Chapter 21
It didn’t feel like a Sunday. I was used to my weekends flying by, over before I could even blink, but so much had happened in the past two days that I kept thinking it should be Wednesday at least. Or September.
But now time had slowed back down to a non-frenetic pace, and I had a list of crap that I needed to get done, plus some stuff that I merely wanted to get done. I was pleasantly sore from my trip to the gym the other day—just enough achiness to remind me that I liked having a few muscles—and I really didn’t want to gain back the pudge. So before I could talk myself out of it, I headed to the gym, taking the risk that I’d be shocking the people who worked there by showing up twice in one week.
At eight a.m. on a Sunday morning, the gym was practically deserted, unlike last time. With only a handful of people in the weights area, I was able to throw myself into my workout, welcoming the burn and the sweat as I attempted to drive away all of my uncertainties and insecurities.
At this rate, I was going to end up with six-pack abs.
“You’re making the rest of us look bad,” I heard from behind me as I waited for my pulse to slow between sets. I turned, reaching for my towel to wipe my sweaty face. A good-looking man gave me a friendly smile. I knew him, but my oxygen-starved brain refused to supply me with the information. “It’s a Sunday,” he said, smile widening. “Here we are talking about football and avoiding yard work, and you’re working up enough sweat for all of us.”
I grinned, flattered at the mild flirtation, just as the lightbulb went off over my head: Holy shit, this is Judge Roth. I’d seen him only in court or at the funeral, and he looked far different—and far more approachable—in simple shorts and a T-shirt.
“Sorry,” I said, still smiling. “But if y’all can’t keep up with me, that’s not my fault.”
He laughed. “I should know better than to tangle with strong women. There’s no way to win!” Then he gave me a more appraising look. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you in here before. I’m Harris Roth,” he said, extending his hand. “Are you new here?”
I shook his hand. He had a nice, warm grip. “Kara Gillian.” I briefly debated mentioning that we’d met in passing in court, but then decided that would bring up too much other unpleasantness. “I’ve been a member here for a while, but my attendance is sporadic.”
He gave my hand a squeeze and then released it. “Good to meet you, Kara. I won’t keep you from your workout any longer, but I do hope to see you here again.” With that, he gave me another charming smile and turned away. I finished the rest of my workout quickly, bemused and more than a little stunned that I’d been seen as someone worth flirting with. Especially since I didn’t dress in the Cardio Barbie spandex attire that most of the other women here favored. My workout clothing consisted of running shorts, a Jogbra, and a T-shirt. Sexy.
I headed to the locker room and retrieved my gym bag. I’d just turned to head toward the shower area when a blond woman in perfect makeup sidled up to me—dressed in exactly the kind of spandex getup that I wouldn’t be caught dead in. To give the woman credit, though, it was obvious that she put in a lot of time and effort—and perhaps some surgical enhancement—to have the kind of body that looked damn good in spandex.
“I know you don’t know me,” she said in a low voice, “but I wanted to give you a bit of warning about Harris Roth.”
I looked at her expectantly. The expression on her face seemed sincere enough. “It’s none of my business, I know,” she continued, “but I’ve seen him charm his way into the pants of a lot of pretty girls. And he really doesn’t care what may happen to them afterward.”
It took me a couple of seconds to find my voice. “Um, thanks. But I have no intention of sleeping with him.”
She gave me a wry smile. “I’m glad you think so. But, trust me, he’s a charmer. Anyway, you seem sweet and I didn’t want to see someone else get screwed by Harris.”
My cop sense lit up like a Christmas tree. “Who else has been screwed by him?”
She hesitated, then shrugged. “Well, she’s not around anymore, so I guess it’s not too terrible to gossip.” The woman did a quick glance-around, then lowered her voice even further. “He had an affair with Elena Sharp, and then her husband kicked her out!”
I blinked. This was a far cry from the story that Elena had spun for me. “Wow.” Now it was my turn to do the furtive glance around. “And didn’t Harris’s son kill his wife and then himself?”
She sighed. “Yeah, that was awful. I mean, Harris is a bit of a sleazeball ‘playa,’ but that was a horrible thing to have happen.” I heard a bustle of women’s voices coming into the locker room, and the blonde stepped back. “Anyway,” she said, “I just wanted to make sure you knew what you were getting into.”
I gave her a grave nod, hiding my bemusement. “I appreciate that. I’m sorry, what was your name again?”
“Becky. Becky Prejean.” She gave me a wink and then scuttled off in a flash of spandex and artificial breasts.
I took my shower and dressed, thankfully unaccosted, but my mind kept turning over the tidbits of information. Elena and Harris, huh? Well, she did say she was attracted to powerful men. Yet another interesting twist.
But was it true? I headed out to my car and cranked the AC up, then called the dispatcher and asked for a local address for a Becky or Rebecca Prejean, white female, approximately mid-thirties.
A few minutes later I thanked the dispatcher and hung up. Becky Prejean lived in Ruby Estates. Davis Sharp’s maid had said that a blonde came to see him after Elena left.
Coincidence? Probably. But Becky Prejean had raised my suspicions about a number of things, and I had a feeling I’d be driving to Mandeville again before all this was over.
The rest of my afternoon was an ambitious—and hideously necessary—combination of doing laundry, cleaning my kitchen, and scrubbing my bathroom. Usually, housework had a relaxing effect on me, but a simmering guilt plagued me throughout the day—railing at me that I wasn’t making any progress on finding what was consuming essence, and reminding me that time was running out for Tessa. I’d hoped for a relaxing Sunday and a desperately needed recharge of my mental resources, but the various worries continued to pick at me.
Four times I picked up my phone to call Ryan—twice even going so far as to start dialing his number before I stabbed at the disconnect button in frustration. I had no idea what the hell I would say. Wanna hang out? Wanna see a movie? I’m stressed out and need someone to vent to?
Right. Like Ryan needed any more proof that I was completely neurotic.
I gave up and fired up my computer. Bury myself in work … As long as I had some free time, I could check one other thing that I’d almost forgotten about—Judge Laurent had mentioned campaign contributions, with a strong implication that there was something significant to be seen there.