Skeleton Justice (11 page)

“No, you can’t!” Maureen pleaded.

“I have no choice, Maureen. I’ll be disbarred otherwise.”

“But what if he doesn’t come back?”

“He’ll go back to jail. And nothing I can do will get him out.”

Jake stared long and hard at the two people he cared most about in the world. A full thirty seconds passed before he could bring himself to speak. “Let me get this straight. You”—he nodded at Sam—“are under suspicion of murder for a gangland-style slaying in Kearny. And you”—he turned to Manny—“risked disbarment by waiting three hours before reporting your client had broken out of the federal electronic monitoring system while you consoled his mother.”

“That’s it in a nutshell,” Sam said. “I must say, you have a real knack for succinct summary.”

“Should have been a lawyer,” Manny muttered sheepishly. She was seated at one end of the sofa, and Sam was sprawled at the other end.

“I’m flabbergasted,” Jake continued. “There’s no question what you have to do. Sam, you’ve got to go to the Kearny police and explain everything that happened—”

“Not so easy, bro,” Sam said, interrupting him. “I didn’t hurt Boo Hravek, but I did knock out his bodyguard. I can’t risk getting arrested for assault.” He grinned at his brother. “Bad for my career.”

As Jake was never sure exactly what his brother’s career was, he was in no position to argue the point. But he felt fairly confident his brother wasn’t an enforcer for the mob, and that was the only job he could think of where an assault conviction would be a résumé plus.

“And what about you, Manny? I suppose you’re going to condone Travis’s escape from custody by claiming he should never have been in the monitoring program in the first place.”

Manny rubbed her tired eyes so hard that her mascara wept onto her cheekbones. “This morning, I would have said he didn’t deserve to be in the monitoring program. Now, I’m not so sure. Face it: A kid who’s smart enough to override his ankle bracelet is smart enough to have built a bomb.”

“So, you’ve reported his absence to the feds. Let them handle it.” Jake spoke in the level, logical tone he used when directing the work of his assistants. He expected to receive the respectful, attentive response he always got from them. Of course he was wrong.

Manny pulled her long legs up and wrapped her arms around them. “I can’t,” she wailed. “I don’t trust them.”

She jumped off the sofa, kicking over a pile of Jake’s books. “I can’t send him back to jail for months, and give the prosecution more damning evidence, without doing something to help him. I’m sure that Travis must have done this so he could meet up with his buddy Paco. But the feds refuse to put pressure on the Sandovals. If I could break through the wall that’s been thrown up around Paco, I’d probably find Travis.”

“You’ve tried calling?”

Manny cut him off with an impatient wave. “I’ve tried everything. I call the parents, I get some social secretary who very politely takes my message, but no one returns my call. I call Paco’s cell phone and get rolled over immediately to voice mail. I’m telling you, caller ID is a curse. I go to their apartment building, I can’t get past the concierge.”

“They must leave the building sometime. Stand outside and wait.”

“They come and go in their chauffeur-driven car, which enters and exits through the building’s garage,” Manny said. “It’s one of scores of black Town Cars that come and go from that building all day long.”

“Ah, lifestyles of the rich and not quite famous,” Sam said. “I think—”

Manny was now pacing around the room. “Sam, you are brilliant. I take back everything I ever said about you.”

Sam stood and preened like Mycroft until he realized that Manny’s compliment contained a Trojan horse. “What? What have you been saying about me?”

“Lifestyles of the rich—that’s how I can get through to the Sandovals. Maureen Heaton said she sees their picture in the society pages of the
Times
.” Manny scanned the cluttered room. “Jake, where’s your laptop?”

Jake went over to the paper-strewn table under the front window and reluctantly retrieved his computer. He felt like he was handing an alcoholic a bottle of Absolut, but there’s was no holding back when Manny was in one of these moods.

“What are you looking for?” Sam asked as Manny pulled up the
New York Times
Web site.

Her mouth slightly open, her fingers flying over the keyboard, her eyes riveted on the screen, Manny didn’t answer.

“Sam, you might as well order the takeout. She won’t stop when she gets like this until she’s found what she wants.” Jake picked up the most recent issue of
the Journal of Forensic Sciences
. “She’ll tell us when she’s ready.”

Jake sat in the worn leather club chair and blocked out Manny, his brother, and the world with the drab blue-and-gray-covered magazine. After ten minutes, he realized he’d read the same paragraph on the relationship between wound patterns and the sexual psychosis of the assailant three times and still didn’t have a clue what the author was saying. His mind kept looping back to the Vampire.

What was the killer after? Why had he merely drawn blood from the first few people, then escalated to torture and murder in the case of Amanda Hogaarth? Had he resorted to torture because whatever information he was seeking from the blood wasn’t enough for his purposes?

Had the Vampire intended to kill her, or was her death simply an unintended consequence of the torture? How had he gained access to her apartment, when Ms. Hogaarth obviously wasn’t the type to open her door to anyone who came knocking?

The only means Jake had to understanding the Vampire was through his victims, but they all seemed such ciphers, especially Ms. Hogaarth. So far as anyone knew, she had never been married. Her body said unequivocally that she had never given birth. She was old and dowdy. So why had the Vampire chosen this particular form of sexual torture?

Jake let the magazine drop, no longer even pretending to read. Manny was still poring over something on the computer. Sam sat text-messaging furiously on his cell phone. Even Mycroft was electronically bewitched, enthralled by an Animal Planet show set on mute. Jake shifted his lanky frame. He didn’t need hardware, software, or a wireless connection to do what needed to be done. He just needed to let all the information on this case stored in his brain come together in some coherent form.

He shut his eyes and let his active mind disconnect from the present, willing his subconscious to take over. Victims seemingly without a connection. Except blood. Blood must tie them together. Blood ties… Blood is thicker than water. …

The doorbell rang. Manny leaped up from the computer. “It’s the deliveryman from the Great Wall. C’mon, guys—dinnertime!”

Jake rose and stood rubbing his temples as his brother, the dog, and Manny rushed past.

Manny glanced back at him. “What’s the matter? Did you doze off?”

Jake shook his head. “No. Something is there, just out of my reach. It will come, if I let it.”

“I’m telling you, it
will
work.” Manny’s chopsticks dived into the white cardboard container and pulled out a clump of kung pao chicken. “According to the Style section of the
Times
, three of the last five fund-raising events Monserrat Sandoval attended had to do with animal welfare. The Howliday Ball, the World Wildlife Foundation dinner, and the ASPCA Companion Animal Luncheon. Mycroft and I have to get ourselves invited to that one next year.”

“Better start accepting cases that actually pay,” Sam advised. “You’ll need to cough up twenty grand.”

“All right, year after next. But don’t you see? This is the perfect entrée for me to get in to see her.”

“Purr-fect,” Sam mimicked.

“Purr-fect,” Jake chimed in.

Manny flicked a water chestnut across the table, scoring a direct hit on Jake’s beaky nose. “You two need to be separated.”

“So, you pose as the representative of some animal lover’s charity and you talk your way in to see her.” Jake wiped off his face and slipped the water chestnut to Mycroft. “Then what? ‘Señora Sandoval, please make a donation to our bark-a-thon, and by the way, can I speak to your son, Paco? Are you harboring any fugitives here?’”

“Scientists!” Manny shook her head. “You have no imagination whatsoever. Just leave the strategy to me. I’ll have your part all worked out for you.”

“My part? What do you mean, my part?”

Manny’s blue eyes opened wide. “Well, of course I can’t pull this off alone. It’s a two-person operation.” She patted Jake on the knee. “And
you
are coming with me.”

He nudged her away. “I can’t. I have a lot of work to do.”

“Oh, real nice, Jake. After all the times I’ve saved your ass at work, now when I need you, you’re too damn busy.”

Jake bristled. “When have you ever saved my ass at work?”

“Let’s see. … How about two weeks ago, when you were all set to declare that naked NYU coed’s nosedive off a balcony the work of a sadistic killer because of the way her pubic hair had been plucked out. I took one look at the autopsy photo and clued you in: Brazilian bikini wax. No killer involved. Although those wax jobs are sadistic.”

“Okay, that was a good call. I’m happy to repay you for ser vices rendered, but not tomorrow.”

“Nonsense. This won’t take long.” Manny pulled a fortune cookie from the pile left in the center of the table and cracked it open. “‘A journey of a million miles begins with one step.’ See? You’re destined to do this.” She tossed a cookie to him. “Read what yours says.”

Jake snapped the brittle cookie and pulled out the white slip of paper.

“‘Blood debts must be repaid in blood.’”

“You know what your problem is? You spend entirely too much time with dead people.” Manny and Jake were under one umbrella, striding toward First Avenue, heading for the Sandovals’ building on the East River. “You’ve totally lost touch with how living, breathing human beings react.”

True to Manny’s prediction, the elusive Señora Sandoval had been immediately responsive to the plea, delivered over the phone by Kenneth in one of his most breathless performances, to discuss the rehabilitation of pets lost and injured every year during hurricane season on the Gulf Coast. The social secretary had only to hear the words
homeless pets
and Kenneth had been put through directly to the ambassador’s wife. Within minutes, he’d succeeded in getting this appointment for “Jack Rose” and “Franny Medford,” representatives of Home Again, who were in New York for just a few days, trying to raise money for the desperately needy animals in their care.

“There’s probably some clause in the Patriot Act that makes impersonating an animal activist a federal offense,” Jake complained.

“Look on the bright side—we’ll be sent to Club Fed together.”

“Great. We can brush up our doubles tennis game. Me and you versus whichever corrupt politicians and bankrupt CEOs are on our cell block.”

Manny grinned. “I knew you’d come to see the upside of this project.”

Jake stepped off the curb into the path of a turning taxi and stopped it with his glare. “Anyone with half a brain in her head will see through this ruse in an instant. And then how are we going to talk our way out of there?”

“The pictures, Jake, the key is in the pictures.” Manny flourished a thick black binder. “I tell you, I had myself in tears putting this together.”

Following advice gleaned from her more successful criminal clients, Manny had chosen to create a lie as close to the truth as possible. There really was a small organization in Mississippi dedicated to rehabilitating storm refugees, and their Web site was full of heartbreaking pictures of wet, starving, broken-limbed dogs and cats. Inspired by the group’s work, Manny had found other photos along the same lines and combined them to create a presentation to sell Señora Sandoval. Then she’d written a letter of introduction for Jack and Franny on a letterhead she’d created by duplicating Home Again’s logo with a graphics program, and printed out business cards on stock from the office-supply store. The lawyer in her experienced a brief moment of squeamishness as she studied the perfection of her counterfeit, and she considered tweaking the logo a bit to get around the copyright laws. Then she laughed—trademark infringement would be the least of her worries if she got caught in this charade.

“Here’re your cards.” She handed a few to Jake as they came in sight of the Sandovals’ building. “Start assuming your identity.”

Jake scrutinized them. “They look cheap,” he complained. “She’ll know they’re fake.”

“We’re not trying to pass ourselves off as investment bankers. We’re a low-budget charity—frugality is part of our persona.”

“Okay, say she believes we really are from Home Again. How am I going to keep her occupied when you go off exploring?”

“We’ve been over this. Just keep showing her the photos. Talk about how each animal is being treated.”

“But I don’t know that,” Jake protested. “I’m not a vet.”

Manny stopped in the middle of the sidewalk and grabbed Jake by the shoulders. “Listen to me: Make. It. Up. You’re not writing an autopsy report. It doesn’t have to be true; it just has to be plausible. Talk about infections; talk about parasites. Talk, and don’t stop until I’m back. Got it?”

“Got it. Pretend I’m a lawyer and lie.”

“Won’t cause your hair to stand out any more.” Manny remembered the first time she saw Jake, who had been alighting from a helicopter. An unkempt head of salt-and-pepper hair brought to mind a cross between Albert Einstein and Dr. Frankenstein. Love at first sight.

They stood on the east side of First Avenue with crowds surging around them and for a moment Manny worried that she had gone too far, that Jake was going to turn on his heel and leave her there. But then he rolled his eyes, shook his head, and resumed walking toward their destination.

As they approached the canopy where the uniformed doorman stood, Manny squeezed his hand. “Thanks, Jake. You’re a real trouper.”

•   •   •

“¡Ay! ¡Pobrecito!”

Monserrat Sandoval’s elegantly manicured hands traced the matted fur of a rescued mutt lying on a bed of rags at the Home Again shelter. The photo was one of the best in Manny’s binder and it was having the desired effect. Manny saw Señora Sandoval’s eyes brimming with tears as Jake, sitting next to her on the plush brocade sofa, offered his commentary.

“Yes, Comet was found swimming in a polluted canal. He contracted a terrible case of giardiasis from drinking contaminated water.”

“He would drink this dirty water even though it must taste bad to him?” Señora Sandoval’s English was fluent but strongly accented.

Jake reached out and stroked the pristine Maltese in Señora Sandoval’s lap. Here was a dog who’d never tasted anything other than sparkling springwater, a pet every bit as well groomed as its mistress. “Desperation,” Jake said. “We all do what we have to do to survive.”

Manny prevented her smile from reaching her lips. For a man who claimed to have no acting ability, Jake was doing a mighty fine job. Robert De Niro, hang on to your Oscars; Jake Rosen’s nipping at your heels.

Things were going even better than she had expected. It was Friday, and Paco was at school, or, more accurately, on a daylong senior class field trip. In the next half hour, Manny had to find some clue to her client’s whereabouts.

Now that Jake had fully engaged Señora Sandoval’s attention, Manny was free to scope out the apartment. The foyer separated the living area from the bedrooms. There were two closed doors in the foyer; Manny figured one must be a closet, the other a powder room. Luckily, the Sandovals didn’t subscribe to the minimalist school of home decor. The apartment, while elegant, was quite crowded with art and antiques the family had acquired on their world travels. A large étagère packed with china and figurines partially blocked the view of the bedroom hallway from where they were sitting in the living room. Once she excused herself to go to the powder room, Manny was sure she could slip down that hallway unnoticed, as long as Jake kept Señora Sandoval occupied with the photos.

Jake was turning a page in the binder and Manny made her move.

“Excuse me, ma’am, but could I trouble you to use your powder room?”

“Of course. Let me show you.” Señora Sandoval moved to escort her guest there, but Manny motioned for her not to get up.

“You just keep talking. Is it there in the hall?”

“Yes, the second door.”

Manny crossed the room quickly, and when she reached the powder room, she glanced back and saw both heads bent over the book of photos. She reached into the powder room, switched on the light and the fan, shut the door, and slipped down the hallway. Dressing the part of the committed animal welfare worker, she had worn flat black Crocs—adorned with numerous multicolored Jibbitz poodles, of course—so she didn’t make her usual high-heeled clatter.

She suspected the door at the far end of the hall must be the master suite. That left a door on the left or the one on the right to be Paco’s. She opened the door on the left and was about to back out, thinking that such an orderly, uncluttered space must be a guest room. Then she spotted the Monet Academy logo on a throw pillow and realized she was, in fact, in Paco’s room.

Manny stepped in and shut the door quietly behind her.

What a difference from Travis’s bedroom! No piles of clothes and unmade bed—the Sandovals had a maid to take care of that. But neither was there any sign of the occupant’s personality. The crisply color-coordinated curtains and bedding revealed only the taste of an expensive decorator. Antique prints of sailboats hung in lieu of rock star and sports posters. And the desk looked like it belonged to the receptionist at a swanky Park Avenue law firm—no paper, no pens, just a perfectly placed computer and a phone. Kind of weird, really. What kind of kid lived like this?

Her eyes lighted on a framed photo, the only personal touch in the room. It showed a smiling Paco with his arm around a man who looked to be about ten years older. Manny figured he must be an older brother, or maybe a cousin. They both had dark hair, wide smiles, and snappy blue blazers. A sparkling blue sea and brilliant sailboats formed the backdrop. A happy family vacation shot, no doubt.

She began searching the bureau. Neatly folded sweaters and polo shirts, stacks of boxers and tees, a sock drawer that would make a drill sergeant weep with joy. The closet: no junk, no hiding places—just two poles of hanging shirts, jackets, and pants. The desk drawers were just as unrevealing—they looked like an advertisement for an office-supply store.
Shit!
All the effort she’d made to get herself in here, and this is what she’d found—an Ethan Allen model room.

All that was left was the computer. Manny glanced at her watch. She’d been gone exactly two and one half minutes. Jake had instructions to explain her prolonged trip to the powder room by saying she had contracted a digestive disorder from the animals, which made her prone to episodes of nausea. Did she have enough time to boot up the computer and sort through Paco’s documents? She had come this far. She might as well go whole hog.

Unlike Travis, Paco had a standard-issue desktop computer with no bells and whistles. Manny moved the mouse and the screen sprang to life. Good, it had only been in sleep mode. She clicked on the documents icon. Would it be password-protected? No, it opened right up.

There were folders labeled for every subject he took at school, as well as one for college essays and another for cover letters. Geez, the kid was really anal-retentive. She didn’t have time to open every folder—she had to assume that they were what they claimed to be. Near the bottom of the alphabetical list of folders was one called “Stuff.” That sounded more promising. Manny double-clicked and discovered three documents, each identified only with initials. One was entitled “TAH.” Travis Andrew Heaton? She opened it.

It was single-spaced, as a letter would be, but contained no salutation or closing. Was it the draft of a letter, some sort of plan? Manny’s heart rate kicked up. Sure enough, Travis’s name was repeated throughout the document. Unfortunately, the rest of the words were in Spanish. She could translate a few:
problema, ayuda, solamente
.

Something about a problem and needing help. She needed a native speaker, or at least a good dictionary, to really understand what Paco was saying. She’d have to print this document out and take it with her.

Manny crossed to the door and listened. She couldn’t hear Jake and Señora Sandoval, so presumably they wouldn’t be able to hear the printer. Time check: Five minutes had passed.

She ran back to the computer and gave the command to print. The printer, a low-end ink-jet one, buzzed and clanked to life. A message appeared in a window on the monitor: “Printing page one of three.” The printer made a strange digesting sound and laboriously pulled a sheet of paper into its maw. Slowly, slowly words began to appear. Manny stood anxiously by, silently urging it to hurry.
C’mon, c’mon
. You’d think the Sandovals could spring for a high-speed laser printer for their baby.

Finally, the first page slid into the tray. Manny snatched it up and looked for the next page. The printer fell silent.

What the hell?
She sat down in front of the screen, trying to detect what was wrong. Just as she doubled-clicked the printer icon again, the printer lurched back to life, made the digesting sound, and pulled another sheet of paper through its feeder. Now she had commanded it to print again and she’d have to stay here while it coughed out six pages instead of three. Frantically, she began to look for a way to cancel the second print order.

While she searched the control panel folder, the printer disgorged the second sheet. It paused, but now Manny knew it was just catching its breath. She took her eyes off the printer and went back to canceling the second print order. The digesting sound came again, followed by a horrible crackling and crunching. She looked up at the printer in time to see the final sheet of paper being sucked into the machine at a thirty-degree angle. The computer began to beep and a message window appeared. “A paper jam has occurred. Clear the paper path and resume printing.”

She glanced at her watch. Eight minutes gone, and now she had to repair a friggin’ computer.

She took a deep breath.
You can do this. You’re good with electronics. A woman who’s figured out every feature on her cell phone can figure out this printer
. But the stupid machine was nothing like the printer she had at home, or the one in her office. She couldn’t even see how to open it up. She tugged at the jammed paper and only succeeded in tearing it. Another deep breath.
Focus. Look at it. See how it’s put together
.