Scott's mind conjured up scenes from Rebecca's life here, with another man, the same scenes he had played over and over the last two years, like reruns of his favorite show. Now he had the actual setting for those scenes. His emotions rose again, so he consciously forced himself to focus on his job as her lawyer instead of his regrets as her husband.
Think like a lawyer, not like a man.
"No evidence was collected from the living room," Hank said. "Let's go upstairs first, then we'll come back down to the crime scene. You might need some fresh air after that."
They climbed a set of stairs to the third floor which had two guest bedrooms and baths and a home theater. No evidence had been discovered or collected from any of the third-floor rooms, so Hank led them up another set of stairs to the pilothouse.
"Trey's office."
Wood-framed windows surrounded the space. The street was visible out the front, the beach and sea out the back. The room was wood and leather with a wet bar. Golf trophies crowded shelves, and photos of Trey with other famous golfers and framed golf magazines with Trey on the covers hung on the walls. In one corner three putters stood against the wall and balls waited below on a putting mat that ran the length of the room, as if Trey had practiced his putting that morning. In another corner sat a massive white golf bag with Trey Rawlins in black script down the side.
"You go through the bag?" Scott asked.
"Nothing except golf balls and condoms."
" Condoms? "
Hank shrugged. "For the rain delays, I guess."
"I'd hate to drag that bag up those stairs," Bobby said.
"He didn't have to." Hank went over to the wood wall and opened a closet—except it wasn't a closet. It was a dumb waiter big enough for a pro golf bag—or a human being. Hank pushed a button inside the door; the elevator slowly descended.
"Opens down in the garage," Hank said. "No prints, no blood."
"The killer could have entered the house that way."
"She didn't have to, Scott. She lived here."
Scott stepped over to the desk. A phone, a pad, and a pen sat at the ready. There was a vacant space front and center.
"Laptop was right there." Hank pulled the desk drawers open for Bobby to film. He opened a lower drawer and said, "Trey kept this one locked."
"Why?"
"See for yourself."
Bobby aimed the camera down and whistled. "Chocolate milk wasn't the only thing Trey had a taste for."
Scott came around the desk. Inside the drawer were dozens of DVDs with naked girls on the covers and titles like Fleshcapades and Virgin Territory . Scott's eyes met Bobby's, and he knew they were thinking the same thought: all-American boys don't watch pornography. Bobby couldn't restrain a smile.
"Got porn?"
They weren't shocked; porn was part of the culture now. They were excited—not by the porn—but by the crack in the "good Trey" they had seen on TV. Was Trey Rawlins another star athlete whose perfect public image belied a dark private life? Nothing excites a criminal defense lawyer more than a victim's dark side revealed—it takes the jury's focus off the defendant and puts it on the victim. A savvy defense lawyer puts the victim on trial. Would Scott put Trey on trial to save Rebecca's life?
"Aw, hell," Hank said, "you can rent this stuff at the family video store. Stay at the best hotels and you can get room service and hardcore. Myself, I'd rather watch football—less violent."
"Maybe so, but porn doesn't exactly fit his golden boy image."
"Everyone's got their secrets," Hank said.
"Question is," Bobby said, "did Trey Rawlins have any other secrets?"
They pondered that possibility for a moment, then Hank said, "Let's do it."
They followed Hank downstairs and to the door leading into the master bedroom. Hank stopped and reached to his back pocket then handed a small plastic trash bag to each of them.
"What's this for?" Scott asked.
"So you don't contaminate the crime scene."
Hank opened the door, and Scott stepped inside a dark space
Think like a lawyer, not like a man.
"No evidence was collected from the living room," Hank said. "Let's go upstairs first, then we'll come back down to the crime scene. You might need some fresh air after that."
They climbed a set of stairs to the third floor which had two guest bedrooms and baths and a home theater. No evidence had been discovered or collected from any of the third-floor rooms, so Hank led them up another set of stairs to the pilothouse.
"Trey's office."
Wood-framed windows surrounded the space. The street was visible out the front, the beach and sea out the back. The room was wood and leather with a wet bar. Golf trophies crowded shelves, and photos of Trey with other famous golfers and framed golf magazines with Trey on the covers hung on the walls. In one corner three putters stood against the wall and balls waited below on a putting mat that ran the length of the room, as if Trey had practiced his putting that morning. In another corner sat a massive white golf bag with Trey Rawlins in black script down the side.
"You go through the bag?" Scott asked.
"Nothing except golf balls and condoms."
" Condoms? "
Hank shrugged. "For the rain delays, I guess."
"I'd hate to drag that bag up those stairs," Bobby said.
"He didn't have to." Hank went over to the wood wall and opened a closet—except it wasn't a closet. It was a dumb waiter big enough for a pro golf bag—or a human being. Hank pushed a button inside the door; the elevator slowly descended.
"Opens down in the garage," Hank said. "No prints, no blood."
"The killer could have entered the house that way."
"She didn't have to, Scott. She lived here."
Scott stepped over to the desk. A phone, a pad, and a pen sat at the ready. There was a vacant space front and center.
"Laptop was right there." Hank pulled the desk drawers open for Bobby to film. He opened a lower drawer and said, "Trey kept this one locked."
"Why?"
"See for yourself."
Bobby aimed the camera down and whistled. "Chocolate milk wasn't the only thing Trey had a taste for."
Scott came around the desk. Inside the drawer were dozens of DVDs with naked girls on the covers and titles like Fleshcapades and Virgin Territory . Scott's eyes met Bobby's, and he knew they were thinking the same thought: all-American boys don't watch pornography. Bobby couldn't restrain a smile.
"Got porn?"
They weren't shocked; porn was part of the culture now. They were excited—not by the porn—but by the crack in the "good Trey" they had seen on TV. Was Trey Rawlins another star athlete whose perfect public image belied a dark private life? Nothing excites a criminal defense lawyer more than a victim's dark side revealed—it takes the jury's focus off the defendant and puts it on the victim. A savvy defense lawyer puts the victim on trial. Would Scott put Trey on trial to save Rebecca's life?
"Aw, hell," Hank said, "you can rent this stuff at the family video store. Stay at the best hotels and you can get room service and hardcore. Myself, I'd rather watch football—less violent."
"Maybe so, but porn doesn't exactly fit his golden boy image."
"Everyone's got their secrets," Hank said.
"Question is," Bobby said, "did Trey Rawlins have any other secrets?"
They pondered that possibility for a moment, then Hank said, "Let's do it."
They followed Hank downstairs and to the door leading into the master bedroom. Hank stopped and reached to his back pocket then handed a small plastic trash bag to each of them.
"What's this for?" Scott asked.
"So you don't contaminate the crime scene."
Hank opened the door, and Scott stepped inside a dark space
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