A Case of Need: A Novel (27 page)

“Come on,” I said.

We sprinted down the drive to my car, parked on the opposite side of the road. The other two cars were already far away; we could barely hear their engines, but we could see their lights moving down the coast.

I started the car and followed them.

Wilson had reached into his pocket and was fiddling with something.

“What have you got there?”

He held it over so I could see. A small, silver tube.

“Minox.”

“You always carry a camera?”

“Always,” he said.

I stayed back a good distance, so the other cars would not suspect. Peter was following J. D. closely.

After a five-minute drive, the two cars entered the ramp for the southeast expressway. I came on a moment later.

“I don’t get it,” Wilson said. “One minute you’re defending the guy, and the next minute you’re tracking him like a bloodhound.”

“I want to know,” I said. “That’s all. I just want to know.”

I followed them for half an hour. The road narrowed at Marshfield, becoming two lanes instead of three. Traffic was light; I dropped even farther back.

“This could be completely innocent,” Wilson said. “The whole thing could be a—”

“No,” I said. I had been putting things together in my own mind. “Peter loaned this car to Karen for the weekend. The son, William, told me that. Karen used that car. There was blood on it. Then the car was garaged in the Randall house, and Peter reported it as stolen. Now …”

“Now they’re getting rid of it,” Wilson said.

“Apparently.”

“Hot damn,” he said. “This one’s in the bag.”

The cars continued south, past Plymouth, down toward the Cape. The air here was chilly and tangy with salt. There was almost no traffic.

“Doing fine,” Wilson said, looking at the taillights ahead. “Give them plenty of room.”

As the road became more deserted, the two cars gained speed. They were going very fast now, near eighty. We passed Plymouth, then Hyannis, and out toward Provincetown. Suddenly, I saw their brake lights go on, and they turned off the road to the right, toward the coast.

We followed, on a dirt road. Around us were scrubby pine trees. I doused my lights. The wind was gusty and cold off the ocean.

“Deserted around here,” Wilson said.

I nodded.

Soon I could hear the roar of the breakers. I pulled off the road and parked. We walked on foot toward the ocean and saw the two cars parked, side by side.

I recognized the place. It was the east side of the Cape, where there was a long, one-hundred-foot sandy drop to the sea. The two cars were at the ledge, overlooking the water. Randall had gotten out of his Porsche and was talking with Peter. They argued for a moment, and then Peter got back in the car and drove it until the front wheels were inches from the edge. Then he got out and walked back.

J. D. had meanwhile opened the trunk to the Porsche and taken out a portable can of gasoline. Together the two men emptied the can of gasoline inside Peter’s car.

I heard a click near me. Wilson, with the little camera pressed to his eye, was taking pictures.

“You don’t have enough light.”

“Tri-X,” he said, still taking pictures. “You can force it to 2400, if you have the right lab. And I have the right lab.”

I looked back at the cars. J. D. was returning the tank to his trunk. Then he started the Porsche engine and backed the car around, so it was facing the road, away from the ocean.

“Ready for the getaway,” Wilson said. “Beautiful.”

J. D. called to Peter and got out of the car. He stood by Peter, then I saw the brief flare of a match. Suddenly the interior of the Mercedes burst into flames.

The two men immediately ran to the rear of the car and leaned their weight against the car. It moved slowly, then faster, and finally began the slide down the sandy slope. They stepped back and watched its descent. At the bottom, it apparently exploded, because there was a loud sound and a bright red flash of light.

They sprinted for the car, got in, and drove past us.

“Come on,” Wilson said. He ran forward to the edge with his camera. Down below, at the edge of the water, was the burning, smashed hulk of the Mercedes.

Wilson took several pictures, then put his camera away and looked at me.

He was grinning broadly. “Baby,” he said, “have we got a case.”

O
N THE WAY BACK
, I turned off the expressway at the Cohasset exit.

“Hey,” Wilson said, “what’re you doing?”

“Going to see Randall.”

“Now?”

“Yes.”

“Are you crazy? After what we saw?”

I said, “I came out tonight to get Art Lee off the hook. I still intend to do it.”

“Uh-uh,” Wilson said. “Not now. Not after what we saw.” He patted the little camera in his hand. “Now we can go to court.”

“But there’s no need. We have an iron case. Unbeatable. Unshakable.”

I shook my head.

“Listen,” Wilson said, “you can rattle a witness. You can discredit him, making him look like a fool. But you can’t discredit a picture. You can’t beat a photograph. We have them by the balls.”

“No,” I said.

He sighed. “Before, it was going to be a bluff. I was going to walk in there and bullshit my way through it. I was going to scare them, to frighten them, to make them think we had evidence when we didn’t. But now, it’s all different. We have the evidence. We have everything we need.”

“If you don’t want to talk to them, I will.”

“Berry,” Wilson said, “if you talk to them, you’ll blow our whole case.”

“I’ll make them quit.”

“Berry, you’ll blow it. Because they’ve just done something very incriminating. They’ll know it. They’ll be taking a hard line.”

“Then we’ll tell them what we know.”

“And if it comes to trial? What then? We’ll have blown our cool.”

“I’m not worried about that. It won’t come to trial.”

Wilson scratched his scar again, running his finger down his neck. “Listen,” he said, “don’t you want to win?”

“Yes,” I said, “but without a fight.”

“There’s going to be a fight. Any way you cut it, there’ll be a fight. I’m telling you.”

I pulled up in front of the Randall house and drove up the drive. “Don’t tell me,” I said. “Tell them.”

“You’re making a mistake,” he said.

“Maybe,” I said, “but I doubt it.”

We climbed the steps and rang the doorbell.

RELUCTANTLY
, the butler led us into the living room. It was no larger than the average-size basketball court, an immense room with a huge fireplace. Seated around the roaring fire were Mrs. Randall, in lounging pajamas, and Peter and J. D., both with large snifters of brandy in their hands.

The butler stood erectly by the door and said, “Dr. Berry and Mr. Wilson, sir. They said they were expected.”

J. D. frowned when he saw us. Peter sat back and allowed a small smile to cross his face. Mrs. Randall seemed genuinely amused.

J. D. said, “What do you want?”

I let Wilson do the talking. He gave a slight bow and said, “I believe you know Dr. Berry, Dr. Randall. I am George Wilson. I am Dr. Lee’s defense attorney.”

“That’s lovely,” J. D. said. He glanced at his watch. “But it’s nearly midnight, and I am relaxing with my family. I have nothing to say to either of you until we meet in court. So if you will—”

“If you will pardon me, sir,” Wilson said, “we have come a long way to see you. All the way from the Cape, in fact.”

J. D. blinked once and set his face rigidly. Peter coughed back a laugh. Mrs. Randall said, “What were you doing on the Cape?”

“Watching a bonfire,” Wilson said.

“A bonfire?”

“Yes,” Wilson said. He turned to J. D. “We’d like some brandies, please, and then a little chat.”

Peter could not suppress a laugh this time. J. D. looked at him sternly, then rang for the butler. He ordered two more brandies, and as the butler was leaving, he said, “Small ones, Herbert. They won’t be staying long.”

Then he turned to his wife. “If you will, my dear.”

She nodded and left the room.

“Sit down, gentlemen.”

“We prefer to stand,” Wilson said. The butler brought two small crystal snifters. Wilson raised his glass. “Your health, gentlemen.”

“Thank you,” J. D. said. His voice was cold. “Now what’s on your minds?”

“A small legal matter,” Wilson said. “We believe that you may wish to reconsider charges against Dr. Lee.”

“Reconsider?”

“Yes. That was the word I used.”

“There is nothing to reconsider,” J. D. said.

Wilson sipped the brandy. “Oh?”

“That’s right,” J. D. said.

“We believe,” Wilson said, “that your wife may have been mistaken in hearing that Dr. Lee aborted Karen Randall. Just as we believe that Peter Randall was mistaken when he reported his automobile stolen to the police. Or hasn’t he reported it yet?”

“Neither my wife, nor my brother, were mistaken,” J. D. said.

Peter coughed again and lit a cigar.

“Something wrong, Peter?” J. D. asked.

“No, nothing.”

He puffed the cigar and sipped his brandy.

“Gentlemen,” J. D. said, turning to us. “You are wasting your time. There has been no mistake, and there is nothing to reconsider.”

Wilson said softly, “In that case, it must go to court.”

“Indeed it must,” Randall said, nodding.

“And you will be called to account for your actions tonight,” Wilson said.

“Indeed we may. But we will have Mrs. Randall’s firm testimony that we spent the evening playing chess.” He pointed to a chessboard in the corner.

“Who won?” Wilson asked, with a faint smile.

“I did, by God,” Peter said, speaking for the first time. And he chuckled.

“How did you do it?” Wilson said.

“Bishop to knight’s twelve,” Peter said and chuckled again. “He is a terrible chess player. If I’ve told him once, I’ve told him a thousand times.”

“Peter, this is no laughing matter.”

“You’re a sore loser,” Peter said.

“Shut up, Peter.”

Quite abruptly, Peter stopped laughing. He folded his arms across his massive belly and said nothing more.

J. D. Randall savored a moment of silence, then said, “Was there anything else, gentlemen?”

“Y
OU SON OF A BITCH
,” I said to Wilson. “You blew it.”

“I did my best.”

“You got him angry. You were forcing him into court.”

“I did my best.”

“That was the lousiest, rottenest—”

“Easy,” Wilson said, rubbing his scar.

“You could have scared him. You could have told them how it would go—the way you explained it to me in the bar. You could have told them about the pictures …”

“It wouldn’t have done any good,” Wilson said.

“It might.”

“No. They are determined to take the case to court. They—”

“Yes,” I said, “thanks to you. Strutting around like a self-satisfied bastard. Making cheap threats like a penny tough. Demanding a brandy—that was beautiful, that was.”

“I attempted to persuade them,” Wilson said.

“Crap.”

He shrugged.

“I’ll tell you what you did, Wilson. You pushed them into a trial, because you want one. You want an arena, a chance to show your stuff, a chance to make a name for yourself, to prove that you’re a ruthless hotshot. You know, and I know, that if the case ever comes to trial, Art Lee—no matter what the outcome—will lose. He’ll lose his prestige, his patients, maybe even his license. And if it comes to trial, the Randalls will also lose. They’ll be smeared, shot through with half-truths and implications, destroyed. Only one person will come out on top.”

“Yes?”

“You, Wilson. Only you can win in a trial.”

“That’s your opinion,” he said. He was getting angry. I was getting him.

“That’s a fact.”

“You heard J. D. You heard how unreasonable he was.”

“You could have made him listen.”

“No,” Wilson said. “But he’ll listen in court.” He sat back in the car and stared forward for a moment, thinking over the evening. “You know, I’m surprised at you, Berry. You’re supposed to be a scientist. You’re supposed to be objective about evidence. You’ve had a bellyful of evidence tonight that Peter Randall is guilty, and you’re still unhappy.”

“Did he strike you,” I said, “as a guilty man?”

“He can act.”

“Answer the question.”

“I did,” Wilson said.

“So you believe he’s guilty?”

“That’s right,” Wilson said. “And I can make a jury believe it, too.”

“What if you’re wrong?”

“Then it’s too bad. Just the way it’s too bad that Mrs. Randall was wrong about Art Lee.”

“You’re making excuses.”

“Am I?” He shook his head. “No, man. You are. You’re playing the loyal doctor, right down the line. You’re sucking up to the tradition, to the conspiracy of silence. You’d like to see it handled nice and quietly, very diplomatic, with no hard feelings at the end.”

“Isn’t that the best way? The business of a lawyer,” I said, “is to do whatever is best for his client.”

“The business of a lawyer is to win his cases.”

“Art Lee is a man. He has a family, he has goals, he has personal desires and wishes. Your job is to implement them. Not to stage a big trial for your own glory.”

“The trouble with you, Berry, is that you’re like all doctors. You can’t believe that one of your own is rotten. What you’d really like to see is an ex-army medical orderly or a nurse on trial. Or a nice little old midwife. That’s who you’d like to stick with this rap. Not a doctor.”

“I’d like to stick the guilty person,” I said, “nobody else.”

“You know who’s guilty,” Wilson said. “You know damned well.”

I DROPPED WILSON OFF
, then drove home and poured myself a very stiff vodka. The house was silent; it was after midnight.

I drank the vodka and thought about what I had seen. As Wilson had said, everything pointed to Peter Randall. There had been blood on his car, and he had destroyed the car. I had no doubt that a gallon of gasoline on the front seat would eliminate all evidence. He was clean, now—or would be, if we hadn’t seen him burning the car.