12th of Never (Women's Murder Club 12)

“Anything else?”

“He said that he felt guilty for my pain and suffering.”

“Pain and suffering. Those were his words?”

“Yes.”

“The money that Keith gave you—what was it for?”

“He gave me twenty-two thousand dollars to pay off my student loan. I appreciated the help. I don’t make a large salary.”

“Did you expect to cash in—that is, get rich—from marrying Keith Herman?”

“I knew he had money. But the only thing that was important to me was that we had a real relationship, with holidays together, and that I could be with Lily. I wanted to be able to go out into the open, to stop feeling bad because I loved someone else’s husband. And when I saw that I couldn’t have that, I tried to break it off with Keith many, many times.”

“And Keith pursued you, isn’t that right?”

“Yes.”

“You testified that you changed your phone number. You moved out of your home.”

“Yes.”

“On the weekend of February twenty-eighth through March first, were you with the defendant?”

“No. I was not. I was alone in the hunting cabin my father left me in Oroville. I don’t have a TV there. I don’t even get a cell phone signal. I just wanted to be by myself.”

“So when the defense tells the court that Keith Herman was with you the weekend his wife and daughter were murdered, that’s a lie, isn’t it?”

The witness winced ever so slightly. Yuki took it to mean that Lynnette still loved Keith Herman.

“Yes,” she said. “That’s a lie.”

“Thank you, Ms. Lagrande. I have nothing more for this witness, Your Honor.”

Kinsela had nothing to add, a good move on his part, Yuki thought. If one juror believed that Lynnette Lagrande was a money-grubber and a liar, Kinsela had done his job.

Yuki watched Lynnette Lagrande step down from the stand. She had recovered much of her poise. Looking neither left nor right, she walked up the aisle and back out through the front door of the courtroom.

Had the jury believed her?

All of them?

Honest to God, Yuki didn’t know.

Chapter 38

CONKLIN AND I stood outside Tracey Pendleton’s front door. Her house was small and nearly identical to the surrounding cheap wooden houses, which had been built in the fifties.

School was out. Kids called out to each other as they biked along the patched asphalt on the poor residential street. Cars with loud radios and old mufflers sped past.

We had knocked on the door, peered through the dirty windows, and looked up and down to see if Pendleton’s Camaro was parked anywhere on Flora Street. It wasn’t.

It didn’t appear that the ME’s night-shift security guard was at home.

Conklin and I had our weapons out and were ready to execute the warrant that gave us the legal right to break down Pendleton’s door.

I stood back, looked under the cushion of the porch rocker, and found it just as Conklin kicked open the door.