All Fall Down

The other attorney looked at her. “A friend in homicide. He didn’t give specifics, but indicated it was … unpleasant.”

Rick entered the room, his face ashen. Immediately all conversation ceased, and the assembled ADAs took their seats. He cleared his throat. “Before any of you ask, I don’t know much more than you do. The murder occurred in Whistlestop. At a motel. She was suffocated. They have no suspects as of yet, but the FBI is putting together a profile of the killer. Apparently there was biological evidence left at the scene, though I don’t know of what nature. In deference to the Andersen family, the police have agreed to keep the most prurient aspects of the crime from the press.”

He ran a hand across his forehead; Veronica saw that it shook. From the looks of him, Veronica suspected the rumor about him and the young Joli was true. She wondered if their past relationship might also make him a suspect. Probably, she decided. In this investigation, no stone would be left unturned.

“Why don’t we get down to business?” Rick murmured. “What have we got? Anything new?”

Laurie Carter spoke up. “I’ve got a pretty good assault with a deadly weapon. Two neighboring housewives get into an argument over a cup of borrowed sugar. The argument turns ugly and neighbor one whacks neighbor two with a sauté pan.”

Laughter rippled around the table. A lawyer named Ned House arched his eyebrows. “A sauté pan’s your deadly weapon?”

“Hey,” one of the other female prosecutors piped up, “you ever try to pick up one of those suckers? They’re heavy.”

“It did the trick,” Laurie said dryly. “Landed our victim in the hospital. Concussion, stitches, broken nose. The whole bit.”

Rick shook his head. “You’re joking, right?”

“No way. And here’s where the story really gets fun. Turns out neighbor two’s been borrowing more than sugar from her neighbor. Seems she and Mrs. Sauté Pan’s husband have been doing the suburban cha-cha-cha when they thought nobody was looking.”

Ned made a clucking sound with his tongue. “And people think the ‘burbs are safe.”

“Plead it down,” Veronica murmured. “Sure she did it, but the jury’s going to sympathize with the scorned wife.”

“Unless the jury’s predominantly male,” Ned countered.

Veronica shook her head. “Doesn’t matter. This is a country founded by Puritans. In the back of their minds, the jurors, male or female, are going to figure the slut deserved it.”

Rick agreed. “Simple assault’s the best you’re going to get out of it. Plead it down.”

They moved on, discussing two other assaults and an attempted rape. Each time, the other lawyers looked to Veronica for her opinion. Although she had only been with the Charlotte D.A.’s office nine months, she had been with the Charleston District Attorney for three years before that. There, she had earned the reputation of being a careful prosecutor who went after each viable case with a vengeance.

The truth was, she hated bullies. Hated the cowardly scum that roamed the streets preying on those weaker than themselves. On women. Children. The elderly. She had dedicated her life to making the scum pay.

That dedication had translated into a ninety-seven percent conviction rate. It never failed to astound her how awed the other prosecutors were by that number. To her, it hadn’t been hard to achieve. If she went forward with a case, she believed she could win it. And she never stopped until she had.

Rick turned to her. “Veronica, how’s the Alvarez date-rape case coming?”

The other lawyers looked expectantly at her. When this case had first come in, Rick had recommended against it. It’d be tough to win, he’d said. Date rape was always iffy from a trial standpoint. And this case was more so because the girl involved had a reputation and the boy was a national merit scholar, the captain of his high-school football team and from a prominent family.

But Veronica had fought for the case. She had seen Angie Alvarez’s bruises. She had listened to her story and seen the real terror in her eyes. This was America, Veronica had told Rick. Just because a boy could throw a football or his daddy had money didn’t make him above the law. “No” meant “no” for everybody.

She had vowed to Rick—and herself—that she would make this case work. And now she had.

Veronica smiled, remembering how, during their first interview, the boy had smirked at her. Cocky little prick. She had him now.

“I have another girl,” she said.

Rick straightened. “And she’s willing to testify?”

“Willing and ready.”

“What kept her quiet before?”

“Fear. Her mother warned her that if she sought justice, the opposite would happen, her reputation would be ruined and no nice boy would ever have anything to do with her. Her mother begged her to put it behind her and go on as if nothing had happened.”

“What changed?”

“Simple. She hasn’t been able to put it behind her.” Veronica dropped her hands to her lap so the other prosecutors wouldn’t see her flexing her fingers. She didn’t want them to know how deeply this case had affected her. “Besides, there’s safety in numbers. And believe me, this boy’s been busy.”

“There are more girls?” Laurie said, shaking her head, expression disgusted.

“Looks like there might be. My witnesses have heard rumors. I’ve got someone checking into a couple of them.”

“Nail this creep to the wall,” Laurie muttered.

“Done.” Veronica smiled, determined. “At this point it’s just a matter of how high and how many nails.”

5

It was nearly seven that evening before Melanie was able to leave work to pick Casey up at her sister’s. It had been an exhilarating, exhausting, eye-opening day. She had learned more in the past twelve hours than she had from all her classes at the academy combined or from the police manuals she pored over at every opportunity.

Homicide investigation, she had discovered, was a tedious process. It required patience, logic, intuition and tenacity, qualities that could be honed but not necessarily learned. Dealing with the victim’s family and friends called for not only a sensitive and deft hand, but a thick skin and quick mind as well.

Those closest to Joli had painted the portrait of a happy, well-adjusted young woman, one who liked men and who liked to party. From those interviews, Melanie had assembled a list of the clubs Joli had frequented and of the men she had dated in the past year. The list of both had been extensive.

Everyone Melanie had spoken with had either been in shock or been grieving. Dealing with their pain had been the most difficult part of the day for the Whistlestop cops, perhaps even more upsetting than the crime scene itself. She’d been unable to remain detached—she had looked into their eyes and felt their loss keenly.

After a time, she had found herself avoiding their gazes.

Melanie pulled up in front of her sister’s palatial, plantation-style home. Like Melanie’s ex-husband, her sister had chosen to reside in southeast Charlotte, an area populated by the very affluent and dotted with one exclusive, gated community after another. Melanie had always found the area too grand, almost overwhelming in its obvious wealth.

She climbed out of the car. Casey was playing with action figures on the front porch; Mia was on the porch swing, watching him. Smiling, Melanie took a moment to drink in the picture they made. The breeze stirring Mia’s fair hair and filmy cotton dress, the gentle rock of the swing, Casey’s happy chatter. Nice. Domestic and warm. Like something out of an Andrew Wyeth painting.

Melanie cocked her head. Most of the time, when she looked at her twin, she simply saw her sister, Mia. But sometimes, like now, she experienced a strange sort of déjà vu. A sense that she was looking at herself. A different version of herself, from her previous lifetime, before her divorce.

Casey glanced up and caught sight of her and jumped to his feet. “Mom!” he shouted and tore down the steps to meet her.

She opened her arms; he launched himself into them, hugging her tightly. She squeezed her eyes shut and hugged him back, his sweetness chasing away the ugliness of the day.

She loved him so much it hurt. Before Casey she hadn’t believed such a thing possible. How could loving someone hurt?

Then her obstetrician had laid Casey in her arms and against her heart, and she had understood. Instantly. Irrevocably.

“Did you have fun?” she asked, loosening her grip on him and gazing into his eyes, eyes the same bright blue as hers and her sisters’.

He nodded excitedly. “Aunt Mia took me for ice cream. Then we went to the park an’ she pushed me on the swing. I went down the big slide, Mom!”

“The big slide?” She widened her eyes to show that she was properly amazed and impressed. He had been wanting to go down that slide for weeks, but each time he had started up the ladder he had chickened out before he reached the top.