"Mr. Fenney, why are you defending your ex-wife when she's charged with murdering the man she left you for?"
Scott maintained his lawyerly expression. "Because she's innocent."
They pushed forward down the corridor toward the elevators.
"Why won't she take a polygraph?"
"Because polygraphs are not reliable indicators of guilt or innocence, which is why they're not admissible in any court of law in America."
"Why were her fingerprints on the murder weapon?"
"Are your fingerprints on your kitchen knives?"
Scott saw Renee's obvious frustration with his answers and figured she'd give up. She didn't. She had one more question.
"Mr. Fenney-do you still love your wife?"
Scott knew his expression had let him down, and so did Renee. She had a "gotcha" grin on her face.
"Ex-wife."
Carlos had jogged ahead and gotten an elevator; he held it open for the others. Once they were aboard, he let the doors close, shutting out the cameras. The D.A. turned to Scott.
"You okay? That last one was a cheap shot. But that's Renee."
"I'm a big boy."
Bobby held up the official Houston Classic tournament tote bag.
"Rex, we've got some evidence for you."
"And I've got some evidence for you."
TWENTY-FOUR
The D.A. sat behind his desk under the sailfish, and Ted Newman sat against the wall. Hank Kowalski had joined them and stood next to Newman. The defense team faced the D.A. from across his desk. Karen opened her laptop like a gunner setting up field artillery. Bobby opened the tote bag and removed the baggies containing the fingerprint evidence Scott had collected at the golf tournament. He placed them on the desk.
"Ah, more fingerprints," the D.A. said. "Well, Hank ran Goose's prints. Didn't match the unidentified prints at the crime scene. Who are these from?"
"Suspects."
Hank stepped over and examined the baggies one by one; each was identified with initials. "Glass marked 'TM'… soda can marked 'LP'… plastic container marked 'RH'… Houston Classic golf programs marked 'BM' and 'DP' and 'VH'… Budweiser beer bottle marked 'NM'… five Corona beer bottles marked 'CW'. I can guess where these came from."
The D.A. turned to Scott. "You don't want to tell me who they belong to?"
"Not yet."
The D.A. nodded. "Run 'em, Hank." To Scott: "That it?"
"For now."
"Okay. My turn."
The D.A. pushed a thick stack of papers across the desk. Scott handed them to Bobby.
"Item one: log and copies of all emails to and from Trey over the last six months, including to his website. My tech man got them off his laptop."
Bobby scanned the log and said, "None to or from the other women."
The D.A.: "What other women?"
"We've learned that Trey was promiscuous," Scott said.
"Promiscuous? Last time I checked the Penal Code, that's not illegal in Texas, thank God, or we'd never clear the docket." The DA chuckled. "Hell, Scott, if I looked like him and was rich like him, I'd damn sure be promiscuous."
"With married women?"
The D.A. shrugged. "Maybe not with our gun laws. What married women?"
"Other golfers' wives. On tour."
"You know this for a fact?"
"They admitted it."
"You're gonna put Trey on trial, aren't you?"
"No, Rex, I'm going to find his killer."
"She's over at the jail. Look, Scott, Trey was young and rich and famous-didn't you have some fun when you were young?"
"Not with married women."
The Assistant D.A. snorted. "Well, at least you know Trey wasn't picking on you, taking your wife."
An awkward silence captured the room. The D.A. grimaced, a common expression when the Assistant D.A. was present. Scott waited for the D.A. to reprimand his assistant, but instead the D.A. bent over, opened a lower desk drawer, and came back up with a box of dog biscuits. He stuck his hand inside the box and pulled out a little brown biscuit. He flipped it over to his assistant.
"Down, boy."
The others choked back laughter, but the Assistant D.A.'s face flushed a bright red. "Rex, are you trying to humiliate me?"
"No, Ted, you're doing a damn fine job of that on your own. I'm trying to teach you humility. There's a difference." The D.A. turned to Karen: "Sure you don't want to move to the Island? You could be the first female D.A. in the history of Galveston." The D.A. gestured at the baggies. "These their prints, those wives'?"
"And their husbands'."
"You figure a jealous husband for the killer?"
"Could be."
"Could be your wife was the jealous party."
"Trey proposed to her that night."
"So she said."
The D.A. pushed another document across the desk.
"Item two: list of websites Trey visited over the last six months. Common theme seems to be porn."
Scott passed it on to Bobby. Karen leaned toward Bobby to read the list.
"Did he go onto Facebook?" she said.
"Every day the last couple of weeks," Bobby said.
"What's your point?" the D.A. said.
"Trey could have communicated with someone through their Facebook account, online but outside his email accounts."
"Like who?"
Karen tapped on the laptop keyboard then turned the screen toward the D.A. On the screen was a Facebook profile.
"Like her."
"Who's Billie Jean Puckett?"
"Pete Puckett's seventeen-year-old daughter."
"The golf pro?"
Scott nodded. "Trey was having an affair with Billie Jean. Pete threatened to kill him if he didn't stay away from her. Happened at the Challenge tournament in California, one week before Trey was killed. There was a witness, another golfer."
"I take it he didn't? Stay away from her?"
"No. He didn't."
The D.A. again gestured at the baggies. "You got Pete's prints?"
"Not yet. But he seems capable of violence. He threatened me after his round on Friday, with a one-iron."
"A one-iron?" The D.A. grunted. "Most pros carry the hybrids now, you can hit the ball higher-"
"The prints on the kitchen counter are from a big man. The construction workers down the street, they told Carlos they saw a big man at Trey's house the day he was killed. And a blonde girl."
Hank snorted. "They told us they didn't see nothing."
"You're a cop," Carlos said.
"True."
"I've seen Pete on TV," the D.A. said. "He's a big man." He gestured at the Facebook profile. "And Billie Jean's still blonde?"
"She is," Scott said. "And Pete's a hunter, good with guns and knives. And he was in Trey's house that day."
"Can you prove it?"
"Not yet."
"Let me know when you can."
"Rex, I think Pete Puckett killed Trey."
"Thought the caddie killed him?"
"You just said his prints didn't match."
"Scott," Karen said, "we should subpoena Facebook, get all of Billie Jean's messages. Maybe she said something to Trey about Pete's threats."
The D.A. turned his palms up at Scott. "Facebook, Twitter, texting, sexting-you ever feel like you're living in a parallel universe?"
"All the time," Scott said, "with two eleven-year-old daughters." To Karen: "Where's their headquarters? Facebook's."
Karen typed. "California. Their only presence in Galveston County is online. No way they comply with a state court subpoena."
"They might if I sign the subpoena," the D.A. said.
"You'd do that?"
"Sure. Like I said, Scott, I think your wife killed Trey. But if she didn't, I want to find out who did." To Karen: "Write the subpoena, Professor."
"I usually write the subpoenas," the Assistant D.A. said.
"I know." To Scott: "Even if Pete was in Trey's house, his prints weren't on the knife. Your wife's were. You got that good explanation yet?"