Lou Kinkaid looked around the elegant dining room with the pleasure of a purebred cat accustomed to dining on sushi served on silver salvers. There was something catlike, too, in her carefully coiffed ice-white hair and complacent demeanor. Her understated makeup was perfect, her merino wool key-lime cardigan the latest in style. But her eyes didn’t have the cool appraisal of a cat. Instead, her gaze scavenged the room with a hot intensity. She waved a scarlet-nailed hand. “Everyone comes here. That’s the Governor’s wife.”
I looked across the room at an equally beautifully dressed woman with a pleasant face despite the smooth guardedness created by years in politics, like a stone worn glassy by unending pressure in a streambed.
“So you’re Henrie O.” Lou Kinkaid flashed a vivid, meaningless smile with as little warmth as an arctic sunrise. “I knew Richard a million years ago. In Austin. In those days, women always got the soc desk.” Something flickered deep in her bright blue eyes. I wondered if it was a long-buried resentment. Had she been jealous of Richard? The soc desk. I hadn’t heard that phrase in years, but I remembered the old lingo. Yes, it was an exceptional woman reporter in those days who didn’t end up writing society news. That’s where Lou started. She ended as a lifestyle editor, and a very successful one. It had been easy to find an acquaintance who knew her and could arrange for us to meet.
Her avid, probing eyes settled on me. “What brings you to Dallas?”
What, indeed?
“I’ve been asked to do a piece on Belle Ericcson.” I mentioned one of the popular weekly magazines that specialize in celebrity chatter. “And Dallas was her home base. Before the kidnapping.” I listened to my smooth, pleasant words with a sense of shock at my capacity for deception. Inside, I seethed with dislike for this sharp-featured woman and her glacial, automatic charm. But wasn’t I right on her level? She smiled and meant nothing. And so did I.
“Good luck. You’ll need it.” Her quick laughter was brittle and unamused. It was a taunt disguised by humor. It was clear she had no good wishes for me.
“Why?” I took a bite of steak, found it tasteless and knew the fault lay with me. Was my immediate distaste for this woman equally invalid?
“Oh, if you do the glossy, skin-deep stuff, you’ll do all right. There’s plenty of that kind of information around. ‘Intrepid Belle Ericcson, prize-winning writer, accomplished pilot, generous philanthropist.’” The descriptive phrase, intoned in a deep, smooth voice, was an uncanny mimicry of a television announcer’s soulful spiel. “Easier than making pie crust. I can do it in my sleep.”
My quick, visceral response was anger. Who the hell did she think she was? And where did she get off, implying I would write fluff. My face hardened. My hand tightened on my glass of iced tea. Maybe it was luck, maybe it was the deep desperate need to discover what this woman knew, but I took a breath and replayed the words in my mind and caught the subtext.
Maybe, just maybe…
“You think Belle’s public persona is phony?” I cut another piece of meat, tried to make it look as though I were eating. But I didn’t care about food. Everything, all the everyday, ordinary actions were distractions, impediments. Yes, I would eat enough. And sleep. Dress and smile. Create conversation. But the goal—What happened to Richard? Why did Richard die?—thudded feverishly in my mind like incessant jungle drums.
“I did a piece on her for the Sunday section. It was like wrapping up a Christmas present—lots of tinsel, stars, stickers. Gorgeous bow. But when you open the box, there’s nothing there.” Dissatisfaction glittered in her eyes.
I shook my head when the waiter offered more wine. He filled Lou’s glass. She took a greedy gulp as he moved away. It was she who’d chosen the wine, at my invitation, selecting an expensive French Chardonnay. And a very expensive entree, quail in white wine. I’d chosen mesquite-smoked tenderloin. I couldn’t come to Texas and not eat beef.
But expense didn’t matter now. My last-minute plane tickets to Dallas and on to Hawaii were absurdly expensive even with the helpful senior discount. I don’t like to waste money and I wasn’t on anyone’s expense account.
But money be damned.
The world be damned.
I was in Texas because I had to be. I was going to Hawaii. I would do what I had to do, go where I had to go.
Lou finished the glass, looked regretfully for the waiter.
I had myself well under control now. “You think there’s more—or less—than meets the eye of the reader in stories about Belle?”
Lou took a last bite of quail, glanced again at her empty wineglass.
I caught the waiter’s attention. More wine. An order for dessert, though nothing appealed to me.
“It’s like fireworks,” Lou said thoughtfully, holding the wineglass so that a stream of sunshine touched it with gold. “What’s left after the hard, hot, bright glare? Twisted, dark pieces of wire, burned cardboard, a nasty smell. You know what I think?” She leaned her elbows on the table. Her bright, sardonic, weary gaze held mine. “I think there’s a story there, all right. It’s so perfect on the surface: brilliant and beautiful woman reporter with a fascinating family, three children of her own from her marriage to a gifted artist; widowhood; remarriage to a hard-charging newspaperman with his own three kids; melded family, high-society kids who provide appealing feature copy with lots of jokes and entertaining escapades. Sheesh. But I saw them in action here for cinco years and sometimes they didn’t have on their party faces. I’d like to have been at Belle’s Highland Park mansion when it was just family. Her third husband is a hell of a lot younger than she is. And CeeCee, the beautiful director of the Ericcson Foundation—now doesn’t that sound like stellar Junior League? But she broke two engagements! To fine young men. And her latest fiancé, Stan Dugan, he’d probably never been inside a country club until he met CeeCee. A personal-injury lawyer.” Lou’s patrician nose wrinkled. “Ugly as sin. I imagine Belle was appalled. Yes, I think the right questions could flip some images fast. Who took care of Belle’s kids while she was busy being Ms. Glamorous War Correspondent? Why did she marry two drunks in a row?” The shiny white hair quivered as she nodded vigorously. “God’s truth. I had a friend who knew Belle and her first husband, Oliver Burke, in Tokyo. Burke was soused all the time. And the second one, Gallagher, was drunk as a lord when his car went into the Potomac. Find out which general she slept with in Vietnam.” She shot me a sharp, quick look. “She knew Richard there. Didn’t she?”
“Of course.” I made my answer careless, as if it didn’t matter.
Those hot blue eyes flickered with amusement and erotic supposition. “Belle was even more gorgeous then than now.”
If I could have shoved back my chair and escaped, I would have.
Lou Kinkaid knew it.
“Richard thought very highly of Belle.” My smile felt as if it were pasted to my face.
Her lips curved in malicious pleasure. “I’m sure he did. Most men did.”
Damn you. Damn you.
I kept my voice even. “I’ve read a lot about Belle and her family.” Read and made notes and studied and compiled. “It sounds as though they had a lot of fun. Until the kidnapping.”
“Sounds that way.” She drawled it. “But some questions never get answered. Why is her oldest son crossways with the world? And yet he’s the only one who’s stayed in Dallas. All the others blew town as soon as they got CeeCee buried. Coincidence? I don’t think so. Belle handpicked a society girl for Joss, her youngest son, to marry. They didn’t even stay married a year. They split right after CeeCee was kidnapped. Why did the foundation—the Ericcson Foundation, funded with Belle’s millions—completely change direction after CeeCee died? She was the one who ran it, you know. And all the other siblings worked for her. One great big happy family…I don’t think. Especially the stepkids, the ones who joined the crew when Belle married Gallagher. What do they really think about Super Stepmom? Gretchen Gallagher always looks like a thundercloud, especially when Stepmom’s around. And Wheeler Gallagher’s never had a real job.” Lou looked again around the elegant dining room. “But Belle was a Dallas icon. I couldn’t ask what I wanted to ask. What do you intend to ask?”
“Questions Belle has never heard,” I said grimly.
Lou gave a small shrug that barely lifted her beautifully tailored jacket. She held up her wineglass. “Good luck.” It was grudging but this time perhaps sincere.
The desserts arrived. She finished the glass of wine first—I’d lost count of how many—then spooned globs of a chocolate confection that looked darker than a Bavarian forest.
I ate peppermint sorbet. It was almost as tart as my thoughts.
The Greek Revival house glistened in the bright Texas sun. I drove the rental car into a modest parking lot screened by poplars. A small wooden sign at the foot of the broad steps announced: ERICCSON FOUNDATION.
The door opened into a broad central hall. To my right was a shiny walnut desk. A young woman with a pleasant face and ginger hair looked up and smiled cheerfully. “Good morning. May I help you?”
My shoes clicked on the wooden floor. “Yes. I’d like to see Mr. Burke, please.”
Anders Burke was the older of CeeCee Burke’s two brothers and it was he who was now director of the Ericcson Foundation.
“I’m sorry.” She sounded genuinely concerned. “Mr. Burke is out of town and won’t be back for a week. Perhaps I can help you.”
I wasn’t surprised. I knew where Anders Burke was. And all the rest of Belle’s children, natural and adopted. They were on Kauai, gathering as they did every year in memory of their slain sister. They’d been there when Richard died. Did Richard go to Kauai because they all were there?
But I looked pettish, a wealthy woman irritated that her plans were thwarted. I fingered the heavy gold necklace at my throat. It was a great complement to my navy linen dress with matching gold buttons. “Oh, dear. I’ve come all the way from Lubbock to see him. I suppose I should have called first. I’m Isabel Rushton and I wanted to find out more about the foundation to see if I might include it in my charities.”
She sprang to her feet. “Oh, I’m sure I can help you, Mrs. Rushton. And I’ll have Mr. Burke contact you as soon as he returns. But I can give you a great deal of information about the foundation. I’m Ginger Cowan, Mr. Burke’s assistant. And I’ll be happy to show you our offices.”
“Oh, yes, I’d like that.” I looked around inquisitively. I pointed to the closed double doors across the hall. “Is that Mr. Burke’s office?”
“No, ma’am.” For an instant, she looked uncomfortable. “That was the office of our first director. At present that office isn’t used.”
I raised my eyebrows, a canny philanthropist scenting possible waste and inefficiency, perhaps compounded by unstable leadership.
Ginger plunged into explanations. “…and Anders—Mr. Burke—didn’t want to take over his sister’s office. I think it was just too hard for him. I know you’ll understand.”
“My, oh my, of course. That poor child. I remember now. As I recall, the kidnapping was never solved, was it? Of course, I understand.” I had my hand on the brass knob to one of the doors. “But may I just take a peek?” An old lady with ghoulish tendencies.
“Of course, Mrs. Rushton.” She hurried to join me.
I opened the door, stepped into an elegant room.
Ginger flipped a switch and a magnificent chandelier glowed to life. The turquoise hangings were as rich as a New Mexico sky, the gray walls cool as pewter. White linen slipcovers looked crisp on the occasional chairs. A shiny fruitwood desk was flanked by two tall french windows. But the room was dominated by a massive mahogany dining table covered with small plastic frames bright with color.
I walked to the desk. Each frame contained a miniaturized poster. It was easy to see at a quick glance the projects supported by the Ericcson Foundation.
RUN FOR THE ROSES
FIGHT BREAST CANCER
MAKE THE NIGHT SAFE
FOR WOMEN
ELECT LINDA MORGAN
PUT WOMEN IN
THE LEGISLATURE
There were dozens more, supporting political candidates and themes—drug-free schools, the anti-tobacco lobby, universal medical care—and each poster had the Ericcson Foundation logo in the lower right-hand corner, a bell emblazoned with a rose. CeeCee Burke championed causes dear to many women.
I picked up one of the plastic holders and felt the grit of dust. The line where the frame had sat was clearly visible on the table.
Ginger ineffectually brushed her hand across the line, leaving a smear. “No one comes in here very often. Let me show you the rest of the offices.”
But I stared at the bright posters, frowning. “No one told me that the foundation was quite so liberal.” My tone indicated repugnance.
“Oh, Mrs. Rushton, please, all of this is completely out-of-date. The foundation is absolutely apolitical now. Mr. Burke has totally redirected the aims of the foundation.” Ginger spoke fast. Her eyes shone.
“Indeed?” I looked at her suspiciously, a conservative dowager with pots of money available for the right programs.
“Oh, yes. Come. Let me show you.” She urged me out of the dusty room, clicked off the chandelier, leaving the little plastic mementos shrouded in dusky neglect. She led me on a whirlwind tour, upstairs and down. There were brilliantly hued posters, but no miniatures now. They all proclaimed the same goal: protect our world, its environment and its animals. Save dolphins from shrimp nets. Release wolves in the Northwest. Stave off development of wetlands and the remaining tall-grass prairies. Stop the cruelty of medical research on helpless cats and dogs and monkeys who think and feel and suffer.
Coming back downstairs, I stopped and studied a full-length portrait on the landing. I didn’t need the little bronze plaque at the bottom to identify Belle’s daughter. But I looked at it inquiringly.
My young guide’s face took on a subdued, somber cast. “That’s Miss Burke.”
I wondered who had chosen this photograph, had it enlarged to full length. It told as much about the selector as it did about CeeCee Burke.
“Mr. Burke’s wife, Peggy, had it put there.” Ginger stared up, her face puzzled, perhaps trying to understand the willfulness of fate.
So it was chosen by Peggy Burke, not by Anders.
CeeCee’s head was thrown back, her long dark hair brushed back by a breeze, her face alight with happiness. She wore a plaid shirt and jeans and boots. An armful of Dalmatian puppies snuggled and licked and squirmed in her embrace. Bright sunlight glistened on a cottonwood tree and cottonwood puffs drifted on the summer air.
“Very nice,” I said approvingly, but I struggled against the ache in my throat from that forever-gone image transfixed for one brief moment. It was a poignant reminder that Richard’s death had been preceded by another.
I kept my face blank and walked on down the stairs. I played my part, making it clear that I was reassured about the goals of the foundation, but I wanted time to consider my course of action. I declined to leave my address and telephone number. “I’ll be in touch, Miss Cowan. And I certainly appreciate your kindness today. I am very interested in Mr. Burke’s commitment to nature.” I accepted an armload of pamphlets. “Do you enjoy the foundation as much since it has so drastically changed its aims?”
She shook her head, smiled. “Oh, I didn’t work here when Miss Burke was director. I knew Anders from animal-rights marches. He asked if I’d like to be his assistant. I’ve loved every minute of it. It’s so wonderful to help animals.”
I gave her a sharp, demanding look. “Is anyone here now who worked for Miss Burke?”
“Oh, no, ma’am.” She spoke without hesitation, sure that her answer would please. “Not a soul.”
I left the Ericcson Foundation, my hands filled with brochures and exhortations. I also carried with me a good many questions. But not the ones I’d revealed to Ginger Cowan.
The office was in a strip shopping center on a shabby stretch of Mockingbird Lane. Plate glass windows and a legend in bright gold letters: STANLEY JAMES DUGAN, ATTORNEY AT LAW.
The secretary looked up briskly when I stepped inside. She was a thin, middle-aged woman with faded blond hair, quick, intelligent eyes, and a tired, lined face. She wore good makeup, lightly applied. But her nose was shiny and the lipstick had worn to the edges of her mouth. Yes, she got up, started the day, put on makeup, but she didn’t bother to freshen it up. Usually, I’d have wanted to know why. I’d have wanted to know all about her, what brought her to a solitary, high-stress job, what kind of home she lived in, whom she loved or hated, what her children were like, why her mouth drooped in repose.
Not now. Now she was simply an impediment, a challenge to be bested. But I knew I must curb my desperate impatience, the ravening hunger to gouge from this man or that woman the information I had to have. I had to resist the force of that unending drumbeat—What happened to Richard? Why did Richard die?—and maintain my composure. A desperate, anxious woman frightens people, shuts them up. I kept my words even, my tone level.
“No, I’m sorry. I don’t have an appointment. Please give my card to Mr. Dugan.”
“He’s in conference. I doubt that he’ll see you.” The words were quick, bored, the patter of a well-trained gatekeeper.
I had to get Dugan’s attention. I turned my card over, thought for a moment, knowing this was the only chance I might have. Quickly, I scrawled: “CeeCee Burke’s murderer is on Kauai. Now.” That was all.
It was enough. One minute later, I entered Stanley Dugan’s office.
He stood behind a battered oak desk, a huge, homely, rawboned man. About six-seven. Small on a basketball court, overpowering here. His face looked as if it had been hacked out of hardwood by a nearsighted sculptor, the features oversized and a bit askew. And tough as rawhide. Shiny, thick-lensed glasses magnified cold gray eyes. All of a piece, except for his exceptionally well-tailored light wool suit. I’d have expected a rumpled, cheap suit. But it was a signal to me to remember that no one is all of a piece.
His big gray eyes scanned me like a laser. I saw the judgment: Money. Savvy. Doesn’t look like a nut.
I wonder what he read in my eyes, because I wasn’t missing much either. I knew I was facing a tough opponent.
Opponent. That’s what I felt in this room, that I was going to engage in a mind to mind struggle with a powerful, determined, unpredictable adversary.
So it didn’t surprise me when he attacked before I could say a word. He held up my card and it looked tiny between his massive thumb and forefinger. “What the hell does this mean?” His eyes were hard, suspicious, combative. He came around the desk, walked close to me.
I had to prove I wasn’t horning in on a notorious case for money or sensation or malice. “Right now everyone in Belle Ericcson’s family is at Ahiahi—and one of them killed your fiancée.”
He took two big steps and was staring down at me, pressing so close I could see a tracery of tiny broken blood vessels in his ruddy face, smell talcum, feel the throbbing tension in his huge body. “Who? Damn you, who?”
“One of them. I don’t know which. CeeCee Burke disappeared from Belle’s lakefront home. One year later my husband—Richard Collins—went to Kauai because he’d learned who killed CeeCee.” I knew this had to be true. Something that Johnnie Rodriguez told Richard revealed the kidnapper. If all went well, I’d have the same knowledge after I talked to Johnnie Rodriguez. “They said Richard fell to his death. I think he was pushed.”
He flipped my card, glanced at the name. “Collins. The newspaper guy. Belle’s pal.” His eyes sought mine. “You got identification?”
I did. Driver’s license. Social security card. Credit cards. Library card. Oh, yes, I had identification.
He riffed through the cards, handed them back to me, glared at me. “What did your husband know?”
“This last week, I looked through Richard’s daybooks.” That was true. But I didn’t owe this man anything. I had no intention of revealing Richard’s true entry, not until I talked to Johnnie Rodriguez. That had to come first. But I would say whatever I had to say to win information from Stan Dugan. “In his last entry, Richard wrote: ‘CeeCee’s killer will be at Ahiahi. I have to tell Belle.’” Yes, I made it up.
“Christ.” It was an expletive. He grabbed my shoulders in a vise-tight grip. “Who? He must have said. Tell me who.”
“I don’t know. That’s all Richard wrote. That was his last entry.”
Dugan released me, turned away. “Someone at Ahiahi.” His voice was harsh, full of the kind of anger I understood. “Goddamn. So that’s why Collins came…”
I felt a quick shock. I’d not expected this. “Were you at Ahiahi when Richard died?”
“Yes.” But his thoughts clearly were not in this room. “Someone at Ahiahi.” His big hands clenched into fists.
Yes, he sounded angry. And vengeful. But he was there when Richard was murdered. I couldn’t trust him. I couldn’t trust anyone. Yes, he had been CeeCee’s fiancé. But lovers can quarrel.
“Why aren’t you at Ahiahi now?” I asked him. “They gather every year. To remember CeeCee.”
For a moment, I didn’t think he was going to answer.
Finally, his voice harsh, he said, “I don’t do pilgrimages.”
“But you went the first year.” The year Richard died.
He ignored that. Instead, his eyes were once again hard and suspicious. “Why have you come to me? What do you want?”
“I want to talk to you about CeeCee.” What did I want? I wanted to peer into his mind and heart. I wanted to understand him and through him to understand who CeeCee Burke was and why someone wanted to kill her.
I glanced swiftly around the office. I’ve been in a few law offices. Paneled walls. Hunting prints. Or drawings of barristers at the Inns of Court. Framed diplomas. Sometimes the Order of the Coif prominently displayed. Leather furniture. Fireplace. Oriental rug or two.
Not this one. Gray tiled floor, bleak white walls. Except for one wall.
My eyes widened. I saw more than I wanted to. My gaze jerked toward him.
The big lawyer gave a grim smile. “Not for the squeamish. Juries can’t be squeamish about personal injury.” He pointed at the jumble of color prints, pictures with lots of bright red blood. “Before and after photos. Before, you see a man or woman or kid when life was good. Happy faces. Weddings. Babies. Walking. Or running.” He pointed at the snapshot of a smiling young woman holding a new baby. “Debbie Morales and Judy. Debbie was twenty-six, worked in the day-care center where her baby stayed. Single mother. Paid her rent on time. Damn proud to be off welfare. Rented a tiny apartment. Kept telling the landlord she was getting headaches and something was wrong with the heater. She and Judy had been dead for six days when they found them. Carbon monoxide. See that picture.” He pointed to the next photo.
I didn’t look.
“It was summer. Bloated and maggoty. Yeah, this wall tells it like it is. The happy pictures are before, before they got maimed or burned or crushed or killed. Juries see the pictures, they understand what happened. And, of course, there’s my old friend Bob. He’s a big help.” He reached out to touch a yellowed, bony shoulder.
I stared at the bones. “Bob?”
He ran his fingers over the rib cage. “Bob goes to court with me. If you can show a jury—really show them—what got broke or burned or smashed and make them feel it in their bones or gut, the sky’s no limit.”
“You make somebody pay.”
“Every time.” His arrogance was startling. “It’s the greatest game in the world—and I always win.”
I believed him. And I wondered what that kind of confidence might do to a young man. It could engender a dangerous egotism.
Appraisal flickered in his eyes and I realized he was quick. Whip-quick.
“Yeah, lady, I’m the best. But my clients deserve the best. I can’t give them back their health. Or their lives. But I can make the rich bastards pay.” He waved his hand, dismissing the wall. “But none of that matters to you.”
It mattered. It told me a lot about Stan Dugan. And something about CeeCee Burke.
“I want to know about CeeCee.” About this I could be honest. Maybe the sincerity reached him.
“Why?” Now his glance was not so much suspicious as considering.
“You make the bad guys pay for hurting people. Do you want to make somebody pay for CeeCee?”
“Don’t play games with me, lady.”
Once again I was aware of his size and strength. One swipe of that huge arm could disable me. I wondered if my awareness was triggered by a sudden rush of anger toward me.
“My husband died at Ahiahi.” I held his gaze until his eyes dropped.
He rubbed one cheek. “So how the hell will it catch CeeCee’s killer—and your husband’s, if you’re right—to tell you about her?”
“If someone now at Ahiahi was responsible for her death, then it has to be because of who she was, what she was like, what she did and thought and felt. Not for the ransom, Mr. Dugan.”
He looked across the room at another montage of photographs. I could just make them out, a motley collection of snapshots. Yes, these were pictures from his happy days. Before CeeCee Burke died.
“I want to know CeeCee, Mr. Dugan. And no one should know her better than you. If you loved her, you will help me.”
He didn’t change expression. His face was still harsh and forbidding. But he pointed to a worn leather chair. “Sit down, Mrs. Collins.”
I slipped into the seat. I realized then that my hands were sweaty and my knees were weak.
He walked over and picked up the montage of photos. Slowly, like sun breaking through clouds, his face softened. He stood that way for a long time. “CeeCee.” His voice was a caress. “Jesus, she was one of a kind. She was beautiful and sophisticated. Not in my world. I spend time with people who’ve had a raw deal. Nobody’s slick. Nobody’s rich. Nobody’s famous. CeeCee grew up in a world where everybody was somebody special, famous or rich or both. She wore perfumes that smelled like heaven and cost more than I spent on meals for a week. To CeeCee, fine food and expensive clothes and luxurious surroundings were simply to be expected, nothing to remark. I learned a lot from her. Purses that are considered works of art, carved out of fine wood. And china and crystal that exist just because they’re beautiful. Steuben glass. French tapestry. All kinds of beauty. And CeeCee”—he cleared his throat—“she was like a piece of fine china, elegant and beautiful. But she wasn’t just a pretty face. You know how tough good china is? That was CeeCee. Beautiful—and tough.”
“How did you meet?” I knew there had to be a story here.
“Oh, it was pretty simple. She came into my world. I was preparing a case. She came to my office.” For the first time since I’d arrived, his big, craggy face was alive with laughter and I realized how attractive he could be. “CeeCee looked around, looked it all over—the pictures, me, Bob. Then, straight-faced, she said, ‘You give ’em hell, don’t you?’ I said, ‘Damn right.’ She said, ‘Way to go.’”
I laughed. “So you liked her right off the bat?”
“I sure did. And I liked her even better after I took her depo. She was a passenger in a sports car that slammed into the side of one of those pickups with an exterior gas tank. Fried the pickup driver. The mother of two kids on her way to pick them up at school. You don’t want to see those autopsy shots.”
No, I didn’t. But that comment was well calculated to evoke an emotional response. I must always remember in dealing with this man who he was and what he did.
“Hell of it was”—now Dugan’s voice was harsh—“the driver of the sports car, Mr. Lance Whitney Cole the Third, ran a red light. He swore to the cops it was green. Another witness thought it was red. When CeeCee came to my office, I expected her to lie, to protect him. They’d been dating for about six months. So it blew me away when she told the truth. She was sorry she had to do it. But she did. He ran the red light. She saw it.” He gave me a cool, level look. “You don’t look impressed, Mrs. Collins. In most trials, liars are thicker than cottonmouths in a muddy creek in August. And here’s this rich girl telling the goddamn truth. She was tough. She was the difference in the decision. I called her the day after the jury came in, said I wanted to buy her a drink. That was a Friday afternoon. We took a plane to Cancún that night. It was the greatest weekend of my life.”
They say opposites attract. But that’s rarely been true in my experience. If I now had a picture of CeeCee Burke, it was perhaps a reflection of this confident, assertive lawyer. He said CeeCee was tough. He was tough. He was also intelligent, aggressive, controlling, and impetuous. What did that tell me about CeeCee?
“When did you get engaged?”
He looked away and I knew he wasn’t seeing his office or me. “That weekend.”
So, yes, I called it right when I decided he was impetuous. And so was CeeCee.
“Do you know of any reason why anyone in the family would want her dead?” It was a bald, tough question.
His face hardened. “If I knew”—his voice was low and thick—“I’d have done something long before now.”
I stood, picked up my purse. “Thank you, Mr. Dugan, for your time.”
He said nothing until I was almost to the door.
“Mrs. Collins, are you going to Ahiahi?”
I looked back. His face was grim, all traces of warmth gone.
“Yes.”
“If what you suspect is true”—he spoke slowly, emphatically—” you will be in great danger.”
“I know.” I turned away. But as I closed his office door and hurried through the anteroom, I wondered if he was warning me…
Or threatening me.