Sidney Sheldon's Angel of the Dark

by Sidney Sheldon

  It was good stuff, made all the more poignant by the sight of Matt Daley openly, and copiously, weeping from his wheelchair in the front row. But one look at the jurors’ stony faces told anybody watching that Pennino’s evidence was too little, too late.

  Inevitably, Judge Muñoz’s summing-up was as black and white and compassionless as was legally possible.

  “The question before you today,” he told the jurors, “is not whether Frances Mancini or Sofia Basta had unhappy childhoods. Neither do you need to ask yourself whether either defendant has, or has had, psychological problems. You do not need to understand their motives, their relationship or anything about the inner workings of their twisted minds other than this: Did they kill those four men deliberately? If you believe that they did, you must convict.

  “We already know that together, Frances Mancini and Sofia Basta carried out these horrendous crimes and that they were brought to justice in the process of committing another. Make no mistake. Had they not been caught, Mr. Ishag would not be alive today. And despite his impassioned pleas for clemency for Ms. Basta, the truth is that Mr. Daley too was lucky to escape from her clutches with his life. Had they not been caught, thanks to Assistant Director McGuire’s dogged determination, their killing spree would have continued, perhaps for another ten years. More innocent men would have lost their lives in the most unimaginably terrifying circumstances, betrayed and slaughtered by a woman they loved, and who they believed loved them. This court has heard no convincing expression of remorse from either defendant.

  “Much has been made of the defendants’ mental capacity, in particular Ms. Basta’s. In light of this, I am obliged to remind you that according to the law it makes no difference whether she believed herself to be somebody else at the time she perpetrated these crimes. All that matters is whether she intended to kill. The same goes for Mr. Mancini. If you believe there was intent, you must convict.

  “You may now retire to consider your verdict. All rise.”

  Once the accused were led away, the spectators began to disperse. Danny McGuire turned to David Ishag and Matt Daley. “Can I take you both to lunch?”

  Ishag looked tired, but Matt looked gravely ill, white as a sheet and shaking.

  “We should get out of Beverly Hills before those reporters mob us.”

  “Thanks, but I can’t,” said David, gathering up his notes and stuffing them into his briefcase. “I’m catching a plane back to India tonight.”

  Matt looked amazed. “Before the verdict is announced?”

  “I have to. The jury’ll be out for days and I have a business to run.”

  “You really think they’ll be out for days?” asked Matt hopefully. “You think they’re that uncertain?”

  “I think they’re totally certain,” said David. “They have to go through the motions of weighing up all the evidence, that’s all. Boyce’s footnotes alone would take a week to read.” He shook Danny McGuire’s hand, fighting hard to control his emotions. “Thank you. What Muñoz said was true. I’d be dead if it weren’t for you.”

  “You’re welcome. You’re sure you won’t stay, at least for lunch?”

  “Quite sure. Good-bye, Matt. Good luck.” And with that, David Ishag strode out of the courtroom and into the blacked-out limousine that was waiting for him, swatting aside reporters’ shouted questions like a giant dismissing a swarm of gnats.

  Matt Daley watched him go, a stupefied look on his face. Danny McGuire knew the look well from all his years on the force dealing with victims of violent crime. Matt was in shock. The trial, always a strain, had finally become too much for him.

  Danny pushed Matt’s wheelchair toward the private, police-only exit. “Come on, man. Let’s get you out of here.”

  THEY HAD LUNCH AT A TINY Jewish deli in Silverlake, only six miles from the courthouse but a world away from the Azrael soap opera. Danny ordered a brisket sandwich and insisted on some chicken noodle soup for Matt as well as a mug of hot, sweet coffee.

  “They’re gonna execute her, aren’t they?”

  Danny put down his sandwich. “Probably. Yeah. I’m sorry, Matt.”

  “It’s my fault.” Tears began coursing down Matt Daley’s cheeks, splashing into his soup. “If I hadn’t started with this stupid documentary, if I hadn’t gotten you involved, they’d never have found her.”

  Danny was shocked. “You can’t possibly mean that. If you hadn’t done what you did, people would have died, Matt. Innocent people. That woman had to be stopped.”

  “I could have stopped her. You heard the psychiatrist. If Lisa and I had gotten away like we planned to. If we’d made it to Morocco and disappeared. Frankie couldn’t have kept killing without her…and she’d never have hurt a fly if it hadn’t been for him.”

  “Maybe so,” said Danny. “Or maybe not. Remember, you had no idea back then that Lisa was involved in any of the murders. How do you think you’d have reacted if you’d known?”

  Matt was unhesitating. “I’d have forgiven her. I’d have understood.”

  “She killed your father, Matt. That’s why you got involved with this in the first place. Because Andrew Jakes didn’t deserve to die like that. Remember? Nobody deserves to die like that.”

  “No,” Matt said stubbornly. “Mancini killed my father. Lisa was confused. She thought she was protecting her sister. She never wanted any of this to happen.”

  There was obviously no point in talking to him. He wasn’t going to change Matt’s mind, and the subject made his friend intensely agitated, which was exactly what Danny had hoped to avoid by taking him out to lunch. He changed the subject.

  “How’s Claire?”

  “She’s good. Tired of having me living with her, I guess. It’s not easy having a crippled brother around with two kids and a husband to take care of.”

  “She’d do anything for you,” said Danny. “Even I could see that. You’re lucky.”

  Yeah, thought Matt. Lucky. That’s me.

  “She thinks I should see a shrink.”

  “What do you think?”

  Matt shrugged. “It won’t make any difference. If Lisa…If they…” He choked up, unable to go on, but Danny could guess the rest. If they execute Sofia, he thinks he’ll have nothing to live for. The jury might not know it, but they were deliberating the fate of three lives, not two.

  “Maybe you should go back to work, Matt. Make this damn documentary of yours. God knows you have enough material and no one’s closer to this case than you are. People can’t get enough of this story right now. You could make a fortune.”

  “I don’t want a fortune,” said Matt truthfully. “Not if it can’t buy Lisa her freedom.”

  “You want to tell the truth, though, don’t you?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean you want people to know what really happened. Well, what better way to do that than to make a movie? To get the message out there in a way that millions of people will understand? That’s the one way you can still help her.”

  For the first time, something resembling hope seemed to cross Matt Daley’s face. It was true. He did owe it to Lisa to tell the truth. He owed it to all of them. Whether he intended to or not, Danny McGuire had just thrown him a lifeline.

  Just then Danny’s cell phone rang. It was Lou Angelastro, an old buddy of his from the LAPD.

  “What’s up, Lou? I’m just out at lunch with a friend of mine, taking a break. Can I call you back in ten?”

  Matt Daley watched as Danny McGuire’s face passed from surprise…to disbelief…to panic.

  “We’ll never make it in time…Silverlake…can you send a car? Yeah, I’ll give it to you.” Reeling off the name and address of the deli where he and Matt were eating, Danny hung up the phone.

  “Everything okay?” asked Matt.

  “Kind of…No…Not really.” Pulling out two twenties, Danny dropped them on the table, hurriedly scrambling to his feet. “The jury came back already. They’ve reached a verdict.”

&n
bsp; IN COURTROOM 306, PANDEMONIUM REIGNED. AS people scrambled for the best seats, camera crews battled one another for access to the reserved media gallery, using their heavy cameras as weapons. A number of key news teams had already left the immediate vicinity of the courthouse. No one expected a verdict so soon. But when word was released that the jury was ready to return and that Judge Federico Muñoz was expected to call the court back in session within minutes, they all raced back to Beverly Hills, leaning on their horns like impatient rally drivers. Pretty soon Burton Way was as clogged up as the 405 during rush hour. Even the sidewalks were packed, with passersby and devoted Azrael watchers huddling around the two giant outdoor screens where they could watch the verdict delivered live.

  For a case of such international scope, it was amazing how proprietary the Angelinos had become about the defendants, claiming Sofia Basta and the chillingly handsome Frankie Mancini as their own. Suddenly everybody cared about Andrew Jakes, the rich, elderly art dealer the pair had slain back in the early days of their killing spree. The Azrael murders had started in L.A. As far as Angelinos were concerned, it was only fitting that the drama should end there. Not since the O.J. trial had the world’s attention been so closely focused on the city’s criminal justice system. It was important to the people of Los Angeles that this time the guilty parties receive their just deserts. Although they stopped short of openly baying for blood, the mood among the crowd was grimly expectant, knowing as they did that Judge Dread enjoyed nothing more than handing down death sentences. Today, for once, the city was right behind him.

  Matt Daley gripped the handhold on the police car’s passenger door. Above him, the siren was wailing, its lights flashing brilliant blue and white as they hurtled toward the courthouse. Matt was struggling to breathe.

  “Not much longer,” said Danny as the traffic grudgingly parted to let them pass. “I think we’ll make it.”

  JUDGE MUÑOZ WALKED REGALLY INTO THE court. All the assembled lawyers, defendants and spectators stood up. Arriving at the judge’s chair, Muñoz paused for dramatic effect, a king surveying his kingdom. There were the attorneys:

  William Boyce, who’d almost bored them all to death with his lifeless performance for the prosecution over the first two weeks, but whose cross-examinations had gripped the world and changed the course of the trial.

  Alvin Dubray, for Mancini, the bumbling old “fool” who’d said the least but probably achieved the most for his client by keeping him silent and allowing Sofia Basta enough rope to hang herself.

  Ellen Watts, pretty, clever, but in the end too inexperienced to rein in her own client. Watts had had the hardest hand to play, trying to paint an evil killer as a victim, an intelligent schemer as confused and insane, a sexually rapacious sadomasochist as a little-girl-lost. And she’d almost done it too, if only Sofia Basta’s temper hadn’t gotten the better of her.

  To the judge’s left stood the accused. Mancini looked his usual amused, evil and deranged self. Sofia Basta was equally inscrutable. Staring straight ahead, her arms at her side, the expression on her face could only be described as blank. Not nervous, not hopeful, not angry, not impatient, not despairing. Not anything. She was a blank slate, ready to have the next chapter of her appalling life written for her. This time, with a little help from the jury, Judge Federico Muñoz would be writing that chapter.

  It would be her last.

  To Muñoz’s right, at the very front of the courtroom, three seats remained conspicuously empty. David Ishag, Matt Daley and Danny McGuire were all missing.

  Damn, thought Muñoz. Had he known, he’d have waited…fabricated some excuse to allow the three key players in the drama to be present at its denouement. But it was too late now. Finally, the judge sat down. Everyone in courtroom 306 gratefully followed suit, sinking into their seats but still craning their necks to keep Basta and Mancini in view.

  One by one the jury filed in.

  AT THE BARRIER THAT HAD BEEN set up in front of the courthouse, their driver was arguing with a guard.

  “What do you mean ‘no more vehicles’? This is Assistant Director Danny McGuire of Interpol. He has all-access clearance.”

  “Doesn’t matter,” grunted the guard. “I got orders. Once the court’s in session, no more vehicles go in or out.”

  Danny McGuire stepped out of the car. Bringing his face to within centimeters of the guard’s, so close that he could smell the man’s garlicky breath, he said, “Either you remove this barrier and let us through right now, or I will personally see to it that you are not only fired from this job but that you never find work anywhere in this city again. If you think I’m bullshitting you, go ahead and make us turn around. But you have precisely three seconds to make that call.

  “One.

  “Two…”

  The guard registered the steely glint in Danny McGuire’s eye and made his decision.

  “MR. FOREMAN. HAVE YOU REACHED YOUR verdict?”

  The heavyset black man in his midfifties nodded gravely.

  “We have, Your Honor.”

  “And is that verdict unanimous?”

  “It is.”

  OUTSIDE, THE CROWD GAZED UP AT the giant plasma screens in rapt silence. One showed the foreman standing, with the seated members of the jury behind him. All looked somber, as befitted the terrible crimes they’d been called upon to judge.

  The other showed the two defendants. Standing only a few feet apart in the prisoners’ box, they looked as detached from each other as two people could possibly be. It was impossible to imagine that they had known each other since childhood, still less that they had worked together as a deadly team for a dozen years and been married for decades.

  “Have you reached your verdict?”

  “We have, Your Honor.”

  DANNY MCGUIRE PANTED AS HE RAN down the corridor, pushing Matt Daley’s heavy wheelchair in front of him. The double doors of room 306 loomed in front of them like heaven’s gates.

  Or hell’s.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” the LAPD guard began. “Court is in session. Judge Muñoz…” He trailed off when he saw Danny’s Interpol ID.

  “You can go in, sir.” The guard opened the doors respectfully. “But I can’t allow your friend here.”

  Ignoring him, Danny pushed Matt’s chair into the court. The room was so silent, and the disturbance so unexpected, that for a moment hundreds of heads swiveled in their direction. But only one gaze caught Matt Daley’s eye. For the first time since the trial began, she was looking at him. Directly at him.

  He mouthed to her: “Lisa.”

  She smiled.

  Judge Muñoz was speaking. “On the charge murder in the first degree, relating to Andrew Jakes, how do you find the first defendant, Frances Mancini?”

  “Guilty.”

  The word reverberated round the room like a gunshot.

  “And the second defendant, Sofia Basta?”

  The foreman’s next breath seemed to take an hour.

  “Not guilty.”

  The gasps from inside the courtroom were heard around the world. Outside on Burton Way, the crowds let out a scream so loud it was faintly audible even through the thick walls of the courthouse. Once the cameramen realized what had happened, they zoomed in on Sofia’s face. But whatever reaction she may have had in the split second after the foreman spoke had been erased from her face now, replaced by her usual serene blankness. Matt Daley closed his eyes, falling back into his chair as if he’d been punched in the gut. Even Judge Muñoz, the famous Judge Dread himself, required a moment’s pause to regain his composure.

  The foreman went on. “In the case of Andrew Jakes, however, we find the second defendant, Sofia Basta, guilty of voluntary manslaughter, due to diminished responsibility.”

  Judge Muñoz cleared his throat. “In the case of Sir Piers Henley…”

  Again, the verdict came back, like knife wounds to the judge’s heart.

  Guilty.

  Not guilty.

  Diminishe
d responsibility.

  It was the same for the other two victims. Only on the charge of the attempted homicide of David Ishag were both defendants condemned.

  The sense of disbelief was palpable. Even the usually unflappable Mancini looked shocked, his olive complexion visibly draining of blood. Sir Piers Henley’s brother was shaking his head, tapping at his hearing aid in wonder. Miles Baring’s old girlfriends both burst loudly into tears, and more than one voice from the gallery shouted, “No!”

  For his part, Danny McGuire couldn’t share the outrage. Truth be told, he felt only a deep sense of peace.

  Sofia Basta would remain safely behind bars. No one else would have to die at Azrael’s hands, sacrificed to Frankie Mancini’s twisted lust for vengeance. But the lovely Angela Jakes, as she had once been, would be spared the executioner’s needle.

  Not justice perhaps. But closure.

  Danny McGuire was free at last.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  FOUR YEARS LATER…

  I’M SORRY, SIR. WITHOUT A PASS there is no way I can admit you.”

  Perhaps surprisingly, the guard at Altacito State Hospital did look sorry. It was a tough, lonely job guarding the inmates of California’s only women’s psychiatric prison, and not many of ASH’s underpaid staff were known for their compassion. In his midsixties, the guard looked even older, his leathery skin as cracked and parched as a dry riverbed thanks to long years spent in the punishing desert sun. But there was a kindness in his eyes when he looked at the skinny, hopeful blond man, leaning on a cane at the hospital gates as he tried to plead his case.

  It wasn’t the first time the guard had seen the man. Or the second. Or even the third. Every month, come visiting day, the man would show up, politely asking to be allowed to see Altacito State Hospital’s most celebrated inmate. But every month the lady declined to receive visitors.