Woman with a Gun

by Phillip Margolin

  DEDICATION

  This book is dedicated to Robin Haggard, my longtime, super-extraordinary legal secretary and assistant, without whom my life would spiral downward into total chaos; and to Leslie Jeter, whose amazing photograph was the inspiration for Woman with a Gun.

  CONTENTS

  Dedication

  Part One: Woman with a Gun, 2015

  Chapter One

  Part Two: The Cahill Case, 2005

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Part Three: The Kilbride Disaster, 2000

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Part Four: The Cahill Case, 2005

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Part Five: Palisades Heights, 2015

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Part Six: The Smoking Gun, 2015

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Bookperk

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by Phillip Margolin

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Part One

  WOMAN WITH A GUN

  2015

  CHAPTER ONE

  “Wilde, Levine and Barstow, how may I direct your call?” Stacey Kim said, trying to sound perky and barely succeeding.

  “Perky” was getting harder and harder each mind-numbing day she worked as the law firm’s receptionist. The pep talks she gave herself on the subway didn’t work. Neither did the triple-shot espressos they made in the coffee bar in the midtown Manhattan office building where she toiled.

  From nine in the morning until five in the afternoon, with an hour off for lunch, Stacey manned the firm’s reception desk and stared at the glass doors that opened into the hall near the elevators. Wilde, Levine and Barstow had a lot of clients, so she was always asking callers to whom they wished to speak or serious-looking people whom they wanted to see. That’s all she did, over and over. There were times when Stacey wondered if she was trapped in a hideous nightmare where every boring day was like every other boring day for all eternity.

  Everything had been so different eight months ago when Stacey had moved from the Midwest to Manhattan.

  “I’m a struggling artist in New York City! It doesn’t get much better than this!” Stacey told herself during those early days. Her enthusiasm had been fueled by the comments of Morris DeFord, winner of the PEN/Faulkner Award for Fiction and a finalist for the National Book Award. Professor DeFord had told Stacey that her short story “A Fragment of the Day” was one of the finest pieces of fiction he had read during his tenure in the MFA program at State. The vibrant characters, the complexity of the plot, and the quality of her prose were unique, he proclaimed. Then he urged her to let those characters run free and transform her miniature gem into a magnificent novel.

  As soon as she received her MFA, Stacey headed to New York City, convinced that simply living in the Big Apple would ignite a fire that would turn the tiny flame generated by “A Fragment of the Day” into a towering literary inferno. She had sought out a low-paying job that was not mentally taxing so she would be free to think about her novel. Working as a receptionist at a law firm had sounded perfect, and she was thrilled when she was hired. Stacey had watched a lot of law-related shows on television. She fantasized about the sexy young associates who would make all sorts of witty comments she could use in her book and she looked forward to encountering a wonderful mix of quirky characters she could use to populate her novel. Reality had intruded very quickly.

  First, Stacey was so busy answering the phone and greeting clients that she had no time to think about her book. Second, the partners at Wilde, Levine and Barstow practiced bankruptcy, probate, and tax law, and the partners and their clients were as dull as the firm’s specialties. Finally, there were several associates but they were as boring as the partners. None of them made witty comments.

  Another thing Stacey fantasized about on the way to New York was the men she might meet. Stacey had wide, brown eyes, silky black hair, an engaging smile, and an attractive figure. At twenty-eight, she was still a romantic who wanted to fall in love with that special someone who would return her love and share her life, just like the character of Bill did with Angela in “A Fragment of the Day.” In Manhattan, Stacey believed she would hobnob with the literati, lunch with actors and artists, and date dynamic young men who shared her love of literature and art. The secretaries at the firm invited Stacey to the bars near her office building and to parties, but none of the men she met were budding Hemingways or Picassos. She had gone out with a few of them, but her dates just wanted to sleep with her, which she would have done if they had even hinted at being interested in a relationship.

  Stacey’s nonexistent social life and mind-numbing job would not have mattered if she were making progress on her novel, but she wasn’t. The idea for her short story had struck her like lightning one sunny afternoon, and she had torn through her first draft like an Olympic sprinter. Moving on from those initial twenty-seven pages was proving hopeless. Stacey had scribbled some ideas in a notebook, but none of the ideas excited her. Each time Stacey stared at the blank page on her laptop, she tried to rekindle the hope and excitement she had felt during her first days in New York, but all she felt was despair.

  That was about to change.

  “Hey,” said Miranda Perez as she walked up to the reception desk to take Stacey’s place during the lunch hour. Stacey breathed a sigh of relief. It was noon, that wonderful time of day when she was paroled from her prison.

  “Can you cover for me if I’m a little late?” Stacey asked.

  “Sure, what’s up? Got a hot date?”

  “No such luck. There’s a Salvador Dalí exhibit at the Museum of Modern Art that sounded interesting. What with the crowds and all, I might not make it back on time.”

  “No prob. Have fun.”

  It was hot and muggy outside her air-conditioned building, and Stacey began to perspire as she fought her way through the shoulder-to-shoulder crowds on Fifth Avenue, a daunting task for someone who was five foot two. Stacey had been dying to see the Dalí exhibit ever since she’d read about it in the Sunday Times. She loved surrealism. In fact, it had been the surrealistic aspects of her short story that had enchanted Professor DeFord.

  To her surprise, there wasn’t much of a line at the ticket counter inside the museum. Stace
y paid and found the exhibit. It was small, and it was only 12:35 when she finished viewing all of Salvador Dalí’s paintings.

  The photography of Kathy Moran was on display next to the Dalí exhibit. Stacey had never heard of Kathy Moran, but her eye was drawn immediately to a series of photographs on the wall in front of her. Moran had taken one of her shots through the window of a diner in the dead of night, and the streetlights and neon signs in the stores across the way were reflected in the panes of glass. Seated at the counter was a girl with multiple piercings and bare arms covered with tattoos. She was engrossed in a book and sipping from a coffee cup. A few stools down, two weary men, who looked like they’d just gotten off the night shift at a factory, worked on a midnight breakfast while a harried waitress took an order from two cops seated in a booth.

  The next photograph was of a bearded man sitting on a barstool, staring morosely into a half-filled shot glass. Moran had set up behind the man, and her subject’s careworn face could be seen in a gap in the liquor bottles arrayed in front of the mirror behind the bar. The man’s despair was so evident that Stacey wanted to comfort him.

  Stacey was about to move to the next picture when she caught sight of a photograph that was hanging on the wall to her left. Unlike the other works, it was displayed alone and a group of people wearing the earphones supplied for self-guided tours was gathered in front of it. Stacey walked over to see what was attracting the crowd. A young couple moved on and Stacey leaned forward.

  The title of the black-and-white photograph was Woman with a Gun. A placard affixed to the wall next to the photograph informed Stacey that the photograph had been awarded a Pulitzer Prize ten years earlier. In the photograph, a woman was standing on a beach, staring out to sea. It was night and she was bathed in moonlight. A line of foam left by a retreating wave stretched down the beach inches from her bare feet. The shot had been taken from behind and slightly to the right of the subject. Stacey could not see the woman’s face, but the white strapless wedding gown she wore showed off deeply tanned shoulders partially covered by long black hair. The woman’s left fist was pressed against her hip and her right arm was angled behind her, as if gripped loosely in a hammerlock. What made the photo unique was the long-barreled six-shooter she held behind her back in her right hand, barrel down.

  Stacey walked closer. What was going on here? Had the woman killed her husband on her wedding night? Was she waiting for someone in a boat who was coming in to shore? Was she going to murder that person? Was she contemplating suicide? Stacey’s mind raced through one possibility after another and each one suggested others.

  And what was the woman doing with an ancient six-shooter? The photo would have been interesting if the woman were holding a modern gun, but a revolver from the Old West added a mysterious element that made the photograph fascinating.

  Stacey glanced at her watch. Her lunch break would be over in a few minutes. She didn’t want to get in trouble so she tore herself away. Stacey made a brief stop in the gift shop to buy a catalog of the photographs in the Moran exhibition. As she walked back to her office, she felt the same electric feeling she had experienced when the idea for “A Fragment of the Day” had come to her. There was a story behind Woman with a Gun and she vowed to discover it. And when she did, maybe—just maybe—she would have the plot for the novel she had come to New York to write.

  Part Two

  THE CAHILL CASE

  2005

  CHAPTER TWO

  Jack Booth was pouring himself a cup of coffee when Elaine Rostow, the Oregon attorney general, called. Jack knew Rostow, but he didn’t know her well, and she had never phoned him at home.

  “I didn’t wake you, did I?” Rostow asked.

  “No. I’m just finishing breakfast.”

  “Good. Do you know Teddy Winston?”

  “He’s a DA, right?”

  “In Siletz County.”

  “I know who he is. I’ve met him at some legal conferences. But I can’t say I know him. Why?”

  “There was a murder this morning in Palisades Heights and he wants me to send someone to help him with the case.”

  “This is pretty early in the game, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, but Teddy is one of my strongest supporters on the coast and I owe him. When he called, he sounded very concerned, so I said we’d help.”

  “What do you want me to do?” Jack asked. He wondered why Rostow couldn’t wait until he was in the office to talk about the case.

  “Teddy wants you to see the crime scene while it’s fresh.”

  “He wants me to drive to Palisades Heights now?”

  “Exactly. Can you do it?”

  “Yeah. I was set to go to trial in a murder case in Union County but the defendant pled two days ago, so I’m free.”

  “Good. Keep me posted.”

  Rostow hung up and Jack frowned. The assistant attorney general was a shade over six feet tall with a wiry build. He had dark green eyes, a Roman nose, and curly black hair. Jack had been a Multnomah County district attorney in Portland for many years. Then, a year and a half ago, he had heard there was an opening in the Oregon Department of Justice District Attorney Assistance Program. The program sent experienced prosecutors to small towns to assist local DAs who weren’t experienced enough to handle complex cases. It usually took a while for these small-town DAs to admit to themselves that they were in over their heads. He wondered what it was about this case that made his immediate involvement necessary.

  It took Jack two and a half hours to drive to Palisades Heights, the county seat for Siletz County. The trip west started in farmland and continued through forests and a low mountain range. Then Jack hit the coast highway, a narrow, twisting road on the edge of the ocean. When Jack risked a westward glance, he saw jagged rock formations that rose like giants from the Pacific and waves crashing on beaches that ended below high, weatherworn cliffs.

  Jack took the Dune Road exit and stopped at the bottom of the ramp. He’d been to Palisades Heights before, and he knew that a right turn would send him toward the Pacific on a two-lane street that curved past bed-and-breakfasts and a scattering of Cape Cod–style homes until it arrived at Ocean Avenue. A left on Ocean would bring him to bars, restaurants, art galleries, clothing boutiques, an amateur theater, and other attractions of the popular resort town. If he turned right on Ocean he would find seaside motels, restaurants with ocean views, the country club, and, eventually, a residential area with million-dollar beachfront properties.

  Jack took a left on Dune Road and drove away from the sea. As soon as he passed under the highway he found himself in the business district with its less expensive motels, two- and three-story office buildings, discount stores, and his destination, the Siletz County Courthouse, a dull, gray, functional concrete building that had replaced the original courthouse in the mid-eighties.

  Jack climbed the stairs to the second floor and found the district attorney’s office. The door opened into a waiting area guarded by a receptionist who was ensconced at a wooden counter. Behind the receptionist stood a row of gunmetal filing cabinets that turned a corner and continued down a hall. A low gate at the end of the counter could be opened to permit entry to that hall and whatever lay beyond.

  Booth identified himself to the receptionist. Two minutes later a harried-looking man dressed in tan slacks and a mismatched gray-blue, checked sports jacket appeared. Teddy Winston was short, thin, and in his late thirties. He was balding but had compensated by growing a bushy mustache that did not look good on him.

  “Thanks for getting here so quickly, Mr. Booth . . .”

  “Jack, please.”

  “Jack it is. And you should call me Teddy. I appreciate the speed,” the DA said as he walked through the gate into the reception area. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to take you straight to the crime scene. The state police forensic unit is already there. We can talk on the way. I want you to see it while it’s relatively untouched.”

  “Fill me in,” Jack sa
id as soon as they were on the road. “Elaine didn’t tell me much.”

  “Do you know who Raymond Cahill is?” Winston asked.

  “No.”

  “He’s a California businessman; a multimillionaire. He lives in Los Angeles most of the year. When he was a kid, he spent his summers in Palisades Heights at a relative’s beach house, and he’s always had a soft spot for this town. After he made his money, he built a house that overlooks the ocean and he spent a few weeks here every year.

  “Yesterday evening, Ray married Megan Cahill at the country club. There was a reception at the club after the ceremony. The Cahills drove home from the reception a little after midnight. The police were called to the house around three in the morning. The first officers on the scene found Cahill in his den. He’d been shot to death.

  “Cahill was a collector. There’s a vault in his home where he kept some of his collection: valuable coins, stamps, and antique guns. The guns may be important. Anyway, the vault door was open. There’s evidence that Cahill was beaten before he was shot, so he may have been forced to open the vault. It looks like there are items missing.”

  “Any idea who robbed him?”

  “No.”

  “So you don’t have any suspects?”

  “We may. A witness was walking on the beach and found Megan Cahill standing at the waterline, holding an antique revolver. We think it’s from his collection but we won’t know if it’s the murder weapon until they run ballistics tests.”

  “What does Mrs. Cahill say?”

  “That’s the problem. She’s in shock and she hasn’t said a word. Not to anyone. She’s in the hospital but the doctors won’t let us see her.”

  “Did she say anything to the witness who found her?”

  “No.”

  “If you don’t mind my asking, why do you feel that it’s so important to have me involved at such an early stage in the investigation?”

  “Most of the crime in Siletz County involves drunks and domestic violence. I’ve handled four murders, but two of the killers confessed and the two who went to trial had public defenders and were obviously guilty. Raymond Cahill’s personal fortune is larger than the county budget. If I indict Megan Cahill, she can dip into it for her defense. I’m okay going up against public defenders in murder cases involving bar brawls and domestic abuse, but Megan will be able to hire a dream team. If she does, I’ll need all the help I can get.”