“Right. Can you have my office listed as one of the permitted travel locations?”
“Done. It will probably take a couple of days.”
“Thanks. Text me where she ends up staying so that I can come out to see her.”
“You got it.”
“Thanks, Cade.”
I pulled into the lot for my office building as I hung up. I headed upstairs to the third floor. As I walked in, Danny came out of his office to meet me with his typical expression that looked like a cat who had pulled his tail out from under a rocking chair.
I handed the prosecution’s thumb drive to Danny. “Say hello to the next eight months of your life.”
Danny took the drive, bobbled it once, then looked at the writing on the outside. “State vs. Vila. What's this?”
“The prosecution's disclosures in the new murder case were taking on.”
Danny's eyes widened. “Another murder case?”
“I know, my blood pressure had just returned to normal too. Download everything that's in here and then organize it how Cyn showed you on the last one.”
“Got it. How soon?”
“Now.”
Danny nodded his head and started toward his office before he stopped. “Hey, how’s James?”
That surprised me. “How did you know about him?”
“My wife knows Izzy.”
“The surgery went well. It’ll be a long time before we know how his growth plate reacts.”
“Tell them Jenny and I are praying for them.”
“Thanks, Danny. Mark and Izzy will appreciate it.” I pointed at the drive. “Once we get that organized, we’ll meet with Liselle.”
“Liselle?”
“Liselle Vila, our client.”
Danny looked at me, then shook his head. “I'll go tell Jenny that she won't be seeing me for a while.”
“Don't worry, Danny. It’ll only take eight months.”
“I don't think that's going to reassure her.”
“I suppose not.”
Danny saluted and took the drive to download it. I went to my office and caught up on all of the things that skitter out of control when you're out of the office for a couple of days.
A few hours later, Danny had the file downloaded and organized. It didn't take much. Victoria was true to her word and it appeared that her disclosure was pretty complete.
I went straight to the autopsy. I had read it once before but wanted to make sure that the version Ray Gerchuk had given me was the same as the one Victoria had. It was. Richard Phillips had died of a heart arrhythmia. That meant he didn't have blocked blood vessels and he didn't have unexplained bleeding and he didn't have a stroke. It meant that his heart was beating fine one minute and went into an abnormal rhythm that he couldn't recover from the next.
I turned to the toxicology report. I knew Ray had been thorough and, since this was also part of a murder investigation, that he had looked for poisons or other agents that would cause an irregular heartbeat. There was nothing. At least nothing that you would think of as a poison that someone would use to kill somebody. Instead, I found exactly what you'd expect to find in the blood of a middle-aged man who’d died at a wedding—alcohol and trace amounts of a beta blocker. The alcohol concentration was well above the legal limit but since Richard Phillips wasn't driving that night, that didn’t necessarily matter. And the beta blocker was present but in a trace amount. I’d have to find out what that meant but, at first glance, neither of those things seemed to indicate murder either.
Based on what Victoria told me, I next went to the inventory of the belongings in the hotel room Richard Phillips and Liselle Vila had shared. I skimmed through the clothes and the money and the jewelry to the bathroom items. There was a bottle of Lopressor, the brand name for the beta blocker metoprolol, with Richard Phillips’ name on it, along with a small plastic bag of unlabeled little blue pills, which anyone who had ever seen a commercial during an NFL football game would know was Viagra. There was also a box filled with plain white, unbranded tea bags.
And that was it. No arsenic, no strychnine, no cyanide. No gun, no knife, no garrote. Not even the St. John’s wort that Victoria Lance had implied was the murder weapon. Nothing.
Even if you were under pressure from one of the richest families in America, this seemed like a stretch. Victoria Lance wasn't stupid; in fact, she was one of the smartest, most ambitious people I’d ever met. There was no way her case was this skinny. She was being coy on two things—the St. John’s wort and the motive—so it was clear that I needed more information on those to figure this case out.
It was time to talk to my client to find out what she knew. And what she was willing to tell me.
19
I went to the address that Cade Brickson had texted me and found the townhouse in the southwest section of Carrefour that would be Liselle's home for the next eight months. As I went up the brick walk, I noted that it was a new construction with a stone front and white trim. It was nice; nicer than I would expect for someone who had just put up fifty thousand dollars to get out on bond.
I climbed the steps and knocked. A moment later, Cade lumbered out. Actually, that's not fair—Cade moved with the grace of a mountain lion but you don’t usually describe someone that big as moving so smoothly. Lumbering was easy, lazy shorthand.
Unaware of my internal reverie about his physical prowess, Cade nodded and said, “She's all set up.”
I put a hand on the stone-arched entrance. “Did she pay for this?”
“I'm not paying for it,” said Cade.
“Who did?”
Cade sighed and stared at me.
“Right. So the court approved this living arrangement?”
Cade nodded and slid on wraparound sunglasses. “We wouldn't be here otherwise. She'll need to sit tight for a few days. I'll have her approved to go to court and your office next week. In the meantime, if you need to meet with her, come here.” Cade started down the steps. “The Electronic Monitoring Housing Unit will do surprise visits. Tell her to stay put.”
“Got it, Cade. Thanks.”
He waved one massive hand and kept on walking.
I entered. Liselle was waiting for me in the hallway. I wasn't sure how much she'd heard so I decided to pretend she’d heard none of it. “Doing okay?”
“For being in jail for three days, I suppose so. Come on in. Want some tea? I was just putting some on.”
“Do you have coffee?”
“I don't think so, not yet. I have to make sure to get the grocery store on my list of designated visitation areas.”
I hadn't thought of that. “I suppose that's true.”
She guided me to the kitchen and showed me to a seat at a perfectly functional kitchen table topped with pale wood. A red tea kettle was whistling on the stove-top over blue gas flames. She pulled two mugs out of a cupboard. “Sure you don't want some?”
“No, thanks. Water’s fine.”
Liselle pulled a teabag out of a plain white box, dropped it into a mug, and poured steaming water over it. She took the other mug to the tap, filled it, and set it in front of me as she sat down at the table.
I studied her to see how she was doing and decided that you’d never know that she'd just been in jail. No dark circles, no jittery-ness, just a woman casually sitting down to a cup of tea in her kitchen to discuss murder charges with her lawyer.
“So,” she said, steeping the tea. “How can they charge me with murder? What in the world did I do?”
“Do you mind if I ask you some questions first?”
Liselle gave a slight smile but her green eyes hardened. “Are you testing me?”
“No. I just don't want to influence your answers.”
“Fine. Shoot.”
“Tell me about St. John’s wort.”
Liselle’s brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”
“What is it?”
“It’s an herbal supplement. Pretty common. Why?”
“T
he prosecutor says that’s why we’re here.”
Liselle’s look shifted from confusion to incredulity. “Over St. John’s wort? You’re kidding.”
“I’m not. What is it?”
“It’s a flower that’s used in all sorts of things, Nate.” She lifted her mug and I smelled a waft of peppermint. “It’s in this tea.”
I remembered that the inventory in the prosecutor’s file included a plain white box of teabags. “Did you ever make tea for Richard?”
“Sure. He joined me quite a few times.”
“And there’s St. John’s wort in it?”
She shrugged. “It’s a common ingredient in wellness teas.”
“Is it toxic?”
Liselle thought. “Not that I know of. You’d have to drink an awful lot of it and you’d show all sorts of other signs first. Now, are you going to tell me what this is all about?”
I thought for a moment and decided that was about as much blind questioning as I was going to get. “I’m not sure yet. The prosecutor told me that we’re here because of St. John’s wort and I know that the inventory of your hotel room included tea in a plain white box.”
Liselle nodded. “That was mine.”
“But I don’t know how they’re connected to murder.”
“Don’t they have to tell us?”
“Not directly. Not yet.”
Liselle shook her head. “Giving him tea can't be enough for a murder charge.”
“I agree, there has to be more.” I tapped the table as Liselle put both hands around her mug and took a sip. “I’ve only just been able to skim the file. I’ll get to work on the science and put it together from that end. There’s a second thing that’s just as important that they’re not saying.”
“What’s that?”
“The why.”
“Since I didn’t do it, I don’t know.”
“I understand that, Liselle, but this is important. Is there anything out there that they could point to as a motive for why you’d want Richard dead?”
“I already told you I’m not in the will.”
“I understand that, but that's only one possible motive.”
“If you read the papers, it sounds like that's a few billion possible motives.”
The mention of money reminded me of another topic. “How did you post bond to pay for this?”
“Can't a girl have her own money?”
“Sure.” I left it out there.
Finally, she said, “None of it came from Richard.”
“Fine. Where?”
“I make my own money, Nate.”
“Great. How?”
“I'm a biologist, remember?”
“And biologists have fifty grand lying around to post bond?”
“Biologists have a lot of ways to make money today that have nothing to do with dating billionaires.”
I sighed. “Liselle, the prosecution is going to investigate your whole life. I need to know what to expect if I’m going to defend you. One of them is to know where you get your money so that I can combat any claim by the prosecution that it came from Richard.”
That seemed to satisfy her. “My job pays me a salary.” She frowned. “Or it did. I’ll probably lose it now.”
“A government job? No one will believe it paid you that much.”
“I live pretty modestly.” She shifted a little, as if embarrassed. “And I have a couple of patents. A couple of biological processes that produce a pretty nice source of income.”
That made sense. “And the Missouri property?”
“Is the land surrounding my mom’s home. I wanted to make sure my family could always live out there in the way they chose.”
Before I could ask another question, she said, “Besides, I'm not the one with the money motive.”
“Who is?”
“The kids, Bre and Andrew. I'm sure they're pushing this. The sooner Rich’s attorney can show them his will and show that I didn't take their place, the sooner this whole thing goes away.”
“Do you think?
“Bre especially.”
It didn’t seem like this was going anywhere but I tried one more time. “This is really important, Liselle. What could the prosecutor think they have as a motive?”
“I have no idea what the prosecutor's thinking, Nate. None of this makes any sense to me.”
I stared at her. She stared back. “The sooner I know, Liselle, the sooner I can deal with it.”
“If I knew something, I would tell you, Nate. I have no reason to want Rich dead. We were good friends having a good time, which I was frankly sorry to see end.”
“Okay. I'm going to get to work on this. Send me a list of things you need from the store and I'll have someone pick them up for you. Don't leave until we get approval for you to go out.”
“I understand.” Liselle swirled the last of her tea in her cup, then drank it. “Are we going to win, Nate?”
It’s never a good idea to tell a client that she’s going to win and I didn't plan to start now. Still, this was the thinnest murder case I’d ever heard of, so I said, “Their theory seems like a stretch. I think we have a good shot.”
“Great.” She smiled and it made the room seem as bright as if we were outside. “How long am I stuck here?”
“About eight months.”
She sighed. “Well, at least I can get some research done.”
“You can but not at the Groves.”
She raised a pale eyebrow.
“The Groves are in Michigan. You can't cross the state line.”
For the first time the whole day, I saw irritation in her eyes. “Are you serious?”
“I'm afraid so. You have to stay strictly within the jurisdiction of the court and the court is in Ohio. Going over the line to Michigan is off limits.”
“Well, they have ash borers in Ohio too, I guess.” She shook her head. “I am really beginning to regret getting on that plane to come to this wedding.”
“I bet.” I didn’t mention that Richard Phillips probably had the same regret. Briefly. “You good for tonight?”
She looked around and nodded.
“Good. Then I'll check in with you tomorrow.”
With that I got up and left, without much more information than I’d had when I arrived.
20
Danny and I were sitting in the office conference room, divvying up the things to do in the case. “You go through the witness statements from the wedding,” I said. “I'm going to handle the medical records and I've got Olivia researching Liselle and Phillips and Doprava. We've got some time but I don’t want it to get away from us.” I stared at my tablet screen. “You’ve been through the file once?”
“The headings,” said Danny. “Not all the individual documents.”
“Me too. I haven’t seen any evidence of motive yet. You?”
Danny shook his head. “Me either.” His expression lightened. “Isn’t that good news though? If the prosecution can't prove motive, they’re going to have a hard time convincing a jury that Liselle intentionally killed Phillips.”
“That's the problem, Danny. There's no way Victoria brings this case unless she's got one.”
“Even with pressure from the Phillips family?”
“Especially with pressure from the Phillips family. Nobody wants to look stupid in front of one of the richest families in the country. And Victoria is not stupid.”
I tapped the pen on the folder. “I just don’t like it. Keep an eye out and your thoughts open.”
“Will do.” Danny picked up his tablet and was headed back to his office when he said, “How's James?”
“Still in the hospital. They want to keep him another couple of days to make sure the leg’s healing right before they send them home.”
“Tough little guy.”
“He really is,” I said. “Thanks for asking.”
“Sure.” He hesitated, then left.
As Danny returned to his office, I used my own tablet
to pull up Richard Phillips’ medical records.
Richard Phillips had been seeing the same doctor for more than twenty years. The arc was pretty typical for a man in his late fifties. Very few visits in his thirties, mostly weekend sports injuries, including a knee and a shoulder. More regular checkups in his forties, which was when it looked like the high blood pressure started. And then a cluster of conditions and medications in his fifties—front line blood pressure medications, a six-month prescription of antidepressants which appeared to be related to a divorce, and the eventual inclusion of Viagra in his monthly medications.
The Viagra started four years ago, a year after the divorce, so that really had nothing to do with this case. The section related to an irregular heartbeat was more important though. In his early fifties, his blood pressure had kept creeping up until he’d had a series of rapid heart rhythms that had sent him to the emergency room three times. Ventricular tachycardia they called it, where your heart beats too fast for no good reason. According to the records, he eventually got it under control with changes to his diet, exercise, and—after trying several other medications—the prescription of Lopressor. A quick look at Google told me that Lopressor was a beta blocker that would have lowered his blood pressure and slowed his heart rate. It appeared that all of those things were enough to control Richard Phillips’ blood pressure and irregular heartbeat quite well.
Until they weren’t.
All that reading about high blood pressure and arrhythmia and sudden death made me decide it was a good time to go to the Brickhouse. I’d be able to see Olivia to find out what her research had turned up and get a workout in to prevent me from going down the same road as Phillips. I let Danny know I was leaving and headed out.
I parked my Jeep, ignored the wafting smell of hickory smoke from the Railcar on the other side of the lot, and went into the Brickhouse. Olivia Brickson was standing behind the front desk. She straightened her half-reflective glasses and said, “You know, I was just talking to my class this morning about jellyfish.”
I smiled. “Interesting. Why would you bring that up?”
True Intent Page 11
