Sasha McCandless 03 - Irretrievably Broken

by Melissa F. Miller

  The way he put it, it sounded plausible, even likely, that the dead women had done just that.

  “But Ellen Mortenson said she received the photographs anonymously in the mail,” she countered.

  Gilbert fixed her with a look. “First, of all, we’re not here about Mr. Lang—this is about Mr. Costopolous. Although I did investigate Ms. Mortenson’s death, that was a separate homicide investigation. The Department sees no reason to link the two deaths simply because the two victims worked together. Second of all, as far as I know, the only support for the claim that Ms. Mortenson received photographs of her husband at the gaming tables in the mail from an anonymous sender is Mr. Lang’s say-so. No offense, but I’m not going to take his word for it. Are you representing Lang, too?” he finished, his voice quizzical.

  Sasha ignored the question. “At least check out Mr. Costopolous’s story. He remembers the address. Go to the townhouse and see if it is, in fact, a shelter. See if anyone there remembers a woman matching this girl’s description.”

  She picked up the middle photograph, the one with the best angle of the girl, and waved it at him. She’d kept her tone neutral, although she wanted to plead with him. If he didn’t bite, her next move was going to have to be to use Greg to alibi Nick.

  Gilbert looked at her for a long moment. Then he shrugged.

  “Sure. I’ll send a uniform out to run this down. You and Mr. Costopolous make yourselves comfortable.”

  He gathered the photographs into a pile and tapped the bottoms on the table to square them, then left the room.

  Nick considered the metal chair. Then he walked over to the wall and slid down it to sit on the floor.

  “Why didn’t you tell him I was with Greg?” he asked, hugging his arms around his knees.

  Sasha frowned and jerked her head toward the observation window to remind him they weren’t actually alone. Their conversation was almost certainly being recorded.

  She was glad for an excuse not to answer him, though. She still hadn’t decided whether it was worth the risk to Greg to use him to alibi Nick, given how little weight that alibi would carry with Gilbert. But, Nick would, understandably, want her to use everything in her arsenal. Her stomach crawled as she considered the ethics.

  Nick twisted his mouth into a knot.

  “Trust me, okay?” She patted his arm and then checked her phone.

  It was nearly eleven o’clock. This was not how she had envisioned spending her night.

  She thumbed out a text to Connelly: Am running late. Not sure when I will be home. Sorry. Love, S.

  Then she played Will’s voicemail. As expected, Cinco had agreed to post Nick’s bail if he was, in fact, arraigned, which she had to admit seemed likely.

  She figured the news would cheer her client, so she powered off her phone and said, “Prescott & Talbott will cover your bail if it becomes necessary, the same as they did for Greg.”

  Nick raised his dark eyes. They were filled with anger, not the gratitude she’d expected to see.

  “I would hope so. It’s the least they could do.”

  Sasha considered this statement. She recalled the crushing hours, missed vacations, and broken plans that had littered her years at the firm.

  “Nick, were Clarissa’s hours causing a problem between you two?” she asked in a soft voice.

  “Not like you think,” he said. “The stress was preventing us from conceiving.” His face drained to white as he realized they had, in fact, conceived.

  He swallowed hard and continued, “I mean, it had been. We’d been trying for a while. Finally, we saw a fertility doctor. She told Clarissa her body wasn’t going to allow her to get pregnant while she was working eighty-hour weeks and not taking care of herself. I tried to get her to go to part-time status, but she refused. I finally convinced her to at least take a vacation. We went to Greece in July to visit the fishing village where our parents were born. We snorkeled, met about a million distant relatives, ate too much, and kicked back in the sun.” Nick smiled at the memory, but the smile faded into a frown.

  “What happened?” Sasha asked.

  “John Porter called. We had scheduled the trip for two weeks, but ten days in, he called and asked her to come back. He had some big filing that couldn’t wait four flipping days and he claimed no one else could possibly handle it in her absence. I told her to tell him to go pound sand, but, of course, she changed her flight and rushed back,” Nick said in a clipped voice.

  “But you stayed?”

  That wasn’t a great fact if they were going to paint a picture of harmony in the Costopolous home.

  He gave her a sheepish look. “I did. I’ll admit I was angry. Hurt, I guess. But when I got home, she sat me down and apologized. She said she realized it was shortsighted. She said ...” His voice broke, but he went on, “She said having a baby with me was more important. She promised to cut back some, just as soon as the fiscal year ended in August. Her plan was to get pregnant and have the baby next year. And, she did cut back ... a little. Enough, I guess.”

  He hung his head. When he looked up his eyes were wet. “Someone killed my wife. And our baby. You have to make them understand it wasn’t me.”

  ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

  Just before midnight, the steel door banged open and hit the wall near the desk.

  The air in the small room was suddenly charged. Sasha looked up from checking her e-mail messages on her phone to see Gilbert stride into the room, followed by a baby-faced uniformed officer. She rose from the cheap plastic chair, her legs stiff and slow to unfold.

  Nick, who’d been sleeping fitfully on the floor under the observation window, bolted to his feet and looked around, confused.

  Gilbert ignored Sasha and headed straight for Nick, stopping when he was about a foot away from him, and pulled a laminated card from his pocket. He nodded toward the uniformed officer, who circled around and stood behind Nick, with a pair of handcuffs dangling loosely in his hand.

  “Nicholas Costopolous,” Gilbert intoned, “you are under arrest for the murder of Clarissa Costopolous and Unborn Child Costopolous.”

  Nick wheeled around to look at Sasha; as he did so, the officer behind him clasped the bracelets around his wrists. Nick opened his mouth to protest.

  Sasha put up her hand like a crossing guard to silence him. As she raced to his side, she said, “Nothing. Say nothing, Nick.”

  He clamped his mouth shut and nodded.

  Gilbert extended his arm straight and held out the card, squinting at the tiny printed Miranda warning, which he surely had memorized at this point in his career. “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to speak to an attorney, and to have an attorney present during any questioning. If you cannot afford a lawyer, one will be provided for you at government expense. Do you understand these rights?”

  Nick looked at Sasha, then turned back to Gilbert. “Yes.”

  Sasha asked, “What about the townhouse?”

  Gilbert returned his card to his pocket and said, “Dead end. The address your client gave us is a residence. An elderly husband and wife, Polish immigrants, live there. Despite their minimal English skills, the Milchecks made it clear that they’d never seen the girl and had never heard of the shelter. Officer Dickinson over there showed them a photograph of Mr. Costopolous, as well, and they didn’t recognize him.”

  The officer nodded his agreement with this recitation.

  Nick was wild-eyed. “But, that’s impossible! She said she was going to My Sister’s Place.”

  “Stop talking,” Sasha said. She allowed a sharp edge to creep into her voice so Nick would understand she was serious.

  “Here’s an interesting fact about My Sister’s Place,” Gilbert went on. “There is an organization with that name, but it’s not a women’s shelter on the South Side. It’s a group that provides housing and other services for single-parent families in the Mon Valley.”

  Sasha l
ooked at Nick for a moment. He just raised his shoulders, confused.

  She turned back to Gilbert. “So, Mr. Costopolous was hoodwinked by some girl. That doesn’t really seem to merit an arrest.”

  Gilbert gave her a tired smile. “Nice try. The assistant district attorney on call okayed a warrantless arrest. As I’m sure you know, we can hold Mr. Costopolous for up to twenty-four hours before we arraign him.”

  Sasha squared her shoulders and summoned her sense of outrage, but Gilbert held up a hand to stop her, just as she’d stopped Nick.

  “But, we’re not going to do that, okay?” he said before she could jump in. “Someone in the DA’s office will write up the complaint in the morning and get your client in for his arraignment before lunchtime. I gave them your number and told them to call you and let you know what time. As a courtesy.”

  “Oh. Well, thank you,” she said. “So, we can go then?”

  Gilbert looked at her for a full thirty seconds before he spoke. When he did, his voice was almost gentle.

  “Your client’s going to lockup at the Allegheny County Jail, Counselor.”

  Nick’s face stretched into a mask of fear and despair. Sasha had to look away.

  Gilbert continued, “Mr. Costopolous will be processed and then placed in the custody of the sheriff at the jail. You should go to his place, get a change of clothes for him to wear for his arraignment, and then get some sleep.”

  She shook her head. “I can’t get into his house. Clarissa changed the locks, remember?”

  The detective nodded, a slow movement that revealed his fatigue. “That’s right; I forgot. Officer Dickinson, I’ll handle Mr. Costopolous’s intake myself. You escort Ms. McCandless to the residence. Let her get her client a change of clothes.”

  “Yes, sir,” the officer said.

  Gilbert turned to Nick, “You take any medications? Wear glasses or contacts? Anything like that?”

  Nick shook his head.

  “What about a toothbrush? Toiletries?” Sasha asked.

  “The taxpayers will provide those to Mr. Costopolous free of charge,” Gilbert told her, slipping back into his jaded cop routine.

  Sasha patted Nick on the arm. “I’ll see you as soon as I can. Just remember, no talking to anybody. That includes your fellow ... inmates.” She stumbled over the word.

  Nick swallowed hard but nodded.

  Officer Dickinson walked around to hold the door open, and she followed Gilbert and Nick out into the hall.

  FRIDAY

  CHAPTER 35

  Sasha stifled a yawn and checked the time. Three-thirty in the morning. She stretched; her back was tight, and the cold night air caused the muscles along her spine to cramp.

  She wondered how much longer this could possibly take as she stood on Greg Lang’s front porch and watched Officer Dickinson crawl around in the cab of Nick’s truck.

  And she’d been so close to making it home, she thought, as the door swung open and Greg stepped out onto the porch with fresh mugs of coffee for each of them.

  “Here you go,” he said, handing her the blasted I Got Lei-ed mug.

  She wrapped her hands around it to suck up its warmth and took a long, greedy sip.

  “Ah, thanks.”

  He nodded and raised his own mug to his lips, his eyes locked on Dickinson.

  She’d been walking down the steep steps outside the Costopolous’s house under Dickinson’s watchful eye, when his radio had buzzed to life. She was taking her time because she didn’t have a free hand; she had a suit, dress shirt and tie on a hanger in one hand and was carrying a reusable Trader Joe’s grocery bag stuffed with Nick’s dress shoes and clean boxers, socks, and a t-shirt in the other.

  “Dickinson, are you still with Ms. McCandless?” Gilbert’s voice had crackled over the air.

  “Yes, sir,” he’d said. “But we’re wrapping up here. She’s got a change of clothes and a pair of shoes in a cloth bag.”

  Sasha had been calculating how long it would take her to drive home and crawl into bed beside Connelly for a few short hours before the dawn broke and he headed to the airport, when she’d heard Gilbert directing Officer Dickinson to proceed to a familiar address.

  She’d turned her head and asked, “Why are you going to Greg Lang’s house?”

  Dickinson had held up a hand to shush her while Gilbert had continued, “Search Mr. Costopolous’s vehicle. He informs me he’s been staying with Mr. Lang. Search the guest room, too.”

  Two separate thoughts had taken off along parallel tracks in Sasha’s brain, like racing trains. One was that she was going to strangle Nick when she saw him. What exactly did he think “Don’t say anything” meant? Talk to Gilbert like he’s your best friend? The other train zipped through the recesses of her memory, pulling up every case she’d briefed in Criminal Law as a first-year law student twelve years earlier.

  She had to decide whether to object to the search of Nick’s vehicle in Greg’s garage. Greg had a reasonable expectation of privacy in his garage and its contents. The question was whether his houseguest did. Remembering a case involving a stack of boxes stored in a friend’s garage, she decided she had a strong argument that Nick did have such a privacy expectation, which would mean the truck was off-limits.

  “Detective,” she’d said, before realizing that Gilbert couldn’t hear her.

  She’d slung the bag over her shoulder and gestured for Dickinson to depress the button so Gilbert could hear her.

  “Detective,” she’d begun again, “as Mr. Costopolous’s counsel, I’m afraid I can’t allow you to search his vehicle. Unless, of course, you’ve obtained a probable cause warrant, in which case, I’d like to see a copy.”

  Dickinson had rolled his eyes and thumbed off the radio so Gilbert could respond.

  “Counselor,” Gilbert had said, making no effort to hide the laughter in his voice, “your client volunteered the information that his vehicle was in the Lang garage and offered to let us search both it and the room he used at the Lang residence.”

  Sasha had gritted her teeth and said, “Press the radio call button, please.”

  Her frustration with Nick and Gilbert had been compounded by the logistics of conversation over a radio through an intermediary.

  Before Dickinson could comply, however, Gilbert had rumbled on, “And don’t bother chewing me out for questioning your client, Ms. McCandless. I repeatedly reminded him that he invoked his right to counsel and that you instructed him not to talk.”

  Gilbert had paused. Dickinson had shrugged and pressed the button, aiming the radio toward Sasha.

  “What?” she’d demanded.

  He’d clicked off.

  “Oh, I just wanted to stop and give you a chance to thank me for looking out for your client. You’re welcome, in any event. So, as I was saying, Mr. Costopolous, or Nick, as he asked me to call him, had a great deal to say. Fear will do that to people. And, I have to admit, he’s a pretty-looking man. He has plenty to be afraid of at lockup.”

  Sasha had shaken her head at the way Gilbert was manipulating Nick by suggesting he was going to be raped.

  “Is he there with you now?” she had asked, hoping to talk to Nick and get him to pull himself together before he was transported to the jail.

  “Nope. He’s off being fitted for his bright orange prom gown.”

  Sasha had closed her eyes and breathed through her nose. If Dickinson hadn’t been standing there, she’d have gone into Tree Pose right there on the Costopolous’s front steps. Instead, she just focused on inhaling and exhaling until she trusted herself to speak without shouting.

  “No one touches the car until I arrive at the Lang residence. Are we clear?”

  “Suit yourself,” Gilbert had shot back through the radio. “If I had to be in court in the morning, I’d go home and get some shut-eye, but you’re an adult. Do what you want. Dickinson can give you a ride, if you like.”

  “No thanks.”

  Sasha had felt foolish doing it, but sh
e’d raced down the steps and sprinted to her car. She’d thrown the bag and the suit on the passenger seat and had fumbled with her Bluetooth. She’d decided to beat Dickinson to the house, so she’d at least have a chance to manage the scene.

  As she’d started the ignition, she’d used her phone’s voice-dialing function to call Greg before Dickinson had even reached his squad car. She’d pulled out and driven cautiously until she’d turned at the corner. Once she was out of Dickinson’s sight, she’d gunned it.

  Arriving a full three minutes before Dickinson, she’d prepared Greg to put up a fight. When the officer informed Greg he had Nick’s permission to search his truck, Greg had refused to let the police officer into his garage. Instead, he had pulled the truck out and parked it in the driveway.

  Officer Dickinson had hesitated, disappeared into his car, and reemerged, presumably after consulting with Gilbert. He’d shown no surprise when Sasha had further informed him that he was not welcome to search Nick’s guest room and that Nick lacked standing to consent to such a search over the homeowner’s objection. He’d merely shrugged and started combing through the pickup truck.

  So, now she and a keyed-up Greg stood ramrod straight on the porch and watched Dickinson inspect every square inch of cab of Nick’s pickup.

  “What is he looking for, I wonder?” Greg asked in a low voice, his eyes on Dickinson’s boots, which were sticking out of the cab as he leaned across the steering wheel and dusted the dashboard.

  “I have no idea. Blood?”

  “Wouldn’t they call a CSI unit out to do that kind of forensics work?”

  Sasha didn’t know and almost asked him who processed Ellen’s crime scene, but she stopped herself.

  “I suppose. Gilbert’s probably just doing this to ensure I’m exhausted at Nick’s preliminary arraignment tomorrow,” she told him in an effort to change the subject.

  As she said it, she realized it was more than likely true: the authorities were no different from any large law firm that used its almost limitless resources to bury some harassed, overextended sole practitioner in paper and motions practice. It seemed to her that anyone with sufficient weight had a corresponding, almost irresistible, urge to throw that weight around.