A Reasonable Doubt

by Phillip Margolin

  It was almost dark when Robin finished the draft of the brief. She closed her eyes and stretched. She was tempted to grab some sushi and head home, but duty called. The hearing on pretrial motions in David Turner’s case was coming up. She was too tired to work on the legal issues, but the police reports of the witness statements in Turner’s case were strewn around the floor of her office, and she wanted them in a trial notebook, where she could get to them easily if Ragland called someone as a witness at the hearing.

  Robin was putting the statements in alphabetical order when she found Samuel Moser’s statement. Robin remembered that she had not been able to place the name when she encountered it the first time she and Jeff had gone through the reports. Now she remembered why it had sounded familiar, and she wondered why Samuel Moser would pay money to see the person who had been accused of trying to murder him.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  The next morning, Robin started on the pretrial motions in David Turner’s case. There weren’t many issues she could raise. She had a theory for suppressing the statements Turner had made at the Imperial, but she didn’t think she would win. She also wanted to get the judge to rule that Ragland couldn’t tell the jury about his accomplice theory unless he had evidence pointing to a specific person.

  Robin finished her work on the motions at ten thirty. It was too early for lunch, so she went into the conference room and began going through the old files in the Gentry–Randall cases. An hour later, Robin got to the file containing the report of Sophie Randall’s autopsy. A photograph from Randall’s autopsy was in the file. It made Robin sad to see someone so pretty and, from what Regina had told her, so happy on a coroner’s slab.

  Robin started to read the autopsy report when she frowned. Randall looked familiar, but Robin had never met her. She stared at the photograph. An odd thought struck her. She shook her head, as if to dislodge it, but the idea hung on with enough tenacity to force her to return to her office and run a web search for articles about Randall’s murder. The Oregonian had covered the poisoning on its front page, complete with a color photograph of Sophie Randall in happier times, standing with her husband, Gary, and their daughter, Jane.

  Robin swore. Now she knew why Samuel Moser had paid money to see a show put on by a man who had tried to kill him.

  * * *

  Samuel Moser was still the manager of the Westmont Country Club, and that’s where Robin headed. Robin had never been to a country club before attending Yale for law school. There had been one in her hometown, but no one in her family’s income bracket entered the grounds unless they were a gardener, a cook, or a member of the waitstaff. Robin had finished high enough in her law school class to be invited to an award dinner at a country club near the school. As self-confident as she was, she had felt a bit intimidated by the luxurious surroundings, which most of her fellow students took for granted.

  The trees that lined the road to the Westmont had lost most of their leaves, and the fairways of the golf course were rain soaked, but Robin still thought that the grounds were impressive. The country club’s brick façade appeared out of the mist when she rounded a curve. Robin found a parking spot in the visitors’ lot and ran for the shelter of the portico.

  The light from a grand chandelier turned the lobby into a warm and welcoming place. A young woman sat behind the desk where members checked in and visitors were screened. Robin told her that she’d like to see Samuel Moser. After a brief moment on the in-house phone, the receptionist pointed Robin toward the wood-paneled hallway that led to Moser’s office.

  Samuel Moser had not changed much in twenty-some years. He was completely bald now and thinner because of the diet that had saved his life, but he still wore dull gray suits and uninspiring ties and looked as bland as he had on the day that Sophie Randall was murdered.

  “Thanks for seeing me,” Robin said.

  “Have a seat and tell me how I can help you,” Moser answered.

  When Robin sat down and said, “I’m an attorney and I represent David Turner,” Moser tensed. “Mr. Turner is accused of murdering Robert Chesterfield, and you were in the audience when Mr. Chesterfield was murdered.”

  “I was, but I told the police that I didn’t see anything that would help figure out who killed him or how he was killed.”

  “I know. I read the police report of your interview. What puzzles me is why you were at Chesterfield’s performance. Weren’t you convinced that Robert Chesterfield tried to murder you over twenty years ago?”

  “I’m still convinced that he sent me the poisoned chocolates.”

  “Then why did you go to Chesterfield’s show?”

  Moser blinked. “I can see why that might surprise you.”

  Several years as a criminal defense attorney had made Robin an expert at reading body language. The question had surprised Moser, and it was obvious that he was stalling for time so he could figure out how to answer it.

  “Why did you go?” Robin pressed.

  Moser flashed a nervous smile. “Curiosity, I guess.”

  Moser was hiding something. Robin was certain she knew what it was, but she didn’t know how to pry it out of him, so she changed the subject. “Have you read about the attempt on Regina Barrister’s life?”

  “I heard about it, but I don’t know the details.”

  “Someone sent Regina a box of cyanide-laced chocolates.”

  Moser paled. “Oh my,” he said. “And you think there’s a connection between the attempt on her life and what happened at the club in the nineties?”

  “I think it’s a possibility. Regina represented Chesterfield, and her legal work led to the dismissal of his murder charges. Henry Beathard was the judge in the case. His ruling made it impossible for the district attorney to continue the prosecution. Judge Beathard was murdered recently.”

  “Beathard too?”

  Robin could see that the news had upset Moser. “Over the past few months, Judge Beathard was murdered, Chesterfield was murdered, someone tried to kill Regina, and I just found out that Morris Quinlan, the lead detective on Chesterfield’s case, was murdered.”

  Moser looked sick. “Couldn’t it just be a coincidence?”

  “Yes, but it could also be the acts of a person who wants revenge for what happened here a long time ago. Can you think of anyone connected to Sophie Randall’s or Arthur Gentry’s murder or the attempt on your life who might want revenge?”

  “Me? No, I haven’t any idea.”

  “No one comes to mind?”

  “No,” Moser said, but Robin was certain that he was lying.

  “Mr. Moser, if someone is responsible for three murders and the attempt on Miss Barrister, this person is very, very dangerous. If you know anything, you have to tell the police.”

  “Yes, certainly. If I think of someone, I’ll tell the police,” Moser said, “but I don’t know anything that can help your client.”

  “I think you do, Mr. Moser, and I think you know why the killer waited so long to exact her revenge. I’ve also come up with the reason you went to Chesterfield’s show.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Sophie Randall had a daughter named Jane. What happened to her daughter after Gary killed himself?”

  Beads of sweat appeared on Moser’s brow. “What does that have to do with anything?”

  “Was Jane put into foster care, did someone adopt her, did she go to live with a relative?”

  “I don’t know what happened to Jane.”

  “You and Sophie were close. You must have felt overwhelming guilt for giving her the chocolates, and you must have felt horrible when Gary killed himself.”

  Moser looked away.

  “I saw a picture of Sophie Randall, and I saw a woman at Chesterfield’s performance who bears a strong resemblance to her. Did you see a picture of Chesterfield’s assistants in the ads advertising the Chamber of Death? Did you go to Robert Chesterfield’s magic show to find out if one of those assistants was Jane Randall?”


  Moser stiffened. He shook his head. “This is nonsense. I don’t know what happened to Jane Randall.”

  “She’s a killer, Mr. Moser. I know you feel responsible for giving the chocolates to Sophie, but that doesn’t justify shielding a murderer.”

  Moser’s head dropped into his hands. “Chesterfield deserved to die.”

  “Did Judge Beathard and Morris Quinlan also deserve to die? And what about Regina Barrister? Who is Jane Randall, Mr. Moser?”

  * * *

  Robin called Carrie Anders as soon as she left the Westmont. “I know who killed Robert Chesterfield,” she said. “She may also have murdered Morris Quinlan, Henry Beathard—the judge who heard Chesterfield’s case back in the nineties—and I’m sure she sent the poisoned chocolates to Regina. I’m headed to you. I’ll explain everything when I get there.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  “Magic illusions rely on misdirection, and Robert Chesterfield’s murder was part of a magnificent illusion,” Robin told Dillon and Anders when they were seated in a small conference room in the Homicide Bureau. “Who was the first person everyone believed was the murderer?” Robin asked.

  “Nancy Porter, the assistant who appeared to push Chesterfield into the sarcophagus,” Dillon said.

  “Why didn’t you arrest her, Roger?”

  “We found out that the killer hid her inhaler so he could get her alone. Then he rendered her unconscious and stole her robe so he could conceal himself and kill Chesterfield.”

  “When you are in the audience, the magician’s escape from the sarcophagus in the Chamber of Death seems impossible,” Robin said. “If you see the trick from a different angle, the magic can lose its luster. You learn that the magician doesn’t dematerialize. He simply rolls out of the sarcophagus when his assistant blocks the audience’s view. Then he crawls into the dolly and gets pushed offstage.

  “What if we look at Chesterfield’s murder from a different angle,” Robin said. “Sophie Randall was murdered with a box of poisoned chocolates twenty-plus years ago. She had a daughter, Jane. Jane was five when her mother died. Shortly after Sophie Randall was murdered, her father committed suicide. Jane would be in her twenties now.

  “When Robert Chesterfield disappeared three years ago, the newspapers dredged up all the details of Sophie Randall’s murder. That may have been when Jane Randall learned that Chesterfield escaped punishment for killing her mother and also learned the identity of the people who helped him beat the case.

  “Right before rehearsals for the Chamber of Death were going to start, Renee Chambers called her agent. She told Olmstead that her mother was very ill and she had to leave Oregon to be with her. She also recommended Nancy Porter as her replacement.

  “Jeff checked. Renee Chambers’s mother is in perfect health. I think Jane Randall changed her name to Nancy Porter. I think she got Renee Chambers to lie to Marvin Olmstead about her mother so Nancy could replace her in Chesterfield’s show. At that late date, Chesterfield would have had to hire Porter because the show was scheduled to begin in a week.”

  “If I’m right, Jane stabbed Chesterfield. Then she pushed the dolly offstage, dumped her robe near the loading dock exit to make it look like the killer escaped through it, and returned to her dressing room, where she used a cloth with ether to knock herself out, knowing that everyone would assume she was also a victim.”

  Roger Dillon frowned. “If she’s asthmatic, wouldn’t she be taking a risk by using ether to knock herself out?”

  “That was my first thought. So I checked with an anesthesiologist. Ether is a strong bronchodilator that opens up airways and has actually been used, on rare occasions, to treat severe asthma. And there is another possibility she may have been faking; she may not have asthma, at all.”

  “We were idiots,” Dillon said.

  “No, all of us were part of an audience that was fooled by a very clever illusion.”

  “We need to speak to Nancy Porter or Jane Randall or whatever her name is, right away,” Anders said.

  “I’ve got her address,” Robin said. “And I think you should bring backup. If I’m right, she has a gun and no compunction about killing.”

  * * *

  Robin and the detectives parked on a side street a block from Renee Chambers’s duplex. An unmarked car with four plainclothes officers parked behind them.

  “Stay in the car,” Anders told Robin.

  “If you identify yourself as a police officer, she may start shooting. She knows me. I’ve been in her house. She won’t suspect anything if I knock on her door.”

  “I can’t let you do this. You’re a civilian.”

  “Who has been in more violent confrontations than you and Roger put together.” When Anders hesitated, Robin pushed her point. “Look, Carrie. You know I can take care of myself, and I’m not stupid. I’ll bail at the first sign of danger.”

  Anders shook her head. “Fucking lawyers. I should never have let this degenerate into a debate.”

  Dillon laughed. “Go ahead. We’ll be right behind you.”

  Robin checked her handgun to make sure it was loaded. Then she walked around the corner and stopped. A patrol car was parked at the curb in front of the duplex. Robin walked up to the driver’s window and saw an officer speaking into his radio. The officer turned to Robin. “This is a crime scene, ma’am. You can’t hang out here.”

  Anders and Dillon had been following Robin at a distance. When they saw the police car, they joined her.

  Anders flashed her badge. “We’re here to make an arrest. What are you doing here?”

  “We got a 911 about a woman being held at this address.”

  “Is she okay?” Robin asked.

  “Yeah. She was tied up in a bedroom, but she isn’t hurt. Just scared.”

  * * *

  When they entered the house, they found a policewoman sitting at the kitchen table with Renee Chambers, who was wearing a sweatshirt, T-shirt, socks, and sweatpants and drinking a cup of tea. There was a fading bruise on her cheek, but she looked otherwise unharmed.

  “Can you tell us what happened?” Anders asked after the introductions were made.

  “She knocked on my door the Thursday before rehearsals were going to start—”

  “You mean Nancy Porter?”

  Renee nodded. “That’s what she called herself.”

  “Okay, go on.”

  “As soon as I opened the door, she hit me. Then she held a gun on me and forced me into the bedroom. I tried to say something and she hit me again and told me to shut up and do as I was told. Then she handcuffed me to the bed and put a gag in my mouth. I was terrified, but she said she wouldn’t hurt me anymore if I did exactly what she said.

  “She left me for a while. Then she came back with my phone and had me call Marvin—”

  “Marvin Olmstead, your agent?”

  “Yes. She told me to tell him that I had a family emergency and had to go home, but that I had called Nancy Porter, who did a magic act with me in Minneapolis, and she would be here in time for rehearsals. She … she said that she would kill me if I tried to call for help or say anything that wasn’t in her script, so I did what she wanted.

  “After that, she mostly left me alone. She would feed me and she took me to the toilet, but I was locked up in the bedroom all day. Then today she said she’d done what she came for and was going to leave. She said I shouldn’t worry, that she would call the police and they would free me. Then she left.”

  “Did she say where she was going?”

  “No.”

  “Did she ever say anything that hinted at where we could find her?”

  “She rarely spoke to me.”

  “Okay, I think that’s enough for now. We’re going to take you to a hospital to have you checked out. Then we’ll want to debrief you after you’ve gotten a good sleep. Do you want to come back here or go somewhere else?”

  “No, I’m okay staying here.”

  “Do you want an officer to
stay with you for a day or so?”

  “I don’t think she’s coming back, but that would be okay, I’m still pretty scared.”

  “You’re doing really well for someone who’s gone through what you just did. Is there anything else you need?”

  “No, but can you tell me why she did this? Did she hurt somebody else?”

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  Peter Ragland was in a great mood. Robin Lockwood may have won the battle at the bail hearing, but he’d win the war when they went to trial, now that he knew Maria Rodriguez was David Turner’s accomplice. The office had a brilliant techie who could trace money back to the year the first dollar was minted, and Ragland had assigned her to find out where the ten thousand dollars in Rodriguez’s account had originated. Once it was traced back to Turner, Rodriguez and the magician would be dead meat.

  Ragland was imagining the look on Lockwood’s face when he told her that he’d figured out the identity of Turner’s accomplice, when Carrie Anders and Roger Dillon walked in.

  “It’s not Turner,” Dillon said.

  Ragland looked confused. “What’s not Turner?”

  “He didn’t kill Chesterfield,” Anders said. “It was Nancy Porter, the magician’s assistant.”

  “What are you talking about? Of course Turner is our killer, and Maria Rodriguez hid the inhaler. He paid her off.”

  Dillon shook his head. “You remember the first time you prosecuted Chesterfield?”