“Yes. We found an identifiable print of the thumb and first two fingers on the cuff of one glove.”
“You’re really making me work for this. Which glove?”
“The left glove . . . the same one the gunshot residue was on.”
Virgil Grimes sat at his desk and fumed. He felt the acid move from his stomach into his throat. He took a sip of the cold coffee in his cup, but that just made it worse. The heroin should have been enough to let them hold Newman until they gathered evidence to convict him of Edgar’s murder. But an envelope full of lactose wasn’t going to do it. If he’d just—
“Virgil?”
The single word, spoken in a soft Southern drawl, was enough to tell Virgil Grimes that Merrilee Ames was standing across the desk from him. He signaled his annoyance at the interruption with a frown, then counted to five before looking up from his computer monitor. “What?”
She held up a large manila envelope like a quarterback brandishing a Super Bowl trophy. “The reports on the Edgar Lopez shooting are back. And I think you’re going to want to see them.”
Grimes took the envelope and unwound the red string, looped around two cardboard buttons, holding it closed. Inside were a dozen sheets of computer-printed material.
“Is it going to help me more than the negative tests for gunshot residue on Newman’s clothes?” he asked. He’d had to scramble to find an expert who’d swear that it was possible to fire a handgun and not have blowback residue on one’s clothes. But he was tired of trying to pull figurative rabbits out of a hat.
“Check the ballistics report first,” Ames said.
Grimes knew he should wave her to a chair, but chose to keep her standing. Since Ames had been paired with him, he’d chafed at having to partner with a woman who’d only earned her gold badge a month earlier. His previous partner and he were both veteran officers, old school, hardened by dealing with criminals, and savvy in the ways of the world—that is, the underworld. Neither had flinched if they had to bend a few rules to put away the bad guys. But Norm had retired to Florida and probably spent his time playing shuffleboard and eating the early bird special at Denny’s. Now instead of a partner who would look the other way when it was necessary, Grimes had Ames, an eager beaver who watched his every move.
He pulled a pair of reading glasses from his shirt pocket and slipped them on. He tried not to wear them around other people, and he hated for Ames to see them now, but Grimes didn’t want to miss anything. He shuffled through the sheets to find the ballistics report. The gun found in the storm drain near Newman’s house was described as a .38 caliber revolver, Smith & Wesson Airweight. Someone had made an attempt to remove the serial numbers with acid. Although the lab could probably bring them up by some of their newfangled methods, it didn’t matter. Dollars to donuts, the weapon was stolen.
When found, the pistol’s chambers contained five empty shells. He skipped the technical stuff about lands and grooves, but his eyes lit up when he read the conclusion. Test bullets fired from this gun were a match for the slugs removed from the body of Edgar Lopez.
Ames had moved, uninvited, to his side of the desk and was reading over Grimes’s shoulder. “Keep reading,” she said. “Check out the next page.”
Grimes frowned. The only thing he hated more than being told what to do was being told what to do by a woman. He gritted his teeth but didn’t say anything. But after he flipped to the next page, his anger dissolved. When an investigation provided bullets fired from an unidentified gun, the techs entered the characteristics of the slug into a database. Now, through the magic of computerization, those unidentified bullets could be compared with those test-fired by other guns sent to the lab. And in this case, the computer had yielded a hit. The .38 special Airweight that murdered Edgar Lopez was also the gun that killed Cara Mendiola.
Lopez had been offed in Newman’s house. Mendiola’s body was found in the trunk of Newman’s car. Newman was linked to both crimes. Grimes could practically taste victory, but he was careful not to voice his thoughts. It wouldn’t do for Ames to hear him say it. But he certainly thought it. Newman, you’re going down.
Matt’s finger hovered over the doorbell. He looked around him and wondered, for about the hundredth time, what he was doing here.
It had been surprisingly easy to find the address, and at the time, he thought this trip was the right thing. But the further into this area of Highland Park he ventured, the more out of place Matt felt. Around him were homes that belonged on the pages of Architectural Digest, houses that would sell for a million dollars or more, provided the owners decided to part with them. Circular driveways served as parking places for Lexus and Mercedes sedans and SUVs, with an occasional BMW or Porsche thrown in for variety.
Matt’s choice of gray slacks and an open-necked white shirt under a blue blazer was certainly appropriate for most occasions. But now that he was here, he felt as out of place as his nondescript Chevy parked at the curb in sight of all those high-priced autos.
This is the right thing to do. Get on with it. He pressed the bell and soft tones inside the house announced his presence. In a moment, he heard footsteps approach. The peephole darkened, then the door opened. Matt expected to be greeted by a maid or even a butler. Instead, the woman who opened the door was the one he’d come to see. There was a moment’s hesitation as she scanned his face before recognition lit her eyes with genuine pleasure.
“Dr. Newman. How nice to see you,” Abby Penland said. “Please come in.”
Matt followed her inside, taking in the beautifully furnished and decorated rooms as she led him toward the back of the house. The far wall of the room they entered was composed of glass panels. Two sliding glass doors in the center led to a covered porch where several chairs were grouped around an umbrella-shaded table.
“You . . . you have a lovely home,” Matt said.
“Thank you. Would you like to sit out on the porch? It’s quite comfortable.”
“That would be nice.” Matt’s throat suddenly felt as though he’d been gargling with sandpaper. He tried unsuccessfully to clear it.
“Let me get us something to drink. How about fresh lemonade?”
Matt nodded and was surprised once more. He expected Mrs. Penland to ring for a servant. Instead, she excused herself and told him to have a seat outside. She returned in a few moments with a tray bearing a frosty pitcher and two glasses of ice. After pouring for both of them, she settled herself in the chair next to Matt. “I must say, this visit is a surprise. But I’m glad you’ve come.”
“I thought I should thank you in person. It was totally unexpected and very gracious of you to put up my bail. You need to know that I won’t do anything to disappoint you.”
“You mean you don’t plan to skip out on your bail and catch a plane for Mexico?” The words were accompanied by a twinkle in her eye and a smile flitting across her lips.
“No, I have no intention of doing any such thing. Besides that, and I’m sure your attorney has told you this, the charges have been dropped. Someone tried to set me up to look like a narcotics dealer, but they got tripped up. So your money is safe.”
“I know. Mr. Banks called me with the good news. Not that your innocence surprised me. I’m a good judge of people, and the way you made the effort to check on my son, to assure me, told me a lot.”
“How is Roland?” Matt asked.
“Doing well, thank you. His brush with death has done a great deal to improve his driving habits. Much more than any admonitions from his mother, certainly.”
“I’m glad to hear that. Please give him my regards.”
Mrs. Penland said, “Roland is my only son, so what you did is very special to me. Only a few doctors would have taken the risk you did to save his life. Even fewer would have cared enough to follow up.”
Matt tipped the glass to drain the last of his lemonade, and Mrs. Penland immediately poured more for him. He nodded his thanks. “I think you give me more credit than I deserve, but th
ank you.” He drank deeply, then set the glass on the table. “I’ve taken enough of your time.”
She touched his arm lightly. “Before you go, there are a couple of other things.”
Matt sat back in his chair. When in doubt, say nothing, and that’s exactly what he did.
Mrs. Penland gave him a smile that would have done the Mona Lisa proud. “Just because I live in a nice house in Highland Park doesn’t mean I’m unaware of some of the uglier things going on in Dallas. For instance, I know about the murder at your house. And my attorney, who has sources in the district attorney’s office, tells me the police still consider you a suspect in that murder.”
Matt could only nod and wonder what was coming next. He didn’t have to wait long.
“Dr. Newman, are you a murderer?”
It took Matt a moment to process the question. This lady certainly didn’t pull punches. He took a deep breath. “No, ma’am. I’m not.”
“I thought as much, but I prefer to hear it directly from you.” She finished her lemonade and set the glass aside. “Should the police arrest you for murder or for any other crime, real or fabricated, you should have your attorney contact Mr. Banks. My initial offer still stands. I’ll provide surety for your bail up to a million dollars.”
“I . . . I don’t know what to say.”
“A simple thank you is sufficient.”
“Thank you,” Matt said. “I’m touched.” He pushed himself up from his chair. “I guess I really should be going.”
Mrs. Penland made a hand gesture for him to remain seated. “I said there were a couple of things on our agenda. Don’t you want to know what the second one is?”
“Um, certainly.”
She reached out and placed her hand lightly on his. “If you’ll let me, before you go I’d like to pray with you.” Then she amended her statement. “Pray with you—and for you.”
Matt was overwhelmed. He’d come here to thank a woman for going the second mile for him, and he was leaving with her assurance that she was confident of his innocence, her pledge to back him even further, and the support of her prayers. How could he possibly fail? As she began to pray, Matt flashed back on another Scripture he’d heard Joe quote. “Those who are with us are greater than those who are with them.” Right now Matt wanted badly to believe that.
“Aren’t you going to read the whole report?” Merrilee Ames asked.
“Yeah, yeah. I’ll read it when you’re not hanging over my shoulder,” Grimes grumbled. “But I’ve seen enough. I need you to put together a warrant for the arrest of Dr. Matt Newman. The charge is two counts of murder: Cara Mendiola and Edgar Lopez. Bring it to me when you’ve got it ready. I want to be sure it goes to a judge who owes me a few favors.”
Ames glared at him and stalked away. Grimes was already fantasizing about knocking on Newman’s door at four a.m. and taking him into custody. He knew a couple of people at the local TV stations who’d love to be tipped off. If they just happened to have reporters and cameramen at the police station when Grimes brought in Newman, the doctor’s perp walk would be all over the morning news. Too bad it wouldn’t make the early edition of the papers, but you couldn’t have everything.
Grimes polished his reading glasses with the end of his tie and slipped them back on. The next page of the report was mainly fingerprint data. There were no prints on the gun—nothing unexpected there. There were, however, fingerprints on the empty shell casings in the revolver’s chambers. Crooks so often forgot that, and Newman obviously had fallen into that trap.
The next sentence caused Grimes to slow down a bit. The prints on the cartridges weren’t Newman’s. They matched those of the deceased, Edgar Lopez. That still worked for Grimes. Matter of fact, it meant that it wasn’t so important to trace the ownership of the weapon. Newman had shot Lopez with his own gun.
Grimes turned the page. This was about the gloves. There was gunshot residue present on them, which jibed nicely with the absence of fingerprints on the gun. No surprise there. Was the lab able to lift any prints from inside the gloves? No. Grimes shrugged. Despite what people who watched CSI and shows like that expected, usable prints inside latex gloves were about as common as flying pigs.
He started to lay the reports aside when the last paragraph on the final page caught his eye. Through some of their magic—Grimes didn’t care how they did it—the techs lifted identifiable prints of a thumb and first two fingers from the cuff of the left glove. This should seal it.
He read the name. Rubbed his eyes, squinted, read it again. Slowly, carefully, he squeezed the paper, sheet by sheet, crumpling each into a wad the size of a golf ball. Then he slammed them into the wastebasket as though chucking rocks at a rat. With a kick that sent a painful shock into his foot, he made the basket careen across the squad room. Then, muttering words he hadn’t learned in Sunday school, Grimes moved off to find Ames before she finished that warrant.
TWENTY-FIVE
Matt wondered what new development might be the cause for this visit to Sandra’s office. She’d called him that morning to see if he could come by sometime before noon. When he asked for details, she’d put him off, saying she’d rather discuss it in person.
It seemed to Matt that every time there might be a ray of hope in his case, something new had come up to dash his hopes. He wondered what new problem loomed on the horizon. Oh well. He was about to find out.
Sandra asked him to close the door before taking a chair. A meeting with his attorney behind closed doors wasn’t unusual, but in the past it had generally signaled something bad. Matt sat down with a sigh, resigning himself to yet another blow, another hurdle to clear. He crossed his legs, leaned forward slightly, and said, “What’s the news this time?”
Sandra smiled, which seemed a bit out of character for meetings like this. Was the smile because she was about to earn even more fees? At what point would Matt have to admit that he was at the end of his resources? When would he be forced to give up the fight?
“First, let me warn you that this isn’t official. I got this information through a back channel into the police lab, probably even before Grimes and Ames heard it. So, for now, this has to stay between us.”
“Fair enough. What did you find out? Does this have something to do with the questions I gave you during our late night phone call?”
Sandra touched the tip of her nose. “Bingo. And I don’t know how you got onto that track, but you were right. Some of that information appears to clear you, and not just from the Lopez killing.”
Matt listened intently as she explained the police lab findings. It was impressive how Sandra could fit the building blocks of evidence together. He could see how she’d do well laying out a case to a jury.
When she was finished, she asked, “Any questions?”
“Lots, but first let me see if I have the high points correct. The gun the police found was not only the one that killed that hood—Edgar something or other—but also the one that shot Cara Mendiola. Edgar’s prints were on the shell cases, so it was his weapon. There was gunshot residue on the left glove and fingerprints on the cuff of the right glove, so the person who shot Edgar was left-handed.”
“Correct,” Sandra said.
“I’m right-handed, and can get affidavits from a dozen people to that effect, so that makes me less of a suspect for Edgar’s murder.” Matt scratched his chin. “Do the prints on the cuff of the glove tell us who shot him?”
“You bet. They belong to a small-time crook named Lou Hecht. He’s been arrested a couple of times for felony theft, but the charges never stuck. When the computer ran his known associates, number one on the list was Edgar Lopez.”
“So Edgar shot Cara Mendiola. And Hecht shot Edgar. But why were they in my house?”
“We can only guess. But here’s another question for you,” Sandra said. “You asked if the dead man had evidence of an injury to his right shin? As it turns out, he had a fairly new scar there. Now it’s your turn to tell me what that means.
”
Matt had to resist the temptation to jump in the air, pump his fist, and shout, “Yes!”
“From the expression on your face, I take it this is welcome news.”
“It ties things up in a neat little package,” Matt said. “Remember the story of my kidnapping? One of the guys, the smaller one, tripped over a garbage can and cut his leg—his right one. That was Lopez. I’m betting that when you check out Hecht you’ll find he’s a big man with a voice like a cement mixer, and that he’s left-handed. Those are the two guys who kidnapped me. And they’re still out to get me—or, at least, the one who’s still alive is. I don’t know the reason, but maybe now someone will believe me.”
“I’m happy for you,” Sandra said, “but I have to warn you. The police and the DA haven’t seen this evidence yet. Until they do—and until they buy into it—you’re still a person of interest in two murders.”
“But what do you think?” Matt held his breath until Sandra smiled.
“I think you’re in the clear. Barring some totally weird development, I think you’re not going to need a lawyer anymore.”
Was this the time? Matt worked up his courage, cleared his throat twice, and said, “Since it appears we’re no longer attorney and client, I have a question I want to ask you.”
It was midafternoon and midweek. Lunches were over—whether a hurried sandwich at Subway or a two-martini version at The Palm—and the tiny bar on a side street in downtown Dallas was essentially deserted.
The contrast from the sunshine outside to the gloom inside the room made Grimes squint. He paused in the doorway for a moment to let his eyes adjust. The bar was at the back—six stools, only one occupied. Booths stood along the right wall, all of them empty. Grimes took a seat in the first booth, facing the door. A waitress sidled up and slapped a coaster in front of him. He ordered a beer. He didn’t plan to drink it, but he needed something on the table to keep the waitress at bay. This was a business meeting, and as soon as his business was concluded, he’d be out of there. Meanwhile, he didn’t want to do or say anything that would make her remember him or the man he was meeting.
Stress Test Page 23
