Courting Death - Carol Stephenson [63]
I felt his arousal press against me. “Are you sure you want to watch the stars?”
“Well, ma’am. Where I come from, there’s nothing sexier than seeing the night sky frame a pretty lady while she’s naked and riding you.”
I reached around, grabbed some rib flesh and pinched hard.
“Ow.” His chest shook with laughter. “What was that for?”
I folded my arms and stared at the investigation scene. “How many ladies did you have such a memorable experience with?”
He blew a breath in my ear and drew me even tighter against him. “Up until now, none. But I can see that hair of yours, with the moonlight shooting flames through it.”
Mollified, I relaxed once more against him. “Better, Bowie. Much better.”
Where the lights flashed, a tow truck backed up to the water. “Oh God. Someone took a header into the canal.”
“Sure looks that way.”
Two dark forms emerged from the water—divers—who gestured at the truck. There was a whining sound and the cable turned. Soon the water bubbled and the tailgate of a black truck popped up. The chrome on monster tires glistened in the sun.
“Oh no, it couldn’t be…”
Sam cursed and set me apart from him. “Make yourself comfortable, Red. We may be here a while.”
“You don’t think that’s Danny Lopez’s truck?”
He stalked forward. “With my damn luck and the way this case has been going, I’m willing to bet you that steak it is…and that he’s inside it.”
Chapter Sixteen
On Monday following court I entered my office and saw the red folder on my desk, signaling an urgent matter requiring my immediate attention. I sat down and flipped it open. Inside was a pleading in the Whitman case, “Notice of State’s Intention to Use Evidence of Other Crimes, Wrongs or Acts.”
The folder also contained the state’s preliminary list of witnesses and documentary evidence. I scanned it, frowning over several names. One was a Dr. Truman McGill in Chicago, Illinois. I jotted down a note to ask the Whitmans if he had been their pediatrician.
Then I reviewed the notice of the state’s intent to use the following evidence: Sarah Whitman, a seven-month-old infant daughter of the defendant, Claire Whitman, died while in the sole care of the defendant.
I flipped to the attached brief containing the argument. The prosecution proposed that Claire’s knowledge about the circumstances of the first death should be considered by the jury in determining whether her actions in regard to Rebecca were culpably negligent.
Negligent? I skipped over the string of case law citations to read on. The Defendant having the knowledge as a result of the death of Sarah Whitman should have been expected to act differently in her care of and action toward Rebecca Whitman, to wit: The Defendant should have been aware of the risk inherent in not utilizing the apnea monitor on the infant Rebecca and that her disregard of that risk constituted a gross deviation from ordinary care.
Damn.
I punched the intercom. “Maria, get the Whitmans in to see me at once.”
As I sat back, I spotted a thick folder with a sticky note in Melissa’s precise handwriting. Whitman Financial Research. I glanced at my calendar and saw that I had a new client interview appointment in five minutes. No time to look at it now. I tucked the folder into my bag to review later.
An hour later Brian helped his wife into one of the chairs and then took the other. Claire’s condition alarmed me. It was as if some psychic vampire had drained her very life force. She was only an inanimate shell of her former self.
God, I hated what I had to do, but the couple hadn’t been truthful from the start.
I tapped one of the documents spread in front of me. “Who is Dr. McGill?”
Claire gasped, but it was Brian who answered. “He was our first baby’s pediatrician in Chicago.”
“Did he recommend you use an apnea monitor if you had another child?”
“Yes—”
Brian reached out and squeezed his wife’s hand. She subsided. Brian finished for her. “He may have discussed using a monitor, but I don’t believe he went as far as recommending one.”
I opened a folder of photos and flipped one