* * *
Maria Rodriguez worked at a sports bar a few blocks from the courthouse. She looked annoyed when the detectives and the deputy DA told her that they needed to talk.
“I’m in the middle of my shift. I’ve got orders to bring out. Can’t this wait?”
“I’m afraid not,” Ragland said. “Why don’t you ask the manager to have someone take over your tables.”
“Who’s going to cover my tips?” she asked angrily.
“That’s the least of your worries, Miss Rodriguez. We can talk here and you can get back to work when you finish answering our questions, or we can interview you at police headquarters. Your choice.”
Rodriguez glared at Ragland. “Let me tell my manager,” she said before stomping off.
“What’s this about?” Rodriguez demanded when they were sitting in a booth by the kitchen.
“How are you doing financially?” Ragland asked.
“What do you mean?”
“Have you hit the lottery or gotten an inheritance recently? Had a good run at one of the casinos?”
“Okay, what’s going on?”
“We’re curious about the ten thousand dollars that was deposited in your checking account the day before Robert Chesterfield was murdered.”
Rodriguez’s jaw dropped and she stared at the DA. “What the fuck are you talking about?”
Anders pushed a bank statement across the table.
Rodriguez stared at it.
“Where did the ten thousand come from, Maria?” Ragland asked.
“This isn’t mine. There’s some mistake.”
“There’s no mistake. Look at the account number and your name.”
“There must be another Maria Rodriguez. The bank must have made an error and put this money in the wrong account.”
“Or David Turner might have deposited it in your account to thank you for hiding Nancy Porter’s inhaler and helping him murder Robert Chesterfield.”
“You’re crazy. I had nothing to do with Bobby’s murder. I don’t know Turner and I didn’t hide that inhaler.”
“He was at the Chamber of Death rehearsal at the coast. And so were you,” Ragland said.
“Yeah, but I never talked to him.”
“How do you explain the money?” Ragland asked.
Rodriguez looked panicky. “I can’t. I don’t know a thing about it.”
“If that’s your position, we’re going to have to take you to the police station to continue our talk.”
“You can’t do that! I’ll lose my job.”
Ragland leaned across the table and stared into Rodriguez’s eyes. “Where did the money come from, Maria? You’re going to tell us eventually. Tell us now, and we can cut a deal. Stonewall us, and you’ll be waitressing in the cafeteria of the women’s penitentiary.”
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
Nancy Porter was living in Renee Chambers’s two-story duplex on the outskirts of Multnomah Village, a quaint area of Portland with a bookstore, restaurants, art galleries, and local shops. She looked wary when she answered the door. Her glossy red hair was tied back in a ponytail, and she was dressed in jeans and a powder blue man-tailored shirt. Unlike Maria Rodriguez, Porter was very attractive even though she wore very little makeup and was not dressed in her showgirl costume.
“I’m Robin Lockwood, the lawyer who’s representing David Turner, and this is Jeff Hodges, my investigator. We were wondering if you have some time to talk to us.”
“Can I talk to you without getting the permission of the district attorney?”
“Sure,” Robin answered with a smile. “Both sides are supposed to talk to the witnesses before the trial to make sure we know all the facts. A lot of times the DA dismisses a case if we can convince him he’s got the wrong man, and we try to convince our clients to plead guilty if we think they’ll be convicted if we go to trial.”
Porter hesitated. Then she asked Robin and Jeff into the living room, which was neat and clean and furnished with inexpensive furniture. Porter sat down on a comfortable easy chair, but Robin could see that she wasn’t comfortable. The magician’s assistant’s hands were clasped in her lap, and her shoulders were hunched from tension.
“How are you doing?” Robin said.
“I haven’t slept well since … what happened. I have nightmares.”
“That’s understandable.” Jeff pointed at his scars. “I used to be a cop. We raided a house where they were cooking meth, and there was an explosion. I still have the nightmares on occasion, and that was years ago. But it does get better.”
“Thanks for telling me that.”
“Fortunately, most people don’t have the type of harrowing experience you went through,” Jeff continued. “When I do meet someone who has, I like to tell them that there is light at the end of the tunnel.”
Porter smiled and the tension in her shoulders eased.
“So, I understand that you’re house-sitting for Renee Chambers,” Robin said to change the subject to something lighter.
Porter nodded. “Renee asked if I’d fill in for her when her mom got sick. She said I could use this place so I wouldn’t have to pay rent. But you aren’t here to discuss my living arrangements. What do you want to know?”
“Anything that can help us figure out if David is guilty or innocent,” Robin said. “For instance, how would someone know that you use an inhaler for your asthma?”
“I guess everyone knew. I mean, it wasn’t a secret. I don’t use it a lot, but I used it once or twice when we were rehearsing, so the stagehands, Mr. Chesterfield, anyone who was backstage, would have seen it.”
“Did you ever see David in the theater during rehearsals? Was he ever near your dressing room?”
“I heard he snuck into a rehearsal, but I never saw him in the theater.”
“How did you get along with everyone?”
“Okay, I guess. I mean, I never had an argument, and no one was mean to me.”
“What about Maria Rodriguez and Sheila Monroe? Did they get along with everyone?” Jeff asked.
“Sheila wasn’t around much. She’s in school and has a boyfriend. She came on time for rehearsals and she studied during breaks. Then she left as soon as the rehearsal finished.”
“And Maria?”
Porter looked uncomfortable again. “I don’t like to say anything mean.”
“This will stay between us, unless it affects our client’s case.”
“Maria could be difficult, and … Well, there was nothing I could testify to. It’s just a feeling. But I don’t think she liked Mr. Chesterfield.”
“Why do you say that?” Jeff asked.
“It was nothing she said, but I saw her looking at Mr. Chesterfield on more than one occasion, and I thought she looked angry.” Porter shrugged. “That’s all. I may have misinterpreted what she was doing.”
“When you were drugged with the ether, did you see who did it or did you see the hand holding the cloth?” Robin asked.
“If I did, I don’t remember.”
“Do you have any idea who knocked you out or killed Mr. Chesterfield?”
“I’ve thought about it a lot, but I arrived in Portland just before rehearsals started, and I didn’t know anyone. The newspapers had stories about Mr. Chesterfield’s past, the murder trials and his disappearance. I read them, because I was working with him. But except for Mr. Chesterfield, I never met anyone, except Maria, who was involved in those situations.”
“Can you think of anything else you want to ask Nancy?” Robin asked her investigator.
“No. And thanks for taking the time to talk to us.” Jeff gave her his business card. “If you think of something that might help figure out what happened, give me a call.”
“Do you know when I can leave?” Porter asked.
“That’s up to the police,” Robin said, “but I don’t imagine they’ll keep you too much longer. Do you have Carrie Anders’s or Roger Dillon’s number?”
“They gave me their
cards.”
“Call them. They’ll give you an idea of when you can leave.”
“Okay.”
“I understand you live in Minnesota?”
“Yeah. I’ll be glad to get home after what happened.”
“I don’t blame you. This has been a heck of an introduction to Oregon.”
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
“Roger Dillon?” the voice on the phone asked.
“Yeah.”
“I’m sorry to call so late. This is Elmer Davis. I’m a homicide detective in Washington County. I met you and Morris Quinlan about five years ago at the crime lab when they were hosting a seminar on DNA analysis.”
“Right. I remember.”
“Was Morris Quinlan your partner?”
“Yeah, but he’s retired.”
“I have some bad news for you. Mr. Quinlan was murdered tonight in the parking lot of the Ramble Inn. I was wondering if you could help us with our investigation.”
“Me? How can I help?”
“His wallet and cell phone are gone, so I didn’t know who to contact. Then I remembered the seminar. We can spare his relatives the discomfort of making a positive ID if you do it.”
“I’ll be right there.”
* * *
The Ramble Inn was a run-down motel in the Washington County countryside, a half hour’s drive from Portland. A heavy rain began falling when Roger was halfway there, and it had not let up when he saw the flickering neon sign advertising the motel and tavern. When Roger pulled into the lot, a heavyset man with salt-and-pepper stubble and a graying crew cut walked up. He was wearing a windbreaker with a hood, and he peered through the front driver’s side window.
“Elmer?” Roger asked.
“Sorry to have to call you out here in this weather,” Davis answered. He pointed to an empty parking space in front of the motel. “Park there and we’ll get the hard part over.”
Yellow crime-scene tape had been used to cordon off a section of the lot that was illuminated by lights the forensic team had set up.
“Watch out for the glass,” Davis warned.
Roger looked down and saw shards scattered around a car he recognized as Morris’s. Then he looked next to the car. Roger had never thrown up at a crime scene or autopsy, but he came close when he saw his old friend sprawled on the asphalt in a pool of blood.
Davis pointed up at a light that should have illuminated the area where they were standing.
“Someone broke the bulb so Morris would have to bend down to put his key in the lock. The key is still there. Morris was hit hard on the back of his head. The ME thinks twice. The blows would have stunned him. When he fell, he was stabbed in the heart. The ME thinks the killer knew how to use a blade because he was only stabbed once and it was a perfect strike. So, can you give me a positive ID?”
“That’s Morris.”
“Are you okay?”
“No. We were pretty close. Have they found the weapon?” he asked.
“No, but we haven’t searched for it yet. It wasn’t in the wound, so the killer may have taken it with him.”
“Do you think this was a robbery?” Roger asked, hoping it had been, because the alternative would be very hard for him to take.
“He used a cell phone in the bar, and like I told you, we didn’t find it or his wallet, so that’s probably what happened.”
“Do you have any idea why he was out here? This isn’t one of his usual haunts.”
“I think he was supposed to meet someone who didn’t show,” the detective said. “Let’s get out of this rain. I want you to hear what Riley Dawkins, the bartender, told us.”
The bar was dimly lit and smelled of beer and fried food. Two men were sitting in a booth across from the bar, working on burgers and beer, and a man in a suit was seated on a stool at the end of the bar, nursing a glass of hard liquor while he whispered into his cell phone. A mountain of a man in jeans and a red and black flannel shirt was standing behind the bar, polishing glasses. Above the bartender, at one end of the bar, a muted television was showing a basketball game.
“Riley, this is Roger Dillon. He’s a detective from Portland and he used to be the dead man’s partner.”
“He was a cop?”
“Detective, Homicide,” Roger said. “A really good detective.”
“Condolences. I didn’t mean any disrespect. My old man was a cop.”
“Riley discovered the body when he went to throw out the garbage,” Davis told Roger.
“Can you tell Detective Dillon what you told me?” Davis asked the bartender.
“Yeah, sure. Your friend came in around eight thirty. He sat in the booth in front of where those two guys are sitting. He was facing the door. Alice waited on him—”
“We interviewed her and sent her home because she was upset,” Davis interrupted. “She told us he ordered a beer and nursed it while he watched the game. Go on, Riley.”
“I’m pretty sure he was waiting for someone, because he kept checking his watch, and each time the door opened, he’d lean out so he could see who came in. Then he’d look disappointed and sit back.
“Around nine forty-five, he pulled out his phone and made a call, but I didn’t see him talking to anyone, so I’m guessing that no one answered. He called again around ten. A half hour later, he paid his bar tab and left. The next time I saw him was when I took out the trash. I went over to see if he was okay, but as soon as I saw the blood, I came inside and called 911.”
“Do you get a lot of crime out here?” Roger asked. “Muggings, robberies?”
“We had one mugging about five years ago. I have to break up fights every once in a while, but something like this, no.”
“Anything else you want to ask Riley?”
“I’m good,” Roger said.
“What about the motel?” Roger asked Davis when they were headed outside. “Did Morris have a room?”
“No. He never went into the office and he didn’t make a reservation.”
“So he might have been lured to this isolated spot?”
“If the person who set up the meeting killed him. Any idea who it might have been?”
“No,” Roger answered, but he felt sick. Morris’s killer had stabbed him with a surgical strike that mimicked the blow that had felled Robert Chesterfield. Roger wondered if Morris had died investigating Chesterfield’s murder—something he would not have been doing if Roger hadn’t asked for his help.
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
Robin got up at five and ran to McGill’s gym. She worked out for an hour, showered, and walked to her office, picking up a latte and scone on the way. Robin ate the scone and sipped the latte while she read the story about Morris Quinlan’s murder on her phone. The name sounded familiar, but she couldn’t remember why.
Robin closed her phone and started work on a brief that was due in the Oregon Supreme Court. She was reading a case that she hoped would win the day for her client when she remembered where she’d heard Quinlan’s name. Regina had mentioned it when she told Robin about Robert Chesterfield’s old murder cases. If she had the right person, he’d been Roger Dillon’s partner when Chesterfield was arrested for the murders of Sophie Randall and Arthur Gentry.
Robin went back to the brief. Then she stopped. There was another victim who had been involved in Chesterfield’s old cases. Robin ran a web search and found the newspaper account of Henry Beathard’s murder in the supermarket parking lot. Beathard was the judge who had excluded the evidence of Arthur Gentry’s murder when Peter Ragland tried to introduce it in the case charging Chesterfield with the murder of Sophie Randall. The ruling had forced Ragland to dismiss the indictments charging Chesterfield with the murders of Gentry and Randall.
Were Beathard’s murder and the attempt on Regina’s life linked? The MOs in Regina’s and Beathard’s cases—shooting and poisoning—were different. Quinlan and Lord Robert had both been stabbed.
Robin stared out her window at the snow-covered slopes of Mount Hood.
After a few minutes, she swiveled her chair and dialed the office of the state medical examiner.
“What can I do for you, Counselor?” Sally Grace said.
“I’ve got a weird question for you.”
“Many of your questions are weird. What do you want to know?”
“Did you do the autopsy on Morris Quinlan, the retired detective who was stabbed to death yesterday?”
“I did.”
“And you autopsied Robert Chesterfield?”
“Yes.”
“Were the two methods of murder similar?”
“Why do you want to know that?”
“I can’t tell you now, but I’ll tell the DA if my guess is right.”
Grace hesitated. Then she said, “Both men were killed by a single thrust to the heart in a way that makes me think that the same person may have killed both people. But that’s not something I would swear to in court.”
“Thanks, Sally.”
Robin hung up the phone and stared into space. Was there really a connection between the three murders and the attempt on Regina, or did she have an overwrought imagination? Regina, Beathard, Chesterfield, and Quinlan had all been involved in the Randall and Gentry cases. Chesterfield had been charged with the murders, and Regina’s and Judge Beathard’s actions had led to the dismissal of the charges. But Quinlan had arrested Chesterfield and had nothing to do with the magician’s escaping justice. And the Gentry and Randall cases happened a long time ago. Why would someone try to kill the participants now? It didn’t make any sense.
Robin buzzed Mary Stendahl. “Do you know where the files from Robert Chesterfield’s old cases are?”
“Probably in our storage locker in the basement.”
“Can you get them for me?”
“I’ll go down and look.”
“Thanks.”
Twenty minutes later, Mary stuck her head in the door. “Where do you want these?” she asked, pointing at a dolly loaded down with Bankers Boxes.
“Put them in the conference room.”
Robin decided to take a break from the brief. Mary had taken the files out of the boxes and stacked them on the conference table. They covered it, and Robin realized that it would take the rest of the day to go through them. She sighed. The issue in the brief was very complicated, and the deadline for filing it was roaring toward her. She couldn’t spend the day going through hundreds of pages of transcripts, police reports, and evidence when she had no idea what she was looking for, so she went back to her office.
A Reasonable Doubt Page 21