Sleight of Hand: A Novel of Suspense (Dana Cutler) (13 page)

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Dana’s jaunt to the West Coast had played havoc with her business. She spent the weekend writing the reports she’d put aside to go on her wild-goose chase. On Monday, she testified in an insurance case. Minutes after she left the courtroom she’d received a call from an attorney representing a Baltimore Ravens running back who had been accused of beating up his girlfriend. Dana usually refused to represent batterers, but the player swore he was innocent and Dana believed him by the time she finished talking to him at his lawyer’s office.

After the meeting, Dana took the elevator to the garage under the attorney’s building. She was getting into her car when her cell phone rang.

“Cutler,” she answered as she slid behind the wheel.

“Hey, I’m glad I caught you. It’s Alice.”

Alice Forte was a divorce attorney who had hired Dana on several occasions.

“What’s up?” Dana asked.

“Marta Osgood was just here. She thinks Theodore is skimming from the business and hiding assets in an offshore account.”

“What do you think?”

“It’s possible. He is a slimeball.”

“Send me what you’ve got and I’ll get right on it.”

“Will do. Say, did that woman ever hire you?”

“What woman?”

“This was a week or so ago. She called me for a reference. I said you were pretty good when you were sober.”

Dana laughed. “Thanks a bunch. What was her name?”

“I can’t remember it.” Forte paused. “She had a French accent.”

Dana had started to put her key in the ignition but she stopped.

“Do you remember anything else about her?”

“Not really. She called me around ten last Thursday. She wanted to know if I would recommend you. I said you did a great job and had a terrific reputation, so she asked how she could get in touch. I gave her your number. That’s about it.”

“Was her name Margo Laurent?”

“Yeah, that’s it, Laurent! So did she hire you?”

“Yes, she did. Thanks for the referral,” Dana said, and ended the call.

Carrie Blair had called Alice and the Queen Anne Players last Thursday, so something must have happened on Wednesday or Thursday that prompted the calls. As Dana drove out of the parking garage she tried to remember what she’d been doing on those two days. Jake was away and she’d stayed home when she wasn’t working, so the triggering event had to be connected to one of her cases. There was a drug conspiracy case in federal court and a state vehicular homicide, but she’d finished most of her work in the criminal cases. She was investigating two divorces for Alice and one for another attorney. Then there were several cases for United Insurance.

Dana frowned. Whatever happened had to have happened on Wednesday, because she had slept most of Thursday. Wednesday night and early Thursday morning she’d worked on an insurance case but that couldn’t be it. The case was a big nothing. Lars Jorgenson was claiming that he’d been permanently injured in a car crash. He walked with a cane and had a quack for a doctor. The insurance company had dealt with this doctor before and they didn’t buy it, so Dana had camped outside Jorgenson’s apartment and had eventually photographed him jogging.

Then the crazy woman chased her!

That had to be it. Dana remembered taking pictures of Jorgenson jogging when this couple walked out of a condo. The woman had looked her way before screaming and running toward her. Dana had peeled out and had seen the woman stop in the middle of the street. Was the woman Carrie Blair? Had she been close enough to read Dana’s license plate? If she got the number, finding the owner would be easy for someone in law enforcement.

Dana sped home and raced down to her office. She had sent the photographs from the Jorgenson case to the insurance company, but she had a duplicate set in her file. Dana found the Jorgenson file and took out the photographs. She spread them across her desk and examined them with a magnifying glass.

It was Carrie Blair. Who was the man? If she could find him he might be able to tell her what was behind Blair’s scheme. She would have to blow up the photo so she could get a good look at the face of Carrie Blair’s companion.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Christopher Rauh’s hamlike hands were clenched, his massive body leaned threateningly toward Stephanie Robb, and his face was beet red.

“Are you out of your fucking mind?” the man in charge of the Lee County Homicide Division asked, his voice only a few decibels below a scream.

“He killed her,” Stephanie Robb answered defiantly.

“Do you have any idea how powerful Horace Blair is? I’ve had Ray Mancuso on my ass all morning,” he said, naming the commonwealth attorney, “and he’s had the mayor on his ass, and the governor has been screaming at the mayor.”

“Powerful people don’t get a pass in America, Chris,” Robb argued. “You kill someone, you go down. Virginia isn’t a banana republic.”

Rick Hamada laughed. He was short and chubby and his sweater vest and slicked-down black hair made him look like a nerd, but in court, Lee County’s chief criminal deputy was Attila the Hun.

“Blair’s buddies live in the White House, Steph,” Hamada said. “He has Supreme Court justices over to his house for brunch. He’s a multi-fucking-millionaire who contributes to
every
influential politician in this state. For guys with Blair’s influence, Virginia
is
a banana republic.”

“We can nail him,” Robb insisted.

“Not on what you’ve given me,” Hamada said. “There’s an old saying about not missing when you aim at a king. If you arrest Horace Blair for murder and the case blows up, you’re going to be spending the rest of your law-enforcement career in animal
control
.”

“It’s her blood and her hair,” Robb said. “Read the lab report. We have witnesses who will testify that the Blairs had a heated argument at the Theodore Roosevelt hotel a week before she disappeared. And don’t forget the gun.”

“Which you can’t connect to a murder because you don’t even know if Carrie Blair is dead,” the assistant commonwealth attorney reminded Robb.

“You should never have made Blair spend a minute in jail,” Rauh snapped. “You knew Benedict would get him out on bail.”

“The gun gave us a legit basis for arresting Blair,” Santoro said calmly, in hopes of lowering the temperature in the room.

“Were Blair’s prints found on the gun?” Hamada asked.

“No,” Santoro answered, “but neither were anyone else’s. It was wiped clean.”

“This could turn into a major cluster fuck,” Rauh fumed. “But it won’t, because we are going to dismiss this stupid gun charge. Then you are going to stay away from Horace Blair unless I tell you otherwise.”

“So we’re off the case?” Robb asked, making no attempt to hide her anger.

“No. You’re on the case. But you will not—I repeat,
will not
—contact Horace Blair or anyone who knows him until you have cleared it with me. Is that understood?”

“That was pleasant,” Frank said as the detectives walked back to their desks.

“Asshole motherfuckers,” Robb muttered.

“They did make a few good points,” Frank said.

Before Robb could reply, the intercom on Santoro’s desk buzzed.

“Detective Santoro, there’s an Arthur Jefferson out here,” the receptionist said. “He wants to speak to you about the Blair case.”

Robb started to say that they didn’t have time, but Santoro held up his hand.

“Okay, send him in.”

“Jefferson is a bottom feeder,” Robb said as soon as Santoro let up on the button. “He barely makes a living off of court appointments and traffic cases. What could he possibly know about the Blairs?”

“Hey, we can use all the help we can get. And the tip about the Bentley panned out.”

Arthur Jefferson was a skinny, light-complexioned black man with a wide smile and outsized gestures. He talked too loud, he swung his arms to emphasize his points, and he was quick to bend the truth. He also looked like he wasn’t doing too well. His dark blue suit was shiny from wear, the collar of his white shirt was frayed, and his shoes were scuffed.

“How y’all doin’?” Jefferson asked when he drew in sight of the detectives.

“We’re doing good,” Frank answered. “How about you?”

“Can’t complain, can’t complain.”

“So, Arthur,” Robb began impatiently, “what brings you here?”

Jefferson grinned. “I am here to make your day. Yes, ma’am, I am here to make you one happy detective.”

“And how are you going to do that?” Santoro asked.

“Y’all been lookin’ for Carrie Blair, have you not?”

“We have.”

“A client of mine can help you find her.”

“Who is this client?”

Jefferson threw his hands out at his side. “Not so fast. We got to come to an agreement first.”

“Keep talking,” Santoro said.

“My client fell in with a bad crowd, yes sir, a bad crowd.” The lawyer shook his head slowly to show how bewildered he was that one so good could have made such a tragic mistake. “Now he’s facing some jail time. If he helps you out, we’d like you to make things right for him.”

“And how exactly is he going to help us?” Santoro asked.

“He’s gonna tell you where Carrie Blair is buried.”

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Frank Santoro held open the door to the interrogation room and Arthur Jefferson gestured Barry Lester inside. Lester had been brought to the Homicide Bureau so that other inmates wouldn’t know he was snitching. He was dressed in an orange jumpsuit and his hands were cuffed. Santoro took off the cuffs and Lester flashed his most ingratiating smile as he and his lawyer took seats on one side of the room’s only table. Robb and Santoro sat on the other side.

“I hope I can help you guys,” Lester said.

“I checked you out, Barry,” Santoro said. “It looks like you’ve made a habit out of helping the police solve crimes.”

“Look, I know I’ve got a record, but I’m not a bad guy, and when I get a chance to pay back my debt to society by helping you guys solve a crime, I take it.”

Lester shook his head in disgust. “That Blair is one sick puppy. Killing his wife, that’s cold.” He turned his attention to Robb. “The stuff I’ve done, none of it is violent. I don’t go for that. And men who abuse women, well, I draw the line there. My mother—God rest her soul—taught me to respect women.”

Robb’s features hardened and her shoulders tensed. Stephanie hated ass kissers.

“That’s good to hear,” Santoro said to head off anything rash his partner might do. “So, Barry, your lawyer says you know where Carrie Blair is buried.”

“I do.”

“How did you learn this information?”

“Blair told me.”

“Really?” Robb said, unable to mask her skepticism.

“They had him in isolation for the night, and he had the cell next to me. Man, was he scared. Here he is, a big-shot millionaire with Hong Kong tailors, and they put him in a jumpsuit two sizes too small, locked in with hardened criminals.” Lester grinned. “So I calmed him down and we got real friendly.”

“Blair is the head of a multinational corporation,” Robb said. “He negotiates with the Communist Chinese and the Russians. I have a hard time believing that he would be stupid enough to tell you he’d killed his wife, then give you the location of her grave.”

“But he did. Like I said, I got his confidence, and he admitted he did her. He said he put her in the trunk of his Bentley and drove her to this place and buried her.”

Santoro and Robb didn’t show any reaction, but they both wondered how Lester knew that Blair had a Bentley and that the body might have been in its trunk.

“He just confessed and told you the exact spot where he dumped the corpse?” Robb asked.

“That’s right.”

“How do we know you didn’t kill Carrie Blair?” she said.

“No way. I’ve been locked up since before she disappeared. Check the records.”

Santoro leaned back and folded his arms across his chest. “What do you want, Arthur?”

“He leads you to the body and testifies, I think he’s earned himself a ‘Get Out of Jail Free’ card.”

“We’ll talk about that with the commonwealth attorney if Mr. Lester takes us to the body.”

The picturesque Blue Ridge Mountains are part of the larger Appalachian range. The densely packed trees release isoprene into the atmosphere, which creates a haze and makes the mountains look blue from a distance. But Stephanie Robb and Frank Santoro were not appreciating the beauty of the region as their caravan of police vehicles headed for the abandoned campground where Barry Lester claimed they would find Carrie Blair’s grave. The lead car was driven by two uniformed officers. Lester was sitting in the back beside his attorney. Robb and Santoro were next, followed by a van from the crime lab. The morgue wagon, piloted by medical examiner Nick Winters, was also there in case Lester knew what he was talking about.

Santoro hadn’t said a word since they’d left police headquarters, and Robb could tell that he had something on his mind.

“What’s bothering you?” Robb asked her partner.

“Something about this case doesn’t feel right.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know. There’s just a lot of odd stuff going on.”

“Such as?”

“First we get an anonymous tip about the Bentley, and the paper gets an anonymous tip about a prenup. Then there’s Blair; he’s the head of a multinational corporation, he deals with heads of countries. You can’t be a wimp and get where he’s gotten. Can you see him spilling his guts to Lester?”

“Sometimes things are exactly as they seem, Frank. In real life, if the wife gets killed, it’s usually hubby whodunit.”

The lead car turned off the highway at a sign advertising Rainbow Lake Resort. The sign was weathered and the paint was peeling. The resort used to give guided trail rides, canoe trips, and provide a place for camping. Three years before, the owners went bankrupt and closed it down. Now the deserted camp was used by the homeless and rowdy teenagers.

Robb turned the car onto a dirt road. Vegetation had reclaimed part of it and there were potholes to navigate. There had been heavy rains the week before that would have wiped out any trace of tire tracks. The lead car stopped in a gravel parking lot in front of an abandoned log cabin that had served as the office and rec room for the camp. Santoro could also see the empty stables and cabins. The area was surrounded by dense woods. Straight ahead, a sharp wind was driving the blue-green waters of a large lake onto a rocky beach.

The van from the crime lab and the morgue wagon pulled in. Robb parked next to the patrol car. When she got out of the car, the wind off the lake seared her cheeks. Robb turned up her coat collar before opening the back door of the car that had transported the prisoner. Jefferson got out. Then Lester edged across the seat and stood up. He was handcuffed and his ankles were secured by manacles. Santoro watched him carefully when Robb unlocked his shackles.

“Thanks,” Lester said as he shook out his hands and hopped up and down for a few seconds.

“Where is the body, Barry?” Robb asked.

Lester turned in a circle and stopped when he spotted the lake.

“Okay. We go along the woods on the left toward the water. He said there was a trail.”

“Lead on,” Santoro told him. Lester started walking with his lawyer close behind and the detectives on either side. Nick Winters and an assistant from the morgue followed the forensic experts. The officers who had driven Lester took shovels out of the trunk of their car and brought up the rear.

A narrow hiking trail led into the woods a few yards from the lakeshore.

“Let the people from the crime lab go first,” Santoro ordered. A man and two women worked their way cautiously down the trail, recording everything with a video camera.

“He said he buried her about a quarter of a mile in on the left side of the trail,” Lester said.

He scanned the underbrush, then stopped suddenly and pointed to another trail that led into the forest.

“This should be it,” Lester said. “The grave shouldn’t be too far in. Blair told me he got tired carrying the body. That she was heavy, so he couldn’t go too far.”

“Wait here,” Santoro said as he and Robb followed the techs down the new trail. They had not gone far when they saw a cleared area with dirt that looked freshly turned. As soon as the forensic experts finished, Santoro ordered the officers with the shovels to get to work.

“And be gentle,” he said. “Treat this like an archaeological dig. The lab techs will supervise.”

The officers had moved a small amount of dirt off the grave when one of them stopped and pointed at something shiny that was half buried under some soil.

“What’s that?” he asked.

The woman from the forensic team used a light whisk broom to brush away the material covering the object. She was wearing gloves. She picked up the object and placed it in an evidence bag held by one of the other techs. The third forensic expert photographed the whole thing with a video camera. The technician with the envelope held it up. Santoro peered through the plastic at a key that looked very similar to the one he used to open his front door.

It didn’t take much more digging before a bloodless white knuckle was uncovered. The policeman who had exposed it called over the lab techs, and everyone else gathered at the edge of the grave.

“I told you,” Lester said, pleased as could be. Everyone else was somber.

As more dirt was tossed out of the grave, more and more of Carrie Blair was revealed. The blood that stained the front of her white blouse had dried and looked brown and flakey. Her face was drained of color and patches of skin had rotted away, revealing bleached bone and tissue. Santoro looked away out of respect. Robb stared hard and seethed.

“It looks like Mr. Lester came through for us,” Santoro told Jefferson, who was keeping his head up and his eyes away from the corpse.

“Indeed he did, indeed he did. Now it’s your turn to come through for him,” the lawyer said.

“You know that only a prosecutor can make that call, but I’ll tell him to do the right thing.”

“If he does,” Lester said, “I’ll sweeten the pot by telling you why Blair popped his wife.”

Robb had been listening to the conversation. She turned quickly and stared at Lester menacingly.

“You’ve been holding out on us?” she asked.

“Not at all,” Lester said, holding up both hands to placate the angry detective. “I promised to tell you where Blair buried the body, and that was all I promised. This info is a bonus. If you come through for me.”