“I’m already being careful. Oh, John, that poor man! He must be so scared in jail—and I’m the one who put him there. Can you go with me to the police in the morning and tell them I made a mistake?” She was on the verge of tears.
“Not you. I’ll go by myself. Maybe I can convince Traverton that Boone’s the real murderer.” John tried to sound encouraging, but something told him he’d have no better luck convincing Traverton than he’d had convincing Packard. Neither lawman liked being wrong.
He took the road to the boat ramp where they’d been once before, stopping the Jeep at the narrow beach. The stars cast shimmering reflections in the water. “Come here, Emma,” he said, and pulled her close.
For a few quiet moments she nestled against him, quivering like a frightened animal. He wrapped her in his arms, wanting her to feel protected. His lips grazed her face, brushing her eyelids, her cheeks, and coming to rest on her sweet mouth. She was his woman, to love, keep, and protect. He wanted to build a life with her, to raise their children and grow old together.
But until he could promise to keep her safe, he had no right to speak of those things.
“This nightmare won’t last forever, love,” he murmured against her hair. “It will end, I promise, even if I have to end it myself.”
And maybe that was the key to it all, he thought. He’d depended on the law to take Boone out of action and put him where he’d never harm Emma, or any other woman, again. But the law had failed him. It had failed Emma, and it had failed to get justice for poor Bethany Ann. Maybe it was time to take matters into his own hands.
* * *
The next day John paid a visit to Traverton to express his doubts about charging Ezra. “All you have to go on is Boone’s word,” he said. “And you know Boone’s a liar. He tricked at least two women into fake marriages and took their money. Now he’s pinning a murder he committed on his handicapped brother. That’s pretty low, if you ask me.”
Traverton gave him a cold look. “Just because Boone’s a con artist, that doesn’t mean he’s a killer. As far as I’m concerned we’ve got our man. Ezra Swenson has been processed, arraigned, and assigned a public defender. The judge denied bail, on the grounds that he was a flight risk. My job is done. If you have anything more to say, you can say it to his lawyer. Here’s the young man’s card.”
Robert Falconi. The name on the card had a familiar ring to it, John thought as he walked out to the Jeep. What were the odds that Ezra’s public defender was related to a certain retired judge?
The law office was located above a travel agency on Grant Street. The building was nothing grand, but the law office, at the top of the stairs, was freshly remodeled with a neutral color scheme, high-end leather furniture, and original artwork on the walls. “Nice digs,” John commented as the young lawyer strode into the reception area to meet him.
“Thanks.” He looked about twenty-four, with thick, dark hair and an aquiline nose. “My mother has elegant taste and the money to go with it. Otherwise you’d be looking at folding chairs and a card table in here. ”
“Your mother’s the judge.” It wasn’t even a question.
“You know her?”
“Some. But I’m here to talk about Ezra Swenson.” He spent the next fifteen minutes filling the lawyer in on the background of the story.
“I talked to Ezra for just a few minutes,” Falconi said. “But I got the impression he was a few pints short of a gallon, as they say. Until you showed up, my plan was to get him evaluated and declared incompetent to stand trial.”
“That’s exactly what Boone wants. His brother gets blamed for the murder, the case never goes to trial, and Boone gets off without ever having to show up.”
“Are you saying that Ezra should be tried because he’s innocent?”
“It would be better than shipping him off to some hospital for the
criminally insane, where he’d pine away and die. What I’m saying is, before you seek a ruling on this case, you need to learn the truth. Talk to the mother, at least. Talk to Emma, too. She doesn’t know Ezra but she can tell you plenty about Boone and the hellhole where he brought her.”
“What about you? If this goes to trial, would you be willing to testify to what you just told me?”
“Absolutely. But that’s not what you should be shooting for. Bring up enough evidence to get the case dismissed. That’s what a good lawyer does.”
“I’ll do my best.” Falconi looked young and sounded uncertain. John could only hope that the judge’s son knew his job.
* * *
John had planned three errands today. The first two had ended in frustration—with a stubborn lawman and an irresolute public defender.
The third errand was different. He was about to cross the line to the dark side.
After a quick lunch, he drove to the house with the peeling blue paint—the house where Sherman Philpot lived. When he knocked on the door, it barely creaked open. Philpot’s bloodshot eye glared at him through the narrow crack.
“What the hell d’you want, you sonofabitch?” he demanded. “Have you got that cop with you again?”
John shook his head. “Take it easy, man. I didn’t mean for that to happen. And I’m not here to rat you out. I don’t even need to come in.”