by Matt Coyle
“A shit show.” Turk.
“It wasn’t that bad. Detective Denton is now the lead detective and she’s a bit belligerent. But, we’re still in control of the facts.”
“That’s bullshit.” A higher-pitched tenor than Turk’s normal baritone. “Denton kept telling me that I needed to confess before the DNA came back. That I’d have a better chance at a plea bargain.”
“That’s a standard tactic from an old-school cop like Denton,” I said. She’d badgered me and played psychological games when she had me cornered in a square white room a few years ago. I was still a free man. “Of course your DNA is going to be in Shay’s house. And you told them about grabbing her, right?”
“I told them everything, but they have something we don’t know about. I’m sure of it.” Turk, still on the high wire. “Denton smirked at me the whole time I was in there.”
Elk’s silence didn’t reassure me, or probably Turk, that everything was under control.
“What could they possibly have if you told them everything?” I spoke when Elk didn’t.
“I don’t know. I didn’t kill Shay, but I think they have something they think can prove that I did.”
That wasn’t a confidence-building denial.
This time Elk spoke up before I could.
“If this proceeds further, we’ll learn whatever surprises they think they have and we’ll be able to counter them. Rest assured.” Elk, calm, in control. The lawyer I’d seen get acquittals in six of the seven cases I investigated for him that he didn’t plea down to lesser offenses. But none of them had been murder cases.
“I just want to get the hell out of here and go home.” Turk.
“We have one last task. It will only take a few minutes.” Elk, cajoling like he was talking to a recalcitrant youth.
“I don’t want to talk to the press. That will just make things worse.”
“Turk, we discussed this. You’re not going to talk to the press. I am and you’re going to stand next to me with your head up and shoulders back with a concerned, but not anxious look on your face. Exactly like we practiced this morning.”
“Fuck that.” Turk moved toward the sidewalk. “I’m going home.”
“Turk!” Elk’s voice a sharp whisper. “Come back here. This is important. Even more important than before we met with the detectives.”
There it was. Seasoned criminal defense attorney Ellis Fenton was worried right alongside Turk. And me. He must have also feared they had something they were holding back. A bombshell. The evidence in the hedge at Shay’s apartment that the crime scene techs examined behind the screen yesterday morning?
Whatever it was, Elk Fenton was already playing the long game. He expected Turk to be arrested for Shay Sommers’ murder, but Turk wasn’t ready to deal with that, yet. Still, Elk knew he needed to get in front of the press to try to influence them and, more importantly, the potential jury pool watching from their homes.
The kind of maneuver that disgusted me when I was a cop. Before I got on the wrong side of the table in an interrogation room. Even now, the tactic bothered me when I thought a defendant was guilty. Presumed innocent was a nice theory, but it flew in the face of human nature. The police had the advantage of authority and a jail. Snap judgments by the press only added weight to the guilty side of the scale. We humans are only human. But Turk was a friend and I’d presumed him innocent.
So far.
“He’s right, Turk. Let’s go stand in front of the press and get a jump start on the police.” I put my hand on the other side of the scale. “If it turns out we didn’t need to, no harm done. Let’s do it and move on.”
The large blurred-edged square mass rejoined Elk and me.
“Okay.” Elk back in command. “Heads up, shoulders back. Once we get to the landing in front of the building, I want to make a statement. You two stand on either side of me, but a step behind. Remember, engaged but resolute. Rick—”
“I know, engaged, resolute, and blind. I’ll keep the shades on and make sure my cane is visible in front of me during your statement.”
“Well …” He seemed to be thinking. Then, “Perfect. Do you need guidance walking up to the entrance of the building?”
I didn’t need help, but I still needed the cane. I still had a long way to go before I wouldn’t. If I ever made it that far.
“I’ll manage. Thanks.” I tapped the cane and took a step toward the sidewalk. “Besides, tapping along with the cane helps sell my virtuousness.”
“You get it,” Elk said.
“What bullshit.” Turk.
Sure enough, once we turned the corner from the parking lot onto the sidewalk, shouts and dashing footsteps assaulted us. Blurred forms pressed in on us. A hand on my inside shoulder, helping to guide me. Large and strong. Turk. He was either concerned about the crush of people around me, or he’d come over to Elk’s way of thinking. Show the world what a good guy you were and help the blind man.
I didn’t know which. Didn’t matter. Either way, he’d made the right call.
“Are you a suspect in Shay Sommers’ murder, Mr. Muldoon?” A familiar voice. Cathy Cade from Channel Six News. She’d shouted a few questions at me in the past.
“Is an arrest imminent?” Another woman whose voice I didn’t recognize.
“Did you kill your girlfriend?” a male voice shouted above the rest.
None of us responded. Finally, we made it to the entrance of the Brick House and Turk guided me up the two stairs behind Elk. We squared up behind him, just outside his shoulders. I stood, stoic, with my cane in front of me. Playing my part in this melodramatic, yet necessary, skit for the press.
“Folks, my name is Ellis Fenton. I’m an attorney and I’m going to speak to you on behalf of Thomas Muldoon.” In command, but friendly. “Mr. Muldoon is grieving the loss of his girlfriend, Shay Louise Sommers. Despite this paralyzing grief, he voluntarily came down to police headquarters this morning because he wants to give the police any information he can that will help them apprehend Shay’s killer. To the people watching this in their homes, if you have any information that can help solve this heinous crime please contact the La Jolla Police Department.”
Elk gave out the LJPD tip line. Brilliant. Turk and his lawyer wanted to find the truth as much, if not more than, LJPD did. He beat them to the punch with this mini press conference.
“Where were you when Miss Sommers was murdered, Mr. Muldoon?” The same loudmouth, at the same volume, who asked Turk if he murdered Shay.
“Is Rick Cahill here in support of Mr. Muldoon?” Cathy Cade.
“Mr. Muldoon is not going to answer any questions or give any interviews at this time. He’s in a state of shock and in tremendous grief.” Slight annoyance in Elk’s voice to reinforce his statement. Jackals feeding at the trough of an innocent citizen’s pain. “In the meantime, we’re going to let the police do their job and hope you will, too. Mr. Cahill is a lifelong friend of Thomas Muldoon, or Turk, as he’s known to his friends and hundreds of San Diegans who regularly dine at his restaurant. Many of you already know Rick, whose heroic actions in tracking down his wife’s killer cost him his own eyesight in Santa Barbara last year. The same Rick Cahill whose life was saved by Turk seven years ago, costing Turk his mobility. These two heroic men share a bond that can never be broken.”
Laying it on as thick as hot tar.
“Is it true that Mr. Muldoon hired a private investigator to find out if his girlfriend was cheating on him?” Loudmouth again.
The press was unimpressed by our “heroics.” That was old news. Their headlines and ratings were now tied to the death of a beautiful young woman and the local restaurateur the police questioned about her murder.
“Any further questions can be directed to my office. I trust you’ll honor Mr. Muldoon’s privacy and let him grieve in peace during this very sad time. Thank you for your attention.” Elk’s form stepped down the stairs and Turk guided me after him.
“Is Rick a part of
the defense team?” Cathy Cade.
“There is no defense team. Rick is here to support his friend.” Elk waited for Turk and me to catch up, then led us down the sidewalk. The mob of reporters encircled us. A buzzing swarm of wasps.
“Is it true that the District Attorney’s Office is considering impaneling a grand jury to indict Mr. Muldoon?” Loudmouth.
Turk’s guiding hand squeezed my shoulder so hard that I twisted out of his grasp. I hoped the cameramen or women didn’t get a shot of that.
The wasps kept buzzing until we got into Elk’s car in the Brick House parking lot and drove away. A BMW Series 3 as Elk informed me last night. Not a Mercedes Benz Maybach but plenty of room in the front passenger seat for me and my cane.
Nobody said anything as we cleared downtown La Jolla and got halfway down Torrey Pines Road.
“Do you believe what that reporter said about a grand jury?” Turk, from the back seat. His voice unsteady. “He seemed to have inside information.”
“I doubt it. Way too premature.” Elk in a calm cadence. “That reporter is just trying to boost his image. No way the DA has the DNA test results back yet, and even if they did, your DNA at the scene is easily explained. If they impanel a grand jury, it would be with a weak case and they would be very unlikely to get an indictment. And even if they somehow did get an indictment and charged you, they’d have very little compelling evidence. We would prevail.”
“Easy for you to say. You won’t be the one in jail.”
“I’ve seen Elk in a courtroom, Turk.” I tried to match Fenton’s tone even though I was worried, too. “He’s an excellent lawyer. That’s why I wanted you to talk to him. But we’re getting way out in front of ourselves because of one loudmouth reporter looking to raise his profile. Trust Elk, he knows what he’s doing.”
Turk didn’t say anything for the rest of the drive. Elk pulled to a stop in front of his house.
“Don’t answer your phone for the next few days unless you know who it is,” Elk said as Turk opened his door. “Today went exactly according to plan. You did very well.”
“Thanks for your help. Both of you.” His voice, dead, devoid of emotion like he was completely spent. And this was only day two. The door closed and the car pulled forward.
I turned toward Elk and saw a dark outline against a changing gray background as he drove. “If today went according to plan, we must have had the wrong plan.”
“No. Today didn’t go well.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
I SPENT THE next couple hours voice commanding my computer and listening to it talk back to me. I learned all I could online about Keenan Powell and Blank Slate Capital, LLC. Which was surprisingly little for an investment firm that supposedly handled hundreds of millions in investments. Blank Slate Capital had only been around since 2010, so it came after the market crash and derivatives mess of 2008. Founder Chuck Baxter’s bio described him as a self-made millionaire who was a financial advisor before he started day trading in the stock market and eventually starting his own hedge fund.
Keenan Powell’s Blank Slate Capital bio said he got his law degree from the University of Idaho and was an avid outdoorsman who worked on a cattle ranch when he was a teenager. Powell had been with Blank Slate Capital since its inception. The only other information I could find on him was that he went to the College of Southern Idaho for a year before earning a degree in finance from Boise State, and records of his marriage license, divorce, home ownership, and his Idaho, Nevada, California, and New York Bar licenses. No mention of membership in any attorney associations or organizations. That seemed unusual to me. All of the lawyers I knew were in some sort of association. The American Bar Association being the most prominent.
The best thing that came from my search was that I could make out the dark outline of my laptop and the blur of light that made up its screen. I squinted my eyes down into slits. The outline of the computer sharpened, but I could still only see fuzzy light in the middle. No images. No words. No individual colors. Just gray light.
I still had a long way to go. Hopefully. But I stopped betting on hope a long time ago.
I walked Midnight on our horseshoe trek around the block ten times, then took him into the backyard and threw the tennis ball with him. Something my neighbor’s daughter, Micalah, did with Midnight four times a week after I’d pay her to clean up his poop. Now I threw the ball and could see a blur of black streak across the gray. Huffing wolf breaths as he sprinted back and forth. He dropped the saliva-soaked ball into my outstretched hand again and again. This was one day the glop on my hand didn’t bother me at all.
I hit my garage gym next. Arms, legs, core. Then the heavy punching bag hanging from the rafters that I still had from my teenage Golden Gloves boxing days. Its outline bent out away from me at forty-five degrees by my rapid left-right combinations. I could have made solid contact with my eyes closed or completely blind. One final digging left hook and right cross and I bent over and dropped my hands to my knees. Sweat rolled off me and my breath huffed in and out. The physical expenditure felt good. Necessary.
I hit the bag most days for a workout and to keep my reflexes fresh. Today was different. More power and ferocity, unmatched since my boxing days. I was working something else out. Something internal. Visceral. But unknown.
I trained like I was going into battle, but I didn’t have an enemy. Not one that I could see. But I sensed one out there. The Invisible Man wearing the Dove deodorant? Was he even real or just a figment of my vision-starved imagination? A combination of three or four innocent men who crossed my path and my own fear? Maybe. But something deep inside me that I couldn’t fully comprehend or describe told me to get ready.
For war.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
MOIRA CALLED AFTER I got out of a post-workout shower.
“I saw you on the news.” Disappointment in her voice. I’d been on the news a lot in my life. Too much. So, I didn’t expect to hear elation from her for the novelty of it. But I didn’t expect to hear displeasure, either.
“I told you I was going to continue to investigate for Turk.”
“I didn’t know that that included being one of the dogs in the dog and pony show Ellis Fenton put on today.”
“Not my idea, but I was happy to do it.” Emphatic, bordering on belligerent. “I know better than anyone how the press can try someone on the airways who hasn’t even been arrested. Turk deserves to be seen for who he is before the press tears him down.”
“Yet.”
“Yet what?” A low boil in my voice. I wished I’d let the call go to voicemail. Moira on my side was welcome, but always a challenge. On the other side, she was a problem.
“Turk hasn’t been arrested, yet.” She hit the T hard in “yet.”
“You know something I don’t?”
“I know enough to tell you that you should take an unvarnished look at your friend and then walk away.”
“I don’t walk away from my friends.”
“But you also don’t turn your back on the truth.” Big sister anger trying to educate her little brother about how life worked. “And seeking justice is always where your true loyaltys lie.”
“Tell me what you’re not telling me.” Maybe her contact at LJPD told her something he shouldn’t have.
“Did Turk tell you he went to Shay’s after we talked to him at Muldoon’s Wednesday night?”
“As a matter of fact, he did.” But only when I asked him about it after Detective Denton blurted it out to me on the phone. “And he told that to LJPD along with everything else he knows or did. Something else I should know?”
“I’m telling you as a friend, quit working for Ellis Fenton right now. I know what you’re capable of when you think you have the truth on your side.”
What I was capable of. Moira knew me too well. But, in some ways, she only knew the old Rick. My vision, or lack of it, wasn’t the only thing that had changed. I was on Turk’s team, but I wasn’t an avenging an
gel. Or devil. I wanted to find the person who killed Shay, but not so I could impose my own justice. So I could keep Turk out of jail or help free him if he was ever arrested. I didn’t have an allegiance to Shay Sommers. I was sorry she was dead and wanted her killer to be caught, but I didn’t have to be the one to bring him in.
Or put him down.
“I appreciate your concern.” I kept my voice even because I meant the words. “But I’m not wrong. Turk is innocent.”
“But what if he’s not? What if he killed her?” Hard.
“No what ifs. He’s innocent.”
“You might change your mind.” A pause, then a loud breath. “You have to promise me you won’t tell Ellis Fenton what I’m about to tell you. My contact went way out on a limb on this one.”
Moira was my best friend. But Turk used to be and he needed me now more than he ever had. More than Moira ever needed me. And Elk Fenton was the one man who might be able to keep Turk out of jail.
Moira had information that I needed. I just had to tell a lie. To her.
“I can’t promise that. I’m still working for Turk. Elk Fenton is his lawyer.” Maybe I really had changed.
“Why do you always have to make things so damn hard?” More pain than anger. “They found the murder weapon. A necktie. It matches a man’s suit found in Shay’s closet. Looks like it’s one of Turk’s.”
“You just proved my point.” My body unclenched for the first time today. Now I wouldn’t even have to tell Elk. Moira’s bomb was a dud. Thankfully for both of us. “I’ve known Turk for twenty-six years and have never seen him in a suit. Much less a tie.”
“If you look up photos for this year’s Water 4 Life Global’s Casino Night for a Cause, you can find Turk in a jacket and tie.”
“I can command my computer to pull it up, but I won’t be able to see the picture. I’m blind.” Too sarcastic for the situation, but the “Turk was guilty because Doctor Donnelly was guilty and I shouldn’t have taken the case bit” was wearing thin. “So Turk bought or rented a suit and tie for one charity event. Doesn’t make it the same tie. A lot of ties go with a lot of suits.”
