Murder in the Courthouse (3 page)

Poor choice of words. His eyes lit up, and now, her in-flight partner seemed to get a second wind.

“
Not married?
A beautiful young girl like you? I'm in shock! I can't believe it! What . . . are the men in New York City blind as bats? Or just plain crazy?”

“You know I flew from New York?” Hailey's antennae went up.

“Well, ma'am. My name is Cloud Sims and I hail from Nebraska, transplanted a few years ago to Manhattan. I was there at the same gate as you this morning. Delta gate number one. So why's a pretty lady like you crying?” Just then, he tried his best to cross his long legs and managed to kick Hailey with the sharp toe of one of his elaborate cowboy boots.

Hailey was tempted to rattle off the medical examiner's autopsy report verbatim, but that didn't seem right. “Oh, I'm just getting ready for a trial and the facts of the case are a little upsetting.”

“A trial? Are you a lawyer? Wow! Brains and beauty! You know . . . I always wanted to go to law school . . .”

He was off. Hailey let him talk. It was easier than having a real conversation about why tears had spilled . . . because the autopsy report had stirred up too many memories of another autopsy report.

Will's autopsy. Her fiancé . . . Will
. Now, suddenly, here he was again in her mind. His blue eyes sparkling, the straight white teeth behind a beautiful smile, laughing, talking, so alive.

Will was in college studying geology. His world ended and Hailey's exploded in one single moment—he was mugged for his wallet and shot five times in his face, neck, and head. It was just before their wedding, and from that moment she existed as a shell of herself . . . pining for a life . . . and a love . . . she could never get back.

Then there was the trial . . . a hazy, awful blur, but Hailey went every day. Ditching her lifelong plan to open a counseling center in the inner city, instead, she went to law school. To put away the bad guys. And one by one, killers, rapist, drug lords, child molesters, the jailhouse population grew to hate her almost as much as she hated them. But after ten years of crusading on behalf of crime victims, she was saturated with it all: the autopsies, the crime scenes, the packed courtrooms . . . and she took off. To Manhattan, to start over fresh, hanging her counseling shingle at a little brownstone in the Village near NYU. The clients started pouring in, and ever since, she'd tried to put Will's murder and all the years in the trenches fighting violent crime behind her.

“. . . and that's when I said, ‘Good-bye Omaha and hello New York City!' What about you . . . what did you tell me your name was, pretty lady?”

“Hailey. Now let's see, Nebraska. That's the Cornhusker State, right?” She answered as brightly as she could without revealing she had no idea what he'd been saying. That would be rude.

That was all it took. Off he went again, this guy could go on forever. Staring out at the clouds just outside coach seat 11A, she wondered if Will was out there watching her flight, maybe protecting it as it shot across the top of the sky.

Now sitting on the tarmac, the heat was boring through the metal shell of the plane. Finally, a little bell rang twice, like a doorbell, and everyone stood simultaneously to squeeze into the aisle and out the front door of the jet.

Hailey stood, too. Taking the bag Cloud handed down to her with his big, white smile, she merely said, “Thank you.” She knew he wanted to stop for a drink after they deplaned, but the memory of Will was too fresh, so she simply merged into the long line of passengers crowding the tiny aisle.

As much as she'd tried to escape a lifetime of homicide, murder weapons, state's exhibits, and courtroom maneuvering, walking up the jetport . . . here she was. Again.

Looking through the glassed walls of the terminal out at the blue sky and waving palm trees, Hailey felt a familiar feeling . . . a spring in her step. Yep . . . here she was again. And all in all . . . it felt pretty good.

CHAPTER TWO

I
t was nearly 2
PM
. Not at all her normal time to exercise, but Kacynthia Sikes was not about missing a workout.

Kacynthia speed-walked. Fists pumping, booty grinding, legs and back at unnatural, upright positions and she'd done it every single day for the last 814 days and was not about to stop now. At sixty-seven years of age, a very private number only her banker knew, Kacynthia was one of the very first Penthouse Pets back when Bob Guccione launched the magazine in the U.S. in 1969.

Her spread had been such a hit that six years later, he invited her back. The “1975 Kacynthia Sikes Pictorial,” as she chose to call it, was the first time ever that
Penthouse
had beaten
Playboy
on U.S. newsstands. She took sole credit for that.

Kacynthia was extremely proud of that particular piece of porn trivia. She often mentioned it whenever it fit appropriately (even remotely) into conversations, say, on the elevator at her East Gordon condo—shoehorned in just behind the house where the famed lyricist Johnny Mercer once lived—or in line at Kroger, or when getting her hair care products at Sally Beauty Supply. Basically . . . anywhere.

There would be no way Kacynthia Sikes (she often referred to herself in the third person) was going to let her body go to pot. Nor did she plan on spending time alone in her little condo. There was only one answer.

Speed walking
. So every morning when she believed the most single “gentlemen” were up and about, possibly heading to the grocery store, the park, to work, out to breakfast, Kacynthia was ready. She arose early in the morning, well before seven, and carefully applied full makeup including eyeliner and individual false eyelashes, top and bottom.

Last in her regime, she combed out her long bottle-red hair, added a firm coat of Chanel Polo Red lipstick (some people thought redheads shouldn't wear red, but Kacynthia disagreed vehemently), slipped on her golden-nude colored support leotard with matching leggings, and off she went.

She walked, perfectly poised, backbone straight as a flagpole, long red hair dangling down her back, all throughout Savannah's business and historical districts. Yes, she was pushing seventy, but it only took one. One man. Life with a rich boyfriend would be a lot easier than life alone in her studio condo.

Kacynthia took the rules of speed walking to heart. The correct posture for power walking was very important as this helped Kacynthia with the task at hand, i.e., finding a man and keeping a tight butt at the same time. She worked hard to follow all the required steps she'd read about in her favorite magazine,
Longevity
.

Above all, Kacynthia had to stand straight up on her right foot, neither bending her back nor leaning forward in the least. She must always look directly ahead while walking and avoid looking downward. She kept her chin absolutely parallel to the ground, neither high nor low.

When walking, generally the hips rock from side to side, but in power walking, such swinging of the hips—no matter how provocative Kacynthia believed her hips to be—would ultimately slow her down. With elbows bent to ninety degrees and kept close to her body, she swung her arms forward, making sure they never crossed her chest. Never, never overstriding, Kacynthia concentrated on every step, dramatically rolling each foot forward, pushing off with her toes. Keeping all her moves synchronized was actually extremely complicated.

Today, however, Kacynthia was trying a revised tactic in her manhunt. The suburbs.

So having parked her baby-blue BMW along a curb in the Williamsburg subdivision, she set out walking, hoping against hope to meet a fellow exercise enthusiast of the opposite sex interested in a relationship with a former Penthouse Pet. He'd also need to have
a big, fat bank account, or at least a low mortgage and full insurance coverage.

Several male drivers had in fact slowed down upon spotting Kacynthia strutting along the sidewalk bordering a long procession of three-bedroom, two-bath ranch houses. But they were mostly just puzzled at the shiny spandex legs and the long red hair combined with obvious breast implants. You didn't get much of that in the Savannah suburbs.

The problem was that today was trash day, so she was winding her way through large green Herby Curby trash carts on wheels. All the ins and outs made for an incredible show, which was Kacynthia's original intent, anyway.

Yet two hours into it, no one had even honked the horn or whistled at her. Plus, Kacynthia's mascara was running. She didn't have to see it; she could feel it. Her pink and green Maybelline Great Lash was the best, hands down. It glided on smoothly and gave her the “full lash look” she wanted without clumps or globs.

But unfortunately, Kacynthia opted against waterproof. And now she was sweating like a pig. Rivulets of mascara were running down the corners of her eyes. Mascara stains plus profuse sweating, both big no-nos when trying to attract men.

It was so darn hot! She was close to packing up, heading home, and forcing herself to forget men entirely.

It was then she spotted it. Or them. Legs. Sticking out from under a garage door.

Was this some macabre joke? Were those legs real? At least they were a man's legs. Maybe it wasn't all bad, after all.

Kacynthia took a few steps off the sidewalk toward the legs.

Was that blood?

It
was
blood and lots of it, surrounding the two legs in pale tan polyester slacks and dark shoes and socks.

“Sir?” No answer. She knelt down a little lower. “Sir?”

Whipping out her micro-cell tucked into the side of her bra, Kacynthia punched the digits 911.

“Savannah emergency dispatch. What's your emergency?”

“Hello. This is
Miss
Kacynthia Sikes.” Even in times of emergency, she remembered to stress the “Miss” part.

“Repeat, ma'am?”

“Oh yes, it is me,
the
Kacynthia Sikes.”

“I'm not understanding you. Did you just say ‘the swimming pool bites'?”

“No, I did not say ‘the swimming pool bites.' I clearly said I am
the
Kacynthia Sikes.”

“Oh. I heard you that time. Your name is Cindy Sikes.”

Kacynthia recoiled at the sound of her name so debased. “No. I am
not
Cindy Sikes . . . I am
Miss Kacynthia Sikes
. I'm sure you've heard of me. WSAV Channel 3 just did an in-depth one-on-one special on me? The eleven o'clock news? Repeated that following Sunday morning? It was a very highly anticipated special on me.”

“Did you just say somebody pulled a Saturday night special on you? You mean a .25 caliber semiautomatic? Somebody pulled a gun on you, Cindy? Where are you? I'm sending a patrol car right now. Where's the assailant? Is he still there? What does he look like?”

“No!” Kacynthia's frustration was mounting. “I was in no way attacked! There is no semiautomated . . . or . . . whatever it is you said. I said I was in a TV special about being a Penthouse Pet! Are you one of those phone reps from another country or are you just deaf and dumb?”

With the deaf and dumb comment, the dispatcher asked no more but stoically sent out a radio call message. “That'll be a 24, en route.” Savannah police dispatch immediately changed the nature of the 911 call to a “24,” a crazy person.

“In any event, I see a pair of legs in a pool of what appears to be human blood and I'm just trying to report it.”

“Yes ma'am, what's your location?”

“I'm in the Williamsburg residential community . . . I think . . . just one house down from the intersection of . . . uh . . .” Kacynthia knew her call would be recorded and possibly played back in future TV interviews featuring her, so she tried her best to articulate.
Straining, she could barely make out the green street signs, but she did it. The thought of eyeglasses was never an option for Kacynthia.

Thank you, LASIK!
she thought quickly before blurting out, “Randolph and Armory!” like she'd just won the clue on Jeopardy.

“Please stay calm, Cindy. Don't move! We're en route.” Dispatch didn't want her to move; nobody in the Williamsburg residential community needed a 24 wandering through their backyard.

“It's
Kacynthia
. Not Cindy.” She enunciated carefully and spoke loudly as if she were talking to a deaf person.

What was wrong with these people?

Kacynthia Sikes kept her thoughts to herself and promptly dialed WSAV. She pressed *3 for viewers to call in breaking news stories as they happen, and to become part of the story themselves!

Speaking breathlessly into her cell, Kacynthia described in detail the pair of legs and the pool of blood to somebody who answered the phone at WSAV. And this time, she got the street address off the mailbox at the end of the pair of legs' driveway.

“Yes . . . I'm standing here in a golden-nude workout leotard . . . I'm at 3443 Randolph Drive. My name is Kacynthia Sikes . . . your station just did a special on me. Penthouse Pet?”

The cameras would be there any minute. Kacynthia just adored those trucks with the satellite thingies that reached up into the sky.

Wiping away the mascara from under her eyes, almost involuntarily, Kacynthia sucked in her stomach and poked out her chest.

CHAPTER THREE

T
he Savannah airport was so busy it didn't seem that different from the crush of people back at LaGuardia. Pulling her roller board behind her, Hailey wound through knots of travelers complaining about the wait for luggage. Overhearing snippets of their conversations, she was glad she was a light packer.

Just as she cleared the last claim belt, she saw him in the distance . . . a familiar figure with his back to her. But between the six feet three inches of frame, broad shoulders, and a dark fedora, she'd know him anywhere. It was Fincher, Garland Fincher, her longtime investigator and sometimes bodyguard.

Together, the two of them had worked felony investigations from the most filthy and dangerous inner-city housing projects to high-society murders along West Paces Ferry Road. It all raced through her head . . . at the crime lab or murder scene, prepping one case after the next, cruising the strip in an undercover county car, digging bullets out from under a swing set playground in the projects. Combing over crime scenes together, measuring blood spatter, staring in windows, late nights and early mornings at every diner and fast-food stop in metro Atlanta. Coffee, coffee, and more coffee . . . it all blended . . . year after year . . . each case spilling over onto the next.