by Tim Green
Out of the blue she said, "Chris, do you buy Dobbins's story about not knowing that piece of tape existed until he watched the film?"
Chris peered intently at her. "I don't know," he said. "I guess in all the excitement I didn't even really think about it. I guess yes. I mean, if this guy videotapes things all the time I doubt he's going home every night to review the tapes."
"But since he's videotaping things all the time, wouldn't you think he would have wondered before now, almost five weeks after the fact, if he had Trane on a video that would back up his alibi?"
Chris tilted his head and shrugged. "I guess. But none of us thought of it either. And why would he intentionally wait?"
Madison thought for a moment and then said, "The publicity?"
"I don't know, Madison," Chris said doubtfully. "I'll admit he loves the cameras, but let your top client swing out there in the wind for five weeks, the scourge of the world, just for some publicity?"
Madison nodded and they both turned their heads as a young couple burst out into a vociferous argument about having children. Everyone stared as the woman left the restaurant in tears and the man threw down his napkin and followed, shaking his head in embarrassment. Madison looked at Chris and shook her own head slowly.
"I tell you who made out is Zeus Shoes," she said casually as she took another sip of her wine.
"It's the American way," Chris said, raising his bottle. "It's just the American way."
"Excuse me, Ms. McCall?" said the maitre d a large white- haired man in a tuxedo who had suddenly appeared at their table. "I have an important call for you from your husband. Would you like to take it here?"
"Yes," she said, taking the cordless phone he offered her, trying not to choke on the word. "Cody?" she said into the phone.
"Everything's fine," he told her. "Jo-Jo's fine, everything's okay, but I just got a call from a guy named Tom Huntington. He says he's a good friend of Clark Cromwell. I guess the police searched Clark's house this afternoon and found a bloody sweatshirt or something and they want him to go in to ask him some questions. Clark is at this guy Tom's and Tom told him not to go. Clark had your number and this Tom called here wanting to know where you were. He says he wants you to call him right away. Are you okay?"
"Yes," she said, her heart racing, "I'm okay. I'll call him. What's the number?"
Cody told her the number, then said, "Let me know what happens, all right?"
"Okay. I love you."
"I love you, too, Madison. Bye."
"Bye."
Madison hung up and dialed Tom Huntington immediately.
She knew who he was, what he did, and how close he was with Clark.
"Hello?"
"Hi, Tom? This is Madison McCall."
"Thank God you called. Are you in L. A.?"
"Yes."
"The police were just here and they want Clark to go in and talk to them. Clark let them search his house and they found a bloody sweatshirt and what they think is the trunk key to Trane's car. They think he killed Annie and framed Trane. He was going to go and talk to them, but I told him not to. I told him he had to talk to you first. Will you help him?"
"Of course I'll help," Madison said.
"He thought because you were working for Trane that you couldn't help him. I don't know. Is that a problem?"
"No. I'm Clark's agent and his lawyer already. As long as he's all right with it, it's not a problem for me to help him. There's nothing wrong with it."
"Should he go with the police?"
"No," Madison said. "You did the right thing. If they're going to arrest you, then you don't have a choice, but if they're asking then you don't want to talk to them without a lawyer. They're not still there, are they?"
"No, they left," Tom said. "But I've got the name of the detective . . . Lieutenant Brinson. He wants Clark to call him. Clark wants to. He wants to talk to them."
"Is he okay? Do you want me to talk to him?"
"I think the best thing would be if you could come over here. Can you come?"
"Yes. You'll have to give me about an hour, and I need directions."
Tom told her how to get there, and when she hung up she said to Chris, "Eat up. I'll meet you at the front desk. I'm going to book us for another night or two. I have the feeling we may be staying here."
Madison drove. Chris navigated.
"How do you feel?" Chris asked when they were out on the freeway.
"Mixed up," she told him.
"You can't say we didn't see this coming," Chris said.
"The suspicion of Clark we saw coming," she said. "But a bloody sweatshirt, a car key that might belong to Trane? Those are the two missing pieces of the puzzle. If that blood turns out to be the girl's, it's not good."
"You said he let them search the house?"
"Yes. He must have signed a consent."
Chris shook his head. It was a detective's dream, a consent to search.
"You said you had a good feeling from him," Madison said, glancing over at her partner. "How about now?"
Chris shook his head again. "If that's her blood... I don't know. I want to talk to him again. I had a good feeling, but then this whole thing. If that's his sweatshirt with her blood and if he's got the key to Trane's car . . . It's everything we were saying the police didn't have. What about his alibi?"
"I don't know," she said. "But we'll find out."
Tom's wife answered the door. She was a tall, attractive woman with short dark hair and large diamond earrings. Quietly she led them into the living room, where Clark and Tom were on their knees praying beside the coffee table. Madison stood uncomfortably with Chris until they were finished. Chris pretended to read the tides of books on a nearby shelf, but didn't miss a word of the prayer. It was guidance they were asking for, guidance and justice. Chris looked over at Madison's impassive face and wondered what she was thinking, ah /oh< s '^?
Tom rose first and gave them a subdued greeting.
"Hi, Madison. Hi, Chris," Clark said, his face drawn and tense.
They sat and Tom's wife offered them something to drink.
"Tea would be fine," Madison said, not because she wanted it but because she could see from the wife's anxious face that she was desperate for something to do. Chris was okay with nothing.
"I can't believe any of this," Clark said in obvious despair. "I can't believe Annie's dead. I can't believe you were representing Trane, and now it's me. He somehow got off, and now I'm the one they're saying did it. It's insane. It's really insane. But I know God will see me through."
"I'm glad you called me," Madison said. "We want to help."
"It was Tom's idea," Clark said. "I don't think I need a lawyer. I didn't do anything."
"If they found a bloody sweatshirt in your garage and it turns out to be Annie's blood, you need me. And you don't want to talk to the police."
"I do want to," Clark argued. "I'm going to. I didn't do anything. I don't care what they find. I didn't kill her. If I don't talk to them, they're going to end up arresting me. I don't want that. I'll talk to them and convince them I didn't do it. I don't want to be arrested, Madison. I don't want that. Not after all I've done, after all my life working to be the person I am, my reputation . . ."
"I know about all that," Madison said. "And I know how important those things are to you. But I'm a lawyer. I have to look at this strategically. My job is to protect you, and the police have ways of getting you to say things you don't really mean."
"But I--"
Madison held up her hand. "Let's talk about where we're at. If I can't convince you that it's not the best thing to do, then you can go talk to them and I'll go with you, but I'm going to ask you to sign a waiver saying that I advised you against it."
"Good. That's what we'll do," Clark said.
"Give me a chance first, Clark," she told him. "I don't want you to do that, and I think I can convince you not to, but if I can't that's how we'll handle it. For now, I've got some questions t
hat I need answered so I know where we stand."
"Okay."
"First of all, where were you at midnight on the night Annie was killed?"
"On my way home," he said blankly.
"You left the party?"
"Yes."
"Weren't you the guest of honor?"
"I was, but all that was over. I was tired and I left about eleven-thirty."
"Was anyone with you, did anyone see you leave?"
"No," Clark said. "I was alone. I don't know if anyone saw me leave."
"A valet?"
"No," Clark said, shaking his head. "I got there early for the golf and parked it myself."
"Did you stop anywhere on the way home? For gas or something to eat?"
"No. I went home and went to bed. No one saw me. No one was with me."
Madison nodded somberly. "Okay. Tell me about her."
"About Annie," Clark said, looking over at Tom as if for guidance.
"Yes."
"She was my girlfriend. Then we broke up. When I saw her with Trane I was shocked. I was sick. But I didn't kill her. I didn't want to kill her. I was hurt, but I wouldn't kill somebody for that. I wouldn't kill anyone. It was her choice."
"When did you break up?"
"In the summer. Right before training camp." "And you didn't see her, date her, since then?"
"No."
Tom's wife brought Madison's tea and she thanked her and took a sip before gently saying, "Why did you break up?"
Clark shrugged. "We just didn't get along anymore. I don't know. It was just one of those things. She wanted to go in a different direction."
Madison thought she saw a slight flush in Clark's cheek, and she watched him glance over at Tom. She looked at Chris to see if he'd noticed. His eyes had a knowing gleam and they were locked on Clark. He'd seen it, too.
"There must have been something," Madison said. "I mean, how did it end? Did you have a fight or something? Where were you?"
Clark sighed heavily. "Do we have to talk about this?" he said.
"This is what the police are going to ask you about, so you might as well tell me," she said.
Clark thought about that, then said, "We were at the beach. We were out on the beach and I asked her to marry me."
He looked up at Madison. She kept her face totally impassive, but Chris couldn't help narrowing his eyes. This was news to him.
'"Vfou didn't tell me that before," Chris said.
Clark looked at him guiltily. "It didn't come up, Chris. I didn't lie to you. It didn't come up."
"That's a pretty important point to leave out," Chris said quietly.
"Why?" Clark said defensively. "It's got nothing to do with anything. I asked her to marry me and she told me that's not the direction she wanted to go. She wasn't who I thought she was. I thought she was a Christian. I thought she wanted a family, a husband, a home. She didn't want any of those things.
"She was a liar," he said, his voice heating up. "She was a . . . she was a . . ."
"Whore?" Chris said, biting his tongue as he did, but the word had already escaped.
Clark's eyes were burning brightly now and his lips began to tremble. "Yes," he hissed. "She was. . ."
His eyes began to brim with tears and he clenched his fists. Then, speaking low and angrily he said, "But I didn't kill her. I wouldn't kill anyone."
Chapter 41
It's her blood."
"Thanks," Brinson said. He hung up the phone. He took a long swig of coffee. It was milky and rich from a heavy dose of sugar and cream. One of the advantages of being fat and not caring was that you got to eat and drink all the good stuff" with a clear conscience.
"It was her blood," Brinson said. Kelly and Arnsbarger were sitting on the other side of his desk in the meticulously neat office.
"We gonna bring him in?" Arnsbarger wanted to know.
"No. He's coming in at one to talk to us," Brinson said. "This blood gives us enough to get into his locker at the Juggernauts, too. I'd love to find the shoes he was wearing when he whacked her. I want this thing airtight before we arrest him. I don't want another Trane Jones deal."
The detectives both nodded in assent.
"Kelly, you and Arnsey get ahold of the blues that are watching him and let them know it was her blood. Not that I don't trust them, but this'll give them some extra incentive to stay awake. I don't want anything funny going on now."
"You got it."
"Get going, because I want you both back here by one for the main event."
"We gonna sit in on it?" Kelly said.
"No. "You'll be behind the glass, but I want six eyes and the camera watching this guy. I'm gonna to try to break him."
Amsbarger and Kelly left, and Brinson found himself drawn to a neatly framed five-by-seven photo of him and his sister. They were on the beach at Cape Cod. Behind them the sun was dropping from the sky in a swath of purple and orange clouds. The colors were faded now, but Brinson remembered the colors as vividly as they had once been. He had been thinner back then and had more hair. It had been a happy moment, and no matter how much time passed between his noticing it, the picture always took him back there. He smiled at the picture until it congealed into a lump of memories tainted by her death. Then the whole mess dropped into his empty gut like a dark turd. Nauseated, he removed a yellow legal pad from his desk and began to furiously scribble notes in black ink.
He was a lieutenant as much as anything because he could squeeze people. It was his gift. Still, for all his experience and talent, he liked to write things down and go over them again and again, looking for that elusive point that would be the key to breaking someone down. It wasn't that he wouldn't follow a blind trail that suddenly appeared during the course of an interrogation. He would. It was that he always made sure beforehand that he'd considered all the angles.
The angles kept him focused on his work. Even so, he found himself involuntarily drawn back to the photo. Once he even surprised himself with the words, "You were too good, Ginny. You were too good."
The ringing phone broke his reverie. It was Colt.
"Got something I thought you might wanna know, Lieutenant," the detective said.
"Shoot."
"I checked Annie Cassidy's credit card charges over the past year and didn't find too much out of the ordinary except an August first charge to a doctor at the Greer Clinic for a D and C."
Brinson knew the word meant something but he didn't know what. "DNC?"
"D and C, dilation and curretage ... an abortion, Lieutenant. I went over to the clinic and found a blabbermouth nurse who let me know that she was only about six weeks pregnant. That's unofficial of course."
"Great job, Colt. Let me know if you find anything else."
Brinson hung up the phone and looked for the last time that day at his sister's innocent face. With renewed fervor he plunged back into his work.
At five after one the phone rang and Brinson realized he hadn't eaten lunch. The pile of broken shells spilling out of his little glass ashtray was no consolation. His stomach had become a living thing unto itself. It complained bitterly, tossing and turning like an insomniac. Brinson ignored it and answered the phone. Cromwell and his lawyer were downstairs. Brinson took a deep breath, underlined a few words, starred question eleven three times, and heaved himself up from the desk.
He checked to make sure his men were in place and went downstairs. His face set like granite, then revealed a grim sneer as he approached the lobby. Halfway down the hall he saw them standing there. Clark was obviously on edge. He wore sneakers, a navy nylon sweatsuit, and a FOX Sports cap pulled tight to his head. Despite the casual clothes he shifted uncomfortably the way someone would in an ill-fitting suit.
Brinson introduced himself to the lawyer and choked back a comment about life as a hired gun. The media would take care of that for him. He'd bet a pocketful of pistachios on it. How the hell could this woman really expect to go from representing Trane Jones to Clark Cromwell withou
t a maelstrom of criticism? She couldn't. But that wasn't his business, so he kept his trap shut.
"Nice to meet you," he told Madison, proper enough without being mistaken for friendly. "Thanks for coming."
As tense as the situation was, Brinson still found himself considering the lawyer's good looks. She was taller than he thought she'd be, and the deep green color of her eyes as well as the length of her neck distracted him. On TV she had looked good enough, but TV failed to capture her true radiance.
Brinson pushed those thoughts from his mind and led the way to his interrogation room. There was a pitcher of water with three glasses on the table. The only people who got water were the ones who showed up with their lawyers. Otherwise they got what Clark got the first time he came, hot and dry.
The lieutenant went through the preliminaries of getting Clark to state his name and the voluntary nature of the interview. Madison broke in, wanting to make it clear for the record that Clark was there against her advice. Brinson wondered how that made the kid feel. Certainly it would heighten his caution. It didn't matter though. Brinson was glad just to have a crack at him.
The first thing the detective did was to establish Clark's time line the night of the murder. It was easy work. Clark rolled over and it was obvious that he had no alibi. Brinson took note of Madison's rigid jaw. She hadn't said a word so far, and he wondered when she would try to throw a wrench into his questioning. Obviously she was conceding the total absence of an alibi. Their eyes met across the table like card players, neither giving anything up.
Brinson moved on to the relationship between Clark and Annie. Here the player was more hesitant. His halting answers let Brinson know there was more to the story than he was letting on. But Brinson knew better than to press too hard when he came upon a sensitive subject. He wanted both the lawyer and the player to be as much at ease as possible. It was almost tender the way he asked about Clark's reaction to Annie's relationship with Trane. Brinson just knew the other two had to be snickering in the room beyond the glass. After fifty minutes of questioning, he paused to go over his notes to make sure there were no details he had missed before he got into it for real.