Tess put on her best captivate-the-jury smile and threaded her way through barber chairs and heat lamps and dryers. “It’s not about my hair.”
Woody shot her head a look. “Really.”
“My name’s Tess diAngeli. I’m with the Justice Department.” She sensed ears turning their way, voices under hair dryers suddenly falling silent. “Could I just have a word with you?”
Woody stepped to the sink and rinsed his gloves.
Tess waited for him to towel his forearms dry. “It’s about one of your clients.” She lowered her voice. “Kyra Talbot.”
He looked puzzled and a little alarmed. “You’re the second inquiry. What kind of trouble is she in?”
“Possibly no trouble at all. But did you do her hair last Saturday?”
“I want to know when Kyra Talbot is in her room and when she’s not.” Tess diAngeli’s voice, explanatory and commonsensical, spread out like a soft light under the dropped ceiling of room 1819. “When she is, I want to know if she’s alone or with her roommate. If someone else is with her, I want to know who that person is. We have no video on 1818, but this afternoon we installed mikes in the bedroom and bathroom, so you’re going to have to listen for her door. When you hear someone coming out, open the door to the corridor a crack—repeat, a crack—and look. She doesn’t pass this room to get to the elevator, so chances are she won’t be looking in this direction. But play it safe; don’t be obvious.”
In one of the armchairs Brad Chambers sat, face fixed in an attentive frown. In the other chair, a young woman with eyeglasses and brown hair was taking notes.
“When she’s not in her room, I want to know where she goes and who she meets. Even if it’s just downstairs to get a pack of cigarettes. It had better not be anywhere else, but she’s slipped through security before and it could happen again. It’s not your job to prevent her slipping away, it’s your job to know where she goes.”
Brad Chambers nodded.
“Kyra Talbot is going to be less attentive to a woman following her,” Tess said, “so Angie …”
The young woman looked up.
“You do the following. If you believe she’s noticed you or is getting suspicious, then Brad will take over. But, Brad, if you’re following, wear your contacts. She’s seen your glasses in court.”
Anne moved aside a bedroom curtain and squinted out into the darkness. Night had swallowed up the details of the skyline, but the silhouette was still there, etched in light reflected from low clouds.
She took the cellular phone into the bathroom, opened the faucets, and dialed Mark. “Hi—it’s me. Any news?”
“Nothing yet.”
“Oh, Christ.”
“Don’t worry … we’re going to find them—alive and safe.”
His tone of voice was such an obvious lie that she wanted to hurl the phone against the wall.
“Mark, do me a favor.
Don’t
cheer me up. It reminds me of my father.”
“Well,” he said. “How’s the trial?”
“Today a little girl testified. She said Corey forced her to wear a belt loaded with plastic explosives. And made her go to Internal Revenue to blow the office up.”
“It was on the news,” Mark said. “The belt malfunctioned and she wound up with burns over a quarter of her body.”
His matter-of-factness brought home to Anne how quickly real-life horror lost its sting. The media turned it into a TV movie. All that was missing was the table for your stockinged feet and the box of munchies from the local deli.
“I’m surprised that testimony was allowed. Corey isn’t charged with causing the child’s injuries. What’s more, a grand jury heard Lisa Lopez’s evidence and refused to indict him.”
“Are you arguing
for
him?” Anne said.
“Just playing devil’s advocate.”
“This isn’t play, Mark. Toby’s missing and Corey has harmed children.”
“Possibly.”
“And a psychiatrist said Corey hypnotized Mickey Williams to commit the murders.”
“And do you believe that?”
“I don’t know. But the government’s making a good case that Corey Lyle’s a monster. And if we don’t find Toby, I’m going to have to argue for Lyle’s release.”
“
We’re going to find Toby
. So stop worrying.”
The cellular phone, balanced on the edge of the sink, gave a soft ring. Catch Talbot climbed out of the tub, wrapped himself in a towel, and lifted the receiver. “Hello?”
“Catch?” He recognized the voice of Peggy Cedilla, his secretary at Gurney and Gurney in Seattle. She still had that head cold and she sounded agitated.
“Peggy—what’s the matter?”
“You had a call from your broker. The Canadian mine shares you bought on margin—they’re still going down. He had to sell.”
Catch had a sense that just when the bottom of his life had dropped out, just when he’d hit rock bottom, rock bottom was dropping out too. “So much for hot insider tips on gold stocks. Where does that leave me?”
“A quarter million in the hole. Or a half, if you count Jake de Clairville. He’s been phoning. He says he never authorized you to put any part of the estate into mine shares.”
“Never authorized? That’s nuts. Only five weeks ago we had a long phone talk about it. He was crazy about the idea.”
“I can’t find any paper on it. Jake wants you to make good the loss. Or he’s going to sue.”
A kind of slow astonishment pulled at Catch. Pacing with the phone from strange bathroom to strange bedroom, still drowsy from his half-hour soak, he felt he’d floated into a nightmare. “If I had any sense, I’d probably put a bullet through my brain.”
“You’re not serious.”
“No. I don’t have a gun.” He sat on the edge of the strange bed. Beyond gray-curtained windows, skyscrapers glowed against the night. “Did I remember to stop my MasterCard?”
“I stopped it Monday, remember?”
“I’m losing my short-term memory.”
“You’re under a lot of stress.”
“I wonder if I’m going crazy.”
“You’re the sanest man I know. Tell me what’s happening in New York.”
“The police suggested I check hospitals to see if Toby turned up. So I’ve been checking.”
“And?”
“I think the police followed me.”
“What makes you think that?”
“I kept seeing the same man. I think he was in the precinct.”
“You could be imagining. You’re under a lot of stress.”
“Possibly.” He always said
possibly
when he didn’t feel up to a discussion with Peggy.
“What did you find in the hospitals?”
“Nothing.”
“Catch, far be it from me to speak out of turn, but …”
“But what?”
“Maybe I shouldn’t say this.”
“Say it.”
“Have you considered the possibility that maybe your ex is behind this?”
“Kyra’s been on a sequestered jury since last Wednesday. Toby vanished Saturday. And it was a man who picked him up.”
“Then she’s got a male accomplice. I don’t trust that woman. Just speaking to her on the phone, she’s devious.”
“I don’t know,” Catch sighed. “I’ll give it some thought.”
“I wish I were there right now to rub your back.”
“Mmm. Me too.”
“Get some sleep. Things will look better tomorrow. I love you.”
“Me too. G’night.”
Cardozo set his coffee down on the desk and tapped Tess diAngeli’s number into the phone.
“DiAngeli.” She sounded rushed and irritable.
“Tess—Vince. I stopped by Mickey’s apartment on West Twelfth. Thought you’d be interested—he hasn’t lived there for over a month. He’s rigged up an answering machine that forwards his calls somewhere else.”
He could hear shock in her silence.
And then, in her most unflappable courtroom voice, “Dumb of him to play games with the feds. But I can’t think of any New York law he’d be breaking.”
“I can think of a few possibilities. Like kidnapping and murder. By the way, when does he testify?”
There was an instant’s hesitation. “What are you planning to do?”
“Relax. I just want to catch his act.”
“He testifies tomorrow morning. But, Vince—don’t try anything tricky.”
“Tricky?”
“Like arresting him. Because you’ll be going up against the federal government. You’ll lose your job, your pension, and maybe a few other things too.”
Today Mickey’s guard answered. “Security.”
“Rick? It’s Tess. You were out of the mobile-phone service area yesterday.”
“Mickey went to Jersey. Withersoever Mickey goeth—”
“I want to see the surveillance log.”
“Sorry.”
“What do you mean, ‘sorry’?”
“The contents are federal property. The feds say I can’t even discuss them with you.”
“For God’s sake.” She broke the connection and tapped in another number. “Foster—it’s Tess.”
“Yes, my dear?”
“Since when am I not allowed to see the surveillance log on my own witness?”
“It’s inconvenient, I know, but that’s the way we do things at Justice. Stop worrying. I gave you my word of honor.”
She sensed something badly askew. “Words of honor are no use to me. Not even yours. Unless you’re willing to take the stand.”
His voice was suddenly as flat as a knife blade. “What do you need?”
“I need to know what’s in that log.”
“You’ll have it tomorrow.”
THIRTY-SIX
Thursday, September 26
Eighth day of trial
First day of deliberation
9:35
A.M.
C
ARDOZO FLASHED HIS SHIELD
and the armed guard waved him through the metal detector into the courtroom. Most of the benches were already crammed with chattering spectators. He saw an empty place and made a beeline to grab it.
Just as he sat, there was a flurry of movement at the front of the court. The jury filed into the jury box.
Cardozo knew Kyra Talbot was number 10 and he knew number 10 would be sitting in the second row toward the right. Still, when his eye found her, he felt a jolt.
I know her.
He remembered a conversation in the elevator and a woman who had been friendly and funny and a little bit crazy. And who got attacked by a Coreyite picketer the next day. And who didn’t remember him when he came to her aid.
Today, with her eyes cast downward, there was nothing friendly or funny about her. Fidgeting and biting her lips, she seemed antsy and preoccupied.
The bailiff strode forward. “All rise. The Supreme Court of the Southern District of New York, Judge Gina Bernheim presiding, is in session.”
“I’ve completed my review of Yolanda Lopez’s interviews by the police and by the assistant district attorney.” Judge Bernheim’s granite-solemn gaze swept the courtroom. “I’ve also reviewed Ms. diAngeli’s notes and audiotapes. I find no mention in any of that material that a man identifying himself as John Briar answered the phone when Sergeant Bailey called the apartment.”
At the defense table, Dotson Elihu seized a pen and made a stabbing notation on a legal pad.
“I’m satisfied that the first time Ms. Lopez communicated this information to the prosecution was last Tuesday, in this court. I’m therefore ruling that the prosecutor complied fully with the law. The People may call their next witness.”
“The People,” Tess diAngeli said, “call Mickey Williams.”
Dotson Elihu shot to his feet. “Your Honor, we notified the People of our intention to call this witness. But Mickey Williams is in the federal witness relocation program, and he has been unavailable to us.”
Judge Bernheim’s eyes flicked to Tess diAngeli.
“Your Honor, that’s false. We offered to let Mr. Elihu deal with Mickey Williams on exactly the same basis as the People dealt with him—by secure fax forwarding through an automatic shunt.”
“Your Honor,” Elihu protested, “we attempted to do just that, and all we could get was an officious bureaucrat who claimed Mr. Williams is residing in some kind of nerve clinic and is in much too precarious a condition to be disturbed.”
“Objection to the prejudicial nature of that remark!” DiAngeli shouted.
“At no time,” Elihu shouted, “did the People indicate their intention of preemptively calling this witness. If Mickey Williams is allowed to take the stand this morning, I will move that Your Honor declare an immediate mistrial!”
“And your motion will be denied. The People are entitled to present their case. People’s witness may testify.”
The door flew open. Something large and male stood there in shadow. A heavyset man came hesitantly into the courtroom. With his hair shaved to the scalp, his loose seersucker trousers and rumpled black jacket, he bore little resemblance to the gridiron star that Cardozo remembered. The Mickey Williams of the all-American and Pro Bowl days had been honed and lithe, every ounce of him geared to speed. This man looked as though he exercised by opening beer cans.
A wave of murmuring shock washed through the courtroom. The man next to Cardozo whispered, “What
happened
?” and Cardozo whispered, “Hot fudge sundaes and booze.”
The painful thing was, Mickey seemed to know he was an object of shock: Cardozo could see it in his blinking brown eyes.
Mickey took the oath and sat in the witness chair. Tess diAngeli led him gently through the preliminary questions. She had the manner of a deeply concerned social worker guiding a frightened child. “Have you ever been convicted of or charged with a felony?”
“Lord, what felony haven’t I been convicted of! Well, the very first one was assault with a deadly weapon. Bread knife.”
DiAngeli’s lips thinned. Cardozo could see that something about the witness’s answer bothered her. “Who did you assault?”
“My father.” Mickey’s voice broke like a teenager’s. Embarrassment pulsed red in his face.
“Would you tell the ladies and gentlemen of the jury why you assaulted your father?”
“He shot my mother pretty bad, and he was about to do the same for me and Rilda-Mae—my little sister.”
As Mickey sat back and turned his head, something glistened in his left ear. Cardozo leaned forward in his seat and squinted. Mickey was wearing a small gold earring.
“How old were you at the time?”
“Ten.”