“Yes, I’d heard them on Ms. Lopez’s previous tape.”
DiAngeli turned to the bench. “The People request permission to introduce these tapes as People’s Exhibits fifty-two and fifty-three.”
“Let them be so marked,” Judge Bernheim said.
DiAngeli turned toward her witness. “Did Yolanda Lopez attempt to contact you Labor Day weekend?”
“Yes. At six A.M. Saturday, she phoned headquarters and left a message on the answering machine.”
“With the court’s permission,” diAngeli said, “I would like the witness to tell the jury if this is a recording of that message.”
“This is Yolanda.” The woman’s voice was screaming. “I’m in the Briars’ apartment—Saturday morning. Send somebody up—it’s an emergency—Corey’s hypnotized Mickey—Mickey’s gone crazy—he’s killed John and he says he’s going to kill Amalia. I’ve locked her bedroom and I’m in here with her—but that door won’t keep him out. Send help! Please! Oh, God!”
There was a click and silence.
“That’s the message,” Randolf said.
Tess diAngeli asked that the tape be introduced into evidence. She again faced her witness. “Did Ms. Lopez attempt to contact you a second time that Labor Day weekend?”
“She phoned again eleven A.M. Sunday and left a message.”
The voice had reached hysteria. “This is Yolanda—Sunday morning—Mickey’s locked me out of the apartment—he’s murdered John and he’s in there murdering Amalia—you’ve got to send help!”
“Did Ms. Lopez attempt to contact you again that weekend?”
“She phoned at eleven A.M. Monday and left a third message.”
The voice was drained. “This is Yolanda—I’m at the Briars’—John and Amalia have died.”
“Hi. You’ve reached the office of Ding-a-ling Music, Anne Bingham, CEO. If you’d care to leave a message at the beep, I’ll get back to you as soon as possible. That’s a promise. Thanks.”
“Hi. This is Lieutenant Vince Cardozo at the Twenty-second Precinct again. Calling Monday afternoon.”
Something rapped sharply on the open cubicle door. Cardozo turned and saw Greg Monteleone. He signaled Greg to hold on just a second.
“I’d appreciate it if you’d phone me at your earliest convenience.” He left his number. “Thank you.” He looked up. “What have you got, Greg?”
Greg stepped into the cubicle and the air swooned with Old Spice aftershave. Today he was wearing a bright turquoise shirt with cowboy-style mother-of-pearl buttons. “There seems to be just one Catch Talbot in the U.S.A. Hope it’s the right one.” He laid a fax on the desk. “Lives in Seattle and has a Visa card.”
Cardozo’s eye zigzagged in a quick sampling scan over the column of computerized laser print. Right away something puzzled him. “You double-checked this, Greg? Because according to these dates, Catch Talbot was charging dessert in Seattle and dinner in New York City on the same day.”
Greg nodded. “Thursday last week. I noticed that too.”
Cardozo lifted the top sheet. A second sheet listed Catch Talbot’s home address, his business address, his home and work phones. “Even if there was a Concorde flying between Seattle and New York, that would still take some very fast jetting.” He tapped the work number into the phone. A secretary in Seattle with a bad head cold put him through to Talbot.
“Catch Talbot.” A honey-edged baritone. The voice of a man pitching blue-chip annuities.
“Mr. Talbot, this is Lieutenant Vince Cardozo of the Twenty-second Precinct in New York City.”
“How can I help you, Lieutenant?”
“Were you by any chance in New York this past week?”
“I’ve been right here in Seattle for the last three months. You’re the second call I’ve had from East Coast police—a New Jersey lieutenant wanted to know if I’d been in Jersey last night.”
Cardozo grabbed a pen. “Do you recall the lieutenant’s name or the town he was calling from?”
“Bill Benton, Scotsville. Would you care to tell me what’s going on?”
“Are you the holder of Visa card 444-467-894?”
“Let me check. … Yes, I am. Is there a problem?”
“Are you aware that someone in New York has been using your card?”
“I’ll stop that card immediately. Thank you. You New York police are certainly alert.”
“Just one other question, Mr. Talbot. Do you have a son studying at the École Française in New York City?”
A beat of silence. “Yes, I do, and the officer from New Jersey asked about Toby too.”
“When did you last see your son?”
“Around this time last year.”
“When were you last in touch with your ex-wife?”
“She phoned Friday the thirteenth and said a custody hearing had to be canceled. Four days later her lawyer phoned and said the same thing.” An edge of alarm was creeping into his voice. “Look, I’d like to know why you’re so interested in my son and my ex-wife.”
“A policewoman is dead. Your son spoke to her the afternoon she died and we need to question him. To do that we need your ex-wife’s permission, but she’s on jury duty and I haven’t been able to reach her.”
A beat of silence. “Lieutenant, what’s going on? Should I fly East?”
“At this point I don’t see that it would serve much purpose.”
“You’ll tell me if there’s anything I should know?”
“You can count on it. Thanks for your help, Mr. Talbot.”
Cardozo dialed Mademoiselle de Gramont at the École Française. “Has Toby Talbot come to school today?”
“He has not.” She sounded personally offended. “We’ve had no word about him and no one’s answering his home phone.”
Just to double-check, Cardozo dialed Kyra Talbot’s apartment. A machine picked up.
“Hi. This is Kyra. There’s no one home.” The recorded female voice oozed cultivation and competence. “If you want to speak to me, or Toby, or Juliana, please leave a message at the beep and one of us will get back to you.”
He left his name and number, broke the connection, and dialed the precinct in Scotsville, New Jersey. “Lieutenant Bill Benton, please.”
“How much of the taxpayers’ money”—Dotson Elihu strode to the witness box—“has the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms squandered in its pursuit of Dr. Lyle?”
“Objection,” Tess diAngeli cried. “Counsel knows that federal law prohibits such disclosure.”
“Sustained,” Judge Bernheim said.
Elihu turned. “Mr. Randolf … strictly speaking, is child pornography part of BATF’s mandate?”
Jeptha Randolf nodded regretfully. “Whenever it’s accompanied by alcohol and firearm abuse.”
“Well and good, but where in the BATF charter does it say that child abuse is the province of your department rather than of the Justice Department?”
“Objection.”
“Sustained.”
Elihu paused and turned, stepping back in the direction of the press benches. In his mind, he seemed to be exploring some new possibility, some shifted direction of attack. “Was any evidence of actual child abuse ever collected by your agency—any eyewitness accounts or photos matching children known to be linked to the Corey Lyle Fellowship?”
“Yes, indeed. Sworn depositions. DNA evidence.”
Elihu pounced. “You found Dr. Lyle’s DNA on the persons of these children?”
“Objection!” Tess diAngeli jumped to her feet. “The witness cannot reveal data in ongoing investigations!”
“This court,” Elihu said, orating now, “is not bound by secret memoranda of agreement between renegade federal agencies and their hired accomplices!”
“Mr. Elihu.” Judge Bernheim shot him a toxic glance. “You seem determined to push this case into the Supreme Court.”
“If that’s what it takes to get a straight answer out of Mr. Randolf, you bet I am.”
“The Supreme Court has enough trouble. Objection sustained.”
Elihu faced the witness. “Mr. Randolf, could you tell this court the name of one single child abused by anyone connected to Dr. Lyle?”
“Mr. Elihu,” Judge Bernheim demanded, “how is this line of questioning germane?”
Elihu faced the bench. “Child abuse is the red flag the government is waving in this jury’s face—and I agree with Your Honor: it is not germane to the charge.”
“Objection,” diAngeli cried. “Mr. Elihu is sneak-previewing his summation.”
Elihu spun. “Objection to that characterization.”
“Fellas …” Judge Bernheim placed both hands on the bench. “Stop it—the two of you. I’m going to sustain the objection to naming the children.”
“Your Honor,” Elihu said, “you are buying into the People’s argument. You are assuming that there are actual children who can actually be named. My point is—”
“The bench, Mr. Elihu, buys into nothing. I have seen many instances of young people drowning in emotional, moral, and physical abuse. I am not prepared to heap the acid of publicity upon the scars of their degradation.”
“Your Honor, on the basis of that remark, I move—”
“Denied.”
Elihu arranged his face into a courteous mask and turned back to the witness. “Could you tell us the name of one single eyewitness to the alleged abuse of children by anyone connected to Dr. Lyle?”
“Mr. Elihu,” Judge Bernheim said, “hold it right there. You are very close to contempt.”
“Your Honor, either this is a trial under the Constitution or it’s a star-chamber proceeding.”
“Mr. Elihu, you are cross-examining, not lecturing a freshman civics class.”
Elihu turned. “Mr. Randolf, you said that Dr. Lyle’s organization was suspected of child abuse. Then why did you allow the nine-year-old child of Yolanda Lopez to be taken into the cult?”
“Yolanda Lopez took her own daughter into the cult. We had nothing to do with it. It happened before we established contact.”
“This woman took her own child into a cult that you were allegedly investigating for child abuse, and you regarded her as a trustworthy agent?”
“Are you asking me a question?”
“I sure as hell am.”
“Mrs. Lopez was the best option available to us. And she proved to be a damned fine agent.”
“Isn’t it a fact that Yolanda Lopez habitually prostituted her daughter Lisa to wealthy and influential pedophiles? Didn’t she have two such charges against her when she first approached you?”
“That is false.”
“And didn’t she offer her services in exchange for the complete expunging of her record?”
“That is a contemptible lie.”
“Yolanda Lopez told you John and Amalia Briar had died natural deaths.” There was fire in Elihu’s eyes. “Isn’t that a fact?”
“That is false.”
“Isn’t it a fact that you fabricated evidence so as to implicate Corey Lyle in two murders that never happened?”
“That is false.”
“Didn’t you script Yolanda’s phone calls after the Briars’ deaths and alter the phone records so it appeared that John Briar died forty-eight hours before Amalia? And didn’t you thus create a motive for Corey Lyle’s supposedly ordering the Briars to be murdered?”
“That is false. The BATF answering machine is secure. The records can’t be tampered with.”
Seated at a table for four in Eugene’s Patio, Anne searched the menu for something that didn’t have mayo and wasn’t fried.
“You know who I wouldn’t mind sending to death row?” Thelma del Rio buttered a bread stick. “Dotson Elihu.”
Ramon Culpeper nodded in agreement. “I’m sick of him saying ‘Is it not a fact that …’ And then he tosses out some B.S.”
Ben Esposito pulled reading glasses from his checked blue shirt. “Isn’t it a fact that your child is an extraterrestrial hooker?” he suggested.
“Isn’t it a fact Martians killed John and Amalia?” Thelma said.
“Isn’t it a fact we shouldn’t be discussing the trial?” Anne said.
“We’re not. We’re talking about that nitwit.” Thelma turned a page of the menu. “Has anyone tried the breaded fish sticks?”
TWENTY-SEVEN
2:50 P.M.
“WAS THIS THE BOY?” Cardozo handed Lieutenant Bill Benton the photo.
Benton crossed to the window. New Jersey sun fell in slatted shafts across his thin, intelligent features. He studied the picture of Toby Talbot sprawled on a lawn reading a Batman comic. “That’s him, all right.”
“And was this the man?” Cardozo handed Benton the newspaper photo of Mickey Williams with masking tape over the caption.
A scowl stole across Benton’s face. “Hair was completely different. This guy looks familiar, but … maybe the jaw was a little heavier. Could have been he just needed a shave.”
“And the boy said the man wasn’t his father?”
Benton nodded. “But the guy had a wallet full of Catch Talbot I.D.s. So we had no grounds for holding him.”
“The boy wasn’t hurt?”
“Not bad enough to charge assault. Fathers are allowed to spank their sons in New Jersey. Within reason. Of course, when we finally reached Seattle, and the real Catch Talbot was there, that was a different story. But by then it was too late.”
There was a knock at the door and a bearded face popped into the office. “I’m looking for Lieutenant Benton.”
“Richie. You got my message.” Cardozo jumped up and pumped Richie Gallagher’s hand. “Lieutenant, meet Richard Gallagher, one of our best sketch artists. And he makes out-of-state house calls. Richie, Lieutenant Bill Benton.”
“Good to meet you.” Richie sat, opened his artist’s carrying case, and extracted a folio-size drawing tablet and a set of charcoals. He skidded his chair around so Benton could see the sketch take shape. “How would you describe the head? Long and egg shaped? Round and ball shaped? Block shaped?”
“Long-headed,” Benton said.
With three strokes of charcoal, an egg shape materialized. With four more strokes it grew two rudimentary eyes; with another stroke, a mouth.
“Hairstyle?”
“Skinhead.”
“How would you describe the eyes?”
“Brown. Narrow. Cold.”
Leroy’s Discount Pharmacy smelled of bath soap, and the gray-haired clerk behind the counter had a smile that smelled of licorice. “Yes, sir, how can I help you?”
Cardozo laid his shield on the counter. “There was a fight in front of your store yesterday evening—a man and a young boy?”
“Sure was.”
“Did the man look like either of these fellows?” Cardozo laid the newspaper photo of Mickey Williams next to a photocopy of Richie’s sketch.
The clerk nodded. “Yeah, he did, kinda.”
“Which one?”
“Kinda like both.”
“Any possibility the man could have been inside the store before the fight?”
“Could’ve been. I don’t recall. Sunday’s our busiest day.”
“Maybe he bought something?”
“It’s possible, sure.”
“Would you mind checking your charge receipts? The name I’m looking for is Catch Talbot. As in catch a baseball.”
The clerk pressed the change button on the cash register and began searching through a bundle of charge carbons. “Mean bastard,” he muttered.
“You found him?”
“Sorry.” The clerk slipped a red elastic band back around the bundle. “If he bought anything, he must’ve paid cash.”
Cardozo ran the chronology through his mind: the man who’d called himself Catch Talbot picked the kid up from school Saturday, fought with him Sunday, lost him Monday, and disappeared. “Could I use your phone?”
“Help yourself.”
The clerk s
lid a telephone across the countertop and Cardozo dialed Greg Monteleone’s extension at the precinct.
“Monteleone.”
“Greg, Vince. Would you check whether any missing persons report has been filed on Toby Talbot?”
The deep male voice once again filled the courtroom. “We want his wife to live forty-eight hours longer than him. …”
Elihu stopped the tape machine. “Mr. Randolf, how do you interpret the remark you just heard?”
“Corey Lyle states that—”
Elihu slammed a fist onto the witness box. “Come on, Mr. Randolf, you’re not going to sneak that one past. The People have not demonstrated who the hell’s voice is on that tape.”
“The voice states that Amalia Briar must be killed no sooner than forty-eight hours after her husband.”
“Then the jury and I must have missed something. Does the man at any time use the word killed? Doesn’t he say Amalia Briar must live? In fact, couldn’t this tape, far from showing any kind of conspiracy to murder … show intention to prolong life for forty-eight hours?”
In the jury box, next to Anne, Thelma del Rio shifted irritably. “Gimme a break,” she muttered.
“In my opinion, in the context of this investigation, that is not what the tape says.”
Elihu’s eyes were a cool swell of amazement. “Mr. Randolf, if it isn’t going to give away any professional or personal secrets, just where the hell were you on Labor Day weekend when your agent was allegedly leaving all those desperate messages on your machine?”
“I was on holiday.”
“Where?”
“Objection.”
“Sustained.”
“Let’s see if I have this right. You and your bureau are winding up a multimillion-dollar eight-and-a-half-year investigation. You skip town on vacation, leaving an untrained agent in place without so much as a phone number where she can reach you. Now, even for a tenured employee of a big-spending government agency, isn’t that pretty casual behavior?”
“We didn’t expect the case to break till after Labor Day.”
“You had the timing worked out ahead of time?”
“Objection.”
“Sustained.”
“Mr. Randolf, isn’t the Treasury Department’s security budget under attack? Wouldn’t a guilty verdict in today’s case save the bureau from draconian personnel and budget cuts?”
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