In Self Defense by Susan Sloan (phonics books .TXT) 📕

Clare sighed.  “I know that’s hard for some people to understand, but I guess I figured that was part of what ‘for better or worse’ meant.”

“Did you threaten your husband with dismissal from Nicolaidis Industries if he divorced you?”

Tears began to fill the corners of Clare’s eyes.  “Yes, God help me, I did do that.”

“And shortly thereafter, you began having a series of life-threatening accidents?”

“Yes.”

“The night your husband died, did you know, beyond any reasonable doubt, that the man you emptied your husband’s gun at was Richard Durant?”

Now the tears began to slip down Clare’s cheeks.  “No,” she whispered.  “I didn’t know who it was until I turned on the lights.  All I knew was that the police were supposed to have been there, to stop anyone from getting into the house, from getting to me, only they weren’t there, and they didn’t stop him, and I was alone, and I was scared, and I had the gun, and I apologize -- to you, to everyone -- for wanting to live!”

***

“I think you made a number of good points on cross,” Tom Colby observed.  “But I have to say, I think that redirect is going to be a hard act to follow.”

Mark Sundstrom shook his head.  “So it was all the police’s fault,” he said.  “If they’d done their jobs right, this would never have happened -- except that it was exactly what she wanted to have happen.  How convenient.”

“Still, she has a point,” his second chair said.  “The police blew it.  And how could she have known they would?”

“Crap,” Sundstrom said.  “I think she was counting on them blowing it.  She as good as said it herself -- she was going to kill whoever walked into that room.  I don’t care how many accidents she survived.  She made up that story about her husband trying to kill her, probably right after she hid the suitcase.”

***

Erin Hall sat on the sofa in her studio apartment, nursing her third shot of whiskey.  She wasn’t much of a drinker, an occasional cold beer or two after hours on a hot summer night being her preference, but this night was different.  This night she was questioning everything she had ever done in her entire career.  Because, contrary to everything good police work told her she should believe, she believed Clare Durant.

It was the only thing that made sense.  The only thing that tied everything together the way it should.  The stalker hadn’t changed his MO.  He was nowhere near Mercer Island that Saturday morning.  And he certainly had no hand in the arsenic, nor was he lurking on a mountain trail in the Olympic National Park.

Erin sighed.  It was all right there in front of her, but she didn’t see it.  Or maybe she just didn’t want to see it.  Maybe Clare was right -- they were all too focused on the stalker.

A knock at her door shook her out of her contemplation.  She glanced at her watch to find it was almost ten o’clock.

“Hi,” Dusty said, when she opened the door.

“You heard?” she said as she let him in.

He rolled his eyes.  “Who hasn’t?  It was the lead on every news channel in the business.”

“I’m having whiskey,” she told him.  “Care to join me?”

He chuckled.  “No thanks,” he said.  “I’ve already got a headache.”

“I’ve been trying to figure it out -- why we didn’t see it.  We always think we’re so good at what we do, so perceptive, so determined to get to the truth.  Well, we tripped all over the truth in this case and we never saw it.”

“Don’t beat yourself up.  Remember, she never said anything.”

“I was thinking about that,” Erin conceded as they sat together on the sofa.  “And I was wondering, if she had said something -- would we have believed her?”

“I don’t know,” Dusty replied truthfully.  “Sundstrom was right -- she had no real evidence.”

“Still, she knew.  And she had to live with it.  I think it must have killed her on that stand to have to as good as admit that her husband only married her for her father’s company.”

“And yet everyone told us it was a really good marriage.”

Erin downed the final gulp of her whiskey.  “Shows you what people know.”

“Or what they don’t want to know.”

“Still, I’ve been watching that jury,” Erin mused.  “And without something to corroborate what she says, I can’t tell which way they’re likely to go.”

Dusty eyed her.  “What?” he said.  “You think we’re going to be able to find something?”

She shrugged.  “If we can’t -- who can?”

“The captain will never go for this, you know,” he warned her.

“I’m still on vacation,” she told him.  “Maybe the captain doesn’t have to know.”

“Where will you start?”

“I don’t know,” she said.  “I don’t even know what I’m looking for.”

“Sleep on it,” he suggested, patting her on the knee and getting up to go.  “Something might hit you in the morning.”

***

The telephone rang in David Johansen’s home office at ten-thirty that night.  It was not a long conversation, just a matter of minutes.  He asked a few questions, he listened to the answers, he scribbled down some notes, and then he hung up.  But the brief exchange was all he needed to realize that his case had just taken a sharp turn to the right.

***

During the long hours of the night, Erin formulated a plan.  She determined the black truck was the place to start.  It was the only real piece of evidence tied to any of Clare Durant’s so-called accidents.  She confirmed that the truck was still in Impound, and then she reached out to Eddie Ridenour.

“We went over that truck with a magnifying glass,” he told her.  “There was nothing there.”

“I know,” she said, “but humor me, please.  There’s got to be something you missed.  There’s just got to be.”

“And how do I square your wishful thinking with my fire-breathing boss?” Eddie asked, because of course he had read the newspaper accounts of Clare Durant’s testimony at trial, and listened