Southern Fraud 04 Moral Hazard Read online

  “Maybe that’s true. Maybe you’re not dirty, but that might not matter in the long run. When this gets out, your reputation as a law enforcement officer will be ruined. At the very least.”

  That might be true, but I was really trying not to care about that.

  “There are more important things than my reputation as a law enforcement officer.”

  Tripp snorted. “You say that….”

  He was right. I had often said that I didn’t care about my job or professional reputation, that I’d become a cop solely to catch my sister’s rapist, but with the truth of what I’d done being exposed to little slivers of daylight, I wasn’t so sure I was ready to sacrifice my livelihood on the altar of justice.

  It was too late for those thoughts now, so I forced aside my confusion, hid it in a little corner of my brain.

  Standing, I grabbed the chain of Tripp’s swing and turned him to face me.

  “I became a cop for this very reason: to arrest Tricia’s rapist. That’s it. I did what I felt was necessary to achieve that goal, and if I lose my job because of it, then I’ll have to live with that.” I paused. “I want you to understand that I didn’t do this to hurt you.”

  “I know that.”

  He shook his head and pulled away so that the chain fell out of my grasp.

  Feeling the distance as keenly as if Tripp had suddenly retreated across the Grand Canyon, I searched his eyes. Sadness crept over me. His disappointment was palpable, and I choked on it.

  “I don’t understand you anymore,” he murmured. “I don’t understand why you would risk so much to catch a suspect who ultimately would have been identified by the police through the proper channels. You could lose everything over this.”

  I cleared my throat, trying not to allow too much emotion to leak into my voice.

  “I lost everything the day Tricia was raped. I don’t have much else to lose.”

  Realizing that I’d just spoken a half-truth, I looked away from Tripp. I had lost a lot the day Tricia was raped—stability, security, family—but I still had plenty left to lose. I’d built a nice life for myself, had developed good friendships, and now everything was at risk.

  “Plus, I was trying to do the right thing.” I added. “I didn’t intend to make trouble.”

  Tripp sighed, and when he spoke again, his voice was soft and resigned.

  “I know you didn’t mean to do anything to harm your sister or anyone else, but intentions don’t matter. Only results. Slidell could walk.”

  At that, my throat closed completely. Since deciding to break the law and remove a sample of the DNA evidence, I’d firmly believed I’d done the right thing. I recited all the reasons to myself as I sat under Tripp’s watchful eye. I knew better than most what happens as cases age—they can be forgotten—and that’s not even taking into account how often evidence gets lost, stolen, or tainted, even while in police care. That sample was an insurance policy against my sister’s future.

  I had never regretted my decision, but now, shame galloped over me. I’d broken the law and been caught. Fair and square. Now, taking that sample seemed like a foolish choice, one that could subvert my entire life’s work.

  “Not to mention the fact that you’ve put me in a pretty shitty predicament. Pardon my language,” Tripp said, his Southern gentleman kicking in. “I could go down with you as an accessory after the fact.”

  His voice had gone steely again, and I faltered.

  “Because you gave me those files on Slidell, you mean? You didn’t give me anything that I couldn’t have gotten through public records.”

  “No, not because of those files. Because you’ve just confessed a felony to me, and as much as I want to tear you a new one for messing with that evidence, I also really want to find a way to help you out of this mess.”

  My eyes widened as the realization hit me. Tripp might not be my enemy, and he wouldn’t rat me out, but my confession put him in an untenable position. I’d placed a hefty burden on his conscience. Now Tripp was in the very position I’d tried to save him from by not telling him about the evidence theft years ago. He knew about my crime, and he was conflicted about what to do with that knowledge.

  I sat heavily on the swing again.

  Good Lord, what had I been thinking? What kind of friend was I to put him in that position?

  “I didn’t think. I shouldn’t have said a—”

  “Yes, you should have told me. I came here to find out the truth. But you need to do more than just tell me. You must come forward immediately and explain why you tampered with that piece of evidence. Because there’s a lot at stake here, more than the case against Slidell.”

  I blinked.

  “Your freedom for one,” he said flatly. “Are you willing to lose that? Because that’s a real possibility. The DA is serious about this, Jules. She called in the GBI, and mark my words, their investigation is not going to end with a little slap on the wrist.”

  I thought that over in silence, and then Tripp added, “I want to be on your side. I want to help, but if you don’t come forward, my hands will be tied. I’ll have to do my duty.”

  Translation: Tripp wouldn’t allow my wrongs to ruin him as well. If questioned, he’d have to reveal what I’d admitted to him.

  God, I wish you weren’t always so noble, I thought.

  “I don’t blame you for that,” I said.

  I stared at the ground, letting the swing turn me from side to side and watching as my toes made funny patterns in the sand below. From the direction of the parking lot, I heard children’s voices and the rapid tap of approaching feet. I looked up to see two kids, probably brother and sister, bundled against the cold, dragging their mother toward the playground where Tripp and I sat.

  Tripp noticed them too and stood, and I followed his lead, offering the swing set to those it was designed for. We were too old, too jaded, to go back to childhood now.

  “I’ll think about it,” I whispered as we stepped onto the jogging path together.

  Tripp turned, giving me a hard look, and I knew he wanted me to do more than think about it. He wanted me to trot over to the judge and spill my guts right away, but good decisions aren’t made in the heat of the moment. I needed time to think and plan. A lot rode on my next action—my sister’s case, my freedom—and I needed to do things right. Whatever that meant.

  “I said I’ll think about it,” I repeated firmly.

  “You’d better think fast, then,” Tripp warned. “Before long, the GBI will put the pieces together, and then it will be too late.”

  As much as I didn’t want to admit it, Tripp was probably right. Coming forward likely gave me the greatest chance of clearing up this mess, but a teeny, tiny part of me thought that staying quiet and letting the situation play out for a while might be a better option.

  Maybe it would all just blow over.

  Yeah, sure it would. That sort of thing always happened.

  Two

  Tripp trudged back to his car and sped away from Middle Mercer Park, leaving me alone on the path. I stared in the direction he’d gone and then checked the time. Though a scant twenty minutes remained before I was due at a DOI staff meeting, I needed a moment to gather my thoughts, figure out what to do next. Forget the future. I needed to figure out what had just happened.

  I plunked down on a nearby bench, arms inert in my lap, and listened to the sound of the children playing in the background. If not for their voices, I would have felt completely isolated. And even with their high-pitched squeals of joy to anchor me, I felt as if I’d been cast adrift on a ship being pummeled by a gale-force wind.

  What could be done to steady my course?

  I understood very well that nothing could be done.

  Tripp knew the truth, and the GBI was likely not far behind. I would be suspect numero uno on the GBI’s list.

  Sister of the victim with a personal stake in the case? Cop with access to evidence and the know-how to defeat tamper-resistant tape?
r />   Motive, means, and opportunity.

  Check, check, and check.

  It was only a matter of time before the arrest warrant was served.

  Weak and heartsick, I slid my phone from my coat pocket and turned it over in my hands a few times before scrolling to my sister’s name.

  Tricia’s picture flashed on the screen. Though it was a candid shot I’d captured of her looking over her shoulder at me in a moment of happiness, I swear she was gazing up at me now with an accusatory expression. Like I’d just kicked her dog or something.

  I really wanted to talk to her, but it probably wasn’t a good idea.

  After my announcement of Slidell’s arrest, Tricia could barely bring herself to look at me, much less speak to me. In fact, neither she nor my mother said much of anything for a while. The utter lack of conversation made for a couple of incredibly awkward Sunday lunches.

  Looking back, I should have expected my mother and sister to need an adjustment period. After all, I’d been searching for Tricia’s attacker for years, but the rest of my family wasn’t aware of my investigation. When I’d sprung the news of Slidell’s existence and arrest, it had been like setting off a brick of C-4 in the middle of the dining room.

  My father needed no such time to acclimate. He had been thrilled by the surprise.

  Just when I was certain that the news had divided my family forever, the unexpected happened.

  One painfully quiet Sunday, Tricia had looked up from her pot roast and asked, “Will they make me testify at the trial?”

  My eyes widened in surprise at this choice of topic, and I gaped at her for a moment. Time froze. Tricia paused with her fork in midair as if the answer to her question would decide whether or not she took the next bite. Whether time continued or not.

  Then, I noticed that my mother too had frozen mid-action. Previously busy refilling her sweet tea, she now watched me with the pitcher hovering above her glass.

  I had to be careful.

  “You said you didn’t want to press charges,” I began.

  “That’s right,” Tricia said.

  I took a deep breath. I didn’t understand her decision at all, but we’d had this discussion a thousand times. I didn’t think one more turn around the verbal merry-go-round would help me understand why she didn’t want to send her attacker to jail with a kick-me sign taped to his ass.

  “Tripp knew you refused to testify before the charges were filed,” I explained.

  My mother and sister stared at me.

  “The state wouldn’t have filed the charges unless they could prove guilt beyond a reasonable doubt without you. They have the DNA, your police report and statement, and a mountain of other evidence.”

  Tricia dropped her fork and huffed, “You didn’t answer my question. Can they make me testify or not?”

  “No,” I said, looking directly into her terrified blue eyes.

  They could ask her to testify, but they couldn’t make her do anything.

  “No?” my mother and sister repeated in unison.

  “No, they cannot force you to testify.”

  After that conversation, time started again. My mother poured her tea, and my sister picked up her fork and ate.

  Since that meal, Tricia had begun asking me how the case was going, sparking my hope. Maybe she wasn’t as cut off as I’d thought. Maybe she cared about justice more than she wanted to admit.

  Now all that progress might be ruined.

  I glanced down at Tricia’s image again. She was already on an emotional roller coaster, and I didn’t want to add another stomach-dropping plunge to the ride. No way was I going to tell her that the case might be thrown out just when she was beginning to believe that she could have justice for herself without the trauma of testifying.

  I sighed at the irony of the fact that I’d both helped find her attacker and potentially destroyed the case against him in one fell swoop.

  Go me.

  I glanced around the park. The kids had gone from swinging to tossing stones in a small wet-weather creek. They had moved on, and I had to do the same. I couldn’t wallow in uncertainty any longer. I would be late for my meeting, but it probably didn’t matter.

  I had no idea how I would concentrate on work with disaster looming over me.

  The DOI was stationed in an almost-antebellum, two-story house that had been converted to an office building in downtown Mercer. The facade’s old Southern charm did not quite make it across the threshold. Antique moldings might line the floors, ceilings, and doors, but the remaining interior decor looked as if it hailed from the lobby of a modern hotel. The old heart pine floors had been covered with blue industrial carpet, and pale watercolors lined the walls. The whole place hummed with the sounds of cheap fluorescent lights and expensive computer gadgetry.

  Matilda Morrison, the office administrator, glanced at me from behind her monitor and then made a show of shifting the bangles on her wrist so she could check her watch.

  “Darlin’,” Matilda said. “You’re late.”

  “I know,” I whispered, as if that might help conceal my tardiness. “Has the meeting started?”

  She took a moment to enjoy my unease and then grinned wickedly at me.

  “No, hon. I’m messing with you. Ted postponed the meeting ten minutes. You’ve still got time.”

  With my nerves already on edge, I gaped at her. What a time for Matilda to try to be clever.

  “Thanks,” I said, already trudging up the narrow flight of stairs that led to my office. Behind me, Matilda’s throaty laugh bubbled over, and I could have sworn I heard her murmur “touchy.”

  Instead of my own office, I found myself heading to the one that belonged to my partner Mark Vincent. We didn’t have much time to chat, but onward I went to find him in his too-small office. His broad back and shoulders dwarfed his chair, and his reddish-brown hair glinted in the weak winter sunlight that slanted through the window behind him. He was handsome in a military, no-nonsense kind of way. He was so military, in fact, that my first impression of him was that he could shoot fuzzy baby bunnies without a qualm, and our months of work together had only served to strengthen that impression. But I had also gotten to know the man behind the cop, and that’s who I needed now.

  Vincent looked up from his work to find my eyes on him. I made an effort to pull my face into a semblance of a smile, but I didn’t have the energy. One of his eyebrows rose in question, and he immediately set aside his pen. I entered the tiny room and shut the door behind me.

  “Something wrong?” Vincent asked, breaking the silence.

  “Little bit,” I said, dropping into the guest chair that was crammed into what little space existed between his workspace and the wall. My knees brushed the edge of his desk. “They know what I did.”

  Then, oddly, I laughed, and Vincent’s forehead furrowed in response.

  “God, that sounds like a teen horror flick. They know what I did,” I repeated in a vain attempt to mimic a movie voiceover and lighten my own mood. Neither worked.

  I sobered and summed up my meeting with Tripp, leaving nothing out. I’d already told Vincent the whole story of my personal investigation into Tricia’s rape, including my fast-and-loose treatment of chain of evidence procedures, so nothing I revealed could surprise him.

  Vincent had remained silent during my comedy routine and subsequent tale of woe, but now he swore under his breath.

  “Did you tell Carver anything?” Vincent asked. He remained outwardly calm, but concern leached around the edges of his voice.

  “Yes,” I confessed, lowering my gaze. “I was too shocked to think clearly, and I told him everything.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Vincent nod.

  “What are you going to do?”

  I met his eyes again, and I was fairly certain that I did a wretched job of concealing my fear. “I told Tripp I was going to talk to the judge, but….”

  I let my thought hang unfinished in the air.

  “Th
ere are a lot of angles to consider,” Vincent supplied.

  “Yes, that’s a diplomatic way of putting it,” I agreed. “Tripp thinks that if the missing swatch can’t be explained, then the whole case could be thrown out. But I don’t want to admit to stealing that sliver of fabric without understanding exactly how to go about it to achieve the least disastrous result.”

  We looked at each other in silence as we both contemplated the situation.

  Finally, I shrugged.

  “Maybe it’s a little late to wise up now, but I want to be sure of something before making any potentially far-reaching decisions. I’ll need to move quickly. I don’t want the GBI serving a warrant on me before I get a chance to fix this.”

  “You’re not going to be arrested,” Vincent said with utter confidence that I didn’t quite understand. “You don’t need to become a martyr to make this right.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “How can you be so sure that I won’t be arrested? Because from where I’m sitting, the odds don’t appear to be in my favor.”

  “I have my ways,” he said, offering me an enigmatic look and no further details.

  Ah, those mysterious back-channel methods. Since his arrival at the DOI, Vincent managed to make critical information—autopsies that should have taken more time, for example—appear with an immediacy I didn’t often see in law enforcement. He’d never told me how he did it, though, and I admit to being curious about his methods.

  “Can your ‘ways’ make a felony charge disappear?” I asked.

  “Alas, no,” he confessed. “Regardless, I don’t think the state will be able to make a tampering charge stick.”

  I wasn’t so sure about that.

  “I wouldn’t ask you to make this disappear, you know,” I clarified. “I’ll handle whatever comes, but one of these days, you’re going to have to confess your secrets to me.”

  “And ruin my mysterious aura?” he asked. “Never.”

  Even if Vincent were totally confident that I wouldn’t be arrested and sent to the slammer, I didn’t want the situation to disintegrate to such a desperate point. I didn’t want to be tempted to call in favors from anyone.