Cold-Blooded, page 22
Jocelyn opened her eyes. She blinked a few times. “The gun,” she said.
“What’s that?” Inez asked.
“The fucking gun,” Jocelyn said. She tried to get up from the couch, but she was like a turtle on its back. Inez watched her with a befuddled expression.
“Goddamn this couch!” Jocelyn blurted. She stuck out a hand but Inez didn’t take it. Instead, she put her hands on her hips and arched a brow. “Oh no,” Inez said. “I see how you’re getting—all angry and agitated. I think it’s best if you just stay down.”
Jocelyn stopped struggling and glared at her friend.
“Where you going to go, Rush?” Inez asked, her voice gentler. “They’re processing a crime scene in there.”
Jocelyn folded her arms over her chest. She knew it was Inez’s way of controlling the situation. She was doing her job and being nice about it. Jocelyn was a witness.
“The gun,” Jocelyn said again. “The one Francine threatened me with—it’s a .45 cal isn’t it?”
“Yeah, a Ruger P90. I don’t even think they make those anymore.”
“I need to talk to Trent.”
“Oh, you’ll be talking to Trent into the wee hours of the night down at the Roundhouse,” Inez said. “Don’t you worry about that.”
November 18, 2014
Jocelyn had been in plenty of interrogation rooms before, but never as the person being questioned. Inez had driven her to the Roundhouse and delivered her to the Homicide Unit, where she waited at Trent’s desk until one of the other detectives ushered her into a small, foul-smelling room with assurances that Trent would be right with her.
She paced for fifteen minutes before pulling out her phone and sending him a text. They hadn’t taken her phone—that was a good sign. She could see why some suspects went bat-shit crazy waiting in the tiny rooms, why some would say anything to get out of them. It wasn’t exactly a spa.
Trent came in five minutes later. He handed her a coke. “No coffee, right?” he smiled but it didn’t reach his eyes. He looked awful. Stubble covered his cheeks, and bags hung beneath his eyes.
“Not ready for coffee yet,” Jocelyn said.
“Me either.” Trent sat in a chair, legal pad and pen in his hand. “So, you’re left to your own devices for a few hours, and all hell breaks loose.”
“Trent,” Jocelyn said, touching his forearm. “I’m sorry about Knox.”
He looked down and away from her, clearing his throat. “Yeah, thanks.”
She gave him a moment to rein in whatever emotions he felt. She knew he had been close to Knox. Trent was one of the few people who still cared whether Knox lived or died. She hadn’t known Knox long, but she was still in shock herself. The man had died in her arms, and she still had trouble believing he was really gone.
After another series of throat-clearings, Trent finally said, “Okay, I know you told me everything that went down when we were at the scene, but I have two dead bodies on my hands so I gotta try to unfuck this clusterfuck. I need a formal statement.” He tapped his pen against the legal pad.
“Fine,” Jocelyn said. “But before we do that, you have to listen to me—Sydney Adams’ killer is still out there.”
“According to the confession I took from Cash Rigo just a few hours ago, Sydney Adams’ killer is in custody right now.”
Jocelyn shook her head vehemently, leaning in toward Trent. “No, no, no. Francine basically admitted to Knox that she framed Cash for the murder. It wasn’t him. There’s someone else.”
“Rush, I’ve got Sydney Adams’ jewelry in the Rigo home. I’ve got a confession and now, I’ve got a gun in the Rigo home. You said that Francine and Knox were discussing Sydney’s murder, Knox asked her if she kept the gun, and she went upstairs and got it. Jewelry. Confession. Gun. It’s a done deal.”
Jocelyn threw her hands in the air. “Haven’t you heard anything I’ve said all night? She framed him. And the gun? Yes, Knox asked her about it. Then yes, she went and got it, but listen to me—the confession is false. And the gun Francine had tonight was a Ruger P90, which shoots .45s, not .22s.”
Trent’s eyes widened as he put together what Jocelyn had earlier. He had likely been too overwhelmed by the scene and the bizarre scenario to make the connection, although Jocelyn was sure he would have once the dust settled. “The bullets they pulled out of Sydney were .22s.”
“Right, it’s not the same gun.”
“So she had two guns, and her husband used the other one to kill Sydney, and then he buried it in the park like he said.”
“No, someone else did the shooting. She orchestrated it, but someone else shot Sydney.”
“Yeah, her husband. Maybe they were both in on it, and she let him take the fall.”
“No, Trent. Come on. Cash didn’t know where he got the gun or even what caliber it was. He didn’t know how many times Sydney was shot. He was covering for his wife, but he didn’t do it. Francine even said he was weak and stupid. She said the food poisoning went wrong but still left enough time that he could have gone and killed Sydney. Could have. Meaning he didn’t. You saw Cash’s face when you showed him the crime scene photos. He didn’t do it.”
“How can we believe anything that crazy bitch said?” Trent asked. “I’ve got a confession, Rush.”
“Because she wanted us to know. That’s how Knox got her to talk—he knew she couldn’t stand nobody knowing how brilliant she was. The fun of it for her was in setting up her idiot husband.”
He rubbed a hand over his face. “Oh my God. Jesus H. This gives new meaning to the word clusterfuck.”
“Trent,” Jocelyn said. “Sydney Adams’ killer is still out there.”
“I have a confession,” he said again.
Jocelyn grabbed his forearm. “You know as well as I do that that confession is bogus. Even without Francine confirming it, it was a weak confession. A good defense lawyer could have it thrown out faster than you can say acquittal. My father would have had a field day with that joke of a confession. Trent, the killer is still out there.”
He swiped a hand over his eyes. He wouldn’t look at her. She had a bad feeling that he was about to stand up and walk out, leaving her there in the tiny interrogation room. “Trent,” she tried again. “Knox knew. He knew Cash was lying. That’s why he went to see Francine. Think about it. Up until yesterday, no one was more convinced of Cash’s guilt than Knox. For fourteen years, Knox believed that Cash killed Sydney. Within a few hours that all changed. You said it yourself, Knox was a great detective. The shooter is still out there. Cash didn’t kill Sydney. We have to find the shooter. The real shooter.”
Seconds, then minutes passed. Jocelyn could tell because she could hear the ticking of the wall clock above the table. She thought about how in the last month, the ambient noise she usually heard was Knox’s oxygen tank. Now he was gone.
Trent pushed his legal pad over to her. “First, your statement,” he said. “Then I’ll get Cash up here and tell him you killed his wife.”
November 18, 2014
Trent had Cash brought back up from the holding area. He’d been processed but not transferred. He would be arraigned in the morning and transferred to one of the city prisons. He still had on the khakis, sneakers, and blue polo shirt he’d worn the day before. A hint of stubble covered his cheeks. His hair was in disarray, his cheeks puffy. He looked as though he’d been sleeping. This time, Trent was waiting for him in the interrogation room.
Confusion lined Cash’s face. “It’s the middle of the night. What’s going on?”
Trent motioned to a chair. “Please. Sit.”
Cash rubbed his wrists as he took a seat. Trent didn’t wait any longer. He launched right into the news. “Mr. Rigo, I’m afraid I have some very bad news.”
Cash laughed drily. “Worse than me going to prison for the rest of my life?”
Trent didn’t respond right away. He squeezed the bridge of his nose before facing Cash again. “Your wife is dead.”
The smile froze on Cash’s face, almost as if he was operated by remote control and someone had hit pause.
“Mr. Rigo?” Trent said. “Did you hear me? Your wife, Francine, is dead. I’m very sorry.”
It was the approach Jocelyn favored, ripping off the bandage quickly. Dragging out bad news never changed the nature of it.
Finally, Cash said, “What? What are you talking about?”
“Late last night, a man—a former homicide detective—went to your home. His name was Augustus Knox. He worked Sydney’s original case.”
“I remember him,” Cash said. “Why are you telling me this? Did he kill my wife?”
Jocelyn’s stomach clenched. Up to that point, she had felt nothing, no guilt whatsoever about having ended Francine’s life. Francine was a monster. She had orchestrated the deaths of two young, smart, vibrant women. Who knows what they might have contributed to the world if given a chance. Two families had been destroyed. And that was the tip of the iceberg. She had faked her own rape, intentionally brought on the miscarriages of her own children, and poisoned people. She had killed Knox. The things Francine had done were unforgiveable, and Jocelyn wasn’t the forgiving type to begin with. She accepted that bad things—terrible, horrific things—happened in the world but in her mind, certain things could simply not be forgiven. Ever. Certain people, like Francine, were so devoid of humanity that they didn’t deserve forgiveness, or sympathy, or whatever you wanted to call it. Jocelyn had no feelings of warmth for a person like Francine.
But here was her husband. Jocelyn didn’t have a high opinion of Cash either, but in some ways, he’d been duped just as grandly as everyone else Francine had come across in her lifetime. Jocelyn felt a kernel of sympathy for the man until she remembered him confessing to his inappropriate sexual encounter with Sydney. She waited for the guilt to hit her or creep up on her, but there was nothing.
“No,” Trent said. “Knox did not kill her. Your wife invited him in for coffee. She poisoned him. We’re not sure what she used, but we know it was in the coffee—or on the mug that she gave him. Toxicology will take several weeks. He called Ms. Rush, who came to his aid. Your wife attempted to shoot Ms. Rush, at which point Ms. Rush shot her. She was shot in the chest. She died on the scene.”
For a long, pregnant moment, Cash stared at Trent, his expression morphing from puzzled shock to disbelief. Then he burst into laughter. Great, loud belly laughter. He doubled over, holding his stomach, laughing until tears ran down his cheeks. Trent put a hand on Rigo’s shoulder. “Mr. Rigo, this is serious. Your wife was shot and killed in your home last night.”
Cash sat up and wiped the tears from his face. He shook his head. “I don’t believe you. My wife hated guns. You said she shot at someone? She would never have a gun in our house.”
“But she did, Mr. Rigo. She’d been keeping it with her wedding dress.”
Cash shook his head, incredulous. “I don’t know what you’re trying to do here—if you want me to confess to something else I didn’t—I mean to something else, but you’ve gotten everything out of me that you’re going to get. In fact, I think I probably should get a lawyer now that you’re making such outlandish claims.”
“You do need a lawyer, Mr. Rigo. You’ve been charged with first degree murder. Your wife suggested to Mr. Knox that your confession was false. If that’s true, you will need a good lawyer to get the charges dropped.”
“Get them dropped? You just said that my wife told you my confession was bullshit. If I say it is too, you can just drop them, right?”
“It’s not that simple. You confessed. Your wife, before she died, didn’t say you were innocent. She implied it. She gave us nothing to go on before she was killed. This doesn’t exonerate you.”
Cash ran a hand through his hair and laughed again. “Why are we even having this conversation? What are you trying to pull? My wife is not dead.”
Trent squeezed the bridge of his nose again. He sighed heavily and picked his phone up from the table. His movements were slow, as though his body was weighed down with exhaustion and grief. She knew he hadn’t yet had time to process Knox’s death. He scrolled and then handed Cash the phone. In the transfer, Jocelyn saw that it was a photo of Francine’s body from the neck up taken at the scene. “Is this your wife?”
Cash stared at the photo for a long time. His hands trembled. The shaking made its way from his hands to his shoulders until his chair creaked beneath him. Gently, Trent reached over and took the phone from Cash’s hands. The man kept staring at his hands, at the empty space where the phone had been. “Oh my God, Francine. Francine!”
He howled her name over and over, holding his empty palms upward as though he was waiting for something. Trent left him there. A moment later, he met Jocelyn in the room she’d been watching from, the same room she and Knox had been in just hours earlier.
“Well, that didn’t go well,” Trent said.
“He’s in shock.” She pointed at the television screen where they could see Cash rocking back and forth in his chair, weeping into his open hands, his howls piercing in the confines of the tiny room.
Trent nodded. “I’m going to have to get him some medical attention if he doesn’t calm down.”
“She’s controlled nearly all of his adult life. He confessed to murder for her. Her being killed is not something he’s prepared to deal with.” Jocelyn said. “You could make the charges go away, you know. We both know he didn’t kill Sydney.”
“He confessed, Rush. Besides, when he comes out of this we might need his help identifying Francine’s associates. We may need leverage in the future. This guy fucked around with underage girls, students. He admitted to it, but I can’t do dick about it because the statute has run on any rape charges we could have slapped him with. Fuck him. I’m not doing him any favors.”
Jocelyn wasn’t the only person who had trouble with forgiveness.
November 18, 2014
It was past dawn when Jocelyn finally got home. The sun broke over the horizon, flooding the city with what seemed to her like an unforgiving light. Trent had given her a ride from the Roundhouse back to the Rigos’ so she could get her car. They drove in silence, both too exhausted, too shocked, and too numb to speak. He left her at her vehicle with no more than a nod and drove off. She blasted the heater. The Rigos’ home had been cordoned off with crime scene tape. A few neighbors stood outside talking, likely discussing what they thought had happened. Gawkers, Inez called them.
She had never been so grateful to be home. Camille and Olivia sat across from one another at the dining room table eating waffles slathered with whipped cream.
“Mommy!” Olivia exclaimed.
Jocelyn lifted the girl out of her chair, hugging her until she said, “Mommy, you’re squeezing me too much.”
Jocelyn kissed her and inhaled the fruity scent of her shampoo, the smell instantly easing some of her anxiety. She set Olivia back down and fingered the girl’s ponytail. “Aunt Camille did a good job,” she said. Olivia was dressed and ready for school, her hair in a neater ponytail than Jocelyn had ever been able to give her.
Olivia shook her head, swishing the ponytail back and forth. “Can Aunt Camille pick me up from school today?”
“Not today, honey,” Jocelyn said. “She’s not on the pick-up list, but you’ll see her after school, I’m sure.”
Olivia pouted. A vertical line appeared over the bridge of her nose. “Can’t we put her on the list?”
Jocelyn suppressed a sigh and smiled tightly. She had neither the time nor the energy for this conversation. Olivia had a point. It seemed so simple. Put Camille on the pick-up list. Why not? Camille had come a long way from the junkie who’d put her infant to bed in the bathroom sink of a meth lab. But Jocelyn wasn’t ready for this. She hadn’t really been prepared to see the two of them gel so perfectly. Sure, Camille had visited before and often skyped with Olivia, but this visit was different. Camille was now a year clean, and she seemed more clear-headed and focused. The milestone had made her stronger, more self-assured. She was more attentive to Olivia; she showed more interest in the girl. Jocelyn’s stomach knotted. How could she say no without confusing Olivia and hurting Camille’s feelings?
“Honey, I’m only going to be here for a couple of weeks. I think the pick-up list is for people who live here all the time,” Camille said, smiling warmly at Olivia. She reached across the table and squeezed the girl’s hand gently. “We can spend time together when you come home from school, okay?”
Olivia beamed, her annoyance with her mother forgotten. “Okay. Want to watch Disney Junior with me before I go to school?”
“Tell you what, I’ll do these dishes, and then I’ll be right in.”
Olivia bounded off into the living room where the Disney channel was already playing.
As Camille started clearing their plates, Jocelyn said, “Camille, I’m sorry. I—”
Camille stopped her, the warm and genuine smile directed toward Jocelyn this time. “There was a time when it never even would have occurred to you to try to spare my feelings. That you tried just now—that you even wanted to—means a lot to me. It’s fine. You’re her mother. You’ve done an amazing job. I don’t need to be on the pick-up list.”
“Thank you,” Jocelyn said.
Camille paused, halfway to the kitchen, and winked at Jocelyn. “And I’m not going to try to take her from you.”
“I didn’t—”
“Yeah, you did. I can see it all over you every time you watch us together.”
Jocelyn followed her sister into the kitchen as Camille started washing the breakfast dishes. “You’re different this time.”
“I’m starting my life, Joc. Really starting it. My life. I haven’t been in a position to do a damn thing about my life since I was fifteen. It’s liberating. I’m clean, I have resources. I have you and Olivia, friends in California. Real friends who understand what I’ve been through and care for me anyway. I feel . . . hope.”
