The Redemption Of Rafe Diaz

Rafe studied his client across the real estate developer’s expansive desk. In his late fifties, Hank Bishop was powerfully built with black hair going gray at the temples and a strongly carved face with prominent planes. The stress of a murder charge hanging over him made those planes look glass-sharp.

“Miss Fielding didn’t see you,” Rafe said levelly. “She saw your car’s taillights when you drove off.”

Bishop dragged in a breath. “That should add muscle to my claim that I’m not the person who clubbed Allie in the head.”

Bishop’s comment shoved her image into Rafe’s mind. Despite his best efforts not to, he pictured how she’d looked sitting on that pink love seat, her temple bruised, her cheeks colorless.

He’d left the shop hours ago and he was still fighting to shake off the awareness that had jolted through him when he pressed his palm against Allie’s spine and nudged her forward. She’d been on the verge of passing out, yet the electricity that zipped into his fingers had been unmistakable. It was a connection he had not felt—had not wanted to feel—with another living soul over the past seven years.

The unexpected quake of emotion had pissed him off. He was still pissed off. He didn’t need this, didn’t want the memories spilling out, flashing in kaleidoscope tumbles, like the revolving red/blue lights on the police car that had driven him away from the life he’d once known.

“The killer had to have still been at the condo when I got there.” Bishop bounced a fist against the arm of his chair. “Maybe when I went out the front door he headed toward the back, thinking he’d get out that way? Instead, he ran into Allie.”

“That’s probably what happened,” Rafe agreed. “It’s just that her seeing taillights matching your Ferrari goes a long way in placing you at the scene of the murder.”

Bishop cursed. “My security chief recommended I hire you because you’ve got a reputation for digging up evidence that clears innocent people. That’s what I need you to do for me, Diaz. Not tighten the noose that’s already around my neck.”

“Before I accepted your retainer, I explained it’s possible that evidence doesn’t exist.”

“Dammit, it has to.” Bishop jerked his tie loose, then flicked opened the top button on his starched shirt. “Mercedes was dead when I got to the condo. There has to be a way for me to get clear of this.”

For a moment, Rafe said nothing. He had thought the same thing himself when his nightmare began. He’d been innocent, yet he’d wound up in prison.

“Let’s go over what you told me about that night. See if we can come up with something.”

Bishop eased out a breath. “Like I said, I arrived early to pick up Mercedes for our flight to Paris. I used my key to get in. She didn’t answer when I called her name, so I figured she was upstairs. I knew something was wrong when I saw the stuff from her purse dumped out on the bedroom floor.”

The mention of the purse sent Rafe’s thoughts to the display at Silk & Secrets of the sequined purses the dead woman had designed.

“I found Mercedes in the kitchen.” Emotion flickered over Bishop’s face before he looked away. His fisted hand trembled. “I can’t believe she’s dead.”

To give his client time to get a grip on his emotions, Rafe swept his gaze around the office. As on his first visit to the downtown high-rise, he could find nothing compelling about the cool black furniture and white walls. The place had the same stark feel as the cell where he’d spent two years of his life.

“The killer dumped out the contents of Mercedes’s purse, so it sounds like he was after something she might carry around,” Rafe said after a moment. “Any idea what that might be?”

“I have no clue.”

“I found out the police discovered a state-of-the-art audio system in the condo. Did you have it installed?”

“No.” Bishop frowned. “You mean, a stereo system?”

“The wiring was hooked to a recorder. Hidden microphones were in every room. Apparently, Mercedes used the system to record conversations.”

Bishop scrubbed a hand over his jaw. “I don’t know anything about that.”

Rafe studied the man for a long beat. “Maybe you told her information about your business that could hurt it or you if it got out? She could have recorded all of your in-bed sessions with an eye on blackmailing you.”

Bishop’s mouth thinned. “If she did record them, it’s news to me. And she never tried to blackmail me.”

“Were you the only man she was sleeping with?”

“Yes. I bought her a car, clothes, jewelry. Put a roof over her head. I made it clear if I caught her messing around, our deal was over.”

“Exactly what was your deal?”

Bishop shoved his chair back and rose. He stepped to the credenza, grabbed a crystal carafe and tumbler, then glanced over his shoulder. “Whiskey?”

“No, thanks.” Rafe let the silence continue.

“Mercedes was a gorgeous, exciting woman,” Bishop said. “She gave me something my wife and I haven’t shared for many years. In return, I fulfilled Mercedes’s needs.”

“Which were?”

“Material. She grew up the kind of poor where you don’t know where your next meal is coming from.” Bishop took a long sip of whiskey. “As for blackmail, if she thought it would get her a nest egg, I can see her doing it.”

“That’s an angle I’ll work on.” As he rose, Rafe glanced toward the credenza, focusing on the framed photo of a dark-haired woman in her late forties. “I need to talk to your wife. She won’t take my calls.”

Bishop scowled. “Ellen doesn’t know anything about this. She had no idea I was seeing Mercedes.”

“How can you be sure?”

“I know Ellen. If she’d gotten wind of Mercedes, she wouldn’t have kept quiet about her.”

Rafe stepped closer to the desk. “You hired me to get you off the hook on a murder charge. The only way for me to do that is to find out who killed your mistress.”

“Are you saying you think my wife did?”

“I think a man did the killing. Mercedes fought hard. It would have taken a lot of strength to overpower her. Same goes for the blow Allie Fielding took to her head.”

“Then why do you need to talk to Ellen?”

“She could have hired it done.”

“No.” Bishop sat the tumbler on the desk with enough force to slosh whiskey over his hand. “She’s not talking to me or you because she’s irate and humiliated about the affair. Our grown son feels the same way. But neither of them would resort to murder.”

“Speaking of your son, he hasn’t returned my messages, either. Because he works here, I plan to stop by his office on my way out.”

Bishop’s mouth pressed into a thin line. “Don’t waste your time. After my arrest, Will informed me he’ll be out of the office a lot. Said he intends to spend time with his mother. That she needs his support now more than I do.”

“Did Will know about your affair with Mercedes?”

“You think I’d tell my son about that?”

“I need to talk to him and your wife,” Rafe said, ignoring the question. He’d worked enough divorce cases to know that secret affairs didn’t stay that way forever. “Any idea how to do that?”

Bishop blew out a breath. “You wind up at the same social event with them.” He moved back to his desk, shuffled through a pile of mail, then frowned.

Rafe waited while Bishop called his secretary. “Check with Guy to see if he’s got his invitation for tomorrow night’s benefit auction.”