A Touch of Danger (Archie Lemons #2)

  "Did you hold any animosity towards his wife?" Elise asked.

  "I can't say that I didn't, that would be a lie," she said. "She was in the position that I wanted to be in. I hated her without ever even meeting her. Some nights I would park outside of their house and just stare, hoping to catch a glimpse of Brad. They had this big beautiful house out near Beverly Hills. Sometimes I would see his wife leave and I would fantasize about getting out of the car and jumping her, then go and confess my love to Brad and he would see that his wife was all wrong for him and he belonged with me."

  "You admitted to all of this in court?" I asked.

  "Stupidly, yes," she answered. "I had this crazy belief that justice would prevail and I would be found innocent, like I am. However, it didn't really pan out for me. The jury took less than thirty minutes to convict me. I never even stood a chance. I had shitty defense and I was convicted before the trail even started.

  "Brad Jackson was a superstar, everyone loved him, and getting an unbiased jury was all but impossible. All anyone knew was that his precious wife was stolen from him and I was the most obvious fall guy for it, so it was all unloaded on me and all of the sudden I was the worst person in the world. No matter what shitty defense my piece of shit lawyer provided for me, it would never be enough. Every single person in America just KNEW I did it and nothing could convince them otherwise.

  "It's funny, isn't it, Mr. Lemons?"

  "What is?"

  "The fact that so many guilty people get to walk free because they are celebrities or sports stars or some shit, all the while I know I am innocent, yet here I am, with a life sentence and OJ is out playing golf and doing whatever the hell he does. Just doesn't seem fair."

  "I know, Ms. Ricks, that guy is guiltier than shit. And, I used to love that show Fall Guy. Did you ever watch it? “

  Blank stare.

  “Lee Majors as Colt Seavers…No?“

  Blank stare from Ricks with the added bonus of a look of utter bewilderment and stupidity from Elise. I cleared my throat. “Is there anything else you can tell us about the case?"

  "What do you want to know?"

  I looked her over and tried to think of something to ask. Truth is, I honestly didn't know what I was hoping to find here. I studied her appearance and body language. She looked beaten down and broken. At one time, she would have passed for a semi-attractive woman who probably wouldn't have had a hard time finding a good man. It seems unfortunate that she decided on Brad Jackson. It proved to be her greatest mistake and pretty much cost her her life.

  She had only been in prison a little over four years, but her face had a ragged look to it that would suggest a lot longer. Times were probably not very pleasant for her in here, especially if there were any Brad Jackson fans currently in lock-up.

  Her eyes were dark and gave the impression of being dead and she had a few small wrinkles at the ends of both of them. I learned those were called crow’s feet, and I also learned (the hard way!) that you should never point them out to women. I glanced over the rest of her body while I still thought of something to ask. I noticed her fingers were bent in an odd position.

  "Ms. Ricks, may I ask what is wrong with your hands?"

  "I have bad arthritis in both of them. Had it for years, nothing can really fix it. It's a pain in the ass."

  "Did you have this arthritis during the period of the murder?" I asked.

  "Yes, and long before, actually. This was one thing my shitty defense actually brought up. How could I hold a knife and stab a woman with my fucked up hands? It wasn't much help, though. I had no problem holding their little prop knife, so that actually backfired on me and made things even worse for me."

  "Hmmm." I thought for a while before proceeding. "So, you admit to stalking Mr. Jackson, and having fantasies about his wife being gone and you two being together, but you do not admit to murdering him, correct?"

  "Yes, Mr. Apples. That is quite correct. I have never hurt anyone before and I certainly didn't kill that woman. I thought it about, sure, but I would never have acted out on it. I'm sure everyone has had thoughts of murder before, a boss or an enemy, it doesn't mean you would actually follow up on it."

  Apples?

  "Ms. Ricks," Elise said. "Where were you on the night of the murder, if you don't mind me asking?"

  "That's another thing," she answered. "I was at his house for a while, and then went home, with no witnesses and no alibi. Like I said, I'm not proud of what I did to that man, and I know based purely on my story I look guilty as sin, but I know for a fact that I didn't kill her, which means whoever did is out there walking around."

  "Why were you at his house that night?"

  "Same reason I was there all the time. Just to see him. Catch a glimpse of him. I was breaking my restraining order, I knew it, but I didn't care. At one point, I even got out of the car and snuck up to a front window and peeked in. I saw the wife alive and well and absolutely no sign of Brad, so I left. I know that I was not seen by anyone! If that housekeeper says she saw me then she is either lying or mistaken. I was out of the car for less than one minute, in the pitch darkness with no one around. I was NOT seen!"

  The bugs under my skin were beginning to crawl again. I was missing something crucial but I couldn't seem to put my finger on it. What is missing? What is the missing piece?!

  "Did you ever see anything unusual at the house before that night," I asked as a quick follow-up question.

  "Nothing that I can really think of."

  "Did you ever see the couple fighting or anything like that?" Elise asked.

  "Nothing beyond normal marital fights. About a week before the murder, she got pretty fucking pissed about something and stormed out of the car. I wasn't sure what she was so mad about. Brad was in the house with one of his buddies, his wife comes home, and then fifteen minutes later she’s pissed and storming out. Brad made no attempt to go after her and shortly after that his friend left."

  "Is there anything you can tell us about the friend?" I asked. I always love when new people are introduced.

  "No. He was just a buddy, I assume. I had seen him hang out over there a couple of times. I saw the two of them playing video games in the living room once, too. Imagine that, grown ass men playing video games like children."

  "You didn't recognize him or anything. He wasn't anyone famous?"

  "I didn't recognize him then but I did recognize him in court. He was there, in the crowd of people watching my life being taken from me. In fact, he smiled at me several times during the trial. Skinny little wimp, I wanted to jump up and rip his fucking face off every time he gave me that little fucking smirk!"

  "Calm down, ma'am," Elise said. "Getting angry won't get you anywhere. We are here to help, remember?"

  "Help with what?!" she yelled. "I'm in here and the real murderer is out there! No one believes me or wants to believe me! I am fucked! I am going to live out the rest of my shitty life in this goddamn prison and die here, and there aint shit you or him can do about it."

  "There is always hope, Ms. Ricks," Elise told her.

  "With all due respect, Ms. Reynolds, I abandoned all hope years ago."

  Emma Ricks' outburst had caused a guard to come over to us. Apparently, that would be the end of the meeting. I was missing something and I needed to figure out what.

  I held up a finger to the guard signaling for just one more minute, but Ms. Ricks was already standing up.

  "Real fast! Hold on, hold on!"

  She held the phone back up to her ear as I pleaded with the guard for one more question.

  "What did the friend look like, anything you remember, quickly, please?"

  "He was average height for a man, probably a little taller than me. Skinny little wimp. Sandy blonde hair, kinda shaggy, like a surfer would wear I guess. That's all I really remember."

  "Thank you for your help, ma'am. If you are telling me the truth, I promise I will get you out of here."
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  She hung the phone up as the guard hauled her away.

  "I promise," I said in to the phone once more, even though Elise was the only person who heard me.

  We stood up and exited the prison without saying a word to each other. I was too deep in thought to hear her anyway, even if she did say something.

  In the parking lot, heading to the car, a puzzle piece in my brain snapped together. I vaguely heard Elise saying something to me. Something along the lines of “Earth to Lemons,” but I couldn’t be sure. I stopped and reached out to grab Elise by the arm. She turned to look at me.

  “Oh, so you are alive.” She said. “What’s wrong?”

  “She didn't do it.”

 

  PART TWO:

  DO YOU FEEL LIKE A PUZZLE,

  YOU CAN’T FIND YOUR MISSING PIECE?

  15.

  I was ninety-nine percent sure that Emma Ricks was innocent of the charges she was currently imprisoned for, but I needed to roll it around in my brain for a bit and make sure everything fit. This seemed to annoy the piss out of Elise, as I refused to tell her what I was thinking until I had it all worked out. The car ride back to the beach was a long one.

  Something clicked in my brain, but not about Ms. Ricks.

  "Hey Elise, if this was a movie and we were on to a killer, who would be the innocent person that had to die?"

  "What are you talking about?" she asked.

  "Okay, in movies and TV shows, there are always innocent people that have to die to prove how bad the bad guy really is or how dangerous the mission is getting, or whatever. On Star Trek, whenever someone showed up with Kirk and Spock wearing a red shirt, you knew that guy was fucked..."

  "So what’s your point?"

  "I was just thinking, if this were a movie, who the innocent victim would be."

  "Okay, but this isn't a movie so who cares?"

  "I care. I just have a bad feeling about it and right now, I'm thinking that Jamie would be the most likely innocent victim. She was just introduced, if you will, into our story, and is our friend and our helper. A friendly old housekeeper would also fit this bill. They're friends to the main protagonist but they're not crucial to the story. They can be killed off without risking the loss of a sequel. Does this make sense?"

  "So what you're saying is that since Jamie is helping us on a case for the first time, she is going to die?"

  "I'm not saying she IS going to die, I'm saying if this were a movie, she would be the most likely candidate. And right now she is all alone at the beach with your children and I don't like it all. We need to get them back to Bakersfield, ASAP!"

  "God damn it, Archie."

  I felt the car accelerate.

  ***

  Back now at the motel to see everyone safe and sound, thankfully. We explain to Jamie that we think it would be best to take the kids back home while we stayed a few more days here and tried to work this thing out. She seemed disappointed that she would be leaving the excitement but relieved that she would no longer have to deal with three kids at the beach by herself. I asked her to take Wrecker back home, too, saying that dogs are always good innocent targets for the villain, but she didn't seem to have any idea what I was talking about.

  We packed the kids all up and sent them on their merry way, instructing them to call us as soon as they got home.

  Watching them go took a huge weight off my shoulders. I'm glad movies are so cliché.

  When Jamie's car was out of sight, I walked to the motel office and explained we would only be needing one of the rooms from now on and I paid for an additional four nights.

  The clerk gave me a sly little smile and a wink. Not sure what that was all about. Was that guy hitting on me? How gay.

  I moved all my stuff in to Elise's room with the two beds and plopped down to watch some RTV.

  Elise noticed my suitcase on the ground with all my clothes spilling out.

  "Jesus Christ, man, how much clothes did you bring? You realize we were only supposed to stay for a few nights, right?"

  "Yeah, I over-pack, so what?"

  "So nothing, I guess."

  "Looks like it came in handy, huh?"

  "I suppose, oh wise one."

  I grabbed the remote and clicked on the television.

  "What the heck are you doing?" Elise asked me and she snatched the remote from my hand and turned the TV off.

  "Hey! What’s the deal?"

  "Vacation is over. We have work to do."

  "We can do work while watching TV. Come on."

  "Nope. First you need to tell me why you think Emma Ricks is innocent."

  "Fine, but I'm not completely convinced yet, but damn near, okay?"

  "Fine. Tell me."

  "Okay, so Anderson filled me in on all the details of the case. I don't know how he got it and I don't care, all I know is that the police had solid proof that she was at the Jackson's house the night of the murder, which she admits to, but what they did not have was a weapon. The knife that was used is long gone, never to be seen again. It was one of those large Martha Stewart looking knives and it was taken from the kitchen."

 

  "So, are you thinking that if she went to kill her, why would she not bring her own weapon? Why chance it by trying to find one in the home?"

  "Yeah, kind of, but that’s not even the main thing. That can be dismissed for any number of reasons. That bothered me before we went to the house and before we met Ms. Ricks, now I've moved on to something else.

  "Anderson said they had definite proof that she was on the property the night of the murder, not only from the eye-witness but from foot prints found near the house. They knew the footprints were fresh because that same morning, the gardening crew came and raked everything, even the dirt around the bushes in the front yard, near the windows. They pulled two solid footprints that matched Ms. Rick's shoes absolutely. So, her fresh footprints from the scene of the crime on the day of the crime all but closed the case for her, especially adding in all the threats and restraining order. It was an open and shut case, apparently."

  "But?"

  "But! There were no other footprints or marks anywhere else around the house. Everything was still perfectly landscaped from earlier in the day."

  "Okay...?"

  "Did you see her hands today?"

  "Yes, they were damaged badly."

  "Yeah, from arthritis which she has had for years, long before the murder."

  "But she said they already proved she could hold the knife and commit the murder."

  "Yes, they did. But her shitty defense overlooked one glaringly obvious problem."

  "And what is that?"

  "How did she get in to the backyard in the first place?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "I mean this, E. They have footprints out front, right? Whoopty-fuckin-do. We know she was there spying, so throw that evidence out. Where does that leave us now? With nothing."

  "The eye-witness."

  "I'll get to her later. Right now, we need to figure out how Emma Ricks pulled herself up over that big block wall that surrounds the entire back portion of the property. There is no way, with her disgusting freak hands, she could have pulled her body weight up over the wall. No way. And it’s not like a wooden fence where she could have used cross pieces to help. Its solid block. And there were no other markings around the property. So even in the unlikely event she would have the foresight to bring a ladder, there were no depression marks found anywhere near the wall. And really, why go through the hassle to bring a ladder when she could have just as easily broken a front window to get in?"

  "Holy crap. What about a gate?"

 

  "There is only one gate door but it is solid, and right by the house-keepers house out back. She would have the same problem getting over it and the gardeners are positive they locked it when they left, according to the police report. Besides, why take the risk of the housekeeper se
eing you, going in so close to her living area? It makes no sense, and, like I said, my proof is not rock solid, but it’s good enough for me for right now."

  "Me too."

  "Ms. Ricks said Brad was hanging out with a buddy one night when him and his wife got into a fight of some sort and she stormed out. This same guy shows up at court and gives Emma a smirk. I don't like him."

  "You don't like anyone."

 

  "True. But, I REALLY don't like this guy. We need to find him."

  "And how do we do that?"

  "Courtroom photos and video. He'll be in the crowd. Someone will have to know who he is."