VC04 - Jury Double

by Edward Stewart

  “Sorry, Vince.” She slapped ten dollars on the table and snapped her purse shut. “Nice try, but no sale.”

  Toby took the cat carrier down from the closet and set it on the hallway floor. Max was sniffing around, wondering what was up. Carrier meant vet, and he’d never made a nighttime trip to the vet before.

  A car honked in the street, and then two cars and then a dozen, rising in short-tempered chorus.

  Max scampered into the living room, vaulted across a chair, and hopped up onto the window ledge. The window was open six inches. Toby dove after the cat, captured it, and slammed the window shut. Double-glazed silence descended.

  Down in the street, a taxi was trying to get through the maze of street peddlers and jaywalking tourists. A man in a white wool watch cap leaped out of the cab and thrust money into the driver’s window. The cap slipped to the side and Toby caught a glimpse of a completely shaved head. His heart dropped.

  The man barreled down the sidewalk and disappeared under the awning of Six Barrow Street. Two minutes later, the apartment doorbell rang.

  Max dashed to the front door.

  Toby switched off the living room light. He crept into the front hallway and placed his ear to the door.

  A scratching key searched for the lock. Found it with a click. Turned.

  The door flew open. A figure stood silhouetted. “Hey, Tobester! What are you doing in the dark?”

  He recognized the voice of Joey the doorman. “What do you want, Joey?”

  “Got a message for you.”

  The silhouette stepped into the apartment.

  “Who from?”

  “From your dad.”

  Toby tried to see around the silhouette, to see if there was a second silhouette skulking. “Listen to me, Joey. He’s not my father.”

  “Come on, Tobester.” Two footsteps forward. “Of course your father’s your father. He says pack your bag because you’re going back to the country. I envy you, pal.”

  In the space behind Joey something moved, blacking out the corridor light.

  Toby wheeled around and dashed down the hallway into the kitchen. Momentum sent him skidding across the linoleum and thunk into the back door.

  He undid the chain and twisted the lock. The bolt snapped back. He yanked the door open.

  The man with the shaved head stood on the landing, grinning. “Hey, Toby, all set?” He tossed a white wool watch cap up into the air and caught it. Get me, I’m a circus clown.

  Toby wheeled, skidded around the kitchen table, back into the hallway. Smack into Joey the doorman.

  “C’mon, Tobester, what’s the big rush?” Joey clamped a hand around Toby’s arm, lifting him partway off his feet, pushing him back toward the kitchen.

  “Excuse me,” a voice called out behind them. “I said, excuse me! Do you realize your front door is open?” It was Mr. Hooper from next door, gray-haired and just a little bit concerned. “Your cat just got into the hall.”

  Toby slipped out of Joey’s grip. “Wow, thanks, Mr. Hooper!”

  He scooped up the cat carrier and bolted into the corridor. Max was pawing at the elevator door. He grabbed the cat just as the elevator opened.

  Mrs. Hooper, tall and sweet-smelling, had one high-heeled foot off the elevator when Toby bumped into her. “Why, Toby! What in the—?”

  “Push lobby!”

  Her face was an uncomprehending blank. He shoved a hand past her and pushed the lobby button.

  “Excuse me, young man!”

  The door started to close. Just as Mrs. Hooper reached to stop it, the head with the white wool cap popped up on the other side of the crack.

  Toby seized Mrs. Hooper’s arm and yanked her back. An enormous hand was grabbing through the door. The door tried to close on it and then snapped back.

  Toby leaned against the door close button.

  The hand and forearm snaked around the batting door. Fingers strained to reach the control panel.

  Toby picked up the cat carrier and drove it into the arm.

  The arm flung the cat carrier away. The carrier lid sprang open and a bristling ball of Max, claws extended, arced yowling into the air and sank its teeth into the hand.

  Mrs. Hooper screamed.

  Max hit the floor at the same time as the spatter of blood. The hand vanished and a voice cried, “Goddamn you!” The door slammed shut and the elevator began its descent.

  “Mrs. Hooper, I’m really sorry and I’ll explain later.”

  Toby pushed Max into the carrier and snapped the lid shut. The door opened and he dashed across the lobby.

  In her office, Tess lifted the phone and tapped in the number of Mickey’s guard.

  “Yeah?”

  “Rick—Tess. How’s Mickey?”

  “Mickey’s being a good boy.”

  “Are you keeping the log?”

  “Sure am.”

  “Good. Anything I should know about?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Phone me if anything develops.”

  “You bet.”

  TWENTY-NINE

  Tuesday, September 24

  Sixth day of trial

  8:50 A.M.

  CARDOZO LIKED TO THINK he had eyes wide open to the varieties of chiseling in the world. But looking over Greg Monteleone’s expense vouchers, he felt like a virologist who had isolated a killer strain of expense-account padding.

  Flowers to cheer up hospitalized informant; Park Avenue doctor to prescribe tranquilizers for nervous witness A; restaurant meals for nervous witnesses B and C; taxis to take nervous witness D to and from the emergency room.

  Cardozo pushed his chair away from the desk, as though distance could help him see the context. As though context was a light you could shine on things that would change black to white.

  He acknowledged the power of money and the paradox that people would do sleazy things to get twenty bucks that they wouldn’t dream of doing for two thousand. It wasn’t as though Greg was the first to steal from the police budget. Contractors did it; mayors did it; commissioners did it; and did it a hundred times worse.

  But cops shouldn’t do it.

  There was a knock at the open door. “Got hold of Catch Talbot’s MasterCard charges.” Today Greg was wearing an open-necked pink orchid Hawaiian shirt. Two gold chains winked in the cleavage as he laid the fax on the desk.

  Cardozo scanned September posting dates and an unbroken column of Seattle, Washington. “Say, Greg, I was looking at some of your expenses on the Gonzales case. I take it some of those witnesses are attractive young females?”

  “Reasonably.” Greg shrugged. “Why?”

  Cardozo’s eye hit a charge at Spook Boutique in New York City on September sixteenth. And another at Philmar’s Car Rental in Newark the same day. And a third at the Tru-Val Supermarket in Scotsville, New Jersey, on the twenty-second. He grabbed the Manhattan phone directory and found the listing for Spook Boutique: 526 Little West Twelfth Street. “Didn’t you use to work vice over on Little West Twelfth? Ever hear of an outfit called Spook Boutique?”

  “Must be a new one.” Greg was thoughtful. “Sounds kinda necro.”

  The phone gave a peremptory buzz.

  “Cardozo.”

  “Vince.” Ellie Siegel’s voice managed to telescope competence and calm and good humor into a single syllable. “You have a visitor.”

  Cardozo leaned around in his swivel chair and peered into the squad room. A man in a summer-weight business suit stood fidgeting beside Ellie’s desk. From the back, his most salient features were broad, heavy shoulders and thick brown hair.

  “I don’t recognize the back. What’s his name?”

  “Catch Talbot. From Seattle.”

  “Christ. Send him in.”

  Talbot turned, and Cardozo saw haunted blue eyes in a face shadowed by sleeplessness.

  “Mr. Talbot? Vince Cardozo.” He stood, mustering politeness, and met his visitor at the door. “Good to meet you.”

  Talbot fumbled his ha
nd around Cardozo’s and gave him a beseeching look. “I’m here to help.”

  “I’ve completed my review of the taped material.” Judge Bernheim gazed out over packed benches. “I’ll allow the People to offer all taped exhibits except the tape of September third.”

  “Your Honor.” Tess diAngeli rose. “The People respectfully object to the exclusion. In Gorley v. McClintock, the seventh district court of appeals ruled that—”

  “Ms. diAngeli, I’ve gone just about as far as I’m inclined to in accommodating the People. Please call your witness.”

  “Yes, Your Honor.” Tess diAngeli turned. “The People call Yolanda Lopez.”

  The door opened, and a delicate-boned, dark-complected woman in a high-necked white lace dress crossed uncertainly to the stand.

  “Mrs. Lopez …” Tess diAngeli fixed the witness with a sympathetic gaze. “What is your occupation?”

  “At present I’m on leave of absence from the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms. I guess right now my profession is single mother.”

  “Would you describe your work for the BATF?”

  “Two years and three months ago, they asked me to act as their undercover agent in the Corey Lyle cult. They wanted me to look for evidence of drug use and drug dealing. Tax fraud. Mail fraud and charge card fraud.” Yolanda Lopez hesitated. “And bombings.”

  “Your Honor, I object.” Dotson Elihu pushed to his feet. “The defendant is not accused of tax fraud or bombings. Nor has evidence of any such activities been produced.”

  “The witness is not accusing the defendant,” diAngeli said. “She’s describing the activities she was asked to monitor.”

  “Objection overruled.”

  “Mrs. Lopez,” Tess diAngeli said, “prior to your employment by the BATF, did Corey Lyle give you any specific duties in the cult?”

  “Bookkeeper.”

  “Had you had any training in bookkeeping or accounting?”

  “I studied accounting at St. John’s Junior College night school—in Galveston. Eight credits.”

  “And when you worked on Corey’s books, were you able to come to any conclusion as to the state of his finances?”

  “He was broke. He had five thousand in two CD’s—that was his assets. On the debit side, he’d drawn down the full quarter million on his credit line. Citibank was trying to get judgments to repossess his cars. For over two years he hadn’t made payments on a one-point-one-million-dollar loan from Chemical. He was behind on his mortgage on two town houses; the bank was due to take possession September fifteenth.”

  “The fifteenth of September?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  DiAngeli turned toward the jurors. “The jury will please note that date.” And back to her witness. “Did Corey Lyle have any other outstanding debts?”

  “He had a federal tax lien for nine hundred thousand dollars.”

  “Did he ever discuss with you how he intended to clear up his IRS difficulties?”

  “He said he was going to blow up their computers.”

  Elihu jumped to his feet. “Objection!”

  Cardozo laid the fax of Talbot’s MasterCard charges on the desk.

  As Talbot studied the list, his eyebrows shelved out over weary eyes. “I didn’t make these charges in New York and New Jersey. I wasn’t even here.”

  “Any idea who could have done it?”

  “Aren’t there rings of thieves who specialize in charge cards?”

  “There are—but I’ll tell you why I don’t think they’re involved. Last Thursday, a man with a shaved head and brown eyes—a man claiming to be you—had dinner at the Plaza with a doctor by the name of Gordon Gibbs. Gibbs is director of the local chapter of Pops Without Kids … P-Wok. Do you know anything about them?”

  “I’ve been a member since my divorce.”

  “Then the man using your charge cards knows a few things about you.”

  “But apparently not what I look like.”

  Cardozo nodded. “Last week a man with the same appearance was seen in a parked car outside the École Française. He was watching your son, Toby. One of our officers challenged him. She vanished and was murdered the same night. Last Saturday, the same man—still claiming to be you—showed up again at the École. He had a note purportedly from your ex-wife, authorizing him to take Toby.” Cardozo handed Talbot the note. “Is this Mrs. Talbot’s handwriting?”

  “Oh, God.” Talbot sat with his head in his hands. “If it’s not, it’s a damned good imitation.”

  “Last Sunday in Scotsville, New Jersey, the same man had a public fight with Toby. The local police detained him. He had a wallet full of your I.D.s.”

  Talbot gripped the arms of the chair. “Was Toby hurt?”

  “A few scratches. Nothing serious.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “Toby and the man both disappeared Monday morning. So far as we know, they disappeared separately. We haven’t been able to trace either one of them.”

  Catch Talbot let out a long sigh of exasperation.

  “The phone threat,” Cardozo said, “suggests that Corey Lyle’s supporters or cult members are involved.”

  “Christ, no. Most of those people are nuts.”

  Something in the inflection caught Cardozo’s ear. “You’ve had dealings with them?”

  “Indirectly.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “It doesn’t have any bearing.”

  “I’d still like to hear.”

  “A little over two years ago the Seattle Welfare Board sued one of Corey Lyle’s culties. I defended him pro bono. Seattle Welfare were bastards, and the Coreyites were loons, but he was a good man.” Talbot smiled ruefully. “And we won.”

  “What was his name?”

  “Mickey Williams.”

  Cardozo sat forward. “The ex-football player?”

  “You know him?”

  “Mr. Talbot, think back carefully. Did you ever tell Mickey Williams your son’s name, or school, or your ex-wife’s name?”

  “Some of those things may have come up in conversation.”

  “Did he ever see your charge card?”

  “Possibly. We ate at a vegetarian place—I don’t recall if they took charge cards.”

  “Who’s a vegetarian—you or Mickey?”

  “He is. And for two and a half years now, I’ve been trying to get the toxins out of my life and diet.” Catch Talbot stopped. “Now, wait a minute, you don’t think Mickey could …”

  “What would you say Mickey’s attitude was toward Corey Lyle?”

  “Unmitigated adoration.”

  “Which puts him in a tough situation now, since he’s testifying against Lyle.”

  “Against him? That’s not possible. There’s no way on earth Mickey would ever—”

  “The government may have made him an offer he couldn’t resist. Or they may have pressured him into it. Either way, he still would want Lyle to get off. Which gives him a motive to make that call to Mrs. Talbot. And to kidnap your son.”

  “No way.” Catch Talbot shook his head. “Mickey Williams and I are friends.”

  Cardozo observed Talbot. He saw a man who was exhausted and frightened, a man whose defenses were coming apart and whose emotions were beginning to sluice through the cracks. A man who—like a million others in times of stress—clung to the familiar: old habits, old convictions, old friends.

  “Would you happen to know where your old pal Mickey is living at the moment?”

  “At the moment?” Talbot considered. “I don’t recall.” He glanced at his watch. “But I could ask my secretary.”

  Cardozo pushed the phone across the desk. “Dial nine.”

  Talbot phoned Seattle. “Peggy? It’s me. What’s the most recent address we have for Mickey Williams?” After a moment he reached for a ballpoint and pad. “You’re sure? Thanks. Talk to you later.” He hung up the phone and jotted. “Scandinavian Seamen’s Residence, Fifteen White Street.”

  �
�White Street, New York?”

  “Seattle. He lived there during the suit. Then he came to New York.”

  “Where in New York?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Why did he come here?”

  “Because a dying friend was asking for him.”

  “I don’t suppose that dying friend was John Briar?”

  “It was, and I’ve seen the news reports. But the Mickey I knew was a decent guy and a man of honor. He’d never harm another human being—let alone a dying old man or a defenseless child.”

  After reading Mickey Williams’s criminal record, Cardozo found Talbot’s faith hard to swallow. But he didn’t mention the record. It was better to hold out some hope. “Have you thought of checking whether the precincts and hospitals have any record of Toby?”

  Talbot made another notation on the scratch pad, pocketed the sheet of paper, and pushed quickly to his feet. “Incidentally, I haven’t been able to get hold of Kyra’s sister—Anne Bingham. Have you?”

  Cardozo glanced up. “Anne Bingham is Kyra Talbot’s sister?”

  “Her twin sister.”

  “Miss or Mrs.?”

  “Mrs.”

  “Would you excuse me just a second? I’ll get those hospitals for you.”

  Cardozo stopped by Greg Monteleone’s desk in the squad room. “Check out any charge cards belonging to a Mrs. Anne Bingham, 118 East Eighty-first Street. And while you’re at it, check out Kyra Talbot’s.”

  Greg scowled. “How do you spell Kyra!”

  Cardozo spelled it. “And do me a favor. I’m sending Catch Talbot to check out hospitals. Keep an eye on him. Discreetly. He’s in worse shape than he realizes.”

  THIRTY

  12:40 P.M.

  “MRS. LOPEZ,” TESS DIANGELI asked, “two years before you became an agent for the government, did you bring your seven-year-old daughter into the Corey Lyle cult?”

  Yolanda Lopez sat with her head angled down. “I did.”

  “Why?”

  “Lisa had emotional problems. She needed a father. I felt Corey could help.”