Least Wanted (Sam McRae Mystery 2)

She swallowed and fixed a solemn, wide-eyed gaze on me. “So, my hearing tomorrow, right?”

“Yes. They’ll bring you to the courthouse and, like I said, I’ll get to see you before court starts.”

“And then I can leave this place?” She shivered and lowered her voice.

“I’ll do my best, but I can’t make any promises. This is murder we’re talking about.”

“Please. I gots to get outta here.” Tina barely whispered, her voice ragged with emotion. Her expression radiated pure fear. “I’m scared. E’ryone here so mean. Girls walkin’ ’round here with shivs made of toofbrushes and shit. An’ the guards don’t do nothin’.”

“Hang in there, Tina. I’ll do everything I can to get you home.”

Even as I said it, I wondered what the word “home” meant to her. Did she really have a home with her father? I had reservations about Rodney Fisher’s abilities in that role. Yet, I doubted she was better off in here. It was well known that juvenile detention facilities were poorly run and could be as dangerous as the worst streets of Baltimore. It was a depressing dilemma. It was my duty as her advocate to get her out, if I could, regardless of Rodney Fisher’s failings as a father.

* * * * *

Back at the office, thoughts of home led to a memory of a day at the beach with my parents. I couldn’t have been much older than seven. As we traipsed across the hot sand, my mother’s wavy blonde hair

and tiny blue bikini turned lots of heads. She wore bright red lipstick, Jackie O-style sunglasses, and an infectious smile. My dad unfurled the blanket and planted a tattered pink umbrella in the sand with the authority of Admiral Perry staking a claim on the North Pole. He stripped off his yellow T-shirt to expose a pale, but healthy-looking set of pecs.

“Well, kid,” he said. “Ready to hit the water?”

I shook my head no, knowing how cold that first contact would be, but he grabbed me and tossed me over his shoulder like a sack of grain. Carrying me kicking and squealing the whole way, he ran for the surf, plunged in, and waded to a point where he dropped me.

The shock from the cold water was like a slap. It may have been only a few feet deep, but I floated free. Murky sounds burbled around me. Instinct kicked in and I pushed to the surface, gasping for air as I broke through, my father’s laughter ringing in my ears.

* * * * *

Recalling the beach, with my parents alive and happy, caught me short. Grief washed over me in a way it hadn’t since they’d died in a plane crash when I was nine. I closed my eyes, willing the image to dissolve. When I opened them, I was surprised to find my cheeks wet.

Backhanding the tears away, I focused on Tina again. She was the one with the problems—bigger problems than I’d ever faced.

I wanted to believe Tina, but doubt lingered in the back of my mind. Could she have killed Shanae? Could she be lying about that night? Shanae’s beating was too extensive for self-defense. Or was it? If Shanae had been on drugs, a crack high could’ve made her violent. And very powerful. Someone using the bat in self-defense might have had to kill her to stop her.

This led to a disquieting thought. What if Tina had killed Shanae in self-defense, but was afraid to admit it? Even to herself.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

At the courthouse the next morning, I got my ten minutes with Tina—five minutes after getting her file. It didn’t take long to figure out I held a “dummy file,” something to show she was charged with a new offense, with nothing in the way of meaningful information. No police report, no school records, no intake forms—nothing. I entered my appearance for Tina at the hearing and flew by the seat of my pants with what little I had.

In a quick conversation with ASA Ellen Martinez beforehand, I’d been able to find out that the softball bat found next to Shanae Jackson’s body had belonged to Tina and had Tina’s prints on it, as well as Shanae’s blood. A neighbor had also overheard Shanae and Tina arguing on the day Shanae died and other occasions. Since our last meeting, Martinez had been in touch with Frank Powell and some of Tina’s teachers. Martinez learned about Tina’s deteriorating attendance and disciplinary record. I noticed she didn’t mention the Pussy Posse and wondered if she was holding it for later or if she wanted to check the veracity of the information before raising it in court. The prosecution had five days after I entered my appearance to disclose in discovery their evidence against Tina. I’d have to wait and see if the matter came up then.

I made all the arguments I could for house arrest and electronic monitoring. Despite my best efforts, the master refused to release Tina to her father. William Jackson stated that Fisher wasn’t fit as a parent, only to have the master tell him Tina wouldn’t be released anyway. The master said Jackson would have to file a petition if he wanted to fight with Rodney Fisher over his parental rights. Fisher yelled that it would be a cold day in hell when Jackson took his little girl from him. Things went downhill from there, and the bailiff removed Jackson from the courtroom. In so many words, the master told Fisher to behave or get thrown out, then he finished announcing his ruling: Tina was to remain in custody pending trial.

I put a hand on Tina’s arm. “I’ll request a review of the decision. Meanwhile, hang in there. I’ll be by to see you as soon as I can.” She wouldn’t even look at me before they led her off.

With a sigh, I packed my briefcase. While I was in the neighborhood, I considered going by Ray Mardovich’s office. The thought of airing a few grievances was both tempting and humiliating. My humiliation won out. I made a beeline for the door.

* * * * *

I was heading back to the office when my cell started vibrating. I never drive and take calls at the same time—and I would like to personally crucify every idiot I see driving with a phone pressed to their ear—so I pulled over to check the number. It was Walt.

“Where’ve you been?” I asked. “I need to tell you about my road trip this weekend.”

“I’ve been up to my ass in alligators,” he said, his voice hoarse with fatigue. “The shit has hit the fan.”

“What now?”

“Sondra Jones is dead. One of the office cleaning crew found her Friday night, shot in her office.”