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  DEATH OF A PRINCE

  A Legal Thriller

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  DEATH OF A PRINCE | A Legal Thriller

  Books by Susan P. Baker

  Death of a Prince | A Legal Thriller | Susan P. Baker

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  EPILOGUE

  THE END

  Books by Susan P. Baker

  Sign up for Susan P. Baker's Mailing List

  About the Author

  About the Publisher

  DEATH OF A PRINCE

  A Legal Thriller

  Thank you for purchasing Death of a Prince. If you enjoy the read, please visit my webpage for a free copy of another of my books, http://www.susanpbaker.com. If you would log on to Amazon and leave a review, it sure would be appreciated. And please LIKE my Facebook page at www.Facebook.com/susanpbaker/legalwriter.

  Books by Susan P. Baker

  My First Murder

  The Sweet Scent of Murder

  Suggestion of Death

  LEDBETTER STREET

  Murdered Judges of the 20th Century

  Heart of Divorce—Advice from a Judge

  Death of a Prince

  Death of a Prince

  A Legal Thriller

  Susan P. Baker

  All rights reserved.

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination, or, if real, used fictitiously.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage or retrieval system, without the express written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law.

  This work was originally published in 2005 by Five Star Mysteries, a division of Thomson Gale, Waterville, Maine.

  Dedication

  With love for my children, Susan and Tara.

  In memory of Judge Joe Kegans, fine lady, a fine judge, and an inspiration.

  Acknowledgments

  I would like to express my appreciation to the following for their assistance in the development of this manuscript: Galveston Novel and Short Story Writers Club, Susie Fletcher, Sandra Gardner, Nancy Otero, and John Hunger.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Sandra Salinsky stomped the brakes on her Volvo S60 a moment after she spotted the yellow crime scene tape. What in the hell could have happened between the time she left the party at Phillip Parker’s beach house the night before and this morning when she arrived to have brunch? And why hadn’t Stuart called her immediately? Although her first inclination was to do a quick U-turn and flee in the other direction, Sandra shifted into first gear and eased up the drive to a City of Galveston police unit that blocked the entrance. Putting down her window after the dust from the oyster shell road settled, she called out to the uniformed cop. “Hey, Gonzales, what’s going on?”

  “Sorry, but you can’t pass, Miss Salinsky.” Jorge Gonzales, a former divorce client of hers, leaned over her window.

  She nodded at the Parker house and the police in the distance. “Somebody get hurt after I left last night?”

  “You a friend of Attorney Parker’s?”

  “Sure. Known him since I was a kid. He’s my mother’s best friend.” She tried to see past Gonzales at what the other police officers were doing. At the entry to the cul-de-sac, two people leaned over a deck at the first house and watched. Across the small canal, she could see others standing in their yards. The scene hadn’t quite reached circus proportions, but looked like it was only a matter of time. “I’m supposed to have brunch with Stuart Quentin, his partner.”

  “I don’t guess it would hurt to tell you, being as how you was a D.A.” His unwavering eyes met hers. “Attorney Parker is dead.”

  “Yeah, right.” She thought he must be kidding, but he didn’t smile. “You mean it?”

  He nodded. “You were here last night and you didn’t know?”

  “What was it, Jorge? A heart attack? A stroke? No, y’all wouldn’t be here if it was that.”

  “A fall, Miss Salinsky. He fell off his balcony.”

  “No way.” Sandra stared at his tanned face for some sign that would betray those words but found nothing. Heat radiated throughout her body. She twisted her long hair up for a minute, hoping a breeze would dry her damp neck. All the blood seemed to have rushed out of her head, leaving her woozy. Turning the air-conditioning up full blast, Sandra directed the vents toward her face. In a moment’s time, many of the ramifications of Phillip’s death ran through her mind, including the possible effect it would have on her mother, Erma Townley.

  “I’m just giving you the official version until the medical examiner says different.” His mouth wore a grim line as they continued to stare at each other.

  Realization settled over her like the oyster shell dust on her car. “I need to go inside. I’m not feeling well.”

  Shrugging, he said, “Let me ask the lieutenant.” He stepped away and spoke into the tiny transmitter attached to the epaulet on his shoulder. When he turned back, he said, “The lieutenant wants to see you.”

  “Thanks.” She gunned her engine.

  “But you got to leave your car outside the gate. Pull it over to the side in the grass there.” He pointed to a place on the far side of Phillip Parker’s driveway. “The lieutenant don’t want people all over the property disturbing the scene.”

  She followed his instructions, locked her car, and hurried toward the house. Just getting out and walking, she began to feel a bit better. It was probably just the island’s heat and humidity. Searching through her purse, Sandra found a barrette and clipped her hair up as she walked toward the crime scene.

  She didn’t see how Phillip could be dead. He’d been so full of life the night before, celebrating a great victory. But wasn’t that what people always said? He can’t be dead, why I just saw him the other day.

  Lieutenant Dennis Truman, in plainclothes, conferred with two uniformed officers, one male and one female. While Sandra waited, she eyed the blanket-covered body that laid half-on half-off the concrete patio under the house. Flies circled in the still, breezeless air. A sweet, sickly smell wafted from the honeysuckle that covered the awning.

  Phillip’s left arm, which sprawled at a right angle to his body, protruded from under the blanket. His pudgy fingers were drawn up like the claws of a frightened cat and were embedded in the deep pile of grass.

  She edged closer and stared down at his hand. It looked alien. Immediately she realized that his two-carat diamond pinkie ring and his diamond Rolex were missing. She had known Phillip almost all of her life and certainly well enough to suspect that his jewelry had been stolen. He never removed it except to go swimming in the Gulf of Mexico.

  Stepping onto the grass, Sandra looked up at the balcony to see if he could have fallen and landed where his body lay. It was three stories up, his master suite on top, as high as a widow’s walk. Sandra brushed her hair out of her eyes. No way. Phillip had never gotten so
drunk or rowdy that he wasn’t in control of his faculties, at least not at any party she’d ever been to, and she’d been to more than a few. When she’d left the night before, he didn’t seem any different than at any other time. He would never fling himself over a balcony railing.

  Sandra stooped over the body and lifted the blanket. Just to confirm the identification of the victim, she told herself. So she could tell her mother. Right. But inside, she knew she needed to satisfy her morbid sense of curiosity.

  When she got a look at Phillip’s body, she saw one of the worst corpses that she’d ever seen. That included all the ones she’d had to view during her stint in the district attorney’s office. It was hard to tell if it really was Phillip. His mouth was a gaping, blood-encrusted hole. One side of his face was mostly bloody mush. Gray matter had oozed through a gash above the brow. His nose was all but missing, flattened to the bone. A dried pool of auburn blood lay like a flat pillow under his head. The breast pocket of his open dressing gown hung by only a few threads. Underneath, he was naked.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Dennis Truman knocked the blanket out of her hand. “You’re not with the D.A.’s office anymore.” Truman was a thick-bodied black man with skin the same color as a full-time surfer’s. About forty-five, he had a square-shaped head, chocolate eyes, graying closely- cropped hair, a strong chin, and a suspicious mind.

  Dennis and Sandra had a long history. They’d been friends when she’d been in the prosecutor’s office, having worked on many cases together. When she left to go into private practice with her mother, to do defense work, they’d argued; he’d called her a traitor. They didn’t see each other for a long time, neither seeking the other out. When they finally ran into each other at the courthouse, their conversation had been stilted. Even after a lunch together and some discussion about it, the relationship just wasn’t the same. Now, several years later, Dennis still wasn’t over it, though they occasionally got together for a meal.

  Even with their history, Sandra didn’t like anyone to think they could push her around. She pulled herself to her full five feet ten inches and faced him as she brushed off her knee. “I just wanted to confirm his identity. God, what a mess. Somebody must have been really angry.”

  “Didn’t you see that yellow tape? I could charge you with tampering.” He grunted something else, but it was unintelligible.

  “Gonzales said you wanted to see me. If that’s not the case, I’ll just go upstairs.” She turned to leave.

  “Get back here, Salinsky. I said I wanted to talk to you, but I didn’t mean you could trample the crime scene.” He grabbed her arm. “What do you have to get all pissed off about? I’m the one who caught you tampering with a corpse, not the other way around. Get over here and sit down.” Truman led the way to a cast-iron patio table and chairs.

  “So you don’t think the fall killed him?” she asked. “Was he drunk? He seemed okay when I left. Maybe he was drugged. I don’t think that kind of damage was done to him just by falling off the balcony.”

  Dennis glanced toward the street. “I’ll wait for the verdict from the M.E. That’s his job. Mine is just to investigate. What are you doing here? Someone call you to defend them?”

  “What?” she asked, surprised, and shook her head. “No. Supposed to have brunch with Stuart.”

  Dennis glanced at a slim notebook. “That would be Stuart Quentin?”

  “Yes, sir.” She crossed her arms and stared at him.

  “Want to tell me what went on here last night?”

  “Could we do that upstairs? I think I’m having a heatstroke.” She pushed away from the table to try to catch a little breeze, her chair making a loud, metallic, scraping sound. It was a still, dank day. Her shorts and blouse stuck to her body. The roar of the surf in the distance would have been soothing under other conditions but echoed loudly in her ears. Dennis wasn’t faring much better. Rings of sweat under the arms, moisture across his forehead, and his apparent bad temper told her that he wasn’t experiencing the most pleasant day of his life either.

  “I’ll be going up as soon as the medical examiner gets here. Right now I’m going to stay down here to protect the integrity of the crime scene.” He glared at her. “You can give me a statement after I interview everyone upstairs.”

  “Dennis, that could be several hours. I need to get to the office. What do you need to know?”

  “Can’t be helped.” He slipped his notebook into the breast pocket of his shirt.

  Sandra had not planned to spend her day out there. She had a ton of work on her desk that needed to be tackled after what would have been brunch, but might now become lunch. “They were celebrating because Phillip won that asbestosis case against the county. Stuart Quentin asked me to join them out here last night. By the time I arrived, there weren’t many people left.”

  “Fine. You can fill in the details when I get around to you.”

  “C’mon, Dennis. I have a shitload of work on my desk.”

  “Tell you what. You can go upstairs, and when I’m ready for you to give a statement, I’ll let you know. Only don’t discuss this case with anyone while you’re up there.”

  Sandra felt her anger mounting. She pushed back her chair as hard as she could, hoping the noise irritated him. With a glance over her shoulder, she walked around to the enclosed staircase.

  “And that’s what you get for messing with a crime scene,” Truman muttered under his breath at her departing back.

  Cool air enveloped Sandra as she opened the door. Her damp clothes felt sticky. Her skin was hot to the touch. Her mouth dry, she headed for the kitchen and a glass of water. The mixed aroma of frying bacon and cigarette smoke permeated the atmosphere.

  Raymond Rivers, an associate of Phillip’s, and Kitty Fulton, Raymond’s girlfriend, sat on the sofa. Kitty’s face was buried in Raymond’s shoulder; his arms encircled her. Their shorts and T-shirts looked like they’d slept in them.

  “He’s in the kitchen,” Raymond said before Sandra got a chance to ask about Stuart. Raymond looked despondent, his face pale with red blotches, his hair disheveled like he’d just gotten out of bed. Kitty’s soft cries were like that of a mewing animal.

  Everyone at the party probably had some small affection for Phillip. His death would alter all of their lives, some in small ways, others in significant ones. Since Raymond was an associate, Stuart would probably keep him on. Sandra couldn’t figure out Kitty, though. She didn’t know her very well and didn’t think Kitty had known Phillip very long.

  She didn’t see Lizzie, Phillip’s long-time girlfriend, who practically lived with Phillip. Bubba Carruthers, the caretaker, lounged in an easy chair in front of the television. He was in the process of lighting a cigarette from the stub of another when she spotted him. Their eyes locked as he puffed away. Cigarette smoke hung overhead like ghostly wisps. After stubbing out the butt, Carruthers leaned back, his eyes following her.

  Sandra had never liked him. She couldn’t stand it when his weasel eyes scanned her body. It gave her goose bumps. She turned her head away as she reached the kitchen.

  Stuart stood over the griddle on which at least a pound of bacon sizzled. He didn’t seem to be paying much attention to it.

  “You look like hell,” she said. Normally he was better groomed than ninety-five percent of the population. His gray-tinged, curly brown hair stood on end. His shirt and shorts were as wrinkled as Raymond’s and Kitty’s. He wore no shoes. Deep shadows enveloped his eyes.

  “I had planned to sleep in,” he said as Sandra stood on her tiptoes and kissed him on the cheek. His unshaved whiskers tickled her lips. He had coffee breath.

  She filled a glass with tap water and drank it down quickly. “Who discovered the body?”

  “Bubba. He’d already called the police when he came up here hollering and waking up everyone.”

  “Well, you had to get up anyway.”

  “Yes, but not that early.” He rubbed his eyes. “And I would have liked a sho
wer. I went down there and saw Phil and came back and got a blanket. Did you take a look at the body?”

  “Pretty gross.”

  “I didn’t care if the cops liked it or not. Lizzie was hysterical. I didn’t think he should just lie there like that with flies crawling all over his face.”

  “You don’t have to be so descriptive.”

  “Sorry.” He chased the bacon around on the griddle with a barbecue fork.

  Sandra felt an inexplicable urge to laugh, but didn’t. It was one of those awkward times when nothing but laughter will relieve the tension, although she feared any laughter on her part would quickly turn to tears. Though true she’d never liked Phillip, she knew how badly her mother would feel when she found out. She slipped her arms around Stuart’s waist. They stood watching the bacon for a few moments.

  Stuart buried his face in her hair and drew a deep breath. “Umm, you smell good.”

  “I did until I sat downstairs and talked to Dennis Truman.”

  “The lieutenant? You know him?”

  “Only for a hundred years.”

  “He question you?”

  “Not yet, but he’s going to. I pissed him off by looking at the body, so he’s making me wait until after y’all give your statements.”

  “Sounds like he knows you well.”

  “Very funny. I tried to give him my statement, but he wouldn’t listen. He’s waiting for the medical examiner and then he’ll be up.”

  “He gave us strict orders not to discuss the case until he returned,” he said into her hair. “I could use a shower and a shave first. Would you mind?”

  “Finishing breakfast?” She shrugged. “For how many?”

  “Everybody, I guess. You can ask them.” He handed her the barbecue fork. “Thanks, Sandy.” He leaned down and planted a kiss on her mouth.

  Sandra wondered how long it would be until there was a follow-up to that kiss, and then realized that she should feel badly for thinking of sex when Phillip lay dead on the grass outside. She smiled at Stuart’s back and said, “While you’re at it, clip that hangnail. You just snagged my silk blouse.”