by Lisa Turner
“The airline will verify that I boarded the aircraft.” Sharma waved his hand in disgust. “This is ridiculous.”
The boarding passes were a blow, but Billy refused to give up. There had to be some explanation, but damned if he could see it. If he could fire up Sharma’s temper, the doctor might blurt out something incriminating. And he knew the man’s weak spot.
“I don’t accept these passes as an alibi. Someone could’ve flown in your place. What I do know from evidence we seized at your home is that Caroline humiliated you and your family. Your mother is sick with shame. Your friends are laughing behind your back.
“You were worried Caroline had another man. I can assure you she did. And I’ve met him.”
Sharma lunged to his feet. Billy expected an explosion, but Vanderman gripped his client’s shoulder and pushed him down into his chair.
“You’re lying to make me angry,” Sharma said. A twitch had begun at the corner of his mouth, but he took a breath, put his elbows on the table, and eased forward. “I’m a doctor. I save lives. You save no one. You mop up after the mongrels who shoot each other down in the street. You’re nothing but a garbage man.”
“That’s enough, Doctor.” Vanderman pulled out his mobile. “I have more proof right here.”
“No!” Sharma said, straightening in his chair. “We’ve given sufficient proof of my innocence.”
“Innocent men go to jail all the time,” Vanderman said. He tapped the screen and slid his mobile across the table to Billy.
Billy picked it up. The screen showed a letter from Dr. Wallace Trane in Houston. It stated that Mr. Raj Sharma had been with him until eight o’clock on Monday. And Dr. Trane had seen Mr. Sharma the following morning on rounds.
“Dr. Trane is your personal physician?” he asked.
“None of your business,” Sharma snapped.
Vanderman reached across the table for his mobile. “This proves Dr. Sharma was not in Memphis at the time Miss Lee was murdered. Dr. Trane will FedEx a signed and notarized affidavit later today.”
Vanderman pocketed his mobile. Sharma crossed his arms and bared his teeth in a hostile smile.
Game over. Billy’s mobile vibrated in his pocket, thank God. He stood. “Excuse me.”
Frankie was waiting outside the door with a note pad in one hand and Sharma’s prescription bottle in the other. “You look like you’ve been hit by a bus.”
“We’re done,” Billy said. “Sharma has a boarding pass for a flight he took Monday evening. Dr. Trane in Houston sent a letter stating Mr. Sharma was with him at the time of the murder.”
“Trane in Houston,” she said. “That fits. Ramos tracked down the compounds in the prescription. Dr. Wallace Trane is the principle investigator for a phase III clinical drug trial for Huntington’s Disease. Sharma must be a participant.”
“Huntington’s. Jesus. That’s a living hell and then it kills you.” Billy turned back to look through the one way mirror and saw that the tick at the side of Sharma’s mouth had worsened.
“That explains his outbursts and weight loss,” she said. “Even worse is the impaired cognitive ability and uncontrolled movements. Ramos said that if Sharma isn’t exhibiting full-blown symptoms of the disease, the compounds he’s taking are powerful enough to make him very sick. You think Trane knows Sharma is a neurosurgeon?”
“I’m sure Sharma did everything possible to hide his profession from Trane and his illness from the medical community here. He had an ironclad alibi for the night of the murder, but he didn’t want his trips to Houston and his connection to Dr. Trane exposed. He waited until he was charged to produce his alibi.”
“He’s still operating on patients,” she said. “We should find out if Vanderman knows about the Huntington’s.”
“I’ll do that now.” He took the prescription bottle and wagged it at Frankie. “Thanks, partner.”
“Light him up,” she said.
Through the one-way mirror he saw Sharma on his feet and waving his hands at Vanderman, probably berating him for revealing his connection to Trane in Houston. Billy opened the door.
“That bitch,” Sharma snarled to Vanderman. “Caroline deserved what she got. My father warned me she would bring shame on our family.”
The attorney’s gaze flicked to Billy. He leaned in and spoke to Sharma.
“Do not tell me to shut up,” Sharma said. He swatted the air in Billy’s direction. “I don’t care what he hears.”
Billy held up the script bottle. “Maybe you’ll care about this. CSU found it during our search. My partner traced it to Dr. Trane in Houston.” He glanced at Vanderman, who looked alarmed.
He put the bottle on the table. “You said Caroline deserved what she got. What about your patients? Do they deserve a surgeon so loaded up on drugs he can’t think straight? How many have you killed?”
“That’s slander,” Vanderman said.
“No, it’s a question. Your client is participating in a drug trial for Huntington’s Disease. Our next call will be to Dr. Trane to find out if he knows Sharma is a practicing neurosurgeon.”
“What Dr. Trane knows isn’t my responsibility,” Vanderman said. “We came to prove Dr. Sharma did not kill Miss Lee. We’ve accomplished our goal. End of story.”
“Counselor, if you knew about the Huntington’s and didn’t report it to the state licensing board and hospitals where Dr. Sharma operates you’re in deep trouble yourself.”
Vanderman drew himself up. “Dr. Sharma has the right to attorney-client privilege. That prevents me from revealing to outsiders anything I know about him.”
“Bullshit. There’s no privilege when an attorney knows his client intends to commit a crime. That’s crim law 101, the crime-fraud exception. Sharma stated he plans to operate in two hours. Stop him or I’ll make damn sure your own license gets jerked.”
Billy glanced over at Sharma. The guy should look pretty beat up by now. Instead, a wild kind of energy was pouring off of him. Definitely not the person he’d want to see leaning over him with a scalpel in his hand.
Sharma’s lips drew back in an ugly snarl. “You can’t stop me from practicing medicine.”
“Vanderman will do that,” Billy said. “And afterward, you’ll need an army of lawyers when the malpractice suits start piling up. Now both of you, get out.”
Chapter 40
Billy called the chief and caught him at the grocery store shopping for his granddaughter’s birthday party. Middlebrook put him on hold while he walked to the kosher section where he said it would be quieter.
“Go ahead,” the chief said. “And speak up.”
He gave him a rundown on Sharma’s alibi, his medical condition, and the warning he’d given Vanderman about notifying the licensing board. “The son of a bitch is scheduled to operate today,” he said. “If Vanderman doesn’t act, he’ll cut open someone’s head in less than two hours.”
The line went quiet. He heard the store’s public address system echoing over the phone. “Chief?”
“Yes, I’m thinking. If you’re wrong we’re risking a slander suit. I’ll have to notify General Counsel first.”
“Sharma’s patient is the one who’s at risk.”
“All right, you’ve put me on notice. I’ll make the call and get action. My son can take the grandkids to Chuck E. Cheese’s for the party. For your part, if Dr. Sharma didn’t kill the Lee woman, who did?”
He looked at Frankie seated next to his desk. “We have another person of interest,” he said into the phone.
She nodded in agreement.
“Then get to it,” the chief said. He hung up.
Frankie pulled over a yellow pad and wrote Robert Highsmith’s name in block letters. “The groom,” she said. “No alibi and a strong motive.”
Seemed like nothing fazed her. They were starting to communicate in glances and shifts of the shoulder, a raised eyebrow. He had wondered if that kind of partnership was possible with a woman. Now he knew.
; Next she wrote Zelda Taylor. “Again, no alibi. She had a fight with the victim the day of the murder. She owns a .32.”
“I haven’t heard from Blue about the gun.”
“He knows the significance?”
“Absolutely,” he said. “His dad must be sick. We’ll come back to that.”
She wrote the name Clive Atwood then drew a line through it. “I completed the search while you were in with Sharma. He died eight months ago of AIDS.”
He thought about that. “Have you called Phillips?”
“I’m putting it off.”
He stared at the two names on the pad. Last night he had Highsmith in cuffs and he’d let him go. He still couldn’t see the man as the killer. Zelda was an outside possibility.
What had they missed?
Across the room, Detective Kloss had the receiver cradled under his chin. Kloss had worked homicide for five years. He hummed movie theme songs all day long, highly irritating, but he closed cases, and carried his share of the load. Billy waved at Kloss. Kloss grinned and flipped him the bird.
“I’ll talk to Kloss, see if there’s anything from the tip line,” he said to Frankie.
“I need fuel. I’m going for a breakfast burrito from the cart on the corner,” she said. “And we need some decent coffee. I think you could use a double espresso.”
He walked over to stand in front of Kloss, who was doodling and saying uh-huh into the receiver. He gave Billy an eye roll, scribbled on a pad, and tore off the sheet.
Cab driver in Reception.
What the hell. He walked down the hall to where a bulky middle-aged woman in men’s gray work trousers and a short beige jacket was leaning against the wall and picking at a cuticle.
She straightened at the sight of him. “Hi. You’re Detective Able. Your picture was in the paper.” She stepped forward and shook hands, one strong downward stroke. “Opal Cook.” She glanced around, smacked her lips. “Home to the homicide squad. Can I get a tour of the forensics lab?”
Great. Kloss had stuck him with an NCIS fan.
She must have read the dismay on his face. “I’m not a badge bunny looking to get thumped. If you don’t have time to hear what I’ve got, I’ll head for the barn.”
He gestured toward the hallway. “No, no. We appreciate you coming in, Ms. Cook. I’ll bet you could use a cup of coffee.”
In the interview room, he began with a few innocuous questions for the cabbie then started in. “Tell me about Monday night.”
“Sure thing. I picked up a flag at the airport. The drop was the Walnut Bend subdivision, so I took I-240 and headed east through Shelby Farms. The rain started. I noticed a person walking the shoulder on the far side of the divide.”
“Which direction?”
“West. Near the light at Farm Road.”
“What time?”
“The airport pickup was at 8:27.” She squinted at the ceiling. “No traffic, so I made Shelby Farms around 8:45.”
The timing worked.
“I figured the person I’d seen walking had car trouble and cut through from Sycamore View. I dropped off my fare and was planning a turnaround to make the pickup. I never flag a stranded person. It’s bad karma.”
She patted the flat of her hand on the table. “You said this is an interview room, but it’s interrogation, right?”
“It’s both. Let’s stay with Monday night,” he said.
“Sure thing. It’s just that I wanted to be in law enforcement, but I’ve got this heart murmur.”
“Sorry to hear that. Bet you would’ve made a good cop.”
“Thanks. Now let’s see.” She looked up again, searching her memory. “It started raining harder. And dark … man, was it ever dark. I figured someone had already picked her up, and then I spotted her near the curve at the overpass. The shoulder’s good and wide there.”
He stopped writing. “You said ‘her.’ Was there something that made you believe the person was female?”
“I don’t know.” She blinked, thinking. “Tall. Could’ve been a man, but that wasn’t my impression.”
“How was the person dressed?”
“A square-cut jacket, hit about mid-thigh. Head covered but not with a hat.”
He nodded and kept writing.
“Coming up from behind I tapped my horn. She had to know I was there. My headlights were on. She was carrying something she used to wave me on. I pulled up so I was even with her and rolled down the window.”
“You keep saying ‘she.’ There must be a reason.”
She thought about it. “Nowadays women don’t accept rides from strangers. I guess that made me assume it was a woman.”
“Did you see her face?”
“No. She never looked over. Traffic was coming up from behind, so I drove on.”
“What age would you guess?” he asked.
“Not a kid. I could tell by the walk. I’ve got an eye for detail. Have to stay sharp in my business.”
“Do you remember the color of the item she waved at you?”
“Blue.”
“How big was it?”
“Bigger than a washcloth. Not as big as a beach towel.”
He put down his pen and stood, trying to appear calm. “Wait here, please.” He left the room and asked Kloss to step in and complete the driver’s contact information.
His pulse was up. Here was a possible break coming out of left field.
Frankie was eating her breakfast burrito in the break room. She pushed his cup of coffee forward. “I see you caught an interview.”
“The sweater from Caroline’s house. Is it in the property room?” he asked.
She put down the burrito. “Should be. Why?”
He gave her a rundown of his conversation with the cab driver. She went to the doorway and watched Kloss showing the woman around the squad room, stopping at the dry erase board to explain how they tracked solved and unsolved cases.
Frankie turned around. “Is she for real?”
“I think she saw something. Finish your burrito. I’ll be back.”
“You sound hopeful,” she said.
“Too soon for that.” But she’d read him right. Hope was exactly what he was feeling.
He took the elevator to the basement and returned fifteen minutes later with a paper bag folded over at the top. Kloss had taken the cab driver to the interview room and left her with a stack of PR pamphlets for the department. Frankie joined him in the interview room. He took the sweater from the sack and spread it on the table.
The driver leaned over it. “The color is in the ballpark.” She straightened and gave Frankie a once-over. “You’re a detective?”
“I am. What do you mean by ballpark?”
“If I didn’t have this bad knee, I’d have your job,” the driver said.
“I thought it was a bum ticker,” Billy said.
“It’s both.” She gestured at the sweater. “The color fits what I remember. How about you stand over there and wave it,” she said to him.
He went to the far end of the room, turned his back, and waved the sweater at his side. He turned around to see a puzzled look on the driver’s face.
“It’s the right size and color. There’s something else. She was wearing boots.”
“Short or tall boots?” Frankie asked.
“I can’t say.” She looked from Frankie to him. “Tell me something. Did I almost pick up a killer?”
The cab driver gone, Frankie joined him at his desk. He picked up the sweater. “Zelda has one exactly like this,” he said. “She was wearing it yesterday.”
Frankie took it and inspected the neckline. “Hand knitted. No manufacturer’s label. I’ve seen sweaters like this at craft fairs. Or it could’ve been knitted as a gift.”
“Let’s walk it through,” he said. “The cab driver described what she believed was a tall woman wearing a square-cut coat and boots. She waved something the size and color of this sweater. Zelda fits her description and owns a blue sweater li
ke it.”
“What would put Zelda in Caroline’s car on Monday night?”
“How about this: Saunders couldn’t be at the wedding so at the last minute Caroline asked Zelda to go with her. Caroline went to pick up Zelda. She said she was cold. Zelda loaned her the sweater for the drive down. She shot Caroline and took the sweater so there’d be nothing to tie her to the scene. She waved the cab driver on, so she wouldn’t be identified.”
“How did she get home?”
“The hospital is an easy walk from the crime scene. City buses run past there every half hour.”
“It works,” she said. “We need that derringer. Can someone else at Airlee look for it?”
“Odette could, but there are a lot of boxes in the attic and Zelda’s aren’t marked. The real risk is Odette telling Mr. Lee what she’s up to. We’ll lose our confidentiality.”
Frankie nodded, thinking.
“What’s on your mind?” he asked.
“I want to reread the physical evidence reports. There’s something about the fibers I’d like to check.”
“Do that and then locate Zelda’s mobile to see if she’s home. We need a search warrant for her house for the clothing and the car for the gun in case I can’t get hold of Blue. I’ll write the affidavit and pull together a team to go to the house.”
He made the calls and wrote the affidavits. Frankie came back carrying a report.
“I knew it,” she said. “Most of the fibers were trapped in the lace on the back of the dress. We didn’t pay attention to the ones snagged on the shoulders and the front. That indicates that Caroline put one of the sweaters over her shoulders. I say it was Zelda’s sweater. I checked her mobile. It’s at her house.”
He stood with the affidavits in hand. “I’ll call you from the magistrate’s office as soon as I have the warrant. Meet me downstairs.”
Chapter 41
“We have a search warrant,” Billy said.
Zelda stood in her doorway holding a cup of coffee. She had on an emerald green wrapper and nothing underneath. Even barefoot she was five foot seven or eight, a tall woman, same as the cab driver had described.
“You didn’t need a search warrant last night, did you, Officer Billy?” she said, and smirked.