by Sydney Bauer
‘Well that explains it then,’ grinned Arthur, lifting his wine in salute.
David looked across at her, as the restaurant owner, a cheerful elderly Italian named Milo, pulled out his violin so that he might play ‘Happy Birthday’ as Sara blew out the candles.
She was so strong, so beautiful, David thought as she threw her hands up in victory at having managed to blow out all thirty-two candles with one breath, a stray chestnut curl landing over her pale blue eyes, her complexion shining with happiness and health.
He did not know how she had managed it – how she had become the person that she was, so willing to accept life’s shortcomings for what they were, and take on the causes she believed in – no matter what the cost. True, she was the product of a loving home, having been adopted as a baby by a white couple from Cambridge who later gave her a younger brother by the name of Jake – but she had always bore the slight insecurity that came from knowing her African–American birth mother was only seventeen when she slept with her nameless white biological father, one of many men her mother had ‘been with’ in order to survive.
‘Strawberry,’ she said, beaming up at Milo. ‘My favourite.’
‘Lucia lived on it during her five pregnancies,’ smiled Milo, his Mediterranean accent still strong despite having lived in Boston for half of his sixty-two years.
‘Does that mean I have no excuse after the baby is born?’ she said, resting her hands on her belly.
‘No, Signorina,’ said Milo. ‘It just means you and young David here get busy with the next one as soon as young Milo here is born.’ He smiled, gesturing at Sara’s swollen middle.
‘Milo?’ said Arthur. ‘I thought you were naming the boy after me.’
‘Boy?’ said Nora in protest. ‘No, Arthur. The little one is a girl who looks just like her mother. And we can all thank the Lord for that.’
‘True,’ said David with a grin; he and his beloved sixty-something PA shared a history of friendly sparring. ‘Because if it was a boy, like me, his extremely high intelligence would have been repeatedly overshadowed by his incredible good looks. I hear Brad Pitt has to battle with that particular stumbling block 24/7.’
‘God save us,’ said Nora.
Sara smiled and pointed to David’s cell phone which was muted but now vibrating on the table. ‘It’s okay,’ she said, taking a big scoop of ice cream from her pale pink dessert. ‘Pick it up. It might be Jake or my parents.’
‘Or Angelina Jolie wanting to know where the hell I am.’
3
It was cold, the spring chill crisp in the late night air. David took off his scarf and wrapped it around Sara’s neck as they jumped out of his LandCruiser, his silence a result of the shock at Joe’s news and his frustration at not being able to persuade Sara to get a lift home with Arthur and Nora, his suggestion met by outright refusal from his stubborn partner who was clearly tiring of his growing tendency to treat her with kid gloves.
‘I’m pregnant, David, not terminally ill,’ she said as they made their way in and out of the haphazardly parked traffic towards the house. ‘And besides, if you knew this woman I . . . I just want to be there in case you . . .’
‘I’m fine, Sara,’ he said, reaching for her hand and squeezing it. ‘I hadn’t seen her for years until we ran into each other a few months ago. But you are nearly six months pregnant, and from what Frank says,’ he hesitated, his breath billowing fluorescent clouds of condensation into the over-lit yard. ‘Stephanie was – I mean the crime scene is . . .’
‘Which is why I’m staying,’ she said, as they instinctively lowered their heads and quickened their pace past the bevy of media personnel, hoping they would not be recognised.
‘I know,’ he said, squeezing her hand once more before dropping it to guide her past a barricade on the far left-hand boundary of the house. He was recognised in seconds – his name called and then repeated by media representatives who were now grabbing cameras and shouting out questions and no doubt praying for some sort of official comment on the ‘going’s on’ inside.
David had earned himself quite a reputation over the past few years – taking on various seemingly unwinnable high-profile cases such as the Martin matter, Montgomery vs the US, and more recently, the Commonwealth vs James Matheson, in which David and Sara defended a young Ivy League student accused of killing his corporate heir girlfriend. And so his arrival at this scene – a setting the media were obviously hoping would provide the backdrop for the ‘celebrity crime of the year’ – was no doubt viewed as a welcome addition by the camera- and microphone-toting minions now jostling behind the yellow and black police barricades.
‘David Cavanaugh and Sara Davis, here to see Lieutenant Joe Mannix,’ called David to a uniform manning the front entryway, lifting his voice above the hubbub.
‘Go ahead, Mr Cavanaugh,’ said Reno, stealing a glance at Sara, his eyes automatically darting downwards to the mound beneath her overcoat. ‘The lieutenant is expecting you.’
‘I knew it,’ said David as they entered the house. ‘Even the rookie thinks this is a bad idea.’
‘Oh for Christ’s sake,’ Sara said as another policeman led them towards the back of the house, the crowded hallway now covered in plastic, the lights casting odd shadows throughout the twisting corridor, the air tinged with the scent of alcohol. ‘Just how bad can it be?’
But she stopped as they entered the bi-fold doors and took in the scene before them – the once-attractive woman, flattened against the back of her stylish kitchen chair, her skin now drained of colour, her middle barely held together by two bloody folds of ribcage on either side of her chest.
‘David, I am so sorry,’ she said, touching his elbow before collecting herself and waving at a now approaching Joe who had obviously seen them enter.
But David did not hear her. All he saw was the horror of the tragedy before him – the brutal onslaught of violence that had taken a life with so much promise, and ripped it from existence with hostility, with cruelty, with disrespect. And in that moment he felt an all-encompassing need to run to her – to take her hand and feel for a pulse and do something, anything to try to bring her back, which was ridiculous of course, considering the scene before him.
‘I didn’t mean to ruin your birthday,’ said Joe as he reached them, talking to Sara but stopping right in front of David as if trying to protect him from the view of the victim, at least for a second or two. ‘And I’m sorry, man,’ he added, meeting David’s eye. ‘I know you two were friends.’
David nodded.
‘Frank said the husband confessed,’ replied Sara, now flicking her eyes towards David before refocusing on Joe, aware that David knew she was trying to snap him out of the shock of what lay before them, by forcing him to concentrate on the task at hand. ‘Said it was an accident – that he shot her by mistake.’
‘That’s what he says,’ said Joe.
‘Where is he?’ David asked. ‘And does he want to talk?’
‘In the living room,’ replied Joe, leading them back outside the house and towards the path down the far western boundary. ‘And I’m not sure how much he wants to say besides reiterating what he told us earlier.’
‘And the kids?’ asked David, having been briefed by Frank in the initial phone call about the two children’s status.
‘They’re in the boy’s bedroom. They’re with the doctor’s business partner, a TV exec by the name of Katherine de Castro. She is sitting all nervous like at the boy’s desk while the two kids are straight-backed and silent like two petrified statues on the kid’s bed.’
David and Sara nodded.
‘Okay,’ said Joe as they moved inside the house once again and reached the living room door. ‘For what it’s worth, I’m going to give you a brief snapshot of how I see this – but keep in mind the evidence guys have yet to do their analysis, and Svenson is waiting for them to finish up before he gets a decent look at the vic . . . Sorry, I mean, Ms Tyler,’ he added, looking at David.<
br />
David nodded back, acknowledging Joe’s efforts to show Stephanie the respect of personalisation. He and Sara both knew that until the ME arrived, no one moved the body – and when the ME got the go-ahead, he would do a ‘minimal’ examination so as not to upset the crime scene. Then it was back to the morgue, where the autopsy would be carried out either tomorrow or the next day, or considering it was Friday night, some time early next week, depending on Svenson’s ‘back-up’.
‘The dad,’ Mannix went on, ‘the TV guy, says he was cleaning his hunting rifle in the garage and needed some extra rags from under the kitchen sink. Says he forgot the piece was loaded, kicked the kitchen door open with his right foot and accidentally lost his footing. Says he lunged into the kitchen and shot his missus, who was sitting down with a wine and a magazine.’
‘The murder weapon was a hunting rifle?’ asked David.
‘The mean kind,’ Joe confirmed with a nod. ‘The one used to pop big game animals.’
‘The guy shoots game?’ asked Sara.
‘No – at least he says he hasn’t had a chance to try it yet. Says the gun was a present from his wife.’
David immediately found this strange, given the Stephanie he once knew was a vocal advocate against cruelty towards animals.
‘Says he has never shot with anything bigger than a two wood,’ Joe went on. ‘In his whole entire life.’
‘Until tonight,’ said David.
‘Until tonight,’ repeated Joe.
‘So how do you see this?’ asked David as another crime tech walked by.
‘The guy is lying. His theory just doesn’t add up. He was too clean. That rifle is a spatter gun, and the only traces of blood on him were transferred. There was no gunpowder residue on his hands.’
‘Did he have time to shower?’ interrupted David.
‘He didn’t shower,’ said Joe. ‘Still had make-up on from the TV thing earlier in the day.’
‘So?’ said David, taking it all in.
‘So the dad is clean and his son is covered in a thousand miniature droplets.’
‘Of his mother’s blood?’ asked Sara.
‘Like he just ran through a sprinkler.’
‘You think the father is covering for the kid?’ David asked.
Joe nodded. ‘I’m sure of it. The kid’s eyebrows are knotted with his mother’s blood. His hands were clean but that was probably because of the length of his T-shirt sleeves and the way he was holding the rifle. Up high,’ said Joe, mimicking an old rifleman’s pose. ‘Like this. The burn mark on the shirt is probably a result of the blast literally smouldering the fabric at the point where it made contact with the gun – and if the crime lab guys find trace powder residue on it, that, and the blood, will pretty much confirm the kid as the shooter.’
‘Which means he’ll be arrested within days,’ said David.
‘It is just a matter of time,’ said Joe.
‘Are you taking him in for questioning?’ asked Sara.
‘No. Frank and I had a go at him earlier but he’s terribly distressed, practically catatonic. I’ve called for a psyche consult but . . . the thing is, with the father’s confession, until we can prove the good doctor didn’t kill his wife then our hands are somewhat tied.’
‘Because officially you already have the perp in hand,’ finished Sara. ‘And no legal reason, at least until the evidence is analysed, to pursue any other possible perpetrators.’
Joe nodded again.
‘One last thing before we go in,’ said David at last. ‘Does this guy know Stephanie and I have a history? Because if he does, he might not want me to . . . In fact, I am not sure I want to . . .’
‘I understand,’ said Joe. ‘I know the wife was a friend and I don’t want to put you in a position where you feel obliged to defend her killer. But if the kid is disturbed, maybe she would want someone like you helping him out. He was her son, after all – and in the very least it might be worth trying to get a handle on the truth before you decide which way you want to go.’
David nodded.
‘As for the father,’ Joe went on, ‘if his reception is a little chilly it’s because he originally asked for a public defender. And if you want to give him a heads up about your history with his wife then, by all means, start with a clean slate.’
‘But why would he ask for someone from the PDO when he must have legal contacts all over this city?’ asked Sara. ‘I mean, he works for a big-time network, his wife was an attorney, they must have legal representatives looking after their substantial assets.’
‘I have no idea,’ admitted Joe. ‘But if I was to hazard a guess, I’d say that maybe it’s because he doesn’t want an experienced attorney anywhere near his defence.’
‘You think he wants a rookie so that he can lose?’ asked David.
‘Or win,’ said Joe. ‘Depending on how you look at it.’
There was a pause.
‘So long story short,’ said David after a time, feeling more than a little uncomfortable with the impending task at hand, ‘we have to go in there and offer my old friend’s famous husband decent representation for accidentally committing a murder he appears to have had nothing to do with, so that he can have a fair chance at saving himself, so that we can set him free and make way for the ADA to drag Stephanie’s youngest kid into juvenile court for shooting her point-blank with a big game rifle.’
‘That about sums it up,’ said Joe.
‘Unbelievable,’ said Sara.
‘Welcome to my world,’ finished Joe.
4
The first call went straight to message bank. She heard it ring, but ignored it. Not like her at all, but her sometime ‘companion’ and blue chip lawyer was, well, ‘down there’ at the time, and she allowed herself a few moments of pleasure before returning the favour and partaking in at least fifteen minutes of some seriously good sex before rolling off to check who the caller happened to be.
Suffolk County Assistant District Attorney Amanda Carmichael was a woman on the rise. Everything about her was hot right now and she knew it. The current DA, a respected prosecutor named Loretta Scaturro, had finally resigned a few weeks ago after the Massachusetts Attorney-General got sick of extending her endless months of compassionate leave. And the AG, a legal dinosaur named Pat Sweeney, was backing his sunshine boy – Amanda’s boss and acting asshole DA Roger Katz – for the upcoming elections in November, a move which would see Amanda officially second-in-charge of the busiest district attorney’s office in Massachusetts at the ripe old age of twenty-nine. It was a record, she knew, but then Amanda was an old hand at breaking records, the fact that she had managed to drag out Tony’s explosive orgasm for the past quarter hour being testament to the fact.
‘Shit!’ she said, as she listened to the voice mail on her cell. She expected it to be one of the junior morons checking in for the night but it was Katz’s PA, a useless blob named Shelley. With Katz in DC attending the National District Attorney’s Association Metro Conference, a seminar he practically greased himself to get to despite having to offload three cases to some useless plebs who had more experience treating acne than they did attending court, Shelley had taken it upon herself to call ‘the most senior ADA in the county’ or in other words, Amanda, who was currently ‘the man’, or more pointedly, ‘the woman’, now running the Goddamned show.
‘Jesus,’ she said as she bounded out of bed, finding her lace knickers and bra at the far end of Tony’s tastefully decorated Copley Square penthouse bedroom.
‘What is it?’ he asked, now rising on his elbows, still high from the rush, Amanda knew – his cheeks flushed, his penis size still challenging that of an aroused Clydesdale horse.
‘Work,’ she said, not wanting to give too much away. Tony was a corporate lawyer with absolutely no interest in coveting her job. But Amanda was born suspicious – the only child of a US Supreme Court judge who taught her never to share a single crumb with anyone with the letters JD after their name.
‘Let someone else get it, babe,’ he said, obviously hungry for more.
‘Katz is away,’ she said, putting on her high-heeled pumps, knowing her profile against the moonlit window was probably driving Bishop insane. ‘I’m it,’ she added, slipping on her white silk blouse and navy pencil skirt.
‘Yes, you are,’ smiled Tony. ‘And this must be something big if you are so hot to trot.’
‘Tony, every case is of equal importance to the District Attorney’s Office, and as a representative of the people I . . .’
‘. . . have a sixth sense on how to cherry-pick the good ones,’ finished Tony, ‘which this one obviously is.’
Amanda could not help but smile. She had to admit, she liked Bishop, probably because they had so much in common – a shared narcissistic perspective of their ‘noble’ profession, a knack of how to manipulate the system for their own personal gain.
She threw on her jacket – the top half of a $700 Armani cool wool suit.
‘Turn on the TV and you might catch it,’ she said, checking herself in the bureau mirror as she twisted her hair into a conservative French roll. She applied a natural shade of lipstick before assessing herself once again, grabbing her Balenciaga handbag and heading for the door.
‘You’re a piece of work, you know that, Carmichael?’ Bishop smiled.
‘Just doing my job, Counsellor.’ She smiled. ‘Just doing my job.’
It was an episode about mixed signals, David recalled. A whole hour devoted to Doctor Jeff trying to teach some incredibly wholesome looking couples how to ‘read’ their partner more effectively. The doctor told them how miscommunication was a ‘universal phenomenon’, and more importantly, just how these fine people could address it. And the couples soaked up his wisdom with enthusiasm, with the utmost of gratitude and respect.
Lisa had forced him to watch it. His younger Massachusetts General nursing sister had been going through a difficult time with one of her many transient boyfriends and asked if he would make her a cocoa and sit down and veg for a while. Which he did, and while it definitely wasn’t his personal cup of tea, he could remember thinking that this almost too good looking Doctor Jeff certainly had the knack.
