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“Because of that bitch who ID’d me? Her testimony won’t hold up in court.”
“Oh, no? Why not?”
His full smile showed a row of broken and rotting teeth. Remembering what her mother had told her this man had done to her, Lucy almost threw up.
“Talk to my lawyer,” Wakerby said.
“I’m talking to you.” She would find her sister. Period. “I heard your victim describe what you did to her.” Her voice was calm. Nonjudgmental. “I’ve been at this awhile. Heard a lot of testimony. But what you did—original…and smart. The perfect crime. If technology hadn’t caught up with you, you’d have gotten away with it forever. You’d have paid a ticket for that broken light on your car when you were brought in and you would have walked free. What you did to that woman was wrong, but I have to tell you, I’m impressed by your ability to pull it off.”
There were days Lucy didn’t like how the job made her act. This was one of those days.
Sitting low in his chair with his ankle across his knee, Wakerby watched her, the slimy smile on his face making her angry enough to cry.
“Yeah, you were the man,” she continued. “You did what other men only dream of doing. Had yourself a beautiful young woman, did exactly what you wanted with her and then threw her to the curb.”
Wakerby’s smile grew.
“Except now there’s a snag,” she continued. “A DNA snag.”
He was still smiling. But the smile had stopped growing. Lucy registered the hit. The interrogation score.
“You’re with Judge Landly,” she continued. “He’s a good judge. Intelligent and fair. He listens to both sides and pays attention to mitigators.
“You know what those are?” Lucy asked, her voice soft. Curious.
“I know what they are, bitch.” Wakerby wasn’t smiling now.
Lucy used every ounce of her strength to sit there, to keep her demeanor soft, feminine and calm. “Yeah, extenuating circumstances that will reduce your sentence. And that’s what you need to be thinking about right now. You need
to figure out how you’re going to spin this to make you look less like the fiend the jury is going to find you. You know, why you couldn’t help doing what you did.”
She paused. Now was the time, while it was just the two of them, for Wakerby to start justifying what he’d done. If she was doing her job as well as she normally did.
Judging by the twitch in his chin, she was pretty sure she was doing fine.
Wakerby’s smile had faded to a grin. He still watched her, saying nothing.
Once she’d unearthed the identity of a man—Sloan Wakerby—who’d fixed a broken awning at a bar down by the river twenty-five years before, Lucy had only needed perseverance to find him.
She was going to get this piece of shit.
“Here’s another little hint about Judge Landly,” Lucy added. “If you’re honest in his courtroom, you’ve earned yourself a mitigator.”
The man across from her didn’t budge.
“You know what the penalty is for child abduction and murder in this state, Mr. Wakerby? Child abduction and rape carry significant penalties. The minimum sentence for murder is forty-five years.”
Wakerby’s grin grew tight.
“Ok, Mr. Wakerby. I guess we’re done here, then.” Picking up her folder, Lucy stood. She motioned for the guard and moved to the door. Just before the uniformed man let her out, she turned back.
“You’ll be hearing from your lawyer soon, Mr. Wakerby. You aren’t just up for rape. Your victim had a baby with her who hasn’t been seen since you kidnapped them from the grocery store that day. We’re going for murder.” The D.A. hadn’t made a decision yet on the murder charge. But Lucy was pretty sure he was going to. “Have a good day.”
Amber Locken might have her ass for the visit. But she’d wiped the smile off Sloan Wakerby’s face.
A melia Hardy was almost ninety, with steel-gray hair pinned in a tight bun on the back of her head. She’d been in the same apartment, about seven miles from the ocean and twelve from the Comfort Cove tourist district, for more than seventy years, she told him. Using the same furniture, Ramsey suspected. The small living room was clean, uncluttered and yet very full. Books lined the built-in shelves and figurines stood in front of them.
The claw-footed cherry coffee table and matching end tables bore white doilies and live plants, clear-glass coasters and magazines.
