Fortunately, Jonathan’s secretary brought my cup of tea soon after I stepped into his office. By the time I finished fumbling with the tea bag and the lemon slice, I had regained my composure and was able to focus on his description of the results of Sally Wade’s autopsy.
Certain details stood out, the most important of which was the absence of the usual signs of a struggle—no scratches or abrasions or contusions on the body, no damage to the face, no skin under the fingernails. The only sign of violence was a blow to the back of her head, apparently with a blunt instrument; however, from the condition of the skin and blood vessels around the head injury, the blow came near or possibly after the time of death. Although there was chafing around her wrists and ankles from the cords, the coroner had concluded that those probably occurred as Sally was suffocating, not before.
I weighed the information. “So that means the killer tied her up without a fight.”
Jonathan nodded. “It’s an excellent development.”
I looked at him curiously. “Why?”
“Why no struggle?” His eyes were bright with zeal. “That’s a difficult question for the prosecution. Unless one posits the highly improbable scenario of a kinky boyfriend killer who used the lure of sexual bondage as a pretext for tying her up, the most likely explanation is that her killer had a gun. That was how he was able to tie her up without a struggle. Neville doesn’t own a gun.”
“He could have bought one for that night.”
Jonathan smiled. “That’s even more unlikely.” I could detect an air of condescension in his voice that reminded me of some of the more insufferable professors I had had at Harvard Law School. “There would be a record if he bought one legally, and there would certainly be a witness if someone as unfamiliar with the illegal gun trade as Neville McBride tried to buy one on the black market.”
I mulled it over. Although when I arrived at Jonathan’s office I hadn’t been sure whether I wanted to share with him what I had learned from Marvin the mortician—after all, the absence of bruises and scratches on her body just a few days after Neville’s alleged assault further undercut my lawsuit—I decided to anyway. The coroner’s conclusions about the absence of such injuries were probably even more damaging to my case than Marvin’s observations; moreover, one of Jonathan’s investigators was no doubt planning to ask Marvin the very same questions I had asked him this morning.
So I told him what I’d learned. When I finished, Jonathan leaned back and nodded thoughtfully. “Excellent.”
I shook my head doubtfully. “Even if I dismissed my lawsuit, which I’m not yet prepared to do, you’re not that much closer to getting your client exonerated.”
“Oh, but I am.”
He stood up and stretched his back. He walked over toward the bay window and its commanding view of the Arch and the riverfront and the muddy waters of the Mississippi River. Today he was sporting another GQ look: a full-cut navy pinstripe suit with pleated pants, a crisp red Bengal-striped broadcloth shirt with French cuffs, and a British regimental silk tie in red, navy, and gold.
“Why?” I asked.
He turned to face me, his back against the window, his arms crossed. “Because now Neville has you on his side.”
I laughed. “I beg your pardon.”
Jonathan didn’t smile. “Sally used you, Rachel—or someone posing as Sally did. You were the dupe in a get-rich scheme. Agreed?”
I didn’t respond.
He nodded, his green eyes honing in. “That makes you our MVP.”
I frowned. “What in the world are you talking about, Jonathan?”
“Motivation. Someone made a fool out of you. You’re not going to let them get away with it.”
I shook my head. “They already have.”
“To quote Yogi Berra, ‘It ain’t over till it’s over.’”
I gave him a dubious smile. “And why, pray tell, am I all of a sudden so motivated?”
“Because we both know that whoever used you also had something to do with your client’s murder. That means that when you figure out who made a fool out of you you’ll be a lot closer to figuring out who killed Sally.”
“Those are a lot of assumptions.”
He shook his head. “Hardly. Indeed, Neville has authorized me to retain you to find out who set you up.”
“Oh?” I said, mildly annoyed to discover that he and his client had presumed to select my role in their case. “What makes you so sure I won’t just walk away from this mess and get on with my life?”
“Call it a gut feeling, but I don’t think I’m wrong.”
He wasn’t. I was far more than just a curious spectator on the subject of who had used me. I was infuriated. We litigators learn early on in our careers to expect our clients to lie to us. Every client, every case. Not big lies, of course. Little ones. But important nevertheless. Clients seem to believe that they’ll have a better-motivated advocate if they fudge the story a little around the edges, maybe omit a few unpleasant details, perhaps slightly exaggerate a few appealing ones. It never works, of course. The unpleasant facts have a way of coming out, and often at the worst possible time and in the most public of possible courtroom settings—during one of those cross-examination ambushes that end in a silent exchange of looks between the flabbergasted attorney seated at counsel’s table and his sheepish client in the witness box.
But this went far beyond the usual fudgings and omissions. Sally, or some Sally impostor, had tricked me into filing a lawsuit accusing a possibly blameless man of outrageous misconduct. Worse yet, the allegations in the lawsuit and Sally’s statements to me about Neville’s actions had been important building blocks in the criminal case against Neville McBride. Although there was now other evidence against him, my actions had played a material role in his arrest and indictment and disgrace, and even if I decided to dismiss the lawsuit, the statements in there could still be used against him at his murder trial.
Jonathan sat down across from me. “I don’t think you’ll walk away from this. If you did, you’d be giving up, and you’re not a quitter.”
I gazed at him cynically. “Is this supposed to be a locker-room pep talk?”
He chuckled. “I doubt you need one of those.”
“I’ll tell you what I need,” I said. “About twenty minutes with the mysterious Tammy.”
“Me, too.” He scratched his beard. “She’s far more important than you realize.”
“Oh?”
Jonathan nodded. “She’s also Neville’s alibi witness for the night of the murder.”
I raised my eyebrows in surprise. “I thought he was alone.”
“He was, but he wasn’t supposed to be. She called him the day before to tell him she’d be in town the next night. She called again at five that night to tell him the flight was delayed but she’d be there before ten. He waited for her the whole night.”
“She never showed?”
Jonathan shook his head.
“Can anyone else confirm that he was there the whole night?”
Jonathan shook his head.
“Has he heard from her since?”
“No.”
I mulled it over. “Who is she, Jonathan?” I finally asked.
Jonathan shook his head with determination. “We’ll find her. Neville thought she worked for TWA. They have seven flight attendants named Tammy, but none was on a flight scheduled to land in St. Louis at any time that day. Neville’s Tammy had red hair. The only one of the seven Tammys with red hair is forty-seven years old and has enough seniority to work only the JFK flights to London, Paris, and Rome. She hasn’t been in St. Louis for three years.”
“So she’s with another airline?”
“Presumably. I have one of my investigators checking logs for flight attendants on all airlines that fly into St. Louis. It will take several days to complete.”
Jonathan grimaced. “It’s crossed my mind, but I don’t want to even consider it yet.”
“You’d better. If she was pretending to be a stewardess, she was probably pretending to be a Tammy. Even if she learned that you were looking for her, she might be too embarrassed to come forward. After all, she might be a married woman. And even if she did come forward, Jonathan, she’s not much of an alibi witness. Remember, she wasn’t actually with him that night. And that means you’re still stuck with the semen problem: same blood type as Neville, and no sperm cells in the semen.”
He nodded grimly.
“Well,” I said, “at least the absence of sperm cells means you don’t have to worry about a DNA analysis.”
“Wrong. There still may be enough genetic material in the semen to allow that.”
“What are you going to do if they match it to Neville?”
He shrugged calmly. “Just another problem to deal with.”
“Just another problem? Good grief, it’s like finding your client’s fingerprints on the murder weapon.”
Jonathan smiled and shook his head. “Not quite, Rachel. It’s a little easier to plant doubt in a juror’s mind with something that technical. I happen to know the lab the prosecutors are using. There are a few skeletons rattling around in that closet.”
I said nothing, struck again not merely by the mindset of a criminal defense lawyer but the totality of the transformation from Jonathan Wolf’s days as a prosecutor. He could now vigorously attack the validity and integrity of the very scientific processes that just a few years ago he so vigilantly championed.
Nevertheless, a positive DNA match was a grave peril for the defense. The case against Neville McBride might be entirely circumstantial, but Jonathan Wolf would have to create an ocean of reasonable doubt to overcome a puddle of his client’s semen on the body of the victim.
I checked my watch and stood up. “I have to go.”
Jonathan walked me out to the elevator lobby. “Can I tell Neville you accept?” he asked as we stood waiting for the elevator.
I gave him a puzzled look. “Accept what?”
“His offer. It’s extremely generous, Rachel. He’ll pay you a thirty-thousand-dollar retainer to figure out who was trying to use you.”
I smiled. “Oh, I think I can figure out exactly who’s trying to use me now.”
“That’s unfair,” he snapped.
“Oh no it’s not, Jonathan. But that’s okay.” I give him a patronizing wink. “I’m a big girl, and I know how this game is played. Tell Neville thanks but no thanks. He can save his money for you and your investigators. I couldn’t take it anyway. It could be a conflict of interest. Remember, I represent Sally’s estate.”
“But—”
I held up my hand. “The estate will pay my fees, which is the way it should be. Don’t forget, Jonathan,” I cautioned, wagging my finger, “I haven’t dismissed my lawsuit yet, and I don’t intend to until I fully understand what really happened that night.” I paused and gave him a plucky smile. “Meanwhile, don’t fret about my motivation. I don’t need your client’s money to get motivated, and I certainly don’t need your pep talks.”
The elevator door slid open. I stepped into the elevator, punched the button for the lobby, and turned to face him. He was standing there with an uncertain expression. Seeing Jonathan Wolf off balance was almost too much fun.
I pointed my finger at him and gave him another wink as the doors started to close. “I’ll keep you posted, Counselor.”
Chapter Eleven
I stared at the purse on the edge of my desk and shook my head in disbelief. “Four hundred and twelve dollars for that?”
Jacki shrugged. “It’s a Salvatore Ferragamo. All leather.”
“Forget the fucking purse,” Benny said. “Who in their right mind would pay five hundred and seventy dollars for a pair of high heels?”
“Oh, but you have to admit,” Jacki cooed, touching one of them lovingly, “these are exquisite.”
“Hey, girl,” Benny said, “if I’m going to shell out nearly six hundred bucks for a pair of pumps, they better be on the feet of a gorgeous chick wearing nothing but a G-string.”
It was the end of the day, and Jacki, Benny, and I were in my office. Benny had dropped by around four o’clock to fill me in on some details he’d learned about the police investigation of Neville McBride. Apparently, Neville had joined one of those telephone dating services a few years back, right around the time he started leasing a room at the Marriott hotel downtown. Based on the activity in his dating-service account and his hotel room, Neville McBride was leading a secret life as, in Benny’s words, “a two-hundred-pound rat in heat.” According to Benny’s source, none of the women was named Tammy, although one of them said he tied her up before sex; she admitted, however, that the bondage part was her idea, not his.
As Benny filled me in, Jacki had returned from her trip to Plaza Frontenac carrying two bags. She had gone there to pick up the materials turned over in response to the subpoenas we had served on Neiman-Marcus and La Femme Elégante. As part of my pretrial preparation for Cissy Thompson’s libel lawsuit against Vincent Contini, I had obtained a copy of her MasterCard statement for the crucial month of August. It showed the $4,358.56 charge for the Adrienne Vittadini dress she had purchased from Vincent’s on Maryland on August 11 and unsuccessfully attempted to return the following week. August 11 was a Tuesday. The next day, according to her statement, she made a $412.35 purchase at Neiman-Marcus and a $570.67 purchase at La Femme Elégante. What made those two purchases noteworthy were the two entries on August 18: a $412.35 credit at Neiman-Marcus and a $570.67 credit at La Femme Elégante. The subpoenas I served asked each store to produce the paperwork surrounding the transaction plus the actual items purchased on the 12th and returned the 18th.
I lifted one of the shoes from La Femme Elégante. It was a sleek black pump by Yves Saint Laurent. I turned it over and studied the sole. There were a few faint scratches around the ball of the foot that suggested, at least to my untutored eye, that the shoe had been worn.
“When is this crazy trial?” Benny asked.
“It starts next Thursday,” Jacki said. She lifted the Salvatore Ferragamo purse by the straps and stood up, turning to look at her reflection in the window. Although it was a standard-size black leather bag, against Jacki’s bulk it seemed to shrink to a child’s play purse.
“It looks smart,” I told her.
She gave me a doubtful look.
“You think it’ll settle?” Benny asked.
I shook my head. “Neither one is in it for the money.” Still holding the pump, I leaned over and placed it alongside one of my shoes. They seemed to be the same size, although it was hard to tell for sure because I was wearing flats. “It’s principle versus pride,” I said to Benny, looking up at him. “Vincent is convinced that she bought that dress with the intent of wearing it somewhere and then returning it. He claims she’s done it before. He sees it as a matter of principle, a line drawn in the sand. For Cissy, it’s her social standing. Remember, just ten years ago she and Richie were shopping at Kmart, driving Chevys and Fords, and celebrating their daughter’s high school graduation with mostaccioli and green Jell-O at the American Legion hall. Now the guy’s worth more than twenty million dollars. She’s come a long way, and it hasn’t been cheap. She’s not backing down.”
“Jesus,” Benny said in disgust. “What does that social-climbing bitch want?”
“Simple,” I said as I slipped off one of my shoes. “She wants total vindication, either in the form of a public apology from Vincent Contini or his public humiliation at a trial.”
“Can your guy prove she wore the dress?” he
asked.
I glanced over at Jacki, who raised her eyebrows and sighed. I looked back at Benny. “Not yet.”
“That’s great,” he said sarcastically. “Who gets to tell the Great Contini that he better be ready next week to bend over and kiss his skinny ass good-bye?”
I slipped my foot into the pump. “Hey,” I said with a smile, “it fits.” I stood up, wobbling on one heel.
“Here you go, Cinderella,” Jacki said, handing me the other one.
I kicked off my other shoe and slipped on the second pump. I did feel like Cinderella. I’d never owned anything by Yves Saint Laurent. “Do you realize,” I said, “that this pair of shoes costs more than all of my shoes combined?”
“Very nice,” Jacki said to me admiringly. “They’re you, Rachel.”
I tilted my head back and fluffed my hair in an exaggerated Hollywood pose. “Thank you, my darling.”
I took a few sashaying steps and looked back toward Jacki. We both started giggling like schoolgirls. It was such a nice respite from the daily grind.
Benny looked heavenward and shook his head. “What is this,” he said, “a costume party?”
“Oh, hush, grumpy,” I said as I returned to my chair and slipped off the heels.
“Rachel,” he said, “the trial is just a week away, for chrissakes. This is all you have? A couple of other returns? Jesus Christ, she’s gonna testify that she bought this shit, brought it home, and decided she didn’t like it. Or maybe her husband didn’t like it. Then what are you going to do?”
I put the shoes back on my desk. “Here’s what we’re going to do.” I turned to Jacki. “After lunch tomorrow, go by the public library and get the edition of the Post-Dispatch for the Sunday of that week. August sixteenth. There’s a section in there called Style Plus. There’s a column that covers high-society events, especially charity fund-raisers. Check out the following Sunday as well. Sometimes it runs a week behind.”
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