“Can’t confirm that either, can I?”
“True, but I’m going to tell you my story anyway. Maybe I still give a damn what you think about me, Casey. Down south, I was on the partner track. One of the founding partners mentored me. I was late getting into law, but she picked me out as a first-year and made me her pet project. That day, we were at lunch together. Driving back, she hit a cyclist. She panicked. Begged me to say I was the one driving. Turned out, while we’d been having our long lunch, she’d done a line of coke in the bathroom. Or maybe she just said that. Flustered and in shock from the accident, I agreed. There were no witnesses, so we’d say the guy swerved in front of us. He’d been thrown from his bike, but he seemed fine. We tell the police our story, which the cyclist refutes, but whatever. Twenty-four hours later he’s in the morgue. Brain injury. He wasn’t wearing a helmet. My boss tells me to stand strong, she has my back, and now they can argue that mental confusion explains his testimony.”
There’s a noise outside, and Marissa stops short, but resumes when it moves on. “Next day, we discover there’s footage. CCTV camera on a nearby auto-body shop. It shows the accident was clearly the car’s fault. What it doesn’t show? Who was driving. Or us climbing over each other to switch places. I’m about to be charged with vehicular manslaughter, and my boss swears she’ll fix everything. The next thing I know, I’m fired, and the family of the man killed is planning to sue me. My old boss shows up and says she’ll send me here to Rockton. So sorry she couldn’t save my job. She tried. Totally went to bat for me.”
Marissa rolls her eyes. “Yeah, I wasn’t buying that. I even recorded our conversation, but she was careful. She pretended that she’d asked me to drive after she had too much wine, and maybe I’d hit him because I was in an unfamiliar car, and she felt so bad. I consulted a lawyer friend, and he told me I was screwed, which I already knew. Since the charges hadn’t been laid and I hadn’t been served by the family, the best thing I could do was disappear for a couple of years and try to sort it when I came back. Or start over somewhere else. With charges looming, I didn’t have time to think, which I’m sure is what my boss wanted. Next thing I know I’m here.”
“You were framed by your boss.”
“I was.”
“And Jolene threatened to expose you as…?”
“A naive idiot?” Marissa gives a short laugh. “Sadly, no. I’d told her the general facts—that I pretended I’d been the driver in an accident where the victim died. She knew I hadn’t done anything. It didn’t matter. What mattered was that, as far as anyone down south was concerned, I hit and killed a cyclist. She threatened to say that I’d hit a guy while drunk after a three-Cosmopolitan lunch, and I’d fled up here before the family could sue me. Typical lawyer, right? Cold, greedy bitch.”
I tap my pen against my notebook and say nothing.
She continues, “Representing Conrad seemed a small price to pay for avoiding that. I never said I’d represent him well. I figured I’d go through the motions, blow a bunch of smoke, and let you guys take him down. That’s why I didn’t go to his bedside before he’d confessed and then…” She shrugs. “My client was guilty. Nothing more for me to do.”
“Except…”
“Jolene didn’t drop it. That’s what people saw us talking about. She gave up all pretense of doing it for Conrad and said I owed her.”
“Owed her what?”
Marissa throws up her hands. “Who knows? She was probably planning to make me stew for a few days before she told me what she wanted. Then she disappeared, and I wasn’t exactly crying over that.”
“Nor over her death.”
She meets my eyes. “Nope. I didn’t kill her, though.”
“Where were you at eight last night?”
She doesn’t answer.
“Marissa?”
“At home reading, which does not help. I was alone. I didn’t go out again after seven, so no one saw me that evening.”
“And the boots.”
“My rubber boots are in my closet.”
“They’re in evidence.”
“Mine are in my closet, which you may escort me home and confirm. I think I recall seeing a pair on my deck yesterday, but it’s a deck I share with three other residents, and I’m not territorial about space. If someone else’s boots were on my side, I’d barely notice.”
“What size do you wear?”
“Women’s nine, but my rubbers are men’s eight because I have wide feet. Presuming those are women’s boots, they aren’t mine.”
She looks at my expression.
“They’re men’s?” she says.
“Size eight.”
“Then either that’s one hell of a coincidence, or I’m being framed.”
“Let’s go check your closet.”
THIRTY-FOUR
Marissa’s boots are in her closet. Size eight. Men’s. She knows that doesn’t prove as much as it might seem. Rubber boots aren’t exactly a highly rationed item. She could easily have two pairs. It also means someone else easily could have gotten hold of a pair similar to hers and planted them on her porch.
I find Dalton deep in preparations for the first departure. The plane is on its way, and this first dispatch will be the toughest. Both Brandon and Conrad will be on it, which is both awkward and kind of satisfying. There are two planes leaving today, and we could have sent one on each, but we want Brandon out of that cell where he needs constant attention we can’t afford to give. Conrad insists on taking the first flight, and we also can’t afford the manpower to keep guarding him, especially since we’re shorthanded without Jen. Of course, Conrad doesn’t know Brandon will be on the plane, too, but hey, that’s not our problem. It does mean, though, that Dalton and Phil are both on the scene, helping with the last-minute preparations and preparing for issues that arise from sending a full flight of troublemakers off together.
I tell Dalton that I’m going to find the scene of Gloria’s burial, see what I can get from it. I’m not taking Gloria—not with her abdominal issues. On the way back last night, she’d provided enough information that I should be able to find it on my own.
Dalton is distracted, and Storm and I get ten steps away before he calls after me.
“Butler!”
I turn.
“Take someone with you. Take…”
He looks around. Everyone in the area is bustling about, carrying luggage or the unneeded supplies we’ll stuff into extra cargo space.
I wave it off. “I’ll be fine.”
He hesitates, and I lay my hand on Storm’s head. “I’ve got protection. I’m also going to do a quick hunt for Jen. We need her back.”
He reluctantly nods, and Storm and I head out.
* * *