Read Sleight of Hand: A Novel of Suspense (Dana Cutler) Online
Authors: Phillip Margolin
Santoro and Robb got out of the elevator and spotted the nurses’ station. A heavyset brunette was on the phone, reading from a medical chart, when they walked up. The detectives held up their identification and the woman held up her hand as she continued to talk.
“How can I help you?” the nurse asked as soon as she hung up the phone.
“We want to speak to a patient.”
“What’s the patient’s name?”
“Gregor Karpinski.”
The nurse had started to look at a white board with room numbers and patient names, but she stopped.
“Mr. Karpinski passed away last night.”
“He’s dead?” Santoro said.
The nurse nodded.
“How did he die?”
“I don’t know. I wasn’t on duty.”
“Is there someone we can speak to?”
“Dr. Raptis was here. Let me see if he’s available.”
Santoro and Robb walked far enough away from the nurse’s station so they could talk without being overheard.
“What do you think?” Robb asked.
“I don’t know. From what I heard, he was in pretty bad shape, stab wounds to the groin, head trauma.”
Before Robb could reply a young man in a white coat walked up to the nurses’ station. He was short and slender, and his long black hair looked as if it had been finger-combed. Santoro guessed he was in his late twenties. The nurse pointed to the detectives. The doctor’s glasses had slipped down his nose and he pushed them up as he walked over.
“Hi, I’m Dave Raptis. Nurse Arlen said you wanted to know about Gregor Karpinski.”
“He is—I guess ‘was’ is more appropriate—a witness in a case we’re investigating,” Santoro said. “We came up here hoping to talk to him, but the nurse told us he died last night.”
“That’s right. He passed away about three in the morning.”
“Was Mr. Karpinski your patient?” Robb asked.
“Dr. Samuels did the surgery. I’d looked in on him a few times since he was admitted.”
“Was his death a surprise?” Robb asked.
“Actually, it was.”
“Why is that?” Santoro asked.
“He died of cardiac arrest.”
“Why was that surprising? I thought he was in pretty bad shape.”
“Oh, he was, but the damage he suffered was to his genitals and head. There was nothing wrong with his heart.”
“Was there anything suspicious about the death? Anything that would make you suspect that he was murdered?”
“Murdered?”
“Mr. Karpinski was a witness in a murder case. His death could benefit some people. Can you think of anything that would help us figure out whether he died from natural or unnatural causes?”
The doctor looked concerned. “Gee, I don’t know. He had died by the time I got to his room. It never occurred to me that he might have been murdered, so I wasn’t looking for anything like that.”
The detectives talked with Dr. Raptis a little longer before they headed for the elevator. Santoro got his cell phone out and speed-dialed the medical examiner’s office while they waited for the car to come. After he spoke to Nick Winters, Santoro called Dana Cutler and told her that another avenue for proving that Charles Benedict had killed Carrie Blair had been closed.
At 10:30 a.m. The Scene was deserted except for a handful of alcoholics who were nursing drinks at the bar. Peter Perkovic found his boss going over the books in the back office. Orlansky looked up when Perkovic walked in. Perkovic looked upset.
“What happened?” Orlansky asked.
“Gregor is dead.”
“How did he die?”
“They’re saying cardiac arrest, but I saw his chart when I went to the hospital. There was nothing wrong with his heart.”
“So?”
“There are ways. An injection of potassium would be my choice.”
“There will be an autopsy?”
Perkovic nodded.
“Can you get the results?”
“Of course, but potassium poisoning is virtually undetectable.”
Orlansky stared into space and Perkovic waited patiently. Orlansky came back to Earth.
“Charlie?” he asked.
“A dead Gregor cannot talk to the police. And Charlie would know that it would upset you to learn that he told Gregor you had said it was okay to threaten this woman.”
“I agree. Talk to me as soon as you know the results of the autopsy.”
One look at his waiting area and a potential client would know that hiring Bobby Schatz was going to be an expensive proposition. The magazines on the end tables focused on life in the Hamptons, Saint Croix, and Biarritz. Elegant sofas stood on either side of a Persian carpet that was laid across a polished hardwood floor, and the lawyer’s receptionist, who was so stunning that she could grace the cover of
Vogue
without makeup, was positioned behind a handcrafted mahogany desk.
The first and only time Dana had worked with Schatz, the capital’s preeminent criminal attorney had hired her to assist in the defense of an American-born terrorist who had tried to blow up the football stadium where the Washington Redskins play. The relationship had ended under strange and unpleasant circumstances.
“May I help you?” the receptionist asked in a friendly voice that betrayed none of the disdain she may have felt for a woman wearing jeans, shades, and a motorcycle jacket. Schatz had stopped representing biker gangs and other lowlifes long ago. Nowadays, the defendants he escorted to court were disgraced hedge-fund managers and nattily dressed political perverts.
“Tell Bobby that Dana Cutler wants a moment of his valuable time.”
“Do you have an appointment?”
“No, and I don’t need one. Just tell him who’s in the waiting room.”
The receptionist hesitated, but something about Dana made her reconsider. She pressed a button and conveyed the message.
“He’ll see you,” she told Dana. The woman started to get up but Dana motioned her to stay seated.
“Bobby and I are old friends. I know the way to his inner sanctum.”
Dana walked down a narrow hall, past offices staffed by the attorney’s associates, then stopped in the doorway of a large corner office decorated with expensive art and photographs of Bobby with the rich and famous. Sitting behind a desk the size of an aircraft carrier was a thickset man with slicked-back dyed black hair who was dressed in an elegant gray pinstripe suit. A red polka-dot bow tie was secured under the collar of a white silk shirt, and a silk handkerchief poked out of the pocket beneath the jacket’s left lapel.
Schatz remembered his last meeting with Dana. “Do I need to call security?” he asked, only half kidding.
“No, Bobby. I’m not going to shoot you—at least not today.”
“That’s a relief.”
Dana sat in a high-backed armchair and took in the view of the Capitol dome.
“You’re still doing well,” she remarked.
Schatz shrugged. “I get by.”
“You’d do even better if Horace Blair was a client.”
“Once was enough, thank you,” Bobby answered.
“You two have a history?”
“Ten years ago, I had the displeasure of representing Horace when he was charged with drunk driving.”
“That’s right! Wasn’t that the trial where he met Carrie Blair?”
Schatz nodded.
“What was the problem?”
“My client. Carrie Blair was the prosecutor and she had one witness, the arresting officer. I made mincemeat of him during cross. If we’d rested without putting on any witnesses we would have won, but it was love at first sight for Horace and he insisted on testifying so he could make gooey eyes at Carrie.”
Schatz shook his head in disgust. “I did everything I could to talk him out of taking the stand, but he blew me off. Then he confessed during cross-examination, just to impress Carrie. I would have smacked my head against the counsel table but it would have been unseemly.”
“I thought defense attorneys were supposed to put the interest of their clients first,” Dana said with the hint of a smile.
Even ten years later, Schatz did not appear to see the humor in the situation.
“I don’t like to lose. Ever. In any event, I don’t see how I can represent Horace. Charlie Benedict is representing him.”
“That’s true, but he shouldn’t be Blair’s lawyer. You should.”
“What’s your interest in Blair?”
“I think he’s being framed and I want you to help me prove it.”
Schatz leaned back in his chair, steepled his fingers, and studied Dana.
“Who do you think is framing him?”
“Charlie Benedict.”
“Now you’ve got my attention.”
“Bobby, how much do you know about the Ottoman Empire?”
Schatz listened intently as Dana told him about her quest for the scepter and all that had followed.
“That’s some story,” Schatz said when she was finished.
“That it is. What do you think of it?”
“I think you’ve convinced me that Horace is innocent and Benedict might be guilty. But how do you intend to prove he’s innocent with Benedict as his lawyer?”
“The key to this case is—if you’ll pardon the pun—the key with Blair’s fingerprints that the police found in Carrie’s grave. If Benedict killed Carrie Blair, he had to get hold of it before he buried her, but I don’t know if he had an opportunity to do that. What I do have is a plan that will let me find out. And the first step in that plan will be to get Horace Blair to fire Charles Benedict and hire you.”
“How are you going to do that?”
“By meeting with Horace Blair and convincing him that his attorney is trying to frame him. To do that, I have to talk to Jack Pratt, his civil attorney, the other lawyer who is allowed to meet with Blair. Do you know him well enough to set up a meeting?”
“Thanks for coming over, Charlie,” Rick Hamada said.
“It’s always a pleasure, Rick,” Benedict answered as he took a seat across the desk from the prosecutor. “So, what’s the reason for this get-together?”
“The Blair case. You have no idea how much shit has been raining down on me since we arrested your client.”
Benedict smiled. “Oh, I think I have a small idea.”
Hamada didn’t return the smile. “Yeah, you probably do. You probably engineered the calls from the governor, the mayor, and every other politician in Virginia and the District of Columbia who gets money from Blair.”
“Not me,” Benedict protested. “I don’t run in those circles.”
“Then it’s probably Jack Pratt doing your dirty work for you.”
Benedict shrugged. “If he is, he’s doing it without my knowledge. And I’m sorry you’re getting annoying calls, but you still haven’t told me why I’m here.”
Hamada’s cheeks puffed up. Then he expelled the air he was holding.
“I’ve been ordered to offer Mr. Blair a deal. This wasn’t my idea. I think I’ve got a pretty good case. If I could get my hands on a copy of the prenuptial agreement I’d have an airtight case, but I can’t. Mancuso is worried that we won’t be able to prove a motive without the prenup, and our only evidence about the contents comes from Barry Lester. Mancuso is nervous about using a scumbag like Lester to convict a person as prominent as your client. Personally, I think Lester will hold up, but I’m not the big boss. I just work here.”
“What’s the offer?”
“Blair pleads to manslaughter and we drop the murder charge. I told Mancuso he’s making a mistake, but I’m not the only person getting nasty calls.”
“Interesting.”
“It’s better than interesting, Charlie. It’s a fucking fire sale as far as I’m concerned.”
“I’ll take the offer to my client and see what he thinks.”
“Get back to me. All I can give you is two days. Then the deal is off the table.”
The two lawyers talked a little longer, then Benedict left. As soon as the door closed behind Blair’s attorney, Hamada phoned Frank Santoro.
“He just left,” Hamada said.
“How do you think it went?” the detective asked.
“I have no idea.”
“But you got him thinking about the prenup?”
“Yeah, I played it up big. Now we just have to wait to see if your plan works.”
“Absolutely not!” Horace Blair said.
“At least think about the offer. Hamada hasn’t decided whether he’ll ask for the death penalty. Even if he doesn’t, you’re still looking at a possible life sentence as opposed to ten years. And, with your connections, you’d probably be out on parole at the first opportunity.”
Every muscle in Blair’s face tightened. He leaned toward Benedict, his face scarlet with anger.
“Let me make myself perfectly clear. I did not kill my wife. I am innocent and I will not plead guilty to anything, not even if Hamada offers me a jay-walking charge. Do you get that?”
Benedict held up his hands in a conciliatory gesture. “Hey, Horace, ease up. I’m on your side. I believe you’re innocent one hundred percent, but I have a duty as your attorney to bring you any offer a prosecutor makes. I’d be disbarred if I didn’t.”
“Then you’ve done your duty and we will have no reason to ever discuss a plea again.”
“I’ll tell Hamada.”
Blair was still angry when the guard escorted him back to his cell. Benedict was just disappointed. He had a pretty good fix on Blair’s personality and he had not expected the millionaire to take the offer, but he had held out hope that he might. If Horace had pled, Benedict’s life would have become much simpler. Oh, well, life was like that. Sometimes it didn’t hand you an easy solution to your problems on a silver platter.
Horace Blair looked terrible. His hair was snarled and he was unshaven. There were dark circles under his eyes. The night before, the guards had placed an insane person in isolation and the man had howled like a dog for several hours before running out of steam. To make matters worse, the other inmates had added to the din by screaming at the lunatic and the guards. Horace had pressed his pillow over his ears, but his attempts to block out the manic baying and the angry shouts had failed, and he was exhausted.
Horace was used to being on the go constantly, so he found surviving the empty hours that comprised most of his day in jail very difficult. He could not help spending a lot of his idle time thinking about his case. When he could not sleep he found himself mulling over the evidence that had landed him in jail. Much of it made no sense. There were all these anonymous tips. There was the gun, which he had never seen until Frank Santoro held it up in front of his eyes. There was the other evidence the police had found in the trunk of his car. And Barry Lester! How had that little weasel learned the terms of his prenuptial agreement and the location of Carrie’s grave? But what bothered him the most was that damn key with his prints on it. How had a key to his front door found its way into Carrie’s grave?
Horace was trying to solve these seemingly impossible problems when the door to his cell opened.
“You have visitors,” the guard said.
Horace was eager for any change in his mind-numbing routine. The guard led him to a contact visiting room. He assumed that his visitor would be Charles Benedict. Instead he found Jack Pratt waiting for him.
“How are you holding up?” Pratt asked with genuine concern.
“How do you think?” Horace answered angrily. “I can’t sleep, I get no exercise, the food is inedible, and I’m facing the possibility that I may be executed for a crime I never committed. Not to mention the fact that the businesses I’ve cultivated all my life are swirling down the toilet.”
“Don’t worry about business. The people you’ve put in place are doing a great job.”
Suddenly all of the anger drained out of Blair. He looked like a beaten man.
“I don’t know how I’m going to get by in here. I’m going crazy.”
“You have to stay positive, Horace. You can’t let this thing beat you. And right now you’ve got to focus. We have something very urgent to discuss.”
Blair looked up.
“You have to change attorneys. You’re making a big mistake by having Benedict as your lawyer.”
“Why? What have you learned?”
“Very little that’s good and a lot that is very bad,” Pratt replied. “Even if I didn’t know what I’ve learned recently I’d be urging you to drop Benedict. He’s out of his depth with a case like this. He has handled a few murder cases but only one went to trial. Most of his caseload involves narcotics and prostitution. He’s had some success with those cases, but a friend in the commonwealth attorney’s office told me that there’s something fishy about the way some of his victories were achieved.”
“Such as?”
“Nikolai Orlansky is a mobster, Russian Mafia. A lot of Benedict’s business comes from him, and a lot of those cases have been dismissed because of missing witnesses or evidence, not because of anything Benedict has done. Basically he’s a lightweight, a .250 hitter. You need a big bat in your corner, Horace. You need to get rid of this guy. Especially after the way he fucked up your bail hearing.”
“What do you mean?”
“In court a witness can’t testify to what another person has told him if the testimony is introduced to prove the truth of the statement. That’s the hearsay rule. For example, if you’re my witness and I ask you where the sun rises, you can’t say, ‘I don’t know, but Joe told me it rises in the east.’
“But there are exceptions to the hearsay rule. A witness
can
testify about something someone told him if a lawyer ‘opens the door’ by asking a question that invites the witness to testify to what someone else has told him.
“Benedict killed your chances for bail when he asked Detective Santoro questions that let Santoro testify about everything Barry Lester told him about the prenup and your supposed confession. That was an amateur mistake no decent lawyer would ever make.”
Blair looked crushed.
“Don’t beat yourself up for hiring Benedict,” Pratt said. “You didn’t have a lot of time to think after you were arrested and you trusted him because he gave you the DVD and didn’t ask for anything in return.”
Pratt paused. “Horace, we go back a long way, and you know I’m your friend as well as your attorney. Do you believe you can trust me?”
“Of course.”
“I’m going to tell you something that is going to be tough to hear. There’s another reason you have to get rid of Benedict. There’s a good possibility that he did not make a mistake at the bail hearing. He may have acted intentionally so you wouldn’t get bail.”
“What are you talking about?”
“There is someone waiting outside I want you to meet. Dana Cutler is a private investigator who knows more about your case than anyone else. She’s convinced me that Charles Benedict murdered Carrie and has been framing you for her murder from the start.”
Horace listened to Dana’s tale of her quest for a mythical golden scepter and the trail of clues that led her to the conclusion that Charles Benedict killed Carrie and framed him for her murder.
“There’s one piece of this puzzle I can’t solve,” Dana concluded. “If Benedict murdered your wife and is behind this frame, he had to get your front-door key. Did he have an opportunity to do that before the body was discovered?”
Horace looked completely defeated. “I’ve been a fool,” he said so softly that Dana had to strain to hear him.
“Benedict is a brilliant criminal,” Pratt said. “We’d all have fallen for his tricks.”
“I certainly did, and I know exactly how he got the key.”
Horace told Dana and Pratt about Benedict’s demonstration with the keys at his home on the evening he brought over the DVD.
“Do you remember telling me that you had seen Benedict perform magic at a Bar Association awards dinner, Jack?”
Pratt nodded.
“I know very little about magic but I imagine that a magician would have little trouble swapping my house key for a look-alike that would not open my front door.
“And the evidence in the trunk of my Bentley. The trunk was locked and there was no sign that it had been forced open, but Carrie had a key to the Bentley. After he murdered Carrie, Benedict could have made a copy and used the key to get into the trunk.”
“That must be it,” Pratt said. “But, unfortunately, this is all guesswork. However, Dana has a plan.”
Horace looked at the investigator. For the first time in a long while Horace Blair thought he might be saved.
“If I’ve learned one thing about Benedict,” Dana said, “it’s that he’s very, very smart. I have theories about every step he’s taken to frame you but I can’t prove any of them because Benedict dots every I and crosses every T. And that’s what’s going to trip him up.”