On the way back to the Bellagio, I stopped at Matt Jenkins’s Gamblers’ Heaven. The store was in a strip mall not far from the Las Vegas Convention Center, which must have added greatly to his clientele. It was the largest store in the shopping center, located between Clean ‘n’ Carry, a Laundromat, and Healy’s, a sandwich shop. When I walked inside, instead of bells on the door or a buzzer under the carpet, my arrival was announced by the recorded sound of coins hitting the metal receptacle of a slot machine.
“Be right out,” a voice I recognized as Jenkins’s called.
“Take your time. I’m just browsing,” I called back.
The shop was filled with new and used slot machines, large and small, slot machine banks and key chains, and images of slot machines on T-shirts, ball caps, windbreakers, coffee mugs, money clips, magnets, beer steins, souvenir spoons, and myriad other items. I wandered through the souvenir area, looking for the selection of slots gloves, and found them on a shelf above a rack of “lucky shirts,” which had four-leaf clovers stitched onto the breast pocket.
Jenkins carried three styles of gloves: black cotton with Jenkins’s Gamblers’ Heaven stenciled in green on the back, a white version of the same gloves, and the silver lamé. I pulled the last box of silver gloves off the shelf.
“Those have been going fast ever since the trial’s been on Court TV,” Jenkins said from across the room. He had changed into a different Western style shirt, this one blue with silver tips on the points of the collar.
“I took your last pair,” I said.
“That’s okay,” he said with a grin. “I’ve got more on order. Got a lady who makes ’em for me. Been getting quite a few calls today since I appeared on TV. Knew I would, so I ordered a couple of dozen extra.”
I slid the gloves out of the box and examined them. They looked like the ones on the evidence table in the courtroom, but these were smooth, without wrinkles or other signs of wear. I turned one glove over in my hand. Only the tops of the gloves were silver lame. The palms were a different fabric and had tiny dots all over them that felt like rubber, allowing, no doubt, for a firm grip on nickels, dimes, and quarters, and on dollar chips. I pulled one glove on and flexed my fingers. The fit was loose, and while the intended customer was probably a woman, I was sure the glove could be worn by many men, even if it didn’t fit someone as large as Matt Jenkins.
“Say, didn’t I see you in the courtroom this morning?” he said.
“Yes. I’m working for Martha Kildare’s team.”
“Thought you looked familiar.” His smile faded and he shook his head. “You know, it’s a shame about that lady. Her husband was so tickled to buy her the gloves. Smitten, he was. Real ironic that she wore them to kill him.”
“Mr. Jenkins, just because a person is accused of a crime isn’t proof she committed it. I don’t believe Martha Kildare is guilty and I fully expect that she’ll be exonerated.”
“The Las Vegas police wouldn’t have arrested her if they didn’t think she killed him.”
“I don’t doubt for a moment that the Las Vegas police sincerely believe they arrested the right person. However, they were mistaken. It’s not unusual for police officers to arrest people for crimes they didn’t commit. It happens all the time. That’s why we have the court system, a system that recognizes that mistakes can be made. And in our country, a person is innocent until proved guilty.”
“Yeah. Well, they may get off, but that don’t mean they didn’t do it. You want those or not?”
“Yes, I’ll take them,” I said, trailing him to the cash register. “I can understand your skepticism. The court system isn’t perfect. Some criminals go free and some innocents are sent to prison. I hope in this case you keep an open mind, at least until the defense has had an opportunity to present its side. That’s only fair.”
“Maybe, but money talks and that lady has a ton of it. Livin’ in the lap of luxury on what her husband earned. She’ll probably beat the rap.”
“Her money doesn’t seem to have helped her get out of jail,” I said. “Martha Kildare has spent seven months in the Clark County Detention Center. I’d hardly call that the lap of luxury.”
He grumbled something I couldn’t make out, and rang up the sale. He was impatient to be rid of me, and I was equally eager to leave his presence. Sadly, Jenkins’s attitude wasn’t out of the ordinary. Many people assume that if the police have conducted an investigation, they must know that the person they arrest is guilty. And, I’m afraid, there’s often a built-in prejudice against people with money, a willingness to believe their ethics were left behind on the road to riches, and that they assume they can buy their way out of difficult situations. Unfortunately, the cases in which that has proven true cast a damaging light on all well-to-do defendants. I hoped the members of the jury didn’t share Matt Jenkins’s bias.
So far, there was no hard evidence against Martha, only a collection of circumstances and hearsay. But I was not so naive as to think that people hadn’t been convicted on less. The key was to raise a reasonable doubt, and I hoped Nastasi had enough to do that without putting Martha on the stand. Defense lawyers don’t like to put their clients on the witness stand for fear the prosecution will browbeat them into tears during cross-examination, or else enrage them so much, they lose their tempers in front of the jury. Martha was more likely to cry than shout, but testifying as the defendant in a murder trial is a traumatic experience, and I hoped we could spare her that.
The lobby of the Bellagio was filled with people lined up to check in or simply milling around, admiring the spectacular sculpture of glass flowers by Dale Chihuly that hung from the ceiling. I joined the crowds walking down the aisle that led through the casino to the guest elevators. The sounds of gaming—the click of the roulette wheel, the tunes of the video poker and slot machines, the shouts from the craps tables—mixed with the music piped into the sound system of the huge room created a high-energy hubbub. It was an exciting atmosphere, but I wouldn’t be sorry to move to the quieter environment at Martha’s house. I sighed as I stepped into the hush of the elevator taking me upstairs to my suite.
There was no message from Bunny, nor had Seth called with any news about Joyce Weak. I decided to hold off calling Daria until I’d settled in at Martha’s, and instead pulled out my garment bag and started to pack. As I folded clothes and laid them out on the bed, I thought about the case. Motives for murder fall into a whole range of categories: panic, fear, greed, jealousy, and revenge are common ones. Had the crime been an act of passion, a momentary aberration, or a carefully planned execution? Who were Victor’s enemies? Had he double-crossed a business associate? Who was jealous of his success? Had the killer been threatened by something Victor knew? Many people benefited financially by his death, not only his widow. His daughter, his ex-wives, his business partners, all of them reaped a windfall from the demise of Victor Kildare.
And Martha. Had she made enemies without even knowing it? Were all Victor’s ex-wives aligned against her? What caused Joyce Wenk to come forward with her story? Was it worth mounting a search for the waitress from the Winners’ Circle? There was not a lot of time left to investigate. The prosecution would rest soon, and the defense had to be ready to go.
When I’d finished my packing, leaving out only those items I’d need in the morning, I took the legal pad Vince Nastasi had given me and, sitting at the desk, wrote up my visit to Betsy. Martha would be pleased to hear that her friend was as feisty as ever. I chuckled over Betsy’s determination to publish her coffee-table book, Marriage Las Vegas Style. Stranger books have been published, I thought. I pulled Betsy’s scrapbook in front of me, opened the green cover, and scanned the first few pages of photos she’d taken in the chapels. All the pictures were four by six inches, the standard size provided by most one-hour photo shops. Betsy had arranged them on the thick paper using the classic stick-on black corners to hold them in place, and had written her impressions beneath each in silver ink. Just as she’d said,
some couples were comical in the costumes they’d chosen to wear or the expressions on their faces, and others were sad for the same reasons. Some cavorted before the camera; others shied away from it. A few turned their backs. Betsy had caught the confusion, the trepidation, the wonder, the hope, and the joy of these couples. Using only a simple camera with a simple format, she’d found the essence of weddings in general and the quirkiness of Las Vegas weddings in particular. I closed the cover and smiled. Her photos might actually be the makings of a coffee-table book.
The next morning, I checked out of the Bellagio and took a cab to Vince Nastasi’s office. Evelyn was the only one in, and I left my luggage with her and walked over to the courthouse. Vince had given me an identification card attesting to my status as an official member of the defense team; it gave me access to the courtroom before it was open to family members, observers, and the press.
Martha and Vince were deep in conversation when I arrived. Vince was scowling and talking rapidly. Martha’s eyes were wide, one hand held in front of her open mouth. I approached the defense table, watching their faces intently. Something was wrong.
“What is it? Vince, what’s happened?” I asked, taking the chair next to Martha.
“We’ve got a jailhouse snitch,” Nastasi said. “A woman Martha shared a cell with has gone to the prosecution claiming Martha confessed to her that she killed Victor. Fordice sent over a copy of her statement this morning. He’s planning to link the two women, this one and the one from Cabot Cove who claims to have seen Martha hit Victor and threaten him. Did you find out anything about her yet?”
“Not yet,” I said, “but I’ve got a friend working on it. I should hear something today or tomorrow.”
“How could she do such a thing?” Martha whispered, more to herself than to us. “She said I was the only one who ever treated her nicely, who ever offered her any kindness and support.”
“I told you there are no friends on the cell block,” Nastasi said. “For fifty cents or less, half of them would sell you out, and never think a moment about it. I told you not to talk to anyone.”
“Vince, be reasonable,” I said. “She’s been in jail seven months. Did you expect her to remain silent the whole time?”
“You cannot trust anyone in jail, Jessica, not the guards, not the support staff, and certainly not the inmates. It’s not worth taking a chance. I’ve seen this time and time again. They get money, or a shortened sentence, or probation instead of jail time. The benefits are many and the disadvantages are few.”
“Oh, my God. What am I going to do?” Martha’s face was deathly white.
“You’ll deny it just as you’ve denied other accusations,” I said, “while your defense team goes to work to counter her testimony. Don’t fall apart now, Martha. We need you strong and emphatic in your denial. Don’t give up. We’ll find a way to get her to tell the truth.”
“We’ve got to discredit her. That’s the only way,” Nastasi said, scribbling notes on a pad. “Jessica, Evelyn has a copy of the proffer. That’s a statement of what the witness intends to say. I want you to go over to my office and set up a file on Harriet Elmsley, listing what we need to know. What’s her arrest record? Where has she been the last ten years? That sort of thing. Here’s the name of my regular investigator, Charles J. Biddle. Have Evelyn call Charlie and get him started on the research. Tell him we need whatever he can find on this woman—he knows the drill—but make sure he knows to look for what the latest charge against her was, and most important what the prosecution has promised to give her. Then get back here so you don’t miss this morning’s testimony. We’ll brainstorm in my office when the court recesses for lunch. At least we’ve got the weekend to dig stuff up, but we have to move fast today because a lot of the offices we need to access will be closed tomorrow and Sunday. Martha, you and I have a lot to discuss, including every single scrap of conversation you had with Elmsley, both about your life and hers.” He tore the page off his pad and handed it to me.
“I’ll get on it right away,” I said.
“Jessica, wait,” Martha said, taking a deep breath and composing herself. “I told Evelyn, but in case she forgets in all the commotion, a car service is coming to pick you up at Vince’s office this evening. The driver will take you out to the house and be on tap to chauffeur you anywhere you want to go. Those are his instructions.”
“Martha, I’ve been giving this some thought, and I have a better idea.”
“Jessica, you have to have a driver. The house is on the outskirts of town. You can’t always get a taxi when you need one. They’re unreliable. I don’t want you to be stuck without transportation.”
“I agree.”
“Then what’s your idea?”
“Why not assign Oliver to be my driver?”
“Oliver! How can you suggest it? He testified against me.”
“I know, and that’s terribly upsetting.”
“Why don’t you fire the bastard?” Nastasi put in.
“You know I can’t,” Martha said. “Victor’s estate is in limbo until after the verdict. I have no control over anything having to do with our home, our staff, our investments—nothing. Not only that, but with the trial on television, every thief in town knows Victor’s dead and I’m in jail. Even with the neighborhood security patrols, if Oliver didn’t live there, the house would be vulnerable to anyone who wanted to break in and steal everything in sight. Isobel feels more secure with him nearby and I don’t want to alienate her. Jane would feel the same way. But to make him your driver, Jessica ... I don’t know.” She shook her head.
“I understand,” I said, “but hear me out. Oliver is already living there, as you point out. He doesn’t have a lot to do now that Victor’s gone and you’re away, yet the estate is paying his salary. He must know the city well, since he served as Victor’s chauffeur. I think he’s a logical choice.”
“I never cared for him, but Victor trusted him with his life.”
“Then let’s get him working for you now,” I said.
“How do I get him to do it?” Martha asked. “He’s been without a boss all these months.”
“I can call Tony,” I said. “He’s the executor of the estate. He’ll arrange it.”
“Are you sure, Jessica?”
“I think it’s one of my better ideas,” I said.
Chapter Fourteen
“This is Fred Graham in Court TV’s studios in New York. We’ve reached the end of the first full week in the Las Vegas, Nevada, trial of Martha Kildare, accused of the bludgeoning murder of her husband, wealthy investor Victor Kildare. Beth Karas is covering the proceedings for us and she is standing by. Good morning, Beth. Can you give us a recap of what’s been happening?”
“Good morning, Fred. Prosecutor Shelby Fordice has been slowly building his case this week, focusing on the physical evidence from the crime scene, most notably the infamous silver lamé gloves, which were worn by the killer and may be the same gloves the victim presented to his wife at their wedding two years ago. In addition, Fordice has been driving home the defendant’s inability to find anyone to corroborate her alibi. She claims that she was in a restaurant, waiting for her stepdaughter, when her husband was killed. Jane Kildare, the stepdaughter, denied making an appointment for lunch, and Fordice brought in the restaurant’s hostess, who said Mrs. Kildare was not there on the day of the murder. The prosecutor also presented phone company records to demonstrate that Martha Kildare never made any telephone calls to her stepdaughter or to anyone else to determine the stepdaughter’s whereabouts. And he brought in witnesses who testified that Martha Kildare talked about killing her husband in front of others. That has been the thrust of his case up until now.”
“Has the prosecution presented any evidence pertaining to motive?”
“Not yet, Fred. As we know, the state doesn’t have to present a motive, and the judge will instruct the jury of this. But we expect Mr. Fordice will raise the issue this morning. The first witness sche
duled to take the stand is Cindy Kildare. She’s the third of Victor Kildare’s three ex-wives. Cindy Kildare is expected to testify that her ex-husband wanted a reconciliation, and that he was planning to divorce his current wife, now widow, Martha Kildare, in order to remarry her.”
“That should be interesting testimony, Beth. We’ll be checking in with you throughout the day.”
“Victor said he was growing tired of living with a nag.”
“A ‘nag.’ Is that his word or yours, Mrs. Kildare?” Fordice asked.
“His, of course.”
“And did he say what the defendant ‘nagged’ him about?”
“He said all his money wasn’t enough for her. She was forever whining about his not being home often enough. He said he wished she was more like me, an independent woman, able to amuse herself in his absence.”
“And when did he say this?”
“Last year, right after their anniversary.”
“Was this a telephone conversation or in person?”
“In person.”
“And where did this conversation take place?”
“At the house. I had brought over some boxes that Victor had offered to store for me.”
“And where was the defendant at that time?”
“I believe she was at the beauty parlor.”
“And when did you see Mr. Kildare next?”
“A week later. We started to meet when she wasn’t home.”
“During her regular visits to the beauty parlor?”
“That’s correct.”
“Did she know you were seeing her husband?”
“Objection!” Nastasi called out. “That calls for speculation.”
“Sustained. Rephrase, Mr. Fordice.”
“Did Victor Kildare tell you that the defendant was aware of your renewed relationship?”
“Yes.”
“And when did Mr. Kildare tell you he wanted to reconcile?” Fordice continued.
You Bet Your Life Page 14