VC04 - Jury Double

by Edward Stewart

  “Objection!”

  “Sustained.”

  “Mr. Randolf, during all your investigation of Corey Lyle, how many criminal accusations against him did you turn up?”

  “I’d say somewhere in the neighborhood of thirty-five.”

  “And did any result in criminal charges?”

  “We preferred not to charge Corey Lyle till we had a rock-solid case.”

  “In other words, until the deaths of John and Amalia Briar, you had no case against him?”

  “We had a case. We wanted to be sure of it.”

  “Precisely my point. No further questions.”

  Mark Wells’s secretary was dressed in form-fitting, hey-look-at-me colors that left no curve unhugged. “May I help you?”

  “Vince Cardozo, New York City police.” He flipped open his shield case. “I’d like a word with Mr. Wells. Concerning the missing person report he filed.”

  A startle reflex showed in her green-shadowed eyes. “I’ll see if Mr. Wells is free.” She lifted the phone and spoke in a scarcely audible murmur. The fingers of her right hand were tipped in fresh red nail polish that matched the glossy red on her lips. She hadn’t yet painted the nails of the left. Or maybe, Cardozo speculated, unsymmetrical was the look in Wall Street law firms.

  “You can go right in, sir.”

  Mark Wells met him at the door—a tall man dressed like a magazine ad. His worried eyes didn’t go with the jaunty millionaire look. “You’ve found Toby?” He closed the door and motioned toward the leather chairs. “Please.”

  Cardozo sat. His eyes roamed book-lined walls. A Harvard Law diploma hung above a trophy for the Racquet and Tennis Club squash semifinals. “Sorry. I’m looking for him too. A cop was murdered, and Toby Talbot was one of the last people to speak with her. He also seems to be acquainted with one of the suspects. They were seen in New Jersey this morning.”

  Mark Wells shot him a panicked look. “A suspected murderer has him?”

  “The man is using the name Catch Talbot. But the real Catch Talbot is in Seattle. The impostor picked your nephew up from school last Saturday. He had a note from your sister.”

  Wells’s fingers jittered on the desktop. “Look. Kyra’s not my sister—she’s my client. Saying I was Toby’s uncle was the only way I could get those precinct people to listen to me.”

  “If you’re not family, how did you know Toby was missing?”

  “Kyra told me.”

  “Kyra Talbot’s serving on a sequestered jury. How did she know?”

  Wells lifted the phone. “No calls, Miss Emerson.” He covered his eyes a moment, as if fending off a migraine. “I’d rather you didn’t repeat this. Saturday night Kyra received a threatening phone call. She was told to acquit Corey Lyle or she’d never see Toby alive again.”

  “Did she recognize the voice?” Cardozo said.

  “No. She couldn’t even tell if it was a man’s or a woman’s.”

  “And how did you find all this out?”

  “Judge Bernheim phoned me. There was no record of the call and she felt Kyra was lying—trying to get off the jury. So Kyra and I had a discussion. I explained that the government would go very hard on her if she caused a mistrial in a forty-million-dollar prosecution. And as a felon, she’d lose custody of her son. The upshot was, she decided to withdraw her story and stay on the jury.”

  “But did she retract her story to you?”

  “No.”

  “And you believe her story?”

  “I believe her. There just isn’t the proof to back her up.”

  If Kyra Talbot was telling the truth, Cardozo could finally see a scenario that knit the pieces together. One of Corey Lyle’s skinheads had grabbed Toby Talbot in order to pressure the jury. Britta Bailey had gotten in the way of his preparations and he’d killed her.

  There was only one problem with that scenario: in all probability the skinhead was the state’s star witness against Corey Lyle.

  Cardozo laid the photocopied sketch on the desktop. “This man claims to be Toby Talbot’s father. Do you know him?”

  Wells examined the sketch. He shook his head. “It’s not Catch. He wouldn’t be caught dead in a haircut like this. Makes him look like a recruiter for the Michigan Militia.”

  Cardozo brought out the news photo. “And this?”

  Mark Wells studied it. “Certainly is an old picture. There’s a generic resemblance, I suppose. Catch always was a jock. Football and boxing. But I don’t think this is him.”

  Cardozo frowned. “I promised I’d call Talbot. Can I use your phone?”

  “Absolutely.” Wells lifted the receiver. “Miss Emerson, could you get hold of Catch Talbot in Seattle?”

  A moment later the phone buzzed, and a secretary in Seattle with a bad cold told Cardozo that Catch Talbot had been called away from the office on an emergency.

  As soon as Cardozo left the office, Mark asked his secretary to get hold of the investigator who did jobs for the firm.

  An hour later, Mark sat at a booth in a deserted coffee shop. An overweight, acne’d man by the name of Peter Connolly watched his shaking hand spill coffee into a saucer.

  “This has to be absolutely confidential,” Mark said.

  “It always is, Mr. Wells.”

  “One of our clients has vanished,” Mark explained.

  Connolly’s face remained stony and unsurprised even when Mark described the jury switch and the kidnapping. Connolly took notes and asked one question about the terms of Toby’s trust.

  “I’ll get back to you,” he said.

  How can I help you, Lieutenant?” the manager said.

  “A Visa charge card was forged,” Cardozo said, “and several unauthorized charges were made on it. One of them was made here in the Oak Room, Thursday the nineteenth.” He handed the manager the fax of Catch Talbot’s Visa transactions, with the sale date, the post date, and the Visa card reference number neatly highlighted. “I need a description of the man who used the card.”

  The manager’s jaw set itself forward. “We’re not liable. Once the computer gives us that authorization number, the charge is cleared.”

  “No one’s blaming the Oak Room.”

  “I can show you the original dinner check.”

  “That would be a help.”

  The manager opened a wooden drawer in a wall of filing cabinets. Thousands of restaurant checks with stapled charge card flimsies had been filed by date. He searched for almost three minutes before handing Cardozo a check for four beverage, two bottles wine, two soup, two salad, two prime rib, two coffee, four cognac, and tax. Total, $167.80. It looked like a merry time had been had.

  Two carbon flimsies were attached. One was Visa, signed Catch Talbot. The other was American Express, signed Gordon Gibbs. Talbot and Gibbs had split the bill and tipped a generous twenty percent.

  “Could I get a copy of the Talbot signature?”

  “No problem. But as for describing the gentleman …” The manager shook his head.

  “What about the waiter who served them? Server seven? He might remember two guys sitting at table twelve, killing off two bottles of wine and four cognacs and splitting the bill—and leaving a good tip.”

  “Don’t get your hopes up.”

  Cardozo followed the manager across the hallway. In the paneled bar, lights softly glowed on polished brass and crystal and oak. Evening was already dark in the windows. Even though all the chairs at the bar and most of the tables were taken, the sound of voices was subdued.

  “You got a minute, Jimmy?”

  A tall, black-haired waiter glanced up from the cash register.

  “Lieutenant Cardozo here has some questions about this charge.” The manager handed the waiter the check. “Do you happen to remember the customers?”

  “It’s Talbot I’m interested in,” Cardozo said.

  The waiter’s eyes flicked from Cardozo to the check. “This was almost two weeks ago. Sorry. But you know who might be able to help you? Dr. Gi
bbs is sitting over at his regular table—by the corner window.”

  “Dr. Gibbs?”

  The heavyset, cheerful-looking man with the trimmed white beard and half-glasses glanced up from the editorial page of the New York Times. “Yes?”

  “Vince Cardozo. New York police.” He flipped open his shield case. “Sorry to bother you. I need some information on Catch Talbot.”

  “Well, well, so that old rascal Catch has got himself in Dutch with the fuzz.” Gibbs smiled. “Have a seat.”

  “You two had dinner here on Thursday the nineteenth?”

  “Yes, we did.”

  “When did you first meet him?”

  “That evening. He phoned in the afternoon and introduced himself and asked to see me.”

  “Why did he phone you?”

  Gibbs took a swallow of his martini and gave Cardozo a long, evaluating glance. “Catch was new in town—and having difficulties. So, naturally, as a fellow member of P-Wok, he contacted me. I’m director of the New York chapter.”

  “I’m sorry—I don’t know what P-Wok is.”

  “Pops Without Kids. We’re a self-help group of fathers who feel we’ve been shafted by the favoritism divorce courts show women. We have chapters in eleven major American cities.”

  “What sort of difficulties did Catch Talbot say he was having?”

  “Family problems—he was fighting his ex-wife for custody of his son.”

  “Could you describe him?”

  “He had hair shaved to the skull … brown eyes. He was heavily built … well-dressed.”

  “Was he either of these men?”

  Gibbs studied the photo and the sketch. “Rotten likenesses. He looked more like the photograph, but his hair was more like the drawing.”

  “Did he give you a New York address?”

  “No.”

  “Have you seen him since that dinner?”

  “We were ships in the night.” Gibbs shook his head. “Now tell me, Lieutenant, why does this man interest you so much?”

  “Catch Talbot was in Seattle the evening of September nineteenth. A thief was using his charge card.”

  Gibbs seemed unsurprised. “Well, well—looks as though I was taken in. Lucky I didn’t write him that prescription.”

  “What prescription?”

  “He asked if I could get him some anabolic steroids.”

  “Steroids?” Cardozo’s eyebrows went up. “The synthetic testosterone that bodybuilders use?”

  Gibbs nodded. “Apparently some fellow at a gym in Seattle convinced him it was an easy way of building lean body mass.”

  Gibbs was gazing not at Cardozo’s eyes but a little to the side, at his left ear. Cardozo flashed that he was holding back: maybe not exactly lying, but not telling the whole story either.

  “How long has he been using steroids?”

  “He told me he’d been working out with them for nine months or so, taking out his aggression on barbells.”

  “What kind of aggression?”

  “I gathered he’d had some financial setbacks.”

  “But you didn’t give him the steroids?”

  “How could I, Lieutenant? They’re a government-regulated substance. I said he’d have to come in for an examination first. He never took me up on it.” Gibbs glanced at his watch. “Good Lord—you’re going to have to excuse me, but I’m about to be late for a dinner engagement.” He laid a twenty-dollar bill under his glass. “It’s been a pleasure meeting you, Lieutenant.”

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  6:15 P.M.

  AFTER TWO HOURS OF hide-and-seek on the West Side subway and six hours in two kick-boxer double-features, Toby let himself into the apartment. “Mom?”

  Silence answered.

  He stood a moment in the dark, sifting sounds. A water pipe whispered in the wall. Voices murmured indistinctly from a neighbor’s TV. A smell of Kitty Litter hovered.

  He snapped on the light. “Mom?”

  A pattering noise came from the kitchen.

  He slid his keys between his fingers, brass knuckles in case he had to defend himself. He tiptoed through the dining room, drew a deep breath, and pushed the kitchen door open.

  Glass crashed to the floor and shattered. Something leaped through the shadows.

  He snapped on the light. A smashed jar of mustard lay oozing on the floor and Max the cat, all marmalade bristles and arched spine, crouched hissing in the corner.

  “It’s okay, fella, it’s only me.”

  Toby bent down. His lips touched the cat’s nose. The cat purred subaudibly.

  Toby crossed to the refrigerator and searched for a can of Friskie Treats. Max began dashing in circles.

  Except for Joey the doorman, the lobby of Six Barrow Street was deserted. Joey glanced toward the elevators; both were resting on the ground floor. He glanced toward the entrance. The coast was clear.

  He pulled a piece of paper out of his uniform pocket. A hundred-dollar bill, folded in the paper, fluttered to the polished granite floor. He stooped and picked it up. Easiest hundred he’d ever made.

  He lifted the telephone receiver and dialed the number written on the paper. He spoke softly. “Mr. Talbot? This is Joey the doorman at Six Barrow?”

  “Any news for me, Joey?”

  “Your son just came in. He’s up in the apartment now.”

  “Alone?”

  “Alone.”

  Anne locked the bathroom door, opened the bath faucets, and tapped Mark’s number into the cell phone.

  He answered before she even heard a ring. “Yes?”

  “It’s me.”

  “Where the hell are you?”

  “I’m in the hotel.”

  “Then what are you doing phoning?”

  “I smuggled Kyra’s cellular phone in.”

  “Christ, you’re really going for the maximum sentence.”

  “Mark, I didn’t plan this.”

  “It might be better if one of you had.”

  “Did you check Toby’s school?”

  “He didn’t show up today. But he went on the school excursion Saturday. A man calling himself Catch Talbot picked him up. He gave Mademoiselle a note signed by Kyra.”

  “His father has him?”

  “Not necessarily. Mademoiselle’s description doesn’t fit. He would have had to shave his head and change the color of his eyes. Anyway, Catch is in Seattle.”

  “Then who took Toby?”

  “The cop who came to see me today thinks it was a Coreyite. He says Toby and the man were seen in New Jersey this morning.”

  “Oh, Lord. And where’s Kyra during all of this?”

  “Her office says she’s on jury duty; no one answers the phone at home.”

  “How could she just disappear?”

  “I don’t know. But I feel a hell of a lot better now that the police are involved.”

  Cardozo sipped at his tea, watching Tess over the cup. She’d changed from court clothes into slacks and an old cardigan.

  “Why didn’t you tell me Kyra Talbot got a threatening call?” he said.

  “Because she was lying. And she admitted it.”

  They were sitting at a booth in a dimly lit all-night eatery on Canal and Centre. The place had a vaguely Chinese atmosphere—a mural of the Great Wall, paper dragons dangling from ceiling fans, undocumented waiters. The menus were written in English and Chinese and Spanish.

  “Why would she lie?”

  “To get off the jury.”

  “I wonder. If Kyra’s not lying and there was a threat, it would start to make sense. A Coreyite skinhead stalks a juror’s kid; Britta Bailey sees him—maybe she even recognizes him—so he has to kill her. He snatches the kid and phones Kyra Talbot. He tells her she has to hang the jury or he’ll hurt Toby.”

  Tess shook her head. “The lines are blocked; there’s no way anyone could have phoned her hotel room. Besides, there’d be a record of any call even attempted to a juror’s room—and there isn’t.”

  “The
drugstore owner in Scotsville saw the skinhead.” Cardozo showed her the sketch and the photo. “And he says he looked like both these pictures.”

  She shrugged. “It’s not proof. And if that’s supposed to be Mickey, it’s a lousy picture.”

  Cardozo glanced to make sure the next booth was empty. “How much do you remember about Kyra Talbot’s voir dire? Did she mention her son’s name, his school, her ex-husband’s name, his residence, his job?”

  “Probably.”

  “Is there any way that voir dire could have gotten out to any of the Coreyites?”

  She reflected a moment. “One very easy way. Elihu could have passed it on.”

  “That would put Elihu over the line.”

  “He’s been over the line for a decade now.”

  Cardozo leaned forward. “Tess—I have to talk to Mickey Williams. Give me his address.”

  Tess’s cool, direct gaze was still direct, but it was no longer cool. “Vince, I’m handling this.”

  “You’re not handling it well.”

  “If I gave you that information, I’d be flushing my career down the toilet.”

  “I’m not going to rat on you.”

  “Says who?”

  “Come on, Tess. Mickey’s using you. He’s sitting on both sides of the fence. Saving his ass by testifying, saving Corey by kidnapping the kid.”

  “I don’t believe it. Mickey’s not dumb enough to think it up and he’s not smart enough to pull it off.”

  “Oh, no? You yourself said there were windows of opportunity.”

  “Opportunity isn’t proof.”

  “Okay, then tell me this: Where was Mickey last Sunday from six to eleven P.M.? Where was he Monday morning from nine to noon?”

  Tess made a face and tapped a number into her cell phone. “Rick? Tess. I need some information. Where was Mickey last Sunday evening, six to eleven? … And what about Monday, nine to noon? … Thanks.” She slipped the phone back into her purse and gazed levelly at Cardozo. “The guard says Mickey was at his girlfriend’s from five P.M. Sunday till one P.M. Monday. She lives on the Upper West Side. The guard was in a car watching the building. There are two entrances and he could see them both.”

  “That’s a twenty-hour shift. You really believe this guard never dozed off or stepped out to take a piss? You’re covering too many asses, Tess—Mickey’s and yours and that guard’s. What happens if Mickey harms the kid? Because you know he’s going to. It’ll be on your conscience. And your résumé. This could be your chance to save a human life.”