“It doesn’t apply when the attorney knows his client intends to commit a crime.”
“No further questions.”
Dotson Elihu rose. “Mr. Logan, have you ever been charged with a felony?”
The witness’s lips drew tight. “Like many lawyers, I’ve been frivolously charged.”
“With what?”
“Malfeasance.”
“Malfeasance—that means a crime against a client, such as conflict of interest or deception or theft?”
“It can cover those acts, but it also covers far less serious acts. It’s a very common charge brought by disgruntled clients.”
“And doubtless you have many of those?”
“Objection.”
“Sustained.”
Elihu seemed pleased as he ambled back to the defense table. “No further questions.”
Cardozo lifted the receiver and once again tapped in the number of the École Française. This time a woman’s voice answered. “’Allo?”
“Ms. de Gramont? It’s Vince Cardozo again from the Twenty-second Precinct. I have a question about the man who was watching Toby Talbot from that blue car. Could you see his left ear? Did you happen to notice if he was wearing an earring?”
“No, but I saw his left ear this afternoon when he picked up Toby, and he was wearing one.”
Cardozo jerked forward in his swivel chair. “He picked Toby up this afternoon?”
“Right after the school excursion. It turns out he’s Catch Talbot—Toby’s father.”
“Did he show you any kind of identification?”
“He gave me a note from Mrs. Talbot authorizing him to take Toby.”
“Ms. de Gramont, this is very important. Do you still have that note?”
Mademoiselle Josette de Gramont opened the drawer of her mahogany desk. She took out a sheet of stationery the color of crème brûlée and handed it across the desktop.
Cardozo held it by the corner. The note was dated today, September 21. The handwriting was a mix of loops and detached vertical strokes.
Dear Mademoiselle: This is to inform you that Toby’s father, Catch Talbot, has my authorization to pick up Toby after today’s school excursion and bring him home. With many thanks, Kyra Talbot.
“Is this Mrs. Talbot’s handwriting?”
“As nearly as I could tell. If you’d like to judge for yourself …” Mademoiselle de Gramont went to a file cabinet and pulled out Kyra Talbot’s application to enroll her son in the École.
Cardozo studied the loops and strokes. He was no expert, but they seemed to match the note. “Why was this note necessary? Isn’t Toby a little old to have to be picked up from school?”
“Yes, but his mother was strict on the point. Either she or the au pair dropped him off and picked him up. I don’t know why, but those were her instructions.”
“Who picked Toby up this last week?”
“The au pair. Except for Friday. Friday a man by the name of La Plata picked Toby up. He said he was the doorman.”
“And did he have a note from Mrs. Talbot?”
Mademoiselle de Gramont handed Cardozo a second sheet of stationery. The paper and the handwriting matched the first.
September 20. Dear Mademoiselle: Mr. Joseph La Plata, our doorman, has my authorization to pick up Toby after school today and bring him home. With many thanks, Kyra Talbot.
Cardozo frowned. “Was there an envelope with either of these notes?”
“There was with Mr. Talbot’s.” She handed him an envelope addressed with the single word Mademoiselle. “He was a gentleman.”
“Had you ever met him before today?”
She reflected. “I met him once before—six years ago, when Toby enrolled.”
“How is it you didn’t recognize him last Wednesday?”
“He was too far away.”
Cardozo studied the envelope. The return address was engraved across the flap: APT 11-E, 118 EAST 81ST STREET, NEW YORK, N.Y. 10028. There was no sender’s name. The trademark TIFFANY & CO. MAKERS NEW YORK was embossed under the flap.
“I’d like to keep these notes and the envelope,” he said.
“I’ll have to make copies.”
She switched on the Xerox machine and made copies and gave him back the originals.
“By any chance,” Cardozo said, “did you happen to notice the color of Catch Talbot’s eyes?”
“I couldn’t help but notice. They were deep brown.”
Cardozo stepped through the door of 118 East 81st Street. The small lobby was lined with smoked mirrors and corn plants potted in copper tubs.
A doorman moved forward to intercept him. “Help you?”
Cardozo flipped his wallet open to the gold shield. “I’d like to have a word with Kyra Talbot.”
“Kyra Talbot? Never heard of her.”
“She lives in Eleven-E.”
“No, she doesn’t, not in this building. Sure you want 118? Because Eleven-E is Anne Bingham.” He pointed to the tenant directory on the wall. Anne Bingham 11-E.
Cardozo took the envelope from his pocket and checked the address. He frowned. “Could you buzz Ms. Bingham for me?”
The doorman pushed an intercom button. No one answered.
“Could you give me her phone number?” Cardozo said.
Cardozo went to the pay phone on the corner of Lexington and dialed Anne Bingham’s number. After two rings an answering machine unleashed a stream of synthesizer baroque. “Hi. You’ve reached the office of Ding-a-ling Music, Anne Bingham, CEO.” The voice was young and perky, with an appealing musical lilt. “If you’d care to leave a message at the beep, I’ll get back to you as soon as possible. That’s a promise. Thanks.”
Beep.
“Lieutenant Vince Cardozo, Twenty-second Precinct. I’d appreciate hearing from you as soon as you get this message.” He left his number and broke the connection. Fishing another quarter out of his pocket, he dialed the École Française.
“’Allo?”
“Ms. de Gramont, Vince Cardozo again. There seems to be a mix-up. The address on that note isn’t Kyra Talbot’s. It’s the home of Anne Bingham. You wouldn’t happen to know that name?”
“Bingham? No, I’m sorry. We have no Bingham at the École.”
“Do you have Kyra Talbot’s home address?”
“Just a moment.” There was a silence. And then: “Six Barrow Street. Do you want her phone number?”
Cardozo swung the glass door open and stepped into a marble lobby hung with monster orchid paintings. Muzak sprayed down from ceiling speakers like a fine mist of pesticide.
A tall doorman with a veneered smile stepped from behind a desk. The name Louis was stitched in purple script on a uniform that could have been designed by a Costa Rican dictator’s mistress. “Sir?”
Cardozo showed his shield. “Did Catch Talbot bring Toby home about an hour ago?”
“Catch Talbot?”
“His father.”
“I don’t know any father.”
“A big man with a shaved head. Could be wearing an earring in his left ear.”
“Never seen anyone like that around here. Anyway, Toby left last night.”
“Left? Where did he go?”
“He didn’t say.” Louis shrugged. “He took a load of packages and suitcases in a taxi.”
“Do me a favor. Would you buzz Toby’s apartment?”
“Glad to, but no one’s home.” Louis went to the switchboard and buzzed 9-H. No answer. “Haven’t seen Mrs. Talbot or Juliana for two or three days.” He buzzed again. “Sorry.”
Feet propped on the open desk drawer, Cardozo flipped open his notebook and reviewed his information on the man who may have been the last person to see Britta Bailey alive.
Tall. Heavy. Shaved head. Photographing children from illegally parked American-make blue car. Brown eyes. Ring in left ear. Corduroy trousers, raincoat. Well-spoken. Uses name Catch Talbot. May be Toby T.’s father.
It wasn’t much and it wasn�
��t nearly enough. The only remotely corroborated details seemed to be the hairstyle and the brown eyes. As for the name, there was no such person listed with any phone company in a fifty-mile radius. There was a Catch Talbot listed in Seattle, but it was a business phone and a recorded voice said to call back Monday between nine and five.
Cardozo pushed up from his chair and stepped into the squad room. Twelve of the sixteen desks were deserted. The mayor’s austerity budget had decreed Saturdays, Sundays, and holidays low-crime days. Detective Greg Monteleone sat staring at a triplicate form in the carriage of his typewriter.
“Greg, you got a minute?”
“Obviously not now, I don’t.”
“Would you run a check on charge-card activities over the past week, anyone you can find by the name of Catch Talbot? We’re especially interested in any charges in the New York City area.”
“Does Mickey Williams ever wear a ring in his left ear?”
Cardozo was sitting with Tess diAngeli in her office, a partitioned space on the eighth story of the state court building. A weekend nocturnal quiet flowed through the floor.
“I’ve never seen him wearing one,” she said.
“But the man who picked up Toby had a shaved head. You said Mickey does too.”
“Unfortunately, quite a few men shave their heads nowadays.”
“What color are Mickey’s eyes?”
“Brown.”
“The ma in the car had brown eyes.”
Tess shrugged. “Did any of your witnesses recognize him?”
“One said there’s a good resemblance to Britta’s photo of Mickey Williams.”
A shadow glided across the frosted glass door. Tess waited for a pair of lonely feet to scurry past in the corridor. “You’re yanking my chain, Vince. You don’t have a single witness who can say the man in that car was Mickey.”
Cardozo nodded. “That’s right. In fact, Mademoiselle de Gramont says he was Toby’s father.”
Tess diAngeli’s head snapped around. “Then what the hell are you bothering me for?”
“Doesn’t it seem peculiar—a father sits in a car taking photos of his kid? And drives away when a cop challenges him?”
“So? There are peculiar fathers. Vince, why are you dumping all this on me?”
“Because that man is the last person who saw Britta alive. I need to find him, and Kyra Talbot can help me.”
“Forget it, Vince. The government has invested over four years and forty-nine million dollars in this case. They’re going to keep her sequestered.”
“If Kyra Talbot’s sequestered, how did she manage to write these?” He handed Tess the notes, cased in protective Mylar.
She skimmed them, then flung them down. “Give me a break. Obviously she wrote them ahead of time and post-dated them.”
TWENTY-TWO
8:20 P.M.
IN THE HOTEL COFFEE shop, Anne watched Shoshana transfer keys, coins, and cosmetics from her purse to the Formica tabletop.
“It hides from me; I swear it hides.” Shoshana finally found a little brown bottle, opened it, and tapped it against the palm of her hand. A solitary pill rolled out. She closed one eye and peered down the bottle. “Do you believe it? This is my last.”
“What is it?”
“Prozac, what else? From here on, I’m flying without a parachute.” Shoshana tossed the pill into her mouth and belted it back with a slug of iced tea.
Anne tried to smile, but the smile felt forced and false. “I think I’ll skip dessert. I have a headache. Would you excuse me?” She pushed up from the table.
“See ya.” Shoshana waved and began shoveling debris back into her purse.
Anne told the uniformed jury guard by the door that she was going up to her room.
Anne fitted the card-key into the lock of room 1818. The door swung open onto darkness. She flicked the light on, went into the bathroom, and took an Advil with tap water. She began running a bath.
There was a shrill warbling sound in the other room. Her heart gave a jump. She stopped the water. The sound came again.
The telephone, she realized. But weren’t outside calls supposed to be blocked?
Maybe it was an electric surge on the line. Or maybe calls from inside the hotel weren’t blocked.
She crossed the bedroom and lifted the receiver. “Hello?”
There was a clicking sound like a bicycle chain ripping loose. And then a man’s voice: “Kyra Talbot?”
It was a voice like none she had ever heard before—it seemed alien, fraudulent, as though he—or she—was pushing it down to alter the sound.
“Yes, this is she.”
“Don’t repeat what I’m about to say to anyone. If you ever want to see your son alive again, vote Corey Lyle not guilty.”
The threat caught her like a rock to the skull. There was a click followed by a dentist’s drill of a dial tone. It took her a stunned moment to remember that she still had two hands. She broke the connection and punched zero.
After three maddeningly leisurely rings, a woman answered. “World Wide Inn.”
“This is Kyra Talbot—one of the sequestered jurors. I’ve got to speak to Judge Bernheim right away.”
“Hang up the phone and you’ll be contacted.”
“You don’t understand. It’s an emergency. It can’t wait.”
“I understand, ma’am. You’ll be contacted.”
It was three minutes of racing thoughts and ice in the pit of her stomach before the phone finally rang. She snatched it up. “Hello?”
“Ms. Talbot?” A man. Young sounding. “This is Josh Hormel, Judge Bernheim’s assistant.”
“I’ve got to speak to the judge immediately.”
“Could you give me some idea what the problem is?”
The warning echoed in her head. Don’t repeat this to anyone. “I can’t. It’s … personal.”
“I’m afraid the judge won’t be available till Monday. I’ll tell her you wish to speak to her.”
Anne grabbed her purse and made sure the door was locked behind her. She jabbed the elevator button and almost collided with Shoshana stepping off.
“Hey.” Shoshana arched an inquisitive eyebrow. “Thought you had a headache. Where are you running?”
“I’ll be right back.” Anne jabbed the button for the ground floor and held her finger on emergency call all the way down. Please, God, she prayed, let it be a mistake. Let it be a horrible, sick prank. Let Toby be safe.
With its gold-leaf walls, the lobby had the costume-jeweled iridescence of an overlit nightclub. She dashed through milling patrons to the front desk. “Excuse me.”
The sandy-haired, very young desk clerk gave her a startled look. “Yes, ma’am?”
“Someone just phoned my room. I need to know who he was and how the call got put through.”
“I’m afraid I can’t help you. Calls to the rooms are put through automatically.”
“But I’m a juror—I’m sequestered. My phone’s supposed to be cut off.”
He shook his head. “I don’t know anything about sequesterment.”
“Who does?”
The clerk placed a short, low-voiced phone call. Thirty seconds later a tall man in a business suit came striding across the lobby and introduced himself as the manager.
Anne explained that she was sequestered and she wanted to check on a call that had come to room 1818.
The manager’s eyes were dubious. “Chris, let me have that outside line.” He tapped in a seven-digit number and held the receiver so Anne could hear.
“I’m sorry,” a recorded female voice was saying. “The number you have dialed cannot be accessed at this time.”
“Anyone who calls your room,” the manager said, “gets that message. Your number’s blocked.”
“Somebody called, and they weren’t blocked.” She turned on her heel and raced through startled patrons toward the street door.
“Ma’am!” the manager shouted behind her. “Madam!”
Anne pushed through revolving glass doors. The September night caught her like a warm washrag slapped in her face. A taxi braked in a bath of sparks and a man stepped out. She grabbed the cab door from him and slid into the backseat.
“Could you take me to Six Barrow Street? That’s just off Fourth Street, west of Sixth Avenue.”
The cab eased into a traffic jam. Through the open window horns blared and brakes squealed. A police siren yodeled and a blue-and-white cruiser pulled into the street ahead of them, lights flashing. The cab swerved and braked.
The driver, a slender black man in a Terminator T-shirt, turned his head. “Hey, lady …” He had a Jamaican accent. “What did you do? Rob a bank?”
Two officers were running toward the cab, revolvers drawn. “Kyra Talbot?”
“Mrs. Talbot …” Judge Bernheim was wearing diamond earrings and a black evening dress. The air in her chambers was dry and cold, like flowing particles of iced silicon, and she hadn’t taken off her brocade bolero. “Would you care to explain why you told the guard you were going to your room and then left the hotel?”
Anne had to push words through disaster scenarios exploding in her head. “That wasn’t the way it happened.”
“Then how did it happen?” The judge’s tone was withering.
“After dinner I went up to my room. I was running a bath. I received a threatening phone call. A man or woman—I couldn’t tell—said if I ever wanted to see my son alive again, I had to vote Corey Lyle not guilty.”
The judge stared in drop-jawed shock. “Stop right there. How did you get a telephone into your room?”
“I didn’t. The call came on the hotel phone.”
“That phone is blocked—there’s no way a call could have gotten through.”
“Your Honor, there is a way, and a little boy could be in danger.”
Gina Bernheim shot her a long, evaluating glance. “What time did this call come?”
“A little after eight-thirty.”
“Why didn’t you contact me immediately?”
“I tried to.”
The judge sighed. “Was anyone else in the room with you?”
“I was alone.”
Judge Bernheim lifted the telephone receiver and pushed two buttons. “Harvey, run a check on any incoming phone calls to Mrs. Talbot’s room this evening.” She replaced the receiver and consulted the scrawl on a yellow legal pad. “You left the-hotel at twelve minutes after nine and got into a taxi. You asked the driver to take you to Six Barrow Street. Why?”
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