Murder One

by Robert Dugoni

  “No.”

  “Are you aware whether she sent anyone to her home at twelve-fifty-four that day?”

  “I’m not.”

  After Underwood excused Terry, Sloane called Shawn Cortes to the stand, Cortes being the second of the two added witnesses. In her early twenties, Cortes had a purple streak in her dyed red hair. A small diamond stud pierced her right nostril. She wore black boots into which she’d stuffed green cargo pants, and a black T-shirt with the image of Jimi Hendrix, who had likely been dead nearly two decades before she was born. Cortes explained that for the past six months she had been employed as a receptionist for a group of doctors at a building in Bellevue.

  “Is Dr. Felix Oberman one of the doctors in the group for which you serve as receptionist?” Sloane asked.

  “Yes.”

  “What are your duties as a receptionist?”

  “Uh, I answer the phone?”

  The jurors chuckled.

  “And do you advise the person who has called whether the particular doctor is available or not available?”

  Cortes continued to grin as if she had walked into the easiest pop quiz in history. “Uh, yeah.”

  “So if a doctor is on his phone, you tell the caller that the doctor is unavailable, right?”

  She shrugged. “Or I ask if they want to hold or be put into the doctor’s voice mail. It’s really not that complicated.”

  “What if the doctor is out of the office, what do you tell the caller?”

  The sardonic smile returned. “That he’s out of the office?”

  More chuckles from the jurors.

  “How do you know that a particular doctor is out of the office at that particular time and not just in the bathroom or down the hall getting a cup of coffee or glass of water?”

  “They’re supposed to tell me when they leave and when they come back.”

  “Do you note this somewhere?”

  “I note it on a sheet at the desk.”

  “You note when a doctor leaves the building and when he returns?”

  “There’s a box next to the doctor’s name. You just write in the times.”

  “What are those sheets called?”

  “Daily records?” She made it sound like a question.

  “And you keep one of these daily records every day that you’re the receptionist?”

  She nodded. “That’s why they’re called daily records.” She was enjoying her time in the spotlight and was playing to the jury.

  “Are they dated?”

  “You write in the date in the upper-left-hand corner.”

  “What do you do with the sheet at the end of the day?”

  “File it in a drawer behind the desk.”

  “How long are they kept?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  “Did you bring the file of daily records with you today?”

  Her eyebrows peaked, and she held up the file in her lap.

  “Would you open the file and find the sheet for August twenty-third of this year?”

  Cortes took some time to flip through the sheets. Sloane was glad she did. The jurors watched intently, wondering what was to come. She pulled out a sheet, considered the date at the top, and held it up.

  “Did you find the daily record for August twenty-third?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “And do you recognize the handwriting on that document as yours?”

  “Yep, it’s mine.”

  Sloane further authenticated the document, asked the clerk to mark it, and moved to introduce it into evidence. Cerrabone did not object.

  “Now, would you please look at the line next to the name Dr. Felix Oberman for that date and tell me if Dr. Oberman left the office that day and at what time?”

  “He left at twelve-fifteen.”

  “And what time did he return?”

  “It was two-thirty.”

  “You wrote something else by the numbers two-thirty. What did you write?”

  “I wrote ‘LATE!’”

  “Why did you write that?”

  “Because he was late, and because there was a patient waiting for him, and the guy was not happy and he was taking it out on me every five minutes.”

  “Did you talk to Dr. Oberman when he returned from being late?”

  “He doesn’t really talk to me except to say if he’s leaving or when he’s back. I remember, though, because when he walked in and saw the patient, he acted all surprised and stuff and made up some bullsh—” She looked up at Underwood. “He said he didn’t have it on his calendar.”

  Cerrabone objected that Cortes was speculating as to Oberman’s state of mind but Underwood overruled him.

  Sloane stepped closer to the rail. “Do you have any idea where Dr. Oberman was from twelve-fifteen until two-thirty in the afternoon on August twenty-third, Shawn?”

  She shook her head. “Nope. That’s not my job.”

  After Cerrabone’s cross-examination of Cortes, Underwood dismissed the jury for the day with the same warning about the weather. The minute the jury room door closed, the people in the gallery began to buzz, and the media filed out into the hallway, opening cell phones and laptops.

  Sloane found Jenkins at the back of the courtroom. They moved to a corner. “Any luck?”

  Jenkins shook his head. “The receptionist said he hasn’t been in all day. He’s not answering his cell or his apartment phone. I went by earlier. If he’s home, he isn’t answering the door.”

  Cerrabone and Rowe talked at the prosecution table, obviously perplexed by the turn of events.

  “Oberman’s gone,” Sloane said to Cerrabone. “My investigator has tried to get ahold of him all day. He isn’t answering his cell phone or the phone at his apartment, and the receptionist at his office says he hasn’t been in all day. I want him back on the stand tomorrow morning.”

  “He’s still under subpoena,” Cerrabone said, sounding as disinterested in Oberman’s whereabouts as Cortes had been. He was clearly not happy about the two surprise witnesses.

  “At the moment, that isn’t helping,” Sloane said. “If I have to get a continuance, I will.”

  Cerrabone looked to Rowe. “Why don’t you drive out and see if he answers the door.”

  Sloane told Barclay he would meet her back at the office. She told him she was going home, that she had a vicious headache and would try to sleep it off. Jenkins offered to come with him, but Sloane told him to drive Barclay home, then go back to the office and see what Alex had learned. She had a contact monitoring Oberman’s bank accounts and credit cards in an effort to determine if he had fled.

  On the elevator to the lobby, Rowe and Sloane found themselves alone. Rowe had a cynical, disbelieving smile. “So Oberman breaks in to her house, takes her gun, and kills Vasiliev. Is that your theory?”

  “He knew the password, Detective. They used it on all of their bank accounts and computers.”

  “Come on, Sloane. You saw that guy. He couldn’t swim ten yards. And he doesn’t wear a size seven.”

  “Maybe he didn’t make the swim.”

  “What, he hired somebody? Who?”

  Sloane shrugged.

  As they stepped outside, the snow the weathermen had predicted had begun to fall, large heavy flakes that indicated it would be more than a flurry. Rowe turned to Sloane. “With the snow, traffic will be shit this time of day. Come on.”

  TERRA CREEK APARTMENT COMPLEX

  BELLEVUE, WASHINGTON

  The Terra Creek apartment complex had been built across the street from the Bellevue Library, within walking distance of the Lincoln Town Center with its bars and restaurants, shopping, cinema complex, and business tower. But Terra Creek wasn’t one of the fancy condominium complexes built to house the residents the city planners hoped would support those establishments. It had a couple of ground-floor businesses—a Subway sandwich shop and an Italian pasta restaurant, along with a dry cleaner and, next to it, an empty storefront.

  Felix Obe
rman’s apartment was located on the second floor. The hallway smelled of Indian food and was so narrow Sloane wondered how anyone could possibly move in any furniture. When Rowe knocked, the door shook in its jamb but no one answered. They left and returned with the supervisor. The man unlocked the door without question and stepped back, no doubt believing that when a police detective flashes his badge and asks you to open the door to one of the residents’ apartments, it is not a precursor of good things to come.

  With the blinds drawn, the snow falling, and the early-winter sunset, the only light in the room came from the hallway. Rowe flipped a light switch that illuminated a kitchen not wide enough to accommodate two people and separated from the living space by a four-foot-high pony wall and granite counter. Two plates and a fork lay in the sink. Otherwise, the counter was clean. The living area consisted of a sofa, a recliner with a back massager, a reading lamp, and a small television. Rowe knocked on a door to their right, presumably the bedroom, and called out Oberman’s name. When he got no answer, he pushed it open, ran his hand along the wall, and flipped another light switch.

  Stepping in, he said, “What the Sam Hill?”

  TWENTY - NINE

  LAW OFFICES OF DAVID SLOANE

  ONE UNION SQUARE

  SEATTLE, WASHINGTON

  Jenkins and Pendergrass continued the conversation as they stepped from the elevator into the lobby. They began the discussion on the car ride back to the office after driving Reid home.

  “What are you talking about? She was in a mediation. No way she could have set off the alarm and provided the password,” Pendergrass said.

  “It doesn’t explain the size-seven shoe prints or how Oberman could have done it.”

  “Oberman took the missing pair of shoes when he took the gun,” Pendergrass said, pulling open the door to the office and letting Jenkins slip through ahead of him.

  “Maybe. And maybe he even fits his foot into a size seven, but tell me how he makes the swim.”

  “He could have had a boat tied up, or a raft or kickboard.”

  “Could have, but that doesn’t explain how Joshua Blume could mistake a bearded man for a woman.”

  “Blume’s testimony is discredited,” Pendergrass said.

  “With the jury.”

  “Well, isn’t that who we’re concerned with?” Pendergrass asked. “What, you think he actually saw something? He made it up to appease his dad and the girl.”

  “Maybe,” Jenkins said.

  “Maybe? You interviewed her.”

  Alex stepped into the hall from her office holding several sheets of paper.

  “What canary did you swallow?” Jenkins asked.

  She handed him sheets of paper. “Guess who’s left-handed?”

  TERRA CREEK APARTMENT COMPLEX

  BELLEVUE, WASHINGTON

  The corners of some of the photographs, tacked to the wall with a single pushpin, had curled. The newspaper clippings had yellowed. Together, they stretched nearly the entire bedroom wall.

  “Do not touch anything,” Rowe said to Sloane. He flipped open his cell phone and stepped into the living room. Sloane heard him talking to Crosswhite, telling her to get ahold of Cerrabone, prepare a search warrant, and dispatch a CSI unit to the address.

  The collage was sick in its detail, a chronology of Barclay Reid with various hair lengths and engaged in different activities. Supplementing the photographs, Oberman had collected what must have been every Bar Journal, magazine, and newspaper article ever written about his ex-wife, along with articles mentioning her name in the cases she had tried.

  Sloane stepped forward and considered a cluttered desk of unopened mail, psychiatric journals, and scraps of paper with handwritten notes. He turned the switch to a metal desk lamp. It illuminated an aerial photograph in the center of the pile with which Sloane had become intimately familiar.

  Rowe reentered the room carrying a black case, opened it, and pulled out two pairs of blue gloves. “Put these on,” he said. Then he took out a camera.

  Sloane nodded to the photograph. “Vasiliev’s home and backyard.”

  Rowe shook his head and began to snap photos.

  “Look at this.” Sloane lifted the aerial photograph to further examine the document beneath it. “It’s a lunar chart showing the days of the month the moon would provide the least amount of light. He circled September seventh.”

  “The thunderstorm must have been an added bonus.” Rowe continued to take photographs. He lowered the camera. “So who did he get? No way he did it himself. I’m not buying it, and the evidence doesn’t support it. Neither does common sense.”

  “Common sense just went out the window, Detective. Someone this obsessed, he finds a way to get it done.” Sloane continued looking through the materials, though careful not to disturb them. He pulled open the top drawer of a gray filing cabinet against the wall separating the bedroom and living area and flipped through the manila tabs. As he did, his cell phone rang.

  “We found him,” Jenkins said.

  “I’m at his apartment right now. Where is he?”

  “You’re at his apartment?”

  “Yeah, in Bellevue. I’m with Rowe. You’re not going to believe—”

  “Not Oberman. Andrew Lorin.”

  “Who?” Sloane asked.

  “The transvestite. Only he isn’t a he anymore. He’s a she. That’s why Alex couldn’t find him. That’s why he had no further employment records or bank accounts. That’s why the DMV had nothing and Alex couldn’t find any medical records. Andrew Lorin no longer exists. Andrew Lorin is now Lori Andrews. And guess who’s left-handed?” Jenkins asked. “You still there?”

  “I’m here,” Sloane said, a thought coming to him. He pushed the files to the right and stepped to his left so that he could see the initial files in the drawer. He did not see the tab, fingering past the A’s to the D’s.

  “And guess what hobby Lori Andrews competes in?” Jenkins didn’t wait for Sloane to answer. “Triathlons. She competed in four this past year.”

  Sloane closed the top drawer and opened the lower drawer, flipping through the L’s. “It’s not here,” he said.

  “What’s not there?” Jenkins asked.

  “Oberman has a filing cabinet with patient files but no file for an Andrew Lorin or a Lori Andrews.”

  “He might have it at the office. Or in storage. It’s been ten years.”

  Sloane closed the bottom drawer and slid open the top again.

  “Alex has an address and phone number,” Jenkins said. “Andrews lives in an apartment in Madison Park. It’s one of the brick apartment buildings at the point. You can see it as you drive across the 520 floating bridge.”

  “I know it,” Sloane said. He and Tina had considered the complex when they moved to Seattle and couldn’t find a house, but the apartments, built in 1939, had the box feel of military housing—each exactly the same. Tina nixed the idea when she learned the units had neither a dishwasher nor a washing machine.

  Sloane flipped through the tabs again, noticing a pattern. Oberman put a single manila file, no matter how thin or thick, in its own separate hanging green folder. He flipped quickly through the files to names beginning with the letter L. Just after the name Jason Locker, he found the green hanging folder immediately following it empty.

  EDGEWATER APARTMENT COMPLEX

  MADISON PARK, SEATTLE

  Rowe left Crosswhite and Cerrabone to process Oberman’s apartment. He and Sloane slogged through traffic north on the 405 out of Bellevue, then east on the 520. A flood of workers trying to beat the already falling snow added to the usual heavy Microsoft reverse commute, turning the freeway into a parking lot. Rowe finally hit the siren and used the commuter lanes to weave in and out of the stream of cars. As they reached the west side of the bridge, they could see the lights for the Edgewater on the shore of the lake. Rowe took the Lake Washington Boulevard exit and drove through the residential streets. The windshield wipers slapped at the flakes of s
now, which had become larger as the temperature fell and were accumulating on the windshield.

  Rowe told Sloane that the Washington State Patrol crime lab had confirmed that the gun that fired the bullet that killed Vasiliev had also been used in a murder ten years earlier of a PI named Zach Bergman.

  Sloane knew the name. “Barclay’s private investigator,” he said. “He took the photographs of Oberman with Andrew Lorin.”

  “I know. And the detectives questioned Oberman about it.”

  “How did you even know to check?”

  Rowe gave him a glance. “Your PI asked me.”

  “Charlie asked you to do it?”

  Rowe looked and sounded surprised that Sloane didn’t know. “He said he had a hunch. I thought you asked him to find out.”

  Sloane hadn’t.

  In addition to the half-dozen two-story red brick buildings at the point of land abutting Lake Washington, the apartment complex extended several blocks, at least another dozen buildings, not including the pool and office complex.

  The darkness and accumulating snow on the windshield made it difficult to identify building numbers. Rowe’s GPS, of little help, kept repeating “You have arrived.” Rowe finally switched it off.

  Rowe turned right on East Edgewater Place, then made a right onto Forty-second Avenue East. When they passed between two familiar brick pillars, Sloane told Rowe to park. “I know where the office is. We can move faster on foot.”

  Sloane turned up the collar of his overcoat, shoved his hands in his pockets, and lowered his head. Wet snow blew in his face as he cut across a square patch of lawn blanketed with snow. He felt the moisture seeping through the bottom of his leather shoes, soaking his socks. Kids dressed in snowsuits, knit hats, and gloves threw snowballs, their laughs the only detectable sound in the snow-deadened air. He got turned around once, then saw the familiar rental office.

  He reached for the glass door, but the office interior was dark, and he knew before he pulled on the door it would be locked.

  Rowe blew into his cupped hands and turned 360 degrees, considering the buildings. Melting snow had matted his hair. Flakes stuck to the shoulders of his suit jacket. After a few moments he seemed to pick up something, like a dog to a scent, and began to jog with a pronounced limp through the complex, considering the buildings.