Mark Gimenez - Accused

Another raised eyebrow from Bobby.

"These unidentified prints," Scott said, "the ones on the kitchen counter, the bed headboard, and this mirror-they're all from different persons?"

"Yep."

"And no matches?"

"Nope. They're not in the FBI database. You get fingerprinted once, you're in the database forever."

"So we know at least three different people other than Trey and Rebecca and the maid were in this house at some time and none of them has ever been arrested?"

"Or worked in child care or as a school bus driver or a federal employee."

"What do you mean?"

"You want to work for the federal government or do anything with kids, you gotta get printed and pass a criminal background check first."

"Really?"

"Yep. When I started with the Bureau, I did background checks for federal agents, attorneys, judges… Pretty damn boring, so I transferred to the Drug Task Force, over in El Paso."

"When did you say the maid came?"

"Mondays and Thursdays."

"So she was here that same day?"

"Yep."

"Did she clean the surfaces where the prints were found?"

Hank frowned. "Good question."

"If she wiped those surfaces Thursday, then the prints would have been made between the time she left and when the cops arrived and sealed off the house as a crime scene Friday morning."

"Cops' prints are in the system, and everyone who entered the house wore gloves."

"Hank, those prints might belong to the murderer."

"Except only your wife's prints are on the murder weapon."

"You got the maid's number?"

"In the book."

Hank took the murder book from Scott and turned to the witnesses section. He pulled out his cell phone and dialed. After a moment, he said, "Rosie Gonzales?… Hank Kowalski, with the district attorney's office… That's right, we spoke Friday. Rosie, when you cleaned the Rawlins house last Thursday, did you wipe the island counter in the kitchen?… With soap and Clorox and Pine-Sol?… Okay, what about the headboard in the master bedroom?… Unh-huh… And what about the mirror in Mr. Rawlins' closet?… Was anyone else in the house that day?… When did you leave?… Okay. Thanks."

Hank ended the call and turned to Scott.

"She cleaned the kitchen counters Thursday, finished at noon, so those prints were put there sometime after she left and before the murder."

"What about the other prints?"

"She didn't clean the headboard or the mirror that day. Does that once a month."

"So those prints could have been put there in the last month?"

"Yep."

They returned to Trey's bathroom. Hank opened the cabinets, and Bobby filmed the contents, the usual male paraphernalia and several bottles of prescription pills.

"What was he taking?" Scott asked.

Hank held up one prescription bottle. "Viagra."

"Porn and Viagra," Bobby said with a smile. "Trey Rawlins endorsed more than just golf clubs and chocolate milk."

"CIA's bribing Afghan warlords with these blue pills," Hank said. "Most of the agents I worked with at the Bureau took them. Hell, most men I know take 'em."

"We don't. Do we, Bobby?"

"Well, uh…"

Scott turned to Bobby. "You take Viagra?"

Bobby shrugged. "I'm married to a woman ten years younger than me. There's a lot of pressure."

"What about all that 'I'm bald because I'm loaded with testosterone' stuff?"

"Hey, my first two wives left me. I'm not taking any chances with Karen."

Scott turned back to Hank. "What about the other pills?"

"One's a beta-blocker, blood pressure medicine. The other's Prozac."

"Isn't that for depression?"

Hank nodded. "My wife takes it. Says being married to me is depressing."

They followed Hank into Rebecca's dressing room, every square inch of which was packed with dresses, shirts, slacks, shorts, coats, sweaters, scarves, hats, and shoes-a lot of shoes.

"She sure likes shoes," Hank said.

"You should've seen her closet when we were married."

"A woman is an expensive habit."

"Why would she kill Trey and give all this up?"

"Maybe he was giving her up."

"He proposed to her that night."

"So she said."

"Rex said we could take her clothes."

Hank nodded. "I gotta watch what you take."

Scott stepped to a dresser and opened several long flat drawers. All contained lingerie. The sexy stuff. As if this were a Victoria's Secret showroom instead of a closet. In the top drawer were complete sets with the price tags still attached, apparently from her shopping trip that Thursday. He held one set up: black lace bustier… matching garter belt… black sheer hose with a seam up the back… and a matching black thong. Scott stared at the undergarment, imagining Rebecca wearing this outfit for Trey. He wasn't sure how long he had been staring before he snapped to the fact that he wasn't alone. He turned and saw Hank and Bobby staring at the tiny thong he was holding up. He felt his face flush. He dropped the thong into the drawer.

He was thinking like a man.

"Bobby, call Rebecca and see what she wants, okay?"

"Yeah, Scotty, I'll do this."

Scott walked out of the closet.

Thirty minutes later, Scott was outside leaning against the Jetta when Bobby and Hank appeared; each carried two oversized trash bags. Scott opened the back door. They tossed the bags inside the car.

"What'd she want?" Scott asked.

"Everything. We bagged up the entire closet."

They made two more trips into the house for her clothes. Then Scott and Bobby shook hands with Hank and climbed into the Jetta. Scott started the engine and turned the air conditioner on high. They sat in silence until Bobby said, "Jesus, that bedroom looked like a Tarantino movie."

More silence followed, then Bobby turned to him.

"Scotty, what are we doing here?"

Scott did not answer. Because he did not have an answer.

"Bobby, you thinking what I'm thinking, about those prints on the headboard and mirror?"

"Yep. They're from women. One holding onto the headboard, the other leaning into the mirror. Our all-American boy took Viagra, watched porn, and had sex with two other women in that house in the last month."

Miss SMU had worn a black bikini for the swimsuit competition-and she wore it again that day on the beach. They had found a secluded spot. He waded into the water and watched her perform a striptease on the sand. Then they had sex in the surf.

It seemed like yesterday instead of thirteen years ago.

An hour after leaving the crime scene, Scott sat on the back deck drinking a man beer. He needed one after learning that his ex-wife's fingerprints were on the knife that killed Trey Rawlins and seeing the bloody bed where he had died. His eyes were now alternating between the murder book in his lap and Rebecca and Boo on the beach down below-between Rebecca in the bloody nightgown and Rebecca in the black bikini she was now wearing. She was still a remarkably beautiful woman, and he still felt drawn to her.

But what was he doing here? Was he on a guilt trip, like Bobby said? And what if she were guilty? Defending his ex-wife who was found innocent would not hurt his chances for a federal judgeship. Defending his ex-wife who was found guilty of murdering the man she had left him for would kill any chance. He would have only one option in life. And when it came to Rebecca Fenney, could he ever think like a lawyer and not like a man?

He looked down at them again. Boo waved to him, and he waved back.

"I hated you."

"I know."

"Do you know how embarrassing it is for a girl my age?"

"What?"

"Mother, it was in the paper-everyone knows you ran off with the golf pro!"

"I'm so sorry, Boo."

"Pajamae and me, we thought maybe A. Scott could marry her mother-"