“And did you see the way she got all nervous when I brought up the guns? She knows something.”
“Maybe her husband did it. He was trying to move in on Myra, and he wanted the stepson out of the way, so he framed Mitch for murder.”
Raleigh thought about that, then shook her head. “If someone had been trying to frame Mitch, they wouldn’t have worked so hard to hide the body. Still, we’ll have to find out how long Davy’s been in the picture.”
“She’s not going to be a big help,” Beth said with a sigh.
“No. She’s not happy her son is in jail, but there’s something just a little off about her reaction.”
“She didn’t ask enough questions,” Beth pointed out. “If I had a son, and I found out he was in jail, I’d be bouncing off the walls trying to find out details and figuring out how to get him released. She didn’t even ask how Robby died.”
“She’d already heard about the body,” Raleigh reasoned. “She might have known it was a suspected gunshot. As for her reaction to Mitch’s arrest…it’s possible she doesn’t care.”
“How could she not care about her own son?”
“We know nothing about their relationship,” Raleigh said. “Maybe Mitch can shed some light on things.”
CHAPTER FOUR
THE COOT’S BAYOUcourthouse wasn’t much to look at outside—a cinder-block building covered in coat after coat of beige paint. Apparently it was a popular target for graffiti, because a fresh set of gang tags had eluded the paint roller on this muggy Wednesday morning.
The inside was even less judicial—a room reminiscent of a church basement with metal chairs and folding tables. The magistrate, a jowly man with a bright red comb-over, wore a scuffed black leather jacket instead of robes.
The prosecutor had already said his piece, arguing that bail should be denied.
“Your Honor.” Mitch’s newly hired defense lawyer, a young, earnest man named Buck Michoux, cleared his throat. Raleigh had put him in charge of speaking at the hearing because judges were sometimes more favorably inclined to a hometown boy than they were some strange woman lawyer from the big city. “My client is a law-abiding citizen with a good job and family in the area. We request that he be released on his own recognizance.”
The judge rolled his eyes. “If I had a sense of humor, I’d laugh. Mr. Delacroix was booked for murder, son. Bail is hereby set at two million dollars. An additional condition of bail is that Mr. Delacroix cannot travel outside of Bernadette Parish.” He pounded his gavel.
Mitch breathed a sigh of relief. At least they were willing to let him out. Two million dollars was an appalling bail, but Raleigh had assured him Daniel would cover it no matter how ridiculous. It was hard to feel lucky in his situation, but he sure was lucky to have a boss who had faith in him despite the evidence.
Mitch still wore yesterday’s clothes. The Coot’s Bayou Jail wasn’t exactly the Ritz. He hadn’t been allowed to shower or shave or brush his teeth, and the meals they’d served had as much appeal as warmed-over roadkill.
The bailiff handcuffed him and prepared to escort him back to his cell, across the street.
“Is that necessary?”
Mitch groaned inwardly. Beth. She’d proved herself useful during the interrogation, speaking with confidence and authority to Lieutenant Addlestein when it came to matters of evidence. But why was she still here?
He’d rather spend another week in jail than have her see him like this.
“Standard procedure with any felony suspect,” the bailiff said, unconcerned as he gave the handcuffs an extra twist. Mitch winced.
“Beth, what are you doing here?”
“Working on getting you out of jail. Permanently.”
The bailiff made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a snicker.
“Don’t you have other work? Other innocent people you can save with your microscope and test tubes?”
Beth shrank back a bit. She looked hurt by his dismissive words, and he felt a pang of guilt. “Daniel says you’re a priority.” Her voice was so soft he could barely hear it, reflecting nothing of yesterday’s confidence. “If our positions were reversed, you’d be working just as hard to get me free, wouldn’t you?”
“No one would ever accuse you of murder. The whole idea is ludicrous.”
“I suppose I should take that as a compliment.” She appeared anything but flattered.
“Time to go.” The bailiff grabbed his arm and dragged him toward the exit. Physically, the guy was no match for Mitch. Mitch found himself imagining how he’d take the guy out. A simple ducking maneuver, an elbow to the gut, a knee to the face and he’d be down for the count.
“You’ll be free soon,” Beth called after him. “Try not to worry.”
Yeah. Right. Louisiana was a death penalty state, and the judicial system in Bernadette Parish was so crooked, he couldn’t count on an acquittal no matter what kind of evidence Project Justice came up with.
But Beth was good. She and Raleigh would give these good ol’ boys a run for their money. And when it was all over, if by chance he was a free man, he’d be lucky if Daniel let him keep his job after the trouble he’d caused for Project Justice. He was pretty sure Beth would never look at him the same way again.
He’d started to really enjoy their time together, to count on it, even. But after this was over, she would probably cross the street to avoid speaking to him. He was in for a long and ugly fight, one that was likely to consume him. One that he might not win. He might go to hell for a lot of reasons, but involving sweet Beth in this mess wasn’t one of them.
The bailiff put Mitch back into the same stinking holding cell in which he’d spent the night, and he sat there for another hideous three hours. What the hell was taking so long? Though coming up with two million dollars wasn’t something that happened in ten minutes, if Daniel had made the decision to bail an employee out of jail, he would make things happen quickly. So either Mitch should get out, or they should take him to Bernadette Parish lockup, where prisoners awaiting trial were kept.
At least there he would get a shower and a clean jumpsuit.
His cell mate, with the unlikely name of Canthus, had been affable last night when they’d thrown him in here because he’d been drunk. Now he was good and sober…and mean. He’d already taken a swing at Mitch, and the only thing that had prevented Mitch from flattening the guy like a roach was a reluctance to add more charges to his record.
Canthus was currently crouched in a corner, twisting a dreadlock. “You gonna make bail?” he asked, apparently having forgotten their argument of ten minutes ago over who got to sit on what bench.
“I don’t know yet. You?” He didn’t even know what Canthus was in for.
“Naw, no one’ll bail me out. A few days would be okay, if they feed me. But I’d seriously rather sleep under a bridge.”
Mitch hadn’t seen any signs of food this morning, and he was getting pretty hungry. Didn’t prisoners have rights? Then something Canthus had said sank in. “You homeless, man?”
Canthus straightened his spine and stared at Mitch with dead, obsidian eyes. “You want to make something of it? I suppose you live in a mansion on the shores of Lake Pontchartrain.”
“I didn’t mean anything,” Mitch said affably. He had no desire to duck any more punches by the increasingly sober man. “I was just wondering if you might know a guy used to be a friend of mine. Larry.”
“Just Larry?”