Reasonable Doubt. Tracey V. Bateman

worn-out thread.

      Justin’s call had interrupted a workout, so the lawyer had gunned it over to the police station without bothering to change out of a pair of sweats, running shoes and a sweatshirt. Nor had he bothered to remove his Chicago White Sox baseball cap. In Kansas City Royals territory that act alone was practically criminal.

      Detective Raney sneered at Bob. He snagged a metal chair leg with his booted toes and pulled it out. With a grunt he plopped into the seat. “I’m tired of getting the same answer.”

      Too bad for him. Justin only had one answer to give—the truth. “For the third time, I was at the Victory Mission Men’s Shelter. All night. I didn’t leave until a little after six the next morning.”

      He’d never forget sitting up with Ike Rawlings all night while the alcoholic shook and vomited out his addiction. Only Jesus had gotten them through those horrific hours. In the morning, Ike had surrendered to Christ. Chills still crawled up Justin’s spine at the awe of a life changed. God’s love and glory manifested in one life-changing moment.

      Raney jerked his head at Justin and picked up a manila file folder from the table. He waved it under Justin’s nose like a plate of filet mignon. “Know what I have here?”

      “Not a clue. But I have a feeling you’re going to tell me.”

      In one fluid movement, the officer slapped the file open on the table with the flat of his hand, keeping the bottom of the page covered. “Signed testimony from two men who say you left during the night and came back later.”

      Triumph gleamed in the detective’s eyes. Closing the file, he leaned back, lacing pudgy fingers over his ample gut.

      Unwilling to give Raney the satisfaction of knowing how badly the news had rattled him, Justin forced himself to keep a bland expression. “You’re bluffing.”

      The officer glared over the rim of an enormous coffee mug. He set the cup back down, gathered a long, slow breath and started again. “The cards are stacked against you, Kramer.” He held up his thumb then one finger and another as he counted off the marks against Justin. “A murdered woman, no sign of forced entry and there are witnesses who demolish your alibi. And, I have to tell you, those separate bedrooms don’t exactly speak of marital bliss.”

      Bob shifted forward. “Why don’t you guys give him a break? You haven’t even charged him with a crime.”

      “Yet.”

      The smirk on the cop’s face touched a raw nerve, but Justin knew he had to stay calm—not give in to the goading.

      Detective Appling scrubbed at his bristled face and half sighed, half growled, obviously disappointed not to have rattled him. “You went to the shelter and waited until everyone fell asleep. Then you snuck out, strangled your wife and got back before anyone knew you’d gone. Not bad for a rookie killer.”

      “What makes you think I’m a rookie?” Justin had meant to be flippant—a knee-jerk response to the ridiculous assumptions. Big mistake.

      The officer leaned in, his brow arched. “Is that a confession?”

      “Hey! Objection!” Bob’s hand smacked down hard on the cheap, plastic-veneer tabletop.

      Shifting his gaze to Bob, Appling cut a look that was nothing less than derisive. “Give me a break. This isn’t a courtroom.”

      Bob shot from his chair. “Do you realize that Mr. Kramer’s cooperation is voluntary?”

      “We hear you, Mr. Landau. But we have a good reason for questioning him about his so-called alibi. And like you said, he agreed to the questions, so he might as well answer the right ones, or there’s really no point, is there?”

      “Just watch how you phrase your sentences. I’d hate to slap you with a lawsuit.”

      “Sure you would.” The officer turned his attention back to Justin. “See, one problem with your version of the story is that your drunk can’t be found for questioning.”

      “You know where he is. I already told you.”

      “Refresh my memory.”

      Justin knew they were testing him. Would he give the same story he’d told them twice already? Or would the details change? Carefully, he conjured the memory of Ike’s battle that night.

      “I wanted him to stay for a few weeks to rehabilitate, take some Bible classes, but he insisted. Said he needed to get a job as soon as possible and take care of his family. So I put him on a bus to Chicago.”

      “So you said, but we can’t find any Ike Rawlings in Chicago.”

      Justin shrugged. “It’s my fault you’re not much of a detective?”

      The detective’s lips curled into a sneer. “Watch yourself, Kramer. At the very least, the Chicago PD should be able to find him. But so far, no phone listing, no electric bills issued to Ike Rawlings. As a matter of fact, we’ve checked every Rawlings in the Chicago area, and nada.”

      “He could have been using a phony name, I guess. Lots of the men who come to the mission do that.” It was a thin suggestion, Justin knew, and the detective’s short laugh proved it.

      “Okay, sure…phony name, and the guy conveniently left town so that there’s no tracing him. Not much of an alibi to refute our witnesses.”

      “You keep talking about witnesses, but I didn’t see any signatures.”

      “And you’re not going to.”

      Bob grabbed his briefcase from the floor next to his vacated chair. “I think you’ve taken enough of Mr. Kramer’s time today, so unless you plan to arrest him, we’re going to walk out of here now.”

      The detectives exchanged looks that clearly revealed their reluctance to let him go. Justin’s stomach churned.

      A scowl twisted Detective Raney’s fat face. “Get out of here,” he snarled, his breath assaulting Justin’s air space once more.

      Justin balled his fists to keep his hands from trembling. “I’m free to go?”

      “For now.”

      Feeling his bravado crumbling, Justin rose on shaky legs and followed Bob, praying to God he wouldn’t pass out before he made it through the door.

      They walked shoulder to shoulder down the long hallway. A blast of cold air shot into the building as Bob opened the heavy glass doors. In the parking lot, Justin expelled a pent-up breath. He shook his head. “I don’t get why anyone would say I left the center that night, when I didn’t. Do you think it’s a case of mistaken identity?”

      “No,” Bob replied in a flat, hard tone. “I think someone is setting you up. There’s no telling what evidence has been planted the police haven’t run across yet. But eventually, they’re going to find a convenient piece of proof that you killed Amelia.”

      “But I didn’t.”

      “You and I know that. And whoever killed her knows it, but that won’t convince a jury. Eyewitnesses and circumstantial evidence convince juries. The cops have those things. We have nothing.”

      Deputy Keri Mahoney opened her mouth wide to take a bite of her on-the-go burger when her cell phone rang to the tune of “Deep in the Heart of Texas.” She jumped, and ketchup escaped the bun, globbing onto her uniform before she could stop it. “Great.” Why had she ever allowed Dad’s southern-belle fiancée to program that stupid song into the phone? It nearly sent her through the roof every time it rang.

      Negotiating the hamburger to prevent another glob of ketchup from plopping onto her clothes, she tried to snatch her cell at the same time. Impossible. With a growl, she pulled into the nearest parking lot and located the phone.

      “Yes?”

      “Kere?”

      Swiping at the ketchup