“Midland. But I got out before the oil boom.”
“Shrewd move.” We had arrived at my car. I opened the door and swung my briefcase and purse across into the passenger seat.
“Are you sure we can’t take you to dinner?” Jordan asked.
“Sorry.”
They let me go.
My phone rang on the way out West Broad. It was Carly. “Hi, Robin, are you still in court?” Her voice had that hushed quality it took on when she was about to dish some dirt.
“Just got out.”
“The police were here.” She paused dramatically. “With a warrant.”
“For me?”
“To search your office.”
“What did they take? They should have left you a receipt.”
“I don’t think they found what they were looking for. The detective asked me if you had any personal spaces in the suites outside of your office.”
“Was the detective a short guy with a flattop haircut?”
“Do you know him?”
“Better than I’d like.”
“I was just closing up, but is there anything you need me to do?”
“No. Go on home.”
I punched off as I stopped for a light. Tom McClane strikes back, I thought.
Rodney Burns was pacing the floor. The light on the coffeemaker was off, though there was a little coffee at the bottom of the carafe.
“What? No coffee?” I said.
He blinked. “Sorry. I was distracted.”
I held up a hand to arrest his movement toward the Cuisinart. “It’s all right. I don’t need coffee.”
“Look at the paper on the desk.”
“What is it?” I picked it up and saw immediately what it was—a photocopy of the birth certificate for Larry Gholson Smith, born in Portsmouth, Virginia on March 26, 1979.”
“You found him.”
“I think so.”
I shuffled to the next page and found myself looking at a driver’s license for Larry Gholson Smith. The picture looked familiar, but it was a grainy photocopy of a tiny picture that probably hadn’t been that representative to begin with.
“Is it Mark Stevens?” he asked me. “Natalie Stevens’ father?”
“I’ve only seen his picture. It might be his brother David. They look something alike.”
I flipped to the third page. It took me a few seconds to realize I was looking at a death certificate for Larry Gholson Smith. “August 7, 1991,” I read. “So it can’t be the same Larry Smith.”
“A bit of a coincidence that the date of birth on the driver’s license is the same,” Rodney said.
“Yes, it is.”
“And that he looks like Mark Stevens.”
“Where did you get these?”
“State Registrar faxed them to me. You’ll need a subpoena to get certified copies.”
“So what does it mean?”
He sat and laced his fingers around one knee. “I think it means someone came across a certified copy of that birth certificate issued before Larry’s death. He noticed that the date of birth was within a few years of his own and used it to create a false identity. You got a birth certificate, you can get a Social Security card, a driver’s license, anything you want. If this person also knew that Larry Smith was dead, then it was all the better.”
“Wouldn’t the Social Security card have been issued at birth, or at least before the parents filed the first tax return listing Larry as a dependent?”
“Not until after 1986.”
I sat in the chair across from him, laying the papers on the table. “Wow,” I said.
“What do you think?”
“Portsmouth is in the tidewater area,” I said. “David Stevens used to practice law there.”
“And this could be him?” He leaned forward to push the papers toward me.
I looked again. “Him or his brother. I think they’re about ten years apart in age. It really depends on when the picture was taken. Can you get me a certified copy of the driver’s license?”
“Sure. When do you want it?”
“Tomorrow morning. Bring it to court as soon as you can get it.”
He looked surprised. “Okay,” he said.
I took the photocopies with me—birth certificate, death certificate, driver’s license. I also took the wallet and keys that David had given me, still in the plastic grocery sack. They might be what McClane had been looking for in my office, and I didn’t want to get Rodney Burns into trouble.
I’d been home fifteen or twenty minutes before I thought to get the mail. Dr. McDermott was sitting on my front stoop. He turned as I pulled open the door, and Deeks raced toward me from the middle of the lawn. I rubbed Deeks’ head, picked him up and hugged him, put him back down. As Dr. McDermott had pointed out, it wasn’t a good way to get him to greet people calmly, but I had my own emotional needs. I patted Dr. McDermott’s shoulder as he rose creakily to his feet.
“Is our joint custody of Deeks still working okay?” I asked. “Your house weekdays, mine nights and weekends?”
“It works for me.”
Deeks gave me a yap and ran back into the yard.
“He doesn’t run off,” Dr. McDermott said. “That’s good.”
“It’s common enough in a puppy.” It was one of the tidbits I’d picked up working in my father’s veterinary clinic. “I just hope the trait stays with him as he grows older.”
“Look at your front door.”
I looked. An official-looking document was taped to it.
“The police were here a couple of hours ago. It’s why I was waiting for you.”
I felt goose bumps break out on my arms. “Was one of them a short man with a flat-top haircut?”
“I think so.”
“They’re after me.”
“Are they going to get you?”
“I can hope not. Did they take anything? Do you know?”
He shook his head. I pried the search warrant loose from the door and took a look at it. It was directed to any peace officer in the Commonwealth of Virginia: “Proof by affidavit having been made to me by one David Stevens, I am satisfied that there is probably cause to believe that on the premises described as 4541 Beechnut Street”—my home address—“in the City of Richmond, Commonwealth of Virginia, there is now being possessed or concealed certain property, persons or things described as: A wallet and key ring with an assortment of keys belonging to one Larry Smith, which constitutes evidence that a public offense has been committed. Such public offense being ACCESSORY AFTER THE FACT IN THE CRIME OF MURDER IN THE FIRST DEGREE.”
Dr. McDermott wasn’t trying to read over my shoulder, but he was watching my face anxiously.
“On the positive side, I don’t think they found what they were looking for,” I said.
“And on the negative side?”
“On the negative side, everything’s going to hit the fan tomorrow morning.”
David Stevens had turned on me, and he was going for the kill.
Chapter 29
I dreamed about the photograph on the driver’s license. The grainy faced man was reflected in the dark glass of my repaired French doors, in my bathroom mirror, on the blank screen of my TV. He followed me down the hall, then down an endless alley, never moving very fast, but always moving, always coming for me.
My eyes blinked open, and I lay in the dark, my heart pounding. I put out a hand and felt Deeks’ fur. He gave my hand a quick lick, then nestled back down into sleep. My breathing slowed.
“No great mystery,” I whispered. Larry Smith, contrary to what David Stevens had led me to believe, wasn’t the dead man Natalie was accused of killing. He was either Mark or David Stevens, and David would be on the witness stand in the morning. We’d have our face-off then.
I slipped into sleep again, but in my dreams it was the grainy faced man on the witness stand, his features indistinct, his voice an incomprehensible croak.
A deputy sheriff brought Natalie in
to the courtroom ahead of the jury, uncuffed her, and retreated to stand against the wall.
“Who’s your dentist, Natalie?” I asked.
She looked surprised.
“Do you have a family dentist? You and your father go to the same one?”
“Yes, we do. Dr. Davis.”
I might have hoped for a less common name. “Do you know his first name?”
“Kevin, I think. Kevin R. Davis, DDS.”
“Thank you. I’ll be right back.”
I went out into the hallway with my cell phone. Somebody needed to charm Dr. Davis’s socks off. It was the sort of job I’d prefer to do myself—I know how that sounds—but I was in court. I called Brooke Marshall.
“Hey, Robin.”
“Hey, Brooke, I need a favor.”
“Shoot.” But the voice came not from my phone, but from the air in front of me. Brooke was there, and the rest of the crowd from the elevator was streaming past us.
I punched End on my cell phone and told her what I wanted.
“When do you need this?”
“Thirty minutes. Say an hour, hour-and-a-half.”
“Why don’t I just make the sun stand still for you?”
“Could you do that? That would be especially helpful, but I didn’t like to ask.”
She got back on the elevator.
“If you need help, call Rodney Burns,” I said as the doors started to close between us.
“You’re sending me after a man, and you think I need Rodney Burns?”
The doors closed, and she was gone. I looked at my phone and hesitated. She was right. There was no point in calling Rodney, who was supposed to be getting me a certified copy of a driver’s license anyway. Brooke could either do it, or she couldn’t. I went back into the courtroom.
The gallery was about half-full. Chloe Stevens, who had been in the witness room until she had testified, was sitting in the front row, directly behind Natalie. Natalie wasn’t looking at her, and her shoulders were stiff. I imagined that Chloe had reached across the rail to touch her, perhaps to offer a few words of synthetic encouragement. The jury was filing in.
“What was that with the dentist about?” Natalie murmured to me.
“Wild hair. We’ll see if it comes to anything.”
Aubrey Biggs pushed through the bar and went to his table without a glance in my direction. The bailiff called the court to order, and everyone stood as the judge came in. We all sat.
“Mr. Biggs, do you have another witness?”
“Yes, your honor. Call David Stevens to the stand.” Aubrey was wasting no time in springing his trap.
David Stevens came into the courtroom wearing a medium gray suit, a white shirt, and a striped tie. Lawyer clothes. His thick black hair was perfect. He was sworn in and took his seat.
Biggs, at the lectern, buttoned his suit coat and straightened the pocket flaps. I felt like I should go hold a mirror for him.
“Could you give us your name and address, please?” Biggs said to David Stevens.
David could. He did.
“What is your relationship to the defendant, Natalie Stevens?”
“I’m her uncle. Her father’s brother.”
“What is your brother’s name?”
“Mark Stevens.”
“Have you ever had occasion to visit the home on Magnolia, where your brother lives with his wife and daughter?”
“Yes, many times.”
“Have you been there since the arrest of Natalie Stevens on December 7?”
“Once.”
“What was the occasion of that visit?”
David cleared his throat. “I searched her room. Her room and her bathroom and a living area, actually, which are all together in the loft that overlooks the kitchen and family room.” Incidentally he was drawing a picture of Natalie as a little rich girl.
“You searched her rooms,” Biggs said, summarizing. “What were you looking for?”
“Evidence that might link her to the man that was killed. At the time, you understand, we all thought it was a hit-and-run.”
“What did you intend to do with this evidence?”
“I wasn’t sure. Natalie had been arrested. Her stepmother and I, her father and I, wanted to know more about that. My brother especially was concerned that there might be something incriminating.”
“And you intended to remove it.”
“I don’t know what I intended to do. The fact is, I did remove it. I love my niece.” He made eye-contact with her and smiled, then returned his gaze to Biggs. “I always want to do what’s right, but I love my niece.”
“What was this evidence you removed?”
David Stevens took a breath. He had the attention of everyone in the jury, everyone in the court room. “A plastic grocery sack with a man’s wallet in it. A man’s wallet and a set of keys.”
“Who did this wallet belong to?”
“The credit cards in it belonged to a Larry Smith.”
“Was there a driver’s license?”
“No, nothing with a picture. If the wallet ever had contained a driver’s license, it had been removed.”
“Where exactly did you find this grocery sack?”
“Tucked behind the rolls of toilet paper in the cabinet in Natalie’s bathroom.”
“And you took possession of this grocery sack and its contents.”
“I did. I may have done wrong—I probably did do wrong—but I took it. I knew I couldn’t keep it. It’s weighed on my conscious something awful. But I did it.”
“What did you ultimately do with it?”
“Gave it to Robin Starling, the young woman who is representing Natalie.”
“You gave it to whom?” Biggs sounded as if he must surely have been hallucinating when he heard me being implicated, but of course this moment had been well rehearsed.
“To Robin Starling,” David repeated, driving in the nail.
“The attorney representing the defendant,” Biggs said.
“Yes. I assumed she would handle it appropriately. I guess I assumed she would turn it over to the police.”
“Did she turn it over to the police?”
“Not to my knowledge. She never spoke of it again. My conscience continued to bother me, like I’ve said, so finally I came to you.”
“Yesterday, over the lunch recess.”
“Yes.”
“And you made an affidavit.”
“I did.”
I stood. “Your honor, counsel is leading this witness by his nose.”
Biggs jabbed a finger at me. “You. Should know when to keep quiet. If you know what’s good for you.”
“Are you suggesting that if I remain silent and allow you to railroad my client with a carload of irrelevant claptrap, I personally will come out of this all right?”
“Oh, I’m not suggesting that at all.”
“Then perhaps you could keep your advice to yourself,” I said.
The judge banged his gavel. Personal exchanges between counsel are a big no-no: We’re supposed to address our remarks to the court. “Ms. Starling, do you have this wallet and keys in your possession?”
“Yes, your honor.”
The answer seemed to surprise him. He stared at me a long moment. “Counselor. You can’t withhold evidence like that.”
“Evidence of what?”
“Evidence of the identity of the decedent in this case, the identity of the man your client is charged with killing.”
“Is that what this is?”
Biggs said, “You know it is.”
“Where are the wallet and keys now?” Judge Cheatham asked me.
“In my briefcase.”
“Here in this courtroom?”
“Yes, your honor.”
“Well, let’s have them.”
I lifted my briefcase to the table and pulled out the grocery bag, then carried it to the bench. As I walked back past the lectern, Biggs said, “You’re going to lose your license over this.”
He spoke loudly enough to be heard all over the courtroom.
I gave him a big smile. “Eat me,” I said.
It sparked a buzz of conversation in the courtroom, and the judge banged his gavel. Biggs raised his voice: “Your honor, I move that this, this lawyer be held in contempt of court. This behavior is outrageous. It’s totally outside the bounds of…”
I overrode him: “But trying to intimidate the representative of a young woman on trial for her freedom is just peachy?” I don’t like to shout, but I had to if I was going to be heard over the courtroom talk and the pounding of the judge’s gavel. When the head came off the gavel and bounced into the middle of the courtroom, it occurred to me that maybe I had gone too far. In the sudden silence, the bailiff picked up the head of the gavel and put it on the bench in front of the judge.
“Ms. Starling,” the judge said, his voice trembling. “I will hold you in contempt. I sentence you to a day in jail, and the deputy sheriff will be directed to take you into custody at the end of today’s proceedings. Other consequences will surely follow, but they are unfortunately beyond the jurisdiction of this court.”
David Stevens smirked at me from the witness stand.
I sat down at my table and placed my folded hands in front of me.
“Do we understand each other?” Judge Cheatham asked.
“We do,” I said.
Judge Cheatham, looking from me to Biggs, seemed momentarily disoriented. “You were questioning this witness,” he said finally.
“I’d like to show the wallet to the witness,” Biggs said.
“Don’t you think someone should check it for fingerprints or whatever else might be on it?”
“Oh, I’m quite sure no worthwhile prints remain on the wallet.” Biggs tone was prim.
With a frown and another glance at me, the judge said, “You may show the witness the wallet.”
Biggs got the wallet from the bench and took it to David Stevens. “Please tell us what’s in the wallet.”
David named the items as he took them out and laid them on the rail in front of him. “Two credit cards, a Visa and an American Express. A SunTrust cash flow card. A Starbucks gift card. Four twenty-dollar bills. And two business cards.”
Dog Law (A Robin Starling Courtroom Mystery) Page 22