Authors: Lisa Scottoline
M
arta only reluctantly skimmed the list of handwritten numbers in Darning’s notebook and half wondered if they represented money or account numbers. There were no patterns she could discern. The police would do better. “Three minutes left, kiddo,” she said, testy at the associate sitting next to her on the futon.
“Four minutes.” Judy hunched over the computer file spread on the coffee table. “You’re right about this file. These are records used to make driver’s licenses. It’s a database, a computer file of driver’s licenses.”
“It doesn’t tell us anything, and I have no idea what the notebook means. It’s a bunch of eight-digit numbers. That’s it. Two minutes and we roll.”
“These numbers are eight digits, too.”
“What numbers?”
“The numbers at the top of each field,” Judy answered, pointing. “The operator’s numbers, from the driver’s licenses.”
Marta looked over. The way the numbers were spaced, she hadn’t noticed. Hmm. “Probably just a coincidence. There are about four thousand records in the computer file. How many numbers are in the notebook?”
Judy looked at Marta in astonishment. “About four thousand. Holy shit,” she said, but Marta tried not to jump to conclusions.
“So there are four thousand numbers in the notebook and four thousand driver’s licenses in the file. We don’t know if there’s a connection.”
“Connection? What connection could there be?”
Marta paused, thinking. “It’s possible that the notebook is related to the file. If the notebook is a list of numbers and each computer record has an operator’s number, then maybe the notebook is a list of the operator’s numbers from the computer file.”
Judy’s eyes widened. “You think they match? Like a copy?”
“Possibly.” Despite her better judgment, Marta felt a jolt of excitement. “If so, we should be able to find each of the operator’s numbers in the notebook. Read me a number from one of the driver’s licenses.”
Judy picked up the top computer page. “
22 746 209
.”
Marta scanned the list of numbers on the first page of the notebook with Judy looking over her shoulder. Two sets of keen eyes raced down the page. “Too bad they’re not listed in any order.” Marta asked, “Do you see it on the first page?”
“Nope.”
“On to the next.” Marta turned the page and they both skimmed the list on the second page. Judy was obviously excited, though Marta was trying not to get carried away with her. It felt strange to work so closely with an associate, and not entirely unpleasant. “See it on page two?”
“Nope.”
“Onward and upward.” They read page three and continued, page after page, until they reached page ten. There, in the middle of the page, sandwiched in the middle of the list on the left, it said:
22746209
“Yes!” Judy shouted in delight. “We figured it out! We’re geniuses.”
Marta laughed. “Oh, yeah? Then what’s it mean, whiz kid?”
“I have no idea. What do you think?”
Marta paused. She considered going to the cops. They were so close. “Give me that sheet. I want to see who number
22746209
is.”
Judy showed her the computer sheet. There was a field of information and a photo of an older white man with a faint smile. “It’s William Swenson. 708 Greentree Court, Philadelphia.”
“Set Mr. Swenson aside and read me another number. Let’s not go off half cocked. We only matched one of them.”
“Okay.
92294593
,” Judy read, then hung on Marta’s shoulder as she thumbed back to page one of the notebook. “Beginning at the beginning, huh?”
“I’m nothing if not methodical.”
“That’s one word for it.”
Marta glanced over her shoulder. “Read, kiddo.” They went down the lists on the first page and the second, and stopped at the list on the fifth page. There it was:
92294593
“Awesome!” Judy almost cheered.
“Totally.”
Judy laughed. “I didn’t know you had a sense of humor.”
“I don’t. Tell me who Mr.
92
is.”
Judy looked at the second driver’s license on the sheet. The face of a middle-aged woman squinted behind bifocals. “She’s Helen Minton of Rhawn Street, in Philly.”
“Set her aside. Check five more, then I’ll believe the theory.”
“I’m sure we’re right.”
“You’re young and impetuous. Now read.”
Judy read Marta another number, which the lawyers found in Darning’s notebook, then four more after that. They found each number in the notebook and set aside each license when they matched it. “Now what?” Judy bubbled when they were finished.
“We call them up.”
“What? Why?”
“To see what we can learn.” Marta checked her watch. Almost one. No time to lose. She picked up the portable phone. “Hand me the first sheet, then get me a phone book. Hurry up.”
“You like to give orders, don’t you?”
“Love it. Get the book.”
Judy reached under the end table for the phone book. “It makes you feel powerful.”
“I am powerful.”
“But people don’t like to be bossed around.”
“Your point is?” Marta asked slyly, and Judy threw the phone book at her.
“Is this the Swenson residence?” Marta asked, with the associate sitting close enough to hear the voice on the telephone receiver. She felt strangely silly, like they were schoolgirls making phony phone calls. In a way, they were.
“This is the Swensons’,” said the woman on the other end of the line.
“May I speak to William Swenson, please?”
“That would be my husband.”
“Is he in?”
“He’s dead. My husband is dead.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t know,” Marta said, caught off-balance, and Judy deflated like a hot air balloon.
“He died in a car accident four years ago. A drunk driver crossed the median.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Thank you. Can I help you with something?”
“No, thank you,” Marta said. “Thanks again for your time.” She pressed down the plastic hook. “Read me the next phone number.”
“Say please.”
“Before the jury gets back.”
“I hear you,” Judy said quickly, and read off the number.
Marta punched in the phone number, albeit in a darker mood. She had to solve this thing and she had to solve it soon. She couldn’t shake the thoughts of Bogosian or Mary. Was there a killer out there now? Waiting? “Is this the Minton residence?” she asked when a young woman picked up.
“Yes.”
“May I speak with Helen Minton?”
“That’s not very funny, you know. You’re a real jerk, whoever you are.”
“Excuse me? What? I have to speak with Helen Minton.”
“No joke?”
“Yes. Absolutely.”
“My mother was murdered,” the woman said with the flatness of deep anger.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Marta said. What was going on here? “I’m very sorry.”
“I thought everybody knew, at least around here. She was killed in the pharmacy during a holdup. The scum who shot her just got to court. Sitting there every day with his fancy lawyer, tryin’ to beat the rap.”
Marta couldn’t ignore the pang she felt. “I’m sorry. Really sorry.”
“Almost four years later, to the day. That animal had four more years than my mother.”
“I’m sorry. I wish you the best. Thanks,” Marta said and hung up quickly. Hadn’t the other woman said four years, too? What did it mean? It seemed too coincidental. Marta was almost there, she could feel it. “Read me the next number. Quick.”
Judy recited the number and Marta punched it in. “Is this the Jacobs residence?”
“Yes,” said a young man’s brusque voice.
Marta braced herself. “May I speak to Sherry Jacobs, please?”
“Nope. Sherry died about four years ago.”
Marta stopped. Four years. Bingo. “I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry. Sherry wasn’t the nicest person in the world. I’m her brother-in-law, take it from me. She used to torture my wife somethin’ awful. ‘You’re too this, you’re too that.’ She could be a real bitch.”
“I see.”
“She left all her money to a dog, can you believe it? Put my wife through the wringer and left two hundred grand to a Welsh corgi. The only good thing she ever did was die and give her body to science. I feel sorry for the schmo who gets her heart. It’s empty.”
“What?”
“Her heart. Sherry was an organ donor. Now what did you say your name was?”
Marta tried another number with a new attitude. “Is this the Walters residence?”
“Yes,” said a woman’s voice. Someone was playing piano in the background. “But I’m giving a lesson now.”
“Just one minute, we’re checking our records. Is it true that one Ronald Walters passed away four years ago?”
“Thereabouts. Yes.”
“Was Mr. Walters an organ donor?”
“Why, yes.”
“Thank you very much,” Marta said and hung up.
C
hristopher’s stomach was killing him. Pain shot through his gut like buckshot. He’d never had cramps like this before. He gulped his coffee but it didn’t help. He wanted to roll over and die.
“Let’s deal with the testimony, friends,” Ralph was saying. He stood at the other end of the conference table and drew in Magic Marker on a wipe-off board on an easel. The thick black lines wiggled before Christopher’s eyes and he blinked to bring it back into focus. It looked like a star or a triangle or something. The lines wouldn’t stay put.
“Ralph, what is that?” Christopher heard himself say. His voice sounded weak, and Megan looked over with a concerned frown.
“You okay, Christopher?” she asked, and he nodded.
“Sure.” It hurt to talk but Christopher didn’t want them to know that. He’d get sent home or kicked off the jury or who knows what would happen. He had to stay here and convince them. “You were saying, Ralph?”
Ralph pointed to the easel with his finger. “It’s a diagram of the carjacking. Point A shows where Steere stopped his Mercedes. Point B is the pillar under the bridge where the carjacker was hiding. The testimony is that this is a distance of five feet at the most. Correct?”
The jurors nodded. Christopher watched their heads bobbing like a herd of horses. He felt so damn sick. He took another swallow of coffee, avoiding Megan’s eye. She really looked worried. Lainie had never looked that worried about him.
“Now,” Ralph continued, “what I’m saying is that if I were the driver of the car and somebody jumped out of the pillar that close at me, I couldn’t even think about what to do. There would be no time, like that Marta Richter showed us.”
“I agree with you, Ralph,” Mrs. Wahlbaum said. “You’d have to react in a split second. You wouldn’t have time to think. You wouldn’t have time to consider your alternatives.”
Christopher struggled through the pain, which was worsening. He wanted to grab his stomach. He was supposed to be convincing the jury to convict Steere.
“You sure as hell wouldn’t,” Ralph said. “Not with a knife at your throat.”
“It’s a natural instinct,” Mrs. Wahlbaum added, nodding her gray head. “Flight or fight. Even animals have it.”
Mr. Fogel smirked. “A zoologist now. Is there anything this woman does not understand? Any area of science, mathematics, or philosophy that she’s not an expert in?”
Mrs. Wahlbaum’s head wheeled around and she finally exploded. “So what do
you
think, buster? Every day for two months I’ve listened to you criticize me. All you do is criticize. You never say one thing for yourself. You’re all negatives and no positives.”
Christopher looked between Mrs. Wahlbaum and Mr. Fogel. Don’t fight, we have to convict, he wanted to say. Don’t be tired. We have time. His gut twisted like a wrung-out rag. He opened his mouth to speak but no sound came out.
Mr. Fogel blinked behind his thick glasses. “You want to know what I think, Miss Know-It-All? I’ll tell you. I’m the expert on just one thing. I’m the expert on
time
. And I, for one, have given enough time to this trial. I have been here seventy-two days, two hours, and” — Mr. Fogel checked his Timex — “twenty-three minutes. The way I see it, that’s too much time!”
Ralph clapped heartily. “Hear hear!”
Support seemed to embolden the watchmaker, who stood up at his seat, tall and straight as an hour hand. “I’m not giving a day more of my time. Not an hour more, not even a
minute
more. I want to go home. I want to drive my own car. I want to talk on my own phone. I want to go into my shop and fix Mrs. Millstein’s clock, which I owe her from September. We listened to the witnesses, the lawyers, and the judge. Now it’s time for them to listen to
us
.” And then Mr. Fogel sat down.
The jurors started applauding, Gussella loudest of all. Megan clapped, too, less enthusiastically because Christopher wasn’t clapping. His face was turning gray and he leaned to the right. “Chris?” she said softly.
Nick’s lower lip began to tremble. “I wish I could see my wife. I want to go home, too.”
Mrs. Wahlbaum patted his suit sleeve. “I miss Abe. He has a hard time all by himself, the shopping and the cooking. It’s his knees.”
“Lord, I got to see my little grandbaby!” Gussella shouted, so loud that Wanthida jumped.
“We all want this over with,” Wanthida said in accented English, “and we think Mr. Steere innocent. We should vote and go home.”
“Not all of us would vote for acquittal,” Ralph said, though he couldn’t have been happier. The war was almost won and he’d taken out the opposing general. The only problem was Kenny Manning. Time to attack, when his enemy was weakest. “Kenny, what do you think? You still would vote to convict?”
“Why wouldn’t I?” Kenny said, cocking his head.
“It’s up to you, friend. I’m the first one to say that we all respect your right to vote however you want. I’m not tryin’ to put pressure on you. If you want to talk about it longer we will. I’m here to tell you that you have a right to satisfaction.”
Christopher saw it all slipping away. Marta. The conviction. Somebody was pounding hoof nails through his stomach. Megan was saying something to him but he replied only with a gurgling sound the jurors didn’t hear. They were all looking down the table at Isaiah, who suddenly cleared his throat and hunched over the table, meeting Kenny’s glare head-on.