“What about the man?”
Higgins shook his head. “If a skinhead registered here, believe me, I’d have made it a point to notice. Sorry.”
Dotson Elihu turned slowly toward the witness, holding an official-looking document at arm’s length. His face was grave. “Ms. Lopez—out of all this alleged conspiracy to murder John and Amalia Briar, how is it you managed to record only three minutes of innocuous conversation that bear even remotely on this case? How is it you couldn’t record a single instance where Dr. Lyle even once mentioned the Briars by name?”
“Corey mentioned their names all the time! He was always talking about getting them to die!”
“And why didn’t you tape those conversations?”
“I did. But that tape was—” She caught herself … Elihu’s eyes came around. “That tape was what, Ms. Lopez?”
“It was lost.”
“How was it lost?” Dotson Elihu’s tone was soft; almost compassionate.
But Yolanda Lopez sank away from his concern into the corner of her chair. “I was carrying the tape in my purse and it was stolen.”
Dotson Elihu’s gaze bored into the witness. “Ms. Lopez, isn’t it a fact that you made only one call to the BATF on Labor Day weekend, and that was on Sunday—and this is the call?”
He pressed a button on the audiocassette player. A sound of labored, jerky breathing pulsed from the plastic box and then a woman’s voice. “This is Yolanda—I’m at the Briars’; Johnny and Amalia have died.”
Elihu stopped the tape.
“I made that call Monday,” she said, “not Sunday.”
Elihu stared at her skeptically, craftily. “Now I’m going to play another call you made to your favorite answering machine. You may care to revise your recollection as to the day and time you made it.”
Dotson Elihu pushed a button. Hysteria exploded. “This is Yolanda. I’m in the Briars’ apartment—Saturday morning. Send somebody up—it’s an emergency. Corey’s hypnotized Mickey. Mickey’s gone crazy—he’s killed John and he says he’s going to kill Amalia. I’ve locked her bedroom door and I’m in here with her—but that door won’t keep him out. Send help! Please! Oh, God!”
With two loud clicks, Elihu stopped the tape.
“I made that call Saturday morning,” Yolanda Lopez said. “That’s the first call I made.”
“And this call?” Elihu snapped another tape into the player.
“This is Yolanda—Sunday morning—Mickey’s locked me out of the apartment—he’s murdered John and he’s in there murdering Amalia—you’ve got to send help!”
“That’s the second call I made. That was Sunday.”
“Then you couldn’t have made that call from the Briars’. So where did you call from?”
“A pay phone in the street.”
“So in your first call on Saturday you shriek that John has been murdered. Then a day later you call and shriek that Mickey’s murdering Amalia too. And a day later you call and calmly announce that John and Amalia have died. Now, when people are murdered, the normal description is they were murdered, not they’ve died. What happened? Did two murders suddenly turn to natural deaths?”
“Murdered people die too!” the witness screamed. “I’m sorry if you don’t like the way I speak English!”
“On the contrary, Ms. Lopez. Your English is charming.” Elihu stared at the witness with saddened, this-kills-me-more-than-it-kills-you eyes. “Tell me, Ms. Lopez, when were you finally able to reach your employer on the phone?”
“Monday night.”
“And on Monday night didn’t he tell you to make two more phone calls to the answering machine? Didn’t he tell you to phone and give false days and times?”
“That’s not true.”
“Didn’t he tell you to be sure this time to mention murder and madness and Mickey Williams?”
“That’s not true.”
“And weren’t those Monday night calls the two you claim you made Saturday and Sunday? And weren’t they scripted for you by the BATF?”
“That’s not true.”
“Ms. Lopez, didn’t the BATF script the testimony that you’ve given here today?”
“That’s not true.”
“Isn’t it a fact that there was no conspiracy before the Briars died? Isn’t your whole story about a hypnotic conspiracy between Dr. Lyle and Mickey Williams a fabrication? Didn’t you and Mickey Williams and the BATF work out this entire preposterous farrago after the Briars died?”
“That’s not true.”
“Ms. Lopez—you claim you found John Briar murdered the Saturday before Labor Day. You claim you reported his death to Sergeant Britta Bailey of the Twenty-second Precinct on Saturday. You then make the incredible claim that Sergeant Bailey refused to help.”
“She did refuse.”
“But according to Sergeant Bailey’s testimony, it was Sunday when you reported John and Amalia Briar sick and in trouble—but you made no mention of John Briar’s murder. How do you explain the contradiction between Sergeant Bailey’s testimony and yours?”
“She made a mistake.”
“I submit that you made the mistake—in fact, you’re lying: John Briar was not dead when you went to the precinct.”
“Everything I said is the truth! I swear to God!”
Elihu turned toward the jury. “A pity we can’t recall Sergeant Bailey to the stand. It would be interesting to establish once and for all which of the prosecutor’s witnesses is lying.”
“Objection.”
“Sustained.”
The manager of the Scotsville Tru-Val Supermarket referred to the piece of scratch paper where Cardozo had jotted the MasterCard transaction number. She tapped the data into the keyboard.
Something electronic yelped.
“Sorry about that.” She cleared and reentered. The computer went to work, conjuring memories. The screen flashed a question. She tapped another key. A screen full of data flashed. “Do you want a copy of the itemized receipt?”
“Please.”
She pressed a key. A printer clattered. She ripped off a ribbon of curling paper.
Cardozo examined the purple markings. Pro was obviously produce, and dry dairy. His eye went to the final figure: cash returned $0.00. Just above, cash tendered $0.00. Above that, 67.19. “How many bags would this order fill?” he asked.
“We’d bag it in four or five.”
“That’s a lot to carry. Was this a delivery?”
“We don’t deliver after four on Sundays. This was rung up at five forty-two. The customer took the groceries herself.”
“Himself.” Cardozo showed her the drawing and the photo. “His name’s Catch Talbot. Ever seen him?”
“Not that I recall.”
“He might have had a kid with him.” Cardozo showed her the snapshot.
She shook her head.
“Would you do me a favor?” Cardozo handed her a photocopy of the drawing with the caption HAVE YOU SEEN THIS MAN? and his precinct phone. “Could you put this up on your bulletin board?”
Cardozo stood in the supermarket parking lot, gazing out at the low suburban sprawl and the belt of green woods beyond. An airplane swept past overhead, jets drilling the sky.
Cars cruised, looking for spaces near the supermarket.
A second parking lot, just beyond the hedge, was empty except for two cars. A woman in short shorts was loading packages into a red Datsun. The other car, a blue ’94 Pontiac, was parked at the far end of the lot. Late afternoon sun reflected from the rolled-up windows, making it seem as if someone were tossing lit matches in the backseat.
Cardozo crossed the empty lot. Sun-softened tarmac sucked at his shoes.
The Pontiac had a Jersey license, 12F73, and there was a little Philmar’s Car Rental plate in the corner. Cardozo bent down at the driver’s window.
He could see that there was only half a steering wheel. At first he thought it might be an innovative design touch, but then he saw the jagged splinters of plastic
where the wheel had been shattered.
Four bulging brown paper bags had been placed on the backseat. A yellow fluid oozed from one of them.
He took a thin plastic glove from his pocket and tried the door handle. The door was unlocked. A hot stench of rancid meat and spoiled milk exploded into the air. There was something else in the sickening mix, a faint metallic note.
He climbed into the backseat and poked through the paper bags, face angled away from the fumes. The groceries—what survived of them—matched Catch Talbot’s itemized receipt.
THIRTY-TWO
5:10 P.M.
DOTSON ELIHU TURNED AND took three slow, full-weighted steps toward the witness box. “Ms. Lopez, would you call yourself a good mother? A natural mother?”
“I hope so.”
“After what you claim Dr. Lyle did to your little girl … it would be natural for you to hate him. What are your feelings toward him?”
“I hate him.”
“And do you want to see Dr. Lyle in prison?”
“If he did that to a child of yours, wouldn’t you want him in prison too?”
“Isn’t it a fact that you want to put Dr. Lyle in jail so badly, that you’d give the testimony you have today, regardless of truth or falsity?”
“My testimony is the truth.”
“That’s not what I’m asking. Isn’t it a fact that you have a motive to lie to this court?”
“I’m not lying.”
“That’s not the question. Listen closely. Escuchame bien. Do you not, as the mother of Lisa Lopez, have a motive to lie to this court? No tiene usted motivo para—”
“I speak English and I have no reason to lie to this court.”
“Really?” Dotson Elihu smiled. “No further questions.”
Tess diAngeli beamed a smile of reassurance. “Ms. Lopez, have you lied today on the witness stand?”
“No.”
Peter Connolly nodded grimly as Mark Wells slid into the booth at the back of the coffee shop. “You may have run into a guy by the name of Joey La Plata?”
“Not that I can recall,” Mark said.
“The doorman in Kyra Talbot’s building? He says Kyra was spooked all last week. From Tuesday on she shut herself in the apartment. Friday she went a little loopy—Joey’s words—and fired her au pair girl. She paid Joey to pick up Toby and bring him back from school. She kept asking if anyone followed them.”
“Followed them?”
Connolly nodded. “Joey said no, but Kyra was worried. So he helped get the bags into a taxi, and Kyra and the kid took off.”
“Where’d they go?”
“According to the taxi sheets, they went to 118 East 81st.”
Mark frowned. “Her sister’s apartment.”
“No one answers the intercom. The answering machine picks up but it doesn’t take messages. The trail’s dead.”
Mark started at the word. “Dead?”
“Last Friday Kyra bought two one-way tickets for the Saturday night flight to Paris. But she never used them.”
Mark stared. “My God.”
“At this point, Mr. Wells, I think you need the police, not me.”
In the jury room, Donna Scomoda seized Anne’s arm. “Can you believe Elihu? Is he a Nazi or is he a Nazi?”
“The way he treated that poor Lopez woman!” Thelma del Rio said.
“He was certainly rude to her,” Anne said. “But a trial isn’t a tea party. And he made some points.”
“Points?” Gloria Weston groaned. “Give me a break.”
Mark Wells strode into his Central Park West lobby, high-fived the Puerto Rican doorman, and collected his mail. Riding up to his tenth-floor apartment, he reviewed the day’s assortment of bills, junk mail, and magazines he’d never subscribed to.
There was only one letter in the lot. The stationery was heavy, dove-gray. The envelope had been addressed by hand; large, looping handwriting. Female. Confident. Kyra’s.
He turned the envelope over and studied the flap. A return address was simply, elegantly engraved: Apt. 11-E, 118 East 81st Street, New York, NY 10021. He recognized Anne Bingham’s address.
He let himself into the apartment, tossed the junk mail onto the hall table, and ripped the gray envelope open.
Friday. My dearest Mark, by the time you read this you will have been worrying where on earth I am.
The phone rang at eight on the dot. He was waiting. “Hello?”
“Mark, it’s Anne.” She spoke softly. Water was running in the background. “Have you heard anything about Toby or Kyra?”
“He didn’t show up at school. But I’ve had a note from Kyra. Let me read it to you: ‘My dearest Mark, By the time you read this, you will have been worrying where on earth I am. Toby and I will be in Paris, at the Hotel France et Choiseul till we can find an apartment—’”
“Paris? Why on earth would she—”
“I’ve been concerned how much Toby misses his father. It’s natural in a boy his age. But he idealizes Catch, and has no idea of the kind of man his father really is. I’ve shielded him from that.
“‘Toby and I have been having problems, and I honestly believe in his present state he would choose to live with his father. And Catch would turn him against me. I couldn’t bear to lose Toby.
“‘Forgive me for not confiding in you sooner, but I knew what you would say. I’ve decided I’ve no alternative but to take matters into my own hands. I hope one day you’ll understand and forgive—your loving Kyra.’”
A silence passed.
“I can’t believe it,” Anne said. “When’s the note dated?”
“Friday. Postmarked Saturday A.M. It could have been mailed Friday and picked up Saturday. It’s written on stationery with your address.”
“That’s the Tiffany stationery she gave me last Christmas. It matches hers.”
“How did she get hold of yours?”
“I gave her the key to my apartment so she could water the plants. But if she’s in Paris …”
“She’s not. She didn’t use her plane tickets. I phoned the France and Choiseul to double-check. She and Toby were due Sunday morning, but they haven’t showed up. Anne—I’m worried.”
“Do you suppose she could still be at my place?”
“I just phoned, but the answering machine is on the blink.”
Anne covered the mouthpiece and called something, then whispered: “Gotta go. My roommate wants the bathroom. Talk to you tomorrow, same time.”
Mark poured himself a Chivas on the rocks and phoned Lieutenant Cardozo’s number.
“Cardozo.”
“It’s Mark Wells. We have to talk.”
Cardozo laid the note down on Mark Wells’s coffee table. “You’re sure this is Kyra Talbot’s handwriting?”
“It sure would fool me.” Mark Wells leaned forward and added a generous splash of Scotch to his drink. He offered to pour a shot into Cardozo’s diet Pepsi.
Cardozo shook his head. He took Kyra Talbot’s other notes from his pocket. He smoothed out the Mylar and compared. The verticals in the Mademoiselle notes were more slashing, as though they had been written under pressure. The loops in the Mark Wells note were loopier, lazy little works of art. The stationery was the same in all three notes.
“Why would she use her sister’s stationery? Where would she get it?”
“She has a key to her sister’s apartment.”
Cardozo reflected. “You wouldn’t happen to have any samples of Anne Bingham’s handwriting, would you?”
Wells hesitated. “It’s sort of personal. …” He pushed himself out of the chair and wobbled to the bookcase. He returned with an Oxford Book of English Verse. “The flyleaf.”
Cardozo opened the book.
Mark—
Love, a twilight of the heart, eludes a little time’s deceit
—Anne
The most obvious difference between the writing in the notes and in the book was that Anne Bingham was left-handed.
“What’s the quote from?”
“I don’t know.” Wells shook his head. “I searched, but it’s not in the book.”
Catch Talbot pushed wearily through the West 13th Street entrance of St. Vincent’s Hospital. Merciless fluorescent light gave red plastic benches and Formica counters the look of a fast-food joint.
As he approached the reception desk, a gray-haired woman scowled over the counter at him.
“I’m looking for an eleven-year-old male burn victim. He was transferred yesterday from St. Andrea in Newark.”
“Name?”
“Toby Talbot.”
She studied the computer monitor and shook her head. “I show no Toby Talbot.”
“Then he may be listed as unidentified.”
“Are you sure Kyra Talbot is still sequestered?” Cardozo was standing at a pay phone on Amsterdam Avenue, a finger to one ear to block the siren of a fire truck. “Because she wrote a note to her lawyer, dated Friday, saying she was leaving for Paris Saturday. The postmark was New York 10021, Saturday A.M.”
“That doesn’t mean anything.” Tess diAngeli sounded dead tired. “She could have had someone else mail it for her.”
“Funny kind of note to write her lawyer if she didn’t intend to go through with it.”
“She obviously has a flair for fiction.”
“Maybe a little less of a flair than you think. Have you ever heard of a phone-block defeater with I.D.-redirection capacity?”
“No.”
“It bypasses call-blocking and it can defeat caller I.D. Last week a man using Catch Talbot’s stolen charge card bought one from an espionage shop called the Spook Boutique.”
“What does that prove?”
“Proves Kyra Talbot could have gotten a phone threat.”
“Vince, she admits she invented that call.”
“Her lawyer says she was telling the truth when she reported the call. He says she changed her story because she’s afraid of losing her son.”
“Then her lawyer’s full of bull-bleep.”
“The man using Talbot’s charge cards bears an uncanny resemblance to the man who took Toby Talbot from the École Française. And that man bears an uncanny resemblance to your star witness.”
“Vince, you’re giving me the same old smoke and mirrors.”
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