Accused (19 page)

"Goose, as a general rule, I don't punch caddies, but I'm willing to make an exception with you."

Goose grinned. "Still touchy about the ex, huh? Wait'll you got three of them." He stood and said, "I gotta pee … fucking prostate."

Goose hefted the big bag. He ducked under the rope that kept the fans off the range and walked off. He didn't pick up his beer can.

"Are they here? Brett and Tess?"

Nick shook his head. "Brett played this morning—today's the pro-am—then had a corporate gig this afternoon. Tess goes with him, makes him seem more attractive, if you know what I mean."

"They'll be here through Sunday?"

"If his play this year holds true, Brett'll miss the cut, fly home Friday night. You want to talk to them, you'd better come out tomorrow or Friday. I'll be here."

Scott pulled a pen from his pocket. He squatted and inserted the pen into the top opening of Goose's beer can.

"I'll buy you a beer, Scott."

"I don't want the beer. I want Goose's fingerprints."

"Why?"

Scott looked up at Nick. "Because Goose might've stuck that butcher knife in Trey Rawlins' chest."

SIXTEEN

"Galveston nine-one-one. What's your emergency?"

"There's a knife in his chest!"

"Whose chest?"

"There's blood everywhere!"

"Whose blood?"

"I think he's dead!"

"Who's dead?"

"Someone killed him!"

"Who?"

"Trey! Trey Rawlins!"

"The golfer?"

"Yes!"

"Ma'am, I'm dispatching police to your location."

"Thank God! Hurry!"

"Who killed him?"

"I don't know."

"Is anyone else in the house?"

"I … I don't know. I hope not."

"Where are you?"

"In our bedroom."

"Stay there. Stay on the phone until the police arrive."

"I hear the sirens. Tell them to come up the back stairs. The doors are open. I'm right inside."

"What's your name?"

"Rebecca Fenney."

"Stay with me, Rebecca."

A few minutes passed. The dispatcher's voice could be heard in the background and Rebecca's intermittent "Oh, God" and "Trey" and "So much blood."

Then the dispatcher's voice came back on. "You still with me, Rebecca?"

Her voice sounded weak: "Yes."

"Rebecca, the police are there."

In the background: "Police! We're coming in!"

"I'm in here! Thank God you're here!"

"Ma'am, are you okay?"

"Yes."

"Don't move until we clear the house."

Only her breathing could be heard and then a voice in the background: "House is clear. Ma'am, hang up the phone, I've got dispatch on my radio … Dispatch, it's a murder scene. Send out homicide, M.E., crime scene … Shit, send everyone." A pause. "The poor bastard."

The tape ended, and they sat without speaking. It was the next morning, and Scott and Bobby were sitting in the Jetta in the parking lot across 34th Street from St. Patrick's Catholic Church listening to the 911 call on the CD player and looking at the crime scene photos of Rebecca with Trey Rawlins' blood streaked down her face like war paint. Parked on the street was a satellite TV truck; loitering outside the church doors was Renée Ramirez in a tight short skirt.

"The D.A. was right," Bobby said.

"About what?"

"Renée. She does have great legs."

Inside Our Lady of Guadalupe Chapel under a twelve-story-tall bell tower, the funeral mass for Trey Rawlins was taking place. Bobby pointed at the church.

"Did you know that after the Great Storm, they raised this entire island above sea level, six feet on the bay side, seventeen feet on the Gulf side? That church weighs three thousand tons. They jacked it up and filled in underneath. They wanted storm water to flow to the bay side. It worked. Problem was, Ike flooded the Island from the bay side."

"I didn't know that. How'd you know that?"

"Tourist guide, at the beach house." He shrugged. "Wife's seven months' pregnant. I read in bed a lot."

"Me, too."

"You don't have a wife."

"That's why I read in bed."

Bobby grunted. "You think the caddie killed Trey?"

"Goose has big hands and a good motive—a hundred thousand dollars."

"A bus token will get you killed in some parts of Dallas. You gonna take his prints to the D.A.?"

"Tomorrow, at the grand jury. We wouldn't get them back in time anyway, and Rex wouldn't stop the indictment even if Goose's prints match those on the kitchen counter, not with Rebecca's prints on the murder weapon. After the hearing, I'm going back out to the tournament, talk to Brett and Tess McBride, get their prints. Trey and Tess, that's a good motive for a jealous husband. You were right, Trey cheated on Rebecca."

"She cheated on you, he cheated on her. Funny how that works."

"Yeah. Funny."

"Least we've got more suspects." Bobby ticked them off on his fingers. "The three unidentified sets of prints at the house, the construction workers—"

"Is Carlos on that?"

"He hired on yesterday." Back to his fingers. "Goose, Brett, and …"

"Rebecca." Bobby nodded. "She didn't sound like a killer on that 911 call."

"No, she didn't. But her prints were on that knife stuck in Trey's chest."

"The others had motives, Bobby. She didn't."

"Unless she knew about Trey and Tess."

"Yeah. Unless." Scott considered that possibility. "Only if Trey were leaving her for Tess. What else?"

"Karen's reviewing Trey's endorsement contracts—"

SSI's legal department had released copies without a subpoena.

—"and running assets searches on Trey and Rebecca. I've been through the murder book, read all the witness statements and police reports. I'm waiting for the final autopsy report, toxicology, and DNA."

"Grand jury will indict tomorrow, we'll fast-track the trial, you and Karen prep for that."

"Yep. Oh, I went out to Trey's country club, talked to the assistant pro. He said Trey came out that morning, Thursday, but he left just after noon, didn't come back."

"Rebecca said he practiced all day, while she shopped in Houston."

"He lied."

"About a lot of things."

Bobby gestured at the church. "They're coming out."

He grabbed the camcorder and filmed the funeral guests exiting the church.

"That's Trey's sister," Rebecca said. "Terri hates me."

The image on the screen was of a young woman in a black dress. Scott, Bobby, Karen, and Rebecca were inside watching the funeral tape. The girls were outside with Consuela and the baby. Louis was watching them. Carlos was roofing.

"Why?"

"She thought I was too old for him, didn't want him to marry me. At least that's what he said." She shook her head. "I should've gone to the funeral."

"Media was there," Scott said. "Wouldn't have been good." He pointed at the screen. "There's the D.A. and his wife, Tom Taylor and his." An older man in a suit and a woman walked next to them. "Who's that?"

"I don't know."

On the screen, Renée Ramirez stuck a microphone in the D.A.'s face, but he waved her off. She wasn't happy.

"Rebecca, you should stay here at the house."

"Why?"

"That reporter—"

"Renée."

"You know her?"

"Everyone on the Island knows Renée. She did a profile of Trey."

"If she finds out you're here, she'll set up camp out front."

She gestured at the screen. "Where's Nick? Didn't he come?"

"No."

"That's odd. I don't see any of the tour players. First round of the tournament in Houston is today, but still … you'd think some of the players would've come."

"Freeze that frame, Bobby." On the screen was the image of a very pretty and very young blonde woman. She looked like a high school girl. "Is that Tess McBride?"

"No, that's Billie Jean Puckett. Pete's daughter. I don't see Pete."

"What does he look like?"

"Like Rambo with a two-iron."

"She looks like a kid."

"She's only seventeen. She used to caddie for Pete, until he picked up Goose."

"After Trey fired him."

"Down in Mexico." She frowned. "You don't think Goose killed Trey?"

"Trey didn't pay Goose the hundred thousand he owed him. Goose wasn't happy about it. Bobby, fast forward to the cemetery."

The tape sped up then slowed to normal speed. The scene showed a crowd gathered around a gravesite in a cemetery crowded with tall tombstones and small mausoleums as the casket was lowered into the ground. After the burial, the crowd lingered a while then drifted away. Except for Billie Jean Puckett.

"Why'd she stay after everyone else left?" Rebecca said. "Why'd she come?"

They watched the image on the tape. The girl sat next to the grave and seemed to be sobbing. Rebecca stared silently at the screen. Finally, she turned to Scott.

"Why'd you think she was Tess?"

"Rebecca … Goose said Trey was having an affair with Tess."

She shook her head. "No. Tess played around, a lot, but not with Trey. We were friends, she wouldn't do that to me. Neither would Trey."

"You did it to me."

"I'm sorry, Scott."

"No. I mean, it happens. Even when you think it'd never happen."

"I would've known."

"I didn't."

"Will you take a polygraph?"

"To prove I didn't know about Tess?"

"To prove you didn't kill Trey. If you pass, the D.A. might drop the charges."

"And if I don't pass?"

Scott didn't say anything.

"Don't worry, Scott, I'll pass. I'm not the Guilty Groupie."

"So you'll do it?"

"Sure. And I don't believe Trey had an affair with Tess."

That she agreed to take a polygraph told Scott all he needed to know about his client. But there was more he needed to know about his ex-wife.

"Why didn't you tell me the truth back then? How you really felt?"

They were walking the beach at sunset. It was peaceful out here, and with ten people living in the house, the beach offered the only privacy available for a confidential conversation between an attorney and client—or a man and his ex-wife.

"Scott, we learn when we're girls to lie to men."

"Why?"

"To survive. So we don't hurt our man's fragile psyche and lose him and our place in life. 'Yes, honey, of course, you're the first' … 'Of course, you're the best' … 'Of course, I came.' "

"Did you lie to me about that?"

"No."

"Are you lying now?"

"No."

"How do I know?"

"You don't. Men never know when we're lying to them. Men don't want to know. Men can't handle the truth."

"Do all women lie?"

"All women live in a man's world, so all women lie. They have to. At least all women who depend on a man for their survival. Everything we need comes from a man—our homes, our cars, our jewelry, our shoes—because it's a man's world. You see on TV these women writing books about dating and marriage, they're all titled 'How to Marry a Rich Man.' And the advice is to lie. Lie about your past, lie about your future, lie about your needs and wants and desires, lie about who you really are so he'll marry you. We lie to get married and we lie to stay married. We can't tell the truth and risk having our existence taken from us."

"Men don't have a clue about women, do we?"

"Not a clue."

They walked through the sand in silence.

"Scott, why do you think women buy millions of romance novels every year?"

"I don't know."

"Because in romance novels the women aren't dependent on men, not sexually or financially. They're in control of their bodies and their bank accounts, they have the power, they have the money. Not being financially dependent on a man, that's a woman's true romantic fantasy."

"I guess we should make women take polygraphs before marriage."

"We'd find a way to beat it. Truth or lie, right or wrong, black or white—that's a man's life. Women live in shades of gray."

Scott stared down the sand to the girls playing in front of the house with little Maria and Consuela in a Mexican peasant dress. Louis stood nearby reading his book.

"Will Boo and Pajamae lie to men?"

"Yes, they will."

"I don't want them to."