Joel Goldman - Chasing The Dead

She nodded. “I know. Robin and I have been friends since law school. I remember how we talked back then about all the things we wanted to do in our lives, but I never thought it would come to this. I represented Robin in her divorce. That was years ago before I began specializing in estate planning. It was an ugly breakup. Ted was drinking heavily and cheating on her. He started threatening Robin that he was going to get even with her, that sort of thing, nothing real explicit but enough that we got a restraining order against him.”

“Did he ever act on any of those threats? Did he ever hit her?”

“No, nothing like that. Mostly calling her in the middle of the night screaming what a bitch she was and how he was going to make her life a living hell. It was probably the booze more than anything else. One of the conditions for him seeing the kids was that he go to AA, which he did. He sobered up and stayed sober, most of the time, until the last few months.”

“What happened then?”

She tilted her head, shrugging her shoulders. “Well, he got laid off from his job selling restaurant equipment, and then he started drinking again. And then he started calling Robin, asking her for money, and she told him no. When he threatened to make her pay, she told me what was going on and I said we should go back to court for another restraining order, but she didn’t want to because of the kids and because she thought Ted was all talk, just like before, until the thing in the parking lot.”

“What thing?”

“Ted was stalking her, following her to work and back home, sitting in his car on her street. Then a couple of weeks ago, he rear-ended her in the Costco parking lot, you know the one off of Linwood?”

Rossi nodded. “That’s where I get all my canned tuna.”

She arched an eyebrow. “Is that supposed to be funny, Detective? Because I don’t find any of this amusing.”

Rossi wasn’t trying to be funny. He wanted to see how she’d react to an out-of-place wisecrack. If she joined in the fun, he’d question her sincerity. If he offended her, she’d go up a notch on his credibility meter.

“You’re right. I’m sorry. When did this happen?”

“A couple of weeks ago. She called me, hysterical, and I said enough was enough and that I was going to file for the restraining order, but she begged me to wait because of the kids. So I did. But I drafted the motion and had her sign an affidavit so everything would be ready to go. And then she called me last Wednesday and said he was following her again and to go ahead and file it.”

She opened the envelope and pulled out a copy of the motion and handed it to Rossi. Robin’s affidavit, notarized by Sonia, was attached, detailing Robin’s allegations. There was also a copy of the court’s ex parte order of protection. The court clerk’s file stamp showed that the motion was filed at nine a.m., Tuesday, September 14 The order of protection was filed an hour later, ten hours before Robin was killed. It was a classic domestic violence timetable, the system playing a fatal game of catch-up.

“Were you able to serve the order on Mr. Norris?”

She shook her head, her eyes watering. “No. I went straight from the courthouse to his apartment, but either he wasn’t there or he saw that it was me and wouldn’t answer the door. I went back to my office and hired a process server to keep after him, but they couldn’t find him either.” She paused, chest heaving. “Then Donny called me in the middle of the night to say that Robin was dead and it didn’t matter anymore.” She took a tissue from her purse and wiped her eyes. “The police said it was an accident, so I didn’t mention anything about Ted because I didn’t want to upset the kids any more than they already were. But then last Friday night, you told us Robin had been murdered, and,” she said, hands fluttering, “well, here I am, and I don’t know whether to wish that I’m right or wrong.”

Rossi studied the documents, pausing when he came to Ted Norris’s address.

“This says he lives on Roanridge Road. Where’s that?”

“North of the river, just off Barry Road,” she said.

Alex drove toward the Blue Ridge Mobile Home Park, thinking about how to approach Bethany Sutherland. Their encounter last Friday hadn’t gone well. Bethany had denied knowledge of the murder and had said nothing about her relationship to Joanie Sutherland. And she had sidestepped Alex’s questions about the girl.

Alex had given Bethany the benefit of the doubt. Even if the little girl knew something, that didn’t mean Bethany did, and since the victim’s next of kin hadn’t been notified, Bethany might not have known her sister was dead. She hoped that Bethany knew by now, not wanting to be the one to tell her.

Nor did Alex blame Bethany for not answering her questions about the girl, whom Alex assumed was her daughter. What mother wouldn’t shield her child from being drawn into a murder investigation?

Knowing that Alex was defending the man accused of murdering her sister, not some stranger, would make Bethany less cooperative, particularly regarding the little girl. Still, she had to try.

Bethany’s trailer was parked in the shade of two towering oak trees in the middle of a long row of mobile homes. It was an old Jayco White Hawk, cream-colored paint faded by years in the sun, pockets of rust visible on the undercarriage. The trailer sat on a concrete slab made out of sections pieced together like a jigsaw puzzle. There was a four-by-eight-foot flat-roofed metal storage shed next to the back end of the trailer, a pair of outdoor folding chairs in front of it, a couple of coolers, a bicycle, and a spare tire wedged between the shed and the chairs. The trailer might have been mobile, but its occupants had put down roots. This was home.

Alex parked on the street in front of the trailer. There was no sign of the Impala. She got out, scanning the area for Bethany and the girl, finding neither. Nor did she see any neighbors, though she imagined at least a few were watching her from inside their trailers. Act like you belong , she reminded herself, walking briskly to the trailer and rapping on its tinny door, not surprised when no one answered, then turning toward the street when she heard the Impala approach.

Bethany jerked the car to a stop, nose to nose with Alex’s, and got out with a bag of groceries in one hand, eyes narrowed, mouth set, her face creased with caution. The girl climbed out of the passenger side, following Bethany while keeping her distance, clutching a plastic spatula.

“How’d you find me?”

“I didn’t. My investigator did. She’s good at that. I’m sorry about Joanie.”

“You say that, but you’re the lawyer for the one that killed her.”

“He’s accused of killing your sister. That doesn’t mean he’s guilty and it doesn’t mean I’m not sorry for your loss.”

“Well, I got nothing to say to you.”

“I just want to talk with you for a few minutes.”

Alex kept her tone neutral but didn’t move from her position in front of the trailer door. She kept her arms at her sides and her stance casual, not wanting to appear threatening, while letting Bethany know that she wasn’t going anywhere. Bethany called her bluff, coming toward her, chin and chest thrust out, tugging the girl along with her, stopping when they were two feet apart.

“Well, I ain’t interested.”

Alex couldn’t let Bethany intimidate her. Neither could she ignore how the veins in Bethany’s neck were throbbing against her skin, her flight-or-fight instinct about to settle on kicking some ass. Alex diffused the tension by taking half a step to one side and squatting down until she was eye level with the girl, giving her a big smile.