12
SHE ACCOMPANIED JIM to the station and stood by him while two detectives read him his rights again and went after him with questions. On advice of counsel, Jim refused to answer. Eventually, he was led over to the jail for booking.
Barbet Schroeder, who wrote the courthouse stories for the newspaper, had somehow gotten wind of it. Her photographer managed to get a shot of Jim as he was escorted into the jail.
Tomorrow he would be arraigned. He had roots in the community, came from a prominent family, and had never been arrested for anything before this. Some sort of bail would be forthcoming, and he would be freed after spending just one night locked up, for now at least. But the morning paper would come out, too, and then he would be notorious.
Polite in their way, the jail deputies moved efficiently through the processes of turning Jim into an inmate. The smell of coffee, the TV with its commercials coming from somewhere within, and their relaxed manner helped. Jim went through it all fatalistically, shrugging his shoulders when she asked how he felt. Only at the last moment, as she was leaving so he could be issued his jail jumpsuit and go through all the other humiliations of being stripped of his liberty, did he turn to her and whisper, ‘‘Don’t give up on me.’’
As it closed, the jail door sent out a puff of air, closing out all that was fresh and alive.
On Wednesday, at the one-thirty arraignments, Judge Flaherty set bail at $300,000 after a short argument by the attorneys. Collier was right there in court with her, and they both were very careful not to touch or say anything personal. Collier looked so tall and distinguished, and she was proud—no, she was indifferent.
Or was she indignant? What she was, was confused, and no time was available for confusion. In a few days, a preliminary hearing would determine if Jim would have to endure a full-scale murder trial.
After the hearing, Collier handed her an envelope marked with the coroner’s address. He chose that moment to smile, and at that unpropitious moment Barbara Banning walked in, wearing a designer suit, her arms full of files for the hearings to come. She looked at Nina, then at Collier.
How did she know? How could she know? Had Collier told her? Barbara’s eyes flitted back and forth at them. Her finely plucked eyebrows climbed toward her hairline and a cynical expression appeared.
Of course. They were so obvious, two smiling lawyers with matching sunburns, not the ski-goggle sunburn, either. They had been caught red-faced.
Now Nina saw how difficult their jobs might become. She did not look at the envelope; she didn’t want to know yet what they had found on the boots. Besides, instant interpretation was out—her brain seemed to be tangled in kelp. She would study the material later, carefully, when the seaweed dispersed.
That afternoon, she left work early. She and Bob and Hitchcock took a long walk along the lakeshore, on the thin strand of sand left between snow and water.
‘‘Get these away from me,’’ Tony Ramirez said, pushing at the autopsy photos with his index finger. ‘‘I’ve seen enough.’’ Crammed into Nina’s office, Tony, Ginger, Sandy, Nina, and Sandy’s son, Wish Whitefeather, had all found seats somewhere. On Nina’s clean oak desk, the photos were defilements.
Outside, a few flakes of snow fluttered across the forest and marsh, obscuring the distant lake. They had been talking strategy for the last hour. The mantra of this case was to be: it was an accident. But, since the prosecution theory was murder, they were going to have to deal with that. The best bet seemed to be to find some more suspects.
Ginger took the photos, eight-by-ten glossies with excellent resolution, and stacked them back into a neat pile. ‘‘A shame they’re so vivid,’’ she said. She put the views of Alex Strong’s stomach, the ones with the patternlike marks, on top. Next to the autopsy photos she placed another blowup of the bottoms of Jim’s ski boots.
‘‘See for yourself,’’ she said. ‘‘I’ll have them scanned into the computer and we’ll play around to see if we can sharpen up the details even more. If we want to sharpen up the details.’’
‘‘I don’t see anything on the skin,’’ Sandy said. ‘‘Just some marks.’’
Nina raised her head at this: If Sandy wasn’t sure she saw a pattern, a jury might react similarly.
‘‘Although they do seem to run in short stripes,’’ Sandy added. ‘‘Like the boots.’’ Nina’s head sunk back on her chest.
‘‘That’s how they look to me too,’’ agreed Wish. ‘‘Like, when I wear my belt buckle too tight and I go to take my pants off, I can see the outline of the whole buckle on my stomach, even the metal thing that you put in the hole in the belt . . .’’
Wish was studying criminal justice at the community college. He had pulled his long hair into a ponytail that went halfway down his back, accentuating the high forehead and big ears and the innocent look on his face. If he got any taller he wouldn’t fit into the conference room at all.
‘‘I guess we ought to feel lucky that the logo isn’t imprinted too,’’ Nina said. ‘‘There’s obviously some sort of pattern. Ginger, what can you do with this?’’
‘‘In two weeks? Here’s the best bet. Have Tony here scrounge up half a dozen other pairs of ski boots with similar bottoms. Let me compare them to these faint markings. I’ll let you know if I can testify that it’s impossible to tell if it’s Tecnicas.’’
‘‘I saw a pair of men’s boots at Marianne Strong’s house. They weren’t Alex’s, because they were still wet. The maker was Dalbello. They were about a size eleven.’’
‘‘Cool,’’ said Ginger. ‘‘They’re Italian boots. I’ll test a pair of those first.’’
‘‘Maybe she has a boyfriend,’’ Tony said. ‘‘I’ll look into that.’’
‘‘But if the pattern is boot prints, it’s definitely a homicide,’’ Nina said. ‘‘How could— They didn’t find any blood on the boot bottoms. How could that be?’’
‘‘Human skin is amazingly resilient in maintaining its integrity even when it’s dealt a crushing trauma,’’ Ginger explained. ‘‘The external skin doesn’t seem to have shown much bruising. The initial hemorrhage was internal only. So I can’t say that the lack of blood on the boots helps much.’’
‘‘They did find some droplets on the black shirt,’’ Nina said. ‘‘That might be important in considering the timing, since the parka would have had to be opened and the bibs pulled down long enough for the blood to trickle there from the face.’’
She saw Wish grimace. Wish and Sandy’s reactions were important to her, since a jury might be expected to react to these forensic details in a similar manner. In his face, she could follow just how ugly the prosecution’s scenario would look.
Wish noticed that she was watching him. ‘‘Don’t worry, Nina,’’ he said. ‘‘We’ll find out what happened. We’ll help him.’’ He gave her a sunny smile. Gratefully, she smiled back.
‘‘At least we can whack Clauson on some of the other findings,’’ Ginger said. ‘‘Leave that to me.’’ She wore all black again, but without her hat. ‘‘As to the thirty-five additional fibers they found on the Tecnica soles, I can’t help. I’ll go over to the police evidence locker today with some equipment and have a look, but we can assume they will be black cotton fibers, and we can be pretty damn sure they’ll match the shirt. That’s all science is likely to tell us.’’
‘‘So what’s the cockamamie story Jimmy told you about the shirt?’’ Sandy asked Nina.
‘‘He seemed to be as shocked about the fibers as I was. After he thought about it, Jim said that everybody in town wears those shirts. They’re from Miller’s Outpost down at the Y. He reminded me that the Tecnicas were in his father’s truck and asked if they could have come into contact with a shirt there. He also said someone must be trying to frame him.’’
‘‘Quick thinking,’’ Sandy said dryly. ‘‘So, after stomping Alex to death, the killer lifted some fibers off the dead man, found the boots in the car and planted evidence to frame Jim. I think a coo-coo bird got in here.’’
Tony said, ‘‘Look. Let’s get real.’’ He was a local and a friend of Sandy’s with a P.I. license, shrewd and honest even if, at sixty-seven, he was a bit over the hill for the more physical aspects of his work.
‘‘We just don’t know enough yet,’’ Nina said. ‘‘Philip Strong was on the mountain that day. So was Marianne Strong. They both knew the area where the brothers were skiing.’’ Nina told them about Marianne’s continuing interest in Jim.
‘‘I happened to get a look at Alex’s will at the house. He left everything to Marianne, but it’s
what
he left that I found interesting. The will stated that he was leaving his interest in a one-sixth share of Paradise to Marianne, and also the additional one-sixth share recently purchased from his sister Kelly. Jim holds one sixth, and their father holds the remaining one half. So Marianne now owns one third of the stock. That’s a lot of stock.’’
‘‘How much is it worth?’’
‘‘Jim thinks his share is worth half a million dollars, so hers is worth a million now. Tony, we have to look closely at this woman.’’
‘‘Maybe she has her own ideas on how to use the money,’’ Sandy said. ‘‘I could think of a few.’’
‘‘She sounds good. How about Heidi?’’ Wish asked. ‘‘Was she skiing too?’’
‘‘Yes,’’ Nina said. ‘‘And she’s an expert skier too. All of them are experts. A mountainful of athletes in ski boots.’’
‘‘Expert skiers,’’ Tony said with a snort. ‘‘Arrogant punks with money to play all day and party all night. Bet your client’s real surprised to find himself knocked off his skis like this. Probably never had anything happen to him worse than a stubbed toe.’’
‘‘I would like to mention that Philip Strong hands the Women’s Shelter a big check every Christmas,’’ said Sandy. ‘‘Not everyone with a little money in his pocket is an unproductive slacker.’’
She and Tony exchanged a sideways look, and Nina wondered where Tony fit into Sandy’s life. Just about everyone she recommended was a member of her extended family.
Tony moved back to the question of whether someone else could have killed Alex.
‘‘Even if other parties were hanging around with nefarious intentions, there was only a ten-minute window, assuming the client is telling the truth. Otherwise, the client would have seen somebody do something,’’ he said.
‘‘It’s early yet,’’ Nina said, stressing the words. ‘‘And we are assuming he is telling the truth. We’re his support. His family seems to have abandoned him. I’ve just heard his father left town. He was really grief stricken when I talked to him.’’
‘‘Judging from the fact that I’m sitting here, I figured the client wasn’t planning to plead out,’’ said Tony.
‘‘He swears he didn’t do it,’’ Nina said.
Nobody said anything.
‘‘So I’ll see what I can find out about Marianne Strong,’’ Tony finally said. ‘‘And I’ll check out the father. Any idea where he was the day of the accident?’’ They were still calling it an accident.
Nina said, ‘‘He was at Paradise, maybe on the mountain, maybe at the lodge. Try to firm that up, Tony. But, honestly, I don’t think Mr. Strong could kill his son. He’s taking some time off, and according to Jim, he’s staying with his daughter on the North Shore. Talk to Jessica Sweet, an employee there. She wants to help. Wish will be glad to help you. I’m going to have a look at the place where Alex died this afternoon. I may ask you to go up there tomorrow and take photos.
‘‘Which brings us back to Heidi,’’ Nina went on. ‘‘Marianne Strong claims that Heidi confessed to her that she was having an affair. But she wouldn’t say with whom.’’
‘‘I sincerely hope it wasn’t with Alex,’’ said Ginger.
‘‘Big nail in Jim’s coffin,’’ Sandy agreed.
‘‘I’ll see what I can dredge up,’’ Tony said. ‘‘All right, let’s review the alternative killers.’’
‘‘His father?’’ Wish said.
‘‘Would a father kill his son like that, and try to hang it on his other son? What the hell?’’ Tony said.
‘‘Yeah? What the hell?’’ Wish said, his eyes wide as he pondered this.
‘‘Watch your mouth,’’ Sandy told her son. ‘‘How about Marianne? If she killed her husband, she’d have a crack at Jim, if she also could get Heidi out of the picture. Which she did.’’
‘‘But how could Marianne get Jim’s Tecnicas and the turtleneck shirt together?’’ Wish asked. ‘‘I’ve got a shirt just like that. No wrinkles and they don’t show the dirt. Everybody wears them because they’re like sweats but kinda formal. Black is the best.’’ He nodded approvingly at Ginger.
‘‘Where did you get your shirt?’’ asked Ginger.
‘‘At Miller’s Outpost. Just like Jim said. Everybody wears them.’’
‘‘Hmm. Now there’s a tantalizing notion, dude,’’ said Ginger. ‘‘I’m thinking I’ll stop there on my way out of town and buy a few black turtlenecks.’’
‘‘And compare the fibers, right?’’ Wish said, excited.
Ginger said, deadpan, ‘‘No, I’m gonna give ’em to the gamblers on the road out of town who lost their shirts.’’
‘‘Oh, wow,’’ said Wish, nodding.
At home, Nina dug out slightly mildewed ski bibs and fresh wool socks. In this weather, nineteen degrees and dropping, she wasn’t looking forward to doing what she had to do next.
Jim waited at the door to Paradise Lodge. It was barely one o’clock, still snowing slightly, the top of the mountain bearded in cloud, but windless and bitterly cold.
‘‘Back home safely?’’ Nina said. ‘‘No trouble with the bail?’’
‘‘Smooth as silk. Anything new?’’ Rose-tinted goggles covered half his face. He looked right at home in his blue ski suit, arms and legs straining at the material as if he were an action hero in a kid’s TV program.
‘‘No. Lots of things in progress,’’ she answered. That about exhausted the conversation. Very likely he also dreaded this morbid field trip.
For a few minutes, they occupied themselves with the skis. Nina had trouble with the bindings, and Jim knelt at her feet to adjust them.
Outside again, they made their way over to the lifts. Not many skiers had come out to brave the white sky, so they had the big quad lift to themselves. As the ground slipped away under them, then became invisible, Nina clutched at the camera in her jacket. Still there, but what would be the use? Even if they found the spot where Alex had died the weather made good photos unlikely. Even with Jim along to help her find the way, could she ski well enough to track the path of an expert skier? The cold slithering into her bibs made her bones feel brittle, fragile.