by Ken Morris
Ten minutes later, Kate stared at Peter through a glass partition. They spoke and listened on the jailhouse phone. When Kate said, “The DNA matches,” Peter wagged his head.
“What? . . . It’s gotta be a mistake.”
“I’m turning this case over to someone else,” Kate said, choking up. “I’m too involved, personally—and I don’t have near enough experience to help you.”
“No. Something’s screwed up. Wait.”
“How did your semen get on those sheets? Tell me.”
“It couldn’t have . . . unless . . .” Peter clamped his eyelids. The moonstone had been stolen. What else?
“Why did someone give Ellen a calico cat, of all things?” he asked.
“I still don’t know that wasn’t you, trying to get back with your ex.”
“Please listen. I think I might be on to something. Again, why a calico?”
“To tie the gift to you. Make it look like you were pursuing her. That’s what the DA’s office thinks, so it worked.”
“Maybe, maybe not. That morning after you and I slept together, you made a cup of tea. Remember?”
She nodded. “So?”
“How’d you make the tea so fast?”
“Heated some water in your microwave. Found a Lipton tea bag.”
“Have you seen any pictures of the murder scene?”
“Yes. Several.”
“What color were the sheets?”
“A pattern. Maybe Navajo Indian design. In browns.”
“Kate, I know what happened. Here’s what you need to do . . .”
Peter explained everything. As she ran off, she said, “Those sons of bitches. Those fucking sons of bitches.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
“HOW COULD YOU ALLOW YOUR DAUGHTER TO BE HIS ATTORNEY?”
Jason Ayers held the phone a few inches from his ear. “I not only let her, I encouraged her,” he answered with as much aplomb as he could muster in the face of an outraged Morgan Stenman. With no immediate follow-up response from Stenman, Ayers continued, “What better way to stay abreast of what’s happening? Kate tells me, I tell you. Isn’t that worth something?” The exhale from Stenman’s lungs almost tickled his ear.
“Again, you have taken good care of me, Jason. I owe you an apology.”
“That’s what a good attorney’s paid to do. I’m happy you approve. Now, I have some more good news.”
“That would be a change,” she said.
“Not anything overwhelming, I’m afraid, but the new biometric accounts are ready to go. We have the ability to move money at a moment’s notice.”
“Hopefully, in the next hour or two, once Neil’s out . . . never mind.”
Ayers rushed through the balance of their conversation. If he understood Stenman’s slip of the tongue, something was coming down. He tried to reach Kate at the courthouse. She was, the impersonal voice informed him, meeting with the DA.
“Somebody needs to get her a message.”
“I’ll see what I can do. I’ll have her ring you back if—”
“I’ll hold,” Ayers said. “And please hurry.”
Ten minutes later, he was still on hold.
Kate stood at the DA’s office door, Francine D’Agostina at her side. “Kate, this had better be good. You made me look foolish.” District Attorney Todd Hanson sounded as upset as he looked. “Sir,” the Assistant DA said, “I think you should hear this. Something’s wrong with our evidence.”
“Wrong?”
“Please, Todd,” Kate begged. “I think Peter’s life is in danger. He needs to get out of that jail.”
“I can’t wait to hear.”
“You found cat hairs all over the bed sheets, right?” Kate asked.
The DA nodded.
“You assumed they came from Ms. Goodman’s calico?”
Another nod.
“I’ve already had Ms. D’Agostina check. A significant number of those hairs came from an older animal—much older. From Peter’s cat, Henry. I’m certain of it.”
Hanson looked at his assistant. She nodded.
“Somebody gave Goodman a cat, similar to Peter’s, hoping you’d assume all the hairs came from that animal. They got extra credit when you suspected the gift was from Peter and was an attempt to reconcile with her.”
“Baloney . . .” Hanson stopped himself when he saw D’Agostina again wag her head. “Assuming that’s true,” he continued, sounding as if he were unwilling to concede anything, “they must have known we’d eventually catch on. And that, in and of itself, isn’t exculpatory.”
“This may have been orchestrated to bring him in, for reasons other than prosecution.”
“Please, Kate. Not a conspiracy theory. Based on what? Cat hair?”
“Something else strange—on those sheets,” Kate said. “A second vaginal sample—other than Ellen Goodman’s.”
“How’d you know that?”
“Not only that, but . . .” Kate blushed and her voice shook, “I already gave a blood sample to your lab boys. The DNA on that second stain will match my DNA.”
“What’re you talking about? This is outrageous.” The DA sprung to his feet for added emphasis.
Again, Hanson’s assistant interjected. “Please, sir. I reacted the same way, but...”
He flopped back down.
“Did you find any semen in Ms. Goodman’s vaginal tract?” Kate asked.
Hanson looked down. “She had trauma.”
“But no semen. Doesn’t that seem a tiny bit odd?”
“Not if you’re trying to keep from leaving evidence.”
“Oh,” Kate said, her voice saturated with sarcasm. “Use a condom in a crime of passion? Assuming that illogical assertion, then how did all that semen get on the bed sheet? You’d have to assume that Peter either spilled or emptied his sperm from the condom all over the sheets. Does he strike you as that dumb?”
“Rapists and torturers aren’t known for using logic.”
“That flies in the face of your condom argument. Furthermore, I’ll wager the sample area was large—beyond what a single sexual event could produce. I know because we made love multiple times and practiced a messy form of birth control.”
“This is absurd, Kate. How can you admit to such things?”
“Because my embarrassment is a small price to pay for helping free an innocent man. I agree that whoever murdered Goodman either used a condom or inflicted vaginal damage with an object in an attempt to make it look like rape. But it wasn’t Peter Neil.”
“We have other evidence,” Hanson said.
“Let’s address some of that other evidence. On the microwave found at Goodman’s, you discovered several prints on the handle besides Peter’s. Were any of them Ellen Goodman’s?”
“I’m not going to give out that—”
“The answer is no. I see it in your face. However, and hold on to your seat, several of those prints match mine.”
“It’s true, sir,” D’Agostina said.
“The prints, the vaginal sample, the cat hair, the moonstone—all of them came from Peter’s old apartment. Months ago, someone robbed him—the morning after I spent the night with him. Check with his friend, Drew Franklin. He’ll confirm which items were stolen. Peter couldn’t figure out why anyone took the linens from his bed—a brown Navajo pat-tern—unless to use it to cart things away in, including his microwave—the one found in Ellen Goodman’s apartment. My prints on the microwave came from heating a cup of water to make tea that morning. I’ve already told you how my other deposits came to soil the sheets.”
“Sir, I’ve checked with some of the people familiar with Ms. Goodman’s apartment. She had a new, expensive microwave. Missing. The one we found is a piece of antiquated crap. Everything Ms. Ayers says is true . . . and Kate?”
The familiarity surprised Kate. “Yes?”
“I owe you an apology.”
“Forget it. I was an overbearing ass. Todd, I need to get my client released as so
on as possible.”
“I don’t know,” Hanson said. “This is too incredible.”
“It may be elaborate, but it’s still a setup. Thank God Peter put the pieces together.”
“I’ll have to ask for substantial bail until your DNA is matched to that on the sheet.”
“How much?”
“A million.”
“Agreed. We’ll post bond within the hour.”
“And I’ll have to personally evaluate the evidence. That might take a coupla hours.”
“Fine, but the sooner the better.”
“Francine, I want the other boyfriend brought in for questioning. Hinton. Arrest him if you have to . . .”
Kate didn’t mention that Hinton was an unlikely suspect. Let the DA go after other fish. It might make releasing Peter a less bitter pill to swallow.
On her way out, the receptionist said to Kate, “Your father’s been holding on line one, for ten or fifteen minutes...”
Kate picked up. “Father?”
“I think something’s about to happen to Peter. I phoned the jailhouse, but they wouldn’t listen.”
“He’s being released on bond in the next few hours.”
“I don’t think he’s going to last that long.” He quickly explained his fears.
“I’ll get the DA to phone . . .”
Kate ran.
“Your bitch attorney requested we put you in a separate cell. Away from the riff-raff.”
The uniformed guard had a barrel chest and thick legs that carried him low to the ground. He led Peter down a hallway, along cold linoleum floors attached to walls of unending white. The two men’s footsteps clapped in unison. Peter’s hands, cuffed behind his back, hurt, and he wore chained leggings that forced him to cut his usual strides in half. The escort’s fat palm continuously pushed against Peter’s back, making sure he couldn’t slow down. They passed through a double door where bookend guards, wearing frowns and sporting holstered guns, stood motionless. When the fireplug shoving Peter along nodded, the other two ambled off.
“I don’t want to be moved,” Peter said. “I’d rather stay in a place where I can be seen by other prisoners and guards.”
“You afraid of something?” The guard smirked.
Through a second, unguarded door, they came to a solid wall-cell, half again as large as Peter’s previous cell. The stark room had only a sink, toilet, bed, wooden chair, chipped table, and overhead light bulb encased in a metal wire-frame. The light cast Peter’s shadow across the cement floor.
“This should do you,” the guard said. He grabbed the back of the chair and placed it under the light fixture.
Peter wore a baggy orange jumper with SD County Jail stenciled in black across the back. A lengthy drawstring, the thickness of rope, cinched his waist. The guard removed and folded his sunglasses, then slipped them into his breast pocket. From a pant pocket, he withdrew a second drawstring. He looped the cord, then tied a slipknot. Peter at first ignored him, but as the man put the finishing touches on his creation, Peter began to shuffle back. What was happening?
The guard took the loop and tested it. The length of the drawstring slid through the knot, making it an efficient noose. Peter half-stumbled.
“Where you going, Mr. Neil?” The guard swaggered towards him.
“Someone will find out,” Peter said.
“I might get suspended or fired for leaving you with the means to hang yourself, but I’m gonna retire anyway.”
The length of the guard’s thumb and thick forefinger encircled the soft part of Peter’s neck and drove his temple into the wall. Half his senses spilled loose as Peter tried to move, but a bulldog shoulder and hip pressed against his body, pasting him along the rough cinderblock. His throat felt as if it was about to tear apart, even as the guard removed his hand. Another tug and Peter couldn’t breathe. He collapsed to his knees while his jaw jerked up and back. The loop tightened against his vocal chords, as the guard dragged Peter across the floor.
Swirling fireworks burst behind his eyeballs in a spectacular show. Too weak to do anything but gasp for air, and only marginally conscious, Peter felt his wrists uncuffed. Under the armpits, strong hands pulled him to the chair, then up, into a dangling position. In his ear, stale breath flowed from a grunting mouth. Stupidly, he tried to guess what the guard had eaten for lunch. Something with garlic. Lasagna? Carbonara? Veal? Peter became dimly aware of his clanging shackles as he visualized the headlines in tomorrow’s paper: MURDERER HANGS SELF IN JAIL CELL.
Darkness followed that fleeting image.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
“THANK GOD YOU’RE AWAKE.” Kate nestled her head against Peter’s chest and hugged his sides. “The guards were arrested, but they don’t know who hired them—or maybe they’re too frightened to say.”
“What hap . . .” It hurt for Peter to speak.
“You came close to becoming a jailhouse suicide.”
“Is there . . .” Peter swallowed “ . . . anyone they can’t . . . buy? Where am . . .”
“You’re at County Med. Strained vocals, rope burn, but you’re in better shape than the guy who tried to string you up. He claimed he was trying to save you.”
“Funny . . .” Peter pushed himself against the headboard.
“Shh,” Kate urged.
“How?”
“Father somehow figured out you were in trouble. Nobody else knows he tipped me off—he said not to use his name.”
“Good.” Peter’s voice sounded gravelly.
“The DA called over to the jail and they sent someone to find you. Just in time. Doctors say you’ll be fine in a day or two.”
“Need to get out . . .”
“No.” Kate shook her head.
“Got to.” Peter dragged his legs and dropped them over the edge of the bed. “Now or never.”
“Peter, you were thirty seconds from being dead.”
“Let’s go, please.” He coughed.
Kate put a hand behind his neck and massaged. He pushed himself to his feet. A nurse burst into the room. She barked several commands. Peter ignored her.
“I feel groggy.”
“Pain killers,” Kate said. “They’re designed to make you drowsy.”
“I’ll stick to . . . aspirin. Extra strength.” Peter’s voice still scratched, but he spoke more clearly. “Water?”
Kate went to a sink.
“Here,” Kate said, handing Peter a glass. Peter took a delicate sip. He squeezed his eyelids with the first swallow. “Under the circumstances, the DA has dropped the charges,” she continued. “All my brilliant persuasion proved unnecessary in the end. Getting hanged convinced the DA ofa few things.”
“Go. Let’s go.”
“I’ll be right back.” Kate left the room.
A half-minute later, she returned, pushing a wheelchair. “We’d better hit the road before they strap you down to the bed.”
Kate reached for his elbow and guided him.
“Thanks, Kate.”
“No problem. Don’t forget, I like my men beholden,” she whispered.
A moment later, she wheeled Peter from the hospital.
By Tuesday afternoon, despite a lingering neck rash and a voice an octave deeper than normal, Peter had recovered enough to move forward with his plan.
He took a room at a small hotel along Highway 101 in the beach town of Encinitas. The meeting with Stenman was set to go, and he had two hours to accomplish several things before that.
First, he phoned Oliver Dawson.
“You’ve arranged for a boat?” Peter asked.
“A boat? More like a yacht. This monster’s costing me a fortune.”
“Good,” Peter said.
“You should see this thing. Forty-something-feet long with a cabin that sleeps six, I’m told. Thing also kicks ass in the speed department. By the way, you care that every time I step on a boat I get seasick? Hell, Neil, every time I step on a dock I feel like puking.”
“I’m de
eply distressed. You’ll be ready off La Jolla Shores, tomorrow, before one o’clock?”
“Yes, Massah. You interested in telling me how you intend to orchestrate this miracle?”
“No. The immunity papers for Sarah Guzman drawn up like I asked?”
“The director didn’t like it . . . me either.”
“You got them, though, exactly like I asked?”
“Yeah, yeah. Exactly, including the bit about allowing her to transfer assets without interference. If this doesn’t work, I’m screwed.”
“If this doesn’t work, I’m dead, and my death trumps your screwed. You think the director’s assistant—Ranson—bought into your story of a potential high-level informant?”
“Doesn’t matter,” Dawson said. “Ranson has to assume it’s serious and report back to Stenman. I’m certain she’s aware of our conversation. When this is over, I look forward to busting that prick.”
“You ready to take care of Ayers and his wife? Kate too if necessary?”
“Roger to that, but why is Stenman’s attorney going to need to disappear?”
“Trust me, he’s not going to be a popular guy when this is over. I think we’re set, so good luck, Agent.”
“Before you go, Neil, tell me what’s going to happen to you after I get those papers? No way you’ll get out of that hotel room alive.”
“That’s my problem. You just wait for your cue, get your guy to shore, get her on board, and get your asses down to Mexico as fast as your boat or yacht or whatever it is can take you. After that, you do what you need to do.”
Once that was settled, Peter checked Dawson off his list.
At noon, right on schedule, Peter’s phone rang.
“We’re all set,” Jason Ayers said. “Morgan’s ready to meet. I get the impression she’s happy to negotiate the return of those documents. She even shows signs of liking you.”
“I’m flattered. She’s not considering setting me up, is she?”
“No. Certainly not at my office. Besides, I think the seed you planted with Ranson has her neurotic. She wants those papers.”