Kara Lennox - Outside the Law

The man lingered nearby. Mitch had made no mention of a stepfather in the picture, but these two appeared to be a couple.

“I’m Myra LeBeau. Can I help you with something?”

LeBeau, not Delacroix. This man probably was her husband, then. Beth and Raleigh introduced themselves and explained that they worked with Mitch at Project Justice.

Myra, no idiot, immediately guessed there was a problem. Her hand fluttered at her breast. “Has something happened to Mitch?”

“I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but he’s in jail.”

Myra actually looked relieved. “In jail. Oh, thank goodness. I thought you were going to tell me he was dead. I mean, jail’s not good, of course… Won’t you come in? It’s warm for this time of year. I’ll get you some iced tea.”

They stepped into the creaky little house, and Myra showed them into her small kitchen and asked them to sit down. “So what trouble has Mitch gotten himself into this time? I thought we were past all that, but some boys never grow up. His daddy sure didn’t.” A surliness entered her voice at the mention of Willard Bell, but by the time she brought glasses of tall, sweetened tea to the table, her smile was firmly in place.

The husband, who hadn’t bothered to introduce himself, had returned to the living room, where he was watching a game show on TV. Apparently a grown stepson in jail wasn’t his concern.

“So what’d he do?” she asked again.

“He didn’t do anything,” Beth said, a note of challenge creeping into her voice, but Raleigh shot her a warning look and she clamped her mouth closed.

“There’s no easy way to say this, Mrs. LeBeau. He’s been arrested for murder. They think he killed Robby Racine.”

Myra, halfway to joining them at the table, fell the rest of the way into her chair, a hand to her mouth stifling a gasp. A genuine reaction, Beth thought, though she was no body language expert.

“I heard about the body they found on my land…it was Robby?”

Raleigh nodded. “He was killed soon after he and Mitch stole a car together. Probably that same night.”

“Why do they think it was Mitch? He and Robby were friends! There’s no way—no way my baby would do something like that. And, anyway, all those years ago, I didn’t own that land. It belonged to my great-aunt, Robby’s grandmother. Robby and Mitch were second cousins.”

“So the land was connected to Robby, not Mitch.” Raleigh pulled her phone out of her pocket and made a few quick notes. “That’s one damning piece of evidence we can easily discount.”

Beth couldn’t stand it anymore. “Mrs. LeBeau, Mitch’s father owned some guns. Do you know what happened to them?”

At the mention of guns, Myra’s demeanor changed dramatically. She sat up straighter and started fidgeting with a paper napkin. “I don’t know. I’m sure I don’t know. I never touched his guns.” She looked over her shoulder at her husband, still watching TV. “Davy! Do you know what happened to Willard’s guns?”

“I have no clue,” he answered in a deadpan. “Never saw ’em.”

“Do you own any firearms yourself, Mrs. LeBeau?” Raleigh asked casually.

“No, ma’am. No guns.”

“If you don’t remember what happened to Willard’s guns, how can you be so sure you don’t still have them around somewhere?” Beth asked.

Myra’s eyes narrowed. “After Willard died, I cleaned this house top to bottom. I’m sure if there’d been any guns, I’d have noticed them. Are you here to help Mitch? ’Cause you don’t sound that helpful.”

“We’re on his side, I promise,” Beth said. “The police are going to want to know about the guns.”

Myra settled back into her chair. “I wish I could help, but I just have no idea.”

“Did Mitch know how to use a gun?”

“His daddy tried to teach him to shoot. You grow up around here, you learn how to hunt and that’s that. Every boy does. That doesn’t mean anything. Mitch never took to it and Willard gave up.”

“Okay.” Raleigh set her iced tea to the side and blotted her mouth with the paper napkin she’d been using as a coaster. “We appreciate your time, Mrs. LeBeau.”

“Thank you for telling me about Mitch,” she said a little stiffly. “Lord knows he wouldn’t go out of his way to tell me anything. Have they set his bail?”

“The hearing is tomorrow morning at nine. It would be good if you could be there. They might deny bail, given the seriousness of the crime. But if we show the judge he has a supportive family, that he’s not a flight risk, it might help.”

Myra cast a worried glance toward her husband. “I’ll try to come.”

They said their goodbyes and returned to Raleigh’s car.

“What did you think?” Beth asked. “I mean, that was weird, huh? Your wife is being questioned by a couple of strangers, one of them a lawyer, and you just sit in the living room watching TV?”

“And did you see the way she got all nervous when I brought up the guns? She knows something.”

“Maybe her husband did it. He was trying to move in on Myra, and he wanted the stepson out of the way, so he framed Mitch for murder.”

Raleigh thought about that, then shook her head. “If someone had been trying to frame Mitch, they wouldn’t have worked so hard to hide the body. Still, we’ll have to find out how long Davy’s been in the picture.”

“She’s not going to be a big help,” Beth said with a sigh.

“No. She’s not happy her son is in jail, but there’s something just a little off about her reaction.”

“She didn’t ask enough questions,” Beth pointed out. “If I had a son, and I found out he was in jail, I’d be bouncing off the walls trying to find out details and figuring out how to get him released. She didn’t even ask how Robby died.”

“She’d already heard about the body,” Raleigh reasoned. “She might have known it was a suspected gunshot. As for her reaction to Mitch’s arrest…it’s possible she doesn’t care.”

“How could she not care about her own son?”

“We know nothing about their relationship,” Raleigh said. “Maybe Mitch can shed some light on things.”

CHAPTER FOUR

THE COOT’S BAYOUcourthouse wasn’t much to look at outside—a cinder-block building covered in coat after coat of beige paint. Apparently it was a popular target for graffiti, because a fresh set of gang tags had eluded the paint roller on this muggy Wednesday morning.

The inside was even less judicial—a room reminiscent of a church basement with metal chairs and folding tables. The magistrate, a jowly man with a bright red comb-over, wore a scuffed black leather jacket instead of robes.

The prosecutor had already said his piece, arguing that bail should be denied.

“Your Honor.” Mitch’s newly hired defense lawyer, a young, earnest man named Buck Michoux, cleared his throat. Raleigh had put him in charge of speaking at the hearing because judges were sometimes more favorably inclined to a hometown boy than they were some strange woman lawyer from the big city. “My client is a law-abiding citizen with a good job and family in the area. We request that he be released on his own recognizance.”

The judge rolled his eyes. “If I had a sense of humor, I’d laugh. Mr. Delacroix was booked for murder, son. Bail is hereby set at two million dollars. An additional condition of bail is that Mr. Delacroix cannot travel outside of Bernadette Parish.” He pounded his gavel.

Mitch breathed a sigh of relief. At least they were willing to let him out. Two million dollars was an appalling bail, but Raleigh had assured him Daniel would cover it no matter how ridiculous. It was hard to feel lucky in his situation, but he sure was lucky to have a boss who had faith in him despite the evidence.