Laurie asks if she should check further, but I've got to get my priorities straight. I tell her I need her working full-time on the Miller case, and we agree she'll find Hinton, Willie's lawyer, to get his notes and impressions from the first trial. Meanwhile, I'm going to kill one witness with two stones and have a chat with Victor Markham.
M
Y GUESS
IS THAT VICTOR MARKHAM NEVER GETS LOST
on the way to work. First of all, he no doubt gets into the back seat of a car and says to the chauffeur, “Take me to my office.” But if by some chance he were left to fend for himself, he would just have to look up. There, towering over the office buildings in Paramus, are the huge words “Markham Plaza” emblazoned across the top.
If he got to the underground parking lot and was somehow still unsure that he had reached the right place, he would be reassured as he took a ticket from the machine. A computer-generated female voice would say to him, “Welcome to Markham Plaza. Please take a ticket. Have a good day.”
“Thank you, I will,” I reply graciously when the machine welcomes me. I think that perhaps this particular computer-generated female might have a crush on me, but when I pull into the lot I hear her welcoming the guy in the next car just as warmly. Women.
I take the elevator up to the lobby, which is large enough for the Knicks to play their home games. I enter another elevator, and this time a computer-generated male voice addresses me. “Welcome to Markham Plaza. Please press the floor of your choice.”
“Will do,” I say. “By the way, there's a gal in the parking lot you might like. Short, a little metallic-looking, but a good personality.”
Unfortunately, a couple is getting on the elevator behind me, and they hear my conversation.
I smile lamely at them. “The elevator talks.” Heh, heh.
They don't respond, and we have an uncomfortable ride up, especially for them. They're the ones trapped in an elevator with a lunatic.
The reception area outside Victor's office is nothing short of spectacular. I'm pondering the cost of the paintings on the walls, when I realize that I could probably afford them. I've got to get used to the concept; I am the most nouveau of all the nouveau riche in the country.
Victor's secretary, Eleanor, appears to have a permanent scowl on her face. Clearly her job is to protect Victor, and I doubt that Norman Schwarzkopf could lead a battalion past her without an appointment. Fortunately, I have one, and she buzzes me through.
I enter Victor's office, which makes the reception area look Third World. Victor is at his desk. He's tall, graying at the temples, wearing a three-piece suit which strains slightly to contain his rather bulky midsection. I don't think I've ever sat at my desk without taking off my jacket, but there's Victor wearing all three pieces, sitting back in his deep leather chair, staring out at the world as if he hasn't got a care in it. And there's really no reason that he should.
“Mr. Markham, my name is Andy Carp—”
He cuts me off. “I know who you are. I'm sorry about your father. Good man.”
“Yes, I wanted to talk—”
He does it again. “You wanted to talk about that killer.” He means Willie Miller, but I doubt he even knows his name. “I won't help you with that,” he goes on. “You shouldn't have gotten a new trial. It's a waste of taxpayer money. End of discussion.”
Since this hasn't really been a discussion, I consider his announcement of its ending to be premature. “Actually, I thought that since—”
And again. “Since I have influence, and since the victim was my son's girlfriend, I could talk to the governor, get that scum's sentence reduced to life in prison. Forget it. As I said, end of discussion.”
This is getting annoying. “I like beer,” I say quickly.
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” he demands.
“Nothing. I just wanted to see if I could get in one complete sentence without you interrupting, and ‘I like beer’ was the quickest sentence I could think of.”
This is the point where the gruff, overpowering type usually laughs grudgingly and warms up. Victor, unfortunately, doesn't seem to be familiar with that stereotype. He looks at me with the same respect he would a roach that he just found in his Rice Krispies.
“You're as big a wiseass as I've heard.”
“Thank you very much.” That's my second sentence in a row, so I'm feeling pretty chipper.
“What do you want? I'm a busy man.”
I had been planning to talk to him about the Miller case, but he's made it clear that the only way I'll get any answers about that is to take his deposition under oath. I smoothly switch to plan B, taking out the photograph and laying it on his desk. “I was curious about when and where this picture was taken.”
For the first time, I see a human reaction. I can't tell what it is, maybe a gas pain, but something has gotten through his outer crust. A moment later it's gone, and he's back in control.
“Where did you get that?”
“My father had it.”
“Who are those people?”
“The second one from the left is you.”
He shakes his head a little too hard, and doesn't bother to look at the photo again. “That's not me.”
I'm surprised, because it is clearly him. “You're saying it's not you? That's the position you're taking?”
This annoys him; human reactions are rapidly becoming commonplace to Victor Markham. “Position? I don't have to take a position. It's not me.”
“Did you know my father back around … oh, thirty-five years ago?”
“No. Now if that's all, my girl will show you out.”
“Your girl is older than you are.”
He is already on his intercom, calling for Eleanor.
I keep at him. “Why are you so upset that I have this picture of you?” I look at the picture again and then at Victor. “Maybe it's because you've had a few snacks since then.”
He doesn't answer, pretending to no longer be paying attention. The door opens and the ominous Eleanor arrives. I can either follow her out the door or she'll throw me through the glass wall.
“By the way, Victor. I will be deposing you about the McGregor killing. You can do it the easy way, or I can get a subpoena. Let me know.”
I wink at Eleanor and keep talking to Victor. “Have your girl call my girl.”
I go downstairs, taking out my annoyance on Victor by refusing to converse with the elevator. I call my office from a pay phone in the lobby, catching my girl, Edna, with her mouth full, and I wait while she swallows to get my messages.
“Mr. Calhoun from a company named Allied called. He says it's about your car.”
I'm terrible paying bills; they sit on my desk until collection agencies call with reminders.
“Forget it. He's from a collection agency. I'll take care of it later.”
“My cousin Shirley's husband, Bruce, worked for a collection agency. He could tell you—”
I interrupt her. “Edna, did anyone else call?”
“Cal Morris.”
“Who?”
“Cal Morris from the newsstand. He said if you don't recognize his name, I should tell you that they're hanging really low today.”
Cal has never called me before; I didn't even realize he knew my full name. “Did he say what he wanted?”
“He wouldn't tell me,” Edna says, “but he said it was urgent, and he sounded really upset.”
I stop off at the newsstand on the way back, and sure enough, Cal has been anxiously waiting for me to contact him. He closes up the stand and takes me to the diner next door for a cup of coffee. We sit at a booth, and he lets it spill out.
“It's my daughter, Andy. She's been arrested. You got to get her off, there's no way she could have done this.”
“Take it easy, Cal. Start at the beginning.”
Cal doesn't know much, just that his only daughter, Wanda, has been arrested on prostitution charges. She's only sixteen, and until today Cal has assumed she's a virgin. In fact, he still does.
Cal knows that I have contacts in the local justice system. He is desperate, and he offers to pay me whatever it will take. Since money is not my biggest problem these days, I shrug it off, mumbling something about free newspapers and magazines. I don't mean it, though, since paying for the papers is part of my superstition.
I've got about an hour before I'm supposed to meet with Laurie, so I tell Cal that I'll stop off at the police station and see what I can do. He's so grateful I think he's going to cry, and it makes me feel good to be able to help. That's if I'm able to help.
I go down to the station and am lucky enough to run into Pete Stanton. Not only is Pete a pretty good friend of mine (we play racquetball together), but he is a lieutenant, and he owes me a favor. That doesn't mean he won't give me a hard time, it just means he'll eventually give in.
By a coincidence, Pete was the detective originally assigned to the Willie Miller case, and he ran the investigation. He assumes that is what I'm here to see him about, and is surprised when I tell him about Cal's daughter, Wanda.
Though Pete does not have anything to do with Wanda's case, he tracks down her file and looks through it. I tell him that Wanda Morris is a troubled kid, but after a quick read he dismisses her as a hooker.
I correct him. “An alleged hooker.”
“Who do I look like?” he sneers. “John Q. Jury? She allegedly propositioned a cop. Vice has allegedly got it on tape.”
“An obvious case of entrapment.”
Pete laughs and shows me his nameplate on his desk. He points to the word “Lieutenant.” “See that?” he says. “That means I'm hot shit around here.”
I nod. “You're a goddamn legend, a combination J. Edgar Hoover and Eliot Ness. Which means you spend your time walking around in a dress looking for alcohol.”
He ignores that. “Come on, Andy, why are you talking to me about a hooker? I deal in big stuff, like homicides. If this hooker screws a guy to death, come talk to me.”
“You owe me.” I didn't want to have to use my ace this early in the conversation, but I don't want to be late again for my meeting with Laurie. I represented Pete's brother on a drug charge in a nearby town. I got him off and kept Pete's name out of it. His brother is doing well now, turned his life around, and Pete remembers. Pete's the type who will remember it until the day he dies, and maybe even a few years afterward.
That doesn't mean he'll cave easily. “You calling in your chit on this? A hooker case? You know as well as I do she'll be back on the street in a day anyway.”
“Her father's my friend.”
Pete nods; no more explanation is necessary. Pete is a guy who understands friendship.
“I'll call McGinley,” he says. “I'll get him to plead it out to probation. She stays clean and it comes off her record.”
“Thanks. Now, on to more important business.”
He's surprised. “There's more? You got another friend whose kid is a bank robber? Or an arsonist? Why don't you just give me a list of your friends and we won't arrest anybody with those last names?”
I haven't met the sarcasm that can stop me, so I push on. “What do you know about Victor Markham?”
“He's a rich scumbag.” He reflects for a moment. “That might be redundant.”
As a rich person, I'm offended, but I don't show it. “What did Markham have to do with the Miller case?”
“You want me to tell you what you already know? The victim was his son's girlfriend. They were out together when it happened.”
“Were you aware of any special connection between Victor Markham and my father?”
Pete shows me a flash of anger. “Your father did not have special connections. Except to the truth.”
“Don't you think I know that?”
He nods. “Yeah, of course you do. Sorry.”
I wait for him to continue, to tell me what he knows. I don't have to wait long.
“Markham's son, Edward, was a loose cannon,” he says. “I had the feeling that Victor was pulling his strings, like he was worried what the kid might say or do on his own. No big deal, just a feeling I had.”
I take this very seriously. Pete is an outstanding cop; there are a lot of people making license plates and saying “Pass the soap, Bubba” in the shower because of feelings Pete has had.
“Where's Edward now?” I ask.
“He works for his daddy. Big job.”
I nod. “He must interview really well.”
I thank Pete and leave, stopping off at the newsstand on the way back to the office. I tell Cal that Wanda is to be in court three days from now, and if she behaves everything will be fine. For now. Cal is so grateful I think he's going to cry or, even worse, hug me. But since deep emotion is not really a part of our relationship, I'm glad when he doesn't.
I get to the office early, and Laurie hasn't yet arrived. I get a message from Richard Wallace, a Deputy District Attorney. Wallace is the best lawyer the department has to offer; if he is the one handling the Miller trial, an impossible job just got tougher.
Wallace is friendly when I call him; he and I have established a good working relationship over the years. Of course, he can afford to be nice; he's beaten me two of the three trials in which we've gone against each other. And I don't get the feeling he's too worried about this one.
The other factor that leads to us having a good rapport is that he used to work for my father, who was the District Attorney and head of the department. My father was a mentor to Wallace, and they shared a mutual respect. Some of that has transferred to me.
Basically the call is to discuss discovery, that process during which both sides turn over their evidence in advance, so that the other side is not ambushed and has time to prepare. It's not as big a deal in this case for two reasons. We already have everything that came out at the first trial, so there's not much for them to give us. And we've got nothing whatsoever to give them.
Richard informs me that additional DNA tests are being taken from the skin under Denise's fingernails, so as to more closely link Willie to the crime than the technology at the time of the murder was able to accomplish. Our response will be to attack the evidence as unreliable and incompetently gathered, but the problem is it isn't and it wasn't. I make a note to think about getting our own expert to refute what they are going to say.
“When will you have the results?” I ask.
“Just in time for opening statements.”
“Why is Hatchet rushing this?”
I can hear him shrug over the phone. “You know Hatchet. He's not a big fan of technicality appeals. This is probably his way of showing it. I asked for more time myself; it's screwing up my vacation.”