“And tell us what your review showed,” said the presiding judge.
“We identified every single person on the surveillance tapes who received a key card during that one-week time period. We were then able to interview guests at the hotel from that time period as well, to match names to those faces.”
“And what did your investigation yield?”
“Mr. President,” said Durand, “from the moment the four accused arrived at the Hôtel Métropole until the discovery of the bodies, nobody but these four women received key cards to their suite, the Carré d’Or.”
“Is it possible, Colonel, that one of the four women misplaced her key card and someone else picked it up and used it?”
“No, Mr. President. Each of the accused, when arrested, was in possession of her key card.”
“Very good, Colonel. And did you conduct any further investigation?”
“Yes, Mr. President.” Durand drank from his water glass. “We considered other claims the women argued during the investigation: that someone might have bribed hotel staff for a key card, so he wouldn’t have to walk up to the front desk and be caught on camera; or that one of the hotel staff broke in.”
The presiding judge turned to a page in the dossier and referenced it for the record. “Proceed, Colonel.”
“Mr. President, as the dossier indicates, the Hôtel Métropole interviewed each member of its staff in my presence. We focused most particularly on staff members who entered that suite during the time period for turndown service or cleaning. But every single staff member was thoroughly investigated. Each one submitted to a lie-detector test. And everyone passed the test. We are confident that no staff member, either intentionally or accidentally, permitted anyone other than those four women to enter their suite, and that those employees who did enter the suite committed no wrongdoing whatsoever.”
“So let us be clear.” The presiding judge closed the dossier and paused a moment. “During the investigation, the accused claimed that physical evidence found at the scene of the murders was planted.”
“Yes, sir.”
“That hair follicles found in the car must have been taken from their hairbrushes in their hotel suite and placed at the scene of the crime.”
“Yes, sir.”
“That mucus belonging to Ms. Brookes was taken from a used tissue found in the hotel suite. That Ms. Elliot’s cerumen—earwax—came from a cotton swab in the hotel room. That the blood droplet belonging to Ms. Schofield was taken from the hotel suite. You are aware of these claims.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And to those claims you would say?”
Durand nodded triumphantly. “Mr. President, I can say with utmost certainty that nobody received a key card to the Carré d’Or suite other than those four women. And no staff member from the hotel allowed anyone else into that suite during that time period.
“Mr. President,” he concluded, “there is no way anyone else entered that room to steal evidence and plant it at the murder scene. The defense’s claims are more than just absurd. They are impossible.”
CHAPTER 47
I SPENT THE NIGHT in a local jail on the south end of Paris. As always, I was assigned my own cell for security reasons, which meant I had the overflowing toilet and cockroaches all to myself. They didn’t have a mattress, but they scrounged up some blankets and laid them along the bench for me to sleep on.
The cops at the jail were passing around a French magazine called Bruit that, on its laminated cover, claimed to contain exclusive sexy photos of Winnie Brookes, who had briefly aspired to modeling back in her early twenties. Some British photographer realized that he had shot these pics of Winnie years ago and, not wanting to miss out on the ravenous frenzy for anything related to the Monte Carlo Mistresses, had sold them to the highest bidder. Winnie hadn’t posed nude, but she got as close as she possibly could—mostly bra-and-panties shots, including a few with another scantily clad female model, which were immediately identified by the Neanderthal cops as their favorites.
“Thanks, I’m good on photos of my friends in their undies for now,” I said to whomever was approaching my cell door. I was lying flat on my poor excuse for a bed, staring up at the ceiling, and not very interested in seeing another picture of Winnie.
“I don’t have any photos of your friends in undies. But I’d be willing to take some.”
I lifted my head enough to make out a man in a leather jacket and jeans, with an unshaven face and long red hair pulled back in a ponytail.
“I’ve seen you in court,” I said.
“Joe Morro,” he said. “New York Times.”
I put my head back down. “The blog. The guy who used to call me all the time.”
“Right.”
“The guy who trashed me in last night’s edition. ‘A schemer and a liar,’ I think you said. My daughter read that.”
“Maybe we can help each other.”
“How’s that? You going to break me out of here? Confess to the murders? Those things would help me out.”
He laughed. “Give me exclusive access to you. Talk to me, on and off the record. And I’ll be a resource for you.”
I rolled my head over toward him. “How did you get in here?”
He laughed. “I know, I know. Security’s tight. One of these cops is my friend. I wrote an article about his sister once. But don’t worry, they gave me a full-body search before they let me pass. I’m no threat to you.”
“Last I heard, the pen is mightier than the sword.”
He liked that. “How do you prove a frame-up?” he asked. “That central intelligence guy Durand—he says nobody else had a key card to the hotel suite. So how does anyone get your hair and mucus and all that stuff? Plus who even knew President Devereux was going to be in Monte Carlo? He was traveling incognito. An advance plan or frame-up is a tough sell, Abbie.”
“So now you’re going to tell me how much my case sucks?” I moaned. “Joe, I’m tired and I need sleep. If I can think of something I need, you’ll be the first to know.”
“I think you’re innocent,” he said.
That line, I had to admit, got my attention. I wasn’t hearing a lot of that these days. I looked at him again. “Don’t say something like that unless you mean it.”
“I mean it. I think Winnie did it, personally. She was on a pretty self-destructive path, don’t you think? I think the rest of you are getting screwed. She shot him and then came back onto the yacht and dumped the whole thing on the rest of you guys.”
“That’s not true,” I said.
“Okay, maybe not that exactly. But I’d bet my journalism degree that Winnie Brookes is the killer. And I’d also bet my degree that you aren’t sure whether I’m right or wrong.”
I didn’t answer. He was trying to goad me. It was working.
“I can help you,” he repeated. “I can be very resourceful when I need to be.”
“So you claim,” I said.
“I found you here, didn’t I? At your undisclosed location?”
He dropped his business card inside my cell.
“Call me,” he said.
CHAPTER 48
THE COURTROOM WENT still at the call of his name, like a classroom suddenly going quiet upon the teacher’s entry. Heads turned back to see him. He walked with the smooth confidence of someone who was accustomed to such attention. He was dressed in a beautiful black suit with a thin black tie and expensive Italian loafers.
He was a fish out of water, walking through a criminal courtroom instead of down the red carpet at the Oscars. But he was an actor, after all; he could play a part and he played this one well, maintaining the appropriate sobriety for the occasion.
On just about every level, the experience of watching Damon Kodiak testify in court was about as surreal as it got. Even under the perilous circumstances in which I found myself, I couldn’t deny having a physical reaction to him. He had drawn something out of me that I’d never known existed. The memory of that time
was somewhat tempered, admittedly, by being arrested hours later, dragged from the yacht, and put on trial for my life, accused of a crime I didn’t commit. But that was the thing: it was more than just some memory. It was an indelible mark he’d carved inside me.
And then, of course, there was Jeffrey, sitting only a few dozen feet away from me right now. Who would have thought that I’d find myself in the same room with my husband and my one-night stand, and that our affair would be the least of my problems?
Damon answered the preliminary questions easily enough. He testified to being in Monte Carlo on the night in question, during a break from a movie he was filming. He freely admitted to meeting me and the others at the nightclub and to taking a particular interest in me.
“I enjoyed talking to Abbie very much,” he said. “Did I find her attractive? Sure. I suppose you could say we flirted as well.”
Yeah, you could probably say that.
“Mr. Kodiak,” asked the presiding judge. “Were you aware that the man who referred to himself as Devo was, in fact, the president of France?”
“No, I was not,” Damon answered. “Though I joined the group late, and I confess to having enjoyed a few cocktails by that point in the evening. It’s possible that the others knew who he was. But I did not.”
No matter how Damon qualified it, this testimony was very helpful to the defense, especially after Richard Ogletree said that we all knew “Devo” was President Devereux. Damon was the first person to corroborate our position.
“I recall the Grand Casino, yes, Your Honor,” he said. Apparently he didn’t get the memo from Ogletree about calling the judge Mr. President. Then again, the presiding judge wasn’t rushing to correct the international movie star.
“I recall arriving at the casino with Abbie and her other friends after the nightclub. That much, of course, I remember. And I remember having a good time at the casino, as I always do.” Damon seemed to think that this comment merited some favorable reaction, which the spectators gave him.
“As best as I can remember,” he said, “I didn’t spend any time with Abbie, personally, at the casino. We sort of lost each other.”
That was true. I’d lost Damon at the casino. And the surveillance cameras at the Grand Casino backed this up.
“Mr. Kodiak,” said the presiding judge, “when did you next see the defendant, Ms. Elliot?”
“When did I next see Abbie?” Damon scratched the back of his head, then turned and looked in my direction briefly, though we didn’t make eye contact.
“Yes, Mr. Kodiak. After you became separated at the casino, when was the next time you saw the accused, Abbie Elliot?”
He opened his hand, gesturing toward me, before he gave his answer.
“Today,” he said. “When I walked into the courtroom.”
“You are aware that Ms. Elliot has used you as an alibi. That she has claimed that the two of you had a romantic encounter on the yacht, which could account for her whereabouts during the time of the murder. You know all this.”
“I do, Your Honor. I do.” He paused. His eyes rose to the ceiling, as if he were pondering the most delicate, diplomatic way to put it.
“She…was a very nice woman,” he said. “A very aggressive woman. I think it’s safe to say, from my perspective, that she was interested in sleeping with me.”
“But that did not happen?”
“It didn’t happen.” Damon glanced at the judges with a look that said it all: What would a superstar like me be doing with a woman like her?
Anyone who wasn’t looking at the dashing and charming Damon Kodiak was looking at me. I could only stare straight ahead and try to keep my composure. What did they threaten you with, Damon? I wondered.
“Your Honor,” said Damon, “I’m afraid what Abbie Elliot told you is either an alibi she invented, or a fantasy in her mind.”
CHAPTER 49
“GOOD MORNING, MR. KODIAK.” Jules Laurent cleared his throat and glanced at a notepad on his desk.
“Mr. Laurent.” Because Jules was speaking in English, Damon removed his headphones.
“You testified you were never on the yacht, the Misty Blue, on the night or early morning in question.”
“That’s correct.”
“You’re aware that one of your fingerprints was located on the doorknob of a bedroom door on that yacht.”
“I am, yes,” said Damon. “And as I told the investigators, I’ve been on Dick Ogletree’s yacht many times. Just not that night.”
“The bedroom door I reference—you are aware that this is the very bedroom that my client says was the location of your…intimate relations?”
“I wasn’t,” he said. “I am now.”
“A coincidence?”
“Apparently so.”
“So I will assume…you also are not aware that Abbie, my client, identified this particular bedroom to the authorities before she knew that your fingerprint was on the doorknob of that bedroom?”
Damon, of course, didn’t know that. Jules referenced the various pages of the dossier, establishing the date of my statement to the police and the later report of the fingerprint results.
“So of the five bedrooms on this yacht, Abbie just happened to pick the one where a fingerprint of yours would later be found? She just got lucky in her guess?” Jules asked, wagging a pencil in his hand.
Damon bowed his head ever so slightly. “Mr. Laurent, I doubt she would consider herself lucky at this moment.”
A murmur of laughter rippled through the courtroom. Jules acknowledged the moment.
“A poor question,” he said. “A better one: Mr. Kodiak, knowing that you are alive and well, and perfectly able to…rebut what she said…knowing all of this, yes?…can you think of a reason why Abbie would make up this story about you? Knowing that you would immediately deny it and…expose her as a liar?”
Damon, who had been wearing the trace of a smug smile, lost a bit of color.
“This woman,” Jules went on, waving an arm with a flourish, “whom the prosecution claims to be a criminal mastermind—she would have to be quite…oh, stupid, yes? To make up such a silly alibi?”
The prosecutor rose, presumably to object, but the presiding judge was already admonishing Jules to avoid speeches at this point. Jules bowed slightly to the presiding judge and moved on.
“The murders occurred on nineteen June, Mr. Kodiak. Yet you were not questioned until twenty-four June. Five days later. Do you recall this, as I do?”
Damon’s eyes danced a bit before he nodded. “I think that’s right.”
“They came to you,” he said. “Not you to them?”
“That’s also correct.”
“You hadn’t heard this news of President Devereux’s death before twenty-four June?”
“Of course I had. I believe I heard about it when everyone else did.”
“And you knew it had taken place in Monte Carlo.”
“Yes,” Damon said, the answer coming more slowly, as he grew more wary of his adversary.
“And the news of the arrests.” Jules gestured to the four of us in the defense cage. “These four women. Their names and faces were splashed everywhere. Almost immediately. Were you not immediately aware that they had been arrested?”
Damon coughed. Stalling for time, I thought. “Mr. Laurent, the sequence of events is not something I remember particularly well. At some point, yes, I heard their names. And yes, to answer your next question—yes, I recognized them as the women I’d met at the nightclub.”
“But you did not initiate contact with the French authorities, did you, sir?”
“I did not. I didn’t think the fact that I had met them at the nightclub made any difference. What could I tell the French authorities? These women were fun to party with?”
More laughter in the courtroom, but subdued this time. This wasn’t the time for levity.
Jules was moving in on Damon, and everyone sensed it.
CHAPTER 50
�
�MR. KODIAK, THE dossier indicates that the authorities first tried to reach you on twenty-one June.” Jules referenced the dossier for the record. “Is that date…consistent with your memory?”
Damon scratched at his cheek. “I couldn’t be specific.”
“Do you have a reason to doubt the accuracy of the police record in the dossier?”
Damon shook his head. “No. I do know that I was filming some water scenes in the Mediterranean and it would have been difficult to speak with them.”
Jules dropped his hand and stared at Damon for a long, pregnant moment. “It would have been difficult to take a boat or helicopter to shore and speak with authorities about the murder of the French president?”
“No, I suppose it wouldn’t have, if they’d asked, but they didn’t,” Damon snapped, the first break in his cool demeanor. “We were spending entire days out there on the water and if they had told me it was an urgent matter, I would have—of course I would have come ashore.” He took a breath and calmed down. “They said it could wait.”
Jules nodded aimlessly. He was probably thinking to himself that he’d pushed this too far. What Damon was saying sounded somewhat reasonable.
“It wouldn’t be the case,” Jules said, “that you were trying to…get your story straight?”
“No, it most certainly wouldn’t, Mr. Laurent.” Damon pointed a finger at Jules. “After the nightclub and the casino, I left and went to my friend’s place in Cannes. I stayed there until the morning and got up and took a helicopter to our film site on the Mediterranean. What story is there to get straight?”
“Your friend’s place in Cannes. That friend is…Oliver Kurtz?”
“Yes.” Damon nodded emphatically. “Ollie told the authorities the same thing.”
“Ollie is a personal assistant, is he not? He was…renting a house in Cannes?”
Guilty Wives Page 12
