Sintown Chronicles II: Through Bedroom Windows (85 page)

“What does that have to do with anything?"

“I'm getting to that. When we delete a file, it is the entry in the file allocation table that is erased from the disk—not the file itself. Deleting the entry from the FAT does not erase the document—it just frees up that disk space to be written over later. If the disk space has not been covered up with a new file, it's still on the disk and there are ways to find it."

“What are you saying?"

“I am saying that the email messages you exchanged with Mr. Fisher are still on your hard disk and our computer people have found some of them."

Lacy slid off the table and squatted beside Shelly, looking up into the woman's frightened eyes. “Mr. Fisher says he had nothing to do with the assault. He says you planned to murder your husband for the insurance money, but he refused to have any part of it. He claims you have many lovers and must have convinced one of them to carry out your plan."

“It wasn't like that,” Shelly cried.

“Mrs. Pond,” Cranfield warned, “you have the right to have an attorney present."

“It was Boyd's idea right from the beginning. It was his idea that I marry Sam on condition that Sam take out that big insurance policy. Boyd wanted to kill Sam at our house in Dot. When I told him about the honeymoon, he decided Myrtle Beach was better."

“And you agreed?"

“I was mixed up. I didn't love Sam—not then. I was nuts about Boyd. That part is true. I lost my job at the Crazy Cat and no other club would hire me. Boyd said after I collected the insurance, we would run away together."

“So you and Mr. Fisher conspired together to murder Sam Pond."

Shelly broke into hysterical sobs. “I changed my mind after we arrived at the beach. I just couldn't go through with it. I couldn't do that to Annie—to Sam. I called Boyd from our hotel room and told him I couldn't go through with it."

“Are you telling us that you called the thing off, but lured your husband into a midnight stroll, according to plan, anyway?” Cranfield asked.

“No. The midnight stroll was Sam's idea. He was trying to be romantic. I tried to talk him out of it, but since Boyd agreed to cancel our plan, I thought it would be safe."

“So the midnight stroll was just a coincidence?"

“Yes,” she said, still sobbing. “I still don't think Boyd did it. How could he have known, after we called off the plan, that Sam and I would be on the beach that night anyway?"

Lacy stood, glanced at Cranfield, and said, “Mrs. Pond, I want to believe you, but someone attacked you and your husband. The scenario fits the plan that you and Mr. Fisher put together. Mr. Fisher says you have many lovers. Give us their names."

“He lied. There's no one I ever cared about other than Boyd and now Sam."

“Are there any prospective lovers whom you jilted, Mrs. Pond? Anyone who might have wanted to harm you to get revenge for being spurned?” Cranfield asked.

“I can't think of anyone specific. Hell, every guy who watched me strip wanted to get into my panties."

I can believe that, Cranfield thought without changing the expression on his face.

“Mrs. Pond, in light of what you have told us this afternoon, I have no choice but to charge you with conspiracy to commit murder. The crime occurred in South Carolina, so I must take you back to Myrtle Beach for trial."

“Mrs. Pond,” Cranfield said, “you can employ an attorney and fight extradition."

Shelly's mind was reeling. How could they charge her with murder when Sam was not dead—or was he?

“Sam!” she cried out. “Is he ... is he..."

“I checked with the hospital this morning. Sam is still in a coma,” Cranfield said.

“You can fight extradition, but you won't win,” Lacy advised. “Mrs. Pond, I want to believe you. I know Detective Cranfield wants to believe you. If what you have told us is true, you will get off with a light sentence at worst."

“If what you have told us is true,” Cranfield corrected, “the charges will be dropped."

“It is in your best interest to cooperate with us fully. We want to catch the real perpetrator. Even if you are innocent, you hold the key to finding the guilty party,” Lacy continued.

“What do you want me to do?” Shelly asked.

As Cranfield produced a yellow legal pad and ballpoint pen, Lacy said, “Write down what you just told us. Go into as much detail as possible. Don't worry about grammar, spelling or punctuation."

“And then?” Shelly asked as she arranged the pad in front of her.

“And then we'll go to Myrtle Beach and try to get this thing resolved as quickly as possible."

“Okay,” Shelly said softly, picking up the pen.

Detectives Cranfield and Spencer went to the observation booth, leaving Shelly alone, and watched her through the one-way mirror.

“I'm never comfortable tricking a suspect into a confession,” Cranfield mumbled.

“For all you know, your experts will find the deleted email files. Thanks to Mrs. Boyd, we now know they exist."

“Maybe, but our guys worked all night long and the only one they recovered was the last one Boyd Fisher sent. It sounds fishy to me."

Lacy ignored his attempt at humor. “I agree. The bastard tried to pin the crime solely on her with that little document. The fact that he reformatted his hard disk before sending that message is proof he was setting her up in case they were caught. You can bet you ass Boyd Fisher knows what a FAT is. He pulled the trigger, but she was definitely his partner in crime."

“Reformatting the disk means everything is erased?"

“You really don't know much about computers, do you Detective? Yes, reformatting erases everything. You then have to reload programs and documents. Fisher reloaded only what he wanted us to see."

“What about the telephone call she claims she made on the morning of the attack?"

“What about it? We can't recover the content of a telephone conversation."

“True, but if she did make a call to Fisher from her hotel room that morning, it would tend to corroborate her story that she backed out."

“Or that she was relaying last minute information."

“I wish she had opted for an attorney,” Cranfield said. “I don't think she understands what's happening."

“Well, her boyfriend sure does. He refused voluntary extradition and had a lawyer in the interrogation room inside an hour. Lighten up, Bud. It's over. We've got the bad guys."

“Maybe."

“Excuse me. I didn't mean to interrupt. I'll just wait outside until you're finished."

The nurse smiled as she pushed Sam's leg, with bent knee, back as far as it would go. “You're not interrupting,” she said. “I'm about finished for this session."

“I'm Leora Borders—Mr. Pond's next-door neighbor."

“Good to meet you, Leora. I'm Jane Poindexter."

“What are you doing?"

“Physical therapy. We don't want Mr. Pond's muscles to atrophy while he's comatose."

“Any change in Mr. Pond?"

“Nothing measurable,” the nurse said as she worked Sam's arm, bending it at the elbow.

“What does that mean?"

“Well, several of the nurses have noticed it. The expression on Mr. Pond's face changes from time to time. See how pleasant he looks right now? This morning there was a pained expression on his face, and..."

“And?"

“I shouldn't say it, but for the last three mornings he has had an erection."

Leora grinned. “Men!"

“It's normal for a man to have an erection during the early morning hours. It embarrasses the dickens out of most of them when an orderly comes to bathe them. The point is, at least in this respect, Mr. Pond's body is beginning to act normally."

The nurse looked at Leora conspiratorially and lowered her voice. “We were going to ask Mrs. Pond to fondle him and see if he reacts, but then we learned she has been arrested."

“Can't you do it?"

The nurse blushed. “It wouldn't be ethical."

Leora's grin widened. “That's what you were doing when I came in. Did he react?"

The nurse looked compassionately at Sam's face. “He seems to be happy about something."

“Hey, man,” Cranfield said as he stepped inside the cubicle. “Your wife is on the phone and she's hopping mad."

Borders looked up from the computer screen, bleary-eyed. “What time is it?"

“Almost six,” Cranfield replied. “Have you been here all day?"

Borders nodded. “I'd better talk with Leora. Which phone?"

“My desk."

Borders stretched and headed for Cranfield's cubicle.

“Honey, I lost track of time. I'm sorry."

“You could have called, Julius. I was worried."

“Yeah. I'll finish up here in a few minutes. What's for dinner?"

“Country style steak, you old goat. Yours will be cold ‘cause the rest of us are not going to wait for you."

“Did you tell Annie?"

“I told her that Shelly is helping the police find the person that caused Sam's accident."

“It's beginning to look like she's going to be helping the police for a long time, Leora. Shelly has all but confessed to conspiring with her boyfriend to murder Sam."

“I don't believe it."

Borders shrugged as if Leora could see the gesture. “She waived extradition and is on her way back to Myrtle Beach as we speak. Social Services will pick Annie up tomorrow."

“No! We can't let that happen."

“It's routine in these cases, Leora."

“I'm not going to let strangers take that little girl away from me, Julius. Do something!"

Borders again shrugged. “I don't have much influence anymore, but maybe Bud does. It's worth a shot."

Cranfield looked up from the computer and laughed as Borders returned to the cubicle. “Your eyes are so bloodshot you look as if you've been on a weekend drunk."

“I feel like it,” Borders said, propping against the desk. “I'm no fingerprint expert, but I've matched all the prints taken from the Escort against known prints from Shelly, Sam and Annie. I came up with a match of some kind every time."

“I tried to tell you."

“Yeah, but I just don't believe Shelly is guilty of any wrongdoing. Neither does Leora. I was really hoping I would find something."

“According to Shelly,” Cranfield said, “the assailant on the beach wore surgical gloves. If it was the same person who broke into her car, he probably wore gloves that night too."

“Yeah,” Borders said as he sighed. “I read that in the report. Thanks for the security clearance."

“You're welcome,” Cranfield replied, pulling a stack of paper from the printer tray, “but I can't let you take a printout with you. You know that, Borders."

Borders watched his friend fold the papers as if he were preparing to mail them in a number ten envelope. “Leora's a pretty good detective, you know, Bud. I thought she might find something in the report that the rest of us are missing."

“I should run these through the shredder,” Cranfield said as he tossed the folded document in the trashcan. “There is just one tiny ray of hope, Borders, and it isn't in the report yet. Shelly claims she called Fisher from the beach on the morning of the attack and backed out of the agreement. Miss Hot Pants from Myrtle Beach wasn't going to check it out, but I did. A call was made from the Ponds’ room to Boyd Fisher's residence. They talked for seven and a half minutes."

“But they could have been talking about anything,” Borders responded.

“That's what the Myrtle Beach whiz said. She thinks that if Shelly did call Boyd, it was to make last minute plans."

“Bud, may I ask you a personal question?"

“Sure."

“I've known you for what—twenty years?"

Cranfield nodded.

“During all that time I've never known you to belittle another officer. What is it about this Myrtle Beach detective that rubs you the wrong way?"

Cranfield ran his fingers through his hair. “Do you remember what it was like between the passing of your first wife and meeting Leora? Going home to an empty house every night?"

Borders frowned. “It wasn't fun."

“I've never been married, Borders, but that doesn't mean I like having no one to share my life—no one to care about and to care about me."

“You don't mean..."

“Afraid so."

“Does she know?"

“Hell, Borders. She can't be a day over thirty and here I am pushing fifty."

“Fifty-one if memory serves,” Borders chuckled.

“Besides, she's the type who would slap a sexual harassment suit on me as quick as she can bat those long eyelashes if I so much as offered her a cup of coffee."

“She's gone back to Myrtle Beach now. You're no longer working together. Give her a call when you get home."

“And just what do you advise I say to her? Hey, baby, I like the way you wear a holster and I want you to fix my breakfast every morning for the rest of my life."

“Hell, what do I know about courting?” Borders said, laughing. “Leora came on to me."

“You still looking for a chief of police for the newly incorporated Village of Dot?"

“We received over a thousand applications,” Borders laughed.

“She'd make a good one."

“I thought you didn't care for her talent as a law enforcement officer."

“She has the training, the moves, the instincts and the desire. All she needs is a little maturity."

“Hell, Bud. You just want her to move into the area so you can ogle her once in a while."

“You're probably right,” Cranfield said as he stood and yawned. “Stay all night if you like, Borders. It's been a long day. I'm going home.” He leveled his eyes at his old friend. “Whatever you do, don't take that printout from the trashcan, show it to Leora and tell me of her response."

“Speaking of Leora, I mentioned to her on the telephone that Social Services will be coming for Annie tomorrow. She split a gasket. We would like to keep Annie if possible. Would you put in a word for us?"

“Whew. That's a hardboiled crowd over there. They pretty much go by the book, but I'll see what I can do."

As Cranfield moved through the opening in the cubicle, Borders called after him. “Hey, Bud. I've thought of an excuse."

“Excuse?"

“Call Miss whatever-her-name-is. Tell her you wanted to make sure she got home safely and then tell her about the job in Dot."