the Island narrows down to just a finger of sand separating the Gulf of Mexico on their left from Galveston Bay on their right, past beach-front subdivisions called Indian Beach and Pirates Beach and Jamaica Beach and Palm Beach and Sunny Beach, they turned into a subdivision—"Lafitte's Beach - The Treasure of the West End"—situated atop the earthen dune Scott had seen from the beach that morning. It had once been a high-end, palm-tree-lined neighborhood, but most of the homes had been reduced to stilts. The developer's attempt to tame the sea had failed. Ike's surge had crested the dune and taken the houses out to sea.
But not Trey Rawlins' house. It fronted the beach but appeared undamaged. Scott had seen the beach side of the stark white house that morning; now he saw the street side. Two palm trees stood guard out front; the driveway led to four garage doors. Stairs on both sides led to a veranda and the front entrance on the second floor, above which was another story with a pilothouse at the top. Bobby parked at the curb and cut the engine. They stared at the house on Treasure Isle Lane where Trey Rawlins' life had ended.
"Scotty, her prints on the murder weapon—that ain't good."
"I've been blindsided before, but Rex, he's a sly dog, tying off a lure then dropping that bombshell like he's asking if we wanted coffee, see how we'd react."
"Well, I damn near shit my pants."
"He'll never prove motive."
"He won't have to, not with her prints on the knife. Jury'll look past motive real fast. If we're gonna win this case, Scotty, we gotta do two things: explain how her prints got on that knife and put someone else on trial."
"Whoever stuck that knife in Trey Rawlins."
"If she didn't."
"She didn't."
"Scotty, don't forget the first rule when representing a corporate executive or a criminal defendant."
"Assume they're lying?"
"Exactly."
"She's not." He hoped. "You ready?"
"Are you?"
"No, but I've got to go in. You don't."
Bobby blew out a big breath. "What does Pajamae always say? Man up?"
They manned up and got out. The wind off the Gulf was hard and hot. A police cruiser and an unmarked car were also parked out front. A tall, lanky man emerged from the unmarked car and walked over. He was wearing a Hawaiian print shirt, jeans, and a cap that read "Galveston County D.A.'s Office." He looked like Jimmy Buffett with a gun.
"Hank Kowalski. I'm the D.A.'s investigator."
They made introductions, then Hank waved a hand at what was left of the neighborhood. "Used to be million-dollar places. Now you can buy this sand for a song. Before Ike, New York Times likened the Island to the Hamptons. No one's calling it the Hamptons now."
"They're not going to rebuild?"
"Most were second homes owned by out-of-towners. They just said to hell with it, took their insurance money somewhere it don't flood."
Five homes had once stood on that stretch of the beach; now two did, Trey's and another house under repair just a hundred yards down the street where the sound of hammers hitting nails reverberated like guns at a firing range.
"Judge Morgan's place," Hank said. "She's staying in town until it's fixed up."
Brown-skinned workers scrambled over the high roof of the judge's home with no apparent worries about falling forty feet to the sand below. With the three houses in between washed away, the workers would have had an unobstructed line of sight to the Rawlins house. They would have seen Trey and Rebecca coming and going.
"They didn't see anything," Hank said.
"But did they do anything?" Scott said.
"We asked, they denied … in Spanish."
"Illegals?"
"You know any American citizens who'll roof homes in this heat?"
"Did Trey's house sustain any damage?"
"Nope." Hank pointed toward the beach. "Those piers are twenty-five feet above the sand. Water never got up to the house. Heard he spent four million on this place, one million just on hurricane-proofing, but it worked. Ike packed a hundred-ten-miles-per-hour wind,
But not Trey Rawlins' house. It fronted the beach but appeared undamaged. Scott had seen the beach side of the stark white house that morning; now he saw the street side. Two palm trees stood guard out front; the driveway led to four garage doors. Stairs on both sides led to a veranda and the front entrance on the second floor, above which was another story with a pilothouse at the top. Bobby parked at the curb and cut the engine. They stared at the house on Treasure Isle Lane where Trey Rawlins' life had ended.
"Scotty, her prints on the murder weapon—that ain't good."
"I've been blindsided before, but Rex, he's a sly dog, tying off a lure then dropping that bombshell like he's asking if we wanted coffee, see how we'd react."
"Well, I damn near shit my pants."
"He'll never prove motive."
"He won't have to, not with her prints on the knife. Jury'll look past motive real fast. If we're gonna win this case, Scotty, we gotta do two things: explain how her prints got on that knife and put someone else on trial."
"Whoever stuck that knife in Trey Rawlins."
"If she didn't."
"She didn't."
"Scotty, don't forget the first rule when representing a corporate executive or a criminal defendant."
"Assume they're lying?"
"Exactly."
"She's not." He hoped. "You ready?"
"Are you?"
"No, but I've got to go in. You don't."
Bobby blew out a big breath. "What does Pajamae always say? Man up?"
They manned up and got out. The wind off the Gulf was hard and hot. A police cruiser and an unmarked car were also parked out front. A tall, lanky man emerged from the unmarked car and walked over. He was wearing a Hawaiian print shirt, jeans, and a cap that read "Galveston County D.A.'s Office." He looked like Jimmy Buffett with a gun.
"Hank Kowalski. I'm the D.A.'s investigator."
They made introductions, then Hank waved a hand at what was left of the neighborhood. "Used to be million-dollar places. Now you can buy this sand for a song. Before Ike, New York Times likened the Island to the Hamptons. No one's calling it the Hamptons now."
"They're not going to rebuild?"
"Most were second homes owned by out-of-towners. They just said to hell with it, took their insurance money somewhere it don't flood."
Five homes had once stood on that stretch of the beach; now two did, Trey's and another house under repair just a hundred yards down the street where the sound of hammers hitting nails reverberated like guns at a firing range.
"Judge Morgan's place," Hank said. "She's staying in town until it's fixed up."
Brown-skinned workers scrambled over the high roof of the judge's home with no apparent worries about falling forty feet to the sand below. With the three houses in between washed away, the workers would have had an unobstructed line of sight to the Rawlins house. They would have seen Trey and Rebecca coming and going.
"They didn't see anything," Hank said.
"But did they do anything?" Scott said.
"We asked, they denied … in Spanish."
"Illegals?"
"You know any American citizens who'll roof homes in this heat?"
"Did Trey's house sustain any damage?"
"Nope." Hank pointed toward the beach. "Those piers are twenty-five feet above the sand. Water never got up to the house. Heard he spent four million on this place, one million just on hurricane-proofing, but it worked. Ike packed a hundred-ten-miles-per-hour wind,
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