Most Wanted

by Lisa Scottoline

  Griff kept frowning. “That’s blackmail.”

  “No, it’s cooperation.” Christine couldn’t give up on teaching, even at his age. “Our cooperating is in Zachary’s best interests. We both want the same thing, which is to see him acquitted. What do you say?”

  Griff sighed, unhappily. The phone stopped ringing.

  “Griff, you have no money. You have no staff. You can’t do it by yourself. Please, be practical. Use me.”

  Griff paused, pursing his lips.

  Christine waited. “Please?”

  “You have to do what I say,” Griff answered, after a moment.

  “I will.” Christine felt her heart lift.

  “Don’t write or talk about the case, except to me. No books, no Facebooks, no leaks. Do I have your word?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re covered by Rule 1.6, which means that anything you discover while you’re working for me is work product, protected by attorney-client privilege. Keep it that way.”

  “I will.” Christine shifted forward in her seat. “Okay, so tell me, you meet Zachary?”

  “You’re asking questions already?” Griff’s hooded eyes widened.

  “If we’re going to work together, we have to share information. Sharing and cooperation, Griff.” Christine felt like she was talking to a fourth-grader, only hairier.

  “What’s to share? I went over on Sunday and met Zachary.”

  “And what do you think of him?”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “It doesn’t matter what you think of him?”

  “No.” Griff met her eye behind his glasses and sealed his lips into a flat, if wrinkled, line.

  Christine let it go. “Do you think he’s innocent?”

  “That doesn’t matter either. I’m his lawyer, not his Creator.”

  Christine had no idea what that meant. “Did you ask?”

  “Of course not.”

  Christine didn’t understand. “So what happened in the meeting? How do you have a meeting where that doesn’t even come up? Isn’t that the elephant in the room?”

  Griff sighed theatrically. “I asked him what happened the night of the murder. He told me the same story he told you. I took notes.” He gestured at his legal pads. “Somewhere in here.”

  “You didn’t ask if he did it?”

  “Do I have to repeat myself?” Griff frowned, recoiling. “Is this what it’s going to be like? You bothering me with stupid questions, ad nauseam?”

  “Zachary called 911 that night, you know. He was the one who reported the Robinbrecht murder.”

  “So?” Griff shrugged. “Serial killers have been known to do that. Robert Durst called 911. So did the BTK killer. They like the game. They toy with the cops. They like to tease. Show their superiority.”

  Christine held up a hand. “Okay, I’ll move on. What else have you done so far on the case? Catch me up.”

  “I filed an Entry of Appearance, which puts everyone on notice I represent him. I cleared his visitors’ list at the prison of everyone but me. I’ll have to put you back on. I went to the scene.”

  Christine gasped. “You went to Robinbrecht’s apartment?”

  “Robinbrecht’s apartment is the scene, so, yes.” Griff flared his cloudy gray eyes. “How is it I don’t need a hearing aid but you do?”

  “How did you get in?”

  “How do you think? I called the D.A. Detectives take you. They stand watch. You look around.”

  “Did you see anything helpful?”

  “No.”

  “I wish I had gone.” Christine couldn’t imagine what it had looked like, but she wanted to know.

  “Then go. I’ll set it up for tomorrow morning.”

  “Really?” Christine felt her pulse quicken. It would be grim, but maybe she would see something that Griff had missed.

  “Hold on.” Griff dug under his accordion files and produced a single-lens reflex camera, which he passed her over the desk, dragging the black strap across his papers. “I took pictures.”

  “Thanks.” Christine rose, took the camera from him, and turned it over to look through the pictures, but the back was sealed. “It’s not digital?”

  “No, it’s not. Human beings are digital, not cameras. See these?” Griff wiggled his arthritic fingers. “They’re called digits. Know why? From the Latin, digitus, meaning fingers or toes.”

  “Really?” Christine sat down with the camera. “You learn something new every day.”

  “I don’t, but you do.” Griff waved at the camera. “Get that film developed. That will be your first assignment as my paralegal.”

  “Okay, but I do have something I want to do first. In fact, right now.”

  “Already, you’re not listening.” Griff frowned.

  “I’m listening, I’m just not obeying.”

  “You said you’d obey.”

  “No I didn’t.” Christine hadn’t even said that in her wedding vows, which was turning out to be a good thing. “Let me tell you what I want to do, and if you give me the go-ahead, I’ll go. How about that?”

  “No.”

  But Christine didn’t obey, and told him anyway.

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Christine dropped off the film at a drugstore, which unfortunately didn’t have one-hour developing, then went on to Warwick Street, arriving at six o’clock, which was perfect timing. It was still light out, so she could see the lay of the land, and residents were returning home from work. She circled the block, noting that some were finding parking spaces in front of their houses but others were driving down the block, taking a right turn on Warwick, and turning into the skinny driveway behind the houses on Warwick.

  She pulled into a space a few doors up from Gail Robinbrecht’s house and parked the car. She cut the ignition, grabbed her purse, and got out of the car, chirping it locked behind her. She walked to 301, two houses up from Gail’s, and scanned Warwick Street on the fly. All of the houses, from 301 to 307, which was at the corner, were redbrick row houses, the same except for the paint color of their shutters, window treatments, and plantings.

  Number 301 had petunias and pretty black window boxes, with a black door to match, and Christine could see from the two front windows on the first floor that lights were on inside the house. She walked up the two front steps, knocked on the door, and reminded herself to act like a paralegal, which was basically a teacher with a better pay scale.

  The door was opened in a few moments by a good-looking, if scruffy, young man in a purple WCU T-shirt and gym shorts, with red Dr. Dre earphones on. “Hi,” he said, lifting one from his ear.

  “Hi, I’m Christine Nilsson, and I’m a paralegal working for an attorney in town.” Christine slid one of Griff’s business cards from her pocket and gave it to him.

  “Okay, I’m Phil Dresher.” Phil tugged the earphones off and let them rest around his neck, but his rap music was loud enough that Christine could still hear the shouting.

  “Phil, I just have a few questions about Linda Kent, who lived around the block at 505 Daley. Did you happen to know Ms. Kent?”

  “No, not really. I know the neighbors on this street. We have block parties and stuff, it’s cool. But I don’t know around the block, on Daley Street.”

  “You may have heard that Ms. Kent was killed in an accident on Sunday night. She fell down the back steps.”

  “Oh that sucks. I didn’t know.” Phil frowned.

  “Yes, we’re investigating the matter, and I was wondering if you saw or heard anything that night, perhaps saw her fall or heard her shout?” Christine wasn’t exactly lying, and neither she nor Griff wanted to do that. But if she led with what happened to Linda Kent, rather than what happened to Gail Robinbrecht, residents would assume it was about a negligence lawsuit and be more likely to talk.

  “No, I don’t think so. What time did it happen?”

  “We think midnight.”

  “No, heard nothing.”

  “Do you gen
erally hear noises out back? Does your house go all the way through?”

  “Yeah, we rent the whole house. All the houses go all the way back, I think.”

  “Do you have a backyard?”

  “Yeah.”

  “So if there’d been some noise, do you think you would’ve heard it?”

  “Not really.” Phil gestured to his earphones. “I study with these on or listen to music. My other three roommates play video games. We keep the AC on and the windows shut, so the neighbors don’t bitch about any noise we make. They’re always looking for an excuse to get students out of this end of town.” The young man turned toward the back of the house. “I can show you, we do have a backyard, and we sit out there sometimes, have some wine, you know. That’s what we did Saturday night with some friends. But we were out Sunday night since one of my roommates is graduating.”

  “Congratulations.” Christine smiled. “By the way, I’m sorry about what happened to your neighbor Gail Robinbrecht.”

  “Wow, I know, it’s horrible, really horrible.” Phil frowned in a way that made him look older than a college student.

  “Did you know Gail?”

  “Sure, me and my roommates, we liked her. Gail was the organizer of the block parties, she knew how to make it fun. My girlfriend liked her, too, and she’s really freaked. She wants us to start a neighborhood watch.”

  “That’s a good idea.” Christine saw her opening. “Did you see anything suspicious that night around her house? It was last Monday night.”

  “No, not at all.”

  “Were you home?”

  “Yeah, I was, but I didn’t see anything. I had the game on. We already told the police.”

  “Great, good. Thank you very much.”

  “You’re welcome.” Phil closed the door, and Christine walked to 303, Gail Robinbrecht’s next-door neighbor. They had a Norway spruce in a blue glazed pot, and the front door was of natural wood with a brass knocker. Louvered shutters covered the windows, but classical music played inside, so someone was home. Christine knocked, and the door was opened by an older African-American woman with wire-rimmed glasses and a graying topknot, in a white silk blouse with a navy skirt, evidently part of a suit. She was barefoot, as if she’d just kicked off her pumps.

  Christine smiled, gesturing at her feet. “I do the same thing, the first thing when I come in the door.”

  “Ha!” The woman smiled, warmly. “Heels aren’t shoes, they’re torture devices.”

  “I agree.” Christine introduced herself, handing her Griff’s business card. “I’m a paralegal for an attorney in town, and we’re looking into the accidental death of Mrs. Kent, who lived around the block on Daley.”

  “Nice to meet you. Anita Noxubee.”

  “Anita, did you know Linda Kent, by any chance?”

  “I knew her, but not well. Most of us at this end of the block run into her, from time to time.” Anita pursed her lips. “I had heard that she passed. I’m sorry about that.”

  “Yes, it took place on Sunday night around midnight. Did you hear anything that night, maybe a shout or someone cry for help?”

  “No, I didn’t. We were asleep by that time. My husband and I go to bed early because he teaches an early class at Widener.”

  “By the way, did you know Gail Robinbrecht?”

  “Yes, we both did. She was such a lovely woman, so full of life. She arranged block parties every summer, and everybody went. We were going to have one in July.” Anita’s expression changed, folding into lines of fresh grief. “It’s awful to think about how she died. We all know how dedicated she was.”

  “You didn’t see or hear anything unusual or suspicious at her house that night, did you?”

  “No, not a thing. We told the police.”

  “I see.” Christine peeked past her, where delicious smells of curried something wafted from the kitchen. “Does your house go all the way through, with a backyard out back?”

  “Yes, but it was paved over when we bought the house. We use it to park.”

  “Well, thank you. Again, my condolences.” Christine stepped away from the house, heading past Gail’s, where the front door to the house, the alley beside it, and the sidewalk were cordoned off with yellow crime-scene tape.

  The memorial was larger, with more candles, bouquets of flowers, homemade signs, and a bunch of heart-shaped Mylar balloons floating in the breeze. Christine recognized the same two nurses from Saturday in front of the memorial, both in scrubs, with their laminated employee IDs around their necks on green lanyards; the one was young, perhaps in her twenties, with her silky black hair in a braid down her back, and the other looked older and was heavyset, with auburn hair chopped into neat layers and pearl earrings that dressed up her scrubs. They glanced up as Christine approached, their pained eyes meeting hers, their expressions changing as they seemed to recognize her.

  “Hello,” Christine said uncertainly. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

  “Thank you,” the older one said.

  The younger one nodded, wiping her eyes. “Yes, thanks.”

  Christine asked, “Did you work with Gail at the hospital?”

  “Yes. We were on the same unit, orthopedic surgery. We saw you here Saturday, didn’t we?”

  “Yes.”

  “You didn’t know Gail, did you?”

  “No, I didn’t.” Christine thought fast, gesturing behind her. “I’m a paralegal for a lawyer in town. We’re looking into the fatal accident that occurred Sunday night, in which one of the other neighbors, on Daley Street, Linda Kent, died. I don’t know if you heard.”

  “No, what happened?” the older nurse asked, concerned.

  “She fell down her back steps and was killed.”

  “Oh, that’s terrible. How old was she?”

  “In her forties,” Christine answered, guessing. She switched tack. “Gail seemed like a really great person. When I was here the other day with my friend, I heard you saying how dedicated she was.”

  “Yes, she loved nursing, and everybody at the hospital loved her.”

  “Her family must be really upset,” Christine said, fishing. “Are they local?”

  “No, they live in Minnesota. They’ll be coming in for the vigil.”

  “Vigil?”

  “Yes, the hospital is holding a special service, tomorrow afternoon at three. Everyone’s been grieving, and our administrator thought it would be a tribute to her and help us heal. It’s open to the public, too. She had so many friends, and the neighbors want to come.”

  The younger nurse wiped her nose. “I don’t know how I’ll get through it.”

  The older nurse put an arm around her. “You can do it, honey. You’ll do it for Gail.”

  Christine’s chest tightened, seeing their pain, but she couldn’t forget her mission. “I know she lived on the second floor. Do you know who lived on the first?”

  “Yes, an older woman. June Jacoby, she’s a sweetheart, just turned eighty. Gail always checked in on her. She had diabetes.”

  “Do you know where she is?” Christine wondered if she would have seen or heard anything.

  “She went to her sister’s in Atlanta. She was so sad about Gail, but she had to leave her apartment since the police taped it up as a crime scene.”

  “I see. Do you know when she’ll come back?”

  “No.” The older nurse shook her head, sadly. “Dink will have to get Gail’s things out of the apartment. She was her best friend.”

  “Dink…?” Christine was fishing for the last name.

  “It’s a nickname. We all work together in orthopedic surgery. Dink’s a wreck. A wreck.”

  “I’m sure.” Christine made a mental note of the nickname. “I read that Gail wasn’t married. Did she have a boyfriend?”

  “No, she didn’t,” the older nurse answered.

  “She didn’t?” Christine allowed her voice to reflect her surprise. “She was such a beautiful woman. I’m surprised she wasn’t seeing anyone.”<
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  “She did about three years ago, but he was killed in Iraq and she never got over it.”

  “Oh no,” Christine said, caught short. She was getting a fuller picture of Gail Robinbrecht, who must have been trying to regain her emotional footing after a terrible loss. It made the nurse’s murder all the more poignant because, by all accounts, she seemed like the type of woman who would have gotten back on track, in time.

  “She was so dedicated and she spent a lot of time with us and with her other friends. She was a really great girlfriend. Anything you needed, she would be there.”

  “It’s nice to have a girlfriend like that.” Christine was thinking of Lauren. “I was here with my best friend on Saturday. I couldn’t get through life without her.”

  “That’s what I always say.” The older nurse nodded with a game smile. “I tell my husband, ‘marriage may not be forever, but girlfriends are’ an—” She caught herself mid-sentiment, realizing the irony only belatedly.

  “Still,” Christine said quickly, “girlfriends are forever. People are forever. We never lose the people we love.”

  “That’s true.” The older nurse looked over at the younger one, who began to tear up again.

  “I’ll leave you alone, I have to keep going anyway. Good-bye.” Christine walked away stiffly, burdened with a guilt that she couldn’t identify. She walked to 307, the last house on Warwick, which had a red-lacquered front door, black shutters, and a wreath of dried flowers on the front door. She knew someone was home because she could hear children giggling on the other side of the door. She knocked, and the door was opened by an adorable Indian-American girl, with dark eyes and eyelashes for miles.

  “Hi!” she said with a big smile, and Christine smiled back.

  “Hi, is your mommy or daddy home?”

  “Emma, don’t answer the door!” someone called out in mild alarm, and the next moment, a woman rushed to the door, presumably Emma’s mother, taking the little girl gently by the shoulder and placing her protectively behind her. The mother was a short, slender Indian-American woman in a gray Penn T-shirt with cutoff shorts, who blew a dark tendril of curly hair from her eyes. “Hello. How can I help you?”