“Aunt Anne, what do you know about Doe?”
“I know that during the last two years she spent some weekends up in the cabin. She drinks diet Dr Pepper and she likes hot dogs. She made a lot of phone calls. And she’s kind of crazy.”
“I’m going to the cabin,” Toby said. “Maybe she left a clue.”
“I’ll be right up. Soon as I have a word with your grampa.”
Leon looked up from the TV as she came in. “Why so glum?”
“Kyra’s been murdered.”
He flinched. “You’re joking.”
“I wish I were.”
He picked up the remote and muted the TV. Silence caved in.
“My God,” he whispered. “How did it happen?”
“We don’t know yet. She was found dead in my bathtub.”
“Your tub?”
“I took her place on the jury and she borrowed my apartment.”
His eyes darted up. “Judge Bernheim mentioned you’d taken Kyra’s place. She’s furious.”
“And she’s throwing the book at me—she’s talking a twenty-year jail term. I’m in a jam, Leon. And you can help me out.”
“Of course. Anything.”
“You were phoning Robert MacLeod and Gina Bernheim before MacLeod reached a decision in Mathis v. Doe. Would you tell me why?”
His eyes came around, blinking. “Was I?”
“The calls are on your phone bills.”
He made swirls in his cup. “Well, I suppose I did communicate with Bob and Gina a little. A man’s entitled to chat with old friends now and then.”
“But these were conference calls.”
Nothing happened in Leon’s face. Not a twitch.
“Tell me the truth, Leon. Did you broker a deal? Judge Bernheim agreed to let Doe testify against Corey Lyle, under immunity. Two weeks later Judge MacLeod decided Mathis v. Doe in favor of Doe. I think it was a deal, and I think you put it together.”
He shrugged wearily. “And what if I did facilitate an … understanding between Gina and Bob?”
“If the media got hold of the story, it would kill Bernheim’s chances of ever getting appointed to the Supreme Court.”
Leon drew back in the chair, defensive now. “What is it you want from me?”
“Doe’s identity.”
His face froze. “Why?”
“With Doe’s identity, and those phone records, I can persuade Bernheim to drop charges against me.”
“That wouldn’t be ethical.”
“Was it ethical to fix Mathis v. Doe?”
He had a wonderfully baffled expression, a look that said, What are you trying to do to me? “That was a judicial compromise. It’s perfectly standard practice nowadays. Controversial, perhaps, and easily misunderstood—which is why court papers were sealed and Doe’s identity is secret. And if you think I’m going to turn around and betray a client—not to mention two judicial colleagues—”
“But you know your client’s using you! You didn’t make obscene phone calls to your associates’ daughters. Doe made them. She purposely imitated your voice and put the blame on you. Which is why Bob MacLeod has moved heaven and earth to hush those phone calls up. He doesn’t want trails leading to the deal any more than you or Bernheim do.”
Leon looked at her curiously. “What makes you think my client was a she?”
“Judicial Abstracts said so.”
“And how do you know they’re not just being politically correct with their pronouns?”
“Gender isn’t the point.” She realized she was shouting; she lowered her voice. “The point is, why on earth are you protecting a person who doesn’t hesitate to sacrifice you?”
“If you’ll give me a chance to speak, I’ll tell you.” Leon sipped the last of his hot milk. “Mathis v. Doe was a landmark decision. I was privileged to play a part in it, and in exchange, I don’t mind suffering a few minor misdemeanor charges. Mathis will stand in case law for the next century. It’s given me posterity. A place in legal history. So you see, my client owes me nothing. It’s I who owe my client everything.”
Leon amazed her. There he sat with his world crashing down around him, still absolutely sure of himself.
“As for those famous phone bills—” He pointed. “Let’s have a look. They’re over there in the desk. Middle drawer.”
She brought the bills.
“See?” His finger tapped the long-distance pages. “The last phone call to MacLeod and Bernheim was made three months ago—and Doe was decided a year ago. You’re barking up the wrong tree.”
It was his tone that pushed her over the edge. “When Kyra and I were young, you were abusive and withholding. You haven’t changed. You go to the ends of the earth for crooked judges and sleazy clients. But in three quarters of a century you’ve never lifted a finger to help your children. Not once.”
“You haven’t known me three quarters of a century. And I doubt your sister would have shared your opinion of me.”
He was right, and she felt a shaming sting of jealousy. “But Kyra’s gone—and you and I are the only people Toby has left. You’ve got to help me so that I can help him.”
“It’s better if his father helps him. A boy needs his father.”
“He needs us too.”
Leon shook his head. “Toby’s father recommended Doe to me as a client. So I’m certainly not going to toss Doe to the wolves. It wouldn’t be in Toby’s interest to alienate his father.”
She saw that Leon had turned all her arguments against her and boxed her in. She had never in her life won a disagreement with her father.
“I’m sorry, Annie, but you brought up the issue of Toby’s welfare. And you’re right: we’ve got to put it first.”
She felt six years old; and a fool; and worthless. A desolating thought whispered: If my own father doesn’t love me, no one ever will. “And what about my welfare?” she cried. “I’m your daughter! Your own flesh and blood! Doesn’t that mean anything to you?”
Leon did wounded innocence very well. “Young lady, I care a great deal about my own flesh and blood, far more than you apparently do. I’ve just lost a daughter whom I loved deeply. The prospect of life without her is pretty damned sad and dreary. Tonight I’d have been glad for a little compassion or condolence; but forgive me if I’m in no mood for this manipulative, self-serving caterwauling.”
Anne tried to push the pressure out of her lungs. A door had slammed in a wall that she’d never even known was there. “Good night, Leon.” She shoved the phone bills into her purse.
He picked up the remote. “Good night.”
FORTY-FIVE
Saturday, September 28
12:15 A.M.
THE SKY WAS STARLESS as Anne climbed the hill behind the house. There was no moon to light the way, but the lamp in the cabin window, gleaming faintly through twisted branches, guided her.
She stopped. She thought she heard someone whistling.
And then the sound was gone.
I was imagining it.
The spring on the screen door gave a full-throated, two-note squeak as she pulled it open. Toby and Max the cat sat inside on the floor, in a circle of light. Toby had emptied the desk drawers onto the carpet.
“Toby—what on earth are you doing?”
The cat skittered under the bed.
“Searching.” Toby’s expression was innocent and shrewd at the same time. “If Grandpa’s client stayed here … she must have left some clue, right?”
“I’m sure she did.” Emotional exhaustion dropped on Anne like a rain-soaked blanket. “And we’ll look in the morning, okay?”
She went around to the three windows and drew the curtains, so old they were as crisp to the touch as newspaper. Her nose detected the sweetish smell of mildew and Lysol. The Lysol was new since her last visit.
Springs twanged as Toby jumped up on the bed to examine the wall of photographs. “Who are these people, Aunt Anne?”
“They’re very important lawyers
.”
“You and Mom aren’t lawyers.” He unhooked the Christmas photograph and handed it to her. The yellowed paper backing was ripped and curling at one edge. “Who’s the lady?”
She gazed at the faces—still young, still alive. It was like gazing down a hallway into the past, into a moment smelling of fir branches and cinnamon, a moment when Kyra and she still had half their presents to open and all their lives ahead of them.
“That was my mother—your grandmother. She was a beautiful person.” She placed the photo back on its nail.
Toby was pushing buttons on the phone, his face radiant in concentration. “Maybe Grampa’s client called her friends. If their numbers are still programmed, they could help us find her.” But after a moment his expression turned to disappointment. “There’s no one programmed.”
Anne was thoughtful. “But we do know someone she was calling.” She took the phone bills out of her pocket. She ran her eyes up and down the columns of numbers. She found the 427 number in Manhattan that wasn’t Judge Bernheim’s or Judge MacLeod’s. The number that the client had called over and over from the cabin. She took a ballpoint and drew two lines under it. “Now, if we only had a phone directory for New York …”
“That would take too long. And anyway, twenty-eight percent of New York City numbers are unlisted. But the telephone company has a reverse directory.”
“That doesn’t help us.”
“I could try to hack into it. Grandpa bought me a computer and modem.” Toby bounded across the room and whisked the dust cover off a small Macintosh.
“No.” Anne shook her head. “This family’s broken enough laws. We don’t need the feds chasing you too. Go to bed.”
“I’m not sleepy.”
“Go to bed anyway.” Anne kissed him on the forehead. “I love you.”
Toby pretended to be asleep. He heard Anne’s footsteps squeak across the cabin floor and then the soft slam of the screen door. He took his flashlight from under his pillow, crept out of bed, and picked up the telephone receiver. He found the underlined number on the phone bill and dialed.
A machine answered on the second ring. “Hi there. I welcome your call.” It was a woman’s voice, spookily depersonalized. “No one is home at present—please leave your name, your number, the date and time of your call, and I will get back to you as soon as possible.”
At the beep, Toby identified himself. “This is Leon Brandsetter’s assistant. I’m sorry to bother you, but—”
There was a click and a pickup. “Hello?” A man’s voice.
“I’m trying to locate a person who’s been calling your number from Leon Brandsetter’s phone in Connecticut. I don’t know who she is, but she phoned you four times last July, twice last January, four times in September the year before last. I was hoping you could help me.”
“Why do you need to know?”
“Because Mr. Brandsetter is paying for the calls—and a lot of other calls she made too—and I don’t think that’s fair.”
The voice seemed surprised. “Are you sure this person phoned my number?”
“Positive. I have the phone company’s records right here.”
“Okay, I’ll look into it. Where can I reach you?”
Toby shined the flashlight at the dial. “I’m at 203-555-1358.”
“All right, I’ll be in touch.”
The man clicked off, and Toby realized he had forgotten to ask his name.
“Toby’s not telling everything.” Cardozo sat back in the passenger seat, hands laced behind his head, inhaling the luxurious smell of new leather. “It’s almost as though he’s trying to protect Mickey.”
“I’m not surprised.” Mark Wells handled the steering wheel almost absentmindedly, a driver with more important things on his mind than staying alive. “Kyra—God rest her soul—made a huge tactical mistake. She was determined to drive a wedge between Toby and his father. And except for two weeks a year when Catch has custody, she pretty well succeeded. The upshot is, Toby developed a hunger for father figures. Which is why he and I get along.”
Cardozo looked over at Mark Wells. He didn’t see a father figure. He saw an aging boy who could probably use a father of his own. “How’s Anne going to handle all this?”
“That depends on what plans you have for her.”
“I’m not a federal enforcer. The only thing I wanted from her was five minutes with Toby.”
“Anne’s handled impossibilities all her life. That father, that sister, that career. She had a disastrous two-year marriage. And she came sailing through all of it.”
A pair of taillights loomed out of the night. Mark leaned on the horn. He swerved left to whip past a Chevy Escort that must have been going sixty.
“Could I borrow your cell phone again?” Cardozo said. “My judge may be home by now.”
“Go right ahead.”
Cardozo reached into the backseat and retrieved the phone. He tapped in the Brooklyn area code and Judge Tom Levin’s home number. Over the years he had done the judge a few favors, and as a quid pro quo, the judge was fairly obliging about issuing warrants.
“Tom Levin.”
“Tom—Vince. You were out. Hope it was a good party.”
“Democratic Party fund-raiser. The pits. What’s up?”
“The usual. I need a favor.”
“I used the last blank warrant in the house. But my office has a few signed blanks—why don’t you call them tomorrow?”
“I was hoping I could get it a little faster than that.”
“That’s the best I can do. Sorry. Someone will be in the office at eight.”
It was better than nothing. “I appreciate it, Tom. Thanks.” Cardozo broke the connection. He glanced toward Mark Wells. “Mind if I make one more call?”
“Be my guest.” Cardozo tapped in the number Catch Talbot had given him.
“Hello?” A deep, dispirited voice.
“Catch—Vince Cardozo. How are you holding up?”
“Worried.”
“You can stop worrying. Toby’s safe with his grandfather and his aunt.”
Suddenly the voice had spine. And spark. “When can I see him?”
“Before you do that, why don’t I take you out for a drink and fill you in on some details you should know. Where are you?”
“At the Plaza. Room 1717.”
“I’ll be by in a half hour to pick you up.”
“Lieutenant—I know I’ve been a nuisance—thanks for putting up with me.”
Mark Wells brought the car around to the 59th Street entrance of the Plaza. A storm front was blowing in from the Atlantic, and the windshield wipers were fighting back the drizzle.
“Thanks for the lift.” Cardozo stepped out onto the sidewalk.
“My pleasure, Lieutenant. Regards to Catch.”
A street musician was playing “Tenderly” on an out-of-tune sax. Cardozo bounded up the steps into the hotel lobby.
Tourists flowed around him, speaking a babble of German and Spanish and languages he couldn’t even guess at. There was a logjam of baggage and Japanese at the desk and he decided to skip the formality of ringing ahead. He took the elevator up to the seventeenth floor and knocked on the door of 1717.
He heard the sound of a TV laugh track and footsteps and a chain sliding back. The door swung open. “You can put it—” Green eyes registered expectation quickly replaced by perplexity. “You’re not room service.”
“Sorry. I’m looking for Catch Talbot.”
“Who?” He was a short, balding man in his mid-forties with big ears, and a bath towel around his middle. “You’ve got the wrong room.”
“My mistake.” Cardozo went to the house phone.
“Help you?” a voice offered.
“Could you tell me which room Catch Talbot is in?” He spelled the name.
“I’m sorry, sir, we have no Catch Talbot registered.”
“You’re sure?”
“Our last Talbot checked out this afternoon. Ve
ronica.”
Cardozo consulted his notebook. There was no mistaking his own handwriting: C.T. Plaza Hotel 1717. He took the elevator back to the lobby, dropped a quarter into one of the pay phones and dialed Talbot’s cell phone.
Three rings. “Hello?”
“Catch—Vince. You did say Plaza Hotel, didn’t you?”
“That’s right. Seventeen-seventeen.”
“Okay. There’s been a slight delay. See you in a bit.”
He hung up. He quickly flipped to the page in the notebook where he’d written another phone number: the room in Gibbs’s clinic where the fake Catch Talbot had left his wig. And his answering machine rigged to forward calls.
Cardozo dropped another quarter into the slot and dialed. The call shunted through call-forwarding. There were three rings and then: “Hello?”
The voice was Catch Talbot’s.
“Catch? Vince Cardozo again.” And now, finally, he understood: the man pretending to be Catch Talbot was Catch Talbot. Not Mickey. Catch with his brown lenses in and his brown wig off to show his skin-cut. When he wanted to be his real self, he put the wig on, took the lenses out, and let himself be tailed to all the hospitals and precincts where a frantic father would be expected to go. “Sorry—my memory’s Swiss cheese tonight. What did you say your room number is?”
“Seventeen-seventeen, Plaza Hotel. Where are you? Sounds noisy.”
“Pay phone at Sixty-second. See you in a bit.” Cardozo broke the connection.
Damn—I told him where Toby is!
He dialed Fairfield County directory assistance. They had a listing for Leon Brandsetter, but only the main house.
A man answered groggily on the seventh ring. “Hello?”
“Mr. Brandsetter? It’s Vince Cardozo again. Are your daughter and grandson alone in that cabin?”
“Lieutenant, you’re very hard to understand. Catch your breath and please speak clearly.”
“Are your daughter and grandson alone in that cabin?”
“I should hope so.”
“Get them out. They’re in danger.”
“Come now, there’s no danger now that Corey’s dead.”
“It has nothing to do with Corey. It never did. It’s Toby he wants. Get them out of that cabin.”
“Who are you talking about?”
VC04 - Jury Double Page 36
