“And you’ve come to me because . . . ?”
“Can you still get in touch with Anthony?” Amanda said, naming a highly trained assassin and bodyguard who had saved her life when she threatened to expose a criminal conspiracy composed of powerful and ruthless men.
Martin squinted at Amanda. “It’s that serious?”
Amanda nodded.
Martin frowned. “I haven’t had any contact with Anthony since he babysat you when you had that problem with the Vaughn Street Glee Club, so I have no idea where he is or what he’s up to.”
“But you can get in touch with him?”
“I can try. Meanwhile, I’ll have one of my people watch Mr. Greene’s back.”
“Whoever sent those men after me is ruthless and probably responsible for several brutal murders. I don’t want to endanger any of your men.”
“The person I have in mind for the job is used to dangerous situations. And I would feel awful if anything happened to my favorite mouthpiece’s boyfriend when I could have prevented it.”
“I don’t know how to thank you, Martin.”
Breach grinned. “An invite to the wedding would be nice, and so would a discount on your legal fees if I ever need your assistance.”
Amanda smiled back. “No one’s getting married just yet, but the next time you or one of your henchmen are busted, you’ll get the repeat-offender discount.”
CHAPTER 35
Alan Hotchkiss was working on a police report when his phone rang.
“Alan, it’s Holly Reed from the crime lab.”
“Hey, Holly, how you doing?”
“Great. I just solved a problem generated by evidence in the Masterson case that’s been driving me crazy.”
Hotchkiss swiveled his chair and propped his heels up on his desk.
“What did you find?”
“Do you remember those berries we found in Dale Masterson’s den?”
“Not really.”
“They were mashed up in some soil on the rug near his desk. I didn’t pay much attention to them at first, and then when I finally got around to studying them, I couldn’t figure out what plant they were from.”
“And?” asked Hotchkiss, who was anxious to get back to his report and not the least bit interested in berries.
“They’re from a pokeweed.”
“And I should care because . . . ?”
“They’re rare, Alan. In fact, you can only find them in one place in Portland.”
Hotchkiss lifted his heels off his desk and sat up.
“You’ve got my full attention, Holly.”
“You’re the detective and I’m just a techie drudge, but if I was a detective I would conclude that there is a good possibility that the person who murdered Dale Masterson was in a remote part of Forest Park shortly before Dale Masterson was murdered.”
“Tom Beatty!” Hotchkiss said.
“Figuring out whodunit is your job, Sherlock.”
“I owe you one,” Hotchkiss said.
“No, you owe me two. I got my info from Nellie Norwood at the Forest Park Conservancy and she told me that I was the second person she’d told about the pokeweed and where it grows. The first person was Paul Baylor.”
“Son of a bitch!” Hotchkiss swore. He knew Paul from Paul’s time in the Oregon State Crime Lab, and he also knew that Baylor was the person Amanda Jaffe used when she needed a forensic expert.
“Detectives Brewster and Hotchkiss are in the waiting room,” Amanda’s receptionist said, “and they’d like to talk to you.”
The two detectives pushed their way into Amanda’s office seconds later. They were dressed in windbreakers, jeans, and muddy hiking boots.
“Where is Tom Beatty?” Hotchkiss demanded the minute he set foot in Amanda’s office.
Amanda expected Hotchkiss to be rude, but Billie Brewster looked as angry as her partner. Normally she would have thrown out anyone who stormed into her office like this, but something was definitely up, so Amanda reined in her anger.
“What’s going on?” Amanda asked.
“What do you know about pokeweed?” Hotchkiss asked.
“Why do you want to know?” Amanda asked, fighting hard to keep a placid expression on her face.
“You know damn well why we want to know,” Hotchkiss said. “We’ve just come back from a remote area of Forest Park that happens to be the only place in Oregon where you can find pokeweed. Want to guess what else we found? I’ll save you the trouble. We found two dead men in a shallow grave and the remnants of a campsite.”
“This has gone far enough, Amanda,” Brewster said. “We know Nellie Norwood at the Forest Park Conservancy told Paul Baylor about the pokeweed and where it grows. That’s Beatty’s camp, isn’t it?”
Amanda felt sick. Suddenly her potential conflicts problem was full-blown reality.
“You have to leave,” she said without conviction.
“Amanda, Beatty is no longer someone who may have been framed for Christine Larson’s death,” Billie said. “He’s become a mass murderer. How many more people have to die because you refuse to help us catch him?”
“I have to think,” Amanda said.
“Well, don’t think too long,” Hotchkiss said, “or the next victim is on you.”
CHAPTER 36
As soon as the detectives left, Amanda’s receptionist told her that Brandon Masterson had just called and left a message on Amanda’s voice mail. Amanda accessed the message. Brandon sounded subdued and frightened.
“Hey, um, can you come see me, please? If you can come up right away, I’d . . . Please.”
Amanda replayed the short message. Brandon sounded desperate, and a trip to the hospital would distract her from her dilemma. Amanda told the receptionist that she was going to the hospital to visit her client.
Amanda walked into Brandon’s hospital room and took a good look at his face. Brandon’s bruises had faded to dull purple and jaundice yellow, but he still looked like someone who had been badly beaten.
“Thank you for coming,” her client said. He sounded subdued, and Amanda noticed that the arrogance that had characterized his demeanor had drained away, leaving him pale and scared.
“I listened to your voice message,” Amanda said. “You sounded very upset.”
“I . . . I have something I have to tell you.”
“Go ahead,” Amanda said as she carried a metal chair to the side of her client’s bed.
“I didn’t do it. I didn’t kill my father.”
“I never thought you did,” Amanda said. “Tell me why you confessed to such a horrible crime.”
Amanda was certain she knew the answer to her question, but she wanted to hear it from her client. Brandon’s chin sunk to his chest and he stared down at his blanket. When he spoke, his voice was barely above a whisper.
“I hate . . . hated my father, and I wanted to use my trial to tell the world what a bastard he was and how much harm he was doing to the Earth.”
“What made you change your mind about claiming you killed him?”
Brandon choked up and started to weep. “I can’t go back there. I had no idea . . .”
Brandon looked up. Tears stained his cheeks and he looked completely lost.
“They beat me. I’ve never been beaten like that. The pain was awful. I was so helpless, so humiliated.”
Amanda reached out and placed her hand over his. “It’s okay, Brandon. I know people at the jail. I’ll try to keep you here as long as I can, and I’ll make sure you’re safe if you have to go back.”
“Thank you.”
“Now, let me ask you something. Veronica Masterson saw you running away from your father’s house, and you had blood on you. How did the blood get on your clothes?”
“I got in the way I said, with my key; they hadn’t changed the locks. I called out when I was inside because I didn’t know where he was. No one answered, so I went into the living room. Then I went into the den. That’s where I found him, on the floo
r.”
“And the blood?”
“There was blood all around him. He . . . he looked dead, but I couldn’t be sure so I dropped to my knees next to him. That’s when I got some of the blood on my jeans.” Brandon shook his head as if he was trying to clear away the image of his father’s battered face. “I’m not too clear on what I did after that. I was in shock, I wasn’t thinking. I did touch him. I was looking for a pulse. I think I shook him. Then I jumped up and saw the blood on my hands. I wiped it on my shirt and pants as I was backing out of the den. Then I panicked and ran. I was running back to my car when Veronica drove up.”
“Did you see the person who killed your father?”
“No, I didn’t see anyone. He must have left before I got there.”
Amanda paused as she debated bringing up a subject that had to be discussed. Then she took a deep breath and plunged in.
“I have a problem. It might not be possible for me to continue to represent you.”
“What? Why?” Brandon asked. He sounded panicky.
“I represent a client who may have killed your father.”
“Who?”
“I can’t tell you or anyone else his name, because he’s my client and some of the evidence I have is statements he made to me that are privileged.
“Normally in a case like yours I would argue to the jury that someone other than you killed Dale Masterson, only I can’t do that because it would be unethical to show the jury evidence that proved my other client is a killer. You see my problem? In this type of situation it is the best practice for the attorney to resign from both cases and have the clients hire new attorneys.”
“No, I don’t want another attorney. I want you to represent me.”
“I may not have a choice, Brandon.”
“Don’t desert me, please. I trust you. You’ve been so straight with me.”
“This is a death penalty case, Brandon. Your life is quite literally at stake. You don’t want a lawyer representing you who has one hand tied behind her back.”
“Can’t I sign a waiver? Can’t I tell the judge I want you even though you have a conflict?”
“You could sign a waiver, but I don’t think that would end it. I’m not going to stay on your case if I think it will lead to you being executed. I couldn’t live with myself if you died because evidence that could have cleared you was denied to the jury because of my conflict.
“Look, we’re both stressed out. I’m going to go now, and I’m going to try and figure a way out of this mess. If I can’t, I’ll have to resign. While I’m working on this problem I want you to think about what I said. You don’t have to make a decision today, but you’re probably going to have to make one soon. And remember: Your life could depend on the choice you make.”
CHAPTER 37
Mark Hamilton’s second wife had left him for a gynecologist who lived in Malibu, so he was living alone in a two-story Tudor mansion in the West Hills. At eight in the evening a black Cadillac Escalade carrying Hamilton and his security detail wound up the tree-lined driveway to the front of the house. Reggie Kiner had arranged for the bodyguards after Dale Masterson’s murder.
At first Hamilton had felt relief at being surrounded by the bodyguards, but then something had occurred to him. He couldn’t believe that Brandon had murdered his father. Tom Beatty was the obvious killer. But what if Tom Beatty didn’t kill Dale? What if Reggie murdered Dale because Dale made him nervous? Reggie would not want to take the chance that Dale would spill his guts to the police if he were questioned and would have no compunctions about getting rid of Dale the same way he’d gotten rid of Christine Larson and Carol White. Now Hamilton wondered if Reggie had surrounded him with bodyguards to protect him or to make it easy to get rid of him if Reggie decided that he posed a threat.
Hamilton waited in the backseat while the two guards in the front seat got out. Both men were over six feet tall and heavily muscled. They had handguns in their holsters, knives in sheaths, and carried automatic weapons.
One bodyguard stayed with Hamilton while the other used the entry code to get inside Hamilton’s house and check for intruders. Twenty minutes later, the guard walked out.
“All clear, Mr. Hamilton. You can go in now. We’re going to watch the house in shifts. Bill will take over for me at two-thirty a.m. and we’ll all drive you to work in the morning.”
“Thanks, Ray. I appreciate your help.”
“Hey, Mr. Hamilton, we earn our living keeping important men safe and sound, and we haven’t lost anyone yet.”
The men surrounded Hamilton and escorted him into his house. As they walked, the bodyguards scanned the area for hostiles. As soon as Mark was inside, Ray left to begin his patrol. Hamilton activated the alarm and went to his den. The curtains were drawn across the only window, and Hamilton adjusted the rheostat so that only a pale glow illuminated the room. There was a wet bar in a corner. Hamilton took a bottle from the liquor cabinet and poured a stiff shot of aged bourbon over a few cubes of ice. He carried his glass to a deep, comfortable armchair and collapsed.
The liquor helped him relax, and so did the fact that he had guards patrolling his grounds. But how long could he go on like this? He felt like a prisoner. Why couldn’t Kiner and the police, with all their resources, find one man?
Hamilton closed his eyes and pressed the glass to his forehead. The cold felt good, and he’d started to calm down when a strip of duct tape was slapped across his mouth. Hamilton’s eyes went wide and he dropped the glass just before he was thrown to the floor. Tom Beatty wrenched the lawyer’s arms behind his back and secured his hands and ankles with more duct tape. Then a sharp blade pressed against Hamilton’s Adam’s apple.
“I’m going to remove the tape from your mouth and ask you a question,” Beatty said. “Lie to me and I will hurt you and ask my question again. Nod if you understand what I just said.”
Hamilton’s head bobbed up and down.
“I know you’re thinking about ways to let your bodyguards know you’re in danger, Mark, but get any of those ideas out of your head. I will sever your windpipe the moment you try anything. Do you understand me?”
Hamilton’s head bobbed again.
“Okay. Here is my first question. Who was responsible for Christine Larson’s murder?”
Tom Beatty pulled the tape away.
“I can’t . . . ,” Hamilton started. The tape was slapped back across his mouth and Beatty severed the tip of the lawyer’s right ear. Hamilton’s eyes went wide from the pain and he writhed on the floor.
“That was just a sample of what I can do to you if you don’t give me straight answers. Think about how you’ll practice law if I put out your eyes and sever your tongue.”
Hamilton fought to keep from throwing up. Beatty gave him a moment to compose himself. During that moment, an answer to all his problems flashed into the lawyer’s brain.
“I repeat, who gave the order to kill Christine?”
“Dale, Dale did it,” Hamilton gasped when the tape was removed.
“Why did you kill Christine?”
“I didn’t. I swear. It was Dale. Christine was going to tell Global Mining that he’d falsified our accounts to get their business. We were going to close the deal in two days, and Dale was afraid that Global would back out if Christine told them about the doctored books. It would have cost the firm millions.”
“Good. We’re making progress. Were you involved in the decision to have Christine murdered?”
“No. I liked Christine, and cooking the books was Dale’s idea. I was out of town on a case. He made the decision himself.”
“But you knew what he’d done?”
“After it was too late to stop it.”
“And the books—you knew they’d been doctored, right?”
Hamilton hesitated, because he wanted Beatty to drag the answers out of him so he would believe what he said. Beatty pricked the skin at his neck enough to draw blood. The new wound hurt, but the pain would be w
orth it if he got out of this situation alive.
“Okay, yeah, we discussed it.”
“Let’s move on. Two men tried to kill me at my house after I was released from jail. Two more went after me in Forest Park. I’m certain that they were mercenaries. Who supplied them and who gave the order to kill me?”
“Please,” Hamilton begged.
Beatty slapped the tape back on and carved a strip of skin from Hamilton’s cheek. The lawyer screamed, but the tape muffled the sound. He rolled on the ground as tears coursed down his cheeks. Beatty pulled off the tape.
“Who supplied the mercenaries?”
“Kiner, Reggie Kiner,” Hamilton babbled. “Please don’t hurt me anymore. I’ll tell you anything you want to know.”
“Who is Kiner?”
“He’s the head of security for RENCO Oil.”
“What does RENCO have to do with Global Mining?”
“Nothing,” Hamilton babbled. “I’ve known Kiner for years, since he worked narcotics for the Portland police and I was in law school. He . . . he helps the firm when we have . . . problems.”
Beatty slapped back the tape and broke Hamilton’s nose.
“Is that what Christine was to you, you piece of shit, a ‘problem’?”
Hamilton’s eyes squeezed shut from the pain. He heard Beatty take some deep breaths so he could calm down. Hamilton could tell that Beatty got his emotions somewhat under control, but he could also tell that he was still very, very angry.
“How much did you pay Kiner to kill Christine?” Beatty asked.
“I told you, I didn’t pay Kiner—Dale did. Kiner was in Iraq at some oil field, checking on security. Dale called him and said we had a . . . He told him to get rid of Christine and frame you for her murder. I had nothing to do with it. I didn’t even know he called Kiner until later, after Christine was dead.”
“What was Christine’s life worth?”
“I don’t know what Dale paid because I wasn’t involved. When . . . when we used him in the past, Kiner always charged six figures.”
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