Sense of Deception (8 page)

“Bad day?” I heard from the doorway.

I startled. “Oh, hey, Cassidy,” I said to Candice, feeling my cheeks flush. “Didn't see you there.”

She leaned against the frame, crossed her arms, and adopted an amused expression. “I'll bet.”

I took a deep breath and straightened my shirt, still embarrassed for having been caught midtantrum. “How was
your
day, dear?”

Candice chuckled and came into the room to take up a seat across from me. “Better than yours, apparently.”

I sat down and shut the laptop. “I was talking to Skylar and our call got cut off.”

Candice flicked her wrist to note the time on her watch. “It's after five thirty.”

“Yep.”

“Is she going to let us help her?”

“Don't know,” I said with a sigh. “I gave her a pretty good pitch, though. And I recruited Cal Douglas to represent her, assuming she takes my advice and fires her attorney in the eleventh hour.”

“She'd be taking a huge risk, Abby. Her current attorney has probably been working on the case for at least a year or two. Possibly longer.”

“Hey,” we heard from the door again. Candice and I both looked over and saw Oscar there. “Glad I caught you two.”

I glanced down at Oscar's empty hands. “No luck with the records guy?”

Oscar shook his head. “The second I mentioned the name on the file, my buddy handed me back both the pizza and the beer and told me no way. The detective who worked the original case is still around, and he's some kind of big dog at APD and no one's willing to cross him. That means any file with his name on it stays put. Especially that one.”

“Shit,” I said, then glared at Candice when she arched an eyebrow at me. Opening the drawer to my desk, I lifted out a roll of quarters I kept there for swearing emergencies and slapped it on top of the desk blotter to show her I had the money to cover myself. Turning back to Oscar, I said, “Why would it be ‘especially that one'?”

Oscar came into the room and took the seat next to Candice. “Think about it, Cooper. Miller's appeal is in two weeks. No way this close to the finish line does APD want any of what's in that folder leaked out to maybe throw the case open again.”

I frowned. “So how do we get a copy of the murder file?”

“Skylar's initial legal team would've kept a copy,” Candice said.

“Her original attorney was court appointed,” I said, remembering from one of the articles covering the case that Texas didn't use public defenders. Instead it rotated through a list of defense attorneys and appointed cases to whoever was next on the list.

In theory it was a great thing for the accused, because they
often got a seasoned attorney well practiced in the art of defense litigation. In practice it had its shortcomings, especially when one of the smaller firms drew a short straw for a big case, because, since there was no money in it for them, they had to continue to work their other cases at the same time, and that meant that they typically put in the least amount of effort necessary to get the court-appointed job done.

I suspected, given what I'd read in the coverage of Skylar's initial trial, that this was exactly what'd happened in her case.

Candice pulled out her phone and said, “Do you remember the name?”

“Whitaker,” I said, scrolling through my memory banks. “First name I believe was John.”

Both Oscar and I waited while Candice tapped at her phone. She made a face and said, “John Whitaker, the attorney who defended Skylar Miller in the murder of her son, was struck head-on in a collision with a tractor-trailer on Route Three Sixty in the early hours of September second, two thousand eight.”

My jaw dropped. “He's
dead
?”

Candice scrolled a little farther down the article before she replied. “Quite,” she said with a frown.

“So what happened to his files?” I asked next.

Candice continued to tap at her screen. “He didn't have a law partner,” she said. “Which means his practice was probably shut down and the legal files put into storage or destroyed.”

“So there's no copy other than the one the cops have of Noah's murder?”

“The attorney handling her appeal should have a copy,” Candice said.

It was my turn to grimace. “You mean the one I just asked her to fire?”

Candice rolled her eyes. “You have the best timing. Still, if she requests the file, her old lawyer has to hand it over.”

“Right away?” I asked hopefully.

“Well, she is pressed for time,” Candice said. “But if she's firing him after he's been fighting for her for a couple of years, then he could drag his feet if he wanted to.”

“We need to see what's in that file as soon as possible,” I said. Holding up the folder of printouts of the articles I'd looked up, I added, “All I've got is what I printed off from online.”

“There's always the county clerk,” Oscar volunteered. “They keep a copy of the transcripts, photos, and motions for the judge. We could have them make us a copy.”

Both Candice and I groaned. “That'll take longer than Skylar has,” I said. It was true. I knew from experience that the typical turnaround time for court docs from old cases was at least two weeks.

“At some point we're going to have to interview the lead detective on the case,” Oscar said.

“Who is it?” Candice asked him.

“Ray Dioli.”

“Oh, God. Him? That man's a first-class asshole.”

“So you know him,” I said, stating the obvious.

“Yep. He and I got into it when I went down to APD to give my statement about Dr. Robinowitz.”

“Oh, man,” I said, remembering Candice telling me about the incident involving the statement she'd had to give APD about the murder of a man from out of town. She'd been scheduled to meet with a Detective Grayson, whom I knew and liked, but Dioli had pulled some weight and he'd interviewed Candice for what should have been nothing more than a courtesy call, just to wrap up the case. In a move that surprised everybody, Dioli had grilled Candice for hours and hours until she'd finally thrown in the towel
and called her attorney. It'd taken a couple of added phone calls from the upper echelon of the FBI to the upper echelon of APD to get Dioli to back off. “He's
that
guy?”

“I guess,” Oscar said, looking discouraged. Turning to Candice, he said, “He was really that bad?”

“Worse,” she told him. “Well, if you guys meet with him, leave my name out of it. I'm pretty sure he won't give you anything if he hears I'm working with you on this.”

I sat back in the chair and frowned, trying to think of a solution. “Okay, then. Here's what we'll do. Oscar, call this Detective Dioli and see if he'll meet with us, and in the meantime, I'll put in a call to the office of the lawyer currently representing Skylar and see if I can't convince him that I want to assist with the appeal. I'll tell him that I met Skylar in the county lockup—there for unrelated reasons—and that I volunteered as an investigator to look into her case. Maybe he'll give me a peek at her file out of the goodness of his heart.”

Both Candice and Oscar eyed me with unveiled skepticism. “Riiiiight,” Candice said. “
That'll
work.”

“Got any better ideas?”

Candice pursed her lips. “Not at the moment.”

“Thought so,” I said, getting up to reach for my purse, as there was nothing more we could do for Skylar at the moment. “So, for now, that's our game plan.”

*   *   *

D
utch beat me home from the office, which was unexpected. As I came through the door, I spied him on the couch, wearing boxer shorts and not much else. Oh, except for the single rose clutched in his teeth and the winning smile he was trying to curl around the thorny stem.

I looked at him for a beat, taking it all in. “Cute look.”

Dutch took out the rose and slid off the couch to get down on one knee. Offering me the flower, he said, “Abby Cooper, will you accept this rose?”

“Depends on where you're taking me to dinner,” I told him. “But here's a hint: I like steak and red wine and lots of ambience.”

“Texas Roadhouse?”

I frowned, refusing to take the rose. “
Romantic
ambience.”

Dutch swept his arms down toward the boxers. “What do you call
this
?”

“A poor attempt to get out of taking me to dinner because you're horny, tired, and hungover and you'd rather stay in, eat leftovers, and bonk the night away.”

His grin widened. “It's like you know me.”

I crossed my arms and began tapping my foot. Dutch got up, laid the rose gently on my arms, kissed the top of my head, and said, “I'll get dressed and call Gino. He should be able to reserve us a quiet booth in the corner.”

“Smart man,” I told him, swatting his bum for good measure.

Dutch paused before heading around the kitchen to our master bedroom to say, “And, Abs? Thanks for cleaning up the kitchen. I came home after lunch to grab a file I forgot, and saw that you'd taken care of it and you didn't even give me any flak about the poker game last night.”

“You've been working hard, honey. I think you and the guys needed a night to blow off some steam.”

Dutch nodded and the look he gave me expressed more than words how much he appreciated the small gesture. “Have I told you lately that I love being married to you?”

“Every day, babe,” I told him. Dutch wasn't one to hold
back on whispering sweet nothings to me, something I adored him for.

“Yeah, well, I stopped off on my way home to get you a little something to show you how much I appreciate all you do for me,” he said, with a mischievous grin.

That got my attention. “What kind of little something?”

My hubby bounced his eyebrows. “It's on the island. See for yourself.”

I'm not ashamed to say I threw aside my purse and keys and dashed madly into the kitchen. Dutch tended to spoil me rotten when it came to gift giving. Visions of gourmet chocolates wafted through my mind. Or maybe something fun like tickets to the theater.

When I got to the central island in our grand kitchen, I came up short. Like really short. Dutch chuckled softly as he continued on past me toward the bedroom. My breath quickened as I crept closer to the small box, neatly wrapped with silver paper and a gorgeous bow.

Lifting the box, I shook it a little. Something vibrated ever so slightly from inside. At that point curiosity got the better of me and I tore open the wrapping paper. The Apple icon revealed itself to me from an otherwise unmarked shiny white box. I gave in to a little gasp and lifted the lid. “Holy
freakballs
!”

The sudden sound of the shower being turned on was Dutch's way of saying that he knew he'd done good.

For a moment all I could do was stare at the brand-new Apple Watch Edition, which had JUST come on the market and was priced waaaaay beyond even the current tally of my swear jar.

I love, love, love gadgets, especially shiny gold gadgets that are the IT accessory must-have on everyone's list. Lifting the watch out of the box, I slipped it on my wrist and admired it. Then I
shrugged out of my clothes and slid into the shower, where there was perhaps even more slipping and sliding . . . (eyebrow bouncy, bouncy).

Later, after I'd shown Dutch my “appreciation” for his thoughtful gift, we lounged on the bed and I said, “Maybe we should skip the restaurant.”

He hugged me to his chest and said, “Yeah?”

I rolled over slightly and admired him while resting on my elbows. Such a beautiful man was my husband, with light blond hair, midnight blue eyes, a square manly jaw, and the chiseled body of a guy who takes exceptional care of himself. “Yeah.”

“You hungry?”

“I am.”

“Pizza or Thai?”

“Thai.”

Dutch reached for the phone and ordered us the usual—two pad Thais with extra chopped peanuts—and we headed out to the living room to await the delivery guy. While we waited, Dutch got up to feed Eggy and Tuttle, and as he was in the kitchen preparing their dinners, I got my watch working. “Hey!” I shouted to him. “You can make a phone call on this!”

“I know,” Dutch said.

“And if you got one, I could send you my heartbeat!” I called, even more excited as I played with the watch.

“Yep.”

And then a thought entered my mind and my wrist fell to my lap. “You already got one, didn't you?”

I heard Dutch clear his throat. “Is that the delivery guy?”

Narrowing my eyes at his profile, I got up and walked over to him. “Show me.”

He sighed. “Top drawer of my dresser,” he admitted.

“Seriously?”

Dutch set the doggy bowls on the floor and turned to me. “That heartbeat thing is freaking cool, Edgar. I thought it'd be nice to let you know when I'm thinking about you.”

I tapped my temple. “I
already
know when you're thinking about me.” Dutch and I had a rather pronounced telepathic connection. Or at least I always knew when he was about to call or text.

“Yeah, but this is more romantic,” he said.

I glared at him.

“Why are you mad, dollface?”

“Because I thought you got me a gift out of appreciation. Not because you wanted an excuse to buy yourself a new gadget.”

Dutch sighed before putting his hands on my shoulders and eyeing me square. “I
did
buy you a gift out of love and appreciation for the wonderful wife you are, and because I'm happy and more in love with you than ever. And while I was buying you this gift, the saleswoman showed me all the cool features that can be shared between two watches, and she won me over with the heartbeat thing.”

Damn. He wasn't lying. My irritation was unwarranted. Still, it irked me. Just then our doorbell dinged and Dutch said, “Ah. Saved by the bell.” He then kissed me on the cheek and hurried to the door.