Outside the Law Read online

  Not to mention Daniel would have his job, if not his head.

  But how rude was it to just pretend it never happened?

  “I wish I could have spent the night with you, darlin’. But I think you and I both know it’s not the right time.”

  Surprise flashed briefly in her eyes before she caught herself and schooled her face. “Of course. Of course I know that. I’m just saying it’s…anyway…see you at breakfast.” She turned on her heel and hurried back into her room, almost slamming the door.

  Sometimes he just didn’t understand women. He’d obviously handled that wrong, but he wasn’t sure how else to do it. She had to know they shouldn’t muddy the waters with a personal relationship when they had a lot of other balls to keep in the air.

  When he came downstairs, showered and dressed, he found his mother and Beth making breakfast. His mom was cooking waffles, and Beth was stirring a pitcher of orange juice.

  “Good morning, Mitch,” his mother said with an almost forced cheerfulness.

  “Morning, Mom. You don’t have to go to all this trouble for me.”

  “Nonsense. I love making breakfast. Davy only likes his Grape-Nuts, so it’s a pleasure to fix something different for a change. Besides, Beth confessed to me that she usually makes do with a carton of yogurt in the morning. A working girl needs something that’ll stick to her ribs.”

  He could argue that Beth’s high-protein yogurt had a lot more rib-sticking power than a pile of simple carbs in the form of waffles, and was probably healthier, but it wasn’t what either of them wanted to hear.

  “Well, I appreciate it. Beth, why don’t you sit down and let me do that? You’re the guest here, and you did give up staying in a hotel with a free breakfast buffet.”

  Not to mention hot and cold running Billy.

  Mitch couldn’t deny he enjoyed the view of Beth’s jean-clad bottom twitching back and forth as she vigorously stirred the orange juice. He wasn’t used to seeing her in jeans. At work she usually wore dresses or skirts with lots of ruffles and bright colors, reminding him of a pretty doll that you would put on the shelf and admire, but not play with.

  Dressed down in jeans and sneakers and a tank top, she was something with which he very much wanted to play.

  “I’m not here to be waited on,” she answered without looking at him.

  “Let me pour you some coffee, then.” He’d noticed that the coffeepot had just about finished its brewing cycle. “Cream and sugar, right?”

  “Black. Thanks.”

  How was it that he’d never noticed how Beth took her coffee?

  He poured all three of them coffee in the pale green glass mugs he remembered from childhood, but which probably dated back a lot further than that. His mother didn’t tend to replace anything unless it broke or wore out, and these cups would never do either, apparently.

  “Where’s Davy?” he asked.

  “Oh, he’s usually up and out of the house before sunup. He eats his cereal, then drinks coffee with his farmer friends at the Primrose Café. As if a couple of goats and a half-dozen chickens make him a farmer.”

  Chuckling, Myra opened the waffle iron and added another golden square to a growing stack on a plate—more waffles than the Primrose Café had served today, probably. She set the plate in the middle of the table, along with a bottle of Aunt Jemima and a plastic tub of margarine. They all took their seats.

  “So, Beth, are you making progress? Is Project Justice finding evidence to prove my son’s innocence? I’ve seen on TV how you do it—the DNA and ballistics, surveillance video. Surely with all the scientific tests, you can prove Mitch was home in bed when Robby was killed.”

  “Unfortunately, TV makes it seem a lot easier than it is. Those shows condense an entire investigation into an hour, when in reality it might have taken weeks or months.”

  Myra didn’t look happy about that prospect. “I wish it could be like on TV. You find the missing witness, and you trip him up and he confesses to the crime.”

  “I wish that, too. But we have made some progress,” Beth said.

  “We have?” Mitch had yet to see it.

  “I had an email from Cassie this morning. She had a chance to look at the slug from the shack, and her findings are quite interesting.”

  “Really.”

  “The projectile was a 9 millimeter, 124-grain high-tech hollow point. It’s the kind of bullet that’s favored by law enforcement, and the amount of oxidation means it’s been there at least a few years. We’ll need to find out what kind of ammunition the Coot’s Bayou police were using twelve years ago.”

  Mitch, who had just put a bite of waffle into his mouth, now struggled to chew and swallow it because it suddenly tasted like a wad of newsprint.

  Beth didn’t have to say what she was thinking, it came through loud and clear. She thought a member of the police force had killed Robby, then covered it up.

  The same police who were now doing their damnedest to prove Mitch was the guilty party.

  If that was the case, chances were good other members of the police knew. They would stick together, the cops—even Dwayne. Even if the guilty party was no longer on the force, even if he was dead, they would lie to protect him, one of their own.

  How was Mitch going to fight that?

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  “KNOCK KNOCK, ARE YOU IN?”

  Beth, who had been in her lab poring through a computer database of lipstick brands, jumped nearly out of her chair. “Raleigh. You scared me half to death.”

  Raleigh laughed. “Sorry. I tapped on the door several times.”

  Beth knew that when she was engrossed in something, she tended to shut everything else out. She pushed her chair away from the computer, removed her glasses and massaged the bridge of her nose. “How did your hearing go?”

  “Score another one for the good guys. The judge overturned James Hattaway’s conviction, and as soon as all the paperwork is done, he’ll be a free man.”

  “That’s excellent, Raleigh. I know how hard you’ve been working on that case.”

  “Now that it’s done, I can devote more time to Mitch’s case. How is our newest client doing?”

  “In a helluva mood when I left him after breakfast this morning. You heard about the DNA?”

  “No, what?”

  “Cassie got the DNA analysis done on the blood from the floor splinters. She submitted it to CODIS, and guess whose name popped up?” CODIS was the national DNA database.

  “Robby Racine.”

  Beth nodded vigorously. “Also, we’ve identified one of the bullets found at the shack. It’s a 124-grain high-tech hollow point projectile.”

  “Cop ammo.”

  “In good enough condition to make a match, if we could find a gun to match it to. Although there’s no legal chain of evidence on the bullet, so all it can do is lead us to a suspect, not help convict him.”

  “Mitch isn’t happy about possible police involvement? No, of course not. That certainly complicates matters.”

  “Billy requested the duty roster from the police for that night, which might give us a list of possible suspects. They claim the records were lost.”

  “And what are you doing here?”

  “I analyzed a stain that Dwayne obtained from Larry Montague’s shirt. It’s lipstick. Larry’s friend said he was going to meet a woman. If we could find the owner of the lipstick, we might at least find a witness who saw him closer to when he was killed.”

  “Or the woman might be the murderer.”

  “There weren’t any women on the Coot’s Bayou police force twelve years ago, and there aren’t any now.”

  “Don’t get too married to the idea that a cop is responsible for Robby’s murder,” Raleigh cautioned. “Or Larry’s. That’s a big leap.”

  “I know. It’s just that no other leads are panning out. The girlfriend, the violent felon who owned the stolen car, the fence Robby used to work with—Billy has questioned them all and he feels pretty sure t
hey had nothing to do with Robby’s death. We’ve got a big, fat zero. The D.A. is going to file formal charges against Mitch any day, and it’s going to be capital murder. We’re all holding our breath waiting for someone to discover Mitch was out and about, alone, the night Larry was killed.

  “I feel like I’m failing him.” Beth had been holding herself together pretty well up until now, but she couldn’t do it any longer. Her tears spilled over.

  At least it was just Raleigh to witness her embarrassing breakdown.

  Raleigh had her arms around Beth in an instant. “Oh, honey, don’t cry. It’s early yet. We still have lots of ways to shake loose something to help Mitch.”

  Beth grabbed a paper towel from the dispenser over her bench and mopped her face. “It’s not just the criminal charges. I did something really stupid.”

  “You slept with Mitch.”

  Beth gasped. The shock of Raleigh’s accurate guess checked the flow of tears. “Did he say something?”

  “Beth, of course not. Billy told me.”

  “How did Billy know?”

  “He said you both disappeared, and when you came back you had hay in your hair and it was written all over your faces. Both of you.”

  “And I thought I was being discreet. Oh, God, his mother probably knows, too.”

  “And why is this such a tragedy?” Raleigh asked. “Isn’t this something you’ve been wanting?”

  “Yeah, but…the next morning he said it was a terrible mistake.”

  “It’s, um, not the best timing in the world,” Raleigh said diplomatically.

  “I know. It’s a bad idea for so many reasons. But I don’t regret what we did. Even if it’s a never-to-be-repeated event.”

  “Maybe once we prove Mitch’s innocence…”

  Beth shook her head. “He was drowning, and I was the only life preserver within reach. He needed to connect with someone. Once he’s free of the charges…he won’t need me anymore.”

  Raleigh looked perplexed. “He’s got a lot on his plate right now,” she said.

  “Don’t make excuses for him. He did me because I was handy and available, and he had extra steam to let off despite beating up a bale of hay—”

  “Wait. He beat up…”

  “Hay. I can’t even explain this, it’s just too weird. Sweet, low-key, gentle Mitch has stockpiles of intensity I never dreamed of. He has a secret past and all this anger inside him…”

  “So, he’s not the right man for you anyway,” Raleigh concluded. “If it only took you one sexual encounter to figure that out, you are way ahead of the game.”

  Beth took off her glasses and massaged the bridge of her nose. “That’s just it. Despite everything that’s happened, despite all I’ve learned about him, I still want him. I want him more, if that’s possible.” She put her glasses back on and looked at her friend. “Raleigh, why am I always attracted to the wrong men?”

  “Are you sure he’s wrong?”

  “I’m not sure of anything.” Beth got off her stool and started methodically tidying. “I thought a relationship with Mitch would be easy and uncomplicated. I couldn’t have been more mistaken. And it’s not even a relationship. It’s probably just a one-time deal and now my head’s all screwed up.”

  Raleigh, who always had good advice, patted Beth’s shoulder in commiseration. “When it comes to men, it’s never easy and uncomplicated. Let’s focus on proving Mitch’s innocence, okay? Then you can worry about whether you have a relationship or not.”

  Beth knew it was good advice. “Okay. I’m good now, I’m fine.” She wiped the last of her tears away and chucked the paper towel into the trash bin. “Back to business.” She picked up the report she’d generated earlier and handed it to Raleigh. “The lipstick from Larry’s shirt is made up of wax, oil, alcohol, fragrance, preservatives and a particular dye called carmine. Carmine is made by boiling pigmented beetles.”

  Raleigh set the paper down and backed away from it. “Ewww! You’re kidding.”

  “Nope. It’s not even terribly rare. Several major brands use it for their red and orange shades. The list is in the report.”

  Raleigh reluctantly picked up the paper again and flipped to the second page. “Oh, my God, there’s the brand I use! Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “You don’t wear bright red or orange so you’re probably safe.”

  “I’m checking the ingredient lists on all my lipsticks when I get home.”

  “I performed ultraviolet-visible spectroscopy on the sample, and I’ve sent the results off to a guy I know who can possibly give me an exact brand. Until then, I’ve narrowed it down to brands likely to be sold in southern Louisiana, and I’m looking at all the case designs. If I have to snoop in the purses of every woman in Coot’s Bayou to find out what lipstick they use, I will.”

  “Hmm. A lipstick stain. That’s so cliché.”

  “I know. And though I maintained a chain of evidence, it probably won’t hold up in court. But if it turns out to be important, we could impel the police to do their own testing on the stain.”

  “Hmm,” Raleigh said again.

  “It’s lame. But maybe I’ll find some DNA in all that trash I collected from near Larry’s body— cigarette butts, paper cups, tissues…”

  Raleigh wrinkled her nose. “You’re the only person I know who gets excited about garbage.”

  “…and I have a few things I found at the shack, though I didn’t find any more bullets or shell casings. Just lots of beer pull tabs. So…what’s our next move?”

  “We’re going to advertise for witnesses. Someone, somewhere, saw something. Oh, and here’s what I really came in here to tell you. Larry Montague’s autopsy is scheduled for tomorrow morning, 7:00 a.m., and they’re honoring our request that you observe.”

  “That’s a surprise.”

  “My guess is they want it to at least appear as if they were being cooperative with us. Dwayne is the one who called with the news. Whatever bad blood is between him and Mitch, he’s been pretty cordial to us.”

  “I know. I wish I could get Mitch to see that. So, I guess I’m heading over to Coot’s Bayou again.” Viewing an autopsy wasn’t her favorite pastime, but her presence could mean the difference between uncovering helpful evidence, and losing it forever.

  Plus, she’d sort of been hoping for an excuse to see Mitch again. Like a moth to a flame.

  She should probably check into the Sleepy Time Motel where Billy was staying. But as she packed her things into her car after work that day, she knew she would head straight for Myra’s house.

  “YOU KNOW I DON’T MIND you using my car,” Myra said, “but I don’t understand why you don’t just take your own.”

  “Because if anyone does a casual check to see if I’m home, I want them to see the El Camino in its usual parking space.”

  “Mitchell Bernard Delacroix, you’re up to no good. I could always spot the signs when you were a teenager, and nothing’s changed.” She looked down at his feet and sighed. “Where’s your monitoring cuff?”

  “Don’t worry about it. Just pretend you didn’t see that, okay?”

  “Just tell me where you’re going. Is it illegal?”

  “Mom, of course not. I don’t do illegal stuff anymore. All I’m doing is bending the rules of my bail a little.”

  “Oh, Mitch…”

  “It’s something I have to do,” he said. “Something I’m contractually bound to do. There’s a lot of money at stake, a lot of people counting on me.” His trainer and his promoter would have his head on a platter if he didn’t show up tonight. He’d already tried to get out of appearing, and short of admitting he was under suspicion of murder, which he hadn’t wanted to do, he couldn’t convince them to find a replacement for the match tonight. Too much had already gone into promoting his fight against Ricky “Quick Death” Marquita, who would be the real star.

  It was an important step for Mitch, though. For the first time, he would be participating in a headline match. An
d even though he was heavily favored to lose, the fact he’d even gotten the match meant his popularity was on the rise.

  Myra reluctantly handed over the keys. “When will you be home? In case someone does come around looking.”

  “If someone comes looking, you didn’t even realize I was gone. I took your keys without asking.”

  “I’m not going to lie.”

  He didn’t want to get his mom in trouble. “I’m gonna hang out with some friends, okay? And I should be home by one in the morning.” He kissed her on the cheek. “Don’t worry.”

  “Self-destructive. Davy says you’re self-destructive, and he’s right.”

  That was a low blow—and surprising, coming from a woman he’d almost never seen initiating a confrontation. But he didn’t have time to argue with her, or explain that he was trying to preserve the one thing in his life that was still okay. In the cage-fighting world, they didn’t know he was Mitch Delacroix, a Project Justice employee under suspicion of murder. He was just the Cagey Cajun who would fight anyone—and usually win.

  DESPITE HERSELF, BETH FELT a slight thrill of anticipation as she drove her yellow Ford Escape up the dirt road and Myra’s house came into view. There was Mitch’s El Camino in its usual spot.

  Raleigh was right. Mitch had an awful lot to contend with right now, and looking after Beth’s precious feelings shouldn’t be one of them. What had happened in the barn had been a purely biological reaction when two people who were attracted to each other spent too much time together under too much stress.

  During the drive, she had put this into perspective. She oughtn’t to have any expectations regarding what would happen in the future.

  The front door of the house opened almost before Beth’s car came to a full stop. Myra wiped her hands on her apron, then shaded her eyes against the setting sun and gave Beth a small wave. Beth supposed she should have warned Myra she was on her way back, but Myra had told her the door was open any time she needed to stay in Coot’s Bayou.