Clean Slate

Chapter 1

Friday afternoon. Santa Fe, New Mexico.

The sweat was evaporating almost as quickly as it left the pores of Kandyce Hudson’s skin. That’s what happens this time of year on the Aspen Vista hiking trail at an elevation above ten thousand feet. It was cool with ridiculously low humidity. It was typical Santa Fe weather in late March.

Her jog today had been productive. She often used jogging to do serious thinking. Time was running out and she had important decisions to make so she’d taken the longer of the two trails -- about six miles in length which provided Kandyce with more time to weigh her options.

Kandyce had moved to Santa Fe last September to be closer to her son, Timmy. Of course, she no longer calls him that to his face now that he’s eighteen years old. But now her son was only a few months away from graduation. He certainly wouldn’t stay in Roswell after graduation, and Kandyce wouldn’t relocate again just to be close to him if and when he went to college, wherever that might be. Returning to Gulf Shores, Alabama, where she was raised and where her mom still lived would just be giving up on everything she wanted.

Now her jog was over. She’d walk the final quarter of a mile to the parking lot. Kandyce was feeling confident. She’d made some decisions. She’d keep her married name until Timmy graduated from college. While she liked her job at the folk art store on Canyon road -- and was grateful to her friend, Scout, for hiring her -- in June she would go back to Houston and resume her career as a paralegal, if anyone would have her. It had been almost twenty years since she’d worked at the law firm, but she still knew people there, people who today had influence. She remembered that she had loved the work. And she was confident she would get a job there if she just asked the right person.

Even though her recent brief romance with the local bachelor, Phil, had left her feeling naïve, taken advantage of, and yes, stupid, she was not through with men. This morning in her small rented casita when she’d looked at herself in the mirror while dressing, Kandyce acknowledged that she was still reasonably attractive and that she deserved a healthy relationship. She’d just be smarter next time.

As she jogged the trail, Kandyce acknowledged that her life was about to change; and while she felt some anxiety, she also felt excitement. She felt young again. She smiled. It had been a great hike. The smell of the cedars and aspens in the crisp air had been emotionally therapeutic.

Now as she walked toward the parking lot, she wondered. Who were those two men walking in her direction? Something was odd about them.

They could’ve been brothers. Both about 5’ 8”. If she had to guess she’d say they were in their late twenties. Black hair. Tan skin. Latino’s? Indians? Pakistanis? They wore khaki pants, windbreakers, and loafers. Not at all what hikers or joggers would wear on the Aspen Vista hiking trail. They walked with their hands in the pockets of their jackets.

One hundred yards from the parking lot, they stopped and stepped apart to let Kandyce pass between them. The man on her left asked, “Señora, you see dog?”

The other man said, “We lost dog. Black. You see, señora?”

Latinos she concluded.

Kandyce shook her head and replied, “No.” She was a dog lover, and she immediately sympathized with the men who’d apparently lost their dog.

But these men owned no dog.

The two men looked back toward the parking lot, and then at the trail from where Kandyce had come. There was no one to be seen in either direction. No witnesses.

Suddenly, the first man lunged at Kandyce and grabbed her around her waist. The second man pulled his hands from his pockets and placed a cloth over Kandyce’s mouth and nose while holding onto her head. Kandyce struggled. She smelled the chloroform. So pungent. She was certain that she was about to be raped. She struggled briefly.

Then her eyes shut as she lost consciousness.

The man with the chloroform gently laid the woman on her back. The other man fell to his knees and he quickly untied Kandyce’s left shoe and removed it along with the anklet she was wearing. Then he spread her toes apart, the big toe from the second. He looked at his partner who was now holding a syringe fitted with a one-inch hypodermic needle. He nodded.

The needle went into the blue vein between the toes. Two and a half cubic centimeters of procaine was slowly injected. When the needle was removed, the man placed his thumb on the puncture and applied pressure. Both men looked back and forth from the parking lot to the trail. Still nobody around.

Thirty seconds later, both men agreed that there was no blood coming from the puncture between the unconscious woman’s toes. The sock and shoe were replaced. The laces were then tied in a double knot just as Kandyce had done a few hours earlier.

The men stood and looked down. They knew the woman would never regain consciousness. That much procaine would do its job in three minutes. Quickly they walked back to their yellow pickup truck in the parking lot.

Once there, one man dialed 911 on his disposable cell phone.

“Señor, I think woman has heart attack. She grab left arm. Grab chest. Then fall down.”

The 911 dispatcher could tell that the call was from a cell phone. “Where are you?”

“Aspen Vista, Señor. Hurry. On trail. Near parking lot.”

Then the caller hung up the telephone and smiled at his partner. The pickup truck slowly pulled out of the parking lot and headed down the mountain.

Kandyce Hudson remained where they’d left her. Her tough decisions about her future didn’t matter any more. Her heart had stopped beating.

Chapter 2

Saturday. Houston. Rhett and Toni’s Place. Backyard.

For the next hour, our backyard patio would be an especially pleasant place to sit and talk. I’d finished searing the chicken breasts over the charcoal and had placed them away from the glowing embers and covered them with Woody’s Cookin’ Sauce. I’d closed the cover and opened the flue on the smokestack. That blend of aromas would whet appetites and remind us of our favorite barbecues of years past. A very pleasant atmosphere for which I get credit.

The four of us sat at the round table. Toni with her glass of red wine, Chris Beck with his vodka on the rocks with a lime twist, and me with my Budweiser Light. My underage daughter, Grace, had a bottle of water.

Chris, my best male friend since before the year we roomed together at college asked, “Rhett, why not let Grace have a beer? You do know Grace drinks when she’s at college?”

Grace blushed.

I knew Chris was right. And I knew my little girl wasn’t a little girl any more. I remembered what I’d been interested in when I was a college freshman and I was in, at least partial, denial about everything a normal freshman girl, including Grace, might be doing at college. I said, “She can have whatever she wants.”

Grace smiled at me and then looked at Chris and said, “Mr. Beck, I told all of my friends what you told me.”

I didn’t know what advice Grace’s godfather had given my daughter, but I asked anyway.

Grace answered with a straight face, “Never blow.”

Toni laughed.

I shook my head. Evidently my good friend had advised my underage daughter -- and her friends -- to never participate in a breathalyzer test if they’d been drinking alcoholic beverages. Very nice.

Chris asked, “You wanna hear about my client who needs your help?”

Grace excused herself, saying she needed to make some telephone calls to determine which of her high school friends were in town on spring break.

I was ready to listen and take notes. Before Chris arrived I’d placed a pen and a few blank index cards on the table. I grabbed the pen and one of the cards.

Chris smiled and asked, “When are you going to join the twenty-first century and get an iPad or Android instead of using a pen and index cards?”

Toni answered for us both, “We like being old-fashioned. It works for us.”

I nodded and Chris shook his head, Then he told us about his newest client.

Chris Beck’s client was Anthony Hill. Toni and I knew him casually, meeting him once or twice socially. He and his one-time business partner, Vernon Chandler, had owned a successful advertising agency. Hill was the art director and business developer, while Chandler did most of the writing and managed the media side of the business. Their company, Hill, Chandler and Associates, had thirty employees, and during the past several months had undergone some significant changes.

“First about six months ago, Anthony’s wife, Suzanne, split, saying she wanted a divorce. About a week later, Vernon Chandler leaves his wife and moves in with Suzanne. Obviously it was something they’d planned. She’d rented a condo at the Regency House.” Beck frowned and added, “Hill and Chandler had been best friends for years.”

Toni asked, “Kind of put a strain on their business relationship, didn’t it?”

I asked, “And why is Mr. Hill your client?”

Chris nodded and said, “Chandler was killed Wednesday night, and Anthony Hill was arrested yesterday.”

“Uh oh.”

Beck gave us an account of the murder. “Suzanne was doin’ a girl’s night out with her friends -- drinks, dinner and a movie -- and Chandler was alone at the condo. There was no sign of a break-in at the condo, the security guard at the Regency House said he’d seen nobody unauthorized on the premises, and yet Chandler was shot once in the back of his head. None of the neighbors heard the shot, so maybe a silencer had been used.”

As I jotted down a few notes on my index cards, Toni asked, “And the cops think Hill did it?”

“Yes. Suzanne convinced ‘em that he should be the number one suspect. Evidently Anthony had said some things he shouldn’t have.”

“Like what?”

“Threats. Directly and indirectly. At work. Over the phone. He was pretty pissed at his best friend.”

I could understand that.

Chris continued, “When the cops went to Anthony’s house on Thursday, they found a gun that matched the gun that killed Chandler. A thirty-eight. According to sales records, Hill had purchased the gun ten days prior to the murder.”

Toni said, “Sounds like they got their man. Why are you going to defend him?”

Chris said, “I don’t think he did it.”
I asked, “Did he have an alibi?”

“No. Said he was home alone. And he says he’d never bought any hand guns in his life. He said he doesn’t know where the gun they found came from.”

Having recently purchased a handgun as part of my business equipment, I knew about the process of buying a gun in Texas. I asked, “It takes a photo ID and an FBI background check to buy a gun, so you think he’s telling the truth about that?”

“I believe him.”

“Why don’t you think he’s guilty?”

Chris shrugged and said, “I’ve been doin’ this for over twenty-five years. Sometimes you just know who’s telling a lie and who’s tellin’ the truth. Anthony Hill didn’t kill Chandler. But it might take a miracle to prove it.”

Toni smiled, winked at me, and asked, “So, Chris, are you saying that my partner and I just might be in the miracle business?”

Chris said, “What I’d like you and Rhett to do is find out who really murdered Vernon Chandler. But if you can’t do that, identify a bunch of people, other than my client, who might have had a motive for killing him. Give me something I can use if we go to trial.”

I nodded. “For reasonable doubt.”

Toni said, “If your client really didn’t kill Chandler, then it sounds as if he was framed. So it might also be helpful to find out who would want to frame your client and have him sent to prison.”

Chris sipped his vodka and said, “I agree. Absolutely, Toni.”

I’d run out of room on my index cards, so there’d be no more notes this evening.

We refreshed our drinks and I checked on the progress of the chicken which was looking and smelling wonderful. We agreed that Toni and I would need to talk at length with Anthony Hill. Up until very recently, he was Chandler’s best friend so he knew him quite well, and might have an idea who the real murderer was. We’d also want to question Suzanne Hill, and Vernon Chandler’s ex-wife, Catherine, who we agreed should be angry at her ex-husband for leaving her for another woman.

Toni asked, “Chris, are you sure your client is innocent?”

Chris said, “It really doesn’t matter what I think. My job is to give him the best defense possible. But yes, I don’t think he killed anybody.”

“What about the gun? You said there were sales records that prove he bought it. So how could he deny that?” I wasn’t convinced Hill was innocent.

“Again, I trust my instincts. Somehow I believe him.”

According to Chris, Anthony Hill would be available for interrogation any time. He’d been released on a half million dollar bond, and was wearing an electronic monitoring anklet. He lived in the Southampton subdivision about four miles from us. We could question him either at home or at his office.

Toni went inside to prepare the table for dinner. As I gathered the chicken from the grill, Chris had a warning.

He said, “If I’m right, then someone was able to buy a gun and have records show that it had been bought by my client, then kill Chandler in Suzanne’s condo with one shot without being detected, and then place the murder weapon in my client’s house without Anthony knowing.”

I knew what my friend was implying.

We might be dealing with a professional.

Damn.