Not Guilty (10 page)

Keely could feel her heart beating fast, but she told herself there was nothing to be anxious about. She and Dylan followed Lucas and Detective Stratton, who were conferring in low voices, down a quiet corridor lined with portraits to a conference room that contained a dining-room–size table surrounded by comfortably upholstered chairs. Phil indicated that they should sit and then disappeared for a moment.

“Lucas,” Keely whispered. “What is going on? What were you talking about.”

Lucas opened his briefcase on the shining tabletop and then leaned back in the chair. “I simply asked him if the district attorney was going to show her face at this meeting. My inquiries confirmed that this investigation is at her behest.”

Keely frowned. “The district attorney . . . ?”

“Maureen Chase,” said Lucas calmly. “You look surprised.”

“Of course,” said Keely. “I don’t know why I didn’t think of it . . .”

“Why would you?” Lucas said indignantly. “It’s highly unprofessional of her.”

The door to the conference room opened, and Keely started, expecting to see the red-headed Maureen Chase entering the room. Instead, she saw the detective and another man in a suit come in and take seats at the other side of the table. “This is Lieutenant Nolte,” Phil said. “Mrs. Weaver, Dylan, and you probably know Lucas Weaver. Does a lot of
pro bono
work for the PD’s office.” The two men shook hands. Keely saw that she was jiggling her ankle, so she concentrated on stopping that nervous tic.

“Now,” said Stratton. “We’re here today to talk about the death of Mark Weaver. I think we are all clear on the cause of Mr. Weaver’s death. He drowned. That was the cause of death, plain and simple. But we still have some questions about this accident.”

“Excuse me,” said Lucas. “If you are planning to ask this minor child any questions, there are procedures—”

“Way ahead of you, Counselor,” said the detective smoothly. “Dylan Weaver, it’s my duty to inform you that you have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be held against you in a court of law. Do you understand?”

Dylan looked at his mother with wide eyes.

“Oh my God!” Keely cried.

Lucas squeezed her hand as Stratton continued. “It’s a formality,” Lucas assured her. “They have to do this.”

Phil finished the Miranda warning and then pushed a document toward Keely. “If you could sign this, Mrs. Weaver . . .”

Keely looked at Lucas in alarm, but he nodded. “It’s all right, dear.
It’s a waiver. It simply states that they have your permission to question Dylan. And that he has been read his rights. It’s all right. Trust me.” He pointed to a line on the form, and Keely signed it, pushing the paper back across the table.

“Now, Detective, we’re trying to be cooperative, but let’s not waste everybody’s time. You have no evidence to suggest this death was in any way suspicious,” Lucas stated flatly.

“It’s true that we have no evidence as far as the cause of death. But even in an accidental death, we have to consider the possibility of reckless endangerment. Also, there is such a thing as a homicide with what we call a nonvisible cause.”

“A nonvisible cause,” Keely repeated. “What is that?”

“The hardest kind of case to prove. But it can be done. Ask your lawyer here. Remember Frederick Yates?”

“Who is Frederick Yates?” Keely asked, her voice rising.

“This is absurd,” said Lucas. “The baby wandered out to the pool and fell in. She was soaking wet. You found her yourself. Mark couldn’t swim. The only recklessness here was that a man who couldn’t swim bought a house with a swimming pool.”

Keely lowered her eyes, blushing furiously. It was true. There was no denying it. But it was painful to hear it said so baldly. Her own responsibility for all that had happened hung in the air.

“I’ll be honest with you, Detective. I warned my son not to do that when he first told me about the house,” Lucas continued. “His wife warned him. She didn’t think it was a good idea, either. But Mark wouldn’t listen. There was no dissuading him. He was a man with a false sense of his own invincibility. And the temerity to think that his foolish decision would never catch up with him.”

Keely looked up at Lucas ruefully, hurt by his harsh characterization of her husband, and Lucas, without changing expression, cast her a brief wink. All at once, she understood. He was blaming it on Mark, who obviously could not object. And in her heart, Keely knew that Mark would approve.

“Now what else is there to discuss?” Lucas gazed at them defiantly.

Stratton sat back in his chair and folded his arms over his chest. His
well-muscled frame seemed constricted by the sports jacket and tie he was wearing. His hazel-eyed gaze remained mild, but he spoke in a reproving tone. “He was your son, Lucas. I’m only trying to be certain that justice is being done for him.”

“I knew my own son, Detective. He wouldn’t have wanted you to victimize his family on his behalf. He put himself into a perilous situation, and he made his own destiny,” Lucas snapped.

Phil shrugged. “Seems a little heartless. And I know you’re not a heartless man, Lucas. Is there something you’re trying to hide by vilifying your son?”

Lucas glared at him. “Don’t play that game, Detective. I’m not here to play games.”

Stratton turned to Dylan, who avoided his gaze. “How’d your father like that haircut, Dylan? And that earring?”

“You mean my stepfather?”

“Yes. The victim. Mark Weaver.”

“The victim,” Keely protested.

“The drowning victim,” said Phil.

“He didn’t like it,” said Dylan.

“Did you argue about it?”

Dylan shrugged. “Sometimes. Not too much.”

“A man and his teenage stepson arguing over a haircut,” interrupted Lucas sarcastically. “If that were a motive for murder, there wouldn’t be an adolescent’s father left alive today.”

“What about that jacket?” asked Phil. “It doesn’t exactly fit you.”

“His jacket!” Keely yelped. “What has that got to do with anything?”

“Did you wear it just to annoy him?”

“I like this jacket,” said Dylan indignantly.

“But it did annoy him, didn’t it? I mean, knowing where you got it.”

Keely looked at the detective in amazement. “How do you—”

“He didn’t care about it,” said Dylan.

“Where did you get it?” asked the detective.

“It was my dad’s,” said Dylan defiantly. “My real dad’s.”

Phil leaned forward and gazed at his large hands, his neatly trimmed nails. “Let’s talk some more about your real dad.”

“What about him?” Dylan asked warily.

“Did you two get along?”

“Sure. I loved him,” Dylan said simply.

“But he was . . . angry a lot, wasn’t he?”

“He got bad headaches,” said Dylan defensively.

Phil nodded, and pressed his lips together. “How did your real dad die?”

Dylan started to shake, and Keely looked at the detective, furious, but he ignored her outraged expression. “Lucas,” she whispered.

“Detective Stratton,” Lucas interrupted irritably. “What has that got to do with anything?”

“How did he die, Dylan?”

“He got shot,” Dylan mumbled.

“Excuse me?” Phil asked.

“He got . . . he shot himself.”

Phil nodded and picked up a piece of paper that was lying on the table. He pretended to study it, and then he looked back at the boy.

“Were you at home when it happened?”

Dylan shook his head and looked down. “No.”

“But you found him.”

Dylan nodded again.

Keely’s stomach had tightened into a furious knot. How dare they make Dylan relive it—finding Richard—like that. She wished she could reach across the table and smack Detective Stratton.

As if he had read her mind, Lucas began to protest. “Is it really necessary for this child to be reminded of the gruesome details of his father’s death?”

Stratton was unruffled. “I have a point I’d like to make, Counselor.”

“Well, make it, and let’s get this over with,” Lucas snapped.

“Did your dad let you play with his gun, Dylan?”

Dylan looked offended. “No. Of course not.”

“Did you even know he had a gun?”

Dylan hesitated. “No.”

“You’re sure about that?” said Phil. “You never saw that gun before?”

“No. I said no,” Dylan insisted.

“And that day, when you ‘found’ your father . . . where did you find the gun?”

“I didn’t!” Dylan cried. “I just saw him lying there, and I went and hid in the closet.”

“That’s strange,” said Phil.

“What’s strange about it?” Keely demanded, before Lucas could tell her to stop. “He was a nine-year-old boy. He was frightened.”

The detective ignored her and stared at Dylan. “I say strange, Dylan, because your fingerprints were all over that gun. Now how could that be if you never touched it?”

K
eely felt as if the room was tilting. She heard Lucas shouting at Phil Stratton, but her attention was focused on Dylan, whose complexion had turned ashen. He did not return her gaze. Then, slowly, she turned back to the detective and regarded him with wrath. “That’s not true,” she said.

Stratton looked at her steadily. “So you’re taking the position that you didn’t know about this?”

“I’m taking the position that it’s a lie,” she said.

“Oh, it is most certainly a fact, Mrs. Weaver,” he said. “There’s no need to pretend you didn’t know it.”

“You’re making it up,” Keely insisted.

“I’m afraid not,” he said. “It’s a matter of record.”

“Record where?” Keely demanded.

“The Ann Arbor Police Department.”

“No. Someone would have told me.”

“Your husband knew—Mark Weaver. He knew.”

“He didn’t. He would’ve—”

“Stop, stop,” said Dylan. “Okay.”

All the adults turned to look at him.

“Okay,” said Dylan. “I guess I . . . I think I picked it up.”

“You think?” Lucas asked.

“I did. I picked it up.”

“Oh my God, Dylan!” Keely cried. Her mind flashed back to that terrible day. To Richard, sprawled out in blood, and Dylan, in the closet. Now she was forced to visualize Dylan, nine years old and mesmerized by the sight of a loaded gun. Approaching it, picking it up, staring down the barrel. “You could have been killed.”

“Tell us about it, Dylan,” said Phil Stratton.

“Wait just a minute,” said Lucas angrily. He leaned over and clapped one hand on Dylan’s shoulder. He began whispering urgently in his ear. The boy listened, nodding slightly. Then Dylan shook his head sharply.

Lucas sighed. “All right,” he said. “Proceed.”

Dylan sighed and hunched over the table, staring at his pale knuckles, one hand clenched over the other. “When I came in the room and I saw my dad on the floor, I didn’t know . . . The . . . gun was on the floor beside him. I . . . I’d never seen a real gun. I crouched down to look at it, and then I picked it up. I could smell this funny, sickening smell off of it. And then I think I realized . . . you know. So I put it back down.”

“A perfectly normal thing for a nine-year-old boy to do,” said Lucas.

Stratton nodded. “Perfectly normal. That’s what the police in Ann Arbor thought. The child was found in the room with his father’s body. That’s exactly what they thought had happened.”

“So why are we dredging this up now?” Keely cried. “Haven’t we suffered enough to suit you?”

“That was before your second husband died in a suspicious accident,” said the detective.

“It wasn’t suspicious. He drowned. He couldn’t swim,” Keely shouted. “What is there to be suspicious of?”

“Well, for starters, Mrs. Weaver, I’m a little suspicious of you.”

Keely sat back, stunned.

“Let’s see. You came home one day and found your first husband dead and your son Dylan here holding a murder weapon.”

“He wasn’t!” Keely cried.

Lucas shook his head.

“A tragic accident, you told yourself, the first time. You spun some kind of story around it to protect your son. What else would a mother do? At first you told the police it was probably suicide. Headaches and all that. Then, when Mark Weaver got involved and you wanted the insurance money, you started talking about an intruder in the neighborhood, and how your husband bought a gun to protect the family. After
all, it could have happened like that. But when your second husband died ‘accidentally,’ when it happened a second time, weren’t you just a little bit concerned that your son’s role in all this was not merely coincidental?”

“All right, that’s enough,” said Lucas. “You’re making wild accusations based on nothing. You’re spinning these preposterous theories out of this family’s bitter misfortune. Keely, Dylan, come on. We’re leaving.”

Stratton looked at Dylan coolly. “You wanted him dead, didn’t you, Dylan?”

“Dylan,” said Lucas sharply, “come. Don’t say another word to him. Phil, we’ve tried to be cooperative. But don’t think for one minute that I don’t know where this is coming from. I am surprised at you, Phil. I thought you were your own man.” Lucas swung his briefcase off the table and pointed a finger at the detective. “She’s using you, Phil. Did you ever hear the saying ‘Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned’? She has an agenda, and you’re just a tool in it. There’s nothing to this but smoke and mirrors and one woman’s vendetta. There’s no case here.”

The detective’s face reddened. But if Lucas’s remark had hit home, it didn’t show in his voice. “We’ll see,” he said. “That’s what they said about Frederick Yates.”

“No,” said Lucas. “We’re not going to see anything. This is harassment, plain and simple. Maureen Chase has ordered you to harass these people because she is a bitter and disappointed woman. She may be the district attorney in this county, but I promise you, I will go over her head if you keep this up. Let’s go,” Lucas commanded.

Phil Stratton remained seated as Dylan stumbled toward the door, supported by his mother. Lieutenant Nolte opened the door for them. Keely burst out of the courthouse and gulped in the air as if she had been underwater. Dylan shivered in his jacket, though the afternoon was not cold. Keely looked sorrowfully at her son. “Oh, Dylan,” she said. “I’m so sorry you had to go through that. What that man said, I don’t want you to even think about.”

“I’m getting in the car,” he said. He did not look at her. He walked over to the Bronco, climbed in, and slammed the door.

Keely turned and waited for Lucas, who was speaking to people he knew as he made his way to the door. He came out frowning and walked over to where Keely stood.

“Lucas,” she said, “why would she do this?” Keely cried. “Even if she was jealous, or, angry at me for marrying Mark. To take it out on Dylan . . . on a child . . .”

Lucas shook his head. “It’s cruel,” he said. “I agree. But don’t let them get to you. It’ll all die down soon. They haven’t got anything to go on. Even if Dylan did wish Mark ill, leaving a gate unlocked is not a crime.”

Keely nodded, but for a moment she remembered that gate, gaping open, the look on Dylan’s face, her own anger at him. “That’s what he meant by reckless endangerment,” she said.

“It’s harassment,” Lucas sputtered. “Maureen Chase knows perfectly well that this charge cannot be applied to a child for leaving a gate open. It’s absurd.”

“But the business about Richard’s gun,” Keely persisted. “I was shocked. How could the police have known about that?”

A worried expression crossed Lucas’s face, and Keely noticed it. “What?” she demanded.

Lucas shrugged. “Probably a lucky guess. Maybe they checked back. It doesn’t mean anything. It’s exactly as the police thought then. Something a nine-year-old might be very likely to do—pick up the gun and examine it. Stratton is right about one thing, though: Mark must have known about it. He had access to all those records. He might have told Maureen about the fingerprints a long time ago. I mean, they were still engaged when all that happened.”

“He told her but not me,” Keely said dully.

“Don’t look at it that way,” said Lucas. “He might just have wanted to shield you. He had no way of knowing . . .” Lucas sighed. “He never told me about it either . . .”

Keely’s eyes were stinging, but she stuck her chin out indignantly. She could see Dylan from where they stood. He was sitting in the front
passenger seat, staring blankly through the windshield of the SUV. Keely said, “I’m going to speak to her. I can’t let her do this to my boy. He feels bad enough . . .”

“Don’t. Keely, I’m here to advise you, and my advice is, just don’t. Just sit tight, and it will all blow over. They don’t have anything concrete. The only reason it’s even come to this is because she’s got a vendetta going, and Phil Stratton is an eager beaver investigator who likes to get his name in the papers. Still, they can’t make a case here out of nothing. Don’t let them know they’re getting to you. That’s exactly what Maureen Chase wants. Don’t give it to her. Just sit tight.”

Keely nodded but continued to study her son’s immobile profile through the car window. She could still see traces of the innocent toddler in the shape of his nose and his lips. Of course, to the rest of the world, he appeared to be nothing more than a surly adolescent, a skinhead with an earring. She closed her eyes. “Who is Frederick Yates, Lucas? Stratton mentioned him twice this afternoon.”

Lucas grimaced, and Keely immediately felt fearful. “It’s not the same thing,” said Lucas.

“Tell me,” said Keely. “I need to know what I’m up against.”

Lucas sighed. “Phil loves to remind people of that case. Frederick Yates was an unemployed welder who lived with his girlfriend and her three-year-old daughter. One day, the child plunged to her death from the window of their fourth-story apartment while he was baby-sitting her. He claimed she climbed up and fell out the window while his back was turned. Maureen Chase was an assistant DA at the time. Her boss, the county prosecutor, wanted to sign off on the case. He told her to forget about it. But she pegged Yates for a liar from the get-go.”

“What has that got to do with us?” Keely cried.

“Nothing really,” said Lucas. “Just that Maureen believed it was a homicide, but with a ‘nonvisible’ cause. I mean, the child died from the fall out the window. There was no question about that. The question was, how did she fall out the window?”

“What happened?” Keely asked.

Lucas frowned. “As I recall, Yates refused to take a polygraph, and
they had no evidence, no witnesses. Phil was on the force at the time, but he was in agreement with Maureen. Together they kept the pressure on Yates, but he stuck to his story. Then, one day, Stratton brought in all these official-looking lab types and they spent the day in the apartment taking measurements and all—”

“They were doing that at my pool!” Keely exclaimed.

“Hmmm . . .”

“So they took all these measurements . . .”

“Well, the measurements themselves didn’t prove anything,” Lucas said. “But Phil used them to concoct this official-looking table that claimed to prove it would have been physically impossible for the child to reach the windowsill in the way Yates claimed she did. Yates finally broke down and confessed to throwing the child out the window in a rage over a bed-wetting incident.”

“Oh my God,” said Keely. “What a monster.”

“Maureen put him away for life.”

“He deserved it,” she said vehemently.

“True. It made her career. She unseated her boss in the next election. Became the youngest prosecutor in the history of Profit County. Not to mention the first woman.”

“And now, Phil Stratton is equating my son to Frederick Yates?”

Lucas put a hand on her arm. “Keely, take it easy. That isn’t going to happen here. I’m just warning you, if Phil starts coming around with graphs, pay no attention to them and call me. I’m sorry, Keely—I’ve got to go.”

“Lucas, thank you for everything. For coming down here.”

“I was glad to do it. Are you all right to drive?”

“I’ll manage,” she said.
I’ll have to,
she thought. She didn’t know what she was going to say to Dylan. This whole thing was like another phase of a nightmare that never seemed to end. Slowly, she walked over to her parked SUV and climbed into the driver’s seat. She turned on the engine and looked over at her son.