“So the key turned out to be the defendant’s front door key?” Hamada asked.
“Objection,” Benedict said. “There is no evidence that the key belonged to Mr. Blair. That’s speculation. It could have been Mrs. Blair’s key and Mr. Blair may have touched it at some point. You can’t date fingerprints.”
“I’ll sustain the objection,” Judge Gardner ruled.
“I’ll rephrase the question, Detective. Did the key that you found in the grave that bore the defendant’s fingerprint open the front door to the defendant’s mansion?”
“Yes, it did.”
“Did any key on the key ring you found in the victim’s purse open the front door?”
“Yes, one of the keys on the key ring found in the purse did open the front door.”
“What about the defendant’s keys? Did any of them open the front door?”
“No. We tried them all and none of them worked.”
Horace Blair leaned into Benedict. “That’s impossible,” he whispered furiously.
“We’ll talk about this at the break,” Benedict said. “Let me listen to the testimony. I don’t want to miss anything.”
“What conclusion did you draw from this experiment?” Hamada asked.
“We thought it was unlikely that Mrs. Blair had two keys to her front door, though that is certainly possible. We thought that it was more likely that the key on her chain, which bore her fingerprints, was Mrs. Blair’s house key and the single key belonged to someone else, who had accidently dropped it in the grave while he was digging.
“The most likely owner of the single key was the person whose prints were found on it, the defendant. That conclusion was strengthened by the discovery that none of the defendant’s keys opened the front door of his house.”
“Thank you, Detective. I have no further questions.”
Charles Benedict was certain that Hamada did not plan to put Barry Lester on the stand. Hamada would have no idea how Lester would stand up under cross, and he wouldn’t want Benedict to get his hands on a transcript of sworn testimony that could be used to contradict Lester at trial. Benedict was also certain that Hamada was laying a trap for him, and he looked forward to falling into it.
“Detective Santoro,” Benedict said, “what prompted you to go to Mr. Blair’s place of business and ask him if he would let you look in the trunk of his Bentley?”
“We received a tip from someone who claimed to have seen the defendant put Mrs. Blair’s body in the trunk of his car.”
“What is the name of the good citizen who came forward with this information?”
“It was an anonymous tip.”
“I see. Now there was no way that you could have gotten a judge to issue a search warrant for the trunk based solely on an anonymous tip, was there?”
“No, sir.”
“Then how did you get to see the inside of the trunk?”
“Mr. Blair opened it for us.”
“He could have refused, couldn’t he?”
“Yes.”
“And there was nothing you could have done about that if he had said that he was not going to let you search the trunk, was there?”
“No.”
“Mr. Blair is the head of a multinational business empire, is he not?”
“Yes.”
“He has degrees from two Ivy League universities?”
“I believe so.”
“All of which point to Mr. Blair being highly intelligent?”
“I guess so.”
Benedict pointed at his client. “So, Detective, you’re telling Judge Gardner that this highly intelligent executive who deals with problems on a global scale killed his wife, went to great lengths to hide her body, then willingly let you look in the trunk of his car, knowing that the murder weapon was in it and that there might be other evidence that would incriminate him?”
“The defendant let us look in the trunk,” Santoro responded.
“Let’s talk about these keys. It was pretty convenient finding the key with Mr. Blair’s print in that grave, wasn’t it?”
“I don’t know about convenient. It was there.”
“Dropped accidentally by the murderer?”
“That was a possibility.”
“Mr. Blair had a key chain with his keys on it when he was arrested, did he not?”
“Yes.”
“The keys on the chain were for his cars, the side door to his house, and his office, right?”
“Yes.”
“Isn’t it normal to keep your house key on the ring with the rest of your keys?”
“I don’t know what’s normal.”
“Do you keep the key to your front door on your key chain with the rest of your important keys?”
“Yes.”
“How did the key you found in the grave get off Mr. Blair’s key ring and into the grave? Do you think it just hopped off?”
“I don’t know how it got in the grave.”
“What possible reason would Mr. Blair have to take his front door key off of his key chain while digging that grave?”
“I have no idea.”
“Now, Detective, if I have this right, Mr. Blair’s motive is based on a rumor spread by an unknown source; you asked to search the car based on a tip from someone who refused to identify himself; then you conveniently found Mr. Blair’s key in the grave where the killer buried his wife. Isn’t one explanation for what is going on here that the real killer spread the rumor about the prenuptial agreement, then called you with the tip about the Bentley and planted that key to frame Mr. Blair?”
“That’s a possibility, but it’s been my experience that murderers—even those with above-average IQs—often make stupid mistakes, and we often receive anonymous tips from good citizens who want to help solve a crime but don’t tell us their name because they are afraid the criminal will seek revenge, or for some other reason.”
“Tell me, Detective Santoro, did another anonymous tipster tell you where to find the place where Mrs. Blair was buried?”
“No, sir,” Santoro responded.
“Then how did you know where to look?”
Rick Hamada fought hard to restrain himself from leaping up, pounding his chest, and howling like a wolf that has just vanquished his prey. Frank Santoro’s face showed none of the joy Hamada felt.
“An inmate was housed in the cell next to the defendant during the period when Mr. Blair was incarcerated,” Santoro said. “Mr. Blair confessed to him that he had killed his wife so he wouldn’t have to pay her twenty million dollars when their prenuptial agreement terminated. Then he told him where the body was buried.”
“Lester lied!” Blair shouted as soon as Benedict closed the door to the jury room where they were conferring during a recess. “I hardly spoke to him. He’s a lying son of a bitch.”
“And we’ll prove that,” Benedict said. “I’ll have my investigators digging into his background immediately. The cops put snitches in isolation to protect them. I’m betting that Lester has a history of getting out of trouble by testifying for the police.
“The good news is that if we unmask him in front of the jury, we’ll blow apart the state’s entire case.”
“Is this going to prevent me from getting bail?” Blair asked anxiously.
“I don’t know,” Benedict said.
“The whole case makes no sense,” Horace said. “I would never have let those detectives look in the trunk if I’d killed Carrie.”
“I agree, and Gardner is smart enough to get that,” Benedict said.
“What I can’t understand is how my house key ended up in Carrie’s grave. After you used the key on my key ring to open the door I put it back on the key ring.”
“I can think of an explanation, but I hope I’m wrong.”
“What is it?”
“Your wife was a longtime prosecutor, Horace. She had many opportunities to make enemies in the law-enforcement community. And she also had friends who are cops. The killer would plant the key to frame
you, and a friend of Carrie’s who thought you killed her would plant the key to make sure you were convicted.”
“You think I was set up by the police?”
“It’s possible.”
“But the key would have to have been put in the grave when Carrie was buried. I still had it when she disappeared.”
“The police took your keys when you were booked into the jail on the gun charge. If the person who killed Carrie planted the key, he could have gotten it from the property room and put the key in the grave. Or the key could have been dropped in the grave while the grave was being uncovered. The key is small. It would fit in a palm. You could let it fall in one section and cover it with dirt while the diggers were working on another section. ”
“But that means Detective Robb or Santoro might have killed Carrie.”
“Or anyone else who was at the grave site.”
“Robb and Santoro put me in isolation. Either one could have made sure I was put in a cell next to Lester.”
“Good thinking,” Benedict said. “I hope we’re wrong, but I’m going to have my investigators look into Robb’s and Santoro’s backgrounds to see if either one had a grudge against Carrie or was particularly close to her.”
Chapter Thirty-Four
Dana Cutler decided that she couldn’t put off telling the detectives in charge of the Blair case about the Ottoman Scepter any longer, so she drove to Lee County to watch Horace Blair’s bail hearing, certain that one of them would be a witness. The courtroom was packed and the only seat Dana could find was a narrow space in the last row of the spectator section between a slovenly, obese man in a malodorous tracksuit and the bright-eyed assistant commonwealth attorney who had created the space by edging away from her foul-smelling benchmate. The young prosecutor was one of several who were in the courtroom to watch Rick Hamada in action.
When Dana finished wedging herself in place she shifted her attention to the front of the room, where a guard was escorting Horace Blair to the defense table. Charles Benedict walked over to his client, giving Dana her first chance to get a good look at Horace Blair’s lawyer. She studied him closely and could not shake the notion that he looked just like the man Dana had seen with Carrie Blair when Dana was working the Lars Jorgenson insurance case.
Dana had a copy of the photograph she’d taken of Carrie and the mystery man on her phone so she could show it to the detectives. She found it and compared the man with Carrie to Charles Benedict. There was no question in her mind that Carrie’s companion and Horace Blair’s attorney were the same person.
Why would Horace Blair’s lawyer and Horace Blair’s wife be together so early in the morning? There was one obvious answer, and Dana realized that she had more to talk about with the detectives than she had thought when she entered the courtroom.
Dana listened intently to Frank Santoro’s testimony. When the lawyers were through with him, Judge Gardner called a recess. Santoro spoke briefly with Hamada before heading up the aisle. Dana intercepted him at the courtroom door.
“Detective Santoro, my name is Dana Cutler. I’m a private investigator and I’d like to talk to you about the Blair case.”
Santoro remembered Carrie’s Internet search for information about the investigator. Then he remembered something he had read about Dana and he frowned.
“You write stories for that supermarket tabloid Exposed, don’t you?”
“I don’t want to interview you. I’m not writing a story. I have information about this case you should know. There’s no quid pro quo involved.”
“What kind of information?”
“Look, it’s complicated. Can we meet after court?”
Santoro hesitated.
“I was a cop before I went private, Detective. I’m not going to jack you around. You have my word.”
“Okay. There’s a coffee shop about two blocks from here, Fallon’s. I’ll meet you there when we break for lunch, and I’ll bring my partner.”
“See you then,” Dana said.
Dana was in a booth, sipping a cup of black coffee, when the detectives walked in.
“It’s an honor,” Stephanie Robb said as she and Santoro slid into the bench seat across from Dana.
Robb had just made detective when Dana butchered the bikers who gang-raped her. That act made Dana a hero to Robb, and to many other women in law enforcement.
Dana nodded but didn’t say anything. She hoped Robb was referring to the case involving President Farrington and not the incident with the bikers. She’d been insane when she killed the meth cooks, and she’d killed to survive. Fortunately, the waiter appeared, so Dana was able to change the subject.
“You told me that you have information about the Blair case,” Santoro said when the waiter left with their orders.
“I do, and it’s pretty weird. I don’t know what you’ll make of it, but I felt I had to tell you what I know.”
The detectives listened intently as Dana told them about her quest to find the Ottoman Scepter and her discovery that the assignment had been a hoax perpetrated by Carrie Blair. The waiter brought their food just before Dana finished her tale.
“Why do you think Carrie paid you and those actors all that money?” Robb asked when Dana finished.
“You think the prenup is the motive for the murder, right?”
Robb nodded.
“I think Carrie got me away from D.C. because she thought I had information that Horace Blair could use to void it.”
“What information?”
“Before I tell it to you I’d like you to answer a question for me.”
“Shoot.”
“Have you seen the prenup? Can you prove it exists?”
“We’re having trouble confirming its existence,” Santoro told her. “Horace’s lawyer won’t let us talk to him about it and Jack Pratt, his civil attorney, refuses to meet with us. But if you were in court during my testimony, you heard that we have an informant who will testify that Horace told him he killed Carrie because he didn’t want to pay her twenty million dollars when the prenup ended.”
“What were the conditions Carrie had to meet to get the money?” Dana asked.
“The informant says that Blair told him she would get the money if she didn’t divorce him or cheat on him during the first ten years of the marriage,” Santoro said.
“We don’t know if that clause is really in the prenup since we haven’t seen it,” Robb said, “but it makes sense.”
“What I know might blow a hole in your theory.”
Dana showed the photograph of Carrie and Benedict to the detectives.
“That’s Carrie Blair and Charles Benedict outside Benedict’s apartment shortly before seven a.m. on the day Carrie contacted me, pretending to be Margo Laurent.”
Wheels turned in Robb’s head as soon as she realized what the photo implied. “You think Benedict was fucking Carrie Blair?”
“I was in a car, taking pictures of an insurance cheat for United Insurance. I didn’t know who Carrie Blair or Charles Benedict were. But Blair went ballistic when she spotted me. She started screaming and she charged at my car, so I took off. Blair acted the way a person with a guilty conscience would act. It’s definitely the way I would act if I thought a PI had caught me cheating on my husband, especially if cheating on my husband was going to cost me twenty million dollars.
“I think Carrie Blair memorized my license plate and used it to figure out who I was. Later that day, she called Alice Forte, a lawyer I work for, and got my phone number. Then she called me, pretending to be Margo Laurent.
“Here’s your problem,” Dana concluded. “Horace Blair would have no reason to kill Carrie if he knew she’d violated the prenup.”
“Blair may not have known that his wife had something on the side,” Robb said. “If he didn’t know she was cheating, he’d still have a motive to kill her.”
“That’s true,” Dana said, “but the odds are good that a person with Horace’s resources would know that Carrie was
having an affair.”
“That still doesn’t let Blair off the hook,” Robb countered. “Husbands kill cheating wives all the time. Maybe he’s just a jealous husband. But there’s something else that makes me think that Blair definitely didn’t know about his wife and Benedict.”
“What’s that?” Dana asked.
“If Benedict was having an affair with Horace’s wife, and Horace knew about it, why would he hire Benedict to defend him? Doesn’t that tell you that Horace didn’t know about the affair?”
“That’s a good point.” Dana shrugged. “Look, I’ve been pretty busy making up for lost time since I got back from my ‘quest,’ so I haven’t spent a lot of time thinking this through. I just thought I should tell you about the scepter and Benedict.”
Santoro looked at his watch. “Court is going to start in ten minutes. We’ve got to get back.”
The waiter brought the bill. Santoro took out his wallet, gave him cash, and laid his wallet next to himself on the seat.
“Thanks for lunch,” Dana said.
“Thanks for talking to us,” Santoro said.
The detectives left and Dana picked up her sandwich. She felt relieved that she had fulfilled her duty as a citizen and could put the Blair case behind her. The feeling lasted the length of time it took Frank Santoro to reenter Fallon’s and walk back to her booth. He reached across the bench on which he’d been sitting and picked up his wallet.
“I left this here so I’d have an excuse to come back,” Santoro said as he slipped the wallet into his back pocket. “I need to talk to you and I don’t want Steph to know. Is there someplace we can meet tonight?”
Chapter Thirty-Five
Dana had discovered Vinny’s while working undercover in narcotics for the D.C. police. Several things recommended it for a clandestine rendezvous. First, Vinny’s was in a rather disreputable section of the capital, making it highly unlikely that anyone Dana or Santoro knew would wander in. Second, the chef’s hamburgers and fries were outstanding.
Santoro showed up twenty minutes after Dana ordered. He spotted her through the haze created by the illegally smoked cigarettes that were part of the bar’s ambience.
Sleight of Hand: A Novel of Suspense (Dana Cutler) Page 15
