The Trials of Nikki Hill

by Christopher Darden; Dick Lochte

  “So if you had to answer yes or no to the question about seeing two people...?”

  “I would have to say no. I saw just the one.”

  Nikki then led him to explain how his credit card setup worked, with the card being applied to a slot just beside the pump. The coded information on the card, plus the date and time and amount, were then transmitted to a machine in the bulletproof glass booth where he sat through the night.

  Nikki entered into evidence the slip stating that a credit card assigned to Dyana Cooper Willins had been used to purchase $28.47 worth of gas at Quick-E-Gas on the night of the murder.

  When she returned to the table, Wise passed her a note. “Lousy preparation.”

  “How’d you like my foot up your ass?” she whispered to him, smiling all the while.

  The first question Anna Marie Dayne asked in her cross-examination was, “Mr. Jabhad, you know what Ms. Cooper looks like, don’t you?”

  “Of course.”

  “Can you state without question that she was the person in that Jaguar?”

  “No.”

  “So it could have been two people, neither of whom was Ms. Cooper?”

  “Objection. Mr. Jabhad has stated that he saw only one person.”

  “Mr. Jabhad,” Dayne said, consulting her notes, “you said you had the impression there might have been two people. What was it that gave you that impression?”

  The little man didn’t answer at once. His body tensed and he seemed to be staring down at his shiny but pressed dark blue trousers. Then he brightened. “A shadow. I saw the shadow of someone next to the passenger window, as the car drove away.”

  “And neither of these two people resembled Dyana Cooper?”

  “I didn’t get a good look. But her credit card—”

  “Did you see her use the card?”

  “No.”

  “And her signature is not on the sales slip?”

  “Our system does not require—”

  “Yes or no.”

  “No. She didn’t sign the slip.”

  “So two other people could have been in that car, using a card stolen from Dyana Cooper?”

  “Objection. Calls for speculation.”

  “Sustained.”

  “I’m finished with this witness,” Dayne said.

  “Redirect, your honor,” Nikki said.

  This was what it was always about. The thousand and one little impressions the jurors got of how the trial was progressing. Time to leave them with something to chew on. “Mr. Jabhad, just to clarify, how many people were in the car?”

  “Two. I am sure of that now.”

  “Couldn’t the two have been Dyana Cooper and, in the seat beside her, the wrapped body of her victim, Madeleine

  Gray?”

  “Objection, your honor.”

  “Question withdrawn,” Nikki said, filled with the satisfaction of seeing most of the jurors scribbling away on their tablets.

  Then she was back in her office, scribbling on her own, prepping for the next day. At eight P.M., she and Wise dined for a leisurely fifteen minutes—two Whoppers, fries, diet Coke for him, Sprite and a shot of tequila for her—during which time they also managed to work out a full week’s game plan.

  At a little after ten that night, Nikki put her automatic garage opener to work and eased the Mazda into a niche created by boxes filled with books and old clothes still unopened from the move. Wearily, she clicked the garage door closed and dragged herself from the car.

  She yawned while unlocking the door to the house.

  She was surprised that Bird wasn’t there to meet her. But it was late.

  She walked down the hall toward the front of the house, depositing her briefcase on the kitchen counter. The moon was shining through the glass doors, providing enough illumination that she didn’t even bother to turn on the lights.

  She poked her head into the living room. Bird’s plaid mattress was empty.

  Something else caught her eye: an outline of light around the front door, caused by the street lamp outside.

  The front door was open!

  Could Loreen have been that careless when she dropped by to feed Bird?

  Nikki ran to the door, the adrenaline rush chasing away any thought of sleep.

  The street in front of the house was empty. The dog wouldn’t have run away.

  She stepped back into the house. “Bird?” she called.

  From somewhere at the rear of the house came a reassuring growl.

  Relaxing, she slammed the front door.

  A shadow flitted past the doorway leading to the kitchen.

  “Bird?”

  The responding bark came from too far away.

  She stepped into the kitchen, her hand going out to the light switch.

  Powerful fingers grabbed her wrist.

  The intruder was trim, dressed in black, face covered by a ski mask. “Shhhh,” it said, letting her wrist go.

  “Shush, your ass,” she said. “BIRD! BE!”

  There was a crash at the rear of the house and more barking.

  Another figure appeared, taller, dressed like the first. As if some silent message passed between them, both reached into their pockets and withdrew metal objects. With graceful flips of their wrists, shiny blades clicked into place, glistening in the moonlight.

  Nikki uttered an involuntary sound, something between a whimper and a gasp.

  The dog continued to smash against the door confining him.

  Her briefcase rested on the counter only a few feet away. In it was her police special. The two figures advanced, blocking her way to the counter. The smaller one was too close, gesturing with the knife, carving horizontal figure eights in the air.

  One more step and he was near enough for her to hear breath rustle against the cloth mask. Suddenly, the knife was shoved at her stomach. It was a feint. As she lowered her

  hands to protect her torso, the masked figure’s other hand shot out, pressing a moist object against the side of her face, slashing down with it across her neck.

  She stumbled backward, banging hard against the wall.

  The figure moved in on her again, paused menacingly, and emitted a guttural “Hahhhhh.”

  Another crash, louder this time, came from the rear. The barking seemed less muffled.

  The two figures exchanged looks. As Bird’s feet pounded down the hall, they raced to the front door.

  Nikki staggered to the counter, fumbled with the briefcase. The big dog brushed her side as he lumbered past her, racing for the now open door. Then she had the gun in her hand, clicking off the safety as she ran.

  Bird was half a block away, racing full out, rounding a corner.

  As she approached the corner, she heard a car start up, its engine racing, then wheels screeching.

  Rounding the corner, she saw her dog standing in the center of the street, barking furiously. The dark sedan, its lights off, was roaring directly at him.

  “BIRD!” she screamed. “BOP!”

  The dog held his ground truculently until the very last second. Then, in an almost miraculous movement, he leaped sideways, avoiding the rushing vehicle.

  The driver of the car was so stunned by the leap he lost control of the wheel for a second. The sedan swerved and bounced over the curb. Then the driver found his way back to the street, made a U-turn, and sped away.

  Nikki ran to the dog. The animal aimed a final bark at the departing car, then turned to her. He sniffed at the gun in her hand. “Yeah, I guess I coulda used it,” she said.

  Bird moved closer and began to whimper. He seemed to be studying her forehead. She touched the spot with her free hand. It felt sticky. Her fingertips came away red.

  She raced back to the house, Bird at her heels. She locked the door, turned on the overhead light, and realized with relief that the red wasn’t blood. It was...she sniffed her fingers. It was lipstick.

  She ran to the kitchen and scooped up the cordless phone from the counter. She dialed
the “9” and the “1” before she realized that the room was basically untouched. The gadgets were all in place. The little Sony TV was still on its shelf. The two masked intruders hadn’t been burglars.

  What had they been?

  She clicked off the phone. She could call the police later.

  The bedroom, the only other place where she kept anything of value, didn’t look any different than it had that morning. Still messy as hell. The fifty-dollar bill she’d set aside for two cases of Bird’s special food was still on top of the dresser.

  They’d locked him in a closet off the empty second bedroom. Bird had smashed the door open. She bent down to hug the animal. “My big brave boy,” she said. “How in the world were they able to jam you up in that closet?”

  Bird yipped, drawing her attention to strands of raw hamburger caught in his beard. She gave him a look of disappointment. “What’d they do? Pick the front door lock and toss in some doctored food? You scarfed it down and woke up in the closet.”

  Bird pretended not to understand

  She headed for the bathroom to wash off the lipstick.

  When she turned on the light, she discovered the real reason the intruders had broken in.

  Scrawled on the bathroom mirror in her own lipstick were the words “Remember Mason Durant.”

  Dazed, she sat down on the closed toilet, her head spinning. Could Mace have set this whole thing up? No, that was crazy. Not even he knew about her finding the hot dog. But who did? Tom Gleason was dead. Wise knew, of course, but what reason would he have to rattle her cage?

  The phone rang, startling her.

  She stumbled past a concerned Bird into her bedroom.

  “Hope I’m not keeping you up.” It was not the same man who’d called her at Virgil’s, but this one’s gruff whisper was just as intimidating, as if the caller were doing a bad Clint Eastwood imitation.

  “Are you James Doyle?” she asked.

  A pause. “No, my name is Justice. That’s what I seek.”

  “We all do.”

  “I’ll be sure to tell that to Mason Durant.”

  “You know him?”

  “I know about him. And I know you could wind up taking his place if you refuse my request.”

  “What the hell do you want from me?” Nikki shouted.

  “It’s what I don’t want. I don’t want you to call Simon Bayliss to the stand tomorrow. Or ever.” Bayliss was the manager of the Sanctum. Wise had scheduled his testimony for the following day.

  “That’s not my decision.”

  “Tell Raymond Wise he has as much to lose as you do if Durant’s story is told.”

  “Tell him yourself,” Nikki said.

  “Do you want my people to return, Nikki? They won’t be as friendly next time.”

  “Who are you?” she demanded.

  The line went dead.

  She quickly dialed Virgil’s number. She needed his help. She needed him.

  What she got was his answering machine.

  “Oh, baby, please pick up. Please.”

  He didn’t.

  She slipped to the floor. Loreen. She’d call Loreen.

  Why? So she could lay her misery on her friend? She’d done enough of that over the years.

  Bird sat down beside her, leaning against her. She put her arm around him and thanked the good Lord she wasn’t completely alone.

  SEVENTY-ONE

  How long must this damned weight hang over my head?” Wise moaned.

  “If you’re looking for sympathy,” Nikki replied, “try somebody who didn’t have the message delivered in her face.”

  “You don’t have a burglar alarm?”

  “I don’t even have a dining room table.”

  “We all have our priorities, I guess.”

  They were in her office at eight-fifteen the following morning. She’d just told him about the break-in and the caller’s threat to publicize the facts of the Mason Durant trial.

  “We could dump Bayliss,” Wise said. “He’s such a pain in the ass we’re probably going to have to declare him a hostile witness anyway. We’ve already introduced Willins’s statement about the affair. Bayliss is just another reminder to the jury.”

  “Then why doesn’t Mr. Mystery want us to call him?”

  Wise shrugged. “Maybe he’s got some information we don’t know about.”

  “It could be a test,” Nikki said. “We go along with this, we get pushed more.”

  “How the hell could they know about Durant?”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Nikki said. “We have two options: do the job or quit.”

  “I’ve got too much time in grade to quit,” Wise said. “So screw Mr. Mystery and his threats.”

  She was afraid she was starting to actually like this miserable man.

  They agreed that Walden had to be apprised of the break-in and the fact that someone was trying to control the trial. This was accomplished (with no mention made of the Mason Durant case) during a ten-minute window of opportunity between the district attorney’s arrival at work and the start of the trial day.

  He seemed stunned by the attack on Nikki. “This will not be tolerated,” he said, pacing about his office. “I will not have my staff threatened and physically abused. You should have called me last night, Nikki. I’ll send a forensic team to your apartment—”

  “Please don’t,” she said. “Very little was disturbed and they were wearing gloves. You’d be upsetting my dog for nothing.”

  “If that’s what you want,” Walden said, pausing midpace to lean against the edge of the desk. “But I insist on you both having round-the-clock protection.”

  His plan also called for them to attach tape recorders to their office and home phones. “I want to hear the bastard myself. Judge Vetters might find it interesting, too.”

  He began pacing again, slowly at first. “We’ll have to establish a code for when we need to reach you by cellular. Otherwise, use those phones for outgoing only.”

  “It’s time we went downstairs,” Wise said.

  Walden glanced at his watch and nodded. He put his arm around his deputy’s thin shoulders and walked him to the door. “More than ever now, Ray, we must win this case.”

  Meg Fisher was waiting when they emerged. She darted in and before she closed the door, they heard her nattering about the Af-Am Leadership dinner.

  “Next time your mystery man calls,” Wise said, “give him Meg’s number.”

  Simon Bayliss, manager of the Sanctum, sat in the witness chair with his slightly hooked nose lifted in the air, as if he found Judge Vetters’s perfume a bit vulgar.

  He was a trim man of average height, dressed in an immaculate dark blue blazer and gray trousers with pleats sharp enough to draw blood. His face was tanned, barbered, and, though he was probably in his mid to late forties, as wrinkle-free as a preadolescent boy’s. He reminded Nikki of a well-tended parrot.

  Not a nice polly.

  He obviously resented his present situation and was not at all interested in cooperating with the prosecution. Nikki sympathized with her teammate.

  “Do you recognize Ms. Willins?” Wise asked him.

  “Of course.”

  “From her movies?”

  “Yes.”

  “And from seeing her in person?”

  A hesitation. Then, “Yes.”

  “Have you seen her often in person?”

  “What is often?” He spoke in a clipped British accent. David Niven without the charm, Nikki thought.

  “Four times. Five times.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “This would be at the Sanctum?”

  “Mainly, yes.”

  “With her husband?”

  “I suppose.”

  “And have you seen Mr. Willins without Ms. Willins being present?”

  “Yes.”

  “Was he alone?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “What about the other times?”

  “Not alone,” the manag
er said.

  Wise sighed. “Who was with him?”

  “Which time?”

  “Any time. Just give us the full list.”

  “I believe he visited with his company executives. I could get their names for you.”

  “What about women other than his wife?”

  “Objection. Relevance?” This from Anna Marie Dayne.

  “Goes to motive, your honor.”

  “Overruled. Please answer the question, Mr. Bayliss.”

  “What was the question?”

  “Did Mr. Willins visit the Sanctum with women other than his wife?”

  “Visit? I suppose.”

  “Would that be ‘yes’?”

  “Yes.”

  “Was one of these other women Madeleine Gray?”

  “That’s possible.”

  “Were they there together, sir?” Wise asked, not hiding his impatience.

  “Mr. Willins used the facilities of the Sanctum. As did Ms. Gray. And Ms. Cooper. And most of the upper strata of Hollywood society. We on the staff are seldom privy to the specific details of their visits.”

  “For those of us not in Hollywood’s upper strata,” Wise said, “could you please explain how you can provide services and still be ignorant of what your guests are up to?”

  Bayliss replied in a bored monotone, “The reason for the Sanctum’s success is that it offers absolute privacy. Each unit is a separate cottage with its own entry and exit. Our landscaping has been designed to make it possible for our guests to arrive and depart without distracting other guests or staff members.”

  “You mean your guests can sneak in and out without being observed.”

  “Our guests don’t sneak.”

  “What would you call it?” Wise asked.

  “Your honor,” Dayne said, “Mr. Wise seems to be badgering his own witness.”

  Judge Vetters, with some reluctance, Nikki thought, advised Wise to “use a bit more cordiality, even when it is seemingly undeserved.”

  “I’ll try, your honor. I’d also like to designate Mr. Bayliss as a hostile witness.”

  “About time, too,” the judge said.

  “Mr. Bayliss,” Wise said, “how many times did John Willins and Madeleine Gray spend the night in the same cottage at your establishment?”

  Bayliss’s eyes glazed. “You have our records. They’re quite accurate.”