Dying Declaration by Randy Singer Read Free Book Online Page A

years with every ounce of her strength. Short, blonde hair with a layered cut, the roots beginning to turn brown. Tanned skin abused by too many long summers in the beach sun. The first signs of wrinkles had been ironed out with a facelift at age thirty-five. She had never admitted it to Sean, but he had his sources. She was not a natural athlete but worked hard to whip her body into shape, with fairly impressive results. She was only five-five, with big bones and a slow metabolism. She had to stay disciplined to keep off the weight.
    Her face would be described by most as handsome but not stunning. The angles a little too sharp, the eyes a little too narrow,
the cheeks a little too hollow. Regardless, it worked for him. She always applied her makeup with precision, hiding every flaw and accentuating the positives. And her mouth was truly beautiful—full lips, always covered with dark lipstick, and straight white teeth. You found yourself staring at her mouth when she talked, the way you did with Julia Roberts. Armistead had been mesmerized by her mouth on more than one occasion, a trait he was sure he shared with many jurors.
    “So what’s up? You don’t call at seven in the morning to chat.”
    Armistead smiled to himself. All business. He loved it.
    “I think I’ve got an interesting case for you. High stakes. Big publicity. Sympathetic victim.”
    “I’m listening.”
    “A twenty-month-old child died last night in the emergency room because his parents refused to get medical help for a ruptured appendix for three days. We did everything we could to bring him around, but it was too late. Plus, though I can’t prove it yet, I think the parents might have abused this child and their other two kids as well—a five-year-old boy and a seven-year-old girl.”
    Armistead paused, allowing the magnitude of his favor to kick in. “I thought you might be interested,” he said.
    “Interested,” Rebecca replied. “You could say I’m interested .” She sounded energized. “Meet me at the office in an hour. I’ll need an affidavit.”
    “I’ll be there,” he promised.
    There was silence for a brief moment. “What’s the kid’s name?” Rebecca asked.
    “Joshua Hammond.”
    “What did he look like?”
    This strange question caught Armistead a little off guard. Honestly, he couldn’t much remember. “Typical two-year-old. Blond hair, I think, pudgy. . . . Why is that important?”
    “It’s not, really. I just like to put a face with my files. On a murder case, I usually tape a picture of the victim to the inside cover of my trial notebook. Helps me remember what the case is about.”
    This side of Rebecca surprised him. It also shamed him a little. He couldn’t remember what this kid’s face looked like if his own life depended on it. The thought that a ruthless prosecutor had more compassion than he did was disturbing.
    “Maybe you should tape your own picture there,” Armistead suggested. “This case is about getting you a promotion.”
    She huffed. “You’re such a jerk sometimes.”
    That’s better. That’s the Rebecca he knew. Combative, biting . . . irresistible. “I’ll make it up to you later,” he promised.

    Rebecca took a quick shower and threw on a pair of tight-fitting jeans and a loose-fitting tank top. Birkenstocks with no socks. She applied liberal amounts of blush, eye shadow, lipstick, and mascara in near record time. She layered on the deodorant and perfume. She was on her way in thirty minutes.
    She formulated a strategy during the twenty-minute drive from her condo. She would talk to Child Protective Services on Monday. She could have a grand jury indictment by Tuesday. She would have an arrest warrant issued for the parents on Tuesday evening and request an arraignment and bond hearing for Wednesday morning. She would charge them with criminally negligent homicide,
requesting a huge bond. She would seek a foster home for the children while the parents were behind bars. Even