The city boys showed up too. All the major players from the off-Cape presses are here, The Boston Herald’s Lou McCabe front and center. He occupies far more than his share of space on the front bench, his physique not unlike Jabba the Hutt’s, his papers and supplies strewn around him in piles. I’m always a little uneasy when Lou shows up to cover a case I’m handling. He nurtures a flair for the melodramatic.
The first row on the left of the middle aisle is also filled with faces I recognize. Steven Collier is on the closest end. Anastasia Rawlings is next to him, dressed either in Sunday’s costume or a duplicate. The boyfriend Lance is just about sitting in her lap and I wonder if the beast Lucifer is underneath his coat. Taylor Peterson and one of his crewmen have ended up next to Lance somehow, and Glen Powers is on the far end of the bench, keeping his distance from the others.
Woody Timmons comes through the back doors, but he doesn’t take advantage of the press’s reserved seating. He goes off on his own, leaning against a side wall amid the general public. I’ve noticed this about Woody before. He keeps his distance when his out-of-town colleagues pay us a visit. This is his turf. He understands the rules of the local game better than any of them. And he plays his cards close to the vest.
The Kydd is already here. He’s on his feet in front of the prosecutors’ table, trading paperwork with Clarence Wexler, who’s standing behind it. The Kydd isn’t paying much attention to Clarence, though. He’s listening intently to Geraldine, his expression somber. Geraldine looks downright happy, comfortable and relaxed in her tall leather chair.
The Kydd turns toward me as I drop my briefcase on the defense table. He puts a hand up to stop Geraldine’s recitation and signals for me to join them. His worried blue eyes tell me to do it now, not later.
The Kydd’s mouth has been open since I walked in, his lower jaw slack. He loosens his tie, as if he’s desperate for air, as I approach. He looks dazed, peaked. I know that look; I’ve seen it on his face before, more than once. Something is wrong.
Geraldine’s ready smile is my second clue. Things for Louisa Rawlings almost certainly have taken a turn for the worse. She beams up at me as I reach her table, her green eyes aglow. “Oh, good,” she says, looking genuinely pleased. “The gang’s all here.”
“What’s up, Geraldine?” I had been hoping to sound nonchalant. I’m pretty sure it didn’t come off that way, but I pretend it did.
Her smile expands. “More lab results,” she says, pointing to the stack of new documents in the Kydd’s hands. She rolls her high-backed chair out from the table and crosses her lean legs. She continues smiling up at me, her hands steepled beneath her chin. Whatever she’s got is gloat-worthy.
“And?”
“And it seems the little missus has done quite a bit of housework,” she says.
I doubt Louisa Rawlings has done a day of housework in her half century of life, but I don’t say so. Instead, I fold my arms and wait. I know Geraldine. If she’s hell-bent on dragging this out, a five-alarm fire in the next room wouldn’t change her mind.
“The master bath,” she says, shaking her blond head, “it must have been a bloody mess.”
“The master bath?”
The Kydd hands me a new report from the crime lab. The Received stamp from Geraldine’s office says it came in an hour ago. The specimen is identified by number only. The Kydd offers me the inventory sheet, the same one we reviewed yesterday, so I can match the number with the typewritten list. The specimen came from the floor in the master bathroom, Louisa’s Queen’s Spa, a ten-by-ten cutout from the pale oak floorboards near the hot tub. The undersides of the boards contain blood. A lot of blood. Herb’s.
“She did a commendable job cleaning up,” Geraldine says. She stands, leans over the table toward me, and feigns a pout. “But it wasn’t quite good enough.”
I’m pretty sure the Kydd is no longer the only sickly looking person in the courtroom. I glance over at him, then back at Geraldine. Words fail me. And I don’t think I’ve taken a breath for a while, either.
If Herb Rawlings was attacked in the Queen’s Spa—and he was, blood evidence doesn’t lie—then Taylor Peterson’s theory is all wrong. Herb wasn’t at the helm when the Carolina Girl left the dock on Sunday. Someone else was. Someone who knew how to negotiate the cut. But someone who didn’t know a pop-up when he saw one.
“Oh, look,” Geraldine says, her downturned mouth doing a flip. “You can break the news to her now.”
The noise in the gallery escalates dramatically as the side door opens and Louisa Rawlings appears. The matron had the common decency to remove Louisa’s cuffs before she entered the camera-packed courtroom, a courtesy not often afforded to high-profile prisoners. It seems Louisa has added at least one member of the prison staff to the long list of mortals she’s charmed.
She holds her head high as she walks to our table, not looking directly at the cameras, but not shying away from them either. She’s wearing the standard prison-issue orange jumpsuit, a far cry from her usual sartorial elegance. Her auburn hair is pulled back into a loose ponytail and her face looks scrubbed; no makeup. When she reaches our table I realize her eyes are bloodshot; she probably didn’t sleep much last night. And still, Louisa Rawlings is stunning.
“You!”
The Kydd and I twist in our seats. Geraldine and Clarence do too. It’s a voice from the gallery, a deep one, and I recognize it from just that syllable.
“You murdered my father!” Anastasia is on her feet and all cameras in the room turn in her direction now.
“Murdered him!” She thrusts her fists at Louisa amid a hailstorm of flashbulbs.
The crowd’s moderate roar rises a few decibels. Still, Anastasia is louder. “Murdered him!”
Two court officers rush down the center aisle, direct Steven Collier out of his seat, and then yank Anastasia from hers. Each of them takes one of her arms and together they drag her toward the exit. She shouts nonstop but she’s sobbing now too. “Jesus,” the Kydd mutters, “if those are real tears, there’s going to be a hell of a huge black puddle on the floor.”
Steven Collier and Lance Phillips hustle down the center aisle behind Anastasia and her escorts. So does half the press corps. “Murdered him!” Anastasia shrieks again, the loudest one yet, just as the heavy double doors slam shut behind the entourage.
The Kydd and I face front again but Louisa’s gaze remains on the back doors a moment longer. “Some college students major in history,” she says calmly. “Anastasia chose histrionics.”
“We have a problem,” I whisper as she sits.
“Tell me about it,” she replies.
“A big one.”
She laughs a little and leans toward me. “Did you think I hadn’t noticed, darlin’?”
“A new big one,” I add.
She turns to face me. She’s not laughing anymore.
Joey Kelsey has been the bailiff in this courtroom for the better part of a year now. He races through his morning Oyez! Oyez! litany and the crowd quiets. We get to our feet along with everyone else in the room, Louisa’s worried eyes glued to mine. I can’t explain anything to her now, though. Judge Long is already halfway to the bench and I need to address him at once, before he signals for Wanda Morgan to call the case. And before Geraldine Schilling starts talking.
“Your Honor.” I’m on my feet before he has any chance to sit. “We need a sidebar.” I leave our table and head toward the bench before he says a word. I don’t intend to take no for an answer on this one.