A knock on the door, ending Denise’s speculation and they turned their attention to the two detectives entering Clara’s room. One wore a rumpled department store suit, his badge hanging from a lanyard around his neck. The taller detective cut a more dapper figure in a dark suit that fit him as if it were tailor-made.
“Mrs. Garza,” the tall detective said as he flashed his badge. “I’m Detective Mike Hale, my partner, Detective Adam Miller. We’d like to offer our condolences.”
“Thank you.” Clara swallowed to clear the lump in her throat.
“Do you feel like answering a few questions?” Detective Hale asked.
Clara simultaneously nodded and shrugged a shoulder. Ready as I’ll ever be.
“Detective Wilson, who rode in the ambulance with you, stated in his report that you identified your husband as the man who attacked you and your daughter.”
“I’m sorry. I . . . I don’t remember talking to him.”
“Understood.” Hale’s kind eyes met Clara’s.
“Have you arrested him?” She smoothed a wrinkle from the bedspread.
“Mr. Garza hasn’t been charged for the attack on you and your daughter,” Detective Hale said.
“What?” Clara gripped the morphine dispenser. “Wh-why not?” She wanted to ease her agony.
“He raped and murdered my daughter!” Anxiety sent Clara’s heart racing, her thumb hovered over the button.
“Clara . . .” Denise touched her hand. “Are you in pain?”
Yes, but morphine won’t help. “No, I’m . . . fine.” Clara shoved the dispenser away and inhaled deeply, her lungs burning from the exertion.
“Maybe now’s not the best time . . .” Denise said.
“We really need to get your statement on record.” Detective Miller stepped closer to Clara’s bed.
Clara nodded, then looked down and fingered a button on her bathrobe. “I . . .” A deep breath. “I came home and found him . . . Damian . . . raping Ally. I tried to st-stop him . . .” Tears trickled down her cheeks. “He killed her. Broke her neck.” Clara swiped away her tears. “Then he shot me in the chest.” She automatically touched the bandage covering her wound.
“Mrs. Garza . . .” Detective Hale began.
Clara flinched at the name as she met the detective’s gaze. “Please, call me Clara.”
He smiled and continued, “We’ve had a police officer posted outside your door and I suggest you file a restraining order against Mr. Garza.”
“A restraining order won’t stop him if he wants me dead.” Clara pounded the bed, pulling her stitches, the motion sending a searing pain shooting through her chest. She reached for the morphine pump. “He should be behind bars!” Pushed the button.
Or dead.
“We’ve already filed for a RO,” Denise said. “Clara said she had a visitor two nights
ago . . .”
“It wasn’t Damian.” Clara shook her head. “The man didn’t try to kill me.” Her thickening tongue rubbed against the back of her teeth. “He stroked my hair and said, ‘trust me’.”
“Did you report this to the police?” Miller asked, pen scribbling notes.
“No,” Denise said. “Clara’s doctor said it could’ve been a dream brought on by the morphine.”
“Not a dream.” The room seemed to shrink and a sluggish calm descended on Clara.
“I think we need to wrap this up,” Denise said to the detectives.
CHAPTER FIVE
“What the hell were you thinking?” Ricardo Garza screamed at his son. A thread of spittle hung from the corner of his mouth.
Damian fought the urge to shrug his shoulders; instead he looked down and shook his head. “I don’t know, father. That bitch pushed me too far and I—”
“And you thought killing . . .”
“She went to the po—” Damian shouted.
Ricardo held up his hand. “I don’t want to hear your excuses.” He pounded his desk with a fist. “I believe a solution to your problems would be to turn you into the police myself!”
“Enough dramatics, Ricardo,” Valencia Garza said to her husband. “You know you are not going to sacrifice Damian . . . no matter what he does.”
Damian bristled at his mother’s disgusted tone. He could feel her eyes on him but refused to meet what would surely be a condescending gaze. His father might feel a need to blame Damian for his misdeeds, but Damian knew what fueled his desire to dominate women stemmed from his hatred for the woman who pretended to be his mother.
Damian had planned to punish Clara for turning him into the police. To scare her into keeping her mouth shut. It had been his intent to rape her, a parting gift before she slunk away to the dreary Pacific Northwest. He’d been surprised to find Ally at the house. The investigator he had following his wife and step-daughter had informed him the girl was staying with a friend. When Damian had asked Ally what she was doing home, she’d responded with, ‘Duh, I live here.’ As a young girl, Ally had showed him respect. As a teenager, she’d become willful and disrespectful. Traits he attributed to her mother’s suspicions of his extra-curricular activities.
Damian’s cheeks warmed as he recalled the explosion of rage that had consumed him in response to the girl’s impertinence. It had been the first time he’d acted recklessly. The first time he’d attacked a child. The first time he’d ended a life.
Well he wasn’t to blame. Clara should have kept her mouth shut. Ally’s death was on her meddling mother’s head. A vision of Ally calling for her mother flashed in his mind. He choked down the lump forming in his throat and focused on his attorney.
“If I may,” Alan Sanchez interrupted. A year younger than Damian, the thirty-seven year old attorney had earned Ricardo’s respect after years of managing the family’s legal issues with a cool confidence. “With regard to the serial rape charges, the police don’t have enough proof against Damian, which is why a judge released him on bond. However, the rape and murder of Allyson, and attempted murder of Clara, are charges for which bail will not be allowed. It’s taken four days, but the police finally obtained a statement from Clara yesterday. Her eyewitness account will be the prosecution’s key piece of evidence.”
Valencia tapped her nails on the end table and said, “Clara is the only witness.” Damian cast a glance in her direction as she crossed toned legs, leaned back into a leather chair, and continued, “Let’s focus on discrediting her. Alan, can you craft a background of drug or alcohol abuse?”
“No.” Damian glared at his mother. She held his stare, eyebrows slightly arched over her dark eyes. “Clara doesn’t have a substance abuse problem . . .”
“Damian, please,” Valencia said in a mock motherly tone. “Let your father and I decide the best defense for Alan to pursue.”
Damian gritted his teeth, forced a smile, then said, “Fine, Mother. I will leave my freedom in your capable hands.” He stood and took a step toward the door of his father’s study.
“Sit your ass down!” Ricardo bellowed.
Damian shot a look at his father. A powerfully built man in his sixties, Ricardo Garza was used to people doing as he said. His father sat taller in his chair, an attempt at intimidation, which had worked when Damian was a boy. Now that he topped his father’s six foot height by two inches, Damian no longer feared his father’s physical anger. He did, however, know better than to challenge his authority and suffer the consequence of losing his protection. Damian sat and crossed his arms.
“Alan,” Valencia said. “Can you break down the evidence for us?”
Damian already knew the laundry list of proof the police would claim he’d left behind in his house. Fools.
“The police recovered the bullet from Mrs. Garza.” Alan adjusted his tie and directed his gaze at Valencia. “However, without the gun, it will be difficult to place the weapon in Damian’s hand. Remarkably, the fingernail scrapings from both Mrs. Garza and the victim yielded little DNA. No fluids were found on the victim; however, the coroner did find a pubic hair containing a root on Ally’s body. I arranged for the recovered hair to be replaced with a tag-less specimen. Without the tag, the crime lab can’t test for DNA.”
“I trust the gun has been disposed of,” Ricardo asked Damian.
“Yes.” He met his father’s gaze and cringed at the contempt reflected in his dark brown orbs.
“Which leaves Clara’s testimony,” Valencia said.
“Exactly,” Alan said. “Combined with the circumstantial evidence, her testimony gives the prosecution a strong case.”
“We need to find a way to discredit her,” Valencia said. “Surely, Damian, there must be something Alan can use against her.”
Damian smirked at Valencia and motioned for Alan to continue.
“Actually, there is.” Alan pulled a manila envelope from his briefcase. “Damian arranged for surveillance of Clara while she followed him. I believe we can use her behavior to paint a picture of a jealous wife.” He extracted several eight-by-ten photos and handed them to Valencia. “The private detective took photos of Clara sitting in her car outside various hotels. We can claim she hoped to catch Damian cheating—”
“In an attempt to void the prenuptial agreement,” Valencia cut in as she flipped through the photos, the action sending a wave of her flowery perfume through the air.
“Yes,” Alan continued. “We can also lay the foundation for Damian’s alibi.”
“Can you manage to concoct an alibi quickly?” Ricardo asked Alan.
“Yes, but the cost will be high.” Alan shifted in his chair and straightened his Armani suit jacket.
“By all means,” Valencia sniped. “Spare no expense.”
Damian stiffened at the remark. Valencia had been the daughter of a penniless land-owner when she’d married Ricardo who had wanted her father’s land. The price had been a marriage of convenience, which had greatly benefited Valencia who spent Ricardo’s money with vulgar abandon.
“Valencia, please.” Ricardo shot a tired look at his wife, then returned his attention to Alan. “Continue.”
Alan nodded. “We’ll create a paper trail placing Damian in these hotels with a variety of women and have one of them serve as his alibi.”
“I’m sure Damian knows plenty of tarts happy to oblige,” Valencia said.
Damian wanted to cross the room and snap her neck, an urge that both surprised and excited him, but dissipated as Alan continued.
“The police have issued an arrest warrant for Damian,” Alan said. “We need to act fast, because as I said, it’s unlikely a judge will allow bail considering the seriousness of the charges.” He leaned back in his chair.
“All right,” Ricardo said. “Set the plan in motion. And find a defense attorney to represent Damian. A woman with a formidable track record. You’ll be her co-counsel, but I don’t want her to know about your fact manipulation. I want her to assume she’s defending an innocent man.” He narrowed his eyes at Damian.
“Yes, sir,” Alan said. “I’ve already taken the liberty of hiring a divorce attorney who filed a petition on behalf of Damian two days ago. I’d hoped to catch Mrs. Garza off guard and have her served while in the hospital, but he tells me the court is back-logged. He understands our need for his diligence in following up on this matter.”
“Excellent move, Alan,” Valencia said. “Damian needs a divorce in case he’s convicted.”
Damian flexed a fist and shifted in his chair. He knew his mother would enjoy nothing better than to see him locked away for the rest of his life. If it weren’t for the ruinous scandal a guilty verdict would bring, Damian thought she’d volunteer to testify against him herself.
“Thank you, Alan. Please keep me updated.” Ricardo nodded at the attorney, then shifted his gaze to his wife.
Damian couldn’t help but look at his mother. She took a sip of tea, then offered a prim smile before she spoke.
“I think once this matter’s behind us,” Valencia said. “It would be a good idea if Damian took an extended trip out of the country.” She set her tea cup onto the saucer, the ping of fine china floating through the air.
Damian watched as she dabbed her mouth with a lace napkin, then folded her hands in her lap. Still beautiful at the age of sixty, she gave the impression that she was as fragile as her precious porcelain. Damian knew better. Valencia Garza was ruthless and calculating. Over the years, she had used her dark, seductive looks to her advantage, persuading many a man to do her bidding. Or more specifically, her killing.
He hadn’t known growing up that the woman he called mother loathed the very sight of him. Damian couldn’t forget the day he discovered the family secret. His birthmother had been a Mexican beauty who’d stolen his father’s heart . . . and Valencia had had her killed.