Sasha McCandless 03 - Irretrievably Broken

by Melissa F. Miller

  She looked up as a brisk, business-like knock sounded at the exterior door and it swung open to reveal Samantha Davis.

  “Mrs. Masters,” Samantha said, giving her a curt nod in greeting. No smile.

  Caroline’s hands began to tremble and she dropped them to her lap. She smiled widely to hide her fear.

  “Is Mr. Prescott expecting you?” she asked.

  “Not exactly. But he’ll want to hear this,” Samantha said. She waved her small notebook.

  Caroline’s stomach lurched. Samantha knew. But how? She resisted the urge to scan the ceiling for a hidden camera. Or perhaps Samantha had a tap on her home phone. The woman was former FBI, after all. How could she have been so stupid to have called her at home?

  “Mrs. Masters, are you okay?”

  Samantha’s voice brought Caroline back from the edge of panic.

  “I’m so sorry. I’m suddenly feeling quite ill, actually.”

  It was true enough, Caroline thought. She felt as though she could vomit.

  Samantha appraised her. “You do look a little green around the gills. There’s a stomach bug going around downstairs; I hope you didn’t catch it.”

  Caroline smiled weakly and buzzed Mr. Prescott.

  “Yes?”

  “Ms. Davis is here to see you.”

  “Send her in,” Mr. Prescott instructed.

  “Right away. And, Mr. Prescott?”

  “Yes?”

  “I’m afraid I’m not feeling well. I may need to go home. I’ll arrange for Lettie Conrad to cover your phones and otherwise assist you.”

  Caroline chewed on her lower lip while she waited for his response. She’d never before asked to go home sick.

  “Oh, by all means,” he said in a voice tinged with concern.

  She knew the concern wasn’t for her. Mr. Prescott was something of a germaphobe. She suspected Lettie would spend the better part of her day disinfecting every surface in sight, lest Mr. Prescott find himself the victim of a contagion.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  She depressed the intercom button to end the conversation.

  Samantha, who was on her way into Mr. Prescott’s office, turned and said, “Take care of yourself, Mrs. Masters.”

  Caroline was sure the words carried a warning, or a threat, but she simply nodded. “I will.”

  She gathered her keys and wallet, trying to will her hands not to shake. She decided the sooner she put some distance between her and Samantha Davis’s accusing gaze the better. She’d stop by Lettie’s workstation on her way out of the building.

  She stood and forced herself to walk rather than run to the hallway.

  ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

  Cinco stood with his hands clasped behind his back and contemplated the skyline. The morning sky was a vibrant blue, crisp and full of promise, completely at odds with his mood.

  He had a low-grade headache from the previous evening’s drinking. Now he also had to worry about the invisible germs that lurked in his secretary’s workspace, waiting for him to rest a hand on the edge of desk or lean against the door. A shiver of disgust ran up his spine.

  The door opened inward and Samantha Davis strode into the room.

  “Good morning,” she said.

  She stopped to blink at her surroundings and Cinco suppressed a smile. He’d forgotten she’d never been inside his space before. Most people needed a moment to absorb it.

  He waited a beat and then motioned for her to have a seat on the snowy white leather couch.

  “Please. Sit,” he said, as he lowered himself into one of the matching captain’s chairs that faced the couch.

  “I’ll just stand, if that’s okay with you,” she said.

  She looked out of place, planted in the middle of the room in her tailored pants suit, clutching her small notebook with both hands, with her spine straight and her eyes darting around the room.

  “Whichever you prefer,” he told her, hoping to put her ease. He waved a hand, “So, you have something to report?”

  “Two things,” she said, flipping the notebook open to a page that she’d marked with a post-it note. “One, I received a call from Detective Gilbert. The police have arrested Clarissa’s husband and charged him with her murder.”

  “I know,” Cinco said. “He’s apparently retained Sasha McCandless to represent him.”

  A silver eyebrow shot up Sam’s unlined forehead.

  He wondered, not for the first time, why she didn’t color her hair. She was fit enough, and her skin smooth enough, that she could pass for a much younger woman if she chose.

  “That’s an interesting coincidence—particularly given that he claims Mr. Lang is his alibi for the time of the murder,” Sam said.

  Cinco tried to conceal his surprise.

  “Greg Lang?”

  “One and the same,” Sam confirmed.

  He suppressed a frown. Volmer hadn’t mentioned that when he’d called to say Sasha was asking about Costopolous’s bond.

  “I presume that means the police are no longer interested in our files?”

  “Not at the moment,” Sam said. “The detective did ask that, for the time being, we suspend any document retention policy that would result in the destruction of files.”

  “Certainly,” Cinco said, willing himself not to think about the files he’d instructed Caroline to shred. Sam had a tendency to make him nervous under the best of circumstances. Her piercing gaze always made him feel as though he had something to be ashamed of, even though he didn’t know what it was. Now that he was guilty of something, he had to resist the urge to squirm in his chair like a schoolboy in trouble with a nun.

  She looked at him a moment longer and then said, “The second thing is that I have a location on Malcolm Vickers’s son.”

  Cinco leaned forward, interested. “You do?”

  She glanced down at her notebook. “Yes, I had originally hit a brick wall, because I searched for him under Vickers and his mother’s maiden name, but it turns out mom remarried—three times, actually—and moved to a different state with each new husband. All that moving around, plus the fact that the boy was adopted by stepdad number two, whose surname he kept, made him difficult to find. His legal name is Rich Moravian, and he lives here in town. Over on the South Side.”

  She was about to rattle off the address, but Cinco interrupted her. “That’s quite good work, Sam.”

  “Thank you, sir. Do you want the address?”

  He wasn’t sure. If the others learned that he knew where Vickers’s son was, he feared they’d want to go confront him, or offer him money, or some nonsense. Hell, knowing Marco, he might want to challenge the guy to a duel. No, for now, it was better to have reasonable deniability.

  “Not just yet,” he said.

  She cocked her head and gave him a quizzical look. Then she said, “You know, I discovered something odd when I ran down the ex-Mrs. Vickers’s full matrimonial history.”

  “Oh?” he said, trying to keep the fear out of his voice. “And what’s that?”

  She closed her notebook and looked hard at him. “When Marcus and Jessa Vickers divorced, she was matched through Neighborhood Legal Services’ pro bono program with lawyers right here at this firm.”

  Cinco’s tongue shot out of his mouth and wet his lips, as though of its own volition.

  “Really?” he squeaked.

  “Really. But not just any attorneys: Ellen Mortenson; Clarissa Costopolous; and a woman named Martine Landry,” Sam said.

  He looked at her inscrutable face, unable to read anything behind the words.

  “That’s quite a coincidence,” he finally said.

  She stared at him in silence for a moment that threatened to stretch on forever.

  Cinco was on the edge of blurting out a confession—to what, he didn’t know—when she finally gave a curt nod.

  “That’s what I thought,” she agreed.

  CHAPTER 39

  Sasha glared up at the bored-looking guard manning the me
tal detector as the line of irritated people who were queued up behind her, mainly tired-eyed women toting toddlers on their hips, mumbled curses and shuffled their feet on the tile floor.

  He looked back at her with no expression.

  “I said, are you wearing an underwire bra?” he repeated.

  “Yes,” she said evenly. She took a breath and exhaled slowly, “As I said, I’m Mr. Costopolous’s attorney, and he needs these clothes for a court appearance later this morning ...”

  “And, as I said, I don’t care if you’re Marcia Clark. You aren’t on the attorney list, so you’ll have to comply with all the policies that apply to the general public or you can’t see your boy. There’s a ladies’ room around to the right or you can wriggle out of your bra right here. Your choice, but you lose your place in line if you go to the restroom.” He smirked at her.

  She stared at him and then shrugged. She unbuttoned her suit jacket and placed it across the metal table set up beside the x-ray belt. Then she snaked her right hand down through the neckline of the front of her sheath dress until she reached the clasp between her breasts. Grateful she had the good luck to have worn a bra that closed in the front, she opened the clasp. Then she lowered the straps, eased out her arms, and wormed the bra out of her dress through the right armhole. She flung it on the x-ray belt to scattered applause from the impatient line.

  Without a word, she crossed the threshold of the metal detector a second time. Hearing no beep this time, she snatched her bra off the belt and retrieved her bag, jacket, and Nick’s clothes.

  The guard put an arm out to stop her.

  “Not so fast, ma’am.”

  “Now what?”

  He smiled. “Our visitor information clearly states no sleeveless dresses are permitted.”

  She knew he was baiting her. She knew he wanted her to lose her temper. And she knew she was about to explode anyway.

  She gritted her teeth, but before she could respond, she heard a familiar laugh over her shoulder.

  “Now, you tell Rosalie I asked after her,” Larry Steinfeld said, clasping a white-haired, paunchy guard on the shoulder.

  The two men skirted the line of visitors and made their way around the metal detector. The guard slowed his pace to match Larry’s labored walk with the cane. As they approached, Sasha could hear the guard trying to convince Larry to take Bertie on an Alaskan cruise.

  “We saw salmon jumping right out of the water!” the guard said, using his hands to mimic the motion.

  He stopped short when they reached Sasha and her tormentor. The metal bar on his lapel read “Jagowski,” but Sasha had begun to think of him as Officer Jag-off.

  Larry spoke first. “Tom, I’d like you to meet my colleague, Sasha McCandless. She’s not only a talented lawyer, she’s one of Daniel’s best students.”

  The man smiled and extended his right hand. “Tom Murtry. It’s a pleasure.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” Sasha managed, flushed with embarrassment over the lacy, black bra dangling from her left hand.

  After releasing her hand, Tom fixed his younger colleague with a look.

  “Captain, she’s not on the attorney list,” Officer Jag-off began.

  Tom ignored him and spoke to Sasha.

  “Officer Jagowski apologizes for his confusion. I’ll show you to the female officers’ locker room, so you can, uh, put yourself back together in private.”

  “I’d appreciate that,” Sasha said.

  He smiled. “If Larry’s right, and you’re one of Daniel’s best students, I appreciate your not breaking Officer Jagowski’s nose. It would have meant a lot of paperwork for me.”

  Jagowski reddened and returned to his metal detector duties without another word. He was greeted by a smattering of hoots from the waiting line.

  “Thank you,” Sasha whispered to Larry as they followed the captain along a narrow, brightly lit hallway.

  Larry just patted her arm with his free hand.

  They stopped in front of a door marked “Personnel Only.” Tom knocked on the door and then ushered Sasha inside.

  It looked like the locker room of every gym she’d ever seen. Rows of metal lockers lined the walls, and long scarred wooden benches ran along the middle of the room.

  She made quick work of her sartorial repairs. After putting on her bra and zipping up her dress, she stood in front of a warped, smudged mirror and examined herself. She buttoned her jacket and smoothed her hair. She was as ready as she’d ever be.

  ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

  Sasha and Larry sat side by side at the small metal table in the attorney visiting room and waited for the guards to bring Nick in. The county jail apparently shared an interior designer with the homicide squad. Same furniture, same carpet, same paint.

  Larry was doodling a series of interlocking circles on his legal pad. They looked like chains. Not a good sign.

  Sasha picked up her own pen and scribbled, “Can we talk freely in here?” She nudged Larry and pointed to it.

  He shook his head no.

  She figured. Despite the fact that attorney-client conversations were protected by privilege, she had heard that privilege was considered a joke by law enforcement. She took her pen and drew a series of loops across the words so they were no longer legible.

  They heard boots striking tile, and then the door swung open. Two guards, one black and one white, entered the room with Nick sandwiched between them. His hands were cuffed together in front. He shuffled awkwardly because the cuffs were connected by a chain to leg manacles. He looked tired. Dazed.

  The white guard pushed him into the empty seat.

  The black guard addressed Sasha. “You have clothes for his court appearance?”

  She handed over the bag and the suit.

  “For future reference, court appearance clothes are accepted between seven and nine p.m. only and not more than three days before the scheduled appearance.”

  She opened her mouth to explain that Nick had only been booked hours earlier but decided it wasn’t worth the effort, especially because Tom Murtry had probably pulled some strings to get them to accept the clothes.

  “Got it. Thanks,” she said.

  He nodded.

  Larry said, “The handcuffs aren’t necessary, son. We aren’t afraid of our client.”

  The white guard shrugged and unchained Nick’s hands. “Suit yourselves. Heard he killed his pregnant wife. Don’t expect him to have mercy on an old man and a chick. Just bang on the door when you’re done or if he attacks you.”

  They left, banging the door closed and locking it behind them.

  Nick rubbed his wrists and then ran his hands through his hair, making it stand on end. He stared at Sasha, unblinkingly.

  “Well?” he said.

  Sasha didn’t see much point in asking how he was holding up. The answer was evident.

  She introduced Larry. “Nick, this is Larry Steinfeld. He’s retired now, but he served as an attorney for the Federal Public Defender and the ACLU for years. He’s regarded as a scholar in the criminal procedure area.”

  Larry waved away the praise. He reached out to shake Nick’s hand and said, “You have a fine lawyer, Mr. Costopolous, a fine lawyer. She’s humoring me by letting me relieve my boredom by tagging along.”

  “Great. Good. Pleased to meet you,” Nick said, shaking Larry’s hand but staring at Sasha. “When are you getting me out of this hellhole?”

  “I can only imagine how eager you are to get home, Nick. And today’s court appearance is step one in that process, okay? But, I need you to keep it together. At eleven-thirty, we’ll have a preliminary arraignment in front of a judge. In all likelihood, an assistant district attorney will show up to read the charges and ask for a bail amount. We won’t present your defense. You’ll just plead not guilty, and the judge will set bail. Short and sweet, okay?”

  “And then?” Nick demanded.

  “And then, we hope, you’ll be transported back here while Ms. McCandless makes the necessary a
rrangements to pay the cashier,” Larry explained.

  “I’m not coming back here!” Nick banged his fist against the metal table for emphasis.

  Larry flicked his eyes toward the door and frowned, letting Sasha know that Nick had to stay calm in case the guards were listening.

  Sasha smiled at Nick and hoped it came across as reassuring.

  “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, okay?” she said.

  He curled his lips back into a snarl. “I mean it.”

  “It should only be for a few hours at most,” Larry said.

  Nick shook his head. “I won’t come back here.”

  Larry glanced at Sasha and then met Nick’s eyes. “If your concern is being returned to the general population, I’ll arrange for you to be held in the processing area. You’ll be in the holding cell. It’s ... more public.”

  Suddenly, Sasha realized Nick’s panic was about being attacked by a fellow inmate. She wondered what had happened the previous night.

  “Can you do that? You’re sure?” Nick asked, his anger bleeding away, replaced by desperation.

  Larry’s eyes were careful behind his glasses, “I should be able to make that happen, but, of course, there are no guarantees. There are no guarantees about any of this, but the preliminary arraignment is usually a formality. Often, the arresting officer attends instead of an assistant district attorney. Sometimes they even handle it through a videoconference.”

  Nick strained forward, agitated and anxious.

  “So, it should be a piece of cake?” he asked, his voice cracking.

  Sasha looked at Larry.

  Larry shrugged and said, “Ordinarily, yes, but you need to understand you have some bad facts.”

  “Right, the pictures. But, I explained that to Sasha. You just have to find that girl,” Nick said.

  “It’s not just the pictures,” Sasha said.

  “What else?” he asked.

  She leaned in close to him. She supposed if the guards were listening, they’d hear her even if she whispered, but she lowered her voice anyway. “Why did you tell Gilbert he could search your truck?”

  Nick shrugged. “I don’t know. I don’t have anything to hide. I know you told me not to talk to him, but I just thought maybe if I cooperated, he’d realize this was all a huge mistake and let me go home.”