Slow Kill kk-9

by Michael McGarrity

  He kept glancing at the glassed-in guard station and the locked pod door, hoping someone would come to fetch him to meet with his new lawyer, Scott Ingram.

  Ingram had called hours ago to say he’d spoken with Howard Stubbs, the inexperienced lawyer Dean had fired, and would be out to see him as soon as he’d received and reviewed the arrest affidavits, warrants, and charges, and talked to the district attorney.

  He was about to return to his cell, which Dean figured was the safest place to be if he never fell asleep, when a guard appeared and motioned him to approach the pod door.

  “Is my lawyer here?” Dean asked.

  The guard nodded as the door slid open. After being patted down and cuffed, he was walked down the main corridor and deposited in an interview room where Scott Ingram waited. Neither man spoke until the cuffs came off and the guard left the room.

  “You took your time getting here,” Dean snapped.

  Ingram smiled indulgently at Dean. “I’m sure you wanted me to be well prepared before we talked.”

  “Are you a good criminal defense attorney?”

  “I’m very good at what I do,” Ingram said.

  “Has anyone tried to contact you on my behalf?” Dean asked.

  Ingram looked down his hawkish nose as he sat at the table. “Do you mean Claudia Spalding?”

  Surprised, Dean nodded. “How do you know her name?”

  “Because Stubbs told me about the phone call he made at your request, and I’ve learned that the DA is sitting on a pending murder arrest warrant for her, waiting for the receipt of more information from California.”

  “Dammit,” Dean said.

  “Have you talked to anyone about the charges since your arraignment?” Ingram asked.

  Dean sat down across from Ingram. “Nobody.”

  “That’s good. But time may be running out on you to enter into a plea agreement.”

  “I don’t want that. I want you to find a way to get me out of here, now.” He bit a hangnail off his thumb and spit it out.

  “I’ve already informally approached the judge on your behalf in that matter. Any official request I make to ask him to reconsider setting bail will be rejected. You’re to be held without bond.”

  “Can’t you do something? Tell him I’ll surrender my passport, sign over the equity in my house and business to a bondsman. Plus my cash. I can put together almost a million dollars.”

  “I don’t think if you had three million in cash and assets the judge would let you out.”

  “Do something, dammit.”

  Ingram sighed sympathetically and leaned forward. “Getting you out of jail isn’t an option. In fact, as I see it, you don’t have many options.”

  “What are they?” Dean asked.

  “As things stand right now, you can cooperate with the prosecution and get the murder charge reduced and most of the other charges dropped. But if the cops develop sufficient probable cause to get an arrest warrant for Claudia Spalding, you may wind up on the short end of the stick.”

  “How so?”

  “She may decide to testify against you. That means the DA will have her, instead of you, in his pocket. He’ll go after you full-bore, using Spalding as his star witness. He won’t even think about negotiating with you. He’ll try you on all the state charges. Once that’s done, the DEA can step in and file against you in federal court.”

  “That’s double jeopardy.”

  Ingram shook his head. “No it isn’t, Mr. Dean. The criminal codes in this country are complex, and the federal government has drug laws on the books that aren’t duplicated by state statutes.”

  “Claudia wouldn’t do that to me,” Dean said.

  Ingram raised an eyebrow. “Has she been in touch with you to offer aid?”

  Dean shook his head. “I want you to call her.”

  “I tried that under the pretext of asking her to make a sworn statement on your behalf. I spoke to one of her employees, who told me she refused to take my call. That should tell you something, Mr. Dean.”

  “Shit!”

  “It could get worse,” Ingram said. “From what I’ve learned, Claudia Spalding has the financial wherewithal to hire a team of the best defense lawyers, private investigators, and expert witnesses money can buy. I’m sure if she’s arrested, a motion to separate her case from yours will be filed and most likely granted. That will put us in an adversarial relationship with her. Are you prepared to go that route?”

  “Can’t you do anything to keep that from happening?” Dean asked.

  “Certainly I can argue against it, if that’s really what you want. But I don’t see how it serves any purpose. Actually, I’ll use the very same tactic on your behalf, if you’re willing to cooperate.”

  Dean started nibbling at another hangnail. “So where does that leave me?”

  “We can go to trial and I’ll mount the best defense possible. We can dispute the circumstantial evidence, bring in psychologists to testify that Spalding manipulated and used you, call on medical doctors and pharmacologists to challenge the cause of death findings, file motions to have witness statements excluded, pound away at any evidence collection screwups, and do everything possible to place the preponderance of blame on Mrs. Spalding.”

  Dean peeled the hangnail free and picked it off his tongue. “Can we win?”

  “You never know. But whatever the outcome, you’ll most likely still be in jail-maybe even prison-while you’re awaiting trial on the other charges. Plus, by then you’ll have to ask for a public defender to represent you.”

  “Why not you? I can pay your fee.”

  “Now you can,” Ingram replied. “But you won’t be able to hire a private attorney in the future if the DEA and local cops can trace the money you made on drug trafficking back to your business and personal accounts. If they succeed, your assets will be frozen, confiscated, and disposed of. And believe me, they’re doing everything possible to make sure that happens.”

  Dean sagged in his chair, head lowered, eyelids fluttering. “This wasn’t supposed to turn out this way.”

  “Do we go to trial or do I call the DA?” Ingram asked.

  Dean looked up from the table. “Call the DA.”

  “Are you willing to talk to them right now?”

  Dean nodded.

  Ingram stood. “Stay put. I’ll make the call and be back in a few minutes.”

  After Ingram left, Dean dropped his head on the table and cried like a baby.

  Early in the morning, long before dawn, Ellie Lowrey dressed for work. She set aside the freshly laundered and pressed uniform she’d picked up at the dry cleaners the day before, and instead put on her best pair of black slacks, a white linen blouse, and a loose-fitting jacket cut long enough to adequately hide the holstered weapon strapped to her belt.

  Today, Claudia Spalding would be arrested and charged with murder, and it was Ellie’s job to make it happen without a hitch.

  It had all begun last night, when it seemed that her telephone would never stop ringing. First, Ramona Pino called to share the news that Kim Dean had given up Claudia Spalding as his accomplice. Bill Price followed with a call soon after to report that Coe Evans had made a sworn statement accusing Spalding of proposing a prior murder plot against her husband.

  Then it was Lieutenant Macy on the line, who’d been assigned to coordinate the arrest of Claudia Spalding. Since Ellie was the only officer who had met Spalding face-to-face, Macy wanted her to lead the team assigned to make the collar.

  “She may let her guard down with you, and implicate herself,” Macy said.

  “Maybe,” Ellie said doubtfully. “She’s not the nervous Nellie type by any means, but it’s worth a try.”

  “Think on it,” Macy said. “Be empathetic and give her a reason to show you how smart she is.”

  Twenty minutes later, Macy called again, this time to pass along instructions from the sheriff and district attorney. In order to avoid adverse publicity and controversy, Spalding wa
s not to be picked up at the cemetery or during the wake. There were to be no leaks to reporters, no lingering guests at the estate when the bust went down, and any employees on-site were to be held for questioning after Spalding was booked into jail. As soon as Spalding was locked up, the sheriff and DA would hold a joint press conference to announce the arrest.

  With instructions from the brass out of the way, Macy talked about operational specifics. Surveillance was back on Spalding to make sure she stayed put until Ellie had her team in place. Only plain-clothes detectives in unmarked cars would be used, and all exits and entrances to the estate would be watched. Macy would partner-up with Ellie during the operation, and if any adjustments needed to be made to the plan, he would have the final say.

  After talking to Macy, Ellie had settled down to a cup of tea and thoughts about how to approach Claudia Spalding. Then the sheriff called. Did Ellie understand she was to make no statements to the press after the arrest? That the case would get national attention? That there could be no procedural screwups?

  An hour later, Ellie lay wide-awake in bed, puzzling over how to get Claudia Spalding talking. What was it Ramona Pino had said about Kim Dean? She couldn’t remember the exact words, but it boiled down to Dean being easily manipulated by Claudia. Bill Price had noted the same trait in Coe Evans.

  Claudia Spalding apparently thrived on domination and control. Prickly and imperious, she was beyond a doubt a formidable woman. Ellie could easily imagine how she used her sexuality, intelligence, and guile on Dean and Evans. Or anybody else she needed to. It was one thing to guess at Claudia’s motives for murder, but quite another to understand the forces that had made her act. For a woman who’d been given so much, who had so much, it surely went far beyond simple greed.

  A restless night finally over, Ellie was starting the day with no brilliant inspirations or new insights. She checked her appearance in the mirror and left the house, hoping that during the drive to headquarters she would think of some way to get Claudia to take that first small step toward admitting guilty knowledge.

  It was a soft summer morning in Santa Fe, unusually cool with moist tropical air coursing up from the Gulf of Mexico, yet without a cloud in the sky or any haze to dampen the sunlight. Kerney found it unusual for other reasons as well. Although the downtown shops were about to open, traffic was light and the tourists had not yet begun to stream out of their hotels to fill the sidewalks.

  By the time he reached the turnoff to Canyon Road the brief moment of serenity had passed. People wandered up the middle of the narrow street snapping pictures of the quaint pueblo-style adobe buildings, drivers backed up traffic waiting for parking spaces to become available, and the open-air sightseeing trolley just in front of Kerney’s unit was filled with visitors listening to a tour guide’s thumbnail sketch of Santa Fe history blaring out from a loudspeaker.

  Santa Fe, a city of 65,000 people-not counting the untold numbers of undocumented residents from Mexico and Central America-was the third largest art market in the country. It was awash with art galleries, private art dealers, art consultants, conservators, appraisers, and studio artists. There were foundries, lapidaries, glass-blowing studios, weaving shops, wood-carving shops, and ceramic studios all over town. But the largest concentration of businesses that made Santa Fe an art mecca were to be found around the Plaza and on nearby Canyon Road.

  Years ago, old-timers had decried the rapid changes to the street, once a quiet, sheltered neighborhood of adobe homes, a bar or two, and a small grocery store along a dirt lane. Now the transformation was complete: shops, studios, galleries, and restaurants dominated, and the tourist dollar ruled.

  Kerney parked illegally in a loading zone and walked over to the art gallery next to the restaurant where Mrs. Kessler had last seen Debbie Calderwood’s college roommate. The gallery was gone, replaced by an upscale boutique that sold fringed leather jackets, handmade western shirts, silk scarves, flowing dresses, gaudy, flowered cowboy boots-everything a gal needed to show that she had Santa Fe style.

  Kerney wasn’t surprised; retail shops along the road came and went with such frequency it was almost impossible to keep track of them.

  The store owner told Kerney she’d been in the same location for five years, didn’t know who had leased the space before her, and had never met the prior occupants. However, she did provide Kerney with the name of her landlord.

  Kerney called the landlord from his unit and learned the building had previously been leased by a woman who now ran a gallery out of her house in the village of Galisteo, southeast of Santa Fe.

  “She deals in abstract, modern art,” the man added. “A lot of it by well-known European and East Coast artists.”

  “How long did she lease from you?” Kerney asked.

  “About ten years.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “Jennifer Stover. Her number is in the business directory under the Stover-Driscoll Gallery. Driscoll is her ex-husband’s name. She sees clients only by appointment.”

  Kerney got the listing from information, dialed the number, listened to a recorded message, and disconnected. He called information back and learned there was no published residential listing for either a Stover or a Driscoll in Galisteo.

  When he got to his office, he’d ask the phone company to search for an unlisted number and then try to make contact with Stover again. If that didn’t work, Galisteo was ten minutes away from Kerney’s ranch. He’d swing by the village before going home in the evening and track Stover down.

  From a distance, Ellie Lowrey and Lieutenant Macy watched the hushed, somber crowd assembled at the grave site. Men and women dressed in dark blue, black, and charcoal outfits stood quietly, eyes cast downward. The young children present were anchored close to their mothers’ sides to keep them still. Claudia Spalding held a bouquet of flowers and a pure white linen handkerchief in her gloved hands. An ocean breeze ruffled skirt hems, jacket lapels, and ties, and carried away the minister ’s words.

  The wind died away, and for a moment the gathering looked like a staged movie scene. The open grave, the casket of polished wood with brass handles, the abundance of carefully arranged funeral wreaths, the green grass blanket of the cemetery dale with the forested hills rising behind, created a surreal impression.

  It was a large crowd of two hundred or more people. Behind the hearse, cars parked on the winding gravel lane stretched almost to the cemetery entrance. Outside the arched, open gate, private security personnel held back photographers with telephoto lenses who were pressed against the ornate wrought iron fence taking pictures.

  “We may have a long wait before the last of Spalding’s guests clear out after the wake,” Ellie said to Lieutenant Macy.

  Macy nodded. “I’m more concerned right now about the paparazzi. We need them contained and kept away from the estate.”

  Ellie had been out of touch with Macy for the past three hours, scoping out the situation in Montecito, making arrangements, and putting her team in place.

  “Spalding’s rent-a-cops will keep them at the bottom of the hill, and the Santa Barbara PD, at Claudia’s request, will be on hand to assist.”

  “Do they know what’s going down?”

  “No, I called the estate posing as a newspaper reporter and got the information from an employee. She also told me that invited guests would be screened at the entrance to the estate by private security.”

  “How do we make sure Spalding doesn’t slip away in the backseat of a guest’s car?” Macy asked.

  “Claudia has hired a valet parking service for the wake. One of our detectives will be an attendant.”

  “Valet parking for a wake,” Macy said in mock disbelief. “How did you manage that?”

  “Plus catered food for the guests by a celebrity chef,” Ellie said. “I talked to the man who owns the service, flashed my shield, told him I was with dignitary protection for a high-ranking government official, and got him to agree to the substitution. He thinks we�
�re feds and it’s all very hush-hush.”

  “Clever,” Macy said.

  “Security at the entrance will use the keypad gate opener to let the guests through. We’ll use it after they leave to make a quick entry.”

  “You have the code?”

  “I got it from the fire department,” Ellie answered. “A local ordinance requires owners of all gated residences to provide emergency access information to the department.”

  Ellie watched Claudia step away from the crowd, place the bouquet on her husband’s coffin, bow her head, and clutch a hand to her throat.

  “She’s very good,” Ellie said, still wondering what it would take to break the woman down.

  “Let’s go,” Macy said as people started drifting away toward the waiting cars. The young children, released from their mothers’ sides, eagerly skipped ahead of their slow-moving parents and skirted around the tombstones.

  After the last guest had left and the caterers and parking attendants were gone, Ellie went up to the estate alone. She found Claudia on the patio seated in a lawn chair next to the pool.

  “I don’t recall your name on the guest list,” Spalding said. “How did you get in here?”

  Spalding’s modest black designer dress, with a high scooped neckline, half sleeves, and the hem just below the knees, fit her perfectly. She stood, walked to the pergola, poured whiskey into a tumbler, and held it in both hands.

  Everything about her was smooth and polished. She glanced at Ellie intently without a hint of uneasiness.

  “I know this probably isn’t the best time to talk,” Ellie said.

  “That doesn’t answer my question,” Claudia replied.

  “Would you rather I come back some other time?”

  “Don’t play games with me, Sergeant. Coming to see me now, at this time, goes beyond rudeness and bad manners. Tell me how you got in or leave.”

  “A security guard let me in,” Ellie said.

  A thin smile stretched across Claudia’s lips. “I rather doubt that.” She put the tumbler down. “Say what you need to and then go.”