“You’re right he’s not always focused. That blood spot was on my hand for two hours that night, and he never noticed.”
“The condo manager says they have just one car, and it was still in the assigned place,” he continued. “It’s now in the police pound and the crime unit is going over it. They’re checking all the airlines. No doubt he flew to Atlanta.”
“How’d he get to the airport?”
“They’re checking on that.”
“What about the pizza delivery guy?”
Skip directed his eyes to the ceiling to help recall. “Four different deliveries that night. One was much earlier, another one the company keeps records and knows the call came in at seven. The remaining two were from a small mom and pop pizza place that doesn’t keep track of the time. The police aren’t going to spend any more time on the pizza guy angle.”
“That’s a mistake. I think that’s a hot angle. If it were my case, I’d stay on it. Did the crime lab test the outside of the manila envelope for traces of any pizza residue or gun oil?”
Chip squinted. “Pizza residue and gun oil on the envelope?” Then he got it. “If the perp was going to leave the envelope in her lap, he would have carried it to the scene in the empty pizza box and maybe carried the gun in there as well.”
“Correct, and if there is residue, they can get moving on the phony pizza guy theory.”
“I’ll suggest that. Do you want to hear what was in the manila envelope?” he asked.
“Don’t tell me. I don’t want to hear about the photos.” She turned away and then turned back. “But tell me anyway.”
“It was empty.”
“I don’t get that. It felt light, yet it was padded so I couldn’t actually tell. The victim told Martin she’d located the sexy photos. When I saw the envelope, I assumed she was bringing the photos down to us.” She stopped to mull that over. “So, the photos are still missing. No photos in the envelope, yet the killer wanted that empty envelope found.”
He nodded in agreement. “Because there’s blood under it, it had to be placed there after the shooting. So, you’re correct, the killer wanted it found. How did the killer get so close as to place the barrel against her forehead?”
“Someone she wasn’t afraid of. A husband, for example. I’m beginning to like him for this.”
“So does the crime unit. Nine out of ten times the spouse is the killer.”
She said, “Although if he wanted her dead, why set up such an elaborate scheme? Go shoot her out in the Everglades or somewhere. Not in your own backyard.”
“Our friend Martin isn’t in the clear yet. As you just pointed out, none of the facts match up with what he claims she told him on the phone. In fact, the police have checked her cellphone. She never made a call to him at all.”
“So, she didn’t use her cellphone. She made the call on her apartment phone, and Martin received it on the office phone. Of course, there’s no record. The facts are wrong, not him. He doesn’t lie. He has a particular aversion to lying about anyone wearing a skirt.”
“Well, the police now have him tagged as a person of interest.”
“Martin! That’s absurd. Really? Geez. Do we have more wine?”
“More red. I’ll get it.” He stood and opened the cabinet. “You’re wearing that sexy skirt today.”
She started to clear the table. “Nothing special.” But yes, it was soft and clingy cotton, and now that he mentioned it, she felt very sexy in it. “I think you’ve just missed me. So you think I look sexy in this skirt?”
“You look sexy brushing your teeth.”
“Ah, you had me there for a minute. Now you’ve gone too far.” She turned away to set the dishes on the counter.
He pulled her back against him and held her with a long soft kiss. He placed one arm around her shoulders pulling her closer. He reached down and brought his other hand up under her skirt. She felt his warm hand running up and down over her bare thighs. She raised herself on her toes, and her head fell back as he began to nuzzle her neck.
“I like the skirt too,” she whispered, “but I won’t be able to get it off fast enough.”
Chapter Eleven
On her way to the office the following morning, Sandy picked up a copy of the Margaret Frome homicide report at the police station. She settled in at her desk and was studying the report when the mail carrier came in.
For the next five minutes, she stared at the registered mail she’d just signed for. Why must special letters with their strange barcodes and cryptic symbols appear so threatening? It felt heavy and ominous in her hand. She knew what it was. She set it down unopened on the edge of the desk and went back to the police report. But her eyes kept going over to the registered letter. It brought back an unpleasant memory from childhood.
She was six-years old. She remembered going into her grandparent’s old house in Philadelphia and wondering why so many cars were parked outside. She remembered there was a hall table below an oval mirror just inside the front door. She stared at the strange yellow envelope open on the table. She’d never seen a telegram before. Grandma was in the parlor talking with a group of strangers all dressed up in their Sunday best. Grandma wore a creepy black dress. Everyone was acting strangely and kept hugging Grandma. Sandy remembered hearing them talk about Grandpa yet she didn’t see him. He should have been there. She stood in the hall confused. No one seemed to notice her at all. She went back to the hall table and picked up the telegram. The lettering looked weird. She didn’t understand a couple of the words although she knew what it meant. Something about Grandpa passing on. She tore at the telegram until little pieces were all over the floor. She felt naughty to have made that mess and hid in the hall closet. She remembered sitting alone in the dark below the hanging coats feeling abandoned, listening to the voices of the strangers and vomiting on Grandpa’s brown rain boots.
Now she looked at the registered letter on her desk and saw the return address was the bar association in Tallahassee. She felt sick to her stomach. This might be the first step in the unraveling of what she’d worked so hard for. She closed her eyes and tore it open. Notice of Complaint. State Attorney Lawrence Moran was coming after her as promised.
She could only guess at how much power a state attorney wielded with the ethics committee of the bar association. She had to assume the committee would take seriously his complaint regarding her interference in the prosecution of a capital crime.
She was still speculating on her fate when Martin came in with a coffee in each hand. “I know you like a small black coffee, however you absolutely sucked up that Grande Latte the other day.” He saw the registered letter on her desk. “What are you up to this morning?”
“Trying to save my career.” She thanked him and reached for the coffee. “Right now, it seems like trying to catch a falling knife. So far, my strategy amounts to waiting for the badass who shot Margaret Frome to confess, so it doesn’t go to trial, so obstructing justice isn’t an issue, and so my tail is saved.”
“Doesn’t sound like one of the usual Sandy Reid tricky game plans to me.”
“You’re right. I had the crazy thought that Moran was bluffing and wouldn’t actually go through with this. Of course, he did. And now I have to start researching a possible response. Obstructing justice is a criminal offense. Tampering with evidence is a mere misdemeanor. I think Moran has slapped me with the wrong charge. What I did wasn’t a criminal offense, even though it might be enough to get me disbarred.”
“That’s not likely, is it? I don’t see where what you did even meets the lesser charge of tampering with evidence. You certainly weren’t trying to cover up anything.”
“My intentions might be beside the point. In Florida, any physical evidence in contact with the body is the responsibility of the ME. No one else is to touch it.”
“So if the envelope were lying on the ground you could pick it up?”
“Apparently, it wouldn’t be as serious. In any case, if the murder
case goes to trial, Moran will have many opportunities to claim my actions interfered with the prosecution. And if they find the defendant guilty, it gets even worse. My actions would give the defense grounds for an appeal.”
“So, don’t let it go to trial. Go find the murderer yourself, corner him and force him to confess.”
“Don’t let Chip hear you talk like that.”
“We’ll fight this together. What can I do?”
She looked again at the letter. “The ethics committee has accepted a complaint against me. The next step will be for them to gather information from interested parties. That would be only Moran unless he puts pressure on Shapiro to send in something as well. He probably couldn’t force Jaworski to get involved. It would help my case if the investigating detective stated I didn’t interfere, but I’d never ask Jaworski to take sides.”
“Would a letter from my father help? He’s still well-known in Tallahassee.”
“What’s he going to say? I’m a good kid because his son likes me?”
“What about a statement from Jerry Kagan?”
She jumped out of her chair so quickly he flinched in surprise. “Jerry Kagan, of course. You’re a genius.” She fumbled for her phone.
She had met the eighty-plus year old retired lawyer a year ago when he was struggling to defend her brother against the murder charge. She had driven down from Philadelphia to help. With tough investigative fieldwork, she got enough cooperation from unlikely sources to hand Kagan a solid defense of reasonable doubt. It was one of the few times anyone had stood up to bully Moran, and she’d shot him down. His case against her brother became an embarrassing shambles. That’s when Sandy Reid went to the top of his enemies list. He’d never forget. The outcome revived Kagan’s law practice, and when he chose to retire months later, he went out on top.
“Ah, Miss Reid,” Kagan answered. He was a genial and courtly man with old school manners. “How are you? On the one hand I hope you’re not in trouble, still on the other hand I hope this is a call for help because I owe you.”
“I’m fine. Yes I am, and no you don’t.”
“I hear trouble in your voice. Tell me right now in twenty-five words or less how I can help you.”
She related her sorrowful tale and ended by telling him she thought Moran was jealous of the huge fee she and Martin expected from Banks versus Olin.
“Okay, here’s what you do. Answer that first notice immediately. Be very brief and very formal. State that you are dismayed at the accusation, you take it very seriously, however it is without merit. You intend to respond accordingly. I agree with you he has charged you incorrectly. I believe at most you merely tampered with evidence. You deserve a slap on the wrist. If in his complaint, he persists in calling it obstructing justice he’ll look silly. I’m surprised he’s trying to make so much of this.”
“If he has a chance to bring me down, he’s going to take it.”
“I understand that,” Kagan said, “but if he pushes this too hard, it will appear an ad hominem attack, and he’ll come off looking vindictive instead of judicious.”
“Which, of course, he is. I should get him mad, that’s when he screws up.”
“We’re going to handle this without any personal assailment and appeal only to the legalities. Nevertheless, you should expect to receive at least a reprimand.”
“I’ll gladly accept a reprimand. I feel better, Jerry, after talking with you.”
“Now let me guess, in addition to extricating yourself from the ethics charge, you probably intend to get involved in the murder investigation itself and attempt to solve it.”
“Of course! My meddling, pestering and aggravating haven’t even started.”
“I knew you couldn’t stay away from it. Do you know who did it?”
“Not yet, and unfortunately there’s no suspicious butler on the scene.”
“Remember if you get stuck—cherchez la femme. Are there any women involved?”
“Yes, but I’m the only suspicious one. Thanks for the help.” She smiled into the phone. “And how are you and retirement getting along?”
“Fine. I read a lot and try to keep learning difficult things I’ve never tried before. I do notice I don’t use the words ‘Someday’ and ‘One of these days’ much anymore. I’m just taking life one nap at a time. What do you hear from your brother and his significant other—the stockbroker turned financier?”
“Oh, you remember Meg Emerson? Their last postcard was from Brussels, where she’s negotiating with a large bank for some sort of trustee deal. I miss him. Hope they’ll be home soon.”
They made a lunch date and she hung up. “You know, to get by in this world you don’t need friends in high places. You need friends with high intellect.”
“Father would agree with you. He says never hesitate to seek out an expert. The problem is identifying them. He says if you put ten experts in a room you’ll get eleven opinions.”
She slumped back in her chair and smiled up at the ceiling. “I’ll feel better when I get Moran off my back.” She straightened up abruptly. “Let me see that letter from the Ethics Committee again.” She studied the letter for a minute and then said, “There’s another dreadful consequence.” She waved the letter at him. “According to this, if Moran’s request is accepted by the ethics committee, I have to give up all existing clients within thirty days while they investigate.”
“You’re just starting out. You have no existing clients to speak of.”
“What about Juanita Banks and our multi-million dollar legal action we’re on the verge of winning? Screwing up that lawsuit might be behind Moran’s eagerness to come after me.”
“But that lawsuit is a civil action not criminal and is outside his authority,” he said.
“Nevertheless, being ordered by the bar association to drop all existing clients would really screw things up even if I wasn’t ultimately disbarred. My possible success in getting a piece of that huge settlement has to be eating at him.”
“True, he no doubt wants you to fail. You stand to receive a settlement several times his annual salary. I’ll bet the envy is burning him up, and every time he plays golf with Judge Allen he trashes you.”
“What did Jerry Kagan just say about being surprised Moran was making so much of this? Now we know. Moran is willing to stick his neck out with the worthless disbarment proceeding if he can somehow throw a monkey wrench into the lawsuit. Maybe that’s what he’s been thinking about all along. He’s figuring on hurting me whether or not I get disbarred.”
Chapter Twelve
It was Thursday morning, four days after the shooting. Sandy was alone in the office and sat at her desk checking the local newspaper coverage of what the paper called the “Courtyard Murder.” It seems the profile of the victim and her husband was coming into better focus. The victim, Margaret Frome, had worked as a secretary for Bichadel Corporation, a natural gas operation located north of the city in Palm Point. Her husband, Robert Frome, when notified of his wife’s death, had returned from a business trip to Atlanta and the police were questioning him. The paper didn’t mention he was the prime suspect.
All of which was fine with Sandy. If they got a confession out of the husband, the obstructing justice charge against her would be moot. Consequently, Moran would have to drop his complaint with the ethics committee.
She heard the office front door open, however she couldn’t see into the reception area from inside her office. Not much of a bother since “walk-ins” were infrequent. Someday she’d have a classy receptionist sitting up front.
“Martin here?” the man asked from the doorway. “I’m a friend of his.”
“You have excellent taste in friends.” She walked down the short hall to greet him. “He’s out for the day. May I help you or take a message?”
“Good. If he were here, I’d have to make up some excuse for coming. It’s you I want. Have a minute?”
“Sure. Let’s go into the back office. I’m Sandy....�
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“I know who you are. I’m Brad Ebert. Martin talks about you a lot. Are you in fact as clever as he says?”
“Knowing Martin, I’m sure that would be impossible.” She ushered him into the larger office in the back and motioned toward the large leather armchair. She noticed he held a large brown expansion folder. She sat and folded her hands on the polished teak desk in front of her, giving him her standard expectant look. He just sat there staring at her. So to start things off she said, “Martin says you manage the Toyota dealership.”
“General Manager for years. They jerked me around. Car sales took a dump. They demoted me to Sales Manager. If my wife didn’t have a sizable investment in the dealership, I’d be out on the lot washing cars. A juicy Prius sale to our friend Priscilla saved my ass for another month. Did you meet her?”
“Priscilla bought a car from you, that was nice.” He was average height with a roll of bulk around his waist. Nothing serious—just out of shape. He dressed casually, with a coral colored polo shirt and white slacks as though heading to the golf course.
“Is that your little Miata MX-5 parked out there? Cute looking, however you should realize it’s unsafe. You have an accident and that little thing will just be a spot on the other car’s windshield. You deserve a bigger car. Now I have a selection of several beauties I could show you. Something with lots of metal around you for protection. You’re too exposed, too vulnerable sitting in that little thing. I’d call you an attractive magnet. Especially to me, I’ve always been partial to short brown hair and soft blue eyes.”
She rolled her chair closer to the large desk. “When that little thing goes, I go. I intend to be buried in it. It’s in my will.”
“Well, it’s your funeral.” He winked at her and leaned forward. “Martin isn’t to know I’ve even been here. Okay?”
She shook her head. “I don’t make promises like that. First, you tell me in general why you’re here. Then, if I say okay, we can get confidential. One more thing, before we begin. Are you aware, Mr. Ebert, this innocent looking woman you see before you is presently under arrest in a capital murder case?”
Such Wicked Friends Page 7