by Sydney Bauer
‘Not all of it,’ said Joe.
And there it was – a small grain of hope. David knew he would be asking Joe to cross the line by discussing any new piece of evidence without consulting with the ADA, unless it was just one of Joe’s hunches, which to David, was just as good.
‘You want to explain?’ he asked.
‘It’s not enough to get excited about, David. It’s something small, an inconsistency and nowhere near enough to help you salvage your kid’s case in court.’
‘You found something.’
‘More like a lack of something, and it’s been bugging me for most of the day.’
Joe explained about J.T.’s ear problems, but his lack of shoulder pain. Early this morning Joe had called the doctor who examined J.T. on his admission to Plymouth and confirmed that while the kid did have some inflammation in both ears and his hearing was slightly off, he had no burn or bruising or pain on or in his right shoulder where he would have rested the rifle – the recoil of which was enough to singe his big white T-shirt without making a mark on his skin.
‘I called a uniform named Schiff,’ said Joe. ‘The guy is a gun enthusiast who knows a thing or two about the rifle in question. He said the hearing thing is consistent with the almighty bang that accompanies the .460 magnum’s explosion. It’s been known to burst eardrums – make them bleed.
‘He also said the .460 will launch a 500 grain bullet at 2700 feet per second from a twenty-six inch barrelled rifle with 8100 foot-pounds of muzzle energy. And that means the recoil is a bastard – issuing over 100 foot-pounds of force. It’s been known to dislocate shoulders, David – and that’s when fired by a grown man, let alone a scrawny fourteen-year-old boy.’
David said nothing, taking it all in. ‘You don’t think J.T. fired that gun.’
‘I’m not saying that, David, because if I did there would be no way to explain the state of his ears and all the other pieces of evidence that will soon confirm him as the shooter – the blood spatter, powder residue, fingerprints . . . It’s something, but it’s nowhere near enough – at least not on its own.’
David paused, wondering how far he should go. He knew that by telling his friend about the video tape that he had already stretched the envelope by providing him with information David knew he would not pass on to the ADA – at least not yet. But if he continued sharing his speculations, if he persisted with this desire to ‘have Joe on board’, he knew he would be ultimately asking his detective friend to choose – between what he should do and, given their friendship, what he couldn’t. But in the end this was all about trust and David had to believe that Joe would rather know than not, even if it meant placing him in that awkward position between ‘by the book’ and ‘under the radar’ – that familiar no-man’s-land they had both dragged each other to before.
‘There’s more,’ he said.
‘Besides the video, you mean?’ asked Joe, meeting David’s eye.
‘Marc Rigotti is meeting me here in about half an hour. If you want to . . . you can hang around.’
‘Jesus, David, what in the hell have you got brewing?’
‘I am not sure yet, Joe, which is why Marc and I figured we’d discuss it before we involved you.’ He looked up to see the frustration on his detective friend’s face.
‘Look,’ said David, ‘I know I am asking a lot here, so before we get to Rigotti, before you write off my ravings as a misplaced loyalty to an old college friend, there is one more thing in that video that I need to share.’
Joe sighed. ‘Okay, David. What in the hell else did you see?’
‘Not see, Joe – hear. After Stephanie gave Logan the gun, after he unwrapped it, and she made some comment about him being an ungrateful son-of-a-bitch, she glanced at the camera and she slowed down and she said clearly, deliberately: “Hear everything, listen please. Maybe even, decipher the conundrum.” ’
But Joe could not see it, and in all honesty, given it had taken Sara and Arthur several run-throughs to catch it, David was not surprised.
‘It’s an odd thing to say, David. But from what you are describing, this whole video scenario sounds a little beyond the ordinary so . . .’
David did not comment – just turned to his briefcase beside him and pulled out a creased legal pad and pencil before writing the two sentences vertically, turning the pad upside down and pushing it towards his friend with determination.
‘Hear
everything,
listen
please.
Maybe
even,
Decipher the
Conundrum.’
Joe picked up the paper in his hands, bringing it close to his face so that David could no longer read his expression. Then David saw his fingers flex and he knew, as Joe lowered the pad again, that he had seen it, and that David could well be right after all.
‘The first letter of each word except for the “the”,’ said Joe then. ‘Help me DC. She was asking for your help.’
David nodded as Joe shook his head.
‘I hate you, David Cavanaugh.’
‘I know that, Joe. I know.’
23
‘Jeffrey,’ said Katherine de Castro, opening the door in her nightgown, her arms automatically clutching at the blue silk tie to secure it around her middle. ‘I thought you were going to see J.T.’
‘I am. But I just wanted to . . .’ Logan began with smile. ‘Can I come in?’
‘Of course,’ she said, moving aside before craning her neck to see if the reporters were still standing sentry outside.
‘I thought I might miss them if I came early,’ he said.
‘Looks like you were right,’ she replied. ‘Ah . . .’ she said after a somewhat awkward pause. ‘Can I offer you some coffee or . . . ?’
‘No.’ Logan shook his head, his handsome face appearing incredibly fresh considering what he had been through over the past few days. ‘I can’t stay long. Like I said, I am anxious to see J.T. But, before I went, I just wanted to . . . well . . .’
Logan fished into his suit pocket to retrieve a small turquoise box. De Castro recognised the packaging immediately – it was from Tiffany’s, a gift that always said ‘substantial’ despite its miniature size.
‘What’s this?’ she asked.
‘A token of my appreciation, for standing by me, for supporting my children. Here,’ he said, prompting her to take the box. ‘Please, open it up.’
Which she did – to find the most beautiful sterling silver necklace with two tiny locks hanging from its links.
‘I figure we play the best tick-tack-toe in town,’ he said, referring to the tiny cross inside one locket and the equally as small ‘nought’ in the other. ‘I even had it engraved. The little “X” with a “J”, the nought with a “K”.’
‘I,’ said de Castro, momentarily confused. ‘Jeffrey this is too much. You really didn’t have to . . .’
‘It was the least I could do.’ He smiled. ‘You are a great friend, Katherine,’ he said, taking her hand. ‘I don’t know what I would have done if you had not been there for me and my kids.’
‘Don’t be silly,’ she said, politely retrieving her hand. ‘You’ve been through so much, Jeffrey. And your kids are a delight.’
There was silence, as it struck de Castro just how bizarre this was, the two of them fawning over a piece of jewellery, while J.T. Logan was locked up in some high-security jail.
‘Cavanaugh will make this right,’ said Logan, as if reading her mind. ‘And then we can all get back to being a family again.’
De Castro nodded, simply because she could not think of anything else to say.
‘I’ll call you this afternoon then,’ said Logan, turning back towards the front door. ‘And honestly, Katherine, thanks so much again.’
‘Ah . . . my pleasure,’ she managed. ‘And thank you, Jeffrey. Thank you.’
What was that all about? a still confused Katherine de Castro asked herself as she closed the door behind her unexpect
ed guest and made her way back down her thickly carpeted hallway, heading directly for the kitchen where she had left her now lukewarm coffee on her white stone bench. She poured herself a fresh mug and headed for the living room, dropping onto her ridiculously comfortable sofa and feeling anything but at ease.
He was just being kind, she told herself. It was a token of gratitude. And it was true they were a great professional team – or, as Jeffrey had put it, savvy negotiators of the corporate ‘tick-tack-toe’. But no matter how much she tried to convince herself, no matter how appreciative Jeffrey had appeared to be, she could not help but wonder if he knew that when Tiffany designed that delicate necklace – with those two little symbols inside those newly engraved sterling silver lockets – that they did not intend them to be perceived as noughts and crosses, but as hugs and kisses – like one lover would give another, a symbol of commitment and affection and . . . love.
She shrugged off the ridiculousness of it all, folding herself back into the couch and shutting her eyes. She had not slept well these past couple of days and felt the wave of exhaustion wash over her. And then her mind trailed back – to that night in Vegas all those years ago, to when a young Jeffrey Logan first came into her life, to how she had pulled him from obscurity and built him into one of the most successful TV identities the world had ever known . . .
‘I’ll see you at dinner then,’ she told her fellow TV executives, begging off to escape to her Bellagio Hotel suite to quickly shower and change.
She was in Vegas for the annual NATPE conference – a conference organised by the National Association of Television Programming Executives to review the latest, and ideally predict the next, trends in international television programming. She was working at the time for a production company which specialised in information and lifestyle programming and, despite the fact that her presence at the respected conference was paid for by her current employers, did not feel guilty about using the opportunity to do a little research on her own behalf. For everyone used conferences such as these to network, send out feelers, negotiate a move, or simply consolidate their current position, depending on the job that they had and how much they were being paid to do it.
The talk was about talk – or more specifically the American people’s seemingly insatiable appetite for more and more of it. Oprah had become an international phenomenon, the more down-market alternatives were springing up like mushrooms and already making huge money in syndication, and there was a general consensus that there was a gap in the market for a more upmarket relationship advice program, and accompanying rumours as to who would come up with it first.
What was needed, or so everyone seemed to agree, was a show that appealed to both men and women; a program that broke down age barriers but had a core audience of the sweet eighteen to thirty-nine cash-rich demographic; a one-hour, highly marketable package that sent advertisers, and as a result networks, into a flurry of excitement as it won its way into the hearts of America and brought in money by the bucket loads. Half of America was in therapy for God’s sake, and the other half loved talking about their neighbours who were – so the hole was there and somebody just needed to fill it.
Katherine knew she wasn’t alone – she knew that every decent exec worth his or her salt was currently searching for TV’s answer to the family counsellor from heaven. But no one, at least at the time, had been able to come up with the right person to sell the premise. For the front person was the make or break of this so-called ratings bonanza sure-thing. You pick the wrong presenter, you lose viewer confidence and before you know it, you are wallowing in ratings hell and bumped for a ‘mid-term replacement’.
Maybe it was luck that brought him to her attention – luck or the fact that she was running late for the closing night conference dinner and happened to ladder the last pair of stockings in her hotel room drawer. She called down for the concierge to bring her another pair and sat on her too soft hotel suite bed to wait for them to arrive. She flicked on the TV, surfed around the channels, only to land on an incredibly cheap, poorly produced, terribly lit, unbelievably tacky, almost shameless sales pitch from a local psychologist – a guy named Jeff Logan who was spruiking his own downtown practice like a car salesman would flog the latest in four-door sedans.
But there was something about him – his George Clooney looks, his deep dark eyes, his chiselled jaw and confident smile that made Katherine dive across the bed for the hotel pen and pad on the bedside table.
The stockings arrived but Katherine never made it to the dinner. Instead she ended up meeting this man named Logan for a late drink at Caesar’s Palace – and by one o-clock in the morning, they had formulated a pitch that Katherine intended to take back to LA within the week.
Two months later Logan and de Castro had signed a six-figure deal with CBC – and the rest, as they say, was history. There had been bumps along the way – including Jeffrey’s determination to move the show from LA to Boston. Jeffrey had met Stephanie not long after their first show went to air – and while Katherine understood his desire to relocate to his quickly pregnant wife’s home town, she also knew that Jeffrey wanted a ‘city of his own’. He argued that Oprah’s stronghold on Chicago was one of the reasons for her success, and Katherine agreed that moving to a location such as Boston would add a special flavour of individuality to the new program that was already performing ‘way above expectations’.
It worked of course, the program making the most of Boston’s unique intellectual flavour while not alienating itself from the masses. Within the first year, thanks to Katherine’s clever eye and business acumen, and Jeffrey’s outstanding talent in front of the camera, the show had become one of the most successful talk shows in US television history – and Doctor Jeffrey Logan, ex-Vegas small-time shrink, a bona fide celebrity.
He was like a chameleon, she thought as she opened her eyes and looked down at her coffee to see that it had started to grow cold – the way he had been able to shape and adapt himself. The man she met that night at Caesar’s was just a local show pony who spent his days in his two by four home practice, his nights gambling away his measly earnings at the various casinos, and every piece of spare change on cigarettes and frozen dinners.
But the moment the opportunity presented itself, Jeffrey took control. He closed his practice, went cold turkey on the cigarettes, quit hitting the casinos, bought a new suit, sharpened his presentation techniques and basically blew away everyone who met him. He became the darling of the network, married a rich and attractive professional, fathered two good-looking kids, and basically led the life of Riley. Until now, thought Katherine, until now.
Was he losing control? No, that wasn’t it – in fact on the contrary, last night in Arthur Wright’s office, this morning at her front door, he seemed more than on top of his game. She understood how difficult this must be for him and she acknowledged how the events of the past week were enough to send even the most adaptable of personalities into an emotional and intellectual tail spin – but why did she sense he had something up his sleeve, why did she see that hint of resolve in his eye and why did she feel that this time, whatever he was planning, she wasn’t part of the deal.
24
‘Jesus,’ said Joe once the reporter had finished his story. David and Joe had stopped with the coffees almost a half-hour ago, but Rigotti was downing the black mud like he was feeding a habit – which he probably was.
‘I’m sorry, Mannix,’ said Rigotti. ‘I get that you have the hump with us not calling you last night. But just like you, I have a job to do and my boss wanted me to run this by the lawyers before I . . .’
‘Come off it, Rigotti. David already told me I am a late starter on this little coffee date. You were planning to research and run this story without giving a heads up to the police.’
Rigotti, who was an old friend, shrugged. ‘Well, you do tend to put a dampener on things, Mannix.’
‘That’s me,’ said Joe, ‘a regular wet blanket.’ He looked at
David, obviously equally as displeased with his defence attorney friend.
‘Come on, Joe,’ said David, ‘we’re here now right, and in all honesty, as the story stands, there is not that much to tell. This Blackmore refuses to supply Marc with Jason Nagle’s details. He says he has left a message on the mystery guy’s cell phone and is waiting for him to respond.’
‘But . . .’ Joe began.
‘I know what you are going to say, Joe.’ David cut him off. ‘That the guy in Maine who allegedly sold the gun to Stephanie identified her as the buyer.’
This was true. Calvin Garretson of Garretson Rifles in Bangor, Maine, had told police that Stephanie originally ordered the Mark V rifle over the internet – but had travelled to the Pine State to pick it up rather than having it transferred to a Massachusetts gun dealer where, by law, she would have had to supply evidence of identification in order to collect it.
‘There was no alleged about it,’ countered Joe. ‘Garretson was shown several pictures of Stephanie Tyler. She used her own American Express and email address and Firearms Identification Card to verify her identity.’
‘But he also said his gun shop’s surveillance camera was down at the time,’ argued David. ‘Which means there is no solid proof that Stephanie was the one who walked into that shop.’
‘The guy has no reason to lie, David,’ said Joe.
David met Joe’s eye, the silence deafening.
‘Okay, look,’ said Rigotti, feeling the need to calm things down a little. ‘Whatever the guy in Maine claims, as long as Mannix is now in the loop, I can’t see the harm in his putting out a few feelers as to the identity of this Jason Nagle. Maybe if we find him, he can discount his ownership of the murder weapon and we can rule out Blackmore’s crazy story as just that – another fanciful tale from a man who names his rifles after B-grade movie heroes.
‘Of course,’ Rigotti continued, looking at Joe, ‘I would suggest you do this on the quiet, Lieutenant, considering the high-profile nature of this case and . . .’