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There couldn’t be any worse news on Sean’s case—at least none Maren could think of. And it was all her fault.
When Lana explained that if Sean obtained the necklace in the course of Tamara’s murder, it could add robbery during a homicide to the charges and make Sean eligible for the death penalty, Maren protested, loudly.
“It wasn’t robbery. When Sean found Tamara, he wasn’t thinking. I’m sure he just wanted something tangible to remember her by. Maybe he’s the one who gave her the necklace. And it wasn’t removed during the commission of a murder because Sean didn’t kill anyone.”
If Lana was bothered by Maren’s outburst, she didn’t let on. “There was already concern that whoever killed Ms. Barnes robbed her of her laptop and phone, since neither has been recovered from her office or home. But since no witnesses have come forward to indicate Ms. Barnes had them with her at the time of her death, until now a murder-for-profit special circumstance under California law would have been hard to prove. The discovery of Ms. Barnes’s necklace, clearly traceable back to Sean from his visit to your home the night she died, changes that. It will be up to the DA to decide how to treat the new evidence.”
Maren knew the attorney was leaving unspoken the DA’s tough-on-crime platform for his reelection campaign and how that might play into the charges he would bring against a defendant in the murder of a young and beautiful public servant.
She closed her eyes, her jaw clenched. She felt a desperation that was foreign to her, the need to do something, anything to stop the train wreck that seemed to be Sean’s case. She had only one card left—she didn’t know if it was important, and she certainly wasn’t looking forward to sharing it since all her ideas seemed to be shot down with the phrase “given that we have the prime suspect in custody . . .”
But she couldn’t give up just because people refused to listen.
Maybe the information would lead to a motive and then to the real murderer. So Maren dropped what she expected to be a bombshell: that it was likely Tamara Barnes had a daughter who’d been left behind.
“There must be hundreds of red-haired, freckled little girls,” Lana said upon hearing Maren’s latest theory. “There’s no reason to believe this one is Tamara Barnes’s child.”
Maren was thankful Lana didn’t have Noel’s scientific training or she might have had to hear statistics on the worldwide incidence of redheads and something about mutated genes all over again. She spoke evenly, trying not to let her frustration show. “It’s not only that she looks like Tamara. But she does. Exactly like her.”
“I understand there’s a resemblance,” Lana said.
“This child was adopted at birth.”
Maren had learned that much from Noel without having to disclose her suspicions about Tamara being Bethany’s birth mother.
“On the back of Tamara’s locket are inscribed the initials BC. This child’s name is Bethany Castro. I bet a test will show the lock of hair inside the locket belongs to Bethany, not to Tamara.” Maren paused. “When I met Bethany last night, she was wearing a zip-front sweater with a hand-embroidered kitten in a basket on the pocket. It’s the same one in a photo album with pictures of Bethany Castro since birth. It was in Sean’s possession and—”
“What? When did Sean give it to you?”
Maren felt cold. She took a deep breath. “It was with the necklace. He left it in my house.”
“You withheld evidence?” Lana’s voice was steely, no trace of southern belle anymore.
“No. I mean, yes, I kept it. I didn’t see any way it could be relevant to the crime. I thought the photos were of Tamara as a child, and I assumed Sean had it from when they were dating, that it had nothing to do with her death. I thought—”
“Yes, well whatever you thought, your actions were wrong. Thankfully, it’s only been a few days since you found the album, during which time you were attacked and your brother was seriously injured—there are reasons you would not have been thinking clearly. As long as we turn it over now, I don’t believe DA Sharpton will prosecute you for obstruction of justice.”
Not thinking clearly? Maren bristled. That wasn’t what had happened.
She started to object, but Lana wasn’t finished.
“In the future, you are not to assume or interpret anything that remotely relates to suspects or victims in this case. You are to share that information with me and only me, and you are to do so immediately, is that understood?”
Maren agreed. But she also asked that she be able to explain personally to Sean why the police had the necklace and the photo album, and in turn, that he be given a chance to answer the questions that this new evidence raised.
She was grateful when Lana Decateau said that would not be a problem.
They met that afternoon in the parking lot next to the jail. Lana wore a dark-gray fitted pantsuit with a turquoise silk shirt. The simplicity of her outfit did nothing to mute her glamour. Remembering her last visit to the facility, Maren wondered if Lana had selected her clothing to match the gray-on-gray color scheme inside. But they were shown to a different interview room this time, one with hideous, salmon-gone-bad-colored walls—gray would have been a relief.
Sean appeared thinner, more angular and muscular than when Maren last saw him. He had deep circles under his eyes made more pronounced by the shadow of his bangs, which lacking the styling gel he had at home fell heavily across his forehead. Maren reflected that ironically his new look—harder, disheveled, and wanton—might make him more attractive to many women than the clean-cut Sean of old.
Lana had been able to get Sean a mental health evaluation. The technician’s notes, shared with Lana as required by law, stated that although Sean showed signs of depression, it was more likely he had an antisocial personality disorder. Maren was certain that opinion was biased by the fact that Sean had been charged with a brutal homicide and imprisoned as a result.
“Sean, we’re here because Maren found the things you left in her home, the necklace and the photo book.” Lana’s normally soft southern tones were clear and assertive.
Sean registered no surprise. His eyes were on Lana, but they seemed vacant, disinterested. His cuffed wrists lay heavily in his lap.
“The prosecution has the option to seek the death penalty, as your possession of the necklace adds robbery to the charges and murder for profit as a special circumstance. I need you to help me understand what happened.”
Still Sean didn’t react. He looked past the two women and stared at the wall.
Maren opened the topic gently. “I know Tamara has a daughter.”
Sean leapt up so suddenly from his chair that it fell backward and hit the floor with a thud. He spun in a circle, then crashed both cuffed fists down on the metal table. “You’re crazy!” he bellowed.
A guard was in the room within seconds, followed by another. It was difficult for the two to restrain Sean as he thrashed in all directions, but they finally managed by getting on either side, each grabbing one arm tightly so he was pinned between them. A third guard ushered Maren and Lana out.