“You’re not under arrest,” Marc said. “You have no such right.”
“I can leave?” Knutson asked.
“That would be a very bad idea. You’re better off staying and hearing what we have to say,” Carvelli said.
There was a knock on the door. Dan Sorenson got up and let Conrad in. At that point, Carvelli’s phone rang.
“Your plane is on the ground?” he asked. He listened for a moment then said, “Great. I’ll meet you out front.”
“She’s here,” Carvelli announced as he headed toward the door.
The airport being less than ten minutes away, Carvelli was back with Paxton in less than half an hour. When they arrived, the others were all watching the T.V. Conrad had hooked up his computer to it and they were watching the interview of Del Peterson. They stopped for a moment so Paxton could introduce herself to Knutson.
When it was over, Knutson, having regained a bit of confidence, almost scoffed at it. “That proves nothing. Uncorroborated testimony of a co-conspirator.”
“The people he named, do you really believe they will all hold up under questioning?” Carvelli asked.
“Rest assured, Mr. Knutson,” Paxton said, “we will get corroboration.”
She stood up, found the remote for the T.V. and before changing the channel she looked at Knutson and said, “There’s news I picked up right after I landed and I think it’s something you should see.”
Paxton pointed the remote at the TV and scrolled through the channels until she found CNN. On the screen, next to the female anchor, was a photo of Senator Roger Manion, the self-proclaimed socialist from Maine.
“…was found dead, slumped over his desk this morning. Authorities believe it was caused by natural causes, probably a heart attack that killed him. The senator, a potential candidate for president, was believed to be in good health. This according to staff members who spoke to us this morning. His sudden and untimely death will have a ripple effect through the politics of the U.S. Senate. Again, the big story of the day…”
Paxton shut off the TV and looked at an obviously shaken Brody Knutson.
“I can’t tell you how but we knew somebody, we didn’t know who, was on Cal Simpson’s short list for an accidental death. Manion was seventy years old and in good health. You think this is a coincidence?” she asked.
“We let him hear the recording before we came here,” Carvelli said. “He looked at Knutson and asked, do you believe us now?”
Knutson, a frightened look in his eyes, abruptly stood up and announced, “I’m leaving. You can’t hold me here and…”
“We know you intercepted the Cannon Brothers engineer’s memo that Zach Evans tried to mail to Mr. Kadella. That got Zach and Lynn McDaniel killed. You are in this up to your ass. And Cal knows you talked to me. If you go running to him now, how long before he decides you’re a liability?” Carvelli asked. “You’re better off with us.”
“I won’t go to Cal. I need to talk to a lawyer. I just need some advice. Here,” he continued while fumbling around with his wallet. He pulled out a business card and handed it to Paxton. “Here’s my card. Call me tomorrow. I swear, I won’t go to Cal.”
Paxton looked around the room, flicked the card between her fingers shrugged her shoulders and said, “We’re not kidnappers.” She looked at Knutson and said, “Okay, twenty-four hours. If you’re not on board by then, we’ll go in a different direction. One way or another, this thing is coming down. Decide which side you want to be on.”
When Knutson reached the lobby, he made two calls. The first to Uber for a ride. The second to a well-known criminal defense lawyer he knew; Thad Cheney.
Cheney took his call and told Knutson to come right to his office. After the call, Cheney decided it would be best not to tell Knutson about his representation of the Cannon Brothers and their executive vice president. He then placed a call to his best client, Cal Simpson.
FORTY-FOUR
Brooke Hartley used her pass card to enter the office building’s parking ramp. She flipped off the Camry’s windshield wipers and a minute later pulled into her reserved spot. One of the perks of putting up with Brody Knutson was free parking in a reserved place in the building. On a day like today, early-autumn, rainy, cool and windy, she especially appreciated it.
As Brooke walked up the concrete ramp, the only sound she heard was the clicking of her heels. She checked her watch, 6:05 A.M., then picked up the pace because she was already late. It was Brooke’s day to go into the office early and if Knutson was there, depending on his mood, he could be a jerk about it.
When she arrived at Knutson’s private office Brooke was relieved to find the outer door locked. This meant Knutson was not in yet. She entered into the reception area where her and Lucy’s desks were located. Brooke hung her trench coat style raincoat on the coat tree, dropped her purse on her desk and headed toward the breakroom. Having set the coffee maker’s timer before she left last night she knew there would be a fresh pot waiting for her.
“I need this,” she quietly said while pouring herself a cup.
Brooke went back to her desk, put her purse in a drawer and turned her PC on. She began going through the files on her desk and the work she needed to start on. The coffee was perfect and the cup was three-fourths empty when she started to feel it. At first, she was just a little light headed and a bit woozy. She tried blinking
her eyes several times to clear it up which helped a little.
Another thirty to forty seconds went by and the room began to spin. Believing she needed to stand up and try walking, she got out of her chair, took two short steps then collapsed to the floor.
Lucy Gibson arrived at work at 7:30, a half-hour early. She immediately noticed Brooke’s raincoat hanging on the coat rack. Listening to the silence in the office, she wondered where Brooke could have gone. Lucy hung up her coat next to Brooke’s, dropped her purse on her desk and went into the breakroom. In need of a shot of caffeine, she was disappointed to find the empty pot placed on the counter. Thinking this was a bit odd since she knew Brooke set it up the night before, a tiny warning bell sounded in the back of her head.
Believing she had heard a noise, Lucy went to check on Knutson. She put her ear to the door to listen for a moment. There was no sound coming from his office, which was a bit unusual. As the managing partner of a large law firm, Knutson spent a lot of time on the phone. Even this early he would normally be at it.
She opened his door, took a small step inside the large office and fought back a scream. Lying on the floor were the bodies of Brody Knutson and Brooke Hartley.
Lucy put a hand to her mouth and bit down on the knuckle. She looked at Brody who was obviously dead. He was white as a sheet and the ivory-handled letter opener that he kept on his desk was sticking out of his chest, his white dress shirt half-covered with blood.
A terrified Lucy then looked at Brooke again and stared at her. It took a few seconds before she realized Brooke was still breathing. She took the two steps toward her, dropped to her knees and felt Brooke’s neck. She not only had a pulse but it was steady and regular.
“Brooke, Brooke, come on, wake up,” Lucy desperately said as she shook her and rolled her onto her back.
Brooke’s head rolled a bit, her eyelids fluttered and she made a groaning sound.
Lucy quickly jumped up and dashed back out to her desk. Using her office phone, she dialed 911. As calmly as she could, Lucy told the operator who she was and what she had found.
Lt. Owen Jefferson forced his way through the mob in the hall outside Knutson’s office. Several Everson, Reed lawyers tried to get a little cocky with him until he shoved his lieutenant’s shield in their faces. Without another word, the crowd parted and he strolled past them. When he reached the entryway door to Knutson’s office, he stopped and turned to face them. Holding up both hands, his shield in his left hand, he demanded and got silence.
“This is a crime scene and I am the officer in charge. I want this hallw
ay cleared, now! There’s nothing for you to see or do. Go back to where you belong.”
“We have a right to know…” an older, female lawyer standing directly in front of Jefferson started to demand.
“You have a right to know nothing at this point,” Jefferson calmly replied.
“I am the vice managing partner of this law firm…” she tried to say.
“And if you interfere again, I’ll have you arrested,” Jefferson said staring down at her.
He looked at the mob who were still milling about like sheep, uncertain what to do. “Go back to where you belong or I will have some officers get out their handcuffs.” That did it. In less than a minute, the hallway was empty except for the uniformed cops.
Jefferson went through the open, exterior, double doors and into the work area.
“That must have been fun,” Marcie Sterling, a female detective and his former partner said, “Telling a bunch of lawyers you were going to arrest them. That had to feel good.”
“It does give me a warm, fuzzy glow,” Jefferson admitted. “What are you doing here?”
“Helping out,” Marcie replied.
“And Hunt is okay with this?” Jefferson asked. He was referring to Gabe Hunt, the homicide detective who had caught the case. Hunt was not known as someone who got along well with people, especially other cops.
“I’m keeping my distance. It’s his case. I won’t get in the way,” Marcie answered her boss, friend and one-time mentor.
Gabe Hunt had been inside the inner office where Knutson’s body was still lying on the floor. Two crime scene techs were also in there taking pictures and looking for evidence. Hunt turned his head, saw Jefferson and joined him and Marcie. A young, newly minted detective, Darian Clark, also stepped over to them. He had been keeping an eye on Brooke who was at her desk. Lucy Gibson was sitting in one of the client chairs away from Brooke. Jefferson led them all into the hallway where they could have some privacy.
“The one secretary, the brunette, Brooke Hartley, did it,” Hunt said. “She came in early, found the victim in his office and stuck a letter opener in his chest. Looks like he tried to fight her off. There’s a bruise on the left side of her face where he punched her. The only thing we don’t know is why.”
“Well, that wraps that up,” Marcie said.
“Hey, screw you, Sterling,” Hunt snarled. “The evidence is pretty obvious.”
“Have you talked to her? Brooke Hartley?” Jefferson asked.
“I was about to, the other one, the blonde in the other chair, her name is Lucy…” he paused to check his notes when Darian said, “Gibson.”
“Yeah, Gibson,” Hunt agreed. “Go back in there and keep an eye on them,” he ordered Darian, annoyed at being corrected.
“Anyway, she’s the one that found them. She came in and found them around seven thirty,” Hunt said.
Jefferson motioned to a young man in a tweed sports coat standing around with his hands in his pockets. He quickly joined the conversation.
“Morning, Doctor,” Jefferson said to the assistant medical examiner. “Can you give us a time of death?”
“Between five-thirty and six-thirty,” the doctor replied.
“So, let’s say it was closer to six-thirty,” Jefferson said. “The victim punches her in the side of the face while she’s stabbing him. He knocks her out cold until she’s found an hour later,” Jefferson said.
“There’s no evidence of anything else. No evidence anyone else was here,” Hunt said defensively. “She’s not a big girl. Guys fighting for his life, yeah, he could hit her that hard.”
“I’ll admit, it’s at least a good theory,” Marcie said. “Unless he finds something else.”
“Wow, thanks,” Hunt said mocking her.
“Must you always be an asshole?” Marcie asked.
Before Hunt could reply Jefferson put up a hand to stop him.
A minute later, back in the office, Brooke said to Hunt, “I want to make a phone call.” Hunt, Jefferson and Marcie were all standing in front of Brooke’s desk.
“You can make a call from our office,” Hunt said.
“Am I under arrest?” Brooke asked.
“Ah, no, not yet,” Hunt replied.
“Then I’m going to make a phone call now and I’m going to use my phone,” Brooke said.
“I said, you can make it…” Hunt started to say.
“Where’s your phone?” Jefferson asked.
“In my desk drawer in my purse,” she replied.
“Find it for her,” Jefferson told Marcie.
Marcie quickly found the purse and phone and gave it to Brooke. As she scrolled through its directory, Brooke said to Jefferson, “I would like some privacy please.”
“Of course,” Jefferson replied.
“What else can we do for you,” an obviously steaming Gabe Hunt said as he walked away.
Brooke found the number, dialed it, and waited. It was answered on the sixth ring.
“Hullo,” she heard a man groggily say. He cleared his throat, then more clearly said, “Hello, Brooke. What’s up?” Tony Carvelli said.
“Were you asleep?” Brooke asked.
“Well, ah, yeah,” Carvelli replied. “What time is it?”
“Almost nine. I’m sorry I woke you, but I think I’m in a lot of trouble. I think I need a lawyer and I don’t have your friend’s number.”
“Tell me what’s going on?” Carvelli asked as he slipped on a pair of sweatpants.
As quietly as she could, she quickly told him what she knew and what was happening.
“Jesus, what the hell happened?” Carvelli asked when she finished.
“Tony, I don’t know,” she whispered. “I don’t remember anything. The cops are going to take me in for questioning. I’m really scared. Please…”
“Who’s in charge there? Who’s the cop that’s in charge?” Carvelli asked.
“There’s a tall, black man who seems to be in charge,” Brooke replied.
“Ask him if his name is Owen?”
Brooke did that and on the phone told Carvelli it was.
“Give him your phone. It’s okay. Let me talk to him,” Carvelli said.
“He wants to talk to you,” Brooke said holding the phone out to him.
“Lt. Jefferson,” he said into the phone. “Who am I…?”
“It’s Tony Carvelli, Owen,” Carvelli said.
“What the hell…?”
“It’s a long story. Listen, she is going to retain counsel, Marc Kadella. I’m calling him as soon as we’re done talking. You know him. He will tell you no one talks to her without him being present. We’ll both be there in a half-hour. Are we good?”
“Yeah, that’s fine. We’ll wait with her here at the crime scene. I assume she told you what happened.”
“Yeah, she did. Thanks, Owen. I owe you one.”
“You owe me more than one, you reprobate,” Jefferson said.
“Let me talk to her again,” Carvelli said. “I’ll see you in a little bit.”
Jefferson handed the phone back to Brooke.
“Okay, I’ll call Marc, and we’ll be there as soon as possible. Until then, talk to no one and I do mean no one. We’ll be along. You’ll be all right.”
“Okay, please hurry and thanks,” she said.
FORTY-FIVE
Marc and Carvelli stepped off the elevator and looked both ways down the hall. Seeing the uniformed officers, they turned left and walked down to Knutson’s large, corner office. They were stopped at the exterior double doors by one of the cops. While Carvelli stuck his head inside to get Jefferson, Marc looked back toward the elevators. There were a half a dozen older lawyers, probably Everson, Reed senior partners with offices on this floor, standing in the hallway. Marc waved at them as Carvelli took his arm to bring him inside.
While shaking hands with Jefferson, Marc looked over at the other plainclothes officers.
“We could form a band,” Marc said, “The Trench Coats.”
“That kind of weather,” Jefferson said.
“It’ll be snowing soon,” Marc replied.
“Shut up,” Marcie facetiously said. “We don’t need to talk like that yet.”
“Sorry, you’re right,” Marc smiled. “Is my client under arrest?” he asked Jefferson.
“Not yet,” Gabe Hunt answered.
Marc looked at Hunt then said, “That means no. Then we’re leaving.”
Marc had come across Hunt a couple of times before when Hunt was in Burglary. They were not pleasant experiences.
“Maybe I will arrest her,” Hunt said.
“I’m not going to play your childish game of ‘mine’s bigger than yours’, Detective,” Marc said. He turned to Jefferson and calmly asked again, “Is she under arrest?”
“No,” Jefferson admitted. “Please keep her available.”
“Get out of there, Carvelli,” Hunt loudly said.
Carvelli was standing in the doorway of Knutson’s inner office watching the crime scene techs work. Knutson’s body was still lying there and one of the techs was taking blood samples from the carpet.
Carvelli turned his head to Hunt and said, “I’m not in there, dipshit.”
“I’m confiscating your client’s phone,” Hunt angrily said.
“No, you’re not,” Marc calmly replied. “We’ll preserve it and if it becomes evidence, we’ll surrender it when appropriate.
“Tony, help Ms. Hartley, please. We’re leaving,” Marc said. He handed two of his business cards to Owen Jefferson then said, “Marcie, nice to see you again. Owen, call anytime. If you decide to serve an arrest warrant on my client, I would appreciate a call. I’ll surrender her myself. That way Gestapo Gabe here won’t have to kick in someone’s door at four o’clock in the morning.”
Marc looked at Hunt, who was starting to protest, then Marc said, “You’re getting too old for that kind of behavior anyway.”
“Tony’s working for me on your case,” Marc said to Brooke. “Because of that, he is covered by attorney-client privilege exactly the same as I am. You can speak freely with him in the room.”
Insider Justice: A Financial Thriller (Marc Kadella Legal Mysteries Book 8) Page 28