The Heavens May Fall (9 page)

Boady motioned to a second rocking chair, Diana’s chair, and the two sat down. “Are you sure?”

“I just came from the morgue. I identified her.”

“What happened?”

“I don’t know. I was in Chicago. I flew down yesterday morning for a conference. I got a call today from your buddy, Max Rupert, saying that Jennavieve was dead and Emma was missing.”

“Emma’s missing?”

“They found her. She spent the night at a neighbor’s house. She’s alright. I haven’t seen her yet, but I’m going there after I talk to you. They tell me she doesn’t know her mom’s dead yet. I . . . I don’t know what to say to her. Her mother was everything to her.”

“I’m so terribly sorry . . . Jennavieve . . . I can’t believe it. Have they told you anything about how it happened?”

“Not much. I managed to get the ME to tell me that Jennavieve was stabbed. When I viewed her body, she had stitches along the right side of her neck. I’ve seen autopsy photos before, and I knew that wasn’t part of the normal procedure. I pushed until the ME gave in and said that’s where the knife . . .” Ben’s eyes glazed over and tears began rolling down his cheeks. He wiped them on the sleeves of his white button-down shirt.

“Where was she killed?”

“I don’t know. They won’t tell me anything. I think she was killed at our house. There’s an army of cops there. They won’t let me go home.”

“If you need a place to stay—”

“No. That’s not why I’m here. I’m here because I think I need a lawyer.”

Boady started to say something. He wanted to tell his friend to look elsewhere if he needed an attorney, but the words knotted up in his throat.

“I’m afraid Rupert’s going to try and hang this on me.” Ben shifted in his seat, as though settling in for a longer conversation. “I mean, you heard about the problem between Max Rupert and me, I assume.”

Now it was Boady’s turn to settle in. He leaned back in his chair, crossed one leg over the other, and tried to recall what he could about the bad blood between Pruitt and Rupert. “I read something about it in the
Minnesota Lawyer
. I also read the Board of Professional Responsibility opinion.” Boady tried not to look disappointed, but he must have failed because Ben dropped his eyes as Boady spoke. “You were suspended for . . . was it thirty days?”

“Sixty. But I didn’t know that document was a forgery. I swear to God, Boady. My investigator gave that document to me and told me it came from Max Rupert’s disciplinary file. I had no way of knowing. It looked legit. I had no reason to question it.”

“I’m not saying you knew anything like—”

“Wait. Boady, listen to me. I would never knowingly commit fraud on the court. I would never do that. When you left the practice, you entrusted me with your clients. You said that you knew you were leaving them in good hands, my hands. Did you mean that?”

“Of course I did.”

“In all the years we worked together, did I ever do anything to make you believe I would intentionally introduce a forged document into a trial?”

“No.”

“Not one of your clients, not one judge, not a single prosecutor has ever accused me of unethical behavior—except that one damned document. That’s because I didn’t know it was a forgery.”

“I believe you, Ben. And you’re right, I turned my practice over to you because I trusted you. I never doubted your integrity for a moment. When I read that you’d been publicly reprimanded, I wanted to call. I should have—”

“I understand why you didn’t. I can’t blame you. The opinion was so one-sided, I’d have believed it if it weren’t about me.”

“No, Ben. I should have called. You could have used my support and I . . . well, I dropped the ball.”

“Boady, I need your support now. Rupert’s never forgiven me. He’s the lead on Jennavieve’s case, and I know he’ll try to find a way to charge me with her death.”

“Have you met with him yet?”

“Yes, earlier today.”

Boady scratched his chin. “You think that was wise?”

Ben shook his head and looked out to the street. “I know. I would have told any client to stay away from Rupert. It’s stupid, but dammit, Boady, I’d just found out that my wife was dead. I wasn’t thinking like a lawyer. I just wanted to help find the sonofabitch that killed Jennavieve. If I can help with that, I want to.”

“And did you help with that?”

“Probably not.”

“What did Rupert want to know?”

“He started by asking me where I was last night. I told him the Marriott in downtown Chicago. I told him that my last communication with her was around five o’clock yesterday. And then he started asking about our marriage and I told him not to.”

“Looking for a motive, marital discord.”

“If he’d asked me questions that I thought might lead to the person who killed my wife, I’d still be there. But he kept bringing it back to me, so I left.”

“And you think he’s gunning for you?”

“Boady, I didn’t kill Jennavieve. I don’t know how he could possibly hang me with this, because I was in Chicago. I had no reason to kill her. I don’t know what Max Rupert might do, but I think I need someone on my side. I’m a mess and I need you to help me get through this.”

“You know I don’t practice law anymore. Except for moot court and my practicum classes, I haven’t been in a courtroom in six years.”

“You kept your license, didn’t you?”

“Yes, but—”

“Boady, you’re the best attorney I’ve ever seen—myself excluded, of course.” Ben gave Boady a slight forced smile. “And more important than that, I trust you.”

“But I’m not a defense attorney any longer. I don’t do that . . . and you know why.”

“Boady, you knew Jennavieve. You know me. You and Diana have been to our house. You ate at our table. For God’s sake, you were at the hospital when Emma was born. I’m not asking you to get me out of a DWI here. I’m terrified that Max Rupert is coming after me. He’s going to ignore any other evidence and dig up anything he can to point this at me. He hates me. He’s the one who pulled the strings that led to my reprimand. I need you. I need someone who can help me find the truth, even if Rupert isn’t looking for it.”

“You know Max and I are friends, right?”

“I know, but I also know that there’s no one better than you in a courtroom. There’s no one better than you at digging the truth out of a mess of lies. I’ve seen you do it. Who knows, they might not even charge me. They might find whoever did this and Rupert can go fuck himself. But if Rupert doesn’t find the real killer, you know he’ll come after me. I’m convenient. I’m the obvious target. I’m the husband. You know how this works.”

“I have to teach this fall. I can’t do both.”

“Can you take a sabbatical? I have your retainer right here.” Ben reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a check and handed it to Boady.

Boady read the number: $200,000. “Jesus, Ben, that’s way too much.”

“If this case goes to trial, that amount won’t cover it. We both know that. If they don’t charge me, you can give me back what you want. But I’ll demand that you keep at least what you would have made as a law professor for the semester. If I get charged, I’m going to trial, fast and hard. I want you to have the time you’ll need to prepare. There’ll be no plea bargains. It’s either conviction or acquittal. I didn’t kill Jennavieve. I’m not pleading guilty to anything, no matter how much they reduce the charge. There’ll be no face-saving plea bargain. I need you to understand that, Boady. I’d rather go to prison a wrongfully convicted man than to say a single word that even hints that I had anything to do with Jennavieve’s death. Emma has to know that I didn’t kill her mother.”

“I can’t make a decision like this without talking to Diana.”

“Absolutely. I wouldn’t want you to. Talk to her and get back to me.”

Ben stood and held out a hand. Boady took it and pulled Ben in to embrace him. When they parted, Ben’s eyes were once again full of tears. He turned to make his way down the steps and back to his car but stopped after taking only a few steps.

“I have to go pick up Emma,” he said, looking over his shoulder at Boady. “How do you tell a little girl that her world has fallen in?”

Boady wanted to say something helpful, but he could find no words. He simply shrugged his shoulders, shook his head, and watched his friend walk away.

Chapter 13

The Pruitt house looked smaller the second time Max Rupert pulled up to it. Maybe it was the bright-yellow tape stretched around it, marking it with a police-department stamp of ownership. Maybe it was the familiarity of the squad cars and the crime-scene vehicles and the smooth, mechanized efficiency of the lab techs bent to their tasks like the cobbler’s elves. Or maybe it was the evolving thought of Ben Pruitt, not as the high-powered master of the house, but as prey to be tracked and cornered. Whatever the reason, Max approached the house with an odd sense of comfort.

He paused at the opened door. Inside, Niki sat on the staircase, her knees pulled together, creating a table of her thighs on which she filled out the search inventory sheet. Her black hair fell across her face, hiding her eyes.

“Find anything helpful?” Max asked.

“No murder weapon and no bedding. We found a laptop and phone that both appear to be hers, and we took his computer from the study and sealed it. How’d the interview go?”

“Great . . . for him. He professed his innocence, laid out his alibi, said everything he’d want a jury to hear. Once I started asking him specific questions, he accused me of having a vendetta against him and shut it down. He’s managed to put his version on tape and nothing more.”

“Is his alibi sound?”

“No. He can’t account for his whereabouts from about five thirty yesterday until nine this morning. It takes, what . . . six to seven hours to drive from Chicago to here?”

“Maybe he mapped it out on his computer. We’ll need to seize his office computers as well. He’s going to go ballistic if we do that. You think we have the probable cause we need?”

“I don’t know. If he drove back here to kill his wife, he’d need a car. He says he parked in the park-and-ride. No cameras, but he has a receipt. We can check their records. We can also check his credit cards and see if he booked a flight back or rented a car in Chicago to drive back, but I’m guessing he didn’t. He’s not stupid.”

“Maybe he hired it done—set it up so his wife would be killed when he was in Chicago.”

“That’s a possibility. He has access to that kind of criminal element through his law practice. If it was a hired gun, maybe someone around here saw something.”

Max turned and stepped out onto the front stoop. He gazed up and down the street. Neighbors, pedestrians, and gawkers had gathered in little pockets to talk and speculate as to why the army of squad cars had set siege to the Pruitt house. Reporters were milling around, undoubtedly asking their usual questions and trying to get quotes for the evening broadcast. Directly across the street, Max spied a lone woman sitting on her porch with a coffee mug in her hand. Malena Gwin, the nosey neighbor, at least according to Terry Kolander. With a nod of his head, he signaled Niki to join him, and they walked across the street together.

Ms. Malena Gwin stood up as the two detectives mounted her porch steps. She reminded Max of an actress whose name he didn’t know, one of those faces you’d see on a sitcom or commercial who is famous enough to be recognized but not known. She had dark hair and a tomboy face, the kind of face that doesn’t steal attention but draws it in over time—attractive for her forty-something age.

“Malena Gwin?” Max said.

“Yes. That’s me.”

“I’m Detective Max Rupert, and this is my partner, Detective Vang. May we have a word with you?”

“Of course. Is it true that Jennavieve Pruitt has been murdered?”

“Would you mind if we stepped inside? Away from prying eyes and ears?”

Malena glanced over Max’s shoulder at a photographer snapping pictures of them on her porch, and she showed them in. Ms. Gwin’s house was not nearly as large as the Pruitts’, but its modest shell hid within it a trove of architectural treasures: wood-paneled walls with elaborately carved crown molding, French doors of cherry wood and stained glass through which Max could see the bottom few steps of a staircase that reminded him of the grand staircase in the
Titanic
movie, only in a smaller scale. A blue, claw-footed sofa sat across from two matching armchairs. Malena took a seat on the sofa, and Max and Niki sat in the armchairs.

“A reporter asked me this morning how well I knew Jennavieve,” Malena said. “I asked him why he used the past tense, and he said that Jennavieve Pruitt was dead. He said that his source told him that she’d been murdered. Is that true?”

Max pulled out a notepad and pen and leaned forward. “Ms. Gwin, I would like to ask you some questions, and I am hoping that we can keep this conversation between us for now. We’re conducting an investigation, and it would be helpful if the world didn’t know some of these details. Can I ask you to keep this confidential?”

“Of course, Detective. I have no desire to be in the news. I told that reporter to get off my property, and I’ll tell him that again if he comes back.”

“I appreciate that,” Max said. “In answer to your question, yes, Jennavieve Pruitt is dead, but we don’t have an official cause of death yet.” A lie, yes, but withholding details was a necessary part of any proper investigation. “You live right across the street from the Pruitts. I was wondering how well you know them.”

“I know . . . I knew Jennavieve a little better than I know Ben. I moved here in 2008. My husband’s family owns the house. When his parents died, we moved in.”

“Is your husband around? We’d like to talk to him too.”

“My husband died four years ago. It’s just me.”

“My condolences,” Max said.

Malena nodded her acceptance. “I’ve known Jennavieve and Ben for about eight years now. We’re not close. I run into them at neighborhood functions and the like. Jennavieve and I are both into fitness, so we see each other in passing when we run.” Malena wore a blue sundress, and she crossed her legs as if intending to show off her well-toned calves. “Jennavieve was a wonderful person. I can’t imagine how devastated Ben and Emma are right now. They’re okay, aren’t they? They weren’t hurt?”