by Donna Hill
CHAPTER THIRTY
Khendra stood over Mr. Damato’s secretary.
“I must see him. It’s urgent. I have some information that is vital to my case.”
“But Ms. Phillips, I just explained to you that he’s busy,” the young girl said in a polished voice. “If you could come back later—”
“What’s all the commotion, Phyllis?” Ed Damato stepped out of his office, surprise registering on his face at seeing Khendra.
“Ms. Phillips? What are you doing here?”
“We need to talk. I was just given some very interesting information, which could very well implicate someone else in the Michaels case.”
“Come inside,” he said solemnly. “And Phyllis, hold all my calls.”
Ed Damato had been in the legal business for nearly twenty-five years. He prided himself on his record and on knowing when he had a good case. But this Michaels case disturbed him from the beginning. Yet, he had moved ahead, though reluctantly. Now, what was more disturbing, he may have been right from the outset.
Khendra explained what she had been told by Stacy, hope and ironclad determination rimming her voice. She knew she was hanging by a thread, but at this point she would try anything.
Ed leaned back in his chair, clasped his hands across his protruding belly and exhaled deeply. “It’s not enough,” he said finally. “The fact that Counts’ secretary purchased a scarf that was identical to the murder weapon does not constitute enough evidence for me to reopen this case. Even the Mirage salesclerk’s statement that the scarf was a one-of-a-kind design isn’t going to cut it. You have to give me more.”
Khendra rose from her seat, looking firm and resolute. “I will,’” she stated simply. She picked up her briefcase and walked out of the office.
As Khendra pulled her car out of the lot, she was busy planning her next step. She didn’t want to say anything to Sean. At least, not yet. There was no point in getting his hopes up prematurely. But first, she had to take a short trip to New York. If her hunch played out, she’d have more to go on.
The door chimes of the Gordon mansion tinkled in the background. Moments later, a middle-aged housekeeper appeared at the door.
“Yes?” the woman asked suspiciously, looking over Khendra’s shoulder for any signs of reporters.
“My name is Khendra Phillips. I’m the attorney for Sean Michaels.”
The woman tried to close the door in her face.
Khendra pushed it back open.
“Please,” she implored. “I just need a few minutes of Judge Gordon’s time. I have some information about his daughter’s murder.”
“Mr. Gordon isn’t talking to anyone. Now go away.” She pushed the door again, this time with force.
Khendra shoved back. “Listen, if you’ll just tell the judge I’m here, I’m sure he’ll want to talk to me,’” she said, her voice rising in agitation.
“Cora, what is it?” came a deep voice from down the hall.
Khendra looked past the determined woman to see Bradford Gordon roll toward the open door in his wheelchair. She was surprised to see that he looked so robust and healthy. He had suffered a massive stroke years earlier and had retired from the bench. However, by looking at him, clad in a mint-green cable-knit sweater and dark gray slacks, one would doubt that anything could ever affect this powerful-looking man.
“Judge Gordon, please, I need to speak with you. It’s about your daughter.”
Cora stood rigidly at the door, ready to spring at the direction of her boss.
“Let her in, Cora,” he said in a flat voice. He maneuvered his chair down the hallway and disappeared into one of the numerous rooms.
Khendra stepped past the reluctant Cora and entered the enormous foyer. She was momentarily overcome by the exquisite decor of the house. The cathedral ceilings were inlaid with intricately designed tiles, which dropped dramatically to walls that were covered in a rich damask fabric. The carpeted interior, which was adorned with several brass urns containing an overflow of brilliant plants, led to rooms on either side of the hallway.
In the center of the foyer hung the most astonishing chandelier she had ever seen. It appeared to shimmer and dance with the light that poured in from the floor-to-ceiling windows.
Cora took her coat and led her to a room where Gordon was seated near a French door that opened onto the garden. The walls of the room were lined with built-in cabinets filled with columns of books.
“Come in, Ms. Phillips,” he directed in his legendary deep basso voice.
Khendra took a seat on a low gray leather sofa.
She smoothed her crimson-colored ultrasuede sheath and faced him.
“Judge Gordon,” she began in a low voice, “I’ll get to the point. I need your help. I believe that I’ve come across information that may lead to the true murderer of your daughter.”
She saw the pain that momentarily spread across his cocoa features, but it was quickly replaced by his notorious impassive look.
“I’m listening.”
Khendra slowly and methodically explained what she had found out and her suspicions, presenting to him the statements made by both Stacy and the salesclerk at the boutique.
“What do you want from me, Ms. Phillips? I told the Atlanta police everything I know.
“Do you have any reason to believe your daughter was involved with someone?”
“The only thing she told me was that I was not to worry. She was being taken care of.”
“Did she ever say by whom?”
“Carol was very secretive, Ms. Phillips.”
“Were you aware that she was involved with drugs again?”
He visibly winced. “Not until I read the papers,” he said in a nearly inaudible voice.
Khendra inhaled deeply before she dared to ask her next question. “What was her relationship with Alex Counts?”
For several moments she thought he didn’t hear her question, and she started to ask again, when he responded.
“He was her godfather.” He was silent a moment before he continued as though looking back at his past. “Alex and I went to George Washington University together. We have been friends since childhood. When Carol was born, he took her under his wing as though she were his own, They had a very close relationship all during her growing up years. My wife, God rest her soul, said that it was too close. But I never listened. Alex is my friend,” he added in a faraway voice. His eyes drifted off.
“Were you sending money to your daughter, Judge Gordon?”
He shook his head. “I told her to stay out of Atlanta. I knew that Sean was there and all he had been through after their divorce. I told her if she went, I wouldn’t give her a cent. She said she didn’t care, but she promised to stay away from him.”
“Who would she have turned to?”
Silence.
And then finally in a voice filled with anguish and a frightened realization, he said, “Alex.”
“I know this is hard for you, but I believe an innocent man’s life is at stake. Do you honestly believe Sean is capable of murdering your daughter?”
He simply shook his head, his eyes dark with loss.
“Thank you, Judge.” She rose from her seat. “I believe I know who did, and I’m going to prove it.” She strode from the room, her spirits lifted for the first time in months. But there was still so much to do, and time was running out.
Before she flew back to Atlanta, she stopped in to see Cliff to let him know how things stood and what she was doing.
“What makes you think you can prove such a thing?” Cliff asked incredulously.
“The pieces are coming together, Cliff. Can’t you see that?”
“I think you’re just hoping for some miracle. You really have nothing to go on. The D.A. will never reopen the case based on what you have. And where’s your motive?”
“Too many things have been swept under the rug, Cliff. And as for a motive…I’ll find one.”
Cliff got up from his sea
t and paced the hardwood floor. “I hope you know what you’re doing. If your suspicions are correct, you could be in danger. Did you think about that?” He turned to face her, the depth of his concern filling his eyes.
She briefly lowered her eyes, then looked up with stern resolve. “If it was your client, what would you do?”
She had taken the red eye flight out of New York to Atlanta. Her eyes burned from lack of sleep, and every bone in her body strained for release. But she couldn’t afford to lose a minute. As she crossed the airport parking lot in the chilly morning air to get her car, her mind rapidly accessed all she had learned and her next plan of attack
It was only six a.m. when she arrived at her office and began to re-evaluate her notes and the information from the police. There had to be something she had missed. She’d start from the beginning, with the tenants of Carol’s apartment building. As she went over the names, something struck her. Gordon had said he’d given all the information he had to the police. Then why wasn’t it anywhere in the reports?
Alex paced his office. He tried in vain to fight off the easy feeling that had been with him for days. His inside sources had told him Khendra was trying to have the case reopened and that new evidence was surfacing every day. He didn’t like the sound of it, and he was going to have to do something about it.
He strode over to his phone and placed a call to Mike. He’d know what to do.
Khendra stood in the hallway of Carol’s apartment building and looked over her list of tenants. Every statement remained consistent with the information she had in front of her. She had spoken to everyone except a Mrs. Finch.
It was noted in the records that Mrs. Finch was not at home at the time of the murder. Khendra sighed and prepared to leave, then stopped midway down the hall. What did she have to lose by questioning this woman? She turned back down the hallway and pressed the buzzer to apartment 2D, trying her luck.
Several moments passed and she was about to walk away when a soft voice answered.
“Who is it?”
Khendra’s stomach tightened. “Mrs. Finch?” she asked through the closed door.
The door cracked open. “Yes?”
Khendra dug into her bag and produced her identification, holding it up to the small face that peered out. “My name is Khendra Phillips. I’m the attorney for Sean Michaels, and I’d like to ask you some questions.”
The door opened a bit more and Mrs. Finch came into full view, clad in a plaid flannel bathrobe. She was in her late thirties Khendra guessed with dark brown hair and gray eyes that seemed to shimmer.
“What do you want with me?” she asked suspiciously.
“May I come in? Just for a minute. I only need to ask you a few questions.”
Mrs. Finch hesitated a moment, then opened the door and let Khendra in. It was a comfortable apartment, decorated in soft beige and dark browns, with overstuffed chairs. Pictures of family members graced the walls. It was the kind of place you could call home, not like the other apartments she had visited that screamed money.
“Have a seat,” Vera Finch offered.
“I don’t want to take up too much of your time, Mrs. Finch—”
“Call me Vera,” she said with a soft smile. “I haven’t been a Mrs. for quite some time,” she added, feeling immediately at ease in Khendra’s presence.
“Okay…Vera. I know you heard about the murder of Carol Michaels, and even though you weren’t at home that night—”
“But I was.”
“Excuse me?” Her heart pumped.
“I was home,” she repeated. “Well actually, I was on my way to Florida that night. I just returned yesterday evening. But I heard all the commotion. I left for the airport about twenty minutes after the noise died down.”
“Have you spoken to the police about this?” Khendra’s pulse quickened.
“No.”
“What do you remember about that night? Did you see this man?” She produced a photograph of Sean.
Vera looked at the picture long and hard, then shook her head. “That’s not the man I saw,” she said. She returned the picture to Khendra, whose hands had started to shake.
Khendra swallowed the knot of pressure that lodged in her throat. “Are you saying you saw someone that night?”
“Oh yeah. He practically knocked me down the stairs I was walking down to meet the cab that took me to the airport.”
Khendra struggled to keep her excitement in check. “Do you remember what he looked like?”
“I’d never forget that face,” she said, giving a slight shudder. “It was his eyes. They were a brilliant blue, almost electric, and he had thick steel-gray hair.”
Khendra’s mind raced. She quickly dug through her briefcase and pulled out the picture of Alex she had cut out of the company magazine. “Is this the man you saw?” She held her breath.
“That’s him! I came out of my apartment, and I reached the stairs when I heard someone behind me. I turned around, and he was coming out of that woman’s apartment. He rushed past me, and I dropped one of my bags. He turned around to pick it up, and he looked at me. It gave me a chill.”
“Would you be willing to testify to that in court?”
“Is it going to get me in any trouble?”
“No. I promise you that. But an innocent man is going to go to prison without your help.”
Vera studied Khendra’s face and saw the intensity etched across her features. She believed her. “I’ll testify,” she said finally.
“Thank you, Vera,” she said, relief flooding her voice. “I’ll be in touch in a few days. If you can think of anything else that might help, please call me.” She scribbled her phone number on a piece of paper and handed it to Vera.
As she pulled her car away from the building, she was struck by the implications of what she had discovered. Alex was more devious than she could have ever imagined. Then Cliff’s warning came back to her. “If your suspicions are correct, you could be in danger.”
She couldn’t risk thinking about that now. She had to see Ellen Counts.
The wind stirred the statuesque oaks that framed the Counts’ massive expanse of property. The early hours of light cast effervescent colors across the grassy lawn. Khendra drove down the winding driveway and pulled up in front of the house, briefly surveying the grounds. Alex lived well, she thought with disgust. And to the casual observer, one would never suspect the deviousness that went on behind those ornate doors.
She walked up the steps, raised the brass doorknocker and let it drop against the door. Almost instantly, a small stately woman answered, presenting the almost untouchable air that comes with success and money.
“Mrs. Counts?”
“Yes.” She looked at her quizzically. “Aren’t you Ms. Phillips?”
“Yes, I am. I need to speak with you, Mrs. Counts. It’s about your husband.”
Ellen straightened her narrow shoulders and let Khendra pass, then guided her to what must have been a formal sitting room. The finely furnished room was decorated in a Queen Anne motif, the dark wood and intricate designs of the furnishings taking one back to a more chivalrous time.
Khendra took a seat on the floral-patterned sofa, placing her briefcase next to her. Ellen walked over to a wet bar, which was totally incongruous with the room, and poured herself a drink.
“Would you care for something, Ms. Phillips?” she asked, more out of habit than cordiality.
“No…thanks. Nothing for me. As I said, I came to talk to you about Mr. Counts.”
Ellen sat in a wing chair opposite Khendra and looked at her with vacant eyes. “What could you possibly say to me about Alex?” She took a sip of her drink.
“I have reason to believe he was involved in a murder, Mrs. Counts.”
Her face was unreadable. “Really? Isn’t that interesting.” She took another sip of her drink.
Khendra was momentarily perplexed by her lack of emotion, but plowed on. “Mrs. Counts, was there ever any reason to b
elieve that your husband was having an affair?”
She chuckled mirthlessly. “I’m sure that he was, Ms. Phillips. There was always someone in Alex’s life…other than me.” Her pale lips thinned.
At least she was talking, Khendra thought. “Do you have any idea who she was?”
“They flit in and out of his life. There’s never been anyone who lasted very long.” She finished off her drink and returned to the bar for another.
“How do you know that?”
“Oh, the usual. Deductions from the checking account, usually to pay the latest one’s rent, charge card receipts for women’s items. Things like that.”
“Have there been any recent deductions and receipts that you know of over the past few months?”
Ellen gingerly walked over to a small desk and opened the drawer, then released a catch that opened a second drawer underneath. She searched through several bundles of paper and pulled out the bank statements and a sheaf of receipts. Turning, she handed them to Khendra.
Khendra still couldn’t quite believe the almost benign attitude of this woman as she rapidly glanced through the papers. It was almost as if she had totally given up. And Khendra felt a pang of guilt at having to ask her these questions.
She carefully flipped through the papers. Then she saw it. For a three-month period there was the same deduction of nine hundred and fifty dollars—the exact amount of Carol’s rent. She sifted through some more papers and the receipt from Mirage. The scarf was the only purchase on the receipt.
Her pulse raced. She looked up at Ellen, who was looking blankly out the window.
“Mrs. Counts,” she said gently, “I believe your husband was having an affair with Carol Michaels, and that he murdered her.” She saw Ellen stiffen but she continued. “Where was he that night?”
“We went to a charity event,” she stated simply.