“But you had evidence—”
“Which sounded ridiculous when they played it back during my deposition. The really damning recordings seemed to have disappeared, and what was left was silly stuff that played right into the prosecutor’s assertions. We were faced with dropping our case or going to court and being made to look like absolute fools.”
Anger began to rise inside me, and I felt myself seething at the injustice of it. If I’d looked in a mirror, I was certain my expression must have been very much like Lisa’s in that old photo. “How have you coped with this? It would be eating me up.”
“It did. For a long time. The women used to meet, afterward, for support and consolation. Two moved out of state for fresh starts. Most found other jobs away from the law and the local court system. We lost some good lawyers in this city. I dropped my law school studies and switched to psychology. They say everyone who goes into psychology does it to deal with their own messed up situation. Well, I sure did.”
“Did it work?”
“Eventually. I met a very kind man who introduced me to Eastern philosophy. He quoted the Buddha, who once said, ‘Holding on to anger is like picking up a hot coal with the idea of throwing it at someone else. You’re the one getting burned.’ Whew! That did it for me. Took some work but I was finally able to drop the anger and get on with my life.”
By some magic, hearing her words helped quell the fire that had suddenly built in me. Being churned up over this wasn’t going to help anyone. But it didn’t mean I could let go—all the wrong this man was doing, all the lives he was messing with. What I needed to do was to find better evidence.
Chapter 23
I picked up the breakfast tab—as part of the investigation, it was deductible—thanked Lisa profusely for her candor, and headed to the office where I’d left the rest of my notes on the McNab case. My head felt full of ideas and new information and I needed to put it all in some sort of order and formulate a plan for what to do next.
The Victorian was dim and quiet when I arrived. Saturday isn’t normally one of our office days; Sally is home with her family and Ron tries to get extra time with his boys unless he has a slew of work piling up. So, I had the rare chance to do some quiet thinking as I entered through the kitchen door and made my way toward the stairs. A pile of envelopes lay on the floor beneath the mail slot. I picked them up and headed up to my office.
Lisa Browning’s words had struck a number of chords with me, not the least of which was the connection with Rory’s defense attorney, Helen Bannerly. It suddenly made sense why the woman hadn’t done more to present a strong defense for her client and why she’d thrown up a wall when I asked about the case. Career-wise, she had stuck with the law, but her new firm’s focus was on corporate work, something that would rarely require her to appear in a courtroom.
So, I knew something had been going on between Helen Bannerly and Judge Blackman. Herman Quinto had refused to pursue Blackman when a group of women wanted charges brought for sexual harassment. How did that add up to a conspiracy against Rory McNab?
My logical choice would be to talk to Rory again and come right out with the question. But I’d pretty much done that, and he’d not responded with anything useful. Or, he just plain didn’t know. Perhaps if I produced something in the way of actual evidence, something that would convince Rory to open up, maybe we would get somewhere.
Of course, there was always the possibility that Rory truly did not know how he’d ended up in the sights of these men.
I caught myself chewing my lower lip while I went through the mail, sorting it into stacks for Ron and me, tossing the junk. I delivered Ron’s mail to his desk, set mine aside and pulled out a yellow legal pad. Sometimes writing things down solidifies the idea, so I came up with this list:
What Evidence?
Taped conversations with judge’s victims—nothing in writing
What happened to those recordings?
Wait—small black packet (notebook?) passed from Quinto to Blackman last night
Judge continues womanizing ways—would a current lover speak up? Find them.
Judge’s wife out of town this weekend
This last bit I’d overheard as Blackman greeted another man at the party, a guy who’d commented on the older man’s good fortune with ‘knockout’ assistants. I tapped my pen against the notepad, trying to think what else to add.
Talk to Helen Bannerly again, this time with more knowledge and evidence—What evidence?
My thoughts seemed to run in a loop and everything led back to the fact that I needed something more concrete than speculation. And the best way around that …
I knew where I was going with this, even before I dared fully form the idea in my head. It was a stupid idea, completely iffy, and possibly dangerous. My cup of tea exactly.
Before I could talk myself out of it, I grabbed my purse and phone, locked the office and headed to my Jeep. If traffic wasn’t horrible, I could be in Sandia Heights in fifteen minutes. I have to admit I hit the gas pedal a little harder than necessary—okay, a lot harder.
The prospect of finding that small black packet was exciting, and this was the time to do it. Evidence had once existed against the judge and it had disappeared. If I could get hold of that little journal or whatever it was, I might find the clues to unlock this whole thing. Unless he was a big believer in banks, he probably had a safe somewhere in his house. If he did prefer the safe deposit box method, he would go Monday morning, since he couldn’t have done so between Friday night and now.
Today was my window. In fact, it was this morning. One of the remarks I’d overheard between the judge and one of his cronies was a little wager on a golf game planned for today. If he hadn’t left already for an early tee time, I could simply watch until he did. With the wife gone, unless they had full-time staff, the house would be mine for several hours.
I felt my pulse rate pick up. With luck, the recordings Lisa had mentioned might also turn up. I was so intent on imagining the possibilities that I nearly missed the exit at Tramway Road. I made a too-quick move but recovered control and forced myself to slow down. Nothing could be gained by maiming myself in the process.
Sandia Heights is a neighborhood of winding trail-like roads clinging to the foothills of the big mountain that dominates Albuquerque’s terrain. The homes, mostly built in the ’60s and ’70s, are a mixture of styles and, in certain cases, trendy looks that did not age well. For some reason, I imagined a judge living in something very traditional, maybe a territorial style home with kiva fireplaces, or maybe a large ranch house with rich wood paneling and a wall of gorgeous native rock. The Blackman residence turned out to be neither.
Concrete slabs upended at angles, cantilevered rooflines, and a teak front door that stood a good twelve feet tall—it was either built as the latest style in 1960-something, or it was very new as the modern mid-century style began to trend back into fashion in very recent years. Didn’t really matter to me, as it’s not my taste, but I had to admit it was one of the larger and showier homes on this road. I cruised by slowly, looking for signs of action.
No movement at any of the large windows. The graveled drive and adjacent dirt area showed a set of tracks that appeared to have very recently backed out to the paved road. Looked like the judge had left for his golf game. Since my intentions were not altogether honorable, nor legal, I drove to the next corner and pulled off at a wide spot in the road.
I saw no one else around, no walkers or neighbors watering their yards. Of course, the reason most people lived up here among the boulders and sagebrush was so they could go with xeriscaping and not have to water a yard. I tucked my purse beneath the car seat, pulled my hair into a ponytail, tucked my phone into a pocket, and plugged in earbuds before setting off at a pace I hoped would make me look like an exercise nut.
With a quick glance around, I approached the Blackman’s front door and pressed the doorbell. It’s always good to be sure some maid doesn’t pop up
to answer it, and to verify that the tracks leading away from the house didn’t belong to someone who’d slept over and the judge himself wasn’t about to emerge from the shower. The chimes echoed with a hollow sound, and again when I rang a second time. Good.
On the off chance the man hadn’t checked the door before he walked out through the connecting door to the garage, I tried the handle. Of course, I wasn’t that lucky. Still, I could check all the possibilities. A skinny path of stepping stones led around the uphill side of the house and I followed them.
The back, west-facing side of the house revealed why the spot was so alluring. From the edge of a spacious patio, the mountainside dropped away to reveal the entire city laid out below, completely at my feet. No wonder Judge Blackman acted as if he owned the world—this view could make a person believe it.
I had to remind myself I wasn’t here to enjoy the panorama at my feet. Taking a peek through the nearest window, I got the gist of the layout inside: kitchen with huge center island, long dining table at the far wall, and a massive great room with a sectional couch bigger than my backyard. It faced floor-to-ceiling windows and glass doors to the wide patio where I stood.
This, in itself, was another living area, with several furniture groupings, more dining space, and rock fire pit. Everything felt magazine-perfect and not a soul was moving, which relieved my mind about there being a maid or chef somewhere on the premises. I gave a tug at the frame of the kitchen window but it didn’t move. None of the French doors budged for me. But a side window had been neglected. It stood open about two inches, and a perusal told me it led to the laundry room.
I found a short garden stake near a chamisa bush and used it to pry the screen from the window. Set that aside and raised the sash enough to boost myself through, making mental notes all the while about each of the small steps I would undo as I left, to make sure I’d covered my traces.
The room smelled of detergent and cat box. I wondered if the resident feline was the verbal, greeter type or if he/she was one that would dash under the bed at the first sign of a stranger. Either way, it seemed smart to close the window. I don’t have any qualms about helping myself to evidence or taking a person’s ill-gotten gains; I just don’t want harm to come to their pets.
The door opened into a short hall, which led to a longer one, which showed an impersonally decorated guest bedroom, a bath, and a study. Always a good place to begin.
Apparently, the modernist decorator had his way in here too. The desk was a sheet of plate glass on chrome legs with a sleek computer on top and a space-age chair that was undoubtedly the most ergonomic thing on the market. It certainly wasn’t the most attractive. Built-in cabinets along one wall housed file drawers (I discovered) and a decent-sized safe, securely locked. Dammit. I riffled through the obvious places but found no sign of the little black object I’d seen him take from Quinto.
On the opposite side of the room was a leather couch, two side chairs, and a chrome and glass coffee table. The program from last night’s gala lay on the table, along with the burgundy bow tie the judge had worn and a lone highball glass. It smelled of scotch. His tuxedo jacket was draped over the back of one of the chairs. It appeared the judge had come home alone.
I went through his pockets, but no black book. I could guess all day—the possibilities were endless. It could be locked in that sturdy safe across the room, he could have slept with it under his pillow, or he could have passed it off to someone else last night. It could be with him now, on the golf course. I could only operate in one place at a time, so it made sense to check the rest of the house.
The master bedroom seemed the logical place. I envisioned another safe in there, one carelessly left unlocked. The little door would be standing open and inside would be his wife’s jewelry, a stack of spending money, and the black packet. In my mind’s eye the little book would open to reveal wondrous secrets, including everything I needed to prove Rory McNab’s innocence and put the slimeballs behind bars instead. I shook my head and the dream-bubble burst. A ruthless politician and an unfeeling predator in jail? Seriously? I reminded myself about truth, justice, and the American way. Who am I kidding—this is the American way.
Okay, so even if I couldn’t singlehandedly leap tall buildings or put powerful men in prison, maybe I could figure out how to exonerate an innocent man and get him back home with his dying father before it was too late. I straightened the tuxedo coat and hung it back neatly over the chair, as I’d found it.
Passing through the huge living room, I saw double doors standing open at the other end. A flash of fuzzy gray and white zipped from the room beyond and disappeared behind the huge sectional sofa. Looked like kitty wasn’t going to be the friendly sort. At a closer glance, I could see the corner of an elaborate bedspread hanging crookedly toward the floor. Obviously, an important man doesn’t make his own bed.
At first glance, the master bedroom followed the same color scheme as the rest of the home, ebony flooring with pale gray area rugs. But the bed was a cozy cherry sleigh and a tall armoire of the same rich wood stood between two tall windows, which were draped with the same gray and burgundy print as the bedding. I stood a moment in the doorway, wondering where a safe might be. If concealed behind one of the Betty Sabo paintings, it was closed up tight. None of the beautiful landscapes was a tad out of place.
My guess was the armoire—it would be easy enough to conceal a small safe behind a wood panel and bolt the whole thing to the wall. I walked past the bed, eyeing the large piece of furniture, thinking most likely the double doors would open to reveal a set of drawers and compartments.
The room was dim enough that I didn’t immediately notice the large object on the floor on the far side of the bed, but when my foot slipped in something gooey, I whirled to look down. That’s when I realized the judge hadn’t gone golfing, after all.
Oh, shit! My heart went into overdrive and there was a buzzing in my ears. The hair on my arms tingled, and my brain froze. What the hell had happened here?
A person without clothing loses all dignity, especially one whose flabby gut and lack of muscle tone had been so neatly concealed by an impeccably cut designer tuxedo. I took in the sad sight at a glance, along with the blood that had saturated the gray rug under the body and pooled at its edge. He lay facedown, pasty-white buns toward the ceiling, arms and legs sprawled outward. I couldn’t see a wound and I didn’t want to.
I’ve worked on several murder cases, but the private investigator’s role generally doesn’t come into play until much later. The police handle the messy stuff. This was the first time I’d been in the room with a body so—I couldn’t think of the right word—so fresh.
My first instinct was to get away—far, far away. I should get out of the house and call the police. If I stayed another second, I would probably throw up and mess up the crime scene. My shoe skidded again and I wiped it on the corner of the rug that wasn’t already dirty, leaving a red smear. My every move was making it worse—I had to get out of here. I pulled off my shoes and ran in my stocking feet. I’d cleared the bedroom when the doorbell rang.
I felt my eyes go saucer-wide. No way was I going to answer it.
I spun and dashed into the living room, trying to get my bearings and remember the route to the laundry room and window I’d left unlocked.
A fist pounded on the door. “Police! Open up!”
Shit, shit, shit!
A glance at the huge windows along the back of the house and my gut went watery. Two cops stood out there, staring in, and they’d spotted me.
Chapter 24
There was no blending into the woodwork now. I took a deep breath. No matter how it looked, I was innocent—okay, almost innocent. I’d let myself into someone’s house without an invitation, true. But the body in the bedroom—I had nothing to do with that. And once I explained it, the police would understand. A picture of innocent Rory McNab and his experience with the law flashed through my head, but I forced it away.
&
nbsp; Turning toward the two cops at the back doors, I dropped my shoes and held up my hands. The male officer drew his pistol, while the female cocked her head and spoke into the microphone on her shoulder.
Two sharp raps sounded on the door behind me, and a voice shouted, “Keep your hands up, approach the front door slowly and unlock it. Then step back!”
I’m not always well behaved, but this time I did exactly as told. I backed away as the uniformed officer at the door came forward, gun in hand. Within seconds, the other two came in behind him.
“Are you alone in the house?” The voice was no-nonsense.
“Yeah, but—”
“Want to explain why you chose to visit through the side window?”
Not really. I could try the old forgot-my-key ploy, but it wasn’t going to work this time. “How did you know—”
“A neighbor saw you. Not smart, lady.”
“Her vehicle is parked at the corner,” said the female officer who had stepped outside to talk to a woman who looked like the neighborhood busybody.
“Did you plan to carry the big-screen TV all that way?” said the one with attitude.
Meanwhile, the other one had patted me down and, learning I was unarmed, put away his weapon. While the woman officer went back outside with her notebook at hand, the other guy began poking his head in other rooms.
“I—no! Could I just say something?”
“Murphy! Holy crap!” The guy backed out of the master bedroom. “We gotta get Homicide out here.” His face was a chalky, marshmallow hue when he stepped over and touched the other officer’s sleeve.
“That’s what I wanted to tell you …”
“Turn around and put your hands behind your back. Slowly.”
I felt cold metal on my wrists. This was about to get a whole lot worse.
Escapes Can Be Murder Page 12