Outside the Law

Mitch could only shake his head. He’d never seen Beth grandstand like this. She could speak eloquently when called for, if it was about DNA or fibers or soil samples. But she never made impassioned speeches. Not around him, anyway.

Impatient, she answered the question for him. “They say, ‘If I’d known this could happen, I would have taken it more seriously.’” She skewered him so effectively with those big baby-blue eyes that he was afraid she’d soon push him out onto the patio and pop him onto his gas grill. “They say, ‘I would have hired a lawyer from the very beginning.’ Do you want to be one of those people? Do you want to hide your head in the sand until the cops show up with a warrant and handcuffs?”

The room went deathly quiet. Not even the air-conditioning fan whirred to break the silence. He couldn’t hear a bird outside or a passing car. Just the sound of his heart pounding in his ears.

Beth, all rosy-cheeked with her passion, was the sexiest thing he’d ever seen.

Clearly she was waiting for him to say something.

“You think I should go to Coot’s Bayou and answer their questions?”

Beth seemed to remember herself. She scooted a few inches away from him, looked down and cleared her throat. “Yes.”

“And you think I need to hire a lawyer?”

Beth, looking a bit shell-shocked by her own outburst, squeaked out an answer. “Don’t you dare let the police question you without one. Raleigh will go. Eventually you might have to hire someone from the area who knows the local justice system, but she said she can handle the preliminary questioning.”

“Won’t hiring a lawyer just make it look like I have something to hide?” He couldn’t believe he was actually considering taking Beth’s advice. But she had made several good points.

“You know what cops do when a suspect agrees to be questioned without a lawyer, right? They stand up and cheer. You used to work for a police department.”

“Just computer stuff,” he said with a shrug. “I wasn’t anywhere near where they questioned suspects.”

“Well, know this. A good interrogator can trip you up six ways to Sunday, and every word you say can come back to haunt you during a trial. Let Raleigh be there for you.”

“Raleigh has her own cases to manage,” he argued, even though arguing was the first step toward defeat. He should have refused to even discuss this with Beth. But he couldn’t bring himself to fling any more harsh words at her. “Traveling to Louisiana to answer ridiculous accusations flung at a coworker falls way outside her job description.”

“Daniel made it clear,” Beth said quietly. “You are his—everyone’s—priority right now.”

“I appreciate this unnecessary outpouring of concern,” he tried again. “But as I’ve said before—”

“He’s going to fire you, Mitch!” Beth said suddenly.

“What?”

“Or suspend you or put you on paid leave or something,” she amended. “But he said he can’t have a murder suspect working at Project Justice. It could jeopardize everything he’s worked for.”

“Ah. So the concern isn’t really for me.”

“You’re being deliberately obtuse. Would you please just get your ass over to Louisiana to answer the damn charges?”

“Do I have a choice?” He was getting pissed off all over again, though he knew Beth was only the messenger. A suddenly sexy messenger. Every time her passion rose, so did his. Sure, he’d thought about what it would be like to go to bed with her. She was more than average pretty with a curvy little body that begged for a man’s most lavish attention. But he’d always dismissed the notion as ridiculous—first because they were coworkers, second because they were friends, and third…well, third, she needed a nice boyfriend. She’d gone to a private Catholic girls’ school, for cryin’ out loud. And he was a Cajun street punk. He didn’t know the first thing about how to treat a sweet, classy woman like Beth.

“Just give the word,” she said, unaware of where his thoughts had skipped, “and Raleigh will arrange for a meeting tomorrow morning. The two of you will drive down first thing.”

Dammit all to hell. This wasn’t going to go away. “Fine. I’ll go. But I want you there, too.”

“M-me? Why?”

“Because you know physical evidence better than anybody. If they have anything—anything at all—I want your take on it. Because if they claim they found something, it’s bogus.” He didn’t add that he wanted a friendly face in the room while those asses in Coot’s Bayou grilled him. Raleigh was a formidable ally, but she was not exactly warm and fuzzy.

“I’ll clear it with Daniel,” Beth said.

“Then I’ll go. But only so I can prove y’all wrong.” It galled Mitch to give in to his brother’s manipulations. But if that was what it took to make this problem go away, he’d do it.

“And ditch the attitude.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“This isn’t funny!”

He actually smiled. “I’m not used to seeing you all bossy. It’s kind of a turn-on.”

She didn’t respond to his flirting. Not at all. Instead she stood stiffly and grabbed her purse. “We’ll meet at the office at eight tomorrow morning. And would it hurt you to maybe wear something besides holey jeans and a T-shirt?” With that parting shot, she whooshed out of his living room, out the front door, leaving Mitch to stare at the little hitch in her hips, completely flummoxed.

He’d thought he had a pretty good handle on Beth McClelland, but her behavior was odd to say the least. Well, what could he expect? Before today, she hadn’t known anything of his sordid past. Now she knew he’d been a car thief. And that he had a half brother he’d never mentioned.

He was afraid she would know a whole lot more about him that he didn’t want her to know before this ordeal was finished. And their easy friendship might be over.

CHAPTER THREE

THE COOT’S BAYOUpolice headquarters hadn’t changed a bit in the past ten years. Oh, the interrogation room where they brought Mitch might have received a fresh coat of paint to cover graffiti left there by suspects, going from gray to a sickly green, but new graffiti had replaced the old. Likewise, the furniture was new, but the table’s veneer was already peeling up, and the cheap metal chairs were bent out of shape, wobbling uncomfortably.

But the smell—a nauseating mixture of burned coffee, stale cigarettes, sweat and fear—was exactly the same.

Sitting here made Mitch feel seventeen years old again. But this time, they weren’t questioning him about a missing car.

At least they hadn’t let his brother interrogate him. Mitch never would have been able to hold on to his temper if he’d had to answer to that smug bastard.

Instead, the cop questioning him—Lieutenant Gary Addlestein—was a fortyish man with the shape and overall charm of a fire hydrant, and he clearly thought Mitch was guilty. Every question he shot Mitch’s way dripped with skepticism. Every answer Mitch gave resulted in the guy raising a suspicious eyebrow and staring, saying nothing, waiting for Mitch to fill the silence with some incriminating additions to his story.

Raleigh had warned him about that. She’d counseled Mitch to answer as briefly as possible, then resist adding or clarifying anything unless asked specifically.

Although Mitch had been the one to insist, he had second thoughts about the wisdom of including Beth. It wasn’t that he doubted her abilities. She definitely knew her stuff. The very first thing she’d done was request to see the security video from the grocery store where he and Robby had stolen the Monte Carlo.

Not that Mitch would attempt to deny it was him and Robby on the tape, and that they had, indeed, stolen a car. But she made note of the date and time on the video, the license plate of the car, the clothing each of them was wearing—any of which might become crucial when it came down to establishing a time line for the evening’s events.

“So, let me get this straight,” Raleigh said. “This video footage is the sum total of the evidence you have against my client?”

“That, and his admission of guilt in the car theft.”

“The car theft has nothing to do with the murder. And I will move to bar any mention of that alleged crime during a trial, if it comes to that. The charges were dropped. Mitch’s arrest record was expunged.”

“Yeah, that was a sweet little deal you worked out, courtesy of your billionaire boss,” Detective Addlestein drawled. “But the cops in this department have long memories.”

“Robby and Mitch spent lots of evenings together. They were friends,” Raleigh continued. “The fact they happened to be together the night Robby may have disappeared doesn’t say much. You have no motive. You have no murder weapon, no trace evidence, no witnesses. My client has no history of violence.”

“No history of violence?” Addlestein hooted. “The kid was in a fight every other weekend.”

Mitch tried not to cringe. This was exactly the subject he didn’t want to discuss. He glanced over at Beth. Her face revealed nothing.

“I don’t see that any assault charges were ever filed.”

“No one bothers to file charges over street fighting, long as both parties are still breathing when it’s over. Doesn’t mean your client wasn’t prone to violence.”

“Throwing a punch now and then isn’t the same as shooting someone with a gun. It’s well established my client never owned a gun and didn’t even like guns. Have you even talked to Mitch’s mother?”

Mitch nudged Raleigh with his foot. He did not want his mother dragged into this.

Raleigh ignored his hint. “Mr. Delacroix maintains he was home in bed less than an hour after the surveillance video was taken, because he had to work the next day. His mother could corroborate this.”

Or she could throw him to the wolves. Mitch wasn’t close to his mom and had no way of knowing whether she would try to help him, or hammer nails into his coffin by making him look like a liar.

“An hour isn’t much time to joyride,” Raleigh continued, “have an argument, shoot someone, dispose of the body and the car, and arrive home to kiss your mother good-night.”

The cop leaned back in his chair, as if bored by Raleigh’s arguments. “Well, now, she was probably questioned after the car theft, if sonny-boy here tried to use her as an alibi. At the time, she might have said what time he came home. But all of that information is gone now. Expunged. Destroyed.”

“You and I both know you never really throw that stuff away,” Raleigh argued.

Addlestein shrugged helplessly.

Great. Getting his arrest record expunged was supposed to help Mitch. Now it was biting him in the butt.

“What about Larry?” Mitch asked suddenly.

“Who?” Raleigh and the detective asked at the same time.

“Crazy Larry. He was with us that night.”

The cop suddenly looked more alert. “First I’ve heard of it.”

“I never mentioned it before because I didn’t want to drag him into the car theft thing. And, let’s face it, being a known associate of Crazy Larry wasn’t likely to help me twelve years ago. But now it could.”

“You’re talking about Larry Montague.”

“Yeah, that’s him. You should talk to him. He was with Robby after I went home. And if he knew something, even if he just saw something, it’s not likely he would have gone voluntarily to the police.”

Addlestein scribbled something on his pad. “Last I knew, Larry Montague was homeless. He floats in and out of the area. I’ll talk to him—if I can find him.”

“I can locate him,” Mitch said. “It’s what I’m good at.” Addlestein knew that. He’d been a young detective on the force when Mitch had worked for the CBPD. “Give me his full name and his social and I’ll find him.”

“I can do that, but I doubt you’ll have any luck tracing him by computer. I’m betting the guy flies under the wire. Off the grid.”

As most homeless people did. But it was worth a try. Even homeless people left traces in cyberspace from time to time—arrest records, usually, but sometimes admissions information in hospitals or homeless shelters.

“Is there anything else?” Raleigh asked. “Because if not, we have things to do.”

Addlestein pursed his lips and ran his palm over his silver crew cut. He didn’t want to let Mitch go, but it seemed pretty obvious he didn’t have enough to hold him. Score one for the good guys. Mitch couldn’t wait to get out of this place and breathe some fresh air.

He would take Raleigh and Beth out for a late lunch, and they could be home by nightfall. It was nice of them to work so hard to exonerate him. He was lucky to work for a company that appreciated not just the contributions he made to the bottom line, but valued him as a person.

If the Conch & Crab was still open, he’d take them there. Freshest seafood in all of South Louisiana and a jukebox filled with 1970s—

“Excuse me, Lieutenant Addlestein?” A young female uniformed cop was at the door. “Could you step out here a moment?”

Looking impatient, Addlestein did as the woman asked. He was gone several minutes.

“I don’t like this,” Raleigh said after a long, uncomfortable silence among the three of them. “He was about to cut you loose.”

Mitch didn’t like it, either. A persistent itch had started at the base of his spine, a visceral, instinctual cue that told him something wasn’t right.

When the door opened and Addlestein returned, he wore a smug grin. Bad news was coming.

“Seems that stolen Monte Carlo was located. Sunk in the bayou about a hunnert yards from where Robby’s body was buried. And guess what was found in the glove box?”

“We’re not here to play guessing games,” Raleigh said tartly. “What?”

“A .22 handgun.”

“What caliber bullet killed Robby?” Beth immediately asked.

“That’s unknown. Cause of death couldn’t be determined. But a hole in the skull suggested a gunshot wound. A jury won’t care about that. The gun was rusted to hell, but they got a serial number off it and ran it through the database. Guess whose name came up?”

Mitch shrugged. “I never owned a gun in my life, so it can’t be mine.”

“Not yours. It belonged to Willard C. Bell.”

It took a moment for the shock to sink in. Oh, Lord, he was so screwed. He could hear the prison doors clanging shut and the key tinkling as it fell down a gutter.

“Who’s that?” Beth asked.

“You want to tell them,” Addlestein said, “or should I?”

“Willard C. Bell was my father.”

BETHFELTHELPLESS and clueless as she watched two police officers put handcuffs on Mitch and take him away. If this was a nightmare for her, how must he be feeling?

He hadn’t been able to offer any explanation for his father’s gun ending up in the stolen car’s glove box. He recalled that his dad had owned a couple of handguns along with a selection of shotguns and rifles for hunting, but he claimed not to have seen or even thought about his dad’s guns in years.

“I never touched my dad’s guns,” Mitch had insisted. “Talk to my mom. She might know what happened to the guns. But my dad sure as hell never gave me a firearm. He always said I didn’t have the temperament to own a gun.”

Mitch’s denial didn’t hold much weight with the cops. They typed up a warrant immediately, and in a matter of minutes Mitch had been in custody.

“What now?” Beth had almost wailed when she and Raleigh had been left alone in the room. “Daniel will get him out, right? He can’t stay in jail, he used to work for the police. It might not be safe—”

Raleigh cut her off with a glare, and Beth clamped her mouth closed. They were still in an interrogation room; anyone could be listening, and probably was.

“Let’s go,” Raleigh said. “We have work to do.”

She said nothing more until they were in the car. She started the engine and rolled down the windows of her Volvo. Though it was still early spring, the weather was already warm and muggy, the air fragrant with a mixture of magnolia, ocean and oil refinery like nowhere else in the world.

“Beth, how well do you really know Mitch?”

That was a very good question. “Until yesterday, I’d have said I knew him pretty well. I mean, we’ve worked together for five or six years, and the past few months we’ve even hung out after hours a few times. But I didn’t know he had a half brother or an arrest record. I didn’t know his parents were never married, which I guess they weren’t if Mitch and his dad have different last names. I didn’t know about the history of f-fighting.”

“What do you talk about?” Raleigh asked.

“Well…nothing very personal, I guess. We talk shop. Computers and science and evidence, and true-crime books and TV shows. And pizza—we both have a thing for pizza. I knew he had family in Louisiana, but he never got specific.”

Raleigh put the car in Reverse, but she didn’t back out of the parking place. Beth could see the gears in her brain were turning.

“What are you getting at?” But Beth had an uncomfortable feeling she already knew.

“People can compartmentalize their lives. A guy can be funny and kind at work, then go home and beat the crap out of his wife and kids every night. I’ve seen it.”

“Oh, Raleigh.” Beth was horrified at the direction of Raleigh’s conversation. “You think he did it.”

“I don’t know what to think, except the evidence suddenly got pretty compelling. Think about it. Who had reason to sink that car in the bayou?”

“Someone who thought he could be tied to the car.”

“Mitch might have known, or suspected, he’d been caught on video in the parking lot.”

“But anyone trying to cover up the murder would have sunk the car, hoping everyone would believe Robby had left town,” Beth pointed out, trying not to sound pathetically desperate. Just because she’d been crushing on Mitch for months, was she grasping at straws? Failing to see the obvious?

“I’m just trying to think like a prosecutor,” Raleigh said. “I haven’t written him off yet.”

“But you think it’s possible he did it.”

“You don’t?”

She took a deep breath. “No, Raleigh. Call it women’s intuition or gut instinct—”

“—or wishful thinking?”

“No. At least, I don’t think so. He rejected me. If anybody has an ax to grind, it’s me. Whether Mitch is guilty or innocent, in jail or out, we’ll never be together in…in that way. But I don’t think he did it. I don’t.”

“Okay. Just checking. His arraignment and bail hearing are tomorrow morning. I’m sure Daniel will post the bond.”

“Even when he hears about the gun?”

“Yes. Remember, Daniel is the man arrested for a murder he didn’t commit, with his fingerprints all over the murder weapon. He knows physical evidence isn’t the end of the story.”

“I sure hope it isn’t. What if they won’t let him out on bond? Sometimes they don’t, for a serious crime.”

“We’ll get him out somehow. Meanwhile, how do you feel about returning tomorrow with me to lovely Coot’s Bayou?”

“I’ve got nothing pressing,” Beth said. Cassie could cover the bases tomorrow. “But why do you need me?”

“Frankly…I need you to deal with Mitch. You have a way of getting through to him, and he seems to be on his best behavior when you’re around.”

“If you think so.”

“Good, it’s settled. Meanwhile, I’ll need to find Mitch another lawyer. While I’m flattered by his faith in me, and I’m licensed to practice in Louisiana, I think he needs someone local who knows which cops and judges are corrupt.”

“You’re thinking of bribing someone?” Beth asked, only half kidding.

“Beth, of course not. I want to know which might have already been bribed, who owes favors to whom, that sort of thing. This whole affair smells like something is going on behind the scenes. Grudges, revenge, you know.”

“Agreed. First place we should look for a grudge is Mitch’s half brother. He seemed way too complacent about his brother’s arrest.” Sergeant Dwayne Bell hadn’t been involved directly in Mitch’s interrogation—that wouldn’t be kosher even in a backwater town like Coot’s Bayou. But he’d been hanging around, lurking.

“You know who would give some background on that situation? Mitch’s mother. Let’s go pay her a friendly visit. She might want to know her son is in jail.”

“MYRA? SOMEONEHERE to see you.”

The man who answered the door was neatly dressed in pressed khakis and a plaid shirt, and he looked mildly annoyed to be bothered by strangers in the middle of the afternoon. A black Labrador retriever mix hid behind his master’s leg, peeking out and looking worried.

Mitch’s mother lived on the outskirts of town on a little piece of land that backed up to a creek. It was kind of pretty, especially this time of year when everything was green and blooming.

The small house was run-down. It had once been painted white with brown trim, but it desperately needed a new coat of paint. The roof appeared to be patched and repatched, and several boards on the creaky front porch were rotted.

But someone had tried to make the place homey. A huge pot of blooming geraniums sat near the front steps, and a morning glory vine added a note of cheerfulness to the sagging porch railing. The front door sported a straw wreath festooned with small wooden ducks and bunnies peeking out from silk flowers.

From the little Beth had gathered during Mitch’s interrogation, she knew he’d grown up pretty poor.

The woman who appeared at the door looked too old to be Mitch’s mother. Her shoulder-length hair had been dyed reddish-gold, but a good inch of brown and gray roots had grown out. She wore a garish shade of orange lipstick, and her low-cut blouse and tight jeans were less than flattering.

Her shoulders slumped in that peculiar way of people who had lost any enthusiasm they once had for living.

The man lingered nearby. Mitch had made no mention of a stepfather in the picture, but these two appeared to be a couple.

“I’m Myra LeBeau. Can I help you with something?”

LeBeau, not Delacroix. This man probably was her husband, then. Beth and Raleigh introduced themselves and explained that they worked with Mitch at Project Justice.

Myra, no idiot, immediately guessed there was a problem. Her hand fluttered at her breast. “Has something happened to Mitch?”

“I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but he’s in jail.”

Myra actually looked relieved. “In jail. Oh, thank goodness. I thought you were going to tell me he was dead. I mean, jail’s not good, of course… Won’t you come in? It’s warm for this time of year. I’ll get you some iced tea.”

They stepped into the creaky little house, and Myra showed them into her small kitchen and asked them to sit down. “So what trouble has Mitch gotten himself into this time? I thought we were past all that, but some boys never grow up. His daddy sure didn’t.” A surliness entered her voice at the mention of Willard Bell, but by the time she brought glasses of tall, sweetened tea to the table, her smile was firmly in place.

The husband, who hadn’t bothered to introduce himself, had returned to the living room, where he was watching a game show on TV. Apparently a grown stepson in jail wasn’t his concern.

“So what’d he do?” she asked again.

“He didn’t do anything,” Beth said, a note of challenge creeping into her voice, but Raleigh shot her a warning look and she clamped her mouth closed.

“There’s no easy way to say this, Mrs. LeBeau. He’s been arrested for murder. They think he killed Robby Racine.”

Myra, halfway to joining them at the table, fell the rest of the way into her chair, a hand to her mouth stifling a gasp. A genuine reaction, Beth thought, though she was no body language expert.

“I heard about the body they found on my land…it was Robby?”

Raleigh nodded. “He was killed soon after he and Mitch stole a car together. Probably that same night.”

“Why do they think it was Mitch? He and Robby were friends! There’s no way—no way my baby would do something like that. And, anyway, all those years ago, I didn’t own that land. It belonged to my great-aunt, Robby’s grandmother. Robby and Mitch were second cousins.”