Trial by Ambush (A Robin Starling Courtroom Mystery) Page 16

  “What’s this?”

  “Don’t you see? He’s the CEO. It ties the murder into what’s going on at McCormack Labs.”

  “How does it do that?”

  She pulled a flash drive from one of the ports on Al’s computer. “I copied Wendy’s files to his hard drive. If I can find a disk…”

  “We gotta get out of here,” I said, interrupting. Anita had seen me in the house, and nothing we did was going to keep me from being picked up for questioning. I couldn’t see how I was going to stay off death row.

  “Let’s go,” I urged.

  “Okay. I’ll just leave the folder open on his computer.” Finally, she got up. As we passed Al’s body, she stooped to place the paper off the printer next to his head.

  By the time we got to my car, I had developed a bad case of the shakes.

  “Can you drive?” I held out my hands so she could see the tremor.

  Brooke frowned at me, nodded, then slipped into the driver’s seat. After we’d put a couple of miles between us and Al’s house, she pulled over to the curb.

  “Okay,” she said. “What’s wrong with you? Is it that you almost died, or is it that Baldridge did?”

  “It’s more practical than that. Al’s wife was with him when he came in. You must have heard her.”

  “So?”

  “So she saw me.” I told Brooke the story.

  “You…you stripped down to your underwear?” Her voice went into the high treble range on the last word.

  “At least my bra matched my panties.”

  “And then she went down…and started beating Al…with her purse.” She had started to hyperventilate. She started to laugh, and then she started to cry. I slid as close to her as the gearshift would allow and put an arm around her. “It’ll be all right,” I said.

  “How can you…say that?”

  “I’m a liar,” I said. “Lawyer, I mean. I’m a pretty good one.”

  At that she laughed again, then choked and broke off in a fit of coughing. When it was over, she seemed better.

  “Maybe I should drive,” I said. “I’m all right now.”

  We each got out of the car and walked around.

  I turned onto I-64, heading back toward the hotel, but almost immediately Brooke said, “Exit here.”

  “Here?”

  “Parham Parkway.”

  I turned into the exit lane. “What are we doing?”

  “We’re going shopping.”

  “What?”

  “At Regency Square. There’s an outfit at Dillard’s I’ve been looking at. We’ll go straight to the rack, then find a sales clerk.”

  I stared at her without comprehension.

  “It’s your alibi, you dope. We’ve been shopping all afternoon. I was looking at the outfit when we first got to Regency Square. You finally talked me into it and we’re walking back down the mall to get it.”

  “We’ll get a receipt with the date and time on it,” I said.

  “Right. That will support my testimony.”

  “You’d lie for me?”

  “I’m the one who pushed him, remember? We’re in this together.”

  It was two minutes to six when we parked the car. We went in the Dillard’s entrance, and Brooke found her outfit.

  “It’s cute,” I said. “Are you going to try it on?”

  “What for? I had it on not two hours ago.” There was a sales clerk within earshot, and Brooke motioned to her.

  “The exact same outfit?” I said.

  “I think so. Anyway, it’s the same size.” She handed it across the counter to the sales clerk, whose nametag said Jamie, and Jamie rang it up. The total was 184.92.

  “A hundred eighty-four dollars,” I said.

  “Yeah. I don’t know why I let you talk me into it.”

  “It does look good on you.”

  I patted her butt, which drew a glance from Jamie. Brooke gave me a look, too, and I smiled affectionately at her. I wanted Jamie to remember us, and now I was pretty sure she would.

  “Was it you who was helping us earlier?” I asked, frowning at Jamie as she handed back Brooke’s charge card. “It seems like it was somebody named…I can’t remember. Maybe it was you.”

  “It was probably Becca. People say we look a lot alike.”

  My face cleared. “That was it. Becca.”

  After Dillard’s we stopped at The Coffee Cup for a couple of cups of French roast coffee. Brooke stirred in cream and three packets of Sweet-n-low, which kind of defeated the point of French roast, in my opinion.

  I found myself yawning. “I’m so tired I can barely keep my eyes open,” I said, sipping the strong, hot coffee. “Maybe it’s reaction setting in.”

  “But we’ve done good, don’t you think?”

  I glanced at the tables around us. “We killed a man.”

  “I mean building an alibi. And with any luck the police are going to find those phony accounting records and start digging.”

  “Okay. Aside from killing a man, we’ve done well.”

  She didn’t say anything for a while after that. “I guess you’re right,” she said, finally. “It’s kind of a big thing, even if it was self-defense — and it was self-defense. We’ve got to keep telling ourselves that.”

  “It may help us sleep better,” I said.

  When we’d finished, I bussed our table, setting our mugs on the counter and dumping our trash, which included our receipt and a couple of napkins. The empty Sweet-n-low packets stuck to the tray, but I put the tray on the stack without bothering about them. I started to turn away, then stopped. There had been a receipt stuck to the tray below mine. Probably too recent to help with an alibi, but…

  I went back and lifted all but the bottom tray. No receipt was stuck to it, but when I raised the stack in my hands to peek under it, there it was — a receipt, stained yellow-brown with coffee, stuck to the bottom. I braced the stack of trays on the edge of the trashcan and peeled it off. The receipt had a time printed on it, 05:17, probably about the time that Al Baldridge was falling past me to his death. I observed that we had had a Viennese cappuccino and a latte with vanilla syrup, and then I pushed the receipt into my jeans.

  “What was that?” Brooke asked me as we walked away down the mall.

  “More documentary evidence of how we spent our afternoon.”

  Chapter 30

  Once again, Brooke and I spent the night at the Marriott. The next morning was Monday, and Brooke was up before me. When I came out of the bathroom, she was half-dressed and putting on makeup.

  “Where are you going?” I asked.

  “Same place you are.”

  “I’m going to work. I’ve got a client to get out of jail, for one thing.”

  “I’m going to work, too.”

  “My work?” I asked.

  She gave me a look. “What would I do at your work?”

  “You can’t go to yours. We talked about that, remember?”

  “I know, but Al Baldridge wasn’t dead then. I’ve been thinking about it. Everyone’s going to be talking about him. How’s it going to look if I turn up missing at the same time the murder story breaks?”

  “Nobody’s going to associate him with you.”

  “My absence might give the police something to follow up on if they start asking questions. I want to avoid any official inquiry as to where I’ve been and what I’ve been doing.”

  “When Anita Baldridge identifies me, you’re going to have to confirm we spent Sunday afternoon at the mall.”

  “Yes, but it will be more believable if everything else about me is normal.”

  She was probably right, but it was dangerous, I thought. Too dangerous. “Whoever took the tape off my answering machine knows you’ve been in contact with me, and they know we’ve got Wendy’s files.”

  “Going to work is dangerous for both of us. Who knows what kind of accident they have planned for you as you leave the office today?”

  It was an obvious thought,
but I hadn’t had it. A shiver ran down my spine.

  “I’ll be safe enough,” Brooke said. “There are people there. And I might accomplish something.”

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know. I might hear something.”

  I took a breath and exhaled it. “Okay,” I said. “I’ll drive you and see you into the building, just in case somebody’s waiting for you in the parking lot. Is there a company cafeteria or somewhere you can eat lunch?”

  “They always send out for sandwiches for anyone who wants one. I can eat mine in the break room, which is always pretty crowded. What time can you be there to pick me up?”

  “I’ll pick you up at five,” I said. “Just come out with the crowd, and I’ll be here.”

  Monday was the day I was supposed to get John out of jail. Once at the office, I called the custodian of his 401(k) and learned that the check had gone out and should arrive that morning with the FedEx delivery. While I waited, I worked to get everything else off my desk so that when the check arrived I’d be free to act.

  I was reading an opponent’s brief, jotting notes on a legal pad, when I realized someone was watching me from my doorway. I looked up.

  It was Police Detective James Jordan, his hands in his pockets, his shoulder propped against the jamb. He wore a tie and striped shirt, but no jacket.

  “The police officer with two first names,” I said.

  He sighed, then came in and dropped into one of the client chairs.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked. Beyond the glass walls of my terrarium, a couple of lawyers walked by, but they didn’t even glance in my direction. “How did you get past the receptionist?”

  “I flashed my badge, said I knew the way.”

  I waited.

  “You think of McCormack Labs as the bad guys, don’t you?” Jordan said.

  “You mean, just because they keep breaking into my home and trying to kill me?”

  “How many assaults have there been on you? Two?”

  I nodded. “I’m not saying they assault me every time they break in. Sometimes they just snoop around and take stuff.”

  “What have you been doing about it?”

  “Taking precautions.”

  “You’ve got a client to defend, too.”

  “John Parker? Yeah.”

  “Been working on it?”

  “It’s been the weekend.”

  “You spend it at home?”

  “I haven’t felt too safe at home.”

  “Where have you felt safe?”

  “The Marriott out on West Broad Street.”

  “You staying there alone or with someone?”

  “You jealous? I thought you were married.” I looked pointedly at the ring on his left hand.

  “I may have found copies of those files your friend Wendy gave you.”

  “You may have?”

  “Mm hm.”

  I waited, but he didn’t say anything. “Look,” I said. “I bill by the hour. Tell me what you want, or get out of here.”

  “I want you to come down to the station with me.”

  “Why? Something about John Parker?”

  He shook his head.

  “You’re not doing a very good job of telling me what you want,” I said.

  “You don’t know?”

  By way of answer, I smiled at him and cocked my head.

  “I’d like you to participate in a lineup,” he said.

  “A what? What for?”

  Jordan grimaced and looked away from me. Then he turned back and met my eyes. “Al Baldridge was found dead in his home late last night.”

  My head went back. “Isn’t he general counsel for McCormack Labs?”

  Jordan didn’t respond, just sat evaluating my performance.

  “He just hired our firm to do McCormack’s trial work.”

  “I hope you got it in writing.”

  I frowned. “You said ‘found dead.’ Do you mean…”

  “We’re treating it as a homicide. Will you do the lineup?”

  “Heck, no. Who have you got who wants to take a look at me?”

  “What are you scared of?”

  “Plenty. Let’s say you’ve got someone who claims he saw a tall young woman coming out of Baldridge’s house yesterday. You get a wild hare, and you show him my picture. He says maybe, he can’t tell. Then you put me in a lineup. Maybe I’m the tallest young woman there, but in any case I’m going to look pretty familiar to him, right? He’s been studying my picture. Then once he’s identified me, I’ve got hell to pay.”

  “Where were you yesterday?” Jordan asked.

  “What time yesterday?”

  “Let’s just start from the time you woke up. You said you spent the night at a hotel?”

  “I’m not going to give you my itinerary, even if I can remember it. Do you have probable cause, or don’t you? If you do, I don’t have any choice about the lineup. Arrest me, and we’ll get it over with.”

  He sat there awhile without saying anything. Then he slapped his thighs and stood up. “Okay,” he said.

  I wasn’t sure what he meant by that, so I stayed in my seat, looking up at him. He went to the door, turned back, and said, “I like you, Robin, I really do.”

  I smiled, but not like I meant it. After he left, I didn’t move for about five minutes. Then I exhaled noisily, deflating like an inflatable doll right there in my chair.

  The check from John’s 401(k), made out to Ricky Anderson, the bail bondsman, arrived by FedEx at about 10:30. I tore open the big envelope, studied the check for a few seconds, and kissed it. John was out of jail, at least temporarily. I took the elevator down and crossed the lobby to the parking garage, only to find James Jordan sitting on my car.

  I stopped dead, but it was too late to retreat. He had already seen me.

  “Are you stalking me?” I said.

  His mouth stretched. “As you pointed out, I’m married.” He lifted his foot from the bumper and stood up. “I was about to give up on you.”

  “Do I sit on your car?” I said. “You’re going to scratch the paint. What are you doing here anyway?”

  He pulled a folded paper from the inside pocket of his jacket. I took it from him and flapped it open. It was a warrant for my arrest.

  He took it back from me and jerked his head. “Let’s walk,” he said. “Ray’s got the car parked in the next block.”

  We were out on the sidewalk before I thought of anything to say. It was turning out to be another hot day. I had a briefcase in one hand and a purse over my shoulder, not having thought to leave either one in my car. In a block, I was going to be sweating.

  “Why wait for me in the parking garage?” I asked Jordan. “Why not just come in and get me?”

  He shrugged. “After my visit, I thought maybe you’d be heading out anyway. And I didn’t want to embarrass you, in case this does turn out to be a wild hare.”

  “Your witness identified my picture, I take it.”

  “It was a tentative identification.”

  “So you want to do the lineup.”

  “That’s still the plan.”

  I shivered suddenly, despite the heat. “Even though I’m going to look familiar to this guy just based on the picture you showed him.”

  “It wasn’t that good a picture. I got it off your firm’s website.”

  I knew that picture. It made me look like a giraffe.

  “I hope you have some tall women in the lineup.”

  When he didn’t say anything, I repeated it. “I hope you have some tall women…”

  “I know. I hope so, too.”

  Great, I thought. An unmarked Crown Victoria pulled up beside us, Ray Hernandez behind the wheel.

  The police station was at least air-conditioned. We took the elevator up to the second floor, walked down a long, tiled hallway, then turned a corner. “In here,” Jordan said.

  I went in, and he closed the door behind me. There were a handful of women in the roo
m, only one of them in uniform. The other four were women within five years or so of my age, all of them various shades of blonde. Everyone was sitting down, so it was just a guess that a couple of them might be within a couple of inches of my height.

  “You Robin Starling?” the woman in uniform asked.

  “That would be me.”

  “Have a seat. It shouldn’t be more than a few minutes.”

  I sat in a plastic chair next to one of the taller women, putting my purse and my briefcase against the wall. The dress I was wearing a cotton-blend, and it gave me something to wipe my sweating palms on.

  “You nervous?” asked the girl beside me. She had the cheekbones and the flawless skin of a fashion model.

  I nodded, but didn’t say anything.

  “I was nervous my first time in a lineup.”

  I raised my eyebrows.

  “My name’s Laura. I’m one of the administrative assistants in the homicide division.”

  “Robin Starling,” I said.

  She nodded. “The suspect du jour.”

  There was a buzz, and the cop picked up the phone. “Okay,” she said, replacing it in the cradle. “Everybody line up.”

  I stood fourth in a line of five, Laura just behind me. The cop gave each of us a white piece of card stock. I glanced at mine. On one side was a large number 4; on the other, the words, “Where’s Al? Anita. Oh, my God. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” My words. A chill rippled through me just as the inside door opened on a narrow room.

  I took a breath and exhaled it. We started forward, shuffling to keep from running into each other. We stopped.

  “Turn right,” a man’s voice said.

  We turned. I think I was expecting a large plate of dark glass, but it was actually a long mirror. I found myself holding in my stomach and trying not to squint.

  “Turn to the right.”

  We turned. I was trying to comfort myself with thoughts of my cooked-up alibi, but without much success. Even if a good lawyer could use it to create reasonable doubt, it was going to be a long, expensive struggle.

  “Face forward again.”

  We faced forward. I was conscious of sweat beaded on my forehead.

  “Number one. Step forward and read the card.”