“The prosecution will argue Hewitt went upstairs,” I argued.
“And Nathan and Hank can say otherwise.”
“Damn it. That’s a good idea. I guess I’m going to have to buy you a bottle of wine as well.”
Chapter Nineteen
When we gathered the next morning, we traded beer for coffee and the Thirsty Monk for Hewitt’s conference table. Not much progress had occurred. Shirley and Cory spent the previous evening drafting a statement that Hewitt planned to turn over to Detective Newland. It detailed how Hewitt first met Lenore during the Duncan trial and that neither she nor Molly had ever been a client.
With a separate memorandum, Hewitt threw down the gauntlet that he considered his client list as confidential and would fight any subpoena demanding its release.
“All right,” Hewitt said. “Let’s move on to some fresh thinking. What can we be doing that we’re not?”
Tom Peterson spoke first. “Well, I think we have to look closer at Molly and Lenore. Did either of them have enemies we don’t know about?” He looked at Hewitt. “Maybe Lenore had an old boyfriend who didn’t like your becoming part of her life. Or Molly had a run-in with someone at work. The police might have skimmed over some of these possibilities because they made up their mind you’re good for it.”
Hewitt nodded. “Treat them singly and assume the other was collateral damage.”
“Exactly. Lenore might have been the intended victim and Molly happened to be in the house.”
Hewitt turned to Shirley beside him. “You knew them the best. Can you ask around?”
“Yes. But don’t hold out much hope. Neither mentioned any conflicts or unwanted attention.”
“Did you know I was seeing Lenore?”
Shirley’s white makeup took on a tinge of red. “I get your point.”
“Good. Cory, you concentrate on our clients and keep cases moving. Bring me only what’s absolutely necessary.” Hewitt looked across the table to Nakayla and me. “What are your priorities?”
“We’ve got the interview with Junior Atwood at six,” Nakayla said. “I’m going to search as much background on him as I can. I’ll also check out Wofford’s wife. Maybe somehow her death triggered him into action.”
“Why?” Peterson asked.
“Well, we won’t know that till I collect more information.”
“Okay,” Hewitt said. “Sam, what about you?”
Nakayla and I had discussed our options the night before. She possessed superior computer skills. Our plan was to have me do the legwork during the day and then we would meet Junior Atwood and Pastor Brooks together. But Nakayla also had great people insights and I decided Collin McPhillips warranted a closer examination.
“Two things,” I said. “Taking a fresh look means not only the evidence against us or for us, but also the missing evidence.”
“Like what?” Hewitt and Peterson asked in unison.
“No tire tracks at the bridge. The police are probably theorizing that you got Molly’s body up there ahead of time. Otherwise you were cutting it close from when you picked up the passenger van to when I cried, ‘Helen, come forth.’ It would make sense to pull farther out of sight to dump the body and rope. The ground was dry and hard earlier in the afternoon.”
“But there were wheelchair marks,” Peterson said.
“Yeah, but only on the level approach to the bridge. That means the body was hidden earlier off the path and then wheeled into position after the rain moistened the ground.”
Hewitt shook his head. “That doesn’t do me any good. I have no alibi for Friday afternoon.”
“But we know how narrow that road is heading up to the housing complex. The van would have to pull off on the shoulder and leave a mark. Otherwise, it would block the road. Drivers would remember that. But a smaller car, maybe parked that night in the mountaintop neighborhood, wouldn’t be noticed. He could walk down to where he hid the body and wheelchair.”
“Why not park the van in the housing lot?” Peterson asked.
“The same reason not to block the road. A passenger van would stand out in a lot full of sedans and SUVs. Again, we have missing evidence—no trace of soil either from Lenore’s garden or the bridge were found in the van or in the trunk of your Jaguar. And neither had been vacuumed afterwards.”
Hewitt straightened in his chair. I could see him grabbing onto these points for his closing argument.
“What about the footprints?” Cory asked. “There’s nothing in discovery yet.”
It was an excellent question and one I should have asked.
“The police stripped my closets bare.” Hewitt lifted his leg and showed us a shiny, patent-leather dress shoe. “They let me keep this pair because it was packed away with my tuxedo.”
Despite the circumstances, I had to laugh. “It’s not in discovery because there’s probably no soil match or identifying heel mark to show they were your shoes.”
“Damn right there isn’t,” Hewitt said. “I was never on that bridge.”
I turned to Peterson. “You might want to focus on what evidence they don’t have. Anything that creates holes in the prosecution’s case.”
“I will,” he said.
“What else?” Hewitt demanded.
“I have some more questions for Collin McPhillips,” I said. “But before circling back to him, Nakayla and I need to talk to Angela Douglas.”
“Why her?” Peterson asked. “Wasn’t she with you at the bridge?”
“Yes, and the police cleared her almost immediately. But if I’m looking at McPhillips, I need to look at her. Nakayla can read women far better than I can, so we’ll interview her together. Shirley, will you give us a contact number?”
“As soon as we break,” she promised.
“Good. Sounds like a full day.” Hewitt picked up his legal pad and pointed the corner at me. “Call when you finish with Junior Atwood. I don’t want to wait till tomorrow morning.” He stood. “The rest of us will meet downstairs at five-thirty.”
Nakayla and I went with Shirley and she gave us Angela Douglas’ cell number.
“This is all I have,” she said. “Never got a home or office address.”
As Nakayla and I walked the hallway to our own suite, she said, “I haven’t run a background on Angela yet.”
“Do that before we go.” I glanced at my watch. Five till eight. “I won’t call before nine. Meanwhile, I’ll check in with Newly.”
I’d just picked up the phone to call the detective when Tom Peterson came in.
“Can I talk to you both a few minutes?” he asked.
“Sure,” Nakayla said. “I put on a pot of fresh coffee. It’ll be ready in five minutes.” She gestured toward the sofa. “Sit down.”
He raised his hand. “No, thanks. I won’t be that long. I just wanted to apologize for last night. One too many beers and frustration that I’m not bringing much to the game.”
“Think nothing of it,” I said. “You’re the one who had to get immersed in the Duncan trial and then Durango.”
“Well, I’m really glad to be working with you. I’m there one hundred percent.”
“We know,” Nakayla said.
He turned to me. “Those were good suggestions. I wish I’d had you on my team when we both worked for Uncle Sam.”
He backed out the door and closed it.
“Told you,” Nakayla said.
“Told me what?”
“He wants your respect. He’s doing this for you, not Hewitt.”
***
Nakayla spotted Angela Douglas at a back table where she sat nursing a cup of tea and reading through a notebook. I’d reached her at nine and arranged to meet at The Green Sage, a tea and coffee spot just a few blocks from the office.
“You go ahead,” I told Nakayla. “What would you lik
e?”
“Jasmine Green and a scone,” she answered.
“You got it. Now go soften her up for my interrogation.”
Nakayla laughed. “You? The guy who admits he can’t read women? Are we playing good cop, dumb cop?”
When I joined them at the table, Nakayla was laughing at something Angela had said.
I set Nakayla’s tea and scone in front of her. “I hope I’m not the reason you’re laughing.”
Angela looked up at me, her bright blue eyes sparkling. “I was telling Nakayla about my introduction to barbecue, North Carolina style. Yesterday, Collin suggested we meet for lunch and have barbecue. I kept asking him what we’d have to eat. He kept answering barbecue. I asked barbecued what? It was like Abbott and Costello’s ‘Who’s On First?’ I’d always known barbecue as a verb, and it usually involved a hot dog or hamburger.”
I shook my finger at her. “Then you don’t want to get into the difference between western North Carolina and eastern North Carolina barbecue. It’s been known to break up families.”
“I get it,” Angela said. “Up north it’s the Giants versus the Jets or the Mets versus the Yankees that can destroy the harmony of Thanksgiving dinner.”
I sat beside Nakayla and squeezed her thigh under the table. She’d managed to have Angela bring up Collin McPhillips in a completely neutral context. “How’s the article coming? Tough that Collin lost access to his photographs.”
Angela brushed her blond hair off her forehead. “We hope to get some of them back. At least the ones of you with the tour group before…” She paused and closed her eyes. “Before that terrible moment.”
“Anyone agree to publish your story?” Nakayla asked.
“Not yet. That’s what created the barbecue meeting. Collin is anxious to move on it, but I think the story is about what happened up to that moment at the bridge when a well-intended event went horribly wrong.”
“Sounds like Collin wants it to be an investigation story instead of a background piece,” I said.
Angela’s blue eyes turned icy. “It’s not a background piece. The tragedy of the twins and what we hoped to accomplish on their behalf is the centerpiece. Yes, I’ll follow the investigation, but if I approach it as strictly a crime story, the news reporters will have the advantage and I’ll be left with warm leftovers.”
Angela’s rationale for her approach made sense. The human interest story was the boys and the community that rallied around them. For her, the murders were entwined amid the custody conflict. She would view the investigation into a long ago case here or in Durango as a sidebar.
“So, are you and Collin not working together?” I asked.
“Collin is a great guy with a great eye. I’m happy to work with him. It’s just I’m taking the story in a different direction, but I’ll still need photographic support. I’ll bring him in when I finish a first draft.”
“Well, he seems to know his way around Asheville,” I said. “He’s a good contact for someone new to town.”
“I agree,” Angela said. “He can get me to people I’d never see on my own. I hope he’ll introduce me to Nelda and Cletus Atwood.”
“How’s he know them?” Nakayla asked.
She leaned over her coffee and checked the nearby tables before answering. “Know them? He’s related to them. He said his father and Cletus are first cousins. Clyde was his second cousin.”
Nakayla and I exchanged a quick glance. Angela had just linked the Atwoods to Collin McPhillips, the man who took the incriminating picture that D.A. Carter planned to enter into evidence against Hewitt.
“I’m surprised Collin would work on a fundraiser his family didn’t support,” I said.
Angela shrugged. “You’ll have to ask him.”
Two hours later, Nakayla and I welcomed Collin into our office. He wore faded black jeans and a black turtleneck. His camera bag dangled from his shoulder, and I realized I’d never seen him without it.
“Do you sleep with that thing?” I asked.
He blinked with confusion. The camera was so much a part of him he didn’t know what thing I meant.
“Your camera.”
He laughed. “No. But it stays by my door so I have to trip over it before leaving. My equivalent of a policeman’s gun.”
Nakayla gestured to our leather sofa. “Sit there and you can keep the camera right beside you in case a photo op breaks out.”
Collin stopped and cocked his head. “That’s a great idea. A day in the life of a private detective.”
“I was kidding,” Nakayla said nervously.
“Well, I’m not. And the fact that you’re a team makes it all the more interesting.”
I took his arm and steered him to the sofa. “We’ll think about it.”
He sat and Nakayla and I each took a chair. Collin studied the room like he considered buying it. I was afraid he was already framing shots.
I got right to the point. “As I said on the phone, we have a potential case that’s going to require some photography. Nakayla and I are swamped at the moment and might need you as backup.”
Collin nodded with excitement. “Sure. Whatever I can do. Will I need a P.I. license?”
I stifled a laugh. “No, because you won’t be representing yourself as a detective.”
“Okay.” He rubbed his palms on his thighs, clearly eager to learn more. “What kind of time are you looking at?”
“Probably late afternoon till midnight. The client thinks her husband is cheating on her. She wants us to watch the house of his secretary.”
The prospect of an assignment had been the bait I’d used to lure Collin to the office on such short notice. Since I’d just talked to him about the murders the day before, calling another meeting on the same topic could spook him.
“Sounds simple enough,” he said. “Can I shoot from the car?”
“There’s on-street parking. I don’t know what you’re driving, but if it’s not too distinctive, you should be fine.”
“A silver Honda Civic,” he said. “A car so invisible pedestrians step right off the curb in front of me.”
We then spent a few minutes talking about his rate and expenses for the mythical job that would never happen.
“When do you think you might know?” he asked.
“We’re giving her an estimate and then she’ll decide,” Nakayla said. “We should know pretty quickly.”
“Do you have something pending?” I asked. “We talked to Angela Douglas and she said you wouldn’t be shooting for her until after the first draft of her story.”
Collin slipped the strap of his camera bag over his shoulder and stood. “If then.”
Nakayla and I rose, and I edged to my right to block his path to the door. “What do you mean?”
“Just that she might be one of those writers who researches a story to death without getting around to writing it. At some point, you have to put your butt in the chair and write the damn thing.”
I understood why the rift between the two developed. Collin covered stories with deadlines.
“It’s only been a few days since the murders,” I said.
“And you think she’d be hounding the cops for information, or camped on your doorstep if you’re working with Donaldson.”
This was my opening to explore Collin’s tie to the Atwoods. “Is she pumping you for information?” I asked.
“What information?” he asked.
“About the Atwoods. She said you were related.”
Collin’s face colored and his eyes cut from me to Nakayla. “I have nothing to do with that family and she knows it.”
“You’re not related?” Nakayla asked.
“I didn’t say that,” he snapped. “My father and Cletus are first cousins. My great aunt married an Atwood when she was sixteen. Cletus was born six months la
ter.”
Collin didn’t have to draw us a family tree. If what he said was true, back then his family would have held no love for the Atwood who impregnated their daughter.
“So, how did Angela find out? Research?”
He shook his head. “I told her. When we first met at Clyde’s trial. I thought she was cute and I was looking for some angle to keep the conversation going.”
“Why was she there?” I asked.
“She was planning an article on spousal abuse.” He paused as a new thought crossed his mind. “Maybe she’s folding all that together—the trial for domestic assault, the custody battle, and the murders. Write some story about hillbillies out of control.”
“Did she ask you to introduce her to Cletus and Nelda?” Nakayla asked.
“No. Not that I’d have any kind of in. I mean Clyde and I were civil to each other, but we had nothing in common. For him, the lumberyard was all the job he wanted. Everything else was drinking, hunting, and fishing. You know the type.”
“What about your dad’s cousin Junior? You have any dealings with him?”
Collin grew wary. “Junior? What’s he got to do with anything?”
I shrugged. “Probably nothing. I ran into him when I was talking with Pastor Brooks. I understand he was career military.”
“Yeah. Twenty and out. Junior’s the one who got the brains in the family.”
“Book smart?”
“People smart. I guess you learn to read people in the Army. If Junior wants something, he’ll damn sure figure a way to get it.”
“Were he and his nephew Clyde close?” I asked.
“Nah. Junior thought Clyde was lazy. He told me so, and, believe me, Atwoods don’t speak ill of themselves to a McPhillips.”
“Then he wouldn’t have cared if Clyde had gone to jail?”
Collin scrunched up his face as he mulled the question. “He probably wouldn’t have cared about Clyde, but he would have worried about those twins. Junior never had any kids, and those boys were like his own sons. I reckon he’d be more upset than Cletus and Nelda if he couldn’t see Jimmy and Johnny.”
A Specter of Justice Page 18
