But not everyone who loses someone can kill. Danielle had it in her all along, it just took the right trigger and she snapped.
Ken Swan came over to her and cleared his throat. “Danielle is on her way to jail. Kevin is stable and on his way to the hospital. Tony Fieldstone has a concussion and is in a separate ambulance. Nina is with her son. We’ll need to debrief them—I’ll give them a little time, but we should do it tonight. Are you up for it?”
“Yeah, I am. Just a couple more minutes?”
“Take all the time you need. You did good, Lucy. Really good. I, um, I didn’t know all that about your family.”
“It’s the truth. The butterfly effect, I suppose. One act of violence changes everthing.”
Ken spoke into his mic. “Let him through.” To Lucy he said, “Thirty minutes, then I should be wrapped up here and we’ll go to the hospital.”
“Thanks.”
She put her head on her knees and closed her eyes. She didn’t know how long she sat until she heard a familiar voice.
“Lucy.”
She looked up and blinked back tears she hadn’t realized had been falling. She smiled. “Sean.”
He sat down next to her and wrapped his arms around her. “Swan told me the basics. And the boy is okay.”
She nodded and put her head on his shoulder. “I’m so glad you’re here.”
She closed her eyes and let the peace finally seep in.
Chapter Thirty-six
BLAIR CALDWELL’S TRIAL
Blair Caldwell’s trial started promptly at nine Monday morning. Max recorded a segment before the trial began, including a montage of photos and stories about Peter Caldwell. She ended with a hook: “Did Blair Caldwell kill her son? District Attorney Harrison Trotter believes so. In a statement to the press this morning, Trotter said, ‘I’m confident we’ll prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that Blair Caldwell planned and executed this horrific crime.’”
During each break in the trial, Max posted on her NET blog a summary of testimony—the judge hadn’t ordered a media blackout, which Max would have fought—then she recorded a one-minute video segment. She was working with a lone cameraman who also handled all the other technical details.
The first day of trial went pretty much as Max expected. Opening statements, then a methodical outline of the events from the moment the 911 call came in. They listened to the recording, the responding officer took the stand, the officer who had found the body, the coroner. The coroner spoke about how Peter died and the lead detective spoke to how they determined Peter was taken from his room. The final step was a timeline of Blair’s whereabouts the night of the murder. It took more than an hour—with all of Charles North’s objections—but ultimately, it would be up to the defense to find someone who saw Blair Caldwell in the twenty-two-minute window where no one was on record as having seen her.
While the twenty-two minutes didn’t point to Blair’s guilt, it was enough to establish that she had the time to kill—if she had everything planned out ahead of time. The prosecution had to set the stage for premeditated murder.
Max had just wrapped up her live evening segment outside the courthouse—always a good background—and sent her cameraman off to pack up the tech. She was famished and planned to eat a hearty dinner and get some sleep. It had been a long two weeks. She missed New York and her apartment. Though the Biltmore was one of the nicest resorts to stay in, she was more than ready to go home.
“Ms. Revere,” a voice said.
She turned and recognized Dillon Kincaid, Lucy’s brother. She’d seen him in the courtroom earlier, but when she tried to introduce herself, he’d disappeared.
“Dr. Kincaid. Good to finally meet you in person.” She shook his hand.
“Dillon, please.”
“Call me Max.”
“Do you have some time? Can I take you to dinner?”
She was surprised at the offer. “I’m famished, but I should be taking you to dinner.”
“Your foundation paid for my expenses, I can return the favor.”
She laughed. “Not my foundation—I funded it, but I don’t run it. One of those conflict-of-interest things lawyers don’t like when the foundation pays for experts or private forensic reports.”
“Still. One of the detectives told me about a wonderful Mexican food restaurant he swears by—says it’s the best in Phoenix.”
The restaurant was two blocks from the courthouse so they walked. Conversation was light—how pleasant the weather was in Arizona considering it was thirty degrees on the East Coast; what they both missed about the West Coast considering they’d both grown up in California. By the time they were seated and had ordered—Max joining Dillon for a margarita, though she rarely drank anything other than wine—Max asked, “What did you think of the first day?”
“Honestly? Boring. But I understand why they had to go through the case step-by-step.”
“I found a few nuggets.”
“I saw. I signed up for your blog alerts.”
“I hope the DA knows what he’s doing. If he can prove everything he said during the opening statement I think they’ll get the conviction, but it’s still a difficult conviction. Andrew says this guy—Harry Trotter—is good, but they all tend to support each other, and Trotter did share information with Andrew that was private.”
“The stuffed animal.”
“My gut told me Blair was guilty, but I’ve been known to make snap judgments about people. Because of John, I was willing to consider her innocence—in fact, look at Peter as another victim of Sharpe’s. But no toy in the grave sealed it.”
“It’s not going to be enough to convict her.”
“No, but it’s enough to convince John.” She munched on the delicious tortilla chips. She rarely went out for Mexican food—there weren’t many good Mexican restaurants in her neighborhood in New York. If she could find a place like this, she would change her habits.
“I’m concerned about him.”
Max hadn’t spoken to John since she returned to Arizona. She called him when she came back, the night before Crime Watch aired, to give him the heads-up that she solved Justin Stanton’s murder, but he said he didn’t want to talk to her unless she could clear Blair’s name. It hurt—it was as if she was the bad guy here, when all she did was find the truth.
“I didn’t talk to him about your nephew’s case.”
“But you wrote about it, and aired a segment on your crime show. You revealed key information that would tell John that Danielle Sharpe didn’t kill his son.”
She wasn’t certain John had seen it. She’d sent him an e-mail about the show with a link to the archived segment, but she didn’t know if he had watched it.
“Danielle didn’t kill Peter.”
“We know that, but John was positive his wife was innocent.”
“I don’t think so.” She sipped her margarita. Tangy. She still preferred wine—or a really good martini—but an occasional change was nice.