didn't blow a shingle off this place. Come on, I'll give you a tour."
"Okay if we videotape?"
"Rex said whatever you wanted." Hank reached to his back pocket then held out latex gloves. "Wear these—but don't touch nothing."
They all put gloves on. Bobby retrieved the camcorder and the murder book from the car. He handed the book to Scott. Bobby filmed the exterior of the house, then they ducked under the yellow crime scene tape and followed Hank into the garage through a side door. Hank hit a switch; fluorescent light flooded the vast space where a dune buggy, two jet skis, a BMW racing motorcycle, a black Hummer, a red Corvette convertible, and a black Bentley were parked.
"Man liked his toys," Hank said. "Trey motored around the Island on the bike or in the Bentley. Two hundred grand. Your wife drove the Corvette."
Scott could picture Rebecca Fenney driving that Corvette with the top down and a smile on her face, her red hair whipping in the wind, enjoying the envious glances from pedestrians.
"She mentioned a yacht."
Hank nodded. "Down at the marina. We searched it. Nothing. Come on, let's go up. Everything's the same as that night, except for the crime scene processing."
"Nothing's been removed?"
"The body, a three-fifty-seven Magnum revolver, a nine-millimeter Beretta—"
"He had guns?"
"This is Texas, Scott—everyone has guns." Hank chuckled. "Magnum was found under his pillow. Loaded. Not sure how he could sleep with that thing under his head."
"If she wanted to kill him, why didn't she just shoot him?"
Hank shrugged. "Ask her."
"Anything else removed from the house?"
"His wallet, cell phone, cash, jewelry, and laptop. We're checking calls, emails, websites he frequented, fan mail to his website. I'll get you copies of everything."
They climbed stairs from the garage floor to the second story. Hank unlocked a door, and Scott entered the house where his wife had lived with another man. Scott tamped down his rising emotions and scolded himself: Think like a lawyer, not like a man.
"Maid came twice a week," Hank said. "Mondays and Thursdays. She was here that day."
They followed Hank into a kitchen with a stained concrete floor and stainless steel appliances, cabinets, and countertops. Scott put on his glasses—he used to wear them just to appear smart to his rich clients; now, after sixteen years of reading the law, he actually needed them—and opened the murder book. He found the photos and evidence collection report for the kitchen.
"No blood was found in the kitchen?"
"Nope. But we got prints—his, hers, the maid's, and one unidentified set. Right there." Hank pointed to a spot on the island counter where black fingerprint dust marred the shiny steel finish. "Full hand prints. We figure male, and a big man from the size. He must've been leaning onto the counter."
"You run them?"
Hank nodded. "No match. He's not in the system."
Hank pulled a drawer open. Inside were seven steel knives in a tray with molded spaces for eight knives. The biggest space was empty.
"Murder weapon," Hank said. "Butcher knife. Her prints are on it."
"So Rex said. Would you open all the drawers and cabinets?"
Hank did, and Bobby filmed everything. "Nice liquor cabinet. Trey liked the good stuff."
"And the refrigerator, Hank."
It was a double-wide with a freezer drawer below. Hank held the door open while Bobby squatted and filmed the contents and narrated.
"Beer … a bottle of wine … protein bars … lots of chocolate milk … and the biggest watermelon I've ever seen."
Scott put his hands on his knees and peered into the refrigerator. The watermelon occupied one entire shelf. It had been split in half, lengthwise. The red pulp lay exposed like brain matter.
"Just the way we found it," Hank said. "Nothing's been touched."
The kitchen opened onto a living room with leather furniture, a fireplace, a flat-screen television on the wall, and a bank of windows that offered a stunning view of the beach and sea.
"Okay if we videotape?"
"Rex said whatever you wanted." Hank reached to his back pocket then held out latex gloves. "Wear these—but don't touch nothing."
They all put gloves on. Bobby retrieved the camcorder and the murder book from the car. He handed the book to Scott. Bobby filmed the exterior of the house, then they ducked under the yellow crime scene tape and followed Hank into the garage through a side door. Hank hit a switch; fluorescent light flooded the vast space where a dune buggy, two jet skis, a BMW racing motorcycle, a black Hummer, a red Corvette convertible, and a black Bentley were parked.
"Man liked his toys," Hank said. "Trey motored around the Island on the bike or in the Bentley. Two hundred grand. Your wife drove the Corvette."
Scott could picture Rebecca Fenney driving that Corvette with the top down and a smile on her face, her red hair whipping in the wind, enjoying the envious glances from pedestrians.
"She mentioned a yacht."
Hank nodded. "Down at the marina. We searched it. Nothing. Come on, let's go up. Everything's the same as that night, except for the crime scene processing."
"Nothing's been removed?"
"The body, a three-fifty-seven Magnum revolver, a nine-millimeter Beretta—"
"He had guns?"
"This is Texas, Scott—everyone has guns." Hank chuckled. "Magnum was found under his pillow. Loaded. Not sure how he could sleep with that thing under his head."
"If she wanted to kill him, why didn't she just shoot him?"
Hank shrugged. "Ask her."
"Anything else removed from the house?"
"His wallet, cell phone, cash, jewelry, and laptop. We're checking calls, emails, websites he frequented, fan mail to his website. I'll get you copies of everything."
They climbed stairs from the garage floor to the second story. Hank unlocked a door, and Scott entered the house where his wife had lived with another man. Scott tamped down his rising emotions and scolded himself: Think like a lawyer, not like a man.
"Maid came twice a week," Hank said. "Mondays and Thursdays. She was here that day."
They followed Hank into a kitchen with a stained concrete floor and stainless steel appliances, cabinets, and countertops. Scott put on his glasses—he used to wear them just to appear smart to his rich clients; now, after sixteen years of reading the law, he actually needed them—and opened the murder book. He found the photos and evidence collection report for the kitchen.
"No blood was found in the kitchen?"
"Nope. But we got prints—his, hers, the maid's, and one unidentified set. Right there." Hank pointed to a spot on the island counter where black fingerprint dust marred the shiny steel finish. "Full hand prints. We figure male, and a big man from the size. He must've been leaning onto the counter."
"You run them?"
Hank nodded. "No match. He's not in the system."
Hank pulled a drawer open. Inside were seven steel knives in a tray with molded spaces for eight knives. The biggest space was empty.
"Murder weapon," Hank said. "Butcher knife. Her prints are on it."
"So Rex said. Would you open all the drawers and cabinets?"
Hank did, and Bobby filmed everything. "Nice liquor cabinet. Trey liked the good stuff."
"And the refrigerator, Hank."
It was a double-wide with a freezer drawer below. Hank held the door open while Bobby squatted and filmed the contents and narrated.
"Beer … a bottle of wine … protein bars … lots of chocolate milk … and the biggest watermelon I've ever seen."
Scott put his hands on his knees and peered into the refrigerator. The watermelon occupied one entire shelf. It had been split in half, lengthwise. The red pulp lay exposed like brain matter.
"Just the way we found it," Hank said. "Nothing's been touched."
The kitchen opened onto a living room with leather furniture, a fireplace, a flat-screen television on the wall, and a bank of windows that offered a stunning view of the beach and sea.
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