Good Man Gone, page 22
Lexi recoiled at the notion. Even a ham fisted hacker with enough clout to penetrate her Wi-Fi could claim permanent accessibility to her private world. “I’ll think about it,” she replied. Though she knew she wouldn’t.
The temperature dropped as night took a firmer grip on the city. Lexi exhaled. “I’ve found Trent Barnard’s defence barrister,” she informed Tarant. “He believes Joanne’s statement might provide Trent with an alibi for his wife’s murder. I’m visiting the prison with him tomorrow. Perhaps we’ll get some answers.”
“Right.” Hurt infused Tarant’s voice. “I thought you’d taken sick leave.”
“I have,” Lexi replied. “Grant will drive us. I only need to sit beside him and listen.” She turned onto her stomach to take the pressure from her bruised spine. “Oh, and Lachlan Mortimer warned me away from the dead priest’s murder. Can you believe that?”
“Did he give a reason?” Glass tinkled in the background. The sound of sloshing liquid followed. Tarant sipped at something which burned, judging by his held breath. Whiskey.
“He’s adamant about keeping me out of both Father Donald’s death and the Trent Barnard case. He called it a long con. What could he mean by that?”
“Did you ask him?” Tarant stated the obvious, and it irritated Lexi.
“Lachlan doesn’t answer questions,” she snapped. “He asks them. But he definitely has a wasp up his ass over it. Garima got the same fatherly chat. How could three murders involve a long con? It’s like a riddle.”
“Perhaps your trip with Grant will provide the answer.” Pique loaded his voice with an insipid green jealousy. “Text when you’re home and I’ll pop round and grab the watch. If you’re not busy.” The acidic words burned Lexi’s ear. Did he believe she’d jump into bed with a new acquaintance just to spite him?
Nahla stalked back into the office as Lexi laid on the soft rug. She brushed her orange body across her mistress’ face, spreading loose hair over her nose and mouth. And then, to reassert her feline dominance, she clambered onto Lexi’s chest and stared down at her. “You know what?” Lexi asked as claws kneaded her shirt. Purring started like the firing of an engine and Nahla’s eyes became pleasurable slits. “We’re definitely better off on our own,” Lexi finished sadly.
She woke with reluctance the next morning. The nagging ache in her temple radiated from her injured jaw, but ibuprofen banished it to a dull thump. Lexi showered and dressed before grabbing a slice of toast for breakfast. She’d disliked the haggard face staring back at her from the bathroom mirror. A diet of coffee and pain pills did her no favours.
Make up covered her facial injuries, and a high-collared shirt masked the bruises across her throat. Smart black trousers produced the appearance of a legal assistant. Grant Herbert hadn’t suggested she lie to the prison authorities, but matching his lawyer’s garb might allay unnecessary questions. She sat at the table with a mug of sharp tasting peppermint tea and considered her sprawling case.
It stood to reason that Trent Barnard sought an early release from prison. Through any means. She doubted he would tell her the truth. Lexi formulated questions in her mind, which required simple answers. Liars found it harder to manipulate a yes or no response.
When the smart BMW convertible drew up to the curb just after ten o’clock, the handsome driver found Lexi waiting. She’d set more traps inside her home and added some entertaining features. Three spiteful mousetraps lurked inside the drawers, most likely to attract a search. The sticky hall drawer, her underwear drawer, and the one in her desk. A giggle threatened to burst in her chest as she imagined an unwitting intruder falling foul of them. She hoped it hurt and caused them to bleed. Then she could test their DNA and begin her search to identify them.
Grant Herbert looked better in reality than his website images portrayed. Even the media photos hadn’t conveyed his powerful musculature. Lexi expected him to wait while she tugged open the passenger door and settled herself. But he surprised her by cutting the engine and leaping from the vehicle. He surged around the front of the car with his right hand outstretched. His effervescent enthusiasm preceded him. Lexi found her hand engulfed in his strong fingers. “Pleased to meet you, Lexi,” he said. With an effortless movement, he hauled open the passenger door and bowed his head. “Your carriage awaits.” His dark hair ruffled against the light breeze and his blue eyes sparkled.
Laughing, she sank into the comfortable leather seat and watched him close the door. His movements held an inherent capability. Patrick Allen would have called it mana, that elusive authority which ran through his genealogical line. The lawyer oozed confidence. Lexi imagined him as an immovable force in the court room. Adorned in wig and gown, he must radiate a formidable power.
He slipped behind the steering wheel with a smile and fired the engine. Lexi noticed no wedding ring on his left hand. Her mind slipped to Tarant’s spiteful inference, and she smirked. Perhaps an assignation with the gorgeous lawyer would cheer her up.
“It’s a beautiful day,” Grant said. He blinked up at the clear azure sky and slipped a pair of expensive sunglasses onto his nose. “Mind if we drive with the top down?”
When Lexi shook her head, he activated a button on the steering column and the sleek roof slid backwards. A soft breeze ruffled Lexi’s ponytail, and she lifted her face to the sunshine.
Chapter 50
Grant Herbert drove into the small town of Te Awamutu and searched for a parking space on the busy main street. He executed a perfect parallel park and closed the hood of the vehicle. “New Zealand is changing,” he observed with a knowing smile. “I used to leave the top down and come back to everything where I left it. Nowadays, some little jerk will hot-wire the engine and take the whole thing. If they don’t succeed in that, they’ll slash the seats just because they can.” He shook his head and left the vehicle.
He caught the door handle and held it open for her. The perfect gentleman. She hadn’t become ingrained enough in feminism to dislike his attentiveness. It formed the opposite to Tarant’s oblivion. He would have left her to struggle from the low vehicle, looking back only to wonder why she didn’t follow.
Lexi took the offered hand and bounced onto the curb. Grant released her fingers, and she glanced around the street. She hadn’t yet seen the black motorcycle, but prickles along her spine told her the unnamed rider lurked nearby.
“Let’s grab a coffee and talk,” Grant suggested. His outstretched arm indicated a side street. Lexi followed him, still mindful of her surroundings and potential vulnerability. Her smart trousers contained no pockets deep enough to conceal her night stick. But the small emergency bag slung across her body contained a spiteful brand of pepper spray. Her phone and credit card occupied the remaining space within the pocket.
In a quiet cafe away from the main drag, Grant ordered two mugs of coffee. He waved away Lexi’s attempt to pay for her own. “It’s on me,” he remarked. He nodded to the raven haired barista as he swiped a glossy credit card before the machine. Turning, he herded Lexi towards a table beside the window. A spindle with the number ten hanging from a decorative frog’s outstretched hand clattered onto the table. Grant pulled out Lexi’s chair and ensured she’d settled before taking his own seat opposite her.
“Let’s strategise,” he said. His smart navy tie bulged against the table as he leaned forward. The wind in their faces had prevented conversation on the drive down. It gave Lexi time to gather her thoughts. She sensed Grant hadn’t wanted to talk either. The adjournment of his other case seemed an unwelcome obstacle. He’d frowned and tapped the steering wheel during the drive as though pondering a conundrum.
Lexi smiled as the barista delivered their drinks. She waited for the girl to return to her coffee machine before answering. “This is a fact finding mission for me,” she said. An eager sip of the coffee resulted in a burned tongue. “This case began with a request to find a lost friend. It’s cycled back to a murdered priest and an incarcerated man. I don’t know how any of it fits together. Just that it does.”
Grant gave a definitive nod. “Perhaps I should begin,” he offered.
If Lexi thought her own journey haphazard, then the lawyer’s proved even more confusing. She stared at him when he finished, her eyes narrowed. “Trent Barnard hired you before the end of his parole?” She cocked her head. “I don’t understand. He expected an early release, didn’t he? Do inmates require legal assistance in a parole hearing?”
Grant’s eyebrows waggled as though enjoying her meander through his history. “Not from a barrister charging five hundred dollars an hour.”
Lexi sat back in her chair. “So, why then? I assumed you defended him from the second slew of charges. Did he expect them to come to light and hedge his bets?”
“No.” Grant sipped his cooling drink and wrinkled his nose. He glanced back to the counter as though considering asking for a fresh coffee. But a glance at his watch sent him back to the original. “The second case seemed to throw him somehow. During our first meetings, he appeared confident and edgy. But after the police charged him with two more deaths, he lost something fundamental in his psyche. He maintained his innocence throughout the trial.”
“I read about it in old newspapers,” Lexi confessed. “It sounded like a slam dunk. Why did you take such a risky case?”
“Because it damaged my reputation?” Grant gave a sad, slow nod. “It certainly cost me more than it did him. The other partners disagreed with my decision from the outset. If I could go back in time, I’d recuse myself from that very first meeting. When I lost and Barnard received another double life sentence, our work suffered. The senior partner called my bluff. He wanted to sell his share and retire. Neither I nor the other partner could afford to buy him out.”
“Oh.” Lexi’s lips rounded in sympathy. “That’s why you sold to Kelly’s crew.”
“Kelly Lomas?” Rapid blinking masked his thoughts. “You know her?”
Lexi nodded. She didn’t say how or why. But she wondered if Lachlan Mortimer had inadvertently bank-rolled the takeover of War, Long, and Herbert. She shivered as a sense of dirtiness clawed along her spine. “Why did you persist?” she pressed.
Grant hauled himself from his thoughtful reverie. “Because I believed Trent Barnard was innocent.” He sighed. “And I still do.” He fiddled with his mug, passing the handle from his left to his right hand until it spun in a slow arc. Milky foam slopped inside it.
“What about his first conviction?” Lexi asked. A couple entered the cafe and sat at an adjacent table. It caused her to lower her voice. “He pleaded guilty.”
“He didn’t kill his wife,” Grant whispered. His next sentence shocked her. “I believe he’s innocent of all three murders. It’s why I put everything on the line last time.” Beige latte surged over the side of the mug and pooled on the table. “And why I will again.”
Chapter 51
“You think he’s innocent of everything?” Lexi struggled to keep the mystified tone from her voice. “But he pleaded guilty to killing Liza. The other two women died the same way. Your faith in him makes no sense.”
Grant nodded. His brow furrowed in a deep line. “But it does. All or nothing. He killed them all, or he killed none of them. I believe the latter.”
“Ohkay.” Lexi drew out her reply. “So, why did he plead guilty to Liza’s murder? If he’d defended himself against that and won, the second lot of charges couldn’t have stuck.”
Grant abandoned his coffee. His left hand created a circular motion in the air. “Return to the beginning,” he urged her. “Why did a man due for parole require a barrister?”
Lexi shrugged. “Why then?” She hated games of twenty questions. It reminded her of painful moments when schoolteachers drew attention to her. The other children stared at her, smirking as her cheeks reddened. No, her mother wouldn’t attend parents’ evening. No, she’d rather not make a Mother’s Day card. Lexi jerked as she realised Grant had resumed speaking.
“Trent Barnard engaged me to fight his original conviction. A year before he became eligible for parole. The police made a series of errors in their evidence gathering and in their questioning. Enough to suggest he made no formal confession of guilt. A hungry detective and a corrupt lawyer saw him incarcerated for a crime he didn’t commit.”
Lexi shook her head. “But he stood in court and entered a guilty plea,” she maintained. “No one can force another person to do that. It’s the moment of truth. The judge hears the defendant’s voice. They get to say whatever they want, regardless of coercion or mishandled evidence. It’s between the defendant and the court.”
Grant blew out a sad breath. “If only things were that simple,” he sighed. “Trent Barnard suffers from bi-polar disease. How long do you think it takes for a man under extreme stress to enter a manic phase? Deny him his medication and you can guarantee his inability to think rationally. He remembers nothing of his court appearance and little of the first years of his prison sentence. He spent a lot of time in the hospital wing.” Grant cleared his throat. “I should also warn you before you meet him. Trent Barnard suffered a severe beating in his fourth year of incarceration. If you’re expecting the man from the newspaper articles, don’t.”
Lexi ached to ask for details. She needed information to prepare herself. But Grant didn’t offer any, and it seemed ghoulish to request more. She exhaled. “So, someone else killed Liza Barnard after they’d already murdered two other women? And Trent Barnard took the punishment for all three?” She closed her eyes and tilted her head back. Through her lashes, she isolated individual clumps of fly dung crowding around the light fittings. Grant waited while she ordered her thoughts. “Someone else believes in him,” she mused. “They borrowed his father’s identity and paid Leon and Associates to investigate that photograph.” Her lips pursed into narrow lines. “And whoever killed those women silenced Father Donald, too. The police haven’t made the link. But the priest’s killer used a wire garrote.” Lexi tutted and stared at the lawyer. He’d put everything on the line for truth. His faith and sacrifice left her in awe.
The metallic clang of keys and doors left a painful imprint on Lexi’s memory. She’d left her handbag in the glove box of Grant’s vehicle, thinking herself prepared for entry into the prison. Not so. The steel rings holding her boot laces in place upset the metal detector the second she stepped within range. An alarm pealed into the silence and a red strobe lit up the tiny room. A burly male guard anticipated her on the other side, flanked by another holding a dog on a leash.
Grant waited with consummate patience while Lexi removed her boots and stepped through the arch again. The guard nodded and bid her to walk towards him when the alarm remained silent. He set about her with a wand detector while his colleague let the dog sniff her boots. Finding them acceptable, the man lifted them and brought them to her. She watched with an aching embarrassment as they also received the wand treatment. The ancient Doc Martens looked worse for wear. They’d walked her through a decade of hardship, sadness, and progress. A glance at the socks peeping from beneath the hem of her trousers revealed the odd pairing. Her second toe protruded through a hole in the pink left one. Its blue mate appeared whole and smug.
Grant stepped through the machine without incident. He’d left his car keys and cell phone with a guard sitting behind a plexi-glass window. Pushing a paper receipt into his pocket, he paused while Lexi fastened the six million kilometres of boot laces. “Ready?” he asked as she rose. Her cheeks flamed pink and sweat beaded on her brow. She nodded, though she’d never felt less ready for anything.
The guard with the dog led them to a sparse room at the front of the prison. “Someone will bring Mr Barnard to you,” he said with a polite smile. The heavy door closed behind him with a resounding clang. It held a horrible ring of finality.
Grant indicated that Lexi should sit. She eyed the metal table and chairs with reluctance. Boxy and thick bolts secured them to the linoleum floor. The scent of fresh paint added a cleanliness to the room. A peaceful, sedentary green encouraged calm thoughts. Lexi wished to remain standing and held off until the last possible moment. Every nerve ending recoiled against sitting in a metal chair, which wouldn’t move at will. It held the illusion of an elaborate trap.
Unconcerned, Grant sat. He behaved like a man who spent much of his life in windowless rooms. The guard allowed him to keep his pad of lined paper and a single pencil. He set them on the table and lined them up parallel with the edge.
Lexi jumped like a frightened kitten as the door squeaked open. A heavyset guard leaned forward, his hands gripping the handles of a blue wheelchair. The occupant assisted him, pushing the rubber wheels with the flat of his palms to navigate the door frame. His head bowed low over the task, his body folded in on itself. Greying hair parted around a healed crater on his crown.
Lexi held her breath. She thudded belatedly into the metal chair as Grant rose. Cursing herself, she mimicked the lawyer’s action, bouncing upright as though stung.
“Trent.” Grant’s warm tones filled the room as the guard pushed the wheelchair beneath a corner of the table. The presence of the fixings prevented another alternative. The man craned his head upward, the action causing his chin to jut to one side. His gaze settled on Lexi and heat seared her chest.
Chapter 52
A copy of Samuel Barnard peered up at her from a face ravaged by illness and defeat. It shook her. The son appeared older than the man she’d coached through purchasing an android tablet.
“Mr Barnard,” she managed with a nod. She fixed a weak smile on her lips, though her neck wobbled like an inadequate dandelion stalk. Trent Barnard shot her a frown, and she pursed her lips. She realised too late that a man who’d spent almost eighteen years living with the worst of humanity knew fake when he saw it. She retook her seat and spread her fingers over her thighs. Their dampness worked its way through the fabric of her trousers. Flecks of lint stuck to her fingers.
