”

Sometimes she made him crazy. “No, now. I’m coming over, Cathy. I’ll meet you at your house.”

Again, that long, protracted groan. “All right, Michael. I’ll call them.” She paused. “Juliet’s calling. Why did I ever tell you guys? I gotta go.”

“See you in a few.”

“Right.”

She cut off the call, and he sat holding his phone, staring at it as if he could see the person who’d put that threat on Cathy’s car. He didn’t like it, and even if it was just another blowhard trying to incite fear, he would get to the bottom of it.

His subject would shoot hoops again tomorrow. This was more important right now.

C
athy’s older sister sounded overly concerned, as usual. Cathy rolled her eyes and went back over the note.

“Do you want me to come over?” Juliet asked.

“No! Michael is coming. If you want to talk to him after the police leave to make sure I’m toeing the line and not flinging myself into the gunfire of a killer, call him. But honestly, if the police take too long, I don’t know what I’ll do. I have to get my blog out. People are waiting.”

“It’s not like their lives depend on reading your blog.”

“Thanks. I appreciate your support.”

“I’m just saying. That blog might get you killed. You’re talking about killers. They don’t like it.”

Juliet was only two years older — just thirty-four — but she acted like Cathy’s mother rather than her sister.

“Cathy, give the police a list of all the cases you’ve talked
about lately. All the people you’ve tried and convicted in your blog.”

“I haven’t tried and convicted anybody, Juliet. I’ve just exposed things I’ve learned about their cases. We still have freedom of speech in this country.”

“Tell that to the guy who’s promised you a bumpy ride.” Cathy heard her nephew talking to her sister, Juliet answering. Then her sister was back. “Hey, have you talked to Jay?”

“No, I’ve been in court all day. I’m sure I’ll hear from him and Holly when they get my text.”

“I’m worried about him. He’s been so depressed.”

“Yeah, custody battles are brutal.”

“What if he doesn’t win?”

“It’ll kill him.” Cathy changed lanes and headed onto the exit ramp to her small house across the street from the beach.

“We just have to keep praying. You do still pray, don’t you, Cathy?”

She hated when her sister got on this subject. “Yes, Juliet, I pray.”

“I’m just asking. It’s not like you talk about it a lot.”

“And I don’t want to talk about it now. I have to go. I’m almost home, and I promised I’d call the police.”

“Call me the minute they leave.”

Cathy sighed. “I’ll call you when I’m finished with FOX.”

“No, Cathy. I need to know!”

“’Bye, Juliet.” Cathy hung up and dialed the police station, which she had on her speed dial, since she constantly had to call them to verify facts. This wasn’t 911-worthy.

She knew the sergeant who answered, and she told him she needed to file a complaint. He would send someone right over.

Maybe she’d have time to get some of her blog written before they showed up.

But as she pulled into her driveway, Michael drove up in his Trailblazer. Great. The guy was never late.

She pulled her car into the garage, then got out and watched Michael striding up her driveway. As always when she saw him, she thought of Joe. He looked so much like his brother. His charcoal eyes, his dark hair, the laugh lines, the way his mouth was shaped …

“You call ’em?” he asked as he approached her.

She turned away from him and tried to banish Joe’s image from her mind. “Yes, I called. They’re on their way.”

“Let me see the note.”

She leaned into her car and got the note, holding it by one corner, and handed it to him. He pulled some latex gloves out of his pocket and pulled them on, then took it carefully.

“Come on in,” she said. “It’s hot out here.”

He stood still, reading the note. She saw the color spreading across his tightening jaw, his cheeks, his ears. His eyes narrowed. “I don’t like this, Cathy.”

“Me either, but what can you do?”

She pushed the door open that led into her mud room, set down her things. He followed her into the kitchen. “How long ago did you call?”

“Like thirty seconds. It wasn’t a big hurry.”

He checked his watch, then met her eyes. “Go write. I’ll watch for them and let them in. I’m sure you have juicy stuff you want to get out.”

She grinned. “I do. When the jury went out today, Sara Chesney looked at her attorney and winked. I’m pretty sure no one else saw it. My readers are gonna love that.”

“So much for the grieving aunt.”

“Got that right. I’ll be in my office. If anybody tries to kill me, stop them, will ya?”

“Not funny.” She laughed as she headed back to her office.

Michael paced in Cathy’s living room as he waited for the police to arrive. Something about her house always made him feel comfort. Maybe it was because he’d seen Joe sitting on that couch so many times, his feet propped on her coffee table ottoman, watching a game on her 46-inch screen. Cathy and Joe had bought this house together to live in after they were married. She had moved in first, and Joe was going to join her after the knot was tied. But that day had never come.

Sometimes when Michael was in here, he could almost imagine Joe walking into the room from the kitchen, a Mountain Dew in his hand.

That old sense of failure tightened his chest again. Leonard Miller, his brother’s killer, was out on the streets somewhere, hiding out because of the public sentiment against him, probably continuing his life of crime.

How many more people would die before they finally got him off the streets? How many more cops?

Michael’s mouth went dry, and he went to the kitchen and reached into Cathy’s fridge, got out a bottled water. He heard a car in the driveway, and he looked out, saw the police car. Two men got out. Michael knew them both. They’d all entered the police academy together, but he had been promoted faster.

When his career ended, he’d been a detective in the Major Crimes Unit, while they were still patrolling the city.

He went to the door and opened it before they rang the bell. “Hey, guys,” he said. “Thanks for coming.”

“No problem.” Cryder shook his hand and came inside. “When I heard this call was from Cathy, I said I’d take it.”

“Is she here?” Dillard asked.

“Yeah, she’s here.” Michael stepped into the hallway and called, “Cathy, they’re here!”

He heard her theatrical grunt.

“Cathy, did you hear me?”

“Yeah, I heard,” she said. “Show them the note, will you? I’m almost finished.”

He sighed and turned back. “She’s writing her blog.” He got the note, which he’d placed in a Ziploc bag, and set it down for them to read. “She’s not taking this too seriously, but it’s a pretty pointed threat.”

The cops read the note. “She have any idea who wrote it?” Dillard asked.

“No, none.”

Suddenly she floated into the room. “Hey, guys. Glad it’s you two they sent. You can hurry this along, can’t you?”

“Where was the note, Cathy?” Cryder asked.

She told them about finding the note on her windshield and Michael’s insistence that she call them. “It’s not that big of a deal. I get death threats sometimes. Occupational hazard.”

“Michael was right to make you report it,” Dillard said. “Just for the record.”

“Dust it, see if there are fingerprints,” Michael said. “See if there’s any security video in the parking garage that would show the person coming to her car.”

Cryder puffed up. “This is low priority, Hogan.”

“It shouldn’t be. It’s a death threat.”

Cryder turned back to Cathy. “Cathy, who have you made mad lately?”

She sighed. “How long do you have? This guy needs to get in line.”

“Might not even be a guy,” Michael said. “If the tape caught the person putting the note on her car, we’ll know that. Cathy, I want you to make a copy of the note before they take it. Leave it in the bag.”

She shrugged. “Okay.”

When she disappeared into her office, Michael turned back to his friends. “Guys, don’t blow this off. I’m thinking she needs a bodyguard. If you know anybody who’s interested in making some extra cash, let me know.”

Cryder laughed. “Why now? Did you get her one for every threat she’s had before this?”

“No, but I didn’t know about the others until weeks after they happened. I do know about this one.”

“She’s not gonna go for that,” Cryder said.

Michael knew that was true. “I’ll talk her into it.”

“Who’s paying for it?” Dillard asked. “You?”

Michael wanted to say yes, but he’d barely been able to pay his rent last month. “I said I’d talk her into it. Think about who might want the job.”

Cathy came back with the original note and handed it to Cryder. “Guys, what else do you need from me? I’m slammed for time here.”

They had her sign the complaint, then they left the house. Michael stood at the front window, watching as they drove away.

“I heard what you said about a bodyguard,” she said from behind him. “That’s excessive, Michael. I don’t want somebody hanging around me all the time. It slows me down.”

“Just for a couple of weeks, until we see what this person’s gonna do.”

“I said no. I have a gun and a concealed weapon permit. That’s all I need.”

He turned to face her. “I could do it.”

She crossed her arms. “Michael, what good would that do? You’re not even allowed to carry a gun.”

The reminder made him feel useless, but he swallowed his bitterness back.

“I’m sorry,” she said quickly, stepping toward him. “I didn’t mean that as a stab. I just meant that there’s no use in babysitting me. I’m a big girl. I can handle this.”

“What time do you have to be at the station?” he asked.

“Six thirty. I have to find something to wear and do my makeup and try to tame this hair. I shouldn’t have put the top down.”

“I’ll wait.”

Again, a grunt. “Michael, that’s ridiculous.”

“I read your blog this morning. You told your fans that you were going to be on FOX tonight. It’s a no-brainer for someone who wants to do you harm. If I’m with you, it might be a deterrent.”

“But it’s a satellite feed. My readers don’t know where I’ll be shooting it.”

“Seriously? You think it’s hard to figure out that it’s one of the stations in Panama City?”

She seemed to consider that for a moment, then the resistance on her face drained away. “All right, I guess, if you insist, but you don’t have to hang around until I leave. Don’t you have someone to spy on?”

Michael knew he should try to get his pictures of the worker’s comp fraud so he could get paid.

“Do you have your security alarm set?”

“I’ll set it.”

“All right, I guess I can leave and come back. Don’t answer the door for anyone you don’t know.”

“I won’t be a prisoner in my own home, Michael.”

Why was she so stubborn? “Cathy, just cooperate for a little while, will you? I’m trying to keep you safe.”

Her face softened into a smile, and she stepped toward him and gave him a hug. His heart slammed against his chest. Instant guilt rushed through his veins.

“I appreciate it,” she said. “I don’t mean to sound ungrateful.”

His mouth suddenly went dry. He looked down at her, taking in the almond shape of her eyes, the delicate shape of her nose, her wet lips. It was no wonder his brother had fallen for her.

She gave him a little shove. “Now go, so I can work.”

He drew in a deep breath. “All right. But call me if anything happens.”

“You know I will.”

“I’ll be real busy spying on an NBA wannabe who’s supposed to be confined to a wheelchair.”

“Sounds like fun.”

“Oh yeah, big fun. I love my job.” He hated the sarcasm in his own voice.

“It’s still important, what you do,” she said softly.

The last thing he wanted from her was sympathy. “Go, write. Your readers are waiting to hear about Sara Chesney’s wink.”

Her phone rang, breaking her gaze. She pulled it out of her pocket. “What now?” Her younger sister’s picture filled the screen. “It’s Holly,” she said. “Michael, will you talk to her while I write my blog? Tell her I’m fine, that I’ve had the police here …”

“Sure.” He took the iPhone and swiped to answer. “Holly,” he said, “it’s me, Michael. Cathy told me to fill you in while she —”

“I have to talk to Cathy!” Holly shouted, cutting him off. “It’s Annalee … she’s dead!”

Cathy, who’d clearly heard Holly’s panicked voice, turned back. “What is it?”

Michael put it on speakerphone. “What did you say?”

“Annalee was murdered. Jay found her.”

Cathy’s startled eyes locked with Michael’s. “What? How?”

“I don’t know. Jay was over at her house … he called just now and said the police are there … that they’re questioning him.”

The color drained from Cathy’s face. “We have to get over there. Where is Jackson?”

“He’s at day care. That’s why Jay called. He wanted me to pick Jackson up.”

Michael moved closer to Cathy as she swayed, put his arm around her to steady her. “Are they sure she’s dead?” he asked. “What happened to her? Where was she when he found her?”

“He didn’t say. I don’t know anything. I want to go over there.”

“Have you called Juliet?”

“He tried her first, but she didn’t answer. I’ll try her again now.”

“Okay. We’re on our way.” Cathy clicked the phone off. “Michael, we have to hurry.”

He grabbed her purse and thrust it at her.