Accused (29 page)

"No. He didn't."

The D.A. again gestured at the baggies. "You got Pete's prints?"

"Not yet. But he seems capable of violence. He threatened me after his round on Friday, with a one-iron."

"A one-iron?" The D.A. grunted. "Most pros carry the hybrids now, you can hit the ball higher—"

"The prints on the kitchen counter are from a big man. The construction workers down the street, they told Carlos they saw a big man at Trey's house the day he was killed. And a blonde girl."

Hank snorted. "They told us they didn't see nothing."

"You're a cop," Carlos said.

"True."

"I've seen Pete on TV," the D.A. said. "He's a big man." He gestured at the Facebook profile. "And Billie Jean's still blonde?"

"She is," Scott said. "And Pete's a hunter, good with guns and knives. And he was in Trey's house that day."

"Can you prove it?"

"Not yet."

"Let me know when you can."

"Rex, I think Pete Puckett killed Trey."

"Thought the caddie killed him?"

"You just said his prints didn't match."

"Scott," Karen said, "we should subpoena Facebook, get all of Billie Jean's messages. Maybe she said something to Trey about Pete's threats."

The D.A. turned his palms up at Scott. "Facebook, Twitter, texting, sexting—you ever feel like you're living in a parallel universe?"

"All the time," Scott said, "with two eleven-year-old daughters." To Karen: "Where's their headquarters? Facebook's."

Karen typed. "California. Their only presence in Galveston County is online. No way they comply with a state court subpoena."

"They might if I sign the subpoena," the D.A. said.

"You'd do that?"

"Sure. Like I said, Scott, I think your wife killed Trey. But if she didn't, I want to find out who did." To Karen: "Write the subpoena, Professor."

"I usually write the subpoenas," the Assistant D.A. said.

"I know." To Scott: "Even if Pete was in Trey's house, his prints weren't on the knife. Your wife's were. You got that good explanation yet?"

"Not yet."

"Let me know when you do."

The D.A. handed over another document.

"Item three: phone logs, landline and cell. His landline bills were at the house, so we ran all those numbers. The logs list all calls, the parties, dates, times, and duration of the calls."

Scott scanned the logs. "Lots of calls to Terri and Rebecca. None to the other women."

"What about his cell?" Bobby said.

"We got the log off the phone," the D.A. said.

"He might've deleted some calls. But every call—even the deleted ones—shows up on the phone bills. We need to subpoena Trey's cell phone records."

"Okay. Write that one up, too."

"Trey's last calls that Thursday were to and from Rebecca, Tom Taylor, and a Benito Estrada at six-eighteen
P.M.
," Scott said. "Who's he?"

The D.A. leaned back in his chair and cut a glance at Hank.

"Well, that brings me to item four: the toxicology report." He put on his reading glasses, picked up a document, and read. "Trey Rawlins' blood alcohol level at the time of his death was point-two-six, three times the legal limit. He also had cocaine in his system. Six hundred nanograms per milliliter."

"Trey used cocaine?"

The D.A. nodded.

"How much is that? Six hundred nanograms."

"A lot."

"Enough to cause an overdose?"

"I asked the M.E. that same question. Can't have a murder case if the victim died before he was stabbed."

"We could still charge her with abuse of a corpse," the Assistant D.A. said.

The D.A. ignored his assistant. "M.E. said he was alive when he was stabbed because his heart pumped out so much blood."

"Was cocaine found in the house?"

"Nope." The D.A. rubbed his face. "Good thing his dad's dead 'cause this would've killed him." He looked up at Scott. "I'm no longer in denial about Trey."

"I'm sorry, Rex. I know you cared for him."

The D.A.'s face was grim. He exhaled and said, "Now it's your turn, Scott."

"My turn for what?"

"To end your denial. About your wife."

The room turned quiet, and Scott became aware of his own breathing.

The D.A.'s eyes dropped to the report. "We took a blood sample from her, too. Her blood alcohol level was point-two-two."

"She said they'd been drinking at Gaido's."

"And we can probably suppress that at trial," Karen said. "No PC to draw her blood and—"

"Incident to her arrest," the Assistant D.A. said.

"She wasn't arrested for DUI."

"No. For murder."

"But the law requires—"

Scott held up his hand to Karen. The D.A. had not looked up from the report. There was more.

"What is it, Rex?"

The D.A. looked up now. "Scott, your wife had cocaine in her system, too. Four hundred nanograms. She was drunk and stoned. Could be why she slept in Trey's blood."

During a football game at SMU, Scott Fenney, number 22, had run around right end then made a sharp cut back to the middle of the field past the defenders going the other way. Scott had a clear field to the end zone … except the last defender threw a thick forearm out and caught Scott right above his facemask. The force knocked him unconscious. When he came to, he felt dazed and confused, as if his mind couldn't put two words together. And so he felt now. Bobby subbed for him.

"Could be why she didn't wake up when the killer came into the bedroom and stabbed Trey."

"Look, Scott," the D.A. said, "I know y'all have a daughter, so I'm not going to release this report. But it'll come out at trial."

Scott tried to grasp the thought that Rebecca had used cocaine. He couldn't.

"You're sure? About the cocaine?"

"You can run your own tests, we took extra blood from her."

The D.A. slid the report across the desk. Scott did not pick it up.

"So what's all this got to do with Benito Estrada?"

"He's a known drug dealer on the Island. Him and Trey, they were cell phone buddies. Means Trey was a regular customer. And a special one."

"Tell me about him. Benito."

"Twenty-eight, Harvard-educated, BOI. Runs the Gulf Coast operation for the Guadalajara cartel. Considers himself a businessman, even acts like one—supports the community, gave half a million for Ike relief, something of an icon among his folks. But he runs his operation like a business, so we haven't had the turf wars and gun battles in the streets like the border towns."

"In Mexico?"

"In Texas."

"The
Muertos
brought the drug war across the river," Hank said.

"Who are the
Muertos?
"

"
Los Muertos.
The Dead. Enforcers for the cartels. Ex-commandos in the Mexican Army—we trained them to fight the cartels, then they hired out to the cartels. All that stuff you've seen on TV about the drug war in Mexico—kidnappings, eight thousand murders last year, headless bodies hanging from overpasses and dumped into the Rio Grande—that's the
Muertos
' handiwork. Those guys make the Mafia look like middle-school bullies. And they control the country. We've put Mexico on the verge of collapse as a nation."

"How?"

"Drug money. Mexicans send the drugs north, Americans send weapons and twenty billion in cash south to the cartels—every year. Imagine if the Saudis sent twenty billion a year to Islamic extremists in the U.S. and they used that money to kill eight thousand Americans every year—we'd want to bomb Saudi Arabia back into the Stone Age. But we tell the Mexicans to keep the dope south of the river 'cause we know Americans won't stop using. Easier to blame it on the Mexicans than to accept responsibility for all those people getting killed."

"And these
Muertos
are in Texas?"

"They're everywhere now. Five dealers in Atlanta, they owed the cartels two hundred thousand dollars, didn't pay, so they sent the
Muertos
in. They beheaded the guys, put it on YouTube. You cross the cartels, you're a dead man. Usually after being tortured and sliced up like a side of beef.
Los Muertos
don't just kill people—they send messages."

"Where can I find Benito? I need to talk to him."

"Benito's not going to talk to you."

"Never know till you try."

"Except trying might get you a bullet in your head." Hank snorted. "Look, Scott, I don't know how you do things in Dallas, but you don't just drive over to Market Street and talk to Benito Estrada. You either wear a badge or you go in shooting. Preferably both. Scott, Benito's got thugs bigger than buses."

"I've got Louis."

TWENTY-FIVE

"Just like in the book, Mr. Fenney," Louis said. "Ain't no country for old men."

Benito Estrada maintained offices in a renovated three-story historical structure situated between a yoga studio and the Black Pearl Oyster Bar on Market Street in the trendy part of downtown Galveston. It had the appearance of a real-estate office, except for the two thick-bodied Latinos standing guard out front under a red awning like unhappy doormen. Hank was right: Benito's thugs were big. Their loose Mexican wedding shirts bulged at the waist, obviously concealing handguns. They were armed and dangerous and perfectly within the law in Texas. As long as their guns were concealed, they were legal.

"Working for the cartel," Carlos said, "you ain't gonna grow old."

Scott had sent Bobby and Karen back to the beach house. They were soon to be parents, and they were the girls' guardians under A. Scott Fenney's Last Will and Testament. They didn't need to be in the line of fire. Scott had driven past the building then stopped a half block down the street to plot out a strategy. No strategy had occurred to him when Carlos said, "I'll handle this, boss. These are my people."

Carlos stepped smartly down the sidewalk, clad in black leather from head to foot, past a silver Maserati parked along the curb and over to the thugs. He gave them a hearty smile, stuck his hand out, and said, "
Buenos días, amigos.
"

"Fuck off," the taller thug said.

Carlos recoiled and withdrew his hand. The smiled dropped from his face, and his shoulders slumped. He looked like a kid who had been dissed on the playground. He beat a retreat back to Scott and Louis, who patted him on the shoulder.

"Must not know they're your people."

Carlos exhaled and shook his head as if faced with an imponderable mystery.

"Folks these days, they just can't be friendly. Why is that?"

"We live in a conflicted time," Louis said. "Folks struggling to find meaning in their lives. When they don't, their frustrations manifest in hostility toward their fellow man."

"You really think that's it, with those guys?"

Louis stared at the thugs. "I think those guys are assholes need to be stuffed down a concrete culvert."

Louis said it as if he had some experience with that sort of thing. Scott was about to take his chances with the thugs when a familiar unmarked sedan pulled up to the curb next to them. Hank Kowalski got out. His big gun was prominently displayed on his hip.

"Rex thought maybe I should drop by."

"Thanks, Hank. But let me take a shot at these guys first. So to speak."

Scott walked over to the thugs and held his business card out in front of him like a white flag of surrender—but he was relieved to hear the others' footsteps behind him.

"I'm Scott Fenney. Is Mr. Estrada available?"

"No, he ain't available," the shorter thug said.

"Would you mind checking? It's about Trey Rawlins. I'm a lawyer representing Rebecca Fenney."

The thugs glanced at each other then at Hank; the taller one said, "Wait here." He took Scott's card and went inside. The other thug maintained his position in front of the door. A few minutes later, the taller one returned and gestured at Scott.

"Benito will see you."

They all took a step toward the door.

"Only the lawyer."

Scott turned to the others. "I'll be okay. Wait here."

"Mr. Fenney," Louis said, "if you want, I could break both their necks."

The thugs' eyes got wide. Hank chuckled.

"No, Louis, just be cool."

Scott followed the taller thug inside and to the elevators.

"Hands up."

Scott put his hands in the air. The thug patted him down then said, "Third floor."

Scott stepped inside the elevator and punched the button for the third floor. The elevator made a smooth journey up two levels then the doors opened on a young, handsome, meticulously groomed Latino man dressed in a pink Polo shirt that hung like silk, white creased shorts, and
huaraches
. His black hair was smoothed back, and his goatee was expertly trimmed. His cologne smelled expensive. He offered a bright smile and an open hand to Scott. He was unarmed.