Final Appeal

by Joanne Fluke

  Michael was about to go into the office to work on his book when the telephone rang. Toni or Stan. No one else ever called him. He was betting on Toni. Stan never called him during the day unless there was a crisis. And so far the crises had all been murders. Mike picked up the phone to answer the call. The moment he heard the voice on the other end of the line, he started to frown.

  “Mike? It’s Stan.”

  “Oh, hell!” The words were out before Michael could stop them, but Stan laughed.

  “Oh, hell? Is that any way to greet the brother who’s been burning the midnight oil to push through your appeal?”

  “Sorry, Stan. That just slipped out. Please tell me that there wasn’t another murder.”

  Stan sighed. “Sorry, Mikey. There was another murder. Remember the Mexican guy on your jury?”

  “Jose Sanchez? But that’s impossible!”

  “I’m afraid not. He was stabbed this morning at the Crossroads Truck stop. Why did you say that it was impossible?”

  Michael thought fast. “I’m just shocked, that’s all. I was hoping that no more jury members would be murdered. How did it happen?”

  “The police figure Sanchez tried to stop some itinerant who was stealing food from the supply shed. He had a knife, but the other guy was quicker. Sanchez never even had a chance to defend himself.”

  Michael’s mind was spinning. Another murder. And he’d warned Jose Sanchez himself. After this, Stan just had to believe there was a connection between the jurors and the murders.

  “Listen to me for a minute, Stan. Margo Jantzen, Neal Wallace, Lester Robinson, and now Jose Sanchez. That’s four out of twelve, and they can’t all be coincidences. It’s got to be part of a crazy scheme to murder off the jurors at my trial. What else could it be?”

  “Don’t get so upset, Mikey. I admit you’ve got a point. But don’t forget that Neal Wallace wasn’t murdered. My contact at the police station said they went over that scaffolding with a fine-tooth comb, and it snapped from stress. They’re sure of it.”

  Michael did his best to keep his voice calm. There were times when Stan could be remarkably dense.

  “That could be true, Stan. But you’re ignoring what happened to his body at the mortuary. Maybe his death was an accident, but someone sure hacked him up afterwards. And that’s the reason I think we’ve got to count him in on the four.”

  “Well, maybe. I guess I’m beginning to believe your theory, Mike. It makes sense in a weird kind of way. But why would anyone want to kill off your jury?”

  “I don’t know, but the killer must have a reason. What can we do about it, Stan? I know we can’t tell the police. If we point out the connection, they’ll start looking for Michael Hart. But don’t you think that I should at least warn the rest of the jury?”

  “Don’t talk crazy, Mikey!” Stan sounded angry. “You just sit tight and leave that up to me. I know where they are. I already told you I’ve kept track of them. You’ve got to promise me to stay out of it completely or you’ll ruin all the work I’ve accomplished so far. You see that, don’t you?”

  Michael backtracked fast. Stan really sounded upset. “I see that, Stan. You’re the boss, and I promise not to move a muscle. But you really will warn them?”

  “Of course I will.” Stan sounded a bit mollified. “I’ll start on it right away, Mike. By the time I call you tonight, everyone who’s left will know to be extra careful.” There was a pause and then Stan spoke again. “Mikey? You’re all right, aren’t you? I mean, you sounded a little strange when I told you about Sanchez.”

  “I’m okay, Stan. It was just the shock, that’s all. I remember thinking that Sanchez looked like the type of man who could handle himself in any situation.”

  “He did look that way, didn’t he?” Stan sounded pleased. “You’ve got an incredible memory for those jury members, Mike. I think you remember more about them than I do.”

  Michael was silent. Of course he remembered them. He remembered them so vividly that he saw them in his dreams every night.

  Stan cleared his throat. “I’ll sign off now, if you’re sure you’re all right. I’ve got tons of work to do. You know how that goes. Right, Mike?”

  “Right, Stan. How’s the appeal coming? When you called, you said you’d been burning the midnight oil, working on it.”

  “That’s right. I should have mentioined it before I told you about the Mexican juror. I’m sorry, Mikey. I know it’s always on your mind, but I’ve got a million other things to handle and sometimes I forget to give you a progress report.”

  “It’s okay, Stan. I know you’re very busy.”

  “That’s true. There’s good progress on your appeal, though. I went over that footage I told you about with an expert, and he’s agreed to testify that it’s you. I had a lab blow up the best freeze frame, and the resolution is nice and sharp. My guy compared it to that last photo you had taken for your portfolio. Remember?”

  “I remember. The photographer charged a small fortune. Which pose did you use?”

  “I don’t remember off the top of my head, Mikey. I think you were wearing a blue shirt. Anyway, there’s no doubt in my expert’s mind. And there won’t be any doubt in the judge’s mind either. How does that sound?”

  “Just great, Stan.” Michael frowned. He remembered those photos very well, and none had been taken in a blue shirt. Oh, Well. Stan had never paid much attention to color. “My appeal will be coming up pretty soon, then?”

  “That’s right. If they schedule right away, and I’m pushing for that, it could be by the end of the month. So what do you think of your older brother right now, Mikey?”

  “I think mom and dad were wrong. They should have named you Clarence Darrow Gerhardt.” Mike waited until Stan chuckled. “That’s fantastic, Stan. This is the twenty-third already, so that means I could be cleared in a week!”

  “Hold on a second, Mike. I said it could be scheduled by the end of the month. There’ll be a delay. There always is. But even at the worst, it ought to come up within three or four weeks. You can be patient for that long, can’t you, Mikey?”

  “You bet I can, Stan. I was patient for years. Patient fifteen sixty-three, as a matter of fact.”

  “What was that, Mike?”

  “Just a joke, Stan. Fifteen sixty-three was my patient number at Oakdale.”

  “Oh, very funny, Mike. Are you sure you’re all right?”

  Michael sighed. He’d have to remember not to try anymore jokes with Stan. His brother had never developed a good sense of humor.

  “I’m fine, Stan. Don’t worry about me. And thanks for working so hard on my appeal.”

  “No problem, Mikey. Your case is my number one priority. I’m a little concerned about you, though. You sound tired. Maybe you should take a couple of aspirin and nap for a while. You had a real shock there with the news about Sanchez and the appeal and everything.”

  “I’m not that tired, Stan, but maybe I will. Are you still planning to call me at nine tonight?”

  “On the button. Okay, Mikey. You take that nap now, and I’ll talk to you later, check?”

  They said goodbye, and Michael hung up. The way he’d figured it, he’d gotten at least two hours sleep before he’d driven off in Toni’s car, and another six after they had gone back to bed. Eight hours of sack time was enough for anyone. He felt more rested today than he ever had before, and he was sure he hadn’t sounded tired. Not only had Stan turned into a paranoid, he was a worrywart, too.

  Michael turned on his computer and sat down. He really shouldn’t be so hard on his brother. Stan had his faults, but he had a brilliant legal mind. And he’d promised to warn the rest of the jurors. Michael just hoped that Stan’s warnings would be more effective than his had been with Jose Sanchez.

  Toni finished the calculation she was doing on the percentage of women in managerial positions from certain target areas, and inserted the figure in the proper table. She’d made great strides with the research project this after
noon. Now all she had left to do was to tally up some other statistics, draw up a projection graph, and print it all out. As she saved her work, she realized that the radio station she had selected on her office stereo was running the news. Because it was impossible for her to concentrate on figures while someone else was talking, she got up to put on one of her favorite CDs.

  She listened to the news as she pulled Vivaldi’s Four Seasons out of the drawer and slipped it into the machine. Trouble in Lebanon again. And Iran. And El Salvador. Another drug ring had been busted in Los Angeles, and a big jewelry store on Ventura Boulevard had been robbed. This city was just one ball of laughs. A murder, of course. There weres always murderers, child molesters, car jackers, and robbers in a city the size of Los Angeles. The news was so depressing, she seldom listened to it.

  What was that? Toni turned up the volume, but all she got was the tail end of the story. Someone named Sanchez had been murdered last night. That name was very familiar. Where had she heard it before?

  Toni switched to her CD and gave a big sigh of relief as Vivaldi’s “Winter” came on. Or was it “Summer”? She could never tell the four seasons apart unless she read the description inside the cover of the CD. Why had the name of the murder victim been familiar? Sanchez. Wasn’t that the name Mike had asked her to run through the data banks? Of course, there were lots of people named Sanchez. She knew that by the number of hits she’d gotten in the data. And even if the murder victim had been Jose Sanchez, it could be one of the other hundred or so who lived in this area. She’d ask Mike about it, if she remembered.

  Now that Vivaldi was playing and she could concentrate on work again, Toni found she didn’t want go back to her projections. Perhaps she needed a break. She went to the refrigerator to get herself a glass of iced tea, but that didn’t really help either.

  Mike’s sleepwalking had been bothering her. She’d made a pretty good show of being nonchalant about it, but that purely was for Mike’s benefit. Was there anything she could do to help him?

  The moment she thought of it, Toni attempted to connect to the state computer bank in Ohio. She knew she was prying into Mike’s personal life, but perhaps she could discover something in his past that was causing his sleepwalking. Then they could confront it together and resolve it. Of course, she didn’t have any credentials for that sort of thing, but she’d heard about a study some prestigious university had done where bartenders and hairdressers had turned out to have a higher quotient of helping people with their problems then trained therapists did.

  Toni sat back and waited to be connected. It seemed everyone was using the system today. She was lucky that she had a habit of memorizing numbers without realizing she was doing it. She could rattle off Harry’s old badge number and the number of the workman who had inspected the elevator, even though she had no reason at all for remembering either of them. Her selective memory for numbers was usually a worthless talent, in fact, this was the very first time it had actually come in handy.

  Last night, when she’d flipped through Mike’s wallet, she had memorized the numbers on his drivers’ license and his social security card. By plugging those numbers into the Ohio state computer system, she could find out more about Mike Kruger’s life without coming right out and asking him.

  At last she got through. It was a simple matter to access DMV files. Anyone with a little know-how could do it. She typed in Mike’s name and his driver’s license number and waited as the search began. In a moment, a message flashed on the screen. NOT FOUND. TRY AGAIN? She typed it in again, but she got the same message. Fine.

  The Ohio DMV computer bank was obviously messed up. She’d try just the name. At least she knew that was right. She typed in KRUGER, MICHAEL S., exactly the way it had been written on the license and waited. After a moment, the same message appeared. NOT FOUND. TRY AGAIN?

  Toni sighed. All right. She’d try it the other way around. Someone had probably made a typo, and the name was misspelled in the data bank. It happened all the time, sometimes with disastrous results when mistakes were made in entering credit information. She typed in the number and waited. There was always a way around a glitch if you knew what you were doing.

  Aha! There it was! Toni leaned forward as a name appeared on the screen. The license number had been issued to Harriet B. Mathews in Akron, Ohio.

  Toni frowned as she hit the print screen button and got the sheet on Harriet Mathews. She had a good notion to call the Ohio DMV and tell them that they needed someone to straighten out their computer. She’d try Michael’s social security number and hope the Federal government had been more careful about inputting data.

  Social Security was a more difficult bank to crack, but Toni managed to sneak in the back door. Their files were confidential, but they weren’t guarded as rigorously as some of the other data banks. She typed in Mike’s name and number and waited.

  This one took a while. More entries to search. With the new IRS regulations, most parents applied for their children’s social security numbers shortly after their birth. Finally, after what seemed like several hours but was probably less than a minute, a message appeared on her screen.

  ENTRY UNMATCHED. INPUT FIRST PARAMETER ONLY Toni typed in Mike’s name without the number. Another long wait, and then a list appeared. There were over forty entries under the name Michael Kruger, and they were from all over the United States. She printed it out and studied the list carefully. None of these birth dates were even close. If she couldn’t find anything with the first parameter, she’d try the second.

  She was very careful as she typed in the nine digit social security number that had been printed on Mike’s card. The search began again, and eventually the information for that number appeared on the screen. Toni frowned as she scanned it, and then printed it out. Mike’s social security number belonged to Harriet B. Mathews.

  “Oh, brother!” Toni signed off and read the information she’d printed. According to the Ohio DMV, Miss Mathews was thirty-nine years old. Thirty-nine was about right for Mike, now that she thought about it. And Harriet was single, with brown hair and brown eyes. She was a big woman, one inch over six feet tall, and weighed one hundred and sixty pounds, according to her driver’s license. Toni thought she probably weighed more. Most women lied about their weight on their driver’s license. Harriet Mathews had received two parking tickets in the past year, one of them in Cleveland, and she’d paid promptly. She had no moving violations. That was nice.

  Toni shrugged and turned her attention to the social security printout. Miss Mathews had begun working right out of high school. She hadn’t earned enough to qualify for Social Security benefits during her first five years. Since her earnings had been so low during that period, she’d probably been attending class and working part-time.

  There was a lot of information on Miss Mathews, and Toni scrolled through it. Then she noticed something interesting. For the past ten years, she had shown no regular withholding for social security. Instead she’d paid a lump sum that was a little over twelve percent of her applicable income. She had to be employed, because most people paid roughly half that and their employer paid the rest. It was another fact Harriet B. Mathews had in common with Mike. The only thing that seemed to set them apart was their sex.

  “Oh my God!” Toni gasped as she had a terrible thought. Could Mike have had a sex change? She’d met a man who’d been turned into a woman, but she hadn’t thought they could do it the other way around. Of course, with the miracles of modern medicine, there was no telling what they could transplant, or implant, or whatever.

  “No way!” Toni spoke aloud. It was impossible. She’d slept with Mike, seen every inch of his body, and there was no way synthetic plastics could be that advanced!

  Toni thought it over and there was only one sensible conclusion. Mike was using fake ID, and both numbers belonged to a woman in Ohio who had a lot in common with him. Could she be Mike’s sister? Harriet B. Mathews was single, so the last name would probably be the
same, barring divorce or name changes. She’d try a search for Michael Mathews and see where that got her.

  Thirty minutes later, Toni gave up. She’d established Michael Mathiews didn’t exist in any data bank she could access. Kruger was obviously an alias, but why was Mike using fake ID in the first place? Did he have a family somewhere that he was running away from? Was he in trouble with the mob? Or the law?

  Toni used the number that Harry had given her, and plugged into the police data bank. There was no listing for Michael S. Kruger or Michael Mathews. Harry had told her that the names in the data bank were cross-referenced with known aliases, so that meant she’d struck out cold. For some reason, Mike was hiding his past, and she couldn’t find out why unless she knew his real name. She supposed it was possible that he’d been a federal witness and the Feds had changed his identity. But they certainly wouldn’t use numbers that belonged to someone else when they could give him a whole new identity and plug it right into the appropriate data banks.

  What should she do? She didn’t want to confront Mike with what she’d learned. He’d told her about sleepwalking and about his Aunt Alice. It was the first time he’d confided in her, and if she admitted she’d dug into his past, he’d never trust her again. There could be a very good reason why Mike was hiding his true identity, and she’d just have to wait until he trusted her enough to tell her.

  Toni sighed. She knew what it was like to have the urge to confide in someone about her past. She’d gathered the nerve to try it once, but the other person had drawn away, shocked. And their relationship had never been the same again. Toni had learned her lesson. There were some things that were better left private. Mike might have had a similar experience. Wouldn’t it be wonderful when they both felt safe enough to be completely honest with each other?

  CHAPTER 23

  Professor James Zimmer pulled into his parking spot at Gateway University and shut off the engine of his car. A week in the lot at the Los Angeles airport didn’t seem to have hurt the Mazda at all. The manufacturer’s advertising had been quite accurate. It was a great little car.