Sleight of Hand: A Novel of Suspense (Dana Cutler) (10 page)
Read Sleight of Hand: A Novel of Suspense (Dana Cutler) Online
Authors: Phillip Margolin
Stephanie Robb’s divorce attorney had phoned her while she was eating breakfast to tell her that her asshole husband was threatening to fight for custody of their daughter. The idea of Vince-as-full-time-parent was laughable, and Stephanie was furious at his transparent ploy to get her to reduce her demand for child
support
.
The homicide detective had vented to Frank Santoro during the drive from police headquarters. Robb’s partner was a stocky Italian with curly black hair who was usually calm and did not act without first thinking through the problem at hand. He was a good counterweight to his smart but excitable partner, who was prone to making snap decisions. Santoro had developed an ability to tune out Robb’s tirades, which he’d been forced to endure ever since she had caught her “scumbag husband” and his “skank” girlfriend making the beast with two backs on her living room floor three months ago.
Stephanie was still fuming when Frank parked the car at the barrier the forensic team had erected to keep sightseers from the field where the body had been found.
“We’re here,” Frank said.
Robb looked at the path that led into the field as she traded her shoes for boots. They’d been warned that the field where the corpse had been dumped had been turned into a bog by yesterday’s heavy rain.
“I hate fucking nature,” she swore.
“I’ll send a memo to our perps asking them to take your feelings into account when they’re disposing of a body.”
“Fuck you, Frank.”
“Hey, Steph, lighten up. I’m not trying to get custody of Lily. I don’t even like kids.”
Robb glared at Frank, but her partner didn’t notice since he was already walking across the field toward the milling crowd of forensic experts and uniformed officers who had beaten them to the scene.
Stephanie surveyed the area. On one side of the road was a fence that delineated the boundaries of the McHenry farm. The low grassland where the body had been dumped ran between the other side of the road and a narrow, winding river. Woods surrounded the tract. Under other circumstances, the tranquil beauty would have been perfect for a nature hike, but the weather was cold, damp, and blustery, and the idea of dealing with a rotting corpse spoiled the mood. Robb stuffed her hands in her pockets and trudged after Santoro, who was talking to the medical examiner when Stephanie caught up to him.
“The deceased has been out here a few days,” Nick Winters was saying. “It looks like he was stabbed in the heart. One wound, and I’m guessing the killer knew what he was doing because it’s the only entry wound I could see with the vic clothed. I’ll know more after I get him on the table.”
“Who found him?” Frank asked.
Winters threw a thumb over his shoulder. “That’s the McHenry place. Their kid was taking the dog for a run and the dog sniffed him out.”
“How come he didn’t find the body before today?” Robb asked.
“He doesn’t walk the dog in this field every day. The last few days, he ran him in the woods on the other side of the farm.”
“Where’s the kid?” Frank asked.
“Home. He was pretty shook up. There’s a policeman with him.”
“Okay,” Frank said. “We’ll talk to him when we’re through here.”
“Do we have an ID?” Robb asked.
“Not so far. There’s no wallet. I’ll take his prints.”
Stephanie edged past two uniformed cops who were sipping hot coffee from a thermos and got her first look at the corpse. She figured the man for five eight or nine. He had been dumped on his back, and his legs and his left arm shot out at odd angles. The right hand was trapped under his body. Parts of the face had been eaten by animals but the patches of hair that were still attached to the scalp were mostly gray. She figured he was probably in his late sixties.
Robb walked around the corpse, working angles in hopes that something she saw would inspire her. The man was wearing tan chinos and a blue work shirt. His brown shoes were scuffed and stained with mud and the rain had leached out some of the color from the red stain that had spread across the fabric that covered his heart.
Robb squatted next to the corpse. The left arm was lying on the grass and the hand was palm up. It looked calloused. A working man, not an office guy; blue collar. She stood up.
“Poor bastard,” Robb murmured. She wondered what he’d done to deserve an end like this. Probably nothing, though you could never tell. Maybe drugs were involved or some other criminal activity. Maybe John Doe wasn’t blameless. With luck, they’d eventually know his story, and the identity of the person who had ended it so abruptly.
When Santoro returned from the crime scene he found a copy of the
Lee County Journal
on his desk with the headline circled in red. The story had been written by Art Suchak, the
Journal
reporter
who covered crime. Santoro read it carefully before carrying the newspaper to Robb’s desk.
“Read this,” he said as he handed the paper to his partner.
The headline asked:
DID MISSING PROSECUTOR AND BILLIONAIRE HAVE KILLER PRENUP
?
The story revolved around a rumor that Carrie and Horace Blair had entered into a prenuptial agreement. According to the rumor, the agreement terminated during the week in which the prosecutor had disappeared, and the terms would have forced Horace Blair to pay his wife $20
million
—$2
million
per year—if she stayed faithful to him during the first ten years of their marriage.
Robb looked up from the paper. “That is definitely a motive for murder.”
“You think her husband killed her?” Santoro asked. “We don’t even know if she’s dead.”
“Blair’s reaction when I told him I was looking into his wife’s disappearance was odd.”
“How so?”
“At first, he didn’t seem to care. He said he didn’t even know if she was in the house or the last time she’d been home. Later, he acted concerned. It was like it suddenly dawned on him that it would look bad if he wasn’t.”
Santoro didn’t say anything for a moment. Then he pulled out his phone.
“Suchak,” the reporter answered when Santoro was put through.
“Hey, Art. It’s Frank Santoro.”
“To what do I owe this call?”
“Your excellent story in the morning paper. It was really brilliant. For years, I’ve been telling everyone that it’s a shame you haven’t won a Pulitzer.”
Suchak laughed. “If you want something from me, Frank, feed me doughnuts, not bullshit.”
“I was hoping you’d tell me how you learned about the Blair prenup.”
“Alleged prenup. I don’t know if they have one. If you’d learned to read, you’d know that its existence is only a rumor.”
“Can you tell me how you heard about the rumor?” Frank asked.
“Quid pro quo, Frank. You show me yours and I’ll show you mine.”
“What do you want to know?”
“Is Carrie Blair alive or dead and is Horace Blair a suspect?” the reporter asked.
“The missus is missing. That’s all we know. I’m not speculating on the state of her health or why she’s missing. As of now, we don’t have a crime. If we don’t have a crime, we don’t have suspects.”
“Should I write that, as usual, Lee County detective Frank Santoro hasn’t a clue as to what’s going on?”
“Only if you want me to arrest you.”
“Seriously, Frank, can you give me anything?”
“Not at this time, but I’ll promise you a heads-up if we do get a break. That is, if you tell me why you think the Blairs have a secret prenup.”
“Some guy phoned in the tip. And, no, he didn’t give me a name. Also, he was trying to disguise his voice. So I called a source at Rankin, Lusk, the law firm that handles Blair’s affairs. My source says that there was scuttlebutt when Blair married Carrie that she’d been forced to agree to a prenup.”
Santoro asked Suchak a few more questions. Then he looked at Robb, who had been listening in. Robb shook her head.
“Thanks, Art. I appreciate the help,” Santoro said.
“Just don’t forget me when you get your break.”
“You’ll be the first to know when we’ve got something solid.”
Santoro frowned as soon as he ended the call.
“Should we question Blair about the prenup?” Robb asked.
“Not yet. Let’s wait until we have something more substantial than a rumor.”
Horace Blair was fuming when Jack Pratt returned his call.
“I assume this is about the
Journal
story,” Pratt said.
“You’ve read it?”
“Yes.”
“How did the reporter find out?” Blair demanded.
“It says a source gave him the information.”
“How can that be? Only Carrie, you, me, and Benedict know about the prenup.”
“I didn’t leak the story,” Pratt said. “What about Benedict?”
“What would he stand to gain?”
“I have no idea. But if none of us called the
Journal
, that leaves Carrie.”
“Why would Carrie tell a reporter about the prenup? She loses everything if she talks about it.”
“Maybe she’s trying to frame you for murder,” Pratt said.
“How would that benefit her? I’d have to be executed for her to inherit and she’d have to hide until then. And what if I didn’t get a death sentence? It makes no sense.”
“I’m just thinking out loud. And there is another possibility. You told me Carrie told Benedict that she was dropping him for someone else; and there could have been other lovers before Benedict. She might have let the existence of the prenup slip to any one of them.”
“Could someone in Rankin, Lusk have learned about the document?” Horace asked. “You have secretaries, paralegals. There are janitors. Anyone who works at the law firm and has access to its files could have discovered the prenup.”
“It’s possible someone at the firm saw my notes, but I don’t have a copy of the document. Remember, you insisted that only you and Carrie have copies?”
“That’s true.”
“Where are the copies?” Pratt asked.
“Mine is in my safety-deposit box. I have no idea where Carrie put hers.”
Pratt thought for a few minutes and Blair waited.
“You should be okay, Horace,” the lawyer said. “If the DA wants to use the agreement as evidence of motive he’ll have to have the document. A rumor or anything Carrie told Benedict or anyone else about the prenup would be inadmissible hearsay. I can’t be forced to testify about the document because of attorney-client privilege, and my notes are protected as work product. My advice is to go about your business the way you usually do. Worrying won’t change anything.”
Barry Lester’s nickname was Lucky, and he was lucky. Take his looks. Barry reminded some people of a ferret. He was short, skinny, and freckle-faced with watery blue eyes and spiky red hair that stuck out at odd angles no matter how often he combed it. But somehow he was always lucky with the ladies.
Then there was his career. Barry was a criminal who was not very good at the con games and petty thefts that were his bread and butter. Though he was arrested frequently enough, Barry usually managed to avoid punishment for his crimes; a DA would screw up, a witness wouldn’t show up, or else he’d glom onto information about a more serious gangster he would trade for dismissal or an easy sentence.
Unfortunately, it looked like Barry’s luck had finally run out. He had been the wheelman in a liquor-store robbery. When his equally inept coconspirators jumped into his car, screaming, “Go, go, go,” Barry tried to comply, but two blocks from the crime scene the car ran out of gas and everyone had been arrested. Barry called his attorney as soon as he had the chance, but his attorney was on vacation. The attorneys for the rest of the gang, however, were not, and they beat feet to the prosecutor’s door to cut deals, which left Barry holding the bag. When Barry’s attorney returned from Hawaii, tanned and rested, he informed his client that he was probably going to be spending the next few Christmases behind bars.
But Barry Lester wasn’t called Lucky for nothing. Just when it looked like storm clouds were going to be a permanent part of his future, Tiffany Starr, Barry’s girlfriend, came to see him, and those clouds parted and let in the sun. Two days later, Barry made sure his luck held up by picking a fight with an ultraviolent criminal named Gregor Karpinski.
Gregor Karpinski earned his living by inflicting grievous bodily harm on anyone Nikolai Orlansky told him to. He was six feet five inches tall, with muscles like concrete, an IQ just slightly above normal, and a very mean disposition. The inmates of the Lee County jail were allowed one hour of recreation each day, and Gregor spent his time pumping iron in a corner of the fenced-in, asphalt-paved area where other inmates played basketball or sat around smoking and talking. He was on his way to that corner when Barry Lester walked into him. The impact barely moved Gregor. Instead of running for his life, Barry glared at Gregor and barked, “Watch where you’re going, asshole,” which Gregor would normally translate to mean, “Please beat me until I resemble hamburger, then put ketchup on me and eat me.” But he had his instructions, and instead of ripping Barry’s head from his body, Gregor merely hoisted Barry into the air by his hair and broke his nose.
From that point on, Barry saw the world through a red haze. He remembered guards rushing to his rescue, and he definitely remembered begging the guards to take him out of population and put him in isolation, the section of the jail where snitches and inmates who were in danger of being killed or maimed by other inmates were held for their own protection. After a trip to the infirmary, where they worked on his nose, Barry Lester got his wish.
At dawn, Charles Benedict was parked where he could see the driveway of Horace Blair’s estate. The area around the estate was populated with other large estates, so there was not much chance that he would be seen by a neighbor. Even if he was, Benedict’s Mercedes was upscale enough that it wouldn’t draw attention.
At eight-thirty, Blair’s Bentley left the grounds and headed downtown. When Horace pulled into the Blair Building’s parking garage, Benedict followed. Blair parked in his reserved spot, and the lawyer drove two levels down to the general parking area. Charlie was wearing jeans, a baseball cap, dark glasses, a bland, tan jacket, and latex gloves. When he got out of his car he was carrying several items, including a copy of the key from Carrie Blair’s key ring that opened the trunk of the Bentley, a ziplock bag with the balled-up towel that was soaked with Carrie’s blood, and another ziplock bag with hairs he’d pulled from Carrie’s head before he’d buried her.
Benedict stuffed the bag with the hairs in his jacket pocket and concealed the other bag under his jacket. He waited until no one was around the Bentley to open the trunk. First, he scattered the hairs. Next, he pulled out the bag with the towel. The blood had frozen in the freezer and he’d stashed it in a cooler during the drive, but the heat from his body had defrosted it and it was wet when he smeared it across a section of the trunk near the edge. Benedict put the towel back in the bag when he finished with it. They would be incinerated before the day was out.
Several years ago, Benedict had been consulted by a potential client who was charged with stabbing his wife to death. The killer had wrapped the body in a tarp so it wouldn’t leave any trace evidence in his trunk. When he pulled the body out of the trunk to bury it, a smear of blood had been left. It was a dark night and he hadn’t noticed. It wasn’t a large smear but it was enough to send him to prison for life. The man had gone elsewhere because he couldn’t come up with Benedict’s retainer, but Benedict remembered the damage a tiny smear of blood could do.
Before he closed the Bentley’s trunk, Benedict took one last goodie out of his pocket. There was a golf bag and a pair of golf shoes lying in the back. Benedict moved the shoes and placed the .38 that had ended Carrie’s life behind them, where it would be easy to find. The gun’s serial numbers had been filed off, and there were no prints on the gun that could lead the police to Benedict. The gun would raise suspicions when it was found, and it would be powerful evidence of guilt when they dug up Carrie’s body and a ballistics test matched the bullet that had killed her to the weapon.