by Sydney Bauer
“Frank gets the Flakes for being so polite,” she smiled. “And the rest of you . . .”
“We know,” said David. “Raisin Bran.”
Fifteen minutes later Marie had managed to pack the four boys into the family SUV, leaving Joe, Frank and David to clean up the kitchen and catch a few moments of privacy before the chaos of the day began. David knew he would have to be careful, not because he did not trust the two men currently stacking plates in the cupboards beside him, but because he did trust them, and respect them, and wanted to avoid jamming them into a professional corner at all costs.
“Coffee?” asked Joe at last, shutting the pantry door.
“Sure,” said David.
“And I’ll make myself a tea,” said Frank. “Two bags, if that’s okay, Chief. Something tells me whatever Cavanaugh has to say to us this morning calls for the strong stuff.”
“Knock yourself out,” said Joe, tossing Frank two generic brand tea bags before turning back to David. “All right, David. Let’s hear it.”
And so he began, starting with his chat with the Mathesons, Jed’s parting gift following yesterday’s police search, and finally getting to Sawyer Jones’ recording of Katz’s confidential conversation. He told them of the content of both recordings—of Westinghouse’s lament, and of Roger Katz’s gratitude to Simpson for delivering some evidence the prosecutor had intended “saving for trial.”
“He’s a criminal,” said David. “The ADA is under a legal obligation to disclose any evidence relating to . . .”
“Hold on,” interrupted Joe as he rose from his seat. The kettle was boiling and had started to scream. “You know as well as I do that the two pieces of evidence you just described were obtained illegally. And any evidence you discover as a result of such findings are fruit from the poisonous tree—inadmissible.”
Joe was right. According to Massachusetts law, the “exclu sionary rule” prohibits the use in criminal proceedings of any evidence obtained illegally.
“I know,” said David. “And I’m not looking for any favors, Joe. But I am asking you guys to hang up your badges for a few moments so I can tell you the theory that goes along with those recordings. And then, if you think I’m crazy or clutching at straws, you can kick me out or better still ring the ADA and tell him I was as good as standing next to him outside his precious grand jury hearing when he conspired to entrap my client.”
Joe gave him a half smile. “That thing with recording the Kat—illegal as all hell but . . .”
“I know,” grinned David. “Inspired, wasn’t it?”
And Joe nodded.
David smiled. “Okay,” he said at last. “Let me give it to you straight.”
“Don’t worry, Sawyer,” said Sara as she turned left off Baker and onto Spring and headed south toward Joe’s house in West Roxbury. As soon as Sawyer had hung up the call a half hour earlier, she had jumped in her car and headed to Wellesley, thanking God for the light early morning traffic and the fact that David was already at Joe’s.
“You did the right thing in calling me. We’ll make it to Joe’s in time. I promise.”
Sawyer looked at his watch. “I know. It’s just that . . . I don’t think Lieutenant Mannix is one of my biggest fans.”
“Joe’s a good guy, Sawyer. He can be trusted. This is not a time to play coy. If you are going to have a conversation with Mr. Kwon I want someone like Mannix in the room.”
Sawyer didn’t seem convinced.
“Listen to me, Sawyer, recording ADA Katz’s conversation yesterday was a stroke of genius, but as valuable as that information may be, it was recorded illegally which means we cannot use it in court. So now we have to cover our bases. Shit!” she added, banging her palm on the steering wheel as she caught a red on Center Street. “Joe should be able to record the call to Mr. Kwon—legally. He can also help you phrase your questions, get as much information as possible without . . .”
“Scaring poor Mr. Kwon half to death,” finished Sawyer, shaking his head, his mop of hair moving with him before finally settling in a mass on his forehead. “He didn’t volunteer to be a witness in a murder investigation, Sara,” he said, lifting his hand to shove the mop back in frustration. “The man is terrified. He came to me for help.”
Sara stole a look at the jittery young man beside her as she turned onto Joe’s tree-lined street. He looked so pale, so child-like. And in that moment she felt a sliver of guilt steal into her stomach—guilt for using this kid and his altruistic motives for solving their case.
“Look, Sawyer,” she said as she pulled into Joe’s red paved driveway, stopping short of a red BMX bike that stood at a diagonal to the whitewashed garage door. “I know this feels like we are using Mr. Kwon’s misfortune for our gain. But don’t you see? Mr. Kwon, Mr. Lim, Jessica, even James, if you are right about this China thing, then they all could be victims of the same evil—Peter Nagoshi.”
Sawyer nodded, but it was a halfhearted effort, and so she turned to take his hand, feeling an overwhelming need to comfort him, just as she had done for her own little brother hundreds of times, what now seemed like just as many years ago.
And when she did, when she reached out to touch him, he took her hand so swiftly, so completely that it took her by surprise. And in that moment she saw in his eyes complete sadness, complete loneliness, an all-consuming hunger for affection. She felt his pulse beneath his skin as his hot clammy hands held to hers, and he lifted his eyes to say: “I am not as confident as most people think, Sara.”
She squeezed his hand. “That’s okay, Sawyer. Neither am I. But maybe with the two of us put together?” she smiled.
Sawyer took a deep breath and released his grip, slowly, deliberately, before sitting up in his seat and placing his hand on the door handle. “I’m ready,” he said. “I can do this, Sara.”
“I know, Sawyer. I know.”
57
Joe did not know what to make of it. His coffee was bitter, cold—in fact, he had not taken a sip since David uttered the words: “We think H. Edgar Simpson murdered Jessica Nagoshi.”
Mannix looked across at McKay, expecting him to be just as shocked, but oddly enough Joe saw no indication of surprise in his partner’s eyes. On the contrary he saw an expression of resolution, like Frank had suspected the arrogant son of a bitch from the get-go.
“David,” Joe began, “I am not saying your argument doesn’t have merit, but it seems to me you are giving this kid too much credit. You’re saying a young man barely into his twenties perpetrated the almost perfect crime.”
“The fucker’s smart, Chief,” said Frank.
“But, hopefully, not smart enough,” said David, obviously relieved the two men did not discount his theory outright.
Joe shook his head. “It just seems so contrived, so tidy. I mean, the kid gets to walk and a reward for his troubles?”
“And, perhaps more importantly, the personal kudos of pulling it off,” said David.
Joe paused there, taking it all in, shifting his chair slightly to his left, away from the early morning glare that now flooded through the eastern windows, casting long, tall shadows across the gray laminate floor.
“There are too many unanswered questions,” he went on at last. “Like how did a kid like Simpson manage to clobber the girl with such force—using both of his scrawny Ivy League never-seen-a-day’s-work-in-his-entire-life arms in the process?”
“If the kid was angry enough, he could do it and more,” said David. “You’ve seen it a hundred times, Joe, what the power of rage can do to an average sized killer.”
“Witnesses told us he was drunk,” countered Joe, “barely walking when he left the Lincoln.”
“That was at one,” said David, balancing his argument once more. “And Gus estimated Jessica’s time of death as three. He had two hours to sober up, to let the adrenaline of fury seethe through his veins.”
“How did he get from Chestnut Hill to Wellesley?”
“A taxi dropped hi
m a few blocks away, or maybe he was sober enough to drive? We can check on the cab thing, and see if anyone saw a car matching the description of whatever Simpson drives in the vicinity of the Nagoshi estate.”
“He left no physical evidence,” said Joe, grabbing his mug for another sip of the cold caffeine.
“Didn’t he?” asked David, leaning in to the table now. “You said Leo’s FBI pals came back with two unidentified prints. Maybe they belong to Simpson? Maybe they put him right there at the crime scene? Maybe Simpson has a pair of size eleven Nikes that do the same?”
“Somehow I don’t think so,” said Frank. “If this murder was premeditated the kid would have been wearing gloves—and he would have ditched the shoes. Simpson is too smart for that.”
“Unless he was still a little hazy,” argued David. “And angry enough to let the details slip.”
There was silence then, as David looked to Joe, perhaps hoping for some sign that what he was proposing was possible.
“Look, Joe, just think about this for a second,” David went on. “I may not have been in the room when Leo’s profiler gave his report but my guess is it went something like this: young, white male—angry, emotional.”
“But controlled and organized,” added Frank, who had read Special Agent Jacobs’ report, “to the point of being meticulous.”
Joe was starting to see it then—starting to see him, Simpson, sliding into Jacobs’ hypothetical perpetrator’s shoes.
“The crime scene was clean, boss,” said Frank, now rolling up his shirtsleeves and resting his elbows on the table. “Which Jacobs’ suggested mirrored the perp’s personality. And Simpson is one tidy little fucker. His clothes ironed within an inch of their country club lives, not one hair out of place on his Howdy Doody head. Jacobs said the offender would be sanitary, neat . . .”
“Confident, adaptable, intelligent,” finished Joe, now quoting from Jacobs’ report.
Joe looked at David then, and saw that his friend was convinced of the Simpson kid’s guilt—and that alone told Joe this was worth investigating further. David’s argument was a reasonable one, after all. Joe had done his best to punch holes in David’s theory, a strategy he utilized more for David’s sake than anyone else’s. But no matter what Joe threw up, David’s answers had been sound, logical—and, more to the point, one hundred percent arguable in a criminal court of law.
Bottom line, if David was right, Simpson was literally laughing all the way to the bank, while his “friend” was wearing a red monkey suit up at the Hotel County Lockup. And that wasn’t something Mannix could live with, not now, not ever.
“Okay,” he said at last. “The kid is a possibility.” He noticed David’s shoulders relax a little. “But your theory has one big fat hole in the form of motive. Your client was her lover—and lover quarrels have been known to lead to violence. But why in the hell would H. Edgar kill the girl? Why would he murder his best friend’s lover in a fit of uncontrollable rage?”
“I’ve thought about that,” said David, now sitting back in his chair. “In fact, I have thought of nothing else for the past twelve hours. And the way I figure it, there are two possible theories, both of which amount to probable cause.”
“All right, Cavanaugh,” said Frank at last, scooping the dregs of sugar out of the bottom of his Buzz Lightyear mug with a too-big dessert spoon. “Don’t leave us hanging here. Tell us why the young genius risked his oh-so-brilliant future by bludgeoning a young girl to death? Why did he do it, David? Why did he squeeze that girl’s neck until it snapped like a twig in a vice?”
“Because he was jealous, Frank, because he wanted what James had—Jessica Nagoshi, bright, beautiful and connected.”
“So he pops the girl because—if he can’t have her, no one can?” said Frank, obviously not agreeing with the theory.
“I see where you are going here, David,” said Joe. “But to be honest I just don’t buy it. I’ve seen a lot of lovesick perps in my time and believe me, this Simpson kid is not one of them. I’d be willing to bet the kid never dated a girl in his whole superior life. So if your first motive is jealousy I . . .”
“No—both my motives are jealousy,” corrected David, looking his friend straight in the eye. And then Joe saw it, crisp and clear, as the fog that surrounded Jessica Nagoshi’s murder lifted like the condensation in that stinking greenhouse, all those weeks ago.
“You think Simpson is in love with Matheson,” he said at last. “You think he killed Jessica because he wanted the boy to himself.”
David gave the slightest of nods.
“Fuck,” said Joe.
“I know,” said David.
“Homer is a homo,” said Frank, looking up at his boss. “Now that I can see.”
The rap on the door was hard and fast, the sharp successive knocks acting like little punctuation marks to Frank’s final comment.
“Marie?” asked Frank.
“No. She has her key,” said Joe, wondering who the hell it might be. He moved down the corridor toward the door, David and Frank standing from their seats and following him out into the green carpeted hallway out of some instinctive back up reaction.
Joe looked through the peephole and released the tension in his shoulders. He opened the door quickly to stare at the unlikely pair before him.
“Sara,” he said in surprise. “David didn’t tell me you were coming.”
“That’s because he didn’t know,” she replied.
“Lieutenant,” said Sawyer, to which Joe responded “Jones,” more in recognition than in welcome.
“Sara,” said David, now moving down the hallway. “What’s wrong. Are you . . . ?”
“David, I want you to meet Sawyer Jones,” she said, moving aside so that the two might shake hands.
“Mr. Cavanaugh,” said Sawyer, taking David’s hand, and Mannix noticed the kid squeezed so hard that the blood drained completely from David’s fingers.
“What’s going on here?” asked David, releasing his hand and shaking it slightly before looking at Sara.
“Can we come in?” she asked, holding up her hand as if to say she would explain things in a moment. “We don’t have much time.”
“Sure,” said Joe, reading the urgency in her voice as he stepped back to allow them into the hall. “Come on into the kitchen. I was just about to make some fresh coffee.”
“I’m sorry, Joe,” said Sara, grabbing his arm. “There’s no time. Sawyer has to make a phone call and we need you and Frank,” she said, nodding at McKay, “listening in as witnesses.”
“I’m sorry,” she said again, this time looking toward a now obviously confused David. “I was going to call ahead but I left my cell in the apartment and there was no time. About an hour and a half ago a Mr. Kwon Si, foreman of the Nagoshis’ automobile plant in China, contacted Sawyer regarding his situation at the Guangdong factory.” The three men said nothing so Sara went on.
“We believe—I mean, Sawyer and I think that Mr. Kwon wants to discuss the working conditions of his employees and more specifically . . . the recent death of Mr. Lim.”
“Shit,” said Frank, making the connection.
“Hold on,” said David, determined to catch up. “Lim—isn’t he the man who . . .”
“That’s right,” she said. “Mr. Lim died in a factory accident the day after he called Sawyer and asked for Solidarity Global’s help. He was the same man who spoke to Jessica Nagoshi the morning before she died.”
“You think this Kwon is going to rat on the Nagoshi kid?” said Joe at last, cutting to the chase. “You think he’ll link Peter Nagoshi to this Lim’s death, and to . . .”
“Yes, Lieutenant, I do,” said Jones looking at Sara, and in that moment Joe got a sense that the kid drew a great deal of strength from her support. “I have spoken with the downtrodden many times, Lieutenant, and have become pretty good at gauging when they have had enough—when they need to tell the truth.
“Mr. Kwon knows more than he was able to sa
y in our brief conversation this morning. But I believe—no, I know, that I can get him to tell me everything he knows, about Peter Nagoshi, about Mr. Lim, and perhaps even about Jess.”
No one said anything for several long moments.
“What time did you say you’d call?” asked Joe at last.
“Eight a.m. our time,” answered Sawyer.
Joe looked at his watch. It was 7:56 a.m.
“Come with me,” he said, grabbing Jones by the arm and pulling him inside. “Frank, call George in audio and get him to open a record on my home line.” Frank nodded.
“We have three minutes, kid, so for once in your life I need you to sit down, shut up and listen. If what you say is true, my guess is we may only have one shot at this. Understand?”
“Yes, Lieutenant,” said Jones, and once again Joe got the sense this bravado was for Sara’s benefit. “You can trust me, Lieutenant. Just tell me what you want me to do.”
58
Heath Westinghouse hung up his cell. It had been a stupid idea.
What was I thinking? he said to himself as he drained his extra strong espresso in the corner of the Law School common room, a cranny he now seemed to be coveting, a good thirty feet from the center of the room where he and his two best friends used to hold court. Did I honestly think that I could just call James at his new residence and shoot the breeze about—oh, I don’t know—how I ratted him out to the cops and fucked his life over?
But that’s what he had done—well, actually he was guilty on both counts, fucking his friend over and then being stupid enough call Suffolk County Jail and ask to speak to James like he was still living a few miles east. His question had been met with a sigh by some bored telephone operator before she offered a response that went something like: “I am sorry, sir, we do not permit detainees to leave their cells and just wander over to the phone willy-nilly,” which had been followed by some spiel about visiting hours, a derogatory laugh and the long slow beep of a hang-up. It was a jail not a fucking resort. What a bloody idiot.