She put her knitting aside. “I’ll get it.”
He jotted notes on a legal pad. There was so much information, much of it overlapping and conflicting. The experience of the officer or detective who wrote up the initial report had a lot to do with the cogency of the material. One thing was crystal clear, however: all seven murders were the work of one man, acting alone. The class of woman (except for the accidental mistyping of the last victim), the times and locations where the killings took place, the way they were executed—all the same. The victims were raped, partially strangled by hand, then finished off by knife stabbings.
“Who … who are you?” He heard Moira’s agitated voice filtering down the hallway, into the room. Putting his work aside, he got up and walked to the front door.
“Hello, Mr. Matthews.”
“Hello.” He glanced at Moira, who was obviously freaked out. “What are you doing here, Dexter?”
“It’s my fault, Dad.” Michaela came trotting down the stairs at a fast clip. “I forgot to tell you.” She came up next to him, looking at Dexter, who was standing on the other side of the threshold. Louis and Richard were with him. And a girl. “Are you the one who called for my dad?” she asked.
Dexter looked at her, then at Wyatt. “Yes. That was me.”
Michaela turned to Wyatt. “He called earlier, before either of you got home. He said he needed to see you tonight, Dad. That he’d been helping you out and it was urgent. So I gave him our address.” She looked at Moira, who was watching from a conscious remove. “I hope that was okay.”
“It was,” he assured her fast, before Moira could say something to the contrary.
“I wouldn’t have bothered you in your house if I didn’t think it was important, Mr. Matthews,” Dexter said apologetically, looking from him to Moira, who was openly showing her dismay and displeasure.
“It’s okay. Come in.”
The four of them trooped inside, huddled together in the foyer, surreptitiously checking out the house, what they could see of it. “My daughter, Michaela, and my wife, Moira,” Wyatt said in introduction. “Mrs. Matthews. Dexter, Richard, Louis,” indicating the boys.
“This is Leticia,” Richard said, pushing the girl forward. “Last name Pope.”
“How are you?” Wyatt asked. The girl was Michaela’s age, maybe even younger.
“I’m okay.” She was plainly scared, speaking in a tiny voice that was barely audible.
Wyatt looked at Moira. “Would you rather we talk in the living room or the study?”
“I don’t care.”
“We’ll go in the study. I’ve got my paperwork in there already.”
“Dad.”
He turned to Michaela. “What, honey?”
“I’m finished with my homework. Could I … sit in there with you? I won’t get in your way.”
He looked across the hallway at his wife. She was staring at Dexter and the others like they were from another world. “Sure,” he told his daughter. “Why don’t you grab a tray of Cokes and meet us there?”
The kids from the project ogled the house as he led them down the hallway to the study, peering into the large living room, checking the Craftsman-style stairway that led to the second floor, looking at the lamps, chairs and sofas, paintings on the walls. Soft light from sconces spread like little sunsets across the walls and up to the corners of the ceiling, warming the rooms with their glow and giving visitors the feeling they were in a safe haven.
“This is a great place, Mr. Matthews,” Dexter said, awestruck.
“Thanks. My wife did the decorating. She has a touch for it.”
“Someday I’d like to have me a house like this.”
Wyatt studied the compact drug dealer. “Anything’s possible if you work hard enough. Although I don’t endorse the way you make your living,” he added firmly.
“That’s going to change,” Dexter asserted. “I swear to God. Soon as I get me enough put away, I’m going into the straight world. Doing what I’m doing is too precarious, you know what I mean? Sometimes you don’t live very long.”
The others didn’t say anything. They just gawked. Wyatt led them into the study. “Sit anywhere,” he offered. Turning to the girl, “I take it you’re the reason for this emergency meeting.”
Her eyes were cast down to the floor. Dexter answered for her. “Yes sir. She’s why we’re here.”
They sat down gingerly, Dexter next to Leticia, who barely touched the edge of her behind to the sofa, as if ready to spring up and run out at any provocation. Dexter hovered over her protectively, taking her shaking hand in his two and pressing it to reassure her. The other two boys sat stiffly side by side, across the room. Wyatt knew they were here as bodyguards—Dexter’s comfort zone. This was Dexter’s show.
Michaela came in with Cokes and glasses. Each guest took one, carefully pouring from the can into the glass, as if staining the carpet would be grounds for arrest. Then she took a chair at the side of her dad’s desk.
Wyatt perched himself on the edge of the desk, one leg informally crossed over the other. He picked up his master file and a legal pad and balanced them on his thigh, the pad on top so he could write on it. “Why don’t you tell me why you drove all the way out here this late at night.”
The girl turned to Dexter, who nodded. She said something that was so low and inaudible that Wyatt couldn’t hear it.
“Could you speak up?” he asked.
“She was with Marvin,” Dexter answered for her.
“When one of the murders took place?” He leaned forward.
The girl nodded.
“Which one?”
“Last April eleventh or twelfth.”
He leafed rapidly through the file. “The second one. That one took place near the Little Bangkok area.” The area he was referring to was heavily populated by Thai refugees.
The murdered prostitute had been half black, half Thai. A beautiful girl, judging by her picture. The prettiest of the killer’s victims.
“How long were you with Marvin on the night of April eleventh?” he asked her.
“All night long.” Her voice was barely above a whisper, but he could hear her.
He looked at her hard. “What proof do you have? That I can use?”
“We was at a party,” she began hesitantly.
Dexter nudged her in the ribs with his elbow. “Go on, girl. The man don’t have all night to fool with you.”
“It’s okay,” Wyatt reassured her, not wanting her to get scared and clam up. “You were at a party,” he prompted. “From when to when—approximately.”
“From about eighty-thirty to about eleven.”
“Where was the party?” he asked. “Was it in Sullivan Houses?”
She nodded. “My cousin’s apartment. Her old man wasn’t around.”
“He got busted that night for possession,” Dexter volunteered. “He was in the slammer.”
“When the cat’s away, the mice shall play!” Richard boomed from out of nowhere.
Wyatt flipped to the information sheet on that murder. It had taken place late at night, between midnight and dawn of the morning of the twelfth. Marvin’s being at a party with her until eleven the night before wasn’t a credible alibi. It was a beginning, however. There was no public transportation from Sullivan Houses to where the killing had taken place at that time of night—the last public bus left at ten o’clock. If Marvin was the killer he would have had to drive there in a private car, or take a taxi. Both unlikely scenarios. He’s going to make a twenty-five-mile round-trip after midnight on the chance there will be a hooker on the streets that he can kill?
He could have borrowed a car. Or stolen one.
“What happened after you left the party?” he asked the girl.
“We hung around. It was a hot night. We went over to Marvin’s place for a while, till his mama fell asleep. Then we went out again.”
Okay, getting better. “So that was when?”
“Till about mi
dnight.”
“And then?”
“We went to my place.”
“Were either of your parents there?”
“My mama,” Leticia said. “ ’Cept she wasn’t there.”
“Her natural father did a Carl Lewis ’fore she was ever born,” Dexter said, filling in the blanks. “Her mama done raised her, her mama and her grandmama. Raised her and two sisters and two brothers. ’Cept her grandmama’s been dead three years now.”
“Your mother was there but she wasn’t?” he asked. “I don’t understand that.”
“Her mama’s a crackhead,” Dexter explained. “She was over to a crack house that night. She hangs around there, hoping they’ll throw her a taste. Sometimes they do. Make her work for it, though.”
Sex? Wyatt wondered. Something more debasing?
With a start he remembered that Michaela was sitting right next to him, taking all this in. In his tunnel-vision search for the pieces of the puzzle he had completely forgotten about her. He turned to her. “Do you want to say good night?” he asked, his tone implying the reply.
“I want to stay,” she said adamantly. To Dexter, she asked, “Is that all right? With Leticia?”
Dexter looked at her, then at Wyatt. “It’s all right with us. But maybe you should check with your father.”
She turned to Wyatt. “I want to stay,” she said again.
He thought about it for a moment. “Okay. But nothing that’s said here leaves the room. This is a privileged conversation. Including your mother,” he added with emphasis.
“I won’t say anything to anyone,” she promised.
He turned back to the girl. “Were you and Marvin there alone, or were your brothers and sisters there, too?”
“They was there, but they was sleeping in the bedroom. Me and Marvin was alone in the living room.”
“What did the two of you do there?” he asked.
Before she could answer, Dexter cut her off. “You know what they did, Mr. Matthews,” he said, looking at Michaela.
Michaela took the inference in stride. “I wasn’t born yesterday,” she said, looking straight at Dexter.
“Sorry ’bout that,” he answered with a smile.
Wyatt watched this brief repartee. In another world, another time, this boy and his daughter could be friends.
“Did you do anything besides that?” he asked her.
“Watched a movie on TV. HBO. Drank some wine.”
“Do you remember the name of the movie?”
“Twelve Monkeys.”
“That’s a bitchin’ movie,” Louis interjected from across the room. “I’ve seen it three times.”
He’d look that up in an old TV Guide. Dexter couldn’t have prepped her on that. And he’d cross-check it with Marvin.
So far so good. Getting better. Not as buttoned-down as Agnes Carpenter, but pretty good. “Is there anything else you did that could bolster this alibi?” he asked her.
“We went to the drugstore to get ice cream. All-night drugstore, on King Boulevard. Rocky road. Marvin, he got a sweet tooth on him,” the girl said.
“And they got their picture took,” Dexter added, almost jumping out of his seat. “Show him,” he ordered her.
She dug a wrinkled picture-strip out of her purse and handed it to Wyatt. It was a three-photo strip, the kind where you sit in a cramped booth, drop in your quarters, and get three one-inch-square Polaroids.
Marvin and Leticia. Smiling at the camera. In one of the pictures, he had his hand inside her blouse, firmly on her breast.
“These pictures show that you and Marvin were together,” Wyatt agreed. “But they don’t establish when.”
Dexter smiled. “Look on the back.”
Wyatt turned the strip over. On each individual photo there was a time stamp. Time and date. The time stamped on the pictures was 2:45 A.M. The date was April 12.
DEXTER AND THE OTHERS from Sullivan Houses sat in the Jeep Cherokee. Wyatt leaned in the driver’s-side window. The girl was riding shotgun. “Thanks for coming,” he said to her, talking across Dexter.
She mumbled something inaudible.
“She says she had to do it,” Dexter translated. “Even though Marvin never did pay her no mind after that one time. Least he didn’t knock her up.”
“You know you’re going to have to testify in court,” Wyatt reminded her.
She nodded.
“I’ll be working with you before that,” he assured her. “I’ll take care of you, don’t worry.”
“Yes sir,” she whispered.
“If anyone from the district attorney’s office calls you,” he continued, “you notify me right away.”
She nodded.
“She ain’t talking to no one unless you say to,” Dexter promised him.
“Okay, then. You’ve got a long drive back, so you’d better be going. I’ll keep the pictures, for safekeeping.” He reached in the window and shook Dexter’s hand. “You’ve been a big help.”
“Whatever I can do.”
He stood in the driveway until their car was gone.
Moira was in bed, waiting for him. “You’ve gone too far,” she said as soon as he walked in the door.
He undressed sitting on his side of the bed. “That happened to be a very important meeting,” he told her over his shoulder. “And you told me you don’t want me to go down to where they live, remember?” He couldn’t resist throwing that back in her face.
“Have these important meetings at your office. And you should not have allowed Michaela to be in there with you—and them.” The words were practically spat out, venom from a viper’s tongue.
“Michaela learned a good lesson tonight,” he countered.
“She’s not old enough yet to learn these lessons.”
“She’s the age of those kids. She is old enough.”
She shook her head in anger. “Why don’t we move back into the city so she can have firsthand experience of that kind of life every day?”
He ignored her. “It’s late, babe. Let’s go to bed. You had a great day, signing your lease. Take that thought to sleep with you.” He walked into the bathroom.
“I had a great day,” she called after him, “until you screwed it up.”
He sat in the kitchen, nursing a cognac. Hearing footsteps, he looked up. Michaela poked her head in.
“I forgot to bring water upstairs,” she explained.
He nodded.
She drew a glass from the purifier. “Dad?”
“What, honey?”
“I’m glad you let me stay in there with you.”
“Me, too.”
“They seemed okay,” she said.
“They are.”
“They’re not that much different from me, really.”
He put a fatherly arm around her shoulder. “No, they’re not.”
“I’m lucky, Dad.”
“Well …” She was lucky. That was true. They all were, including Moira. “Take advantage of it,” he reminded her.
“I do. I will. Seeing those guys reminds of that.” She kissed him on the cheek. “I’m glad you’re doing what you’re doing.”
He smiled. Giving her a kiss on the forehead, he said, “And I’m glad you feel that way.”
THE CALL CAME FROM out of the blue, like so many of them do.
“Some guy wants to talk to you,” Josephine said, leaning into his doorway.
“Who is it?” he asked, his head buried in a transcript.
“He won’t tell me. Only you.”
“About the case?” He looked up.
She nodded.
“What about it?”
“He wants to talk about the case. He won’t give me his name, he won’t tell me what he wants to talk about regarding the case. Only you. You want me to shine him on?”
Distracted: “No, I’ll take it.”
“Line three.” She paused. “Do you want me to tape it? I’ve got it set up.”
“Without telling him?” H
e frowned.
“For reference,” she said defensively.
He shook his head. “If he’s sophisticated he might figure it out, and then we’d be in trouble. If I decide I need you to listen in, I’ll let you know.” He started to pick the phone up, then hesitated. “When was the last time we were swept?”
“The day before yesterday. Monday and Thursday mornings, as you requested.”
“The lines should be safe then.” Tapping into someone’s phone was illegal, but people did it anyway. He punched up line three, picked up the receiver. “Wyatt Matthews,” he announced as Josephine flounced out of sight, not too discreetly.
“You’re the lawyer on this multiple-murder charge.” A man’s voice, with a pronounced upper-Midwestern accent. Working-class, Wyatt would bet lunch on it. “For that nigger.”
Wyatt held his tongue. “Yes, I am Marvin White’s attorney. Who am I talking to, please?” He pulled pad and ballpoint toward him.
“Don’t worry about that. Not yet.” Wyatt heard the man’s heavy breathing come across the line. He sounded like he had emphysema, or heavy asthma. Then harsh, barking coughing, a phlegmy rattle. This is a sick man, Wyatt thought. He wondered if the man was calling from a hospital.
“Dwayne Thompson.” The caller’s sandpaper voice cut through the line. “That name mean anything to you?”
“Yes.”
“Just checking. Making sure you’re not some lame can’t find his ass with both hands kind of lawyer.”
“I know where my behind is,” Wyatt told the caller.
A rheumy chortle. “What about Doris Blake?” the voice asked. “The name ring a bell?”
Wyatt thought for a moment. “No, it doesn’t.”
“You’re not taking care of business, pal.”
“Is that what you called to tell me?” He wished now he’d had Josephine tape this call. “Long-distance, I presume.”
“Don’t presume nothing. Just do your fucking homework. You and I might could do with a personal face-to-face confab. I gotta think on that. See where it gets me. I’ll call you back tomorrow,” the voice promised. “Same time, same station.” He hung up.
Key Witness Page 35
