State's Evidence: A Beverly Mendoza Legal Thriller (22 page)

“Yeah, I think so,” she muttered.

“Where did you get it?”

“Manuel gave it to me.”

“When?” he asked, eyes narrowed.

“I don’t know,” she uttered hastily.
“Recently. Why?”

Stone gazed at her. “Does that watch look
familiar to you?”

“Should it?” Claudia touched her mouth
nervously.

“Adrienne Murray wore an identical one the
day she vanished,” he pointed out. “But not when her body was
found.”

Claudia wrung her hands. “I didn’t have
anything to do with her death,” she stammered.

“No one’s suggesting you did, Ms. Sosa. But,
if you wouldn’t mind, I’d like to borrow your watch to check the
DNA on it and the serial number to see if it belonged to
Adrienne.”

Claudia removed the watch from her wrist with
quivering fingers. “Am I going to need a lawyer?”

Stone met her eyes. While ignorance was no
excuse, it wasn’t necessarily a crime either. “Not if you cooperate
and have nothing to hide,” he told her, holding a plastic bag for
her to drop the watch in. “But I have to tell you, I think your
boyfriend’s in big trouble. Now where can we find him—?”

Claudia wrinkled her nose worriedly. “When I
spoke to Manuel twenty minutes ago, he was having a drink at the
Sunset Tavern on Brentdale Road.”

* * *

“All the girls said Manuel was a regular
visitor,” Chang reported in the car. “They all thought he was cute
and a natural flirt. Even Adrienne was said to have a crush on
him.”

“But did she let it go any further than
that?” Stone thought about Erica Flanagan’s insistence that
Adrienne was too frightened of Chuck to even think about cheating
on him. Had she gained some courage along the way, only to let
things go too far? “And if she didn’t, did Gonzalez decide to take
what Adrienne wouldn’t give him? Along with her life...and her
jewelry?”

“Guess we’ll find out soon enough,” Chang
said from behind the wheel. “My money’s on Gonzalez as the person
who killed Adrienne and Penelope.”

“I wouldn’t bet against that,” Stone said. “I
also wouldn’t let Chuck Murray off the hook just yet either. Since
the dead do not talk, we’ll have to do it for them. Meaning it’s up
to us to make sure that Adrienne Murray rests in peace with her
killer or killers safely locked behind bars.”

Taking Manuel Gonzalez into custody for
questioning for at least one and probably two murders was their
current order of business to that effect.

* * *

Stone and Chang went into the Sunset Tavern.
Detective Joshua Arellano, who was investigating the murder of
Penelope Grijalva, met them at the door. Stone saw no reason to
muscle in on his territory without at least giving him a head’s
up.

“This had better be good,” Arellano grumbled.
The thirty-seven-year-old detective was six-six, lanky, and had
short dark hair.

“We’re hoping for the same,” Stone said
tightly. “Have you come across a Manuel Gonzalez in your
investigation into Grijalva’s death?”

Arellano cast dark brown eyes at him. “Yeah,
he’s on a short list of men who spent some time at the tavern the
night Penelope Grijalva was murdered. I hadn’t gotten around to
interviewing him yet.”

“Maybe you’ll get the chance right now,”
hinted Chang. “Right after we question the man about the murder of
Adrienne Murray. He and the victim crossed paths and we think he
may have stolen her jewelry after sexually assaulting and killing
her. We have it on good authority that he’s putting liquor in his
mouth inside even as we speak.”

Stone gazed at Arellano. “The way I see it,
if we can nail one asshole for two murders, we can all go home and
sleep lighter this night.”

“So what are we waiting for?” Arellano asked
anxiously. “Let’s go after the son of a bitch...”

The detectives fanned out inside the tavern,
in search of the suspect. When they converged it was apparent that
Manuel Gonzalez was nowhere to be found.

“You think we’ve been had?” Stone questioned
the others, hoping Claudia Sosa hadn’t bought Gonzalez some time by
leading them on a wild chase.

“You tell me,” muttered Arellano. “Thought
you had this on ‘good authority’?”

“We did,” Chang said. “Or so we
believed.”

“Let’s not jump to the wrong conclusions just
yet,” Stone said. He led the three to the bartender—a fiftyish,
heavyset man with a Fu Manchu mustache and shaved head.

“How can I help you?” he asked after Stone
had identified them as police detectives.

“We’re looking for a man named Manuel
Gonzalez.” Stone peered at the man. “Know him?”

“Yeah, sure. Manuel hangs out here all the
time.”

“How about today?”

“How about it?” The bartender tugged at his
mustache. “You just missed him by five minutes.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

The photographs were blowups of Rafael
Santiago’s shaved pubic region. Beverly looked on with revulsion at
the red, black, and green tattoo of a lizard that rested above
Santiago’s penis.

“He’s got a lot more guts than I do,” joked
Gail, glancing at one of the pictures. “Though I suppose it
could’ve been worse, like having his penis tattooed.” She winced at
the notion.

“I don’t think guts has anything to do with
it.” Beverly studied the lizard. “My guess is that it’s some sort
of Latin machismo thing. Probably a gang initiation rite or badge
of honor in the hood.”

“So you’re saying that other members of his
gang or hood also could have lizard tattoos in their pubic
area?”

Beverly laughed weakly at the absurdity of it
all. “Well, I wouldn’t know about that,” she took the Fifth. “But I
wouldn’t be at all surprised if Santiago was more of a follower
here rather than a leader.”

Gail wet her lips uneasily. “All evidence
aside, you do believe we have the right man in custody, don’t
you?”

“Absolutely!” Beverly made clear. “Even if
other Latino men had their pubic areas tattooed identically, Maxine
Crawford identified Rafael Santiago by both his face and his lower
anatomy. There cannot be two of him walking around this city.”

Even though I saw with my very own eyes
someone who was the spitting image of Rafael Santiago. At least
from the waist up. Chances are he didn’t have the same lizard
tattoo on his pubic area as Santiago had as his calling
card
.

She thought about Maxine Crawford and the not
so veiled warning from Grant to lay off any investigation into her
and Judge Crawford’s private lives. What did either of them have to
hide that was so off limits? Could it have any bearing on this
case?

Or the man they had charged with committing
the crimes?

Beverly gazed across the table. “What’s the
latest on the DNA evidence?” she asked.

Gail met her eyes. “The DNA tests on the
semen and hair samples taken from Maxine and the bed where she was
sexually assaulted indicate there is a match with both blood and
hair samples taken from Sheldon Crawford and Rafael Santiago.”

“That’s good,” Beverly said. “Establishing
that Santiago left his DNA calling card will make it difficult for
his attorney to convince a jury he was elsewhere when the crime
occurred.”

“But there could still be a potential issue
with the DNA evidence,” Gail pointed out. “Santiago’s attorney will
likely try to score some points with the jury by suggesting that
the Crawfords engaged in rough sex, thereby somehow mitigating what
Santiago did to Maxine.”

“Well, let him try.” Beverly could feel the
hair rise on the back of her neck at the thought of what Maxine
Crawford had been put through by that animal. “Juries are too
sophisticated these days not to be able to separate consensual sex,
whatever that may consist of, from forced sex acts. I think the
evidence, along with circumstantial evidence and the victim’s
direct testimony, is sufficient to prove beyond a reasonable doubt
that Santiago was there and did perpetrate the multiple sexual
assaults, murder, and break in.”

“I agree.” Gail picked up a coffee mug.
“Unfortunately we’ve come up short on any fiber evidence from
clothes or fingerprints that ties Santiago directly to the crime
scene. Even the shell casings found at the scene had no
identifiable prints to link to the suspect and bolster our case
against him.”

“That’s not too surprising,” Beverly said.
“Santiago probably dumped the clothes he wore in the incinerator or
the lake. As for fingerprints, considering that Maxine has stated
the suspect wore gloves, it was unlikely that any would surface;
and shell casings rarely turn up prints at that.” She wrinkled her
brow, a bit concerned about the lack of a murder weapon. “If you
believe in miracles, that gun will somehow fall into our laps and
eliminate even the slightest doubt in the jurors’ minds about
Rafael Santiago’s guilt—”

And my own mind
,
for that
matter
.

* * *

After she left the conference room, Beverly
walked to her office. She passed Jean, who was busy on the phone
while waving frantically to her, as if trying to flag down a cab.
Out of the corner of her eye, Beverly spotted an attractive,
well-dressed woman in her thirties. She was seated beside Jean’s
desk, rising when she saw Beverly.

“Ms. Mendoza...” the woman said on a breath,
short blonde hair bouncing against her shoulders.

Before Beverly could speak, Jean got off the
phone and said, “This is Lydia Wesley. She’s writing a book on the
Suzanne Landon murder case.”

“Ah, yes,” mumbled Beverly, recalling that a
detective from the Wilameta County Sheriff’s Department had
directed the woman to her.

“Ms. Wesley has been trying to see you for a
couple of weeks now,” Jean said apologetically. “I told her that
you might be able to spare her a few minutes this afternoon—”

Beverly had a feeling she was being ganged up
on. Jean, who was usually efficient in re-routing unwanted
visitors, was obviously sold on this one for some reason. If
nothing else, Lydia Wesley was certainly persistent.

And I’ve got better things to do with my
time than talk to a true crime writer.

“Yes, I think I can manage a few minutes to
answer some questions,” Beverly told Lydia. She gave Jean a
you-owe-me-one look. “Let’s go to my office.”

“Thank you,” Lydia said keenly.

“Have a seat, Ms. Wesley,” she offered,
joining her in the visitors’ chairs across from the desk so as to
keep this informal. “How can I help you?”

Lydia sat up straight, showing signs of
nervousness. “I just want to get your feedback on a few things
regarding the Suzanne Landon-James Wright love affair turned
deadly—”

“All right,” Beverly nodded, noting that the
clock was ticking.

Lydia removed a small tape recorder from her
bag, setting it on the corner of the desk. “Do you mind if I record
our conversation?”

“Fine. Just be sure to get my approval before
quoting me in your book. Deal?”

“Deal.” Lydia smiled. “Did you believe that
Suzanne Landon was guilty from the very start?”

“It was hard not to when she failed to notify
authorities for nearly two weeks that her lover was missing,”
Beverly remarked. “Only when what was left of James Wright’s corpse
was discovered did Ms. Landon suddenly remember that he
accidentally
fell 320 feet to his death.”

“Do you think the fact that Suzanne had
reported being abused several times by James Wright could have had
anything to do with his death—you know, sort of a self-defense
motive?”

“Oh, please!” Beverly sneered. She did not
discount the legitimacy of the battered woman’s syndrome and some
women resorting to murder to escape the abuse. But this was
different.
Very much so
. “Those reports came within the two
months leading up to his death, though they were living together
for two years. I think it was more likely that Suzanne Landon
wanted out of the relationship, but not until she knew she would be
handsomely compensated to the tune of one million dollars in
insurance payouts.”

Lydia ran her fingers through her hair.
“Isn’t it unusual for women to be convicted of murdering their
lovers?”

What planet are you living on, lady?
“Maybe, when compared to men who kill their significant others,”
Beverly stated somberly. “The truth is women can be just as violent
and deadly as men, if the motivations and means are there. As a
result, those who do commit such acts are just as likely to be
convicted and sent to prison as their male counterparts.”

Lydia crossed her long legs and sighed. “Do
you think the D.A.’s office made you the lead prosecutor on the
case to keep it from appearing to be a sexist attack on a brave
woman standing up for herself?”

Beverly couldn’t help but offer an amused
smile while masking her indignation at the suggestion that she’d
been given the case for any reasons other than her ability as a
trial lawyer. “First of all, I was not the lead prosecutor,” she
said snappishly. “Grant Nunez and I were co-counsel. Second, this
trial was not about
men
versus
women
. It was about
justice versus injustice. Suzanne Landon was not seen as a woman
standing up for her rights, but rather a female who murdered her
lover and tried to collect on it. It’s as simple as that.”

Lydia’s face reddened. “Is there any chance
that I can get some crime scene photos from you?” she asked
hesitantly. “These days publishers practically reject your proposal
from the start unless you can produce
vivid
pictures for the
book.”

“You’ll want to talk to the police about
that,” Beverly passed the torch. Her own policy was never to allow
photos from her cases to be handed over to the media or writers,
out of respect to the victims.

Lydia’s brow creased. “I tried, but they
aren’t willing to release any photos without approval from the
victim’s family. And they won’t even talk to me—”