Move to Strike (35 page)

And so David had had no choice but to sit back and watch the whole bloody mess play out daily like a soap opera in the tabloids and news shows. Until everything seemed to go quiet – including any news on J.T.'s and Chelsea's defence, and who Logan might have chosen to represent them.

‘A penny for . . .' said Sara after they left Doctor Taylor's rooms, the spring in her step almost contagious, the pure happiness in her eyes bright enough to light up a city.

‘Sorry,' David said, pulling her close. It was Monday morning and they were on their way back to the office, photographic stills of their baby clasped firmly in Sara's hand. As much as David hated to admit it he was actually glad to be out of the confines of the OB/GYN's offices. That emerald green light coming from the ultrasound machine had unnerved him a little – reminded him of another, less happy jade-hued room, where the occupants were shrouded in despair rather than hope.

‘I was just wondering what Nora is going to say when we show her the photos,' he lied. ‘Something like: “Lucky it looks like its mother”, or “Little Nora is coming along just fine”.'

‘You're still convinced it's a boy, aren't you?' Sara smiled.

For some reason David had developed a habit of calling their unborn child Harry – a habit Sara would feign distaste at despite the fact that, David was sure, she found it strangely endearing.

‘Does that mean the name Harry is growing on you?' He smiled.

‘Absolutely not. Every time I picture a “Harry” I imagine a kid with glasses and a fire bolt engraved on his forehead. Not that the Potter kid isn't cool, but I don't particularly want to rear a wizard hell bent on saving the world. I mean, I already married one of those.'

David smiled, while inside he felt more frustrated than ever.

Fifteen minutes later they were back in the office, Nora immediately commandeering their photos before explaining that any group discussion on the images of ‘little Nora' would have to wait – as they had an unexpected visitor who was currently in with Arthur and awaiting their return.

‘Hey,' said David, walking across Arthur's office to shake Joe Mannix's hand. ‘Since when do we rate a Monday morning visit from the head of BPD Homicide?' he asked, even then, at that early stage, praying it was some positive news on the Logan children's case.

‘First things first,' said Joe, lifting his hand in greeting to Sara. ‘Arthur here tells me you have some hot-off-the-press photographs of young Joseph.'

‘Oh, for God's sake,' smiled Sara. ‘My poor child has more names than an Arabian prince or princess. And I am afraid you have to wait in line for an exclusive look at the shots, Joe. Nora has first dibs so . . .'

‘Fair enough,' said Joe, before meeting David's eye. ‘We have to talk,' he said, shifting his gaze to Arthur who Joe had obviously already filled in. And Arthur responded by moving around his antique cherrywood desk, to join Sara, David and Joe on the office sofa.

‘Joe here has some news on the Logan case,' said Arthur, as David's eyes instinctively flicked to Sara to try to gauge her reaction to such news – news that threatened to jerk them back into the world controlled by Doctor Jeffrey Logan. ‘And I think we should hear him out.'

And so, as Nora made some fresh coffees, Joe began at the beginning – or, more to the point, the middle, which is where they had left off.

‘Early this morning I got a call from Gerald Garretson from Garretson
Specialty Rifles in Bangor, Maine. If you remember, I originally spoke to his son, and it seems that young Calvin was, well . . . not completely honest when it came to the transaction and delivery of the Mark V concerned.'

‘
What?
' asked David. ‘But the paperwork clearly listed Stephanie as the purchaser, and Calvin Garretson even identified her as the person who picked it up.'

‘Stephanie didn't collect the gun in person,' said Joe, rendering all in the room speechless. ‘You remember Calvin Garretson claimed there was no video surveillance tape of Stephanie picking up the rifle because their camera was out that day? Well, when Gerald Garretson finally had some technicians take a look at their video system, and when the technicians assured him there was never anything wrong with it to begin with, he took his son to task on the whole issue over this last weekend – which is when the kid finally came clean.'

Joe went on to explain how Calvin Garretson had told his father that Stephanie Tyler had emailed and offered to pay him $5000 cash if Calvin agreed to overlook his professional obligation to do the required paperwork in person – and if he agreed to erase the surveillance tape on the day he would list as the purchase date, and drive the rifle down to Massachusetts personally. And Garretson junior, whose dad pays him little more than pocket money for working in the family business, barely hesitated before agreeing to blank the tape, fudge the paperwork and deliver the gun to Boston, dropping it at a Somerville post office where an envelope containing a key to a private security box which held the cash was waiting for him just as ‘Stephanie' had said.

‘That's illegal in how many ways,' said Sara.

Joe nodded. ‘And if we were in a situation where we could go public with all of this, Garretson would most likely be paying for his mistake with the cancellation of his father's gun trading licence – but the dad is an okay guy and . . . well, first things first . . .'

David sat forward on the edge of his seat, nodding for Joe to go on.

‘When Calvin Garretson finally told his father exactly what he had done, an embarrassed Garretson senior, determined to make amends by finding out exactly what had gone down before placing his call to the police, undertook some further investigation as to the origins of the rifle.

‘It turns out that the Garretsons had only had this specific gun, sold
to them by a private owner, for a few days when they received Stephanie's email asking for a rifle that fit the particular Mark V's description perfectly – right down to the Claro walnut, raised comb, Monte Carlo stock, the rosewood forend tip and pistol grip cap and so forth.

‘And so Garretson thought all his Christmases had come at once – because he had bought the gun for a song one week and sold it at a premium price the next. It was almost as if the original owner and the new one had been thrown together by fate, like the gun was destined to remain in the possession of someone who appreciated it – or, in this case . . .'

‘Its previous owner who had no intention of letting it go in the first place,' finished David.

Joe nodded, before taking a breath to go on. ‘Anyway, Garretson explained how he went back to check the paperwork on the original seller who had listed his place of residence as a house in Waterbury, Vermont. And in an effort to get as much information as possible, Garretson put in a call to his brother – a cop from Montpelier, who did a check on the seller's address.'

‘Let me guess,' said David. ‘The address was a fake.'

‘Not exactly – it was the location of a Ben and Jerry's ice-cream factory in Waterbury, VT.'

‘Jesus,' said David, unable to keep the excitement out of his voice. ‘This gun was protected by a maze of smoke and mirrors. The seller used Garretson to launder it so that any connection to him would be erased.'

‘Exactly,' said Mannix. ‘And believe it or not, there's more.'

‘Garretson also told me the Waterbury seller had given his name as James Golan – a name I immediately ran through the Vermont DMV only to come up blank. I even got Garretson to ask his brother to run the guy's name through the local police wires while I did a nationwide search. But once again we came up with nothing – zero, nada, zip.'

‘So you hit a brick wall,' said Sara. ‘Which is not surprising given the name Golan is probably as false as his address and . . .'

‘Yes to the alias, but no to the brick wall,' said Joe, the slightest of smiles starting to creep across his face. ‘In fact, while I was talking to Garretson I was doodling the name Golan on a pad, and it sort of triggered a hunch which prompted me to call Rigotti and get him to ring Blackmore one
more time. I wanted him to confirm the spelling of Nagle's name. I knew it was a long shot but . . .'

Joe stopped, before looking at David as if he wanted him to see it before it was actually ‘said'. And then David met his eye and . . . it came to him, just like that – the almost invisible thread that finally connected it all.

‘Oh my God,' said David.

Joe nodded.

‘What?' asked Sara. ‘What is it, David – what the hell does the spelling have to do with connecting Logan to any of this?'

‘Logan is a master manipulator,' answered a now excited David. ‘He plays games with people's minds, their emotions, their perceptions. And the name Golan, the name Nagle, it is almost like he is challenging us, baiting us to catch him out.'

But the look on Sara's face told him she was still confused.

‘We got the Nagle wrong,' he said, glancing at Joe before turning in his seat to face her. ‘We assumed it was spelt N.A.G.L.E, but it wasn't, was it, Joe?' He swivelled back to Joe. ‘It was N.A.G.O.L.

‘The Golan is an anagram,' he went on, turning his eyes back to Sara. ‘And the Nagol, if you spell it backwards . . .'

‘Oh my God,' she said at last.

‘David was right,' said Arthur.

Joe nodded. ‘The gun belonged to Logan all along.'

T
he first shock was bad enough.

Amanda Carmichael had been waiting for Jeffrey Logan to make the decision on his children's legal representation for almost two months. And while her overactive mind had anticipated some high-powered names such as Gloria Shapiro, a high-profile criminal defence attorney who had at least thirty successful murder trials under her belt, or Baker O'Reilly, an attorney who had a penchant for defending the rich, or Tucker Gates, a beast of a man who practically bullied juries into finding his clients ‘not guilty', the fact that she was now presented with the man before her was quite surprise enough.

But the revelation that the elderly Charles Harrison, from Tony Bishop's blue chip firm of Williams, Coolidge and Harrison – a greying corporate attorney who had not dipped his wick in the lower salaried criminal courts for over two decades – was named as the Logan teenagers' counsel was just the first surprise to smack ADA Carmichael square between the eyes this morning. For what the deteriorating Harrison had to say was even more unexpected than the fact he was here in the first place . . .

‘The Logan teenagers want to plea,' he had said, mere seconds before.

Amanda was finding it difficult to recover.

Now, on the surface of it, the fact that J.T. and Chelsea Logan (who
had been charged as an accessory before the fact – a charge which, given it assigned her equal responsibility for her mother's death, would see her, like her brother, facing an equated charge of murder one), were willing to change their plea from ‘not guilty' to ‘guilty' might sound like a welcome proposal to the DA's Office, which could negotiate sentences and claim a victory without all the trouble of having to wrestle the case through court. But from a personal perspective this was the
last
thing Amanda Carmichael wanted. For almost two months she had been working towards, building on,
craving
her ‘once in a lifetime' opportunity on the centre stage. She wasn't even taking pleasure in the fact that her ex-lover, Bishop, was now standing in the corner of her office looking more dishevelled than ever. And she had
always
taken such pleasure in her exes' demise following her exit. But not today. Not today.

‘Well, gentlemen,' said Carmichael at last, addressing Harrison, Bishop and Doctor Jeffrey Logan who sat fresh-faced and confident before her. ‘I must say, this is somewhat of a surprise.'

‘It shouldn't be,' said Harrison, his voice a grainy croak. ‘We are aware the original court date was set for Monday the thirteenth of August and given this deadline is a mere two weeks away, and the unusual . . . ah, defence counsel issues surrounding the case, I would have thought you might have anticipated Doctor Logan's desire to make certain decisions so that he might get his children help as quickly as possible. The children planned and executed the murder of their mother in an act of desperation, and this needs to be considered in view of both the nature of the charges against them and the sentences applicable to such charges.'

‘So what are you thinking?' asked Amanda, her eyes darting quickly towards an obviously unhappy Bishop. She had heard around the traps that Logan had ‘adopted' Tony Bishop as his personal legal advisor in recent weeks, a role she had no doubt Tony abhorred but was professionally obligated to, considering his firm had always made – and continued to make – bucketloads by having the Tyler/Logans as clients.

‘A reduction of the charge against J.T. Logan from murder one to murder two and a similar reduction for Chelsea Logan on the charge of accessory before the fact.'

Jesus
, thought Amanda Carmichael,
what kind of defence attorney was this idiot?
It was true that Chelsea Logan faced the same charge and
potential penalty as her brother (that being life without parole), but considering she was not the one who physically ‘pulled off the job', Amanda figured that in the very least Harrison might be asking for the lesser charge of voluntary manslaughter in the case of the sister. But no, Harrison here was handing Carmichael her victory on a silver platter – which made the ADA even angrier given said ‘victory' would not be played out in court.

‘I see,' said a straight-faced Amanda, sure that she had not allowed her thoughts to betray her. ‘And how do your children feel about this, Doctor Logan? I would have thought this discussion would have best been had in their presence.'