Blood in the Lake Read online

  “Opened in.”

  “And you recognized the person at the door?”

  “Yeah. In the doorway. I recognized my good friend Remmy Richard. He lived with us when he and Jim came in from offshore. That dick-shit. Sorry, ma’am,” she said in my direction. She shrugged her right shoulder. Her right eye—her only eye—didn’t quite center.

  “He spoke to you? Can you tell me what he said?”

  “Not word for word, but he asked if Jim was home. I said he was offshore. He asked if he could do anything for me!” She rolled her eye. “Ha! How you like that? Wasn’t that just so sweet of him to be asking. I said I was fine. He asked if I had enough money. Dumb me thought he was going to offer me a loan. I said I’d cashed Jim’s paycheck so I had enough to last ‘till he came in.”

  “I start to boil whenever I think about this.” Jim Falgout interjected.

  “Yeah. Then, whammo! Remmy pulls out a knife. He pushes it at me and says, ‘Go get your damn money.’ I couldn’t believe it.”

  “Can you show me how he held the knife?” Deuce asked.

  Mrs. Falgout made a fist with her thumb on top.

  “Right hand?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Kitchen knife? Pocket knife? Switch-blade? What did it look like?”

  “Kitchen knife, I’d say. But not a big chef’s knife. Medium size.”

  Deuce scribbled in his notebook. He must’ve started volume two because his first notebook rested in the security closet in Bonnie’s office.

  “OK. So you did what he asked?”

  “Sure did. I went to the bedroom and picked up a couple hundreds I had in my bureau. I took my time because I was trying to think if I had any alternative. When I came back up front, whack! I got conked on the head and went out cold. I remember coming to and stumbling out of the house. I saw his truck down the driveway. I don’t know what possessed me, but I just took off after it until I stumbled and fell down. He spun the truck around and headed right at me. Ran right over me, the fucker.” Mrs. Falgout looked in my direction. “Sorry for my language, ma’am, but that’s when my leg got crushed to smithereens. Then I think I remember him hitting me with something big. A tire iron maybe.”

  Deuce went back to get more details. “Before he pulled out the knife, did you notice anything unusual about him?”

  “What do you mean unusual? He was just Remmy.”

  “Was he disheveled? Did he seem drugged up or anything?”

  Mrs. Falgout laughed. “Well, Remmy never was Prince Charming. Same old jeans, same stringy hair. On drugs? I wouldn’t know. He liked to smoke weed and have a few beers, but I couldn’t say if he had anything special that day.”

  She didn’t remember anything after she was run over and beaten. She woke up to feel the trooper picking leaves off her face, asking if she was OK.”

  “And during all this time, Remmy was alone?”

  Mrs. Falgout hesitated, then said, “I didn’t see anyone else, if that’s what you mean.”

  Deuce turned to me, inviting my questions. Me? Could I do this right?

  “Mrs. Falgout,” I began, “Do you have pictures of your house you could show me?”

  She shook her head. “Nope. We lost everything we had. Even my dogs—Jake and Lucky.”

  I could have bitten off the end of my tongue for that thoughtless question. Deuce nodded for me to continue.

  “Could you tell us exactly where Remmy Richard was when you first saw him? Was there a porch, or did steps lead directly up to the door?”

  “A porch ran all along the front of the house.”

  “Beyond the porch, could you see the vehicle he came in?”

  “Yeah. I recognized his truck. A Toyota, I think. No, he had a Nissan. Well, I really don’t know exactly. A beat-up white pick-up, that’s for sure.”

  “Did you see anybody else, either in the truck or in the yard?”

  “No. I don’t think there was anyone else, but I was kind of looking at the back of the truck. He’d pulled up a way past the steps.”

  “OK. When you went back to the bedroom, where did he go?” She had a how would I know when I wasn’t there look on her face. “I mean, was he right there when you came back?”

  “I dunno. I never saw nobody. I just got bashed on the head and went down. When I came to, there was nobody around.”

  “So you didn’t actually see him hit you?”

  “No, but somebody sure as hell did. I saw stars, I guess you could say.”

  “How long were you out from that bash on the head? Can you guess?”

  She paused and thought for a few seconds. “No. I just woke up on the floor and stood up. I went out the door and saw the truck going down the driveway. I took off after it—screaming bloody murder.”

  “Back up a minute. Did you notice what happened to the money you got from the back.”

  She laughed. “Hell, no. Maybe Remmy took it or it got burned up. No idea.”

  Of course. Not what she would think about at that point.

  “So you ran out after the truck. Could you see the person who was driving?”

  “Not really. I had blood streaming down my face. I assumed it was Remmy.”

  “Then I think you said the truck turned around and came back at you.”

  “Yeah. Sure did. Goddamned Remmy ran right over me. Sorry for my language, ma’am.”

  “You say Remmy ran over you? Could you see it was Remmy driving the truck?”

  “Well, no. Remmy’s truck ran over me, I should say.”

  “Did you see anyone else in the truck?”

  “No, but I could barely see at all by then.”

  “OK. Then what?”

  “I think I ran after the truck again, but I’m pretty fuzzy from then on. In and out. I think someone came after me with a tire tool in his hand and I got it again. Next thing I really remember was being under sticks and trash. Someone was talking. I was spitting out leaves and a few teeth. I hurt like hell.”

  Deuce had leaned back in the sofa, a smile widening his full lips. His round, deep brown eyes sparkled.

  “Sorry, Deuce. I kinda got carried away,” I said.

  “You did good, Mandy.” Now he used my first name. I think I just passed a test.

  Deuce asked Mrs. Falgout what lay ahead for her. She said more surgeries. The leg was about as good as it was going to get except for rehab, and they’d about finished her arm, but she had a good way to go with the face. Eventually she’d get a glass left eye. Her right eye was cockeyed but they’d straighten it out pretty soon.

  “They say my face is going to be just about like it was before. I told them they could at least make me prettier while they were at it.”

  One gutsy broad.

  On the ride home, Deuce was complimentary.

  “Have you taken a course in interrogation? Or are you a natural?”

  “Thanks, but she didn’t see anyone except Remmy, and she can’t say one way or the other if there was anyone else. Tom will have a tough job proving a negative.”

  “Sarah will hammer reasonable doubt, but Tom will be prepared. Not even Sarah’s going to get a bit more out of her than you did.”

  I could picture Mrs. Falgout coming through the back door of the courtroom, dragging her crippled leg all the way up the center aisle, past the jury, taking her seat in the witness box, and looking over at the jurors with half a face. She hardly needed to tell her story. If she said Remmy did that to her, the jury would believe he did. But could she say that?

  Deuce returned to the subject of my questions to Mrs. Falgout, at least I guess that’s what led him to talk about his future and mine.

  “Have you ever thought about going to work for the FBI, Mandy?”

  “What do you mean? I’m gonna be a lawyer.”

  “I know, but that’s who the FBI wants to hire these days. I know because I’ve applied. They said if I had a law degree I could move right in.”

  “Your father had a fine career in the State Police. I th
ought you were headed there.”

  “They want me to put in a few more years with the sheriff first, and I don’t know if I want to do that. I’m almost thirty. But back to you, Mandy. Let me plant a seed. Lawyers play games with one another and then put on a play for the jury. Investigative work is straightforward. You start with a crime and follow the evidence. Straight pursuit of the truth. Think about it.”

  I told him I would, but just to be polite. If I could, I’d be working for the DA. And Tom.

  Now I had an opportunity to ask about Detective Aymond’s story.

  “Deuce, it happened before your time on the force, but Tom told me something about Detective Aymond and the Vermilion Parish bunkhouses.”

  Deuce jumped as if he’d taken a shot in the back. “What? He told you about Mary Jane?”

  “No-o. Who’s Mary Jane? He said Buddy did great undercover work that cleaned up the place but was bad for his marriage. Then he clammed up. What’s the story?”

  Deuce’s face opened in a monster grin. “Miss Aguillard, I believe you need to get that bit of information from Tom.”

  Now I was really curious. Somehow the story went from kudos for Buddy’s detective work, to the tragedy of his marriage, to something no one would tell me about. Who the hell was Mary Jane?

  We were halfway back to the courthouse when I noticed Deuce’s eyes make quick cuts from the rearview mirror to the side ones, back and forth.

  “Is someone following us?” I asked.

  “I think so.”

  I turned around to look out the back glass.

  “Damn, Deuce. A white pick-up. No plate on the front.”

  “Yeah. Following way too close. He’s an amateur. Hold tight and watch this.”

  Deuce slammed on the brakes, turned sharply to the right, and dove into a driveway. Hard surface, thank goodness, or we’d have spun out of control. The truck sped on by.

  “Did you get a look?” I asked. “I was too busy just trying to hold on.”

  “License covered in mud. He’ll be back in a minute.” Deuce had that wide grin again.

  “You’re having fun! Why is someone following us?”

  “Now that’s a down side of being a cop. We get followed all the time. There’s a whole universe out there listening to police radio, trailing our units, looking for anything exciting. Sometimes I oblige ‘em. Don’t tell my boys I do this. I won’t even let them race their tricycles.”

  Deuce pulled the unit out of the driveway and backed in again so we could see the road through the windshield. Not two minutes later the white pick-up came sailing back past us.

  Probably a man, but that’s all I could say. The driver’s window was as muddy as the license plate.

  “He’s gone. Another lesson in investigation, Mandy. Beware of paranoia.”

  * * *

  Three days later, Tom and I completed putting together the first discovery package to deliver to the defense. My fear that Tom might not turn over everything had been unfounded, and I kicked myself for my doubts. True to his word, Tom had me copy Deuce’s entire field notebook, tapes of our interviews, and every single statement he and Detective Aymond had taken. The only papers I didn’t include in our package were our research notes. Privileged attorney work product, as it’s known. Bonnie, the tech-savvy one, put almost all the material on a CD, and we were set for a conference with the defense. Sarah Bernard.

  Sarah breezed into the DA’s office like a star walking the red carpet at the Grammies. She kissed Bonnie on each cheek. Right, left, right. Three times—like a Parisienne. Rumor had it she took vacations over there with a French boyfriend. She moved quickly past the other secretaries, flashing a brilliant smile and a cool wave as she strode back to the library. She set down an alligator briefcase, pulled out the chair at the head of the conference table, and tossed back her thick blond French braid. God, she looked good.

  Sarah had started out stunning to begin with. Flawless skin, long legs, stately carriage, clear emerald green eyes, but she also must have spent hours working on herself. Lean toned body, whitened teeth, French manicured nails. She knew how to apply mascara and just a touch of eye shadow, and she smelled good. Her outfit matched, even to the shoes a shade darker than her peach-colored suit.

  I wore my usual office uniform of black pants and white shirt, jacket nearby in case I had to go into court. Damn. When Sarah crossed her legs, I swear Tom sucked in his breath to keep from drooling. Sarah struck first.

  “Guys, as you have no doubt heard, my client says he was around for the attack on Mrs. Falgout but nowhere on the scene when Pierre Boudreaux took the knife. Didn’t know about it beforehand nor until the next day, so he wasn’t a principal either.”

  “Sarah, wake up and smell the coffee. The guy admitted guilt. He said he’d killed two people! The bunkhouse manager heard the same. As for Falgout, pretty hard for your client to give us the usual another dude did it when the surviving victim knew and named him.”

  Sarah uncrossed her long legs and then crossed them again in the other direction, moving slightly away from the table. Tom’s eyes dropped to take in her maneuver. I bet she practiced.

  “Take another look at that Falgout statement, Tom. Lydia Falgout saw my client come to her house but never saw the guy who hit her on the head and turned her into a pile of shit. Read it. Another dude really did do that.”

  “And tell me who that other dude might be? She never saw anyone else. You have a name for me?”

  “You have the burden, Tom. I just have to raise reasonable doubt, and I’m working on that. And I don’t put much store in the meeting that took place at The Southern Wave. Cross-examination will be fun. The guys who spend onshore time in bunkhouses have no cred. Remember, I represented a bunch of defendants when Buddy helped shut those places down ten years ago. I’ve got the ammunition to give the jurors a history lesson.”

  What was that all about? The topic of Buddy and the bunkhouses kept coming up.

  “Tell me how you explain away your client’s admission that he killed Pierre Boudreaux?”

  Sarah rounded her lips like little goldfish. Cute.

  “Correction. Richard didn’t really admit to killing anyone. He thought he was responsible for two deaths. Maybe because he provided the marks for robberies and the other dude used his car. My client swears to me he wasn’t even on the Boudreaux job. Bottom line? You have no direct evidence and piss-poor circumstantials. I’m pumped for this one, Tom.”

  I was shaken. I’d already figured out Tom had weak evidence to prove first degree murder. Could the reason he had weak evidence be because the guy wasn’t guilty?

  Another thought took up space in my head—and scared me. If Remmy didn’t do it, PawPaw’s murderer was still out there. Were we safe?

  Tom didn’t show a speck of doubt.

  “Remember, Mrs. Falgout recognized Remmy’s pickup, the little Nissan, as the one at her house. Did you look at the lab report from Birmingham? Only Remmy’s prints in the car.”

  “That’s odd in itself, Tom? I bet all of ‘em were fresh. How many prints do you think a good techie could get off your car? Lots, or at least those of the last guy who did the routine service. I’d say someone wiped the car down, and Remmy’s prints are recent. After the fire.”

  “We’ll have fun with all this, Sarah. But what’s with this righteousness all of a sudden? You’ve told me before you never even ask your clients if they’re guilty because if they are, they’ll just lie. Guilt or innocence doesn’t affect your work. You give your clients the very best defense you can dream up whether they’re guilty or innocent. That’s your job.”

  “I didn’t ask Remmy if he did it. I didn’t have to. He denied anything to do with Boudreaux from day one. And he insists. You know, Tom, once in a while we get someone who’s innocent. We always need to pay attention to the possibility.”

  Tom blew off the idea. “We’ve done a lot of cases together. You’re all about the deal.”

  That’s what I’d he
ard about being a criminal defense lawyer. Ninety-nine percent of the clients are guilty of something. You just have to work to get them a good deal.

  “Give it a try, Sarah. We might be able to take death off the table if...”

  Sarah was adamant. “Never. I’m never going to be able to get this guy to take life.”

  “OK, Sarah. You do your job and I’ll do mine.” Tom put away the papers in his hand and reached for our file, volume two. “Here’s the rest of the discovery. Richard is a very bad guy who was on a three-day alcohol and cocaine bender that drove him to do anything to get money for another fix. That’s my case.”

  Sarah gave us that dazzling smile. “You have the burden, Tom. If you get a conviction, which I doubt, the jury will never give him death. I’ll have strong mitigation for the penalty phase. I’ve got an expert who can tell us what the deadly combo of alcohol and cocaine does to the brain. Not enough for an intoxication defense on guilt/innocence—unfortunately, if you can stand up or drive a car you don’t meet the threshold for that defense—but Richard’s life story is going to curl the hair of every juror. Members of his family will tell us all about that. I’ve got my shit together on this one, Tom. Life’s the worst he’s likely to get.”

  Tom leaned back in his chair. “Sarah, I have Mrs. Falgout.”

  I know I saw Sarah flinch, but she kept her cool. “As they say, I’ll see you in court.”

  Sarah left, our discovery in her alligator briefcase. No messy red accordion files for her.

  Concern must have been all over my face. Tom gave me one of his reassuring smiles.

  “Welcome to the opening act of the drama. I know Sarah well. She’s playing her cards. Her main goal is to get me away from even asking for the death penalty. And you know, I wouldn’t mind doing that if I could get your family on board.”

  “Are you saying she really thinks her client is guilty of killing PawPaw? That she’s just doing a dance for a deal?”

  “I’d bet my life on it. Well, not maybe my life, but at least a few back rubs.”

  Tom patted my hand. A touch condescending. Hm-m.

  “Something is bothering me, Tom. Remember the fireman who reported that Mrs. Falgout said, Don’t let them get me again—plural. When I talked with Mrs. Falgout she didn’t ever think there was anyone there except Remmy, and I didn’t want to say too much, to put ideas into her head. I think the firemen misheard. We’d better talk to them and get that straight. Maybe what she said was don’t let him get me again. Him sounds the same as ‘em.”