"I'm making coffee. You want some?"
"No. Hurry it up. We call them when Marcel returns."
She hurries over to the long kitchen galley where the coffee maker sits silently. She lifts the handle, inserts a k-cup, and pulls down. She pushes a button and coffee begins hissing into a white cup. The sink faucet runs, a quick on-and-off. Minutes pass. The coffee maker goes silent. She adds half-and-half to the white cup then returns to her sofa.
She looks up at me, more awake than she has been since I arrived.
"Okay. So what am I to tell them? I came home and he was already here?"
I frown and shake my head. "Listen to you. You're not hearing what you're saying and that isn't good."
"What?"
I say, "The police will know what time you entered the elevator from the security cameras."
Marcel returns and raps twice on the door. She goes over and lets him back in.
"Interesting," he says. "Security guys didn't hear a gunshot."
"Do they have video of Harrow arriving?"
"Yep. Shows him arriving alone. He doesn't appear drunk or lurching around--nothing like that. Just calmly and coolly shows ID at the front desk and they say they buzzed Mira's condo. She said to let him come up. After that, they didn't see him again."
"But they didn't hear a gunshot?"
"They said they did not."
Mira taps the half-consumed cigarette against the green glass ashtray. Its ember disarticulates. She stabs the butt against the glass and pulls her hand away. She sniffs her nicotine-stained fingers and frowns. "What do I tell them?"
"You tell them nothing. You're advised to remain silent."
"All right. How does our story go, just between us?"
"Well, no one's going to believe you came inside and woke up a few minutes later and a dead guy was found on the floor who hadn't been there when you came inside."
"Highly unlikely," she agrees.
I continue. "So we have a couple of choices. One, you were in a blackout from too much alcohol and passed out. Two, you have some kind of medical condition that rendered you unconscious. Any luck there?"
"I take Ambien for sleep."
"Ambien?" says Marcel, suddenly sitting up on his haunches as he takes close-ups of the victim's entrance wound with his Nikon. "That stuff's all kinds of bad if you've been drinking. How much did you have to drink tonight?"
"One drink at the fairgrounds. I had two, maybe three sips." She looks up, then, and I see she is crying. She wipes her eyes with her forearm.
"You haven't taken an Ambien?"
"No, but I could right now."
"Please do."
She leaves and returns several minutes later.
"Done," she says.
"Good. They'll do a tox screen."
"Of course."
"Where were you when you came to?" Marcel asks.
"Here. On the sofa."
"Were you fully dressed when you came to?"
"Yes."
"Was the TV on?"
"No."
"Was any music playing?"
"No."
"Where was your cell phone?"
The cell phone is lying on the coffee table beside the green glass ashtray. It is a plus-size with the tablet screen.
"Phone was right about where it is. I only moved it to call you then I put it right back."
"How did you feel when you woke up?" I ask.
"Dizzy. Dry mouthed and dizzy."
"How long were you out?"
"That I don't know. Maybe ten or fifteen minutes. Maybe longer."
"Did you make any other calls?"
"Not that I know of."
"Check your phone log, please."
She picks up her phone and presses several keys.
"No other calls."
I turn my attention to Marcel, who is lifting and opening the victim's suit coat with a ballpoint pen. He peers inside the coat.
"His wallet's inside. There's a business envelope in there, too. But I don't want to touch it."
“Won’t your gloves protect you?”
He looks at me. "That could be construed as tampering with evidence. Among other things."
He's right, of course. I return my attention to Mira. Tampering-schmampering. This is a client's freedom we're talking about here. The inner lawyer steps up.
"Wash your hands, please," I tell her. "And change your clothes. Maybe put on a sweatshirt and shorts."
She holds out her hands, palms up. The black is gone. "I washed when I made coffee. What should I do with my dress?"
She knows that if she fired the pistol then her dress will register the shot because the gun will have discharged particles of burnt powder. The blowback from a revolver such as hers could easily convict her. A simple soaking and mild scrubbing of the dress will remove all gunshot residue. Washing of the hands--same thing.
"Pour wine on the chest. There's the rationale for washing the dress. Then toss it in the sink. Scrub lightly. Use some detergent and leave it soaking."
She stands and disappears back into her bedroom. While she is out, I pluck the cigarette butt from the ashtray. It is black from her fingers from earlier, before she washed. I drop the remnant into my pocket. She emerges just minutes later, dressed in jeans and a Bears T-shirt.
"The dress is in my bathroom sink, soaking in soapy water."
She displays her hands to me. "Washed up to my biceps this time."
"Your story is you spilled wine and were soaking the dress. But that's for trial if there is a trial. For tonight--"
"Don't say anything. Refuse to talk."
"You're reading my mind."
She forces a smile.
I sit back in my chair and survey the scene. We haven't talked about the upside-down cross above the victim's head. And we haven't talked about the pentagram scrawled on the wall behind the cross. The drawing is evidently rendered in charcoal remnants from an earlier blaze in the fireplace.
"Why were your fingers black?"
"I don't know. They were that way when I woke up."
This is troubling and I'm slowly starting to doubt her story altogether. Which is not a show-stopper; I have been known to defend the guilty before. But here's a twist: the scene says Satanism with the pentagram and the upside-down cross, and yet the body isn't mutilated as Satanists are known to do. The eyeballs aren't punctured with pins; the throat isn't cut; the genitals haven't been cut away and jammed in his mouth; organs haven't been harvested for potions; the fingers haven't been clipped away--none of the usual Satanic ritualism one would expect.
"So. What are we thinking? Is someone trying to frame me?"
"Normally I would say so. But why the drawing on the wall and the cross above his head? What's that stuff all about? You wouldn't be expected to be into Satanism. Whoever did this didn't need Satanism. If anything, it makes it look less like something you would have done."
Mira follows my eye as I survey the scene. She nods.
"It's all about misdirection, isn't it?" she asks, pointing her hands to indicate the upside-down cross and five-point star with circle.
I pull out my phone and punch in 9-1-1.
She is right. The tableau is phony. Someone has tried to make it look like she failed in her attempt to point the finger at Satanists. Someone is very shrewd.
Satan was never here.
6
While we are waiting for the police to arrive, I send Mira to the shower.
"Use plenty of soap. All over, please."
She disappears into her bedroom and the door closes behind.
Marcel comes in and sits across from me at the dining table as I have moved away from the scene.
"What are you thinking?" I ask him.
He runs a hand back over his dark hair. He keeps it quite long, slicked straight back, and he wears a savvy Italian suit like you might see tooling around Rome on a Vespa scooter in search of romantically inclined females. One long clump has fallen down across his fo
rehead. He continually attempts brushing it back into place, but it doesn't hold and soon returns to his forehead. But it's the middle of the night, so he gets a pass.
"I'm thinking we've obstructed justice, with all of our preparations."
"Oh?"
"Washing hands, soaking dress, hiding the cigarette butt--yes, I saw when you dropped it in your pocket. Taking of shower, ingesting of Ambien. It's like you're the set decorator in some Lincoln Lawyer episode."
"You're saying I'm a Matthew McConaughey look-alike?"
"With that mug?"
My face is scarred from too many plastic surgery revisions. A result of being severely burned two years ago. The face no longer elicits the smiles of women like it did before the fire. Now it draws pained expressions and averted eyes. But luckily I managed to snag a brilliant wife anyway and so that requirement for my life has been met. Notice that I said brilliant wife, not beautiful wife. Men my age are starting to reach the point where they prefer brilliant to beautiful if there must be a choice of one over the other. I think Danny is also beautiful but I'm prejudiced. I'm not alone in that: she also thinks I'm handsome, scars and all.
My wife, Danny, is also a lawyer but tonight she’s at home in our bed, fast asleep while I'm out on this house call. I am jealous of her rest but glad for her. She's even given me a daughter, Dania, and a son, Mikey, is on the way. Our world revolves around Dania and will Mikey, too, when he makes his appearance. Nowadays I try case after case after case in the criminal courts of Cook County with hardly a break in between. We are extremely busy ever since our defense of the son of a Chicago priest. Wife Danny all but runs my law office and bears much of the burden of supporting my efforts as a full-time trial lawyer.
"You're saying I don't look like McConaughey's Mickey Haller?"
"You look like Frankenstein's older brother, truth be told. Sorry to have to break the news, Michael."
I shrug and smile. "My wife adores me. That will have to do."
"You're a lucky man."
"What do we tell the cops we have accomplished since arriving?"
"Let's talk to Mira about that."
Just then, she returns. She is wearing a terrycloth bathrobe and pulling a wood-handled brush through her damp hair.
"Please, sit," I tell her.
"Story time?" she asks.
"Yes. Again, you will say nothing. You will defer all questions to me and I mean all questions. Same with you, Marcel: you answer nothing, all questions are passed off to me. Everyone understand?"
"Does that make us complicit in the lies you're going to unload on them?"
I smile. "Not at all. I'm taking the fall on this one."
"They're going to vacuum."
He means the carpet under and around the scene of the crime. We will have left hair and fibers in the crime scene, but that's to be expected.
"We've been careful. But even if not, we're in close quarters here. It would be reasonable for you to lose a long hair or two in the middle of the scene. Easily explained."
"What about the writing on the wall?"
"Handwriting expert? Sure, they'll try that. We'll have to cross that bridge when we come to it."
"What about the gun and my purse?" asks Miranda.
"For one thing, call the credit card issuers."
"What about the gun?"
I start to respond but she cuts me off.
"I can say--"
I raise my hand. "No, you don't do anything. Listen, Mira. Your first inclination will be to answer the questions they ask you. You're verbal, like me, and you will want to explain. It comes naturally to you. But you're not going to say one word while they're here. And you're taking off next week to get your head together. We can work out your next moves then."
"I'm thinking they'll put me on leave until this mess gets sorted out."
"I would expect that. Which works for me: it will keep you out of the office and away from casual questions and cops. It's a good thing."
She nods. She gets up from the table, puts down her brush, and goes to the coffee maker.
"Anyone?" she asks.
We both shake our heads. There's still a chance we'll steal some sleep tonight if we lay off the coffee. She won't and she knows it, so why not?
Repeated buzzing startles us as the cops assault the doorbell.
"Let me get it," I tell them. "Remember, not even 'hello.' Understand?"
Heads nod. I believe I have made my point.
I cross into the living room, giving Darrell Harrow wide berth, and I open the door. Two uniforms lead the way inside, followed by a plainclothes dick and several CSI's. They are all notepads and evidence kits. The techs shoulder past me and arrange themselves around the dead guy. The dick lingers.
"Your name?" he asks.
"Michael Gresham."
"You live here?"
"No, I'm Ms. Morales' lawyer. She is seated at the dining table. She has orders from me not to speak with you. Please don't speak to her."
"Anyone else?"
"My investigator, Marcel Rainford. Also at the dining table. He won't be speaking to you either."
"Nicely done, counsel."
"You would do the same if you were in my shoes, detective. So let's not play any games, shall we?"
He looks me up and down and shakes his head in disgust. I return the look.
"Names?"
"He's Marcel Rainford. She's Miranda Morales."
"Morales? I've worked with a Miranda Morales out of the DA's office. Mira. That her?"
"Yes."
"Any weapons in the residence?"
"She carries a gun in her purse. She's licensed to carry. The gun and the purse are in the master bedroom."
"Has anyone touched it?"
"Hey, you’re the police. Why don’t you tell me?"
"I need more than that."
"All I'm going to say is that she's licensed to carry a gun."
"She is if she's the Miranda Morales I know. Homicide prosecutor, right?"
"Right. My investigator will be carrying a gun, too."
He sighs and records a note on his smartphone.
"Please join your friends," he next says and looks up, bored with me.
I leave without a word and go into the dining room. I take my seat and ask for a cup of coffee after all. It's going to be a long one and tomorrow's Sunday so I can sleep in. Coffee is definitely indicated now that the excitement has begun.
The dick comes into the kitchen. He looks over our trio.
"Miss Morales, hello. I know you won't speak to me but I'm wondering if you or anyone can ID the body?"
I speak up. "He's a prosecutor from the District Attorney's office. Name of Darrell Harrow. I'm surprised you don't recognize him."
"Is that supposed to be funny?"
"Not at all."
"Why was he here tonight?"
We all look straight ahead.
"Mr. Gresham, it would help me better understand this case if you would tell me a few things."
"Such as?"
"Why was he here? Hell, why are you here? Who called you? How long were you here before you called us?"
"Those matters are confidential. What else?"
"Have you people walked through the scene? Am I going to find your fingerprints in the scene, hairs, fibers, whatever?"
"I doubt you'll find one iota of interference."
"You doubt I'll find it or you doubt it exists?
"Both. I doubt you'll find it and I also doubt it even exists."
"For all our sakes let's hope you're right."
"Anything else?"
"Are you aware of any other evidence around this condo that is maybe connected to the dead guy? Or the shooter?"
"No."
"Is there anything else you can add that might help me?"
"No."
"We would like to swab your client's hands. Gunshot residue test. Would you allow that?"
"Help yourself."
"What about a blood
draw?"
"Draw away."
"What about the clothes she was wearing tonight?"
"She spilled wine on the dress. It's soaking in soapy water right now."
Huge sigh of disgust. "All right."
He turns and leaves us to ourselves. I know he's in there traipsing through his crime scene right now, moving things, spreading his own prints around, crouching just outside the camera's lens--all of which will be cured, by the time the actual lab reports and glossies go to print. Every report, every witness, every investigation will say the same thing: "Nothing was moved."
Of course not. After all, police are sworn to tell the truth. We believe them.
"How long will this take?" Mira asks me.
"All night. They won't leave until they've removed a large part of the carpet under the dead guy. They won't leave until they've taken apart the traps under your sinks and saved the glop. But you know this, you've worked crime scenes before."
"I guess I've never stayed till the bitter end."
"They should be out of here by nine in the morning."
"Do I have to wait here? I've never been a suspect before."
Just then a CSI comes into the room and swabs Mira's hands, wrists, and forearms. The samples are placed into a plastic evidence bag and the CSI thanks her and leaves.
Then another arrives and punctures her arm with a long needle. Blood is drawn, capped, and initialed.
We continue our talk.
I say, "You're not a suspect now, Mira. Are you not telling us something?"
She ignores that question. She goes to the counter and slides open the top drawer. She withdraws a checkbook and pen.
"How much?" she asks and nods at me.
"Well, there's no case filed and we don't know if there will be. So why don't we wait for that until we see which way this is going to go."
"But I need to pay you something. Confidentiality."
"Five thousand, then."
She stoops over the dishwasher and begins writing out the check. Two minutes and she hands it to me. Five thousand dollars, payable now. I fold and put it in my shirt pocket.
"Now, where should I go tonight? Obviously I can't stay here or they'll pounce on me after you're gone, asking everything they can think of to trap me."
Danny and I have a solemn pact that we'll never again have a defendant on our property. So inviting her over to our guest room for the night is out of the question. I just return her stare.
The Law Partners (Michael Gresham Legal Thriller Series Book 3) Page 3
