Best Defense (11 page)

seventeen

I arrived at Hammonds'
house first and camped out in the gazebo again, loving the fresh air. The temperature was in the nineties, but that was pretty standard for South Florida. I could handle it as long as I didn't have to be in the direct sun. Shade, any shade, reduced the heat to a bearable degree.

Another reason I didn't go in was I had no desire to face Maddy Hammonds. She had told me what she thought, and I didn't need any more of that. And, by being outside, I would be closer when Hammonds arrived. He said five possibilities. Five to find and investigate, and little time to do it. But that was better than no leads at all. Of course, we had to keep our fingers crossed, hoping the kidnapper was one of the five. Hammonds said Bannon gave the names to the chief, and the police were checking them. With perfect luck, we'd find four of them still in jail, leaving the fifth as the logical kidnapper. However, I couldn't recall any time in my life I'd had perfect luck—well, other than meeting David. He was three thousand miles away, though, diluting that good luck. Nothing to do but wait for Hammonds and wish for the best.

My cell phone rang, and I yanked it out of my bag. Maybe it was Hammonds saying they were almost home. That would be great, meaning we could get serious about finding the kidnappers. The call was even better.

“David,” I exclaimed. “It's so good to hear from you. God, I miss you. I wish you were here.”

“Good to hear your voice, too, and I miss you just as much. I only have a moment—slipped out of a session—but I had to talk to you. Sorry about last night, but I could just hear those two characters ragging me if I said what I wanted to say.”

“And what did you want to say?” I asked, cutting in.

David chuckled. “I said it. I miss you. I'm learning that I miss you very much. You have really gotten under my skin in areas I can't scratch in public.”

“So, it's all about sex? Is that it?” I said it with what I hoped was a smile in my voice, not wanting David to misunderstand.

“Not at all. You mean much more to me than that. I guess I'd better change the subject before I get into deeper trouble.”

“Really? I prefer you keep talking. Get yourself in deeper trouble.”

He hesitated, and I refused to rescue him. Let him sweat.

“Okay, I'd much rather be wrinkling the sheets with you than listening to these boring lectures. Is that enough trouble for you?”

I laughed. “The feeling is mutual.”

“How are you?” he asked in his serious voice. “Or maybe I should ask, what are you up to, and have you been injured yet?”

I smiled, recognizing he couldn't keep his sense of humor down. We first met because of a bonk on the head I received. A few days later, my cranium took another blow, making him wonder if that was my normal course in life. He never missed an opportunity to make a joke about my proclivity for getting banged around.

In a microsecond, I decided to tell David everything. Maybe it would clear my head to put it into words. After all, he'd almost said he loved me. He'd support me and give me guidance. “I have a new case. Someone kidnapped a five-year-old child after killing the mother. It doesn't look good for the little girl.”

“That's terrible. Do you think you can help? Isn't this something for the police?”

“Do you know John Hammonds, the defense lawyer?”

“I've heard of him. Fortunately, I haven't needed his services. How does he fit in?”

“He's my client, and when he speaks, folks listen.” I launched into an explanation of why Hammonds wanted me to front the investigation, instead of the police, leaving out nothing. It felt good to talk to someone not involved. Maybe David's clinical analysis was what I needed.

“Wow,” he said. “Quite a story. Hammonds is lucky it's you and not me. I wouldn't know what to do. Good luck on getting his daughter home. I'm sure you'll make the right decisions. And Hammonds lived up to his reputation of being brilliant. He hired the best.” His voice softened. “The very best.”

It wasn't the clinical analysis I had hoped for, but it would have to do. “Thanks, I—”

A plain wrapper police car pulled into the driveway. I bounced from my seat and stepped outside the gazebo. It had to be Hammonds and Bannon. Great. Now I'd finally have something to sink my teeth into other than frustration.

“Sorry, sweetheart,” I said. “I have to run. John Hammonds just arrived. He might be carrying the break we've been hoping for.”

“I understand. I'll be home Saturday or Sunday. The conference ends Friday night, but they're making some arrangements for the weekend. They've announced an optional visitation for Saturday afternoon. Professionally, I need to attend, but my heart is tugging me home. Please be careful. And … well, good luck. I wish I were there to help—or at least give moral support.”

“I understand, my love. Running.” I clicked off as I started toward the police vehicle, which had stopped at the garage door. I had my fingers crossed, hoping they had names and pictures I could feed to Bob and his people. There was always the chance someone would get careless when there was no one around except a derelict. Since most people have no eyes for the homeless, they often see things no policeman has a chance to observe.

I ran to the passenger side of the sedan. “Do you have the pictures?”

“Pictures?” Hammonds said, opening the door and stepping out. “No pictures, just my files. I'm hoping the police will come up with mug shots. Of course, much of my experience says any similarity between appearance in booking photos and how a person looks in real life is purely coincidental. Plus, they are at least ten years older, but they can age enhance them. Maybe we'll get lucky, and they'll be recognizable.”

Disappointed, I said, “Let's get inside and see what you have. Time is slipping by.”

eighteen

Dabba sat in the
middle of the city bus, no one beside her or in the rows to her front and back. The combination of her appearance and her constant muttering kept everyone at bay. She didn't care. She didn't need them. She didn't need anyone—anyone except her daughter.

A solitary tear rolled down Dabba's cheek as an image of the last time she saw Linda filled her mind. She mumbled, “So cute. I fixed her pretty blond hair special that day. I did it in banana curls like Shirley Temple in
Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm
. It was somebody's birthday, and her kindergarten class was having a party.” She hesitated. “Whose party was it?” She strained to remember. Her head popped up and an angry look filled her face. In a loud voice, she said, “I can't remember? I want to remember. I must remember everything about my daughter.”

The other passengers on the bus squeezed into their seats, as far from her as they could get. The driver glanced over his shoulder, a worried look on his face. That woman wouldn't be the first crazy he'd had on his bus. Seemed like it happened more and more often though. He wondered if he should call for police support.

Dabba quieted, then her muttering returned. “Sally. The party was for little Sally Jenkins. She was turning five years old. Linda told me she was so proud to be the same age as the others. Now they wouldn't call her baby anymore.”

Dabba's eyes took on a faraway look, a curtain of tears covering them. “Pink. A pretty pink dress. A new one. Linda wore her new pink dress for the party. And pink shoes. Pink shoes, pink socks, pink dress, and a pink ribbon in her hair. My sweetie was a princess in pink.”

Dabba sniffled, looking around the bus. “Where am I? Who are these people? They ain't parents from Linda's school.” Her eyes fluttered, and she blinked.
Tired. Always so tired. Sleepy.

She dozed, an empty smile on her face, a bit of drool slipping from the corner of her mouth.

_____

Hammonds, Bannon, Winthrop, and I sat at the dining room table, the five files in front of Hammonds.

Hammonds tapped the stack. “I don't lose many cases. That's not a brag, just a statement of fact. These are five I lost, mostly because they were too guilty for a believable defense.” He pointed to the first. “Donald Kenneth Simonson. He was a Broward County commissioner nailed in an FBI sting for soliciting bribes. They had so much on him about all I could do was plead in mitigation. He didn't agree with me then, and I'm sure he wouldn't now, but he got off lucky—only fifteen years. After the trial, he put on a big show in front of the media by firing me and hiring Horace Rheingold. Last I heard, Horace had quit him. Simonson was dirty, too dirty to rescue.”

“And he got elected?” I said. “I don't find it difficult to believe he was a criminal, but why would anyone vote for him?”

“Chalk it up to Broward County politics,” Hammonds said. “Like Chicago, influence peddling and bribery are part of the county's heritage. Kind of like neutral wallpaper in an attorney's office—seldom noticed. Speaking of which, look at Sheila Lively-Wesler? She might not have been as obvious as Simonson, but she racked up enough under-the-table cash to buy a resort island, a large one. She was immensely popular and served for years. Every four years, she swept into office on a landslide. One of those things that makes no sense is people don't look at results, they just react to what the politician says.”

He hesitated while shaking his head. “Anyway, I had folks volunteering day and night, wanting to testify for her, and I mean some high-powered ones—judges, local athletes, other elected officials. I used as many as I thought the case would tolerate. Too many and the jury tunes out, sometimes going the other way. It was a good trial, but the prosecution simply had more than I could counter. They had the goods on her ex-husband, and he turned on her. He pled out and threw her to the wolves. She got twenty years. She asked me to appeal, but I told her I couldn't continue to take her money.” He paused, appearing to think. “Let's say I learned things that left me cold and leave it there.”

“Anything that makes you think either of them could be the kidnapper?” I asked.

He stared at the ceiling. “Either or neither. Both thought they were above the law and thought I failed them. Their egos were out of control. Both of them said things I could interpret as threats. On the other hand, I can't picture either of them doing anything as violent as this. They were quick to bully the weak, but shied away from the strong.”

“Interesting,” I said.

Bannon tapped the files. “How about the others?”

Hammonds flipped open another folder. “Esteban Edwardo Sabastion. This guy was a lobbyist brought down by his success. In twenty years of working the hallways of Broward County and the city governments, he probably influenced more projects than anyone else in the state. He gave out a lot of gifts and paid for tons of dinners. I still can't say with certainty that he bribed anyone. Did he buy influence? Yes. But, doesn't the big contributor to any campaign buy influence? I mean, how many use their thousands to get someone elected without expecting something in return? My experience says between none and zero.

“Our problem at trial was the prosecutor trotted out several elected and appointed officials who were under suspicion on their own. They told believable stories, saying Sabastion attempted to bribe them. There were never any witnesses, but the sheer number of repetitions overwhelmed the jury—or that was my take. The old
where there's smoke, there's fire
gambit. And I couldn't deny his attempts to influence elected officials. That was his job, and he did it well. Plus, the newspapers blamed him for every over-budget contract in the county forever. In the end, I couldn't counter the negatives. He went down hard—twenty-five years.”

“I remember him,” Bannon said. “I didn't work the case, but I was glad when he went down. Of course, all I had were the newspapers and office scuttlebutt. Are you saying he wasn't as bad as I heard?”

“About all I can say,” Hammonds answered, “is I've defended worse, who either got off or received shorter sentences.”

Before Bannon could rebut, I said, “How about this file? Tell us about Mankosky.”

Hammonds leaned back in his chair, looked toward the ceiling, and sighed. “Not one of my prouder moments. Herbert Lowery Mankosky.” He tapped the folder, a look of regret on his face. “I heard about his arrest, but didn't pay much attention. As far as I could tell from the newspaper reports, he was just another smalltime conman who got himself into a position to embezzle. Everyday occurrence in South Florida. When he initially contacted me, I ignored him. Later, I wished I had stuck with my first reaction. However, he bushwhacked me in a restaurant one night. I couldn't cause a scene by having him thrown out, so I listened.” Hammonds chuckled and shook his head. “Calling him a conman is not giving him enough credit. After he'd spoken for ten minutes, I was on his team. No way could he be guilty. Without going into details, I agreed to represent him.”

“And?” I said when he paused.

Again the chuckle and shake of the head. “Later I found out he was one of the dirtiest I ever defended. By the time we got to mitigation, I was ready to abandon him and the courtroom. I even gave it some thought. Quit mid-trial. However, I knew that would destroy me as a defense attorney so I swallowed hard and did my best for him. My efforts earned him thirty years, and we parted company. I haven't heard a word from him since the day of his sentencing and consider myself lucky for it.”

“Sounds like he could be our kidnapper,” I said.

“Possible, but somehow I doubt it. The man was gutless. He worked in the shadows or against little old ladies. My wife could have ripped him apart. Of course, prison does strange things to people. Maybe he developed a backbone.”

“Okay, last one,” I said. “Stevenson?”

He opened the file and flipped the pages for a moment. “Daniel Kelso Stevenson. He was different. He walked into my office and asked if the attorney-client relationship began the moment he opened his mouth. I said yes, and he replied, ‘Good. I'm guilty, and I want you to defend me.' That was startling. Now, don't get me wrong. I defend a lot of folks guilty as charged. The police don't make near as many mistakes as the media want you to believe. But it's seldom I have someone admit it—especially up front.”

“If you knew he was guilty, why'd you take him on?” I asked. “I'd have run for the hills.”

“There was something about him. I could say he was likeable, but it was more than that. Yeah, he was smooth. You expect
savoir-faire
in a lobbyist. It's part of the job description. But he was so danged honest—or seemed to be. No matter what I asked him, his response convinced me he was telling the truth—even when he confessed to his worst crimes. Everything about him was a dichotomy. He was a family man who loved his wife and children and put them first. Yet he had no qualms about partying all night with a customer, setting him up with prostitutes, and partaking of their pleasures, if asked. If he had someone who liked to gamble, Stevenson knew the places with games. As he told me, he did whatever it took to make the
sale
. When we were in trial, the audience and the jury loved him. But the evidence was too much. The only possible verdict was guilty, and you could see the remorse on the jurors' faces as the judge read it. Stevenson could have gotten seventy years. The judge gave him fifteen. That was the kind of person Dan was. Everyone loved him. Before you ask, no, I don't think he's the kidnapper. In fact, of the five, I'd put him on the bottom of the list.”

I looked at the notes I took while Hammonds spoke. Five convicted criminals, all white-collar, all well-educated, one of them, maybe, a murderer and a kidnapper. Which one? After adding random question marks across a fresh page, I turned to Bannon. “The police are running the whereabouts of these five, right?”

“Yes. Chief Elston is personally honchoing it. It's more than just running names through the computer, though. He said he was going to touch base with a real person to determine if they're where the records say they are. So, if they're still in prison, he's going to speak to the warden. And, if they're on parole, he'll track down the P.O. The chief isn't happy about Mr. Hammonds' decision to cut us out, but he's downright pissed at whoever perpetrated these crimes in his back yard. He'll call as soon as he has something. If it's good, he just might come out here.”

“I know. I'm not doubting him. I only wish he could hurry.” I looked back at my notes. “Okay, let's fill the time, John. As a group, you know these people better than anyone else here. Rate them for me. Use a scale of one to five, with five being the most unlikely. Put them in order.”

Hammonds stared at me, then at the folders. “Difficult, but I'll give it a try. As I said, Stevenson is last.” He picked up Stevenson's folder and laid it aside, then spread the others in front of him. “Lively-Wesler?” He rocked back in his chair and stared at the ceiling. “She had a quality I can't quite identify. Not ruthlessness, but not gentleness either. Selfish, greedy. That's about as close as I can come. Let's say she placed herself before all others. Put her in the middle of the pack, number three.”

“Fine.” I wrote a three beside her name, then added a five beside Stevenson. “We're left with one, two, and four.”

More thinking from Hammonds, more shifting of the files. “Sabastion, number four. Not as harmless as Stevenson, but close.”

I wrote a four by Sabastion's name. “Now the tough ones. One and two. Those most likely to murder and kidnap.”

“Yeah,” Hammonds said. “Mankosky and Simonson. Two jewels. Let's list them that way. Put Mankosky at number one and Simonson at number two. That's as good as I can do.”

“If that's what your gut says, we'll go with it. I have it as Mankosky,
Simonson, Lively-Wesler, Sabastion, and last, Stevenson. Let's see if Chief Elston's research supports our ranking.” I paused. “Sure wish he'd call.”

I should have become a prophet. The phone rang.