Holt walked across the parking lot to his office located in the courthouse annex. Sitting at his desk, he buried his face in his hands. He’d come way too close to losing the Callaway case. The cause of justice could be an elusive mistress, and if Malcolm hadn’t lost his nerve, she would have slipped out of the courtroom. Holt could only hope that Malcolm’s time behind bars would give Amanda Callaway a chance to create a new life.
Holt knew about second chances. He’d been living one ever since Calico’s death. He opened the middle drawer of his desk and took out a picture of himself and Calico taken several months before the fatal wreck. In the photo the friends were standing beneath the basketball goal at the high school. Calico was a scrappy guard, Holt a power forward.
“You would have been better at this than I am,” Holt said. “But hang with me. I’m going to make a difference.”
Holt returned the photo to its place and sent a short e-mail to Ralph Granger telling him about the Callaway trial. Ralph would be happy with the result so long as the local paper didn’t run an article that the jury actually found the defendant not guilty. Holt wasn’t worried. There hadn’t been any reporters in the courtroom, and Clare Dixon wouldn’t publicize the fact that her client pleaded guilty minutes before the jury was about to set him free.
Behind Holt’s desk was a long credenza. Ralph’s preferred method of assigning cases was to bring a file into Holt’s office and put it on the credenza without telling Holt about it. The unorthodox way of delegation kept Holt on his toes.
The pile looked suspiciously larger, and Holt picked up a fresh folder. Inside was a police report about a burglary at a residence in a run-down part of town. Poor people usually stole from other poor people, and the house involved was a dilapidated, single-story wooden structure with a small porch in the front and a yard that was more weeds than grass. A second photo showed a door that had been knocked out of the frame, most likely by a hard kick from a boot. The inventory of items taken included a ten-year-old computer, a box of costume jewelry, a skinny gold necklace, and a child’s bicycle. Beneath the police report was the single most important piece of information in an investigative file, and the one Holt wanted to see more than anything else—a confession.
Shortly after Holt had come to work at the district attorney’s office, he’d noticed that an overwhelming number of the individuals charged with crimes confessed, either before the police began formal questioning or soon thereafter. Miranda warnings did little to stem the tide of incriminating statements. People seemed more willing to try to explain why they’d done something wrong, or blame it on someone else, than to refuse to talk about it at all. If criminals simply kept their mouths shut, the conviction rate for the district attorney’s office would drop precipitously. With a confession in hand, Holt’s main job was calculating an appropriate punishment.
Moving the new case to a different stack, Holt noticed a slightly discolored folder that was different in shape from the ones typically used by the office. The Callaway case had sapped his energy and drained his reserve tank, but he decided to see what else Ralph had dumped on him.
Files in the DA’s office were labeled “State of Georgia v. [the defendant’s name].” On this folder’s tab he saw a single name—“Meredith, R. T.” Inside was a death certificate, a crude diagram of a room with the location of a body outlined on the floor, and a two-page report written by Harold “Butch” Clovis, a local detective, who concluded that Rexford Theodore Meredith died from a self-inflicted gunshot wound to the upper chest.
Rex Meredith, the county’s largest landowner and one of its richest citizens, had killed himself a couple of years before Holt came to town, but everyone who lived in Paxton knew Meredith’s name, and his legacy continued to cause ripples in the community. Every few months or so there would be a brief article in the newspaper about his estate. It might be the renovation of a commercial building he’d owned, a gift from the charitable trust administered by his stepdaughter, or the announcement of an upcoming auction of several hundred acres of farmland.
Holt yawned. He could find out tomorrow why Ralph wanted him to look at the old file. Now all he wanted to do was go home and collapse. He had one last stop to make on the way, though. Holt loosened his tie and turned out the lights as he left the building.
He drove two blocks south of the courthouse and turned onto Broadmore Street. Two houses from the corner was a Victorian residence that had been turned into the All About You Salon and Spa. Angelina Peabody had confounded the small-town doubters who said a place that offered facial massages, high-fashion hair care, and expensive manicures and pedicures could not make it in a town like Paxton. The robin’s-egg-blue building was bursting with light from every window. Two days a week it was open until 8:00 p.m., another innovation that had proved to be an astute business move. Women who couldn’t get away from jobs or families during the day flocked in during the extended hours to be pampered. Holt drove past the crowded parking area in front of the building and parked on the street. He climbed the broad wooden steps to the porch and went inside.
“Hey, Holt,” said Brittany, the receptionist who served as traffic cop, scheduling clients for different services and directing them where to go when they arrived. “Patsy had a cancellation for a manicure and pedicure, so you can go right in. She’ll be thrilled to see you.”
“Right,” Holt replied.
“Don’t turn up your lawyer nose,” Brittany scolded. “We had two men come in earlier today. It’s only a matter of time before all the attorneys in town are letting us take care of them.”
“Who were the men? Were they lawyers?”
“You know I can’t tell. That’s confidential client information.”
“I could cross-examine you and find out in less than five minutes, but I’m way over my quota of questions for the day. Where’s the boss?”
“Taking a break in the kitchen. She just finished a two-and-a-half-hour cut and color for a woman whose hair looked like it had previously been styled in a food processor.”
Located at the rear of the house, the kitchen served as both a break room and an overflow space for supplies. Holt passed an industrial-size clothes washer that was furiously spinning a large load of towels. The door to the kitchen was closed, and he cracked it open. Seated at a round glass table was Angelina. Her eyes were closed as she rubbed her temples.
“I’m here for my haircut and shave,” Holt said.
“No, you’re not,” Angelina replied, not opening her eyes. “You’re here because you knew I’d want to see you before I tackle one last, impossible makeover.”
Holt stepped closer and kissed her lightly on the lips. “Open your eyes, sleeping beauty.”
Angelina opened her brown eyes and shook her long dark hair. Women paid a lot of money for hair that mimicked what Angelina had naturally.
“What a day,” she said, squeezing Holt’s hand.
“Brittany told me about your client with food-processor hair.”
“That’s being generous. But I think she was happy when she left. If only people in this town understood about tipping. How are you?”
“I’ve been in court all day.”
“That’s right.” Angelina sat up straighter. “What happened?”
Holt briefly told her about the case.
“Wow, that was lucky. I bet Clare is steamed about her client pleading guilty. I think she’s on the books for a color treatment toward the end of the week, but of course I won’t say anything about it.”
“Clare Dixon dyes her hair? How old is she? Twenty-seven?”
Angelina smiled. “Don’t worry your curly brown head about it. To survive in this world, women need all the help they can get.”
“Yeah, the place is packed.”
“And I’d better get back to it. My last appointment is getting her hair washed as we speak.”
Angelina stood and gave him another kiss. She was so short that she had to stand on her toes, and he had to lean down to make it work. The kitchen door opened. They quickly parted.
“Oops,” said Brittany. “I should have known you two would be smooching back here.”
“And everywhere else I get the chance,” Angelina said, giving Holt a pat on the cheek.
“Mrs. Boisin is ready for you,” Brittany said. “It’s her first visit, and—”
“I know. I’ll be right there.”
“Will Friday evening still work for you?” Holt asked.
Angelina pointed at Brittany. “Unless she’s booked an appointment for me after four o’clock.”
“No, ma’am,” Brittany said and saluted. “I know your social life comes first.”
Leaving the salon, Holt turned down Magnolia Avenue, a broad, tree-lined street where the finest older homes in the area were located. He slowed to a stop when he reached the Meredith mansion, the crown jewel of the neighborhood. The rambling wooden structure was meticulously maintained, even though no one had lived there since the owner’s death.
An elderly caretaker whose name Holt couldn’t remember lived in a cottage nestled behind the residence and kept everything tidy, as if expecting Rex Meredith to return any moment from an overnight trip out of town. The century-old house had a broad wraparound porch. Latticework on the corners of the porch supported flowering vines. Brick pavers led to the house and around to the backyard, which was enclosed behind a white fence. The shrubs in front of the house were neatly trimmed, the grass lush and green. A massive magnolia tree with shiny green leaves and saucer-sized white blossoms dominated the front yard.
While Holt watched, lights suddenly came on in two rooms on the main floor of the house and one on the upper floor. Startled, Holt tried to see if anyone was moving around inside, then realized the lights were probably on a timer linked to the security system. If a burglar tried to kick down the door at the Meredith mansion, multiple patrol cars from the sheriff’s department would arrive on the scene within seconds.
Holt eased his car forward. His house was about a mile from the Meredith mansion, but it was in another economic hemisphere.