“It is,” the bartender said. “But she said she still needed the work. She’d lost two or three of her regular clients recently. No fault of her own. One got electrocuted in her bathtub.”
Drummond said, “Let me guess: another was murdered.”
“Yeah, that’s right,” Jones said. “Wife of that plastic surgeon you see advertising on television all the time. You know, the Boob King.”
Twenty minutes later, they pulled up in front of Francie Letourneau’s small apartment with renewed purpose. The now-dead maid had worked for two now-dead wealthy women from Ocean Boulevard. Ruth Abrams’s death was clearly a murder by strangulation. Now Drummond and Johnson were questioning whether Lisa Martin really had accidentally dropped the Bose radio in her bathtub. Had she been killed too?
They got the landlord to open the maid’s apartment, stepped inside. Johnson gagged at the smell coming from a makeshift altar in the corner.
A rooster’s severed head had been placed upright in the dead center of a tin pie plate. Two inches of chicken blood congealed and rotted around the head. The bird’s feet were there too, set with their talons facing a doll made of bound reeds, stuffed burlap, and cornhusks.
A long thorn of some sort jutted out of the doll’s groin. There were two more thorns in the heart. A fourth one penetrated the top of the head.
“Santeria.” Drummond grunted. “She must not have left it behind in Port-au-Prince.”
“Who’s the doll supposed to be?” Johnson said.
“Let’s figure it out,” the sergeant said.
They searched for almost an hour.
In a manila envelope on a small desk, Johnson found receipts from the prior month for a new couch, television, and Cuisinart food processor. In the top drawer, he found the receipt for the Apple MacBook Pro that was still in the box on the floor, next to the filing cabinet. Everything had been bought with cash.
The lower filing cabinet drawer was partially open. One file had been shoved in hastily and it jutted above the rest. Johnson pulled it and saw that the day before Letourneau died, she’d bought a brand-new phone and upgraded her plan through Verizon.
Johnson called the number, heard it go straight to voice mail. He made a note to pull her phone records.
Drummond returned after searching the bedroom.
“Anything?” he asked.
“She spent a lot the past month,” Johnson said. “All cash. I figure close to four thousand. I looked at her bank accounts. There’s no eight grand, and no record of a safe-deposit box.”
“Well, she wasn’t keeping it under her mattress,” Drummond said. “I’ve been over every inch of this place, both bedrooms, kitchen, all of it, and—”
Johnson looked at the sergeant. He had stopped talking and was fixated on the altar and the doll.
“Maybe Ms. Francie was craftier than we thought,” Drummond said, walking over. “Maybe she left that chicken blood there knowing it would reek and the voodoo stuff knowing it would freak out anyone who might break into her house looking for cash.”
He lifted the maroon cloth, revealing the legs of a folding card table, the carpet, and nothing more.
“Good thought, though,” Johnson said.
Drummond got down on his knees, reached under the card table, and said, “You give up too easy, Miami.”
The sergeant worked his fingers into the carpet and ripped up a one-by-two-foot section that had been held in place with Velcro strips. He got out a jackknife and pried up an edge of the floor.
Drummond reached in, came up with a black leather purse, and eased out from under the voodoo altar. He stood up, brought the purse over to the desk, and opened it.
The sergeant whistled, shook his head, said, “Francie, Francie, what did you get yourself into?”
Johnson peered into the purse. “If those are real, Sarge, there’s a lot more than eight grand in there.”
Chapter
50
Starksville, North Carolina
Sharon Lawrence held up well under Naomi’s initial cross-examination. She stuck to her story about Stefan drugging and raping her and being so afraid of him she didn’t report it until after he was under arrest for Rashawn Turnbull’s murder.
“You have a lot of girlfriends, Sharon?” Naomi asked.
The girl nodded. “Enough.”
“Best friends forever?”
“A couple. Sure.”
“You tell any of them you were going to Coach Tate’s house that afternoon you say he raped you?”
“No. It was supposed to be a secret.”
“Anyone see you around his house?”
“I don’t think so,” Lawrence said. “He had me sneak in through the basement from the alley bulkhead door.”
Sitting behind Naomi with Bree holding my hand, I tried to stay focused on the testimony and listen for discrepancies, but my ribs hurt and my mind kept drifting to the evening before. Jannie and my grandmother had already gone to bed by the time Pinkie dropped me off.
Bree and I are tight. She knew in an instant that something was wrong with me beyond a couple of cracked ribs. I’d repeated Pinkie’s story, and she was as shocked as I was.
“Are you going to tell Nana Mama?” Bree asked.
That question had kept me up most of the night. It was still bothering me in court that next morning. So was the fact that Patty Converse had not shown up, and I think several of the jury members had noticed.
Then Naomi said, “Ms. Lawrence, did you see Rashawn Turnbull at Coach Tate’s house that afternoon?”
I forgot about the night before and Stefan’s fiancée, and focused. It was the first I’d heard about the victim being at the alleged rape scene. I glanced over at Cece, who was sitting beside a pretty blond woman in her late thirties. Two rows behind Cece sat her parents and a young woman I didn’t recognize. But they all seemed as interested as I was.
Lawrence said, “No, I did not see Rashawn there. Why?”
“Because Coach Tate says the only person at his home after school that day was Rashawn Turnbull.”
The high school senior looked doubtful. “I don’t know anything about that.”
“What time did you leave?”
Lawrence shrugged. “I don’t know exactly. Four? Maybe five? I was still kind of groggy.”
“Went out through the basement to the alley?”
“That’s right.”
“Strange,” Naomi said, looking at a couple of pieces of paper. “I have a sworn statement here from Sydney Fox that says she remembers Rashawn Turnbull knocking on Coach Tate’s door around four that afternoon. She remembers Rashawn going inside.”
Delilah Strong jumped up. “Objection, Your Honor. Sydney Fox is dead and cannot be questioned. I’d like to move that her statement be inadmissible.”
“This goes to the witness’s credibility, Judge,” Naomi said.
Varney thought about that for a moment and then said, “Overruled.”
“Your Honor!” Strong cried.
“I said overruled. Ms. Cross, can you rephrase as a question?”
Naomi nodded, said, “Are you sure you didn’t see Rashawn?”
Lawrence frowned, looked around, seemed to seek someone out in the courtroom, and said, “I don’t remember. I was groggy. Maybe he was there.”
“Or maybe you weren’t there at all,” Naomi said.
“That’s not true! Why would I lie about something like this?”
“That’s what I’ve been trying to figure out,” Naomi said. “Your parents here today, Sharon?”
Lawrence looked into the courtroom again, said, “My mom. My father’s not around anymore.”
The pretty blond woman sitting with Cece Turnbull craned her head to see better.
“And who is your mom?”
“Ann Lawrence.”
“What was her maiden name?”
“Objection,” Strong said. “Where’s the relevance?”
Naomi said, “I’m about to show relevance, Your
Honor.”
Varney nodded, but I noticed that he had gone pale since he entered the courtroom.
“Your mother’s maiden name?”
“King,” she said. “Ann King.”
“She have a sister?”
Lawrence looked uncomfortable, said, “I don’t see…”
“Yes or no.”
“Yes, Louise was her sister. She’s dead.”
“And who was Louise married to at the time of her death?”
The girl’s jaw seemed to tense a bit before she said, “Marvin Bell.”
That got my attention, and I sat up straighter. So did Bree.
“So Marvin Bell is your uncle?” Naomi asked.
“Yes.”
“Has your uncle provided you and your mother with financial support since your father left?” Naomi asked.
“Objection!” the prosecutor cried. “What is the relevance here? Mr. Bell has no connection whatsoever to this case.”
“With the court’s indulgence, I’m trying to establish that connection,” Naomi said.
“You’re on a short leash, Counselor,” Varney said, sweating now despite the fact that it was quite cool in the courtroom.
Naomi said, “Marvin Bell has been giving your family money, correct?”
She lifted her chin, said, “Yes.”
“Be tough without that money, wouldn’t it?”
I noticed Sharon’s mother had gone very tense; she was sitting forward, holding on to the back of the bench in front of her.
“Yes,” Lawrence said quietly.
“Tough enough that you’d lie about a rape if he asked you?”
“No,” she said, and then she reached across herself with her left hand to scratch her shoulder, in effect shielding her heart.
“You realize you’re under oath,” Naomi said. “And you understand the penalty for perjury in a capital crimes case?”
“No…I mean, yes.”
“Objection, Your Honor,” Strong said. “The defense is badgering the witness.”
“Sustained,” Varney said, patting his brow with a handkerchief.
Naomi paused, and then said, “Did Coach Tate ever come to you asking about your uncle? Marvin Bell?”
Lawrence looked confused. “If he did, I don’t remember.”
“Funny,” Naomi said, returning to the defense table. “We talked to Lacey Dahl, a good friend of yours, correct?”
“Yes.”
“Ms. Dahl will testify that she heard Coach Tate ask you about Marvin Bell a few days before you claim the rape occurred,” Naomi said. “She heard it outside the women’s locker room at the high school. Do you remember now?”
Lawrence fidgeted. “I don’t know. Maybe.”
“What did he ask about?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Did he ask whether your uncle was involved in the drug trade in Starksville?”
“What?” Lawrence said, offended. “No, that never—”
Before she could finish, Judge Varney let out a howl like he’d been stabbed. His contorted face turned beet red, and his entire body went rigid. Then he moaned like a wounded animal and pitched forward onto the bench.
Chapter
51
“Three days?” I said later that afternoon, standing outside the track stadium at Starksville High School with Bree. We were talking to Naomi with my cell phone on speaker.
“Maybe five,” my niece replied. “Judge Varney’s riddled with kidney stones and passing two. Strong says resuming trial Friday is the best we can hope for, but more likely Monday.”
“It’s probably a blessing,” Bree said.
“Why’s that?” Naomi asked.
I said, “Unless you and Stefan aren’t telling us something, Bree and I have both looked at the evidence, and other than Stefan’s suspicions about Marvin Bell, we don’t see anything that links him to drug trafficking.”
“There’s circumstantial evidence,” Naomi said.
“That’s not good enough,” Bree said. “We need to prove it.”
I said, “If we can peg Bell as a drug lord threatened with exposure, suddenly his niece Sharon’s story feels dubious, and we have a strong motive for his framing Stefan.”
“Still leaves the DNA evidence,” Bree said.
“I think I’ve got that covered,” Naomi said. “Stefan and Patty used condoms. I’ve got an expert witness willing to testify that it is entirely possible that the semen found on Rashawn and on those panties was stolen from the trash and then planted.”
“Put both those things together and there’s your reasonable doubt,” I said.
“But we don’t have Bell,” Bree said. “And Patty Converse a no-show in court today didn’t help.”
“I’m on my way to her apartment,” Naomi said. “She’s not answering her phone.”
“Let us know,” I said, and I hung up.
We went into the stadium and climbed into the stands. Many of the same athletes from the other day were there, including Sharon Lawrence, who shot Bree and me a glare as she jogged past with several of her friends.
Bree said, “The other night Cece Turnbull said Rashawn was very upset about something in the days before he died.”
“I remember that,” I said.
“Would seeing a rape be upsetting enough?” she asked quietly.
I looked over and saw she was serious.
“It would be upsetting enough,” I said.
Was Stefan’s version of events all lies? Had Rashawn seen him with Lawrence? Had my cousin assaulted the boy to shut him up?
Jannie was again running with the older girls. Coach Greene had them skipping in two-hundred-meter intervals. I couldn’t remember Jannie ever doing that in a training session, and I noticed she was having difficulty staying with the college athletes.
When it was over, Jannie went to her bag, threw on a hoodie, and then came over to the fence with an unhappy expression.
“I suck at skipping,” she said. “I don’t know why I’m doing it.”
“Did you ask?” I said.
Jannie shrugged, said, “It’s supposed to help with your explosiveness.”
“There you go,” Bree said.
“I’m plenty explosive when it counts,” Jannie said.
“Couldn’t hurt to get more,” I said, noticing that Coach Greene was crossing the track toward us, carrying Jannie’s gym bag and looking serious.
“Dr. Cross,” she said, not looking at Jannie. “We have a problem.”
“How’s that?” I said, standing.
She held out Jannie’s bag by the handles. It was open.
Jannie frowned, tried to see what the coach was talking about as I climbed down. But Greene held it away from her, said, “I want your father to see first.”
I stepped up and looked in the bag. There, nestled in a wrinkle of Jannie’s sweatpants, was a small glass vial filled with white powder.
Chapter
52
“That’s not mine!” Jannie protested the second she saw it. “Dad, there is no chance that’s mine. You know that, right?”
I nodded. “Someone put that in her bag.”
“Who would do that?” Coach Greene asked. “And why?”
I looked over at Sharon Lawrence, who was stretching and talking with her friends, seemingly oblivious to what was happening across the track.
“I can think of someone, but I’ll let the police deal with that,” I said.
“You want me to call the police?”
“You touch it?”
Greene shook her head.
“Then yes, call the police. It’s easily proved whether it’s my daughter’s or not,” I said. “Either her fingerprints are on it or they’re not.”
The coach looked at Jannie. “Are they?”
“No way,” Jannie said.
“Was the bag open?” I asked.
“The bag was open,” Jannie said. “I got my hoodie out and came over.”
“Was that how you
saw it, Coach?” I asked.
“Eliza Foster, one of my athletes at Duke, noticed it and called me over.”
“So it was put in there either before practice or right after Jannie put on her hoodie and came over to talk to me,” I said.
“Eliza would have no reason to do anything like that,” Greene said.
“I want there to be concrete evidence that this was absolutely not my daughter’s. Jannie will even provide a blood sample that you can drug-test. Right?”
Jannie nodded. “Anything, Dad.”
I got out my wallet, dug out a business card, and handed it to the coach. “Call this guy. Sheriff’s Detective Guy Pedelini. He’ll handle the situation correctly.”
Greene hesitated, but then nodded. She walked away with Jannie’s bag, punching in the phone number on her cell phone.
Jannie looked about to cry when she sat down beside me and Bree.
“You’ll be fine,” I said, hugging her.
“Why would someone put that there?” she asked, looking torn up.
“To get at me and Bree through you,” I said. “But it won’t work.”
Detective Pedelini showed up ten minutes later. I let him speak with Greene first, waiting patiently with Jannie and Bree. He put on gloves and bagged the vial. He nodded to me and then went to talk with Eliza Foster.
When he was done, he came over and shook my hand in the twilight.
“Coach says you want it tested.”
“I do.”
He looked at Jannie. “You’re willing?”
“Yes,” Jannie said. “Definitely.”
“Any idea who might do this?” Pedelini asked.
“I’d start with Marvin Bell’s niece,” Bree said. “If Sharon Lawrence would lie about a rape for him, she’d plant drugs for him.”
The sheriff’s detective pursed his lips, said, “I’ll talk to her. Meantime, take Jannie to the office. I’ll call ahead for someone to take the prints and blood.”
Pedelini walked off toward the other girls, who were acting annoyed that they weren’t being allowed to leave.
“Dad?” Jannie said as we stood up and got ready to leave. “Can you make sure I can still go down to Duke to train for the four-hundred on Saturday?”