State's Evidence: A Beverly Mendoza Legal Thriller (9 page)

Stone peered at him. “Do you know what color
running suit your wife brought to work to wear when she went
jogging?”

“I think it was blue-green,” he said
matter-of-factly. “I bought that one for Adrienne myself. Why?”

Stone took out the plastic bag with the torn
fabric in it. “Does this look like the material from her
jacket?”

Chuck studied the fabric for only an instant
before squeezing his eyes shut. “Yes—” he groaned. “That looks
exactly like a piece of her running suit.”

Stone feared he would say that and probably
with good reason. But at this point, he still wasn’t sure if they
were dealing with a dead wife or not. And, if so, was her death a
homicide? Suicide? Accident?
Maybe the husband knows more about
the circumstances of her disappearance than he was letting
on
.

“Why don’t we wait until it’s confirmed
before we jump to any of the wrong conclusions,” Stone suggested.
Unfortunately, he had already reached some probable conclusions,
and they weren’t very pretty.

Chuck ran a hand through his hair, as if
searching for something. “Yeah, you’re right,” he said. “She has to
be okay. I don’t even want to think about life without
Adrienne...”

You just might have to
. “I could use
your help, Chuck,” Stone said gingerly, “trying to find your
wife.”

“I’ll do whatever you need me to,” he
promised.

“Was Adrienne wearing any jewelry when she
went to work yesterday—including a watch or rings?”

Chuck tasted more of his drink. “My wife
wasn’t much for jewelry. Thought it was too showy. Except for her
wedding and engagements rings,” he said almost as an afterthought.
“She never took them off. Wore a watch every day, too. One of them
two-tone Seikos—” He walked to the mantel and lifted a photograph.
It was a close-up of Adrienne, posing with her hands under her
chin. Her rings and watch were clearly visible. He extended his arm
towards Stone. “Take it.”

Stone took him up on the offer, saying, “I’ll
bring it back.” He studied the picture of Adrienne Murray, honestly
hoping she was still alive. But he knew that hope often had little
impact in the scheme of things. He honed in on the rings. Both
sported a series of diamonds his wife would kill to have,
figuratively speaking. “These rings must have cost you a pretty
penny?”

“Yeah,” Chuck acknowledged. “Cost me damned
near all my savings and a loan. But she was worth every penny.”

It was the worth of the rings themselves that
concerned Stone at the moment. This wouldn’t be the first time that
valuable diamonds had caused a thief to become a kidnapper. Or
worse.

“Does Adrienne have any identifying
characteristics, such as birth marks or tattoos?”

“No tattoos,” Chuck indicated. “She has a
small black mole on the inside of her left thigh and another
slightly bigger one on her back.”

Stone made a mental note of this. “Has your
wife ever gone away for any extended period of time without telling
you, Chuck?”

“Not like this.” Chuck wrung his hands
nervously.

What exactly did that mean? “How did she go
off?”

“Sometimes Adrienne and her girlfriends would
skip work and go to the coast for the day,” he said. “Maybe even
spend the night. I wouldn’t find out until she got back, but she
usually would leave a note that I didn’t always see till after the
fact.” His eyes narrowed. “Adrienne has never taken off at night,
after work, without a word to me. She wouldn’t do that.”

Stone found himself believing that much. But
it still didn’t tell him if Adrienne Murray had met with foul play
or if there was something else going on here. He intended to find
out one way or the other.

“I’ll be in touch,” Stone said assuredly.

He was already halfway back to the department
when Stone got the word that a woman’s body had been found in
Eagles Lake.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

The pawnshop was empty when Manuel walked in.
He liked it better that way. He couldn’t conduct his business with
too many nosey ass people hanging around.

First he browsed around at all the junk in
there, wondering why people even bothered to buy or sell such. Then
he made his way casually to the counter.

A man of around forty stood on the other side
reading a paper—or at least pretending to. What little hair he had
left was sloppily pasted to his pate.

“What can I do you for?” the man asked
disinterestedly.

Manuel removed the two rings from his pocket,
wondering how much they were worth. Tossing them on the dingy
counter, he asked tonelessly, “How much for these?”

The man took a look. “Are the rocks
real?”

“Of course,” he said hopefully. “They
belonged to my grandmother.”

“Your grandmother, huh?” the man said
mockingly. “Why are you parting with them?”

Why do you think, asshole?
“I need the
money,” he said honestly. “Why keep them in the drawer when she
ain’t around no more to wear them?”

“Whatever.” The man shrugged indifferently.
He took out his eyeglass and examined the diamonds on each ring.
Afterwards he gazed across the counter. “I’ll give you three
hundred for the two of ‘em.”

Not bad for something that just happened to
fall into his hand. Manuel still held out for more. “They’re worth
at least three times that.”

“Not in here, they aren’t!” The man hit him
with a hard gaze, recognizing he had the advantage. “Three hundred
or try your luck elsewhere.”

Manuel realized he would get no more out of
this old fart. “I’ll take it.”

The man had him fill out some paperwork he
described as standard before handing him the money.

“I’ll hold the family jewels for thirty
days,” the man warned. “If I don’t hear from you by then, they’re
gone forever.”

Manuel smiled darkly, pocketing the money.
“Yeah, whatever, man.”

* * *

He left the shop three hundred dollars richer
than he’d gone in. It hadn’t been his intention to rob the little
bitch. He was not a common thief. Not like many he knew. But since
she was already dead, she would have little use for the rings. He
kept the watch to give to his old lady, when he needed to cover his
ass.

Manuel made his way up to Broadway and
Eleventh Street. There he ran into his friend Carlos Valenzuela.
They used to hang, till he went solo. Carlos was about his height
and build, but darker in complexion with a thin mustache and
goatee.

The two shook hands and Manuel gave Carlos a
brief hug.

“What’s up, man?” asked Carlos.

“Nothing much,” Manuel shrugged. “Just
hangin’ out with my old lady.”

Carlos laughed. “Right,” he scoffed.
“Remember, man, you talkin’ to Carlos.”

Manuel laughed, too. “So maybe I met this
white bitch and we had ourselves a little party.”

“What kind of party?”

“The kind where she gives me everything I
want.”

“And what does she get in return?”

Manuel laughed again, and grabbed his crotch,
getting turned on in the process. “Complete satisfaction.”

The two had a good chuckle.

“You seen our white amigo ‘round, man?”
Carlos asked.

“Naw,” Manuel muttered, knowing he was
referring to a white drug dealer. “Ain’t seen ‘em. That dude is
crazy.” He didn’t care to elaborate.

“Yeah,” grinned Carlos. “If you run into the
crazy bastard, tell him we can do some business—”

Manuel nodded aloofly. “You got anything on
you now, man?” he asked, feeling he needed a quick high.

Carlos darted eyes both ways, then rubbed his
nose. “How much you want?”

Manuel took two of the three hundred out of
his pocket and stuffed it in Carlos’s hand. “Two bills’ worth.”

Carlos stuffed the money in his shirt pocket,
then turned his back to the street and removed a tiny packet of
crack. He passed it to him. “Little something extra in there, man,
cause we’re cool.”

“Thanks, man.” Manuel put the crack away. “I
gotta run.”

“Same here,” Carlos said. “Don’t use all that
at once. But if you do, you know where to find me.”

That he did. Manuel shook his hand again and
they went in opposite directions.

Once home he got out his pipe and smoked most
of the crack, making him high and horny.

He thought about the white bitch and what a
good time he had with her. It made him imagine having more good
times ahead with other bitches.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Maxine Crawford stood nervously at the window
as the lineup of men stared straight ahead as if they could see
her. But Detective O’Dell and the attorneys from the D.A.’s office,
Grant Nunez and Beverly Mendoza, assured her that they could not
see through the glass.

Still, Maxine was uncomfortable observing
them, like animals in the zoo. Yet the one who had killed Sheldon
and assaulted her was little more than an animal. He deserved
whatever fate he had coming to him now that the bastard had
shattered her life forever.

Maxine thought back to the mug shots the
detective had her look at. She had chosen the man who most closely
resembled the one that lived in her deepest nightmares. But how
could she be sure? What if she had chosen the wrong man?

What if I choose the wrong one now?

Or a different man from one in the mug shot.
Would that work against her in bringing him to justice?

Maxine studied the faces, as if her life
depended on recognizing the one who had raped her and killed
Sheldon. And, in many ways, she supposed it did.

“Take your time,” Beverly said to her, aware
how difficult it must be to have to identify the man you believe
sexually attacked you and shot to death your husband. There would
always be doubts, wouldn’t there? And there was the pressure of
people like her who wanted Maxine to make their job easier by
making a positive identification of the perpetrator. There could be
no room for error.

She truly believed that the system ultimately
worked, if given the chance.

At the same time, Beverly knew that cases
were often made or broken at this stage of the process. She
scrutinized the lineup, which included three Hispanic men and two
Caucasian men with dark complexions. All were of reasonably similar
height and build, to keep anyone from standing out too much.

Beverly took a sweeping glance at the others
in the viewing room, all of whom had a vested interest in the
outcome. With the possible exception of Grant, who had accompanied
her there, he said, for moral support. Neither of them had spoken
of his possible appointment to the bench. In her case she had been
sworn to secrecy. She assumed he knew about Dean’s recommendation
of him, but chose not to tell her till the deal was done.

Either way, Beverly only wished Grant the
best, even if his judgeship meant she would lose the best
co-counsel she’d ever had. And one she had hoped would be second
chair on her present case, should it go to trial. This was put on
hold for the moment.

“Could you ask number two to lift his head
up?” Maxine requested. He had lowered his face, as if to hide it
from her.

O’Dell yelled into the microphone, “Number
two, put your head up and look directly in front of you!”

Number two complied. He was a Hispanic male
in his early thirties, short and well built. Raven hair was tightly
cropped around an oval, handsome face. Despite this, he wore a
perpetual scowl.

Beverly felt like he was staring right at
her. It gave her an eerie feeling. But it wasn’t her feelings that
counted.
I’m not the one who was raped and sodomized.

“It’s him—” Maxine uttered in barely a
whisper.

“Are you
positive
it’s number two?”
Beverly asked her.

“Yes!” Maxine raised her voice and was more
emphatic. “That man’s the one who shot Sheldon and—” Her voice
broke.

“Good enough,” O’Dell said, sparing her any
further indignity. “That will be all, Hector,” he shouted into the
room.

The order was meant for one of the Hispanic
men, a detective named Hector Oliverez, who had volunteered to be
in the lineup.

“Would you like some water or something?”
Beverly offered Maxine, her own throat suddenly feeling
parched.

“No,” she said, looking as if she were
suddenly short of breath. “Just need some fresh air.”

Grant grabbed her arm to keep her from
falling on the spot. “It’ll be all right,” he tried to assure her,
hoping they were not just empty words. They needed her to remain
strong at this time. But could Maxine Crawford hold up under the
pressure she was about to face?

“We’ve got the bastard!” O’Dell declared,
turning to Maxine. “He’s never going to get the chance to hurt you
or anyone else again—!”

It was a promise Beverly had heard all too
often, only to see it broken time and time again because of victims
backing out of their responsibility or credibility issues,
mishandling of evidence, police misconduct, judicial improprieties,
appeals, and even defense victories. This case was far from a done
deal. But they had definitely taken an all important first step.
They had themselves a bona fide, witness identified, suspect named
Rafael Santiago.

* * *

“Do you want to grab a bite to eat?” Grant
asked as they left the station.

“Where did you have in mind?” Beverly licked
the roof of her mouth, for some reason feeling as if she hadn’t
eaten in weeks.

“My place,” he said as casually as if it were
a five star restaurant. “I can’t think of a better place to have a
couple of broiled steaks, baked potatoes, and a bottle of red
wine.” He eyed her ravenously. “Can you?”

Beverly felt her knees buckle from his
persuasive stare. “No, not really.”

She missed spending quality time with him.
But it had been nearly impossible of late—with the exception of
their victory celebration a few days ago—given their busy
schedules.