Milt Waking ruled. Yesterday’s scoop about Chelsea Adams had practically turned the media upside down.Other stations had heard his noon story and scrambled to come up with their own. Then newspapers picked it up. Some of the print reporters may have recognized Chelsea Adams themselves, but Milt was willing to bet most of them owed their stories to him.
And hadn’t a crowd turned out to watch the proceedings this fine day.
Milt greeted his colleagues with the charming smile and slightly raised eyebrow that he’d made famous in his five years at Channel Seven News. As a mass communications major at the University of California, Berkeley, he’d literally practiced that smile in the mirror, lacing it with just enough warmth. Somehow during those practice sessions the slightly raised eyebrow had become part of his expression. Milt thought it lent him a sense of sincerity.
He smoothed his hair, patted down his tie. He hung back as a couple of newspaper reporters and the gal from Channel Five claimed their seats among those reserved for the media. Milt’s seat would be carefully chosen.He wanted at least an over-the-shoulder view of certain people, namely Brett Welk and Shawna’s flamboyant sister, motorcycle mama Lynn Trudy. Trouble was, they wouldn’t be sitting together.Milt hoped they didn’t place themselves as far apart as their loyalties would have it.
A moment later Brett Welk entered the courtroom. He was dressed in khaki pants and a red Tommy Hilfiger shirt, coming down the aisle as if attending a funeral.Milt sidled next to a row of seats to let him pass.He caught the young man’s eye and nodded. Brett gave him the once-over, then nodded back. Something about the young man’s brown eyes captivated Milt. They were deep-set and watchful, dark brows practically jamming together. Brett’s shoulders slumped but his chin led him down the aisle. Deeply tanned muscles bulged beneath his shirtsleeves, his arms held away from his sides. Milt watched as Brett slowed at the second row, then slid toward the middle, his large hands clasping empty chairs in front of him. He lowered himself into a center seat, resting his hands on his thighs. His jaw flexed as he stared straight ahead.
One down, one to go.Milt eased toward the back wall to wait for Lynn Trudy. He didn’t have to wait long. A small flurry of activity out in the hall aroused his attention, and he leaned around to peek out the door. The sister of the deceased was holding court, four or five reporters pressing around her, scribbling down her vehemence against the defendant.
“Darren Welk had better be convicted for what he did to my sister,” she declared, “or everybody in this state’s going to have to deal with me.”
Milt suppressed a satisfied smile. This gal was obviously enjoying the limelight. He caught a peek at flashing green eyes under heavy mascara.When he’d first seen her yesterday, he knew he had to get this lady on camera. Everything about her bristled, right down to her short, blue black spiked hair. Her lips flamed red, as did the long fingernails that stabbed the air as she vented. Over her rolling hills of flesh she wore a tightly fitted blue shell top with equally tight white pants.
Milt wondered if her long fingernails got in the way when she was riding her Harley.
Yesterday he’d cornered her for her “essentials,” as he liked to call them. She lived in Flint,Michigan, and worked as a salesperson in a store that catered to motorcycle riders, offering leather gear and all the accoutrements a biker’s little heart might desire.
“Ms. Trudy,” a reporter jumped in. “What do you think about Chelsea Adams being an alternate on the jury? Are you concerned that her so-called visions from God may interfere with the proceedings?”
“Well, she won’t be deliberating as an alternate, right?” She looked to the reporter for confirmation. “But even if she was,” she added with defiance,“as far as I’m concerned, she can have all the visions she wants.God knows who killed my sister!”
What a quote. Milt whipped out his notebook and wrote it down.Later, babe, he thought, and I’ll catch you on camera. He’d get some exclusive stuff from her then. He didn’t doubt for a moment that she’d hesitate to run her mouth some more.Having your name in the paper was one thing; being on TV was something else.
The laconic Brett Welk was another story.Milt wondered what he thought about the morning papers. He strode down the aisle and crossed over to stand directly in front of Brett. “Lynn Trudy’s out there talking to everyone about the visions gal on the jury,” he declared. “How do you feel about this woman?”
Brett frowned at him. Yes! thought Milt. He’d caught the guy by surprise. “You haven’t seen the papers?”Milt asked.
No response. But Brett’s eyes questioned.
Swiftly Milt told him about Chelsea Adams. “I was the first to cover the story last year,” he added. “I know all about her.”
“She for real?” Brett blurted.
“Apparently so.”
Brett’s gaze drifted to the empty jury box.Milt moved in for the kill.
“Are you worried she’ll see the truth about your stepmother’s murder?”
Brett’s eyes flew back to Milt, trailing fear. Then his expression fell into a poker-faced mask. “Get out of here,” he snarled.
Milt shrugged as he turned on his heel.At least he’d gotten something. The words for his next segment began running through his head. Brett Welk, son of the defendant, seemed shocked to learn…
Lynn Trudy and her entourage bowled into the courtroom.Milt stepped aside and waited. Lynn propelled herself into the third row, awkwardly scooting past the knees of two elderly spectators and a young blond woman before plopping into a seat. Eschewing the reporters’ seats, Milt claimed a chair in the fourth row, where he could keep an eye on both Brett and Lynn. He pulled out his pad and pen as Darren Welk was escorted to his seat beside Terrance Clyde. The jury filed in.
Milt watched Lynn examine each of the jurors as if they were specimens under glass.
His eyes fell on Chelsea Adams.Well now, Ms. Adams, what kind of day shall we have today? He wondered if she knew about the news reports. Far more important, would she have a vision about this trial? The Trent Park case had proved that this woman possessed remarkable skills, however incomprehensible they were.
One thing was puzzling. Judge Chanson could have kicked Chelsea Adams out of the courtroom during voir dire. Yet for some reason she hadn’t.Milt shook his head. If he were a God-fearing man, he’d say it was a miracle Chelsea Adams was sitting in the jury box.
“All rise,” the bailiff intoned. Judge Carol Chanson bustled in, her reading glasses resting on her ample chest.
“Good morning,” she addressed the jury, a swift smile curving her pale lips. They murmured back a greeting. “Good morning, counsel.” She nodded at Stan Breckshire and the defense team. Ter-rance Clyde’s grayed head bowed gracefully while Stan’s dipped and jerked like a hyperactive schoolboy’s. “Good morning,” Erica Salvador murmured.
Judge Chanson busied herself with her computer, positioning the mouse just so. “Okay.” She turned to the prosecution table. “Ready with your first witness for the day?”
“Yes, Your Honor.” Stan Breckshire sprang to his feet. “The people call Tracey Wilagher.”
Milt watched the young woman approach the witness stand with the discomfited awareness that all eyes were upon her. Tracey was short, as apparently her mother had been, and very slender.Her hair was a light brown, layered and with fashionable bangs cut at various lengths. Not too bad-looking. She wore a sleeveless green dress that exposed bony shoulders and a graceful neck.Milt pondered the outfit.Was she trying to make herself appear wispy, vulnerable?
Stan Breckshire massaged his right arm. Pacing before the witness box, he asked questions about the background she and her mother shared. Her mother, formerly Shawna Wilagher, had married Darren Welk four years ago, when Tracey was sixteen. Shawna had been thirty-seven. Tracey had rarely seen her biological father, although they kept in contact. The father she’d known as a child had been the man whom Shawna had married when Tracey was seven. He and Shawna divorced six years later.
“How did you feel about your mother’s marriage to Darren Welk?” Breckshire asked.
Tracey raised a knobby shoulder. “It was something she wanted to do. She really loved him.” Her expression sickened, as if she couldn’t believe such a thing could ever have been true. She lowered her gaze to her fingers, laced and fidgeting.
“Did you get along with Mr.Welk?”
Tracey’s eyes wandered toward the defendant, then swung away. “Sometimes.”
“What do you mean by ‘sometimes’?”
“I basically stayed out of his way.He had his work; I had school. And then I started working after school. So we didn’t see each other too much. Plus it was a big house, you know?”
Breckshire nodded. “Where did you work?”
“When Mom opened her adoption agency, she paid me to help answer the phones and do books.”
“I see.Were you the only person who worked with your mom in the adoption agency?”
“No. Janet Cline was there. She was Mom’s partner. I just helped out where I could.”
“Did you like working there?”
“Yes.” Tracey managed a smile. “For the same reasons my mom did.We loved seeing couples matched with babies. It made people so happy.”
Tracey’s words curled at the edges. She blinked rapidly.
Breckshire paused. His next statement was in the sotto voce of lawyerly empathy.“Tracey, I need to talk to you about the night your mother was killed.”
“Objection,” Terrance Clyde’s voice boomed. “There is no basis in fact for that statement.”
Breckshire swiveled a hawkeyed stare at the defense attorney, then shook his head.
“Sustained.” Judge Chanson’s face was impassive.“Continue, Mr. Breckshire.”
The prosecutor pursed his lips with a look of rabid apology. “Tracey. I need to talk to you about the night your mother … disappeared.” He emphasized the word as if it were utter nonsense.“Are you ready to do that?”
Tracey seemed to shrivel in her dress. “Yes.”
“Okay. How did you first hear that something was amiss?”
“I got a phone call,” she said quietly. “About one forty-five in the morning.”
Milt Waking’s pen scrawled as Tracey Wilagher told her story. …
TRACEY WAS SOUND ASLEEP in her large bedroom. She’d come down with the flu three days before and had finally given up and crawled into bed after twenty-four hours of suffering through fever. She’d hardly been out of her room since then except to eat and go to the bathroom.
The ringing phone jangled through her head like a distant warning bell. Slowly she opened her eyes. Her room glowed with the bluish tint from the “flying windows” on her computer’s screen saver. The jeans and sweater she’d worn two days ago draped over the padded chair in front of her desk. She fumbled an arm to answer the phone.
“Tracey, you’ve got to help me.” Her mother’s voice sounded tense.
“Darren’s drunk and I’m afraid. I need you to come get me.”
“What?” The words swirled in Tracey’s head.
“We’re at Breaker Beach. Darren’s drunk and roaring mad. The Browards are gone and I’m scared. I’m afraid he’s going to hurt me.”
“Hurt you?” Fear chased away the thickness in Tracey’s brain.
“Where is he right now?”
“He’s stumbling around the fire, cursing and breathing his own smoke. I’m up here by the car.”
“Well, get out of there. Take the car and come home. We’ll worry about him later.”
“Ican’t. Darren has the keys. Itell you, he’s roaring mad. Idon’t dare ask him for them.”
Tracey struggled to compute. “But it’ll take me twenty-five minutes to get there.”
“Iknow.” She breathed hard into the phone. “Darren’s drunk enough; Ihope he’ll pass out soon. If he does, maybe Ican get his keys.
You come on and get me. Keep your cell phone on. If Ican get the keys, I’ll call you and let you know.”
Tracey ran awarm hand over her face and swallowed. Her throat still hurt. “Okay. I’ll move as fast as Ican. But I’m still kind of shaky.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, Iforgot. You’re sick!”
“That’s okay. I’ll come. Just be careful. Call me soon, okay? Once I’m on the way, call me and let me know you’re all right.”
“Iwill. I’ll just stay up here by the car until you come. Hurry.”
Tracey tried to hurry, but her legs and arms shook from fear as well as flu while she dressed. She’d seen her stepfather drunk before and it was not a pretty sight. He turned mean, illogical. Even Brett steered clear of Darren Welk when he drank. As far as Tracey knew, Darren had never yet physically hurt her mother. But there was always a first time.
Dizziness washed over Tracey more than once as she fumbled for her keys and purse. On the stairs she sat down hard, closing her eyes until the woozy feeling passed. Her car was parked out front. She slipped through the front door without seeing Brett. She assumed he was in bed and his car in the garage, but she gave him barely athought.She was too concerned for her mother.
Tracey knew the location of Breaker Beach. She hoped she could roll in quietly, pick up her mom, and back out in ahurry, never laying eyes on her stepfather.
Turning right out of the long driveway, Tracey headed up Cooper Road and onto Nashua, crossing over Highway 1where it temporarily turned inland. Nashua turned into Molera Road, which cut a corner and crossed Highway 1 again, nearer to the ocean. Tracey turned north on the highway.
Fifteen minutes passed. Tracey’s body felt heavy and dull.Uneasiness settled at the back of her neck. Her mom hadn’t called yet. She checked her cell phone, reassuring herself that she had asignal.Another five minutes passed. Still no call. Tracey bit her lip, fighting the urge to call her mom’s cell phone. Probably wasn’t agood idea. What if her stepfather heard the ringing? What would he think? Tracey drove on, slumped close to the wheel, her labored breathing loud in her ears. The turnoff was about five miles up. She passed no one on the road. By this time it was 2:30 a.m. She turned left onto the winding road that would take her to Breaker Beach and eased her way around its dark curves. Her eyes cruised the night, expecting that her mother had walked out aways to meet her. But she saw no one. When Darren Welk’s car came into view ahead, she immediately stopped, cutting her own car’s lights and engine.
Her heart drummed hard, beating pain through her head as she clicked open her door and slipped into the night air. The sliver of a moon did little to light her way as she took a few hesitant steps, gazing toward the beach. Down toward the water afire flickered, casting light on a form sprawled in the sand. Tracey stared at the still form, heart clutching. It had to be Darren, passed out. Tracey cast her eyes right and left. “Mom?” she whispered into the darkness. “Where are you?”
No response.
Her knees trembled. She swallowed hard, wincing at the pain in her throat. Where could her mother be? The last thing she wanted was to waken Darren Welk.“Mom,” she whispered louder, muscles tense. Still no answer.
Tracey’s next memories jumbled into a near-mindless sequence. She found herself stumbling around the top of the beach, calling her mother’s name louder and louder, the rising flood of fear within her sweeping away all caution.Her chest grew heavy, her knees jellied. Then she was raking open the doors of Darren Welk’s car, searching the front seat, the back. On the floor of the front seat she saw her mother’s small evening purse. Ahorrifying, black thought mushroomed in her brain, and she fumbled for the latch to pop open the trunk. Tears scalding her eyes, she stumbled to the back of the car, swaying with relief when she saw the trunk was empty.
Finally she could stand it no more. She made her way back to her car and drove forward as far as she could, stopping at an angle so her headlights washed the length of the beach. The figure of Darren Welk lit up but still did not move. Tracey lurched out of her car, searching the beach up and down, forcing her fogged brain to process. “Mom!”she called. “Mom, please, where are you?”
The sizzle-hiss of waves upon land was the only sound.
Something on the sand caught her eye. Something glistening darkly, not far from the fire’s embers. A block of ice fell into Tracey’s stomach as she stared. She forced her leaden legs forward. As she neared the glistening dot, she saw others like it. She stopped above them, unwilling to bend down and add undeniable senses to the terrifying shadows ghosting her mind. Slowly she reached out a trembling finger and touched the disfigured surface of the sand. Granules stuck to her skin. She raised her finger, turned it toward the car’s headlights. The granules were dark red.
With a cry she flecked them off her finger and shuffled backward, eyes widening as she noticed more and more drops of what looked like blood. She tried to convince herself they belonged to Darren Welk but knew it wasn’t true. The man breathed heavily in his drunken stupor, one beefy hand on his chest, the other flung out wide. She saw no injuries on him. Tracey scanned to his right and saw her mother’s jacket draped over anearby log, and her pair of low-heeled shoes. Acell phone lay in the sand. She dragged herself over and picked up the jacket, inspecting every side, air jagging in and out of her mouth. No blood.
Tracey let it drop.Her eyes grazed the sand near the water, windblown smooth except for three places.
The footprints fairly leaped out at her.
Tracey’s next memory placed her beside a trail of kicked-up sand leading into the ocean. It ended in ahalf print of a bare foot, the heel defined in wet sand, the rest smudged away. Surely it was her mother’s.Another larger trail headed into the ocean as well, leaving a partial shoe print in the wet sand. Asecond partial shoe print pointed back out of the water.With her eyes Tracey followed that print to a trail of churned sand leading away from the ocean. It became impossible to follow once it hit sand that had been walked upon many times. Still, its beginning led toward the fire, where Darren Welk slept. The truth hit her like a brick.
Three trails in and out of the ocean, not four. No bare footprint left the water.
“Mom!” Tracey screamed at the dark tide under the black sky.Surely her mom hadn’t gone swimming. Alarge sign near the dirt lane forbade it; the currents were far too dangerous. Even the area of water on the right that was partly sheltered by the curving line of boulders was not protected enough to be safe. And just before Tracey had gotten sick, hadn’t she heard that someone had been attacked by a shark not far from there? If her mom had been bleeding…
Tracey emitted a sob. In desperation she shuffled toward Darren Welk. Only when she reached his side did she notice that his shoes and the pant legs around his ankles were wet. Fresh fear for her mother made her forget herself. She kicked him with all her might.
“Wake up! Wake up!” She kicked him again. “What have you done to my mother? Where is she?”
Her stepfather coughed and hacked and snorted, then drew himself into a sitting position, incensed. “What’re you kickin’ me for, you brat? Get outta here.”
Tracey screamed accusations, pointing to the blood, sweeping her hands around the empty beach. Darren Welk lurched to his feet and lumbered around, calling, “Shawna! Hey, Shawna!” There was no reply.
“Idon’t know where she is,” he insisted over and over. “When I passed out she was… she was here.” He turned in a full circle, arms lifting.
“Where did the blood come from?” Tracey rasped. Her legs quaked and her chest was molten lead.
Sudden awareness shuttered his face. “She fell.”
“She fell? In the sand?”
Fury and fright sucked up Tracey’s veins, trailed by denial. Surely her mother was all right.Maybe she called afriend, someone who could come get her more quickly. Maybe she’d called the Browards. Maybe the bare footprint leading into the water belonged to someone else.
Tracey had to get home; that’s what she had to do. She had to get away from this beach, this man, this place of darkness and blood and—
She could not allow herself to finish the thought. The next thing Tracey knew, she was back in her car, ignoring the bellows of Darren Welk. She’d brought her mother’s jacket, shoes, and cell phone with her, flinging them onto the front seat. She turned her car around, then surged forward, tires spinning. At some point along the way home she thought to snatch up her cell phone, flicking on the overhead light to see if the message icon was visible. It wasn’t. By the time Tracey jerked up to the front of the Welks’ home, she’d convinced herself that she’d find her mother inside. The surety of her coming relief swelled her lungs with anger. How could her mom have done that to her? How could the woman have frightened her so?
Tracey stumbled up the stairs toward the master bedroom, words of relieved accusation coiled and ready to spring from her tongue. But the room was empty. Tracey banged through the door of the guest room, her own bedroom, then to every bathroom, all to no avail. Finally she fell against the wall and wept until she sank to the floor. Brett emerged from his room, clad only in pajama bottoms, demanding to know what was happening. The story hiccupped from Tracey’s mouth. Brett’s eyes grew wide, his face pasty.
And then Darren Welk appeared, heavy-lidded and swaying, miraculously having managed to drive himself home. Tracey accosted him once more while Darren denied any knowledge of her mother’s fate. Brett scurried downstairs and returned about ten minutes later, visibly shaken. He towered over Tracey, shoving a finger in her face.
“Shut up!” he demanded. “Shut up and I’ll help you. But we have to think.”
He forcibly pushed his father into the master bedroom. “You’re going to bed,” Tracey heard him say. “I’ll handle this.”
Tracey slumped against the wall of the hallway, unable to move, her mind a whirlwind of terrorizing visions. As she waited for Brett to return, her body grew numb. Amazingly, then she grew sleepy. All the emotions, all the expending of energy, had gotten the best of her. A milky stupor puddled in her brain, oozing thickly through her arteries.She wiped her forehead, and her hand came away wet with sweat.
Brett emerged from the master bedroom, breathing hard.
“Is he—”
“I’ve put him in bed. I’m not sure he’ll stay.” He surveyed her. “You need to go to bed, too. You look awful.”
“Ican’t.” She fought to rouse herself. “Ihave to find Mom.He’s done something to her—”
“He hasn’t done anything. I’ll figure this out. You sleep awhile.”
“We should call the police.”
Brett winced. “They couldn’t do anything yet anyway. She’s barely been gone any time at all. Go to bed. I’ll drive back to the beach.Maybe she’s shown up by now.”
Tracey had no reason to trust his words. There was no love lost between them. Brett had openly resented her and her mom since the day they’d moved in. But at that moment a look of compassion flitted across his face. The look in itself was frightening, for Tracey could only imagine the reasons behind it. But she simply could do no more. She wasn’t even sure she could drag herself to bed. She held out a reluctant, heavy arm. Brett pulled her up. She closed the door of her room and fell onto her bed.
When she awoke, the clock read 9:30 a.m. The doors to Brett’s room and the master bedroom were closed. She eased open the door to the master bedroom and saw Darren Welk sprawled and snoring. Her mother wasn’t with him. Doggedly, unwilling to face the truth, Tracey looked for her mother in the wing of the house where the adoption agency offices were located, then drove back to Breaker Beach. By the time she arrived home, Brett was up. It was around noon. He said he’d driven to the beach after she went to bed but had found nothing. Nor had there been any phone calls from her mother. That’s when she called the police. They referred her to the Monterey County sheriff ’s department, which had jurisdiction over Breaker Beach.…
MILT WAKING WROTE FURIOUSLY. Breckshire had done a masterful job in extracting Tracey’s story, despite the defense’s attempts to squelch it.Milt could visualize everything she had said.
Stan Breckshire looked as if he’d been through the wringer. His tie hung askew, his hair sticking out from constantly raking his hands through it. He leaned against the prosecution table, fingers nervously drumming the wood.
“Miss Wilagher.” He pushed off from the table, and his thumb began rubbing his fingertips with anticipation. “I’m sorry for the question, but I have to ask it. Is there any chance your mother may have just chosen to disappear? And leave you?”
Tracey shook her head, tears welling in her eyes.“No. Never. We were very close. She’d never leave me. And besides that, she had the adoption agency. She would not choose to walk away from that.” Tracey’s forehead crinkled and her mouth turned to mush. She inhaled a ragged breath. “I miss her very much.” The last word turned high-pitched. Tracey covered her face.Milt barely heard the muffled, “I’m sorry.”
“That’s quite all right; take your time.”Breckshire jerked a tissue from a box on the witness stand and waved it before her.“Here.”
“Thank you.”
He waited until she had gathered herself.“Miss Wilagher, before I let you go, I need to ask you one more thing. I know it’s a sensitive subject but it can’t be helped. Did your mom leave a will?”
Tracey held the tissue to her nose. “Yes.”
“Did she leave anything of value to you?”
“Yes.”
“Please tell us what that was.”
With trembling chin, Tracey related the gut-wrenching day on which she’d met with Randy Atworth, her mother’s attorney, to hear the reading of Shawna Welk’s will. Even though Shawna’s body had not been found, once Darren Welk had been arrested for her murder and the forensic evidence pointed to her death, Mr.Atworth had deemed it appropriate that the will be read. Tracey had been amazed to learn that her mother carried a two-million-dollar life insurance policy, payable in full to her. At the time that the policy had been instated—four years ago—the will ordered that if the money were paid out while Tracey was still a minor, it would be held in trust until she was eighteen. Tracey had turned twenty a month ago.
“Have you now received that money?”
Tracey shrugged.“No.”
“Why is that?”
She looked at her lap. “The insurance company can’t issue the money without a death warrant.And without a … a body, evidently a death warrant can’t be issued for many years.”
“Unless one thing happens, is that correct?”
She nodded, her jaw working. “A death warrant can be issued by the judge as soon as the murderer is convicted. I guess”—her voice grew bitter—“my mom’s not dead until a court says she’s dead.” She swallowed hard. “Tell that to my heart.”
Breckshire managed to still his entire body while he and the courtroom watched Tracey cry. “Do you care about the money?” he asked quietly.
Another shrug. “I care about it so I can get out of Salinas and try to start a new life.”
“Where are you living right now?”
“In a little apartment. I moved out of Darren Welk’s house long ago. I … I couldn’t stand to stay there.”
Breckshire nodded. “Where do you get the income to pay for your apartment?”
Tracey sniffed. “When Mom’s adoption agency closed, I lost my job. Now I’m working full-time at Halding’s Dress Shop, but it’s barely enough to live on my own. I did get some money through the sale of the agency’s equipment and furniture, and that’s helped. But I don’t have enough money to leave Salinas. Besides, I felt like I should stay until I saw justice done for my mother.”
“Two million dollars is a lot of money.Where will you go?”
“Far away from Salinas, I can tell you that.” Tracey looked at Breckshire almost defiantly. “I just want to go someplace where I can try to forget. Someplace so different that there’s nothing there to remind me of these past few months.” Fresh tears pooled in her eyes.
The prosecutor rubbed the back of his head. “Thank you, Miss Wilagher. I’m sorry I had to ask all these questions.” He threw an accusing look toward the defense table, as if it were their fault. Then turned to Judge Chanson. “Your Honor, I’m through.”
“All right then.” Judge Chanson checked the clock. “Let’s take a fifteen-minute break before we begin cross-examination.”
Milt slid his pen into his pocket. Two million dollars for a mother.Wow. Quite a recompense.He stood thinking, plans for his television report churning merrily through his head.He’d use Dot-tie’s rendering of Tracey on the stand. Dottie was the better of the two courtroom artists present.He figured she’d caught the girl crying. Milt absentmindedly patted his hair. He could already hear his voice-over. “The grief-stricken daughter of Shawna Welk broke down on the stand today as… ”
Ah yes. This was going to be a good day.And cross-examination hadn’t even begun.