Diagnosis Murder 6 - The Dead Letter

by Lee Goldberg

  It was an eight.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Mark was so relieved that he'd won the hand with his measly pair of eights that he immediately cashed out. He didn't want to take a chance on losing any of his winnings.

  Standiford's winnings, to be exact.

  With a return of $165,000 on his investment, he figured Standiford couldn't complain too much about granting his favor.

  Robin Mannering was still hundreds of thousands of dollars ahead for the night, so losing to Mark couldn't have caused him much damage. At least not in the wallet, though his ego may have sustained some bruising. But to show he had no hard feelings, Mannering stood up and offered Mark his hand.

  "It's been a pleasure, Doctor," Mannering said. "I have the feeling I may have finally met my match."

  "I'm certainly going to give it a try," Mark said.

  "Then I eagerly await our next encounter at the gaming tables," Mannering said.

  Mark left and returned to his room, where Grumbo was waiting, Mannering's glass and cigar stub sealed in Baggies on the coffee table. It was a little unnerving to find someone waiting in his room. Couldn't Grumbo have called first? Or invited Mark to meet him in his office?

  "You acquitted yourself well at the poker table, Dr. Sloan."

  "I was lucky, that's all," Mark said.

  "Using that luck to your advantage is the mark of a true gamesman," Grumbo said. "You're being modest."

  "Even if I'd lost the battle at the table, I've already won the war," Mark said, motioning to the Baggies. "We've got him now."

  "I'll send these to the Vegas crime lab tonight," Grumbo said. "I have a friend there. We share a mutual interest in bugs."

  "Electronic?"

  "He prefers the insect variety," Grumbo said. "He'll pass the results through official channels to your son, though it may not be necessary."

  "Why do you say that?"

  "I spoke to the women Mr. Mannering has invited into his bed," Grumbo said.

  "The ones in your employ," Mark said.

  "I asked them about his toes," Grumbo said, pointedly ignoring Mark's comment. "He's missing one. He said he lost it in Afghanistan during a particularly aggressive interrogation by his enemies."

  "Afghanistan?"

  "Men often try to impress women with vague allusions to their secret lives of adventure," Grumbo said. "Implying that one is an ex-spy or a former military operative is a particularly common method of seduction."

  "But you've never done that?" Mark said.

  "Those of us who actually were in those fields usually don't talk about it," Grumbo said, picking up the Baggies and heading for the door. "Particularly in bed."

  "Why?"

  "Because as we all know, that's where the best interrogations are done," Grumbo said. "People are much freer with information when they are seeking pleasure than when they are avoiding pain."

  Grumbo walked out, leaving Mark to wonder exactly how the Côte d'Azur's security chief had gained his experience, and whether it was as the interrogator or the one being questioned.

  Mark went to bed, woke up at nine, and had a leisurely breakfast on his veranda overlooking the Côte d'Azur's pools, lakes, palms, and waterfalls.

  He felt relaxed and refreshed in a way he hadn't in a very long time. Perhaps he should consider taking more vacations—though he could hardly count the last week of frenetic travel particularly restful.

  And yet, in a strange way, it had been. As tiring as all the driving had been, the rapid change of scenery, from San Francisco to Las Vegas, over so few days was also stimulating, a nice break from the routine of going from his Malibu beach house to Community General and back each day.

  Today the fingerprints would come back identifying Robin Mannering as the late James Cale. How could Cale have betrayed his best friend and framed him for murder? What could have made Cale resent Yankton so much? Even more perplexing was Cale's willingness to completely abandon his ex-wife and daughter.

  And he did it all for money.

  It wasn't as if he didn't have money to begin with. Why did he have to embezzle even more? What was he looking for in life that he didn't already have?

  It made no sense to Mark.

  The only explanation was that Cale, now calling himself Mannering, was a sociopath.

  There were still a few questions that needed to be answered. Did Mannering murder the currency dealer and try to kill Stryker, or did he have someone else do it?

  If he hired someone else, who was it and where was this faceless killer now?

  Those questions could be answered easily enough once Mannering was in custody, his false life in ruins. Mark was looking forward to that moment, to seeing Mannering's face when his true identity was exposed. After enjoying the satisfaction of seeing the embezzler arrested for his crimes, Mark would drive his rental car back to Los Angeles and begin to sort out his life again.

  He'd have to catch up on the backlog of administrative work he'd left behind at Community General, resolve his personal insurance problems, and start looking for a new car.

  And, of course, he'd have to make sure the district attorney moved quickly to secure Bert Yankton's complete exoneration and immediate release from prison.

  Mark was looking ahead and thinking about how to handle those details when his phone rang. He snatched up the receiver.

  "Dr. Ross," he said.

  "Good morning, Dad." Steve said. "Did you have a nice sleep?"

  "As a matter of fact, I did."

  "Sleep—I remember what that used to feel like," Steve said.

  "You haven't slept?"

  "I haven't had time. We cut a deal with Stryker for his testimony, worked out his extradition with the Mohave County sheriff, then drove back to LA late last night. When we got here early this morning, we walked into a mountain of paperwork on the arrests made on the Stryker file cases in our absence. And there was the matter of Jimmy Cale."

  "You got the prints," Mark said.

  "Yes and no," Steve said.

  "What does that mean?"

  "We got the prints you sent us," Steve said. "The only problem is there are no prints of Jimmy Cale in the system. He was never arrested, and he never served in the military."

  Mark sighed. It was frustrating, but not that big a set back. "So we'll just have to rely on the DNA."

  "I'm having Cale's file pulled up," Steve said. "It will have all the blood work and DNA information gathered during the murder investigation. As soon as the DNA comes in from the Vegas crime lab, I'll run it through CODIS to confirm the match."

  CODIS was the FBI's Combined DNA Index System, a national database of biological evidence gathered from crime scenes and samples taken from convicted sex offenders and killers.

  "Great," Mark said. "What kind of deal did you make with Stryker?"

  "Three years in a minimum-security prison and restitution to his victims in return for his full cooperation and testimony on the criminal cases arising from his work."

  "He's getting off easy," Mark said. "He won't serve more than a year."

  "We weighed it against the greater good of all the bigger bad guys we're bringing down thanks to him," Steve said. "Besides, Stryker's going to walk out of prison broke."

  "Until the book deal," Mark said. "Or the TV movie."

  "I didn't look at it that way," Steve said.

  "I can guarantee you Stryker did," Mark said. "He's probably already looking for an agent to start making deals."

  "So are you heading back today?"

  "No, I think I'll stick around until the DNA match comes through," Mark said. "I want to be here when Cale is arrested."

  "What are you going to do until then?" Steve asked.

  "I thought I might relax," Mark said. "Find a good book, an empty chaise lounge, and hang out by the pool."

  "You mean, like a vacation?"

  "Yeah," Mark said. "I think it's time I gave it try. What's the worst that could happen?"

  "Somebody will get mu
rdered," Steve said.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  The only victim of murder that afternoon was the English language. That, at least, was Mark's opinion of the mystery novel he tried to read by the pool. Not only did he figure out "whodunit" by page twenty-one, he also knew every word that was going to come out of each character's mouth. There were so many clichés, he wondered if the book had been generated by a computer. It would certainly explain how the author managed to write five books a year.

  Mark regretted not grabbing a western from the bookstore instead. He never knew what the horse was going to do next.

  He left the book behind on his chaise lounge, swam a few laps, then returned to his room, where he showered and changed into his tuxedo for an early dinner in one of the Côte d'Azur's spectacular restaurants.

  He chose Carnivore, a high-end steakhouse that eschewed the traditional dark woods for a modem industrial look of gleaming chrome, glossy whites, and bright lights. He'd just finished ordering a thick rib eye, mashed potatoes, and broccoli when Robin Mannering sauntered up to his table.

  "May I join you, Doctor?"

  Mannering was, like Mark, dressed in a tuxedo and, unlike Mark, wore it like an extension of his skin. He was holding a martini.

  "Of course," Mark said. "I'd be delighted."

  Mannering took a seat across from Mark and asked the waiter to deliver the meal he'd already ordered to this table.

  "Have you been staying at the Côte d'Azur long?" Mark asked.

  "I live in Las Vegas, but I maintain a suite here, courtesy of the hotel, for my personal use." Mannering said. "I use it to change, entertain guests, and for the occasional overnight stay."

  "Why not just go home?"

  "I like my privacy." Mannering said. "My home is my sanctuary. Besides, this way I don't have to drive here in a tuxedo to enjoy a friendly game of poker. I can shower and change once I arrive. It also allows me to occasionally overindulge in a bottle or two of wine and not worry about being driven home."

  "So essentially the Côte d'Azur is like your own private club."

  "Considering how much I've given this casino at the roulette and blackjack tables, I believe it's a privilege I've paid for many times over."

  "Obviously Roger agrees," Mark said.

  "He likes to keep me and my wallet close by." Mannering said with a smile. "What about you, Doctor? What brings you to Las Vegas?"

  "My patients. I go where they go. This week they are here. Next week, we could be anywhere on the globe."

  "I heard a rumor that you were once the personal physician to the Saudi royal family."

  "To confirm or deny such rumors would violate the privacy of my patients." Mark said, appreciating how wise it had been for Grumbo to create and establish a false identity for him at the hotel. Mannering obviously had good sources, and Grumbo knew it. "Maintaining that privacy is one of the reasons they engage my services. Surely you can understand why the CEO of a multinational corporation or the leader of a country would want to guard the details of his personal health from the public."

  "Sure," Mannering said. "Learning that a prime minister has syphilis or a CEO has inoperable brain cancer is information that could be used with devastating political or economic consequences."

  "Hospitals are notoriously insecure when it comes to sensitive information. Doctors and staff can easily be bribed or coerced to reveal the personal medical condition of their patients," Mark said. "A richly compensated personal physician, however, is more likely to be discreet."

  "Is that why you left research?" Mannering asked. "For the rich compensation?"

  "Research can be exciting and rewarding, both from a societal and a financial standpoint," Mark said, "but I wanted more adventure."

  "And more money." Standiford said.

  "The money is nice. I won't deny that." Mark said.

  The waiter arrived with their steaks, sizzling and drenched in butter. They were the largest portions of meat Mark had ever seen. Mannering suggested they order a bottle of wine, but Mark declined.

  "You don't drink?" Mannering asked.

  "I never developed a taste for alcohol." Mark said.

  "That's like never developing a taste for women, love, or money." Mannering said.

  "I've compensated for my failings by overindulging myself in those other areas."

  Mannering grinned, ordered a glass of wine for himself, and sent the waiter away. Mark took a bite of his steak. It was incredible.

  "How do you know Roger?" Mannering asked.

  Mark smiled enigmatically. "Our paths have crossed many times over the years. What about yourself, Mr. Mannering? What's your profession?"

  "Having fun and taking it easy." Mannering said.

  "You were born rich?"

  "Oh no. I earned it," Mannering said, cutting into his steak. "But if I told you how, I'd have to kill you."

  The rest of their dinner was spent talking about things that had nothing to do with either man personally. They discussed Roger Standiford, his casinos, and the impact he'd had on the amazing growth of Las Vegas over the years.

  Mark found Robin Mannering to be an entertaining and friendly dinner companion, and he enjoyed the time they spent together. If Mannering hadn't been a swindler, a dead beat dad, a liar, a fraud, and possibly a murderer, Mark could have liked the guy.

  Mannering insisted on picking up their check.

  "Think of it as Roger treating us both," he said. "I'm glad we ran into each other, Doctor. It's been a most enjoyable meal."

  "Likewise," Mark said.

  "Will I be seeing you in the casino tonight?" Mannering asked.

  "Perhaps." Mark said.

  "I hope so, because with you at the table, it almost feels like playing two games at once," Mannering said.

  "Poker and charades?" Mark asked.

  "Poker and cat and mouse."

  "So who's the cat and who's the mouse?"

  "I don't know," Mannering said. "That's the fun part."

  When Mark got back to his room, the message light on his phone was blinking. He called his voice mail and heard two messages from Steve, asking him to call on his cell phone right away.

  Mark caught Steve at the task force headquarters.

  "What's wrong?" Mark asked.

  "It's about Mannering's DNA," Steve said.

  "You got the results already?"

  "No," Steve said, "but it won't make a difference once we do. There isn't anything to match his DNA against."

  "Cale's DNA," Mark said.

  "It doesn't exist."

  "I don't understand," Mark said. "You used DNA to prove that the toe and the blood you found in Yankton's car came from Cale. You compared it against DNA from a hair in Cale's brush or something."

  "That's true. We did," Steve said.

  "Shouldn't all that data have been entered into the CODIS database?"

  "It should have been," Steve said. "But it wasn't. It appears that there was a clerical error. Someone transposed a digit on the case identification number so that it matched an unrelated case file that was slated for destruction. The Cale file was destroyed before it could be processed into CODIS."

  "So go back to the original evidence," Mark said. "Pull a new DNA sample from it."

  "We can't, Steve said.

  "Why not?"

  "Because the evidence was destroyed, too." Steve said. Then he explained how the system worked. "The detective in charge of a case gives a property disposition card, a PDC, to a civilian secretary assigned to the property room. The card orders the property to either be destroyed, returned to the owner, or kept in storage. The civilian property clerk then enters the information, and the case number, into the computer."

  Mark sat down in a chair. He couldn't believe this was happening. Mannering's luck was unbelievable. No wonder he lived in Las Vegas.

  "So either you or the clerk could have transposed the numbers," Mark said.

  "It wasn't me," Steve said. "And it wasn't an accident."<
br />
  "How can you be sure?" Mark asked.

  "The hard copies of the PDCs are kept on file, and the computer entry shows the serial numbers of both the detective who authorized the property disposition and the clerk who entered the information." Steve said. "I matched the card against the entry in the computer. The number I wrote on the card was correct The number in the computer wasn't."

  "What does the clerk say?" Mark asked.

  "Nothing," Steve said. "He's dead."

  "I have a sinking feeling it wasn't natural causes," Mark said.

  "He was killed in a home-invasion robbery about a year after Yankton's trial," Steve said. "I pulled his financial info. Five days before the files and evidence in the Cale case were destroyed, the clerk received a twenty-thousand-dollar wire transfer from the Cayman Islands."

  Now there was no way to prove that Robin Mannering was Jimmy Cale. He'd anticipated all the moves, wiping away any tracks, and any person, that could lead to him and his new identity.

  "I don't believe this," Mark said.

  "I'm sorry, Dad," Steve said.

  "Isn't there anything you can do?" Mark said.

  "Like what?"

  "You could reopen the investigation into Jimmy Cale's homicide."

  "There is no basis for reopening the case," Steve said.

  "Cale is alive," Mark said. "That's the basis."

  'There's no evidence at all to support that claim," Steve said.

  "Not anymore," Mark said. "Look at what happened to that clerk. You said it yourself—it was no accident."

  "But I can't prove it, and neither can you," Steve said. "Any half-decent attorney is going to argue that the clerk's death was a coincidence and that the transposed numbers on the case files was an accident. We're imagining a criminal conspiracy where none exists because we want to believe Cale is alive, even though there is no evidence to support that belief either."

  "Robin Mannering is missing a toe," Mark said. "I'll guarantee it's the same toe Cale lost."

  "So that means every man in his forties who is missing part of his big toe is Jimmy Cale?"

  "Mannering is Cale," Mark said. "I know it. You believe it, too, don't you?"