Holt checked the time. “I’ll see you there in forty-five minutes.”

  “Park in the southeast corner of the lot. There’s a buffer of trees that provides privacy.”

  “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

  Holt ended the call. Burkdale was a mess, but the bookkeeper had stumbled onto the truth. Holt stopped at his house to check on Henry and drop off one copy of the DVD. He wrote “Video—Night of Rex Meredith’s Death” on a slipcover and put the DVD in plain view on the nightstand beside his bed. If something happened to him, he didn’t want what he’d uncovered to be buried.

  Jackson Street was close to the veterinarian’s office in an area that also contained a mix of cheap rental properties and light-manufacturing facilities. The supermarket occupied a 1950s building and sold groceries and general merchandise. It was the only place in town where someone could buy milk, cigarettes, beer, duct tape, lottery tickets, and an air filter for a 1979 Plymouth. There was no sign of Burkdale’s car when Holt pulled into the parking lot. He drove to the southeast corner of the parking lot and backed into a space.

  After ten minutes of watching a diverse assortment of humanity enter and leave the store, Holt was ready to give up on Burkdale. Then Burkdale’s beat-up car turned into the parking lot. Holt could see Burkdale looking to both sides and then glancing over his shoulder. As he came closer, the bookkeeper avoided eye contact with Holt until he pulled into an empty space beside him. Burkdale opened the passenger door of Holt’s car and spread an aluminum sunscreen across the windshield. Holt watched in silence.

  “The aluminum has reflective qualities,” Burkdale said. “It’s not effective against something inside the vehicle, but it will disrupt anyone trying to listen via a radio-frequency device.”

  “Where’s your gun?” Holt asked.

  “In the car. Do I need it?”

  “No.”

  Holt turned on his laptop. “What about someone eavesdropping on my wireless Internet connection? Are you worried about that?” he asked.

  “Will you connect to the network in the store or through your service provider?”

  “I didn’t know they had Wi-Fi in the supermarket.”

  “They have everything in there.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Holt said. “What I want to show you doesn’t require a connection. It’s on this DVD.”

  Holt inserted the disc into the computer and positioned the screen so Burkdale could see it.

  “What is it?” Burkdale asked.

  “Surveillance footage from the Meredith home the night Mr. Meredith died.”

  “Am I on it?” Burkdale asked with alarm in his eyes.

  “Would that be a problem?” Holt asked.

  “Powerful people twist things!”

  Burkdale reached over, pressed the Eject button, grabbed the DVD, and bent it slightly between his fingers.

  “I have four other copies,” Holt said calmly. “If you have something you need to tell me, now would be the time to do it.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “About Mr. Meredith’s death.”

  “Are you accusing me of killing him?”

  “No,” Holt said in a level voice. “But the way you act would make anyone suspicious.”

  Burkdale reached for the door handle but then froze. Every fiber in Holt’s body was on alert. Burkdale slowly turned his head toward Holt.

  “I want to see the DVD,” he said.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, I have to know what I’m facing.”

  Holt didn’t try to unravel Burkdale’s response. The bookkeeper handed the disc to him, and Holt reloaded it. He positioned the laptop so Burkdale had a clear view and pressed the Play button. As the images flashed on the screen, Holt focused on Burkdale, who leaned over, his attention glued to the computer. Several times he blinked his eyes in rapid succession but didn’t say anything. When the screen went to black, he sat back in his seat.

  “I can’t believe it,” he said.

  “Why not?”

  Burkdale sniffled. Holt wasn’t sure if he was about to cry or simply needed to blow his nose.

  “There were plenty of times during the years since Mr. Meredith’s death that I thought I was crazy. I mean, in my heart I knew Stevens had a hand in it, but to finally see it . . .”

  Burkdale looked Holt in the eyes with obvious gratitude on his face.

  “What can you add to the evidence?” Holt asked. “I don’t want to seek an indictment until I have as much proof, both direct and circumstantial, as I can pull together. All you’ve told me so far is that Stevens spies on people, including his wife.”

  “And about the meeting I had with Mr. Meredith the night he died.”

  “Yes. Are you willing to sign an affidavit about your conversation and impressions of Mr. Meredith’s mental state?”

  “Who will see the affidavit?”

  “Eventually anybody in the world who’s interested. You will certainly have to testify in court.”

  Burkdale spoke slowly. “If Mr. Stevens isn’t convicted, what would happen to me?”

  “It’s hard to say.” Holt shrugged. “You’ll have to make that decision without knowing the consequences. And I also want total access to anything on your computer that might be helpful.”

  Burkdale hesitated. He glanced out the window. Holt waited.

  “You’ve got it.”

  “Do you want me to prepare an affidavit based on what you told me or do you want to write a draft yourself?”

  “You know how to put it in legal language. But don’t send it to me as an e-mail attachment. Call and we’ll meet again to go over it.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” Holt replied.

  “Why not?”

  “Because we’re going to do it right now.”

  Holt opened the word processing program on his computer.

  “All affidavits begin the same,” he said. “ ‘Before the undersigned officer duly authorized to administer oaths, appeared Cecil Burkdale, who, being duly sworn, states the following on personal knowledge, information, and belief.’ ”

  For the next forty-five minutes they hammered out Burkdale’s affidavit. It was slow going at first, but Burkdale’s reluctance lessened, and Holt composed the final paragraphs fairly quickly.

  “I wish I had a printer and a notary public,” Holt said when he saved the document. “Can we get together tomorrow to make it official?”

  “They have print and notary services in the supermarket,” Burkdale said.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.”

  Holt transferred the affidavit to a flash drive. “Let’s go,” he said.

  “You first,” Burkdale responded. “I’ll follow three minutes later.”

  “Whatever works for you,” Holt said. “I’ll print it out.”

  Holt didn’t want to leave Burkdale alone in his car, but there wasn’t an alternative. He removed the keys from the ignition and went inside the store. A heavily tattooed young woman sat on a stool behind one of two cash registers. He held up the flash drive.

  “Against the back wall on the left,” she said before he could ask a question. “It only takes debit cards.”

  Sure enough, there was an old desktop computer sitting beside a pinball machine. A sign indicated the cost for Internet and Skype usage, but the computer was also linked to a printer. Holt slid in his card and logged on. The printer was spitting out the affidavit when Burkdale entered the store. Holt logged out and went back to the cashier.

  “This is an affidavit, and we need—”

  “I’m a notary public. It’s twenty dollars per document.”

  It was more than authorized by the law, but Holt wasn’t going to quibble. He took a twenty-dollar bill from his pocket and laid it on the counter.

  “Are you the affiant?” the woman asked Burkdale.

  “Yes.”

  “Show me your driver’s license.”

  Burkdale hesitated. Another customer came up to the register to check out.

  “Do you want me to do this or not?” the woman asked.

  Burkdale got out his wallet and held up his license without letting it go. The woman didn’t look at it close enough to read it.

  “Sign and drive,” she said.

  “She didn’t swear me in.” Burkdale looked at Holt.

  “Is this thing true?” she asked.

  “Uh, yes,” Burkdale answered.

  The woman handed Burkdale a cheap ballpoint pen. He signed the affidavit, and she scribbled her name and affixed a seal. Holt picked up the document from the counter.

  “Thanks,” Holt said to the woman.

  “No problem, Mr. Douglas.”

  Burkdale started to say something, but Holt grabbed his arm and led him out of the store.

  “How do you know her?” Burkdale demanded as soon as they were in the parking lot.

  “I don’t. Either she’s had friends or relatives in criminal court, or I’ve prosecuted someone who robbed the store.”

  “You don’t remember?”

  “No. Most victims aren’t as rich as Rex Meredith. And few defendants are as cunning as Greg Stevens.”

  43

  After leaving the sheriff’s department, Trish drove around for half an hour, then wandered aimlessly through a clothing store until her normal time to leave for home. She didn’t want to arrive early and face questions from her mother. Trish was worried that her red and puffy eyes would reveal more than she wanted to say. She checked her face in the rearview mirror of her car before going into the house. Except for an impossible-to-conceal sadness, she appeared okay.

  “I’m home!” she called out in a cheery voice as soon as she opened the door.

  “Hey!” her mother responded from the living room. “I’m in here.”

  Trish went into the kitchen and spoke through the open space between the two rooms. “I’m going to eat a snack and take a nap,” she said. “It was a stressful day at work.”

  Marge, who was sitting in a special recliner in the living room, turned so she could see her.

  “Can we talk for a few minutes?” she asked. “It’s been a lonely day. I’ve not had a single phone call.”

  Trish drank half a glass of milk and nibbled on an oatmeal-and-raisin cookie. She then stepped into the living room but kept her distance from her mother.

  “What do you want to talk about?”

  “Would you sit down?”

  “I’ve been sitting all day.”

  Marge made a sound that could only be interpreted as exasperation. “Okay, stand if you want to,” she said. “Is there anything you can tell me about your day that won’t violate the rules?”

  Trish’s lower lip trembled, and she sat down on a love seat across from Marge. She held up her right index finger and thumb so that they almost touched.

  “I’m this close to getting fired,” she said.

  Marge pushed herself up straighter in the recliner with her hands and arms and shifted her weight so she was looking directly at Trish.

  “I’ve thought something was wrong for several weeks,” she said. “You’ve tried to hide it, but your face hasn’t been very cooperative. If you don’t tell me, I don’t know how to pray for you.”

  Trish sighed. “It has to do with Holt Douglas, the assistant district attorney.”

  Marge listened as Trish unburdened her heart, including her fantasy crush on Holt and discovery of his secret past. The only thing she left out was their cooperation in the Rex Meredith investigation. She described it simply as “a cold case investigation that went very bad.”

  “Why didn’t you say anything to me about this?” Marge asked.

  “I didn’t want to upset you by reopening what happened to Daddy and you.”

  “Do you think a day passes that I don’t think about what happened? It’s with me every morning when I have to lift my legs out of bed with my arms.” Marge touched her heart. “But the pain in here is worse than the paralysis in my legs. The only way I make it is with a daily infusion of God’s grace.”

  “I need some of that myself. One of the detectives saw me reading about Holt and his dead friend on my computer and dragged me into an interrogation room where he and the sheriff grilled me and made me record a statement.”

  “Why would they do that?”

  “I guess so they can prosecute Holt for driving drunk and killing someone or use it to force him to undermine Ralph Granger. There’s a bunch of politics involved.”

  “And you feel sorry for him?”

  “No,” Trish said emphatically. “He deserves to go to jail. But the situation has put me in a terrible light with the sheriff and placed my job in jeopardy. Talking to you helps me see what I have to do. I have to treat Holt Douglas like he’s one of the deadbeat dads on my docket. Some of them haven’t paid child support in years and years, but when I catch them there is a day of reckoning. It’s going to be the same for him. Even though what happened to me today was excruciating, it was necessary.”

  Holt had to move fast. The US Army had developed shock-and-awe tactics for reasons that applied equally well to a criminal case. Overwhelming Greg Stevens quickly would increase the chance of ultimate success. Even the best defense lawyers struggled when they had to fight from behind and off balance.

  After leaving Cecil Burkdale, Holt avoided the office. Instead, he drove to the church to see Bishop Pennington. The minister wasn’t in his office, but Holt found him in the sanctuary walking through the pews.

  “What are you doing?” Holt asked.

  “Combining physical and spiritual exercise,” the bishop replied, stopping at the end of a row. “It takes me ten to fifteen minutes to walk through all the pews and around the inside of the sanctuary. I’m praying for God’s presence to be here and touch every person who walks through these doors. It doesn’t get my heart rate up, but it’s good for my heart. You ought to consider praying in the courtroom before a trial or for Paxton when you’re out running—”

  Holt didn’t want to get drawn into a religious conversation.

  “I’m not sure how that would work,” he interrupted. “I’m going to prepare a draft affidavit for Sonny based on the video and the notes he wrote. If I need your help, can I call you?”

  “Yes. When will the sheriff’s department get involved?”

  “That’s complicated. At this point I’m handling the investigation on my own.”

  The bishop raised his eyebrows in question.

  “Don’t ask,” Holt interjected. “Trust me.”

  Holt drove to the office so he could prepare Sonny’s affidavit. In his jacket pocket was the DVD to put in the evidence locker. He stopped by Belinda’s desk.

  “I need an evidence envelope for this,” he said, holding up the disc.

  She opened a drawer in her desk and took out a small brown envelope. “What is it?” she asked.

  “A surveillance video in a John Doe case.”

  “Drug charge?”

  “No, it’s not even an open file, but I’d like to assign a number to keep track of it.”

  Belinda swiveled in her chair so she faced her computer screen. In a few seconds she jotted down a case number on the envelope and handed it to Holt.

  “Do you want me to lock it up for you?”

  “Not yet.” Holt paused. “Hey, would you be available later this afternoon to notarize an affidavit for a witness? We need to go to his house.”

  “Sure, unless Ralph chains me to my desk on a project for him.”

  “It would only take a few minutes. I’m going to make sure the witness agrees before giving you a call.”

  “Where will you be?”

  “Not far.”

  Holt took the DVD to his office, closed the door, watched it again, and took notes to include in Sonny’s sworn statement. Even though he’d watched the video several times, the images hadn’t lost their calculated, coldhearted impact. He was typing the opening paragraphs of the affidavit when Sally buzzed his phone.

  “Detective Clovis is on line four,” she said.

  “Did he mention a case?”

  “No, but he said it was important.”

  “I’m in the middle of something more important. Connect him to my voice mail.”

  An hour later, Holt put the finishing touches on the affidavit. When he printed it out and reviewed it, he found a couple of errors that needed to be corrected. He did so, then grabbed the evidence envelope so he could drop it off with Belinda, but she wasn’t at her desk. Jim was taking a file from a nearby cabinet.

  “Do you know where Belinda is?” he asked the other assistant DA.

  “She had to make a delivery for Ralph but should be back in half an hour.”

  “I can’t wait. I’ll call her.”

  Holt left with the DVD and the affidavit in his briefcase. On his way out of the building, he ran into Ralph.

  “Where are you off to in such a hurry?” the DA asked.

  Holt hadn’t realized how fast he was walking. “I’m late for a meeting with a witness.”

  “Which case?”

  “Can we talk about it later?” Holt responded as he continued past the DA. “It will take a few minutes to lay it out with the detail you deserve.”

  Ralph said something else, but Holt didn’t hear it. Nothing the DA could have said would have stopped Holt anyway. He drove through two orange lights on his way to the Meredith house. Holt was both nervous and excited.

  Unlike the depictions of prosecutors on TV and in novels, an assistant DA rarely became involved in the nuts-and-bolts investigation of cases. Detectives and police officers prepared the cases with advice from lawyers limited to technical legal issues. For a prosecutor to build a case from the ground up without significant law enforcement help was extremely rare. It was a major adrenaline rush. Holt went around the back of the house to Sonny’s cottage. Before he reached the door, the caretaker came out to meet him. He was dressed in blue jeans and a dingy white shirt. He wasn’t wearing a cap, and his head was covered with wispy white hair.

  “Is it okay for me to go over your affidavit with you now?” Holt asked.

  “Be that.” Sonny nodded briskly and started walking toward the main house. “Me call that him bishop.”