Sleight of Hand: A Novel of Suspense (Dana Cutler) (5 page)

Chapter Seven

The storm broke Sunday morning and Captain Leone’s boat docked shortly after noon. Dana drove to Seattle on high alert because of the murder attempt on Isla de Muerta, but she didn’t see anything that made her think she was being followed.

After checking into the Hotel Monaco in downtown Seattle, Dana walked to Yesler Way, a steep street known as Skid Road in the 1850s, when the area was teeming with trees and a chute was used to skid logs to Henry Yesler’s sawmill. When Seattle’s city center moved north, the area became a dilapidated haven for drunks and derelicts and went from being called Skid Road to Skid Row, a term eventually used all over America to refer to a down-and-out section of a town or city.

Rene Marchand had an office in a six-story building on First at Yesler. On the way there, Dana spotted a seedy hotel advertising cheap rooms but most of the twenty-five-square-block Skid Row district—now more popularly known as Pioneer Square—was filled with hip boutiques, coffee shops, restored buildings, restaurants, and art galleries.

There was an old-fashioned elevator in the lobby of Marchand’s office building. Dana slid the accordion gate open, then closed it and took the car to the sixth floor. Halfway down the hall, Dana saw
RENE MARCHAND ANTIQUES
stenciled in bright gold letters on the glass in the upper part of a door. She tried the knob but the office was closed. After knocking loudly twice Dana returned to her hotel.

Monday morning, Dana dressed in a black suit and white man-tailored blouse so she would look businesslike and headed back to Marchand’s office. During her short walk, she checked for a tail or anything unusual, but nothing aroused her suspicions. This time when Dana tried the door it opened into a small waiting room. There was a desk, two chairs, and a small end table on which lay two magazines about antiques. No one was sitting at the reception desk, so Dana rapped her knuckles on a plain wooden door next to it. Moments later, the door opened and a man in his late thirties with a trim mustache and slicked-down thinning brown hair stared at her through the lenses of a pair of wire-rimmed glasses. The man was slender and several inches shorter than Dana, and he was dressed in an open-neck sky-blue shirt, a navy-blue blazer, and gray slacks.

“Yes?” he asked, apparently surprised to have a visitor.

“Are you Rene Marchand?”

“I am, but I generally see customers by appointment only.”

“I didn’t know that,” Dana said with what she hoped was a winning smile. “But I’m here now, so can we talk?”

“About what?”

“The Ottoman Scepter.”

Marchand’s only reaction was a rapid blink but it was enough to give him away.

“I’m not sure what you’re talking about,” the antiques dealer said.

“I think you are. Professor Otto Pickering examined the scepter in this very office not long ago.”

Marchand hesitated. Then he stepped aside and ushered Dana in. The furniture in Marchand’s office looked secondhand, as had the furnishings in the waiting room. Through a begrimed window, Dana could see the train station, the stadiums where the Mariners and Seahawks played, and the Smith Tower, which had been the tallest building west of the Mississippi in 1914. The view was interesting, but it occurred to Dana that the office was run down for someone who supposedly dealt in high-end antiquities.

“Why do you want to know about this scepter?” Marchand asked when they were seated.

Dana handed the antiques dealer her card. “I’m acting on behalf of a client who is very interested in acquiring it.”

Marchand leaned back in his chair and examined the card. Then he set it down on a faded green blotter.

“You’re aware of the Ottoman Scepter’s history?”

Dana nodded.

“Then you know that the gold alone makes the object expensive but its historical value puts it beyond price.”

“My client is very motivated to acquire the scepter. And I’m not motivated to engage in a lot of fencing, so let’s cut to the chase. Do you have the scepter?”

Marchand crossed his legs and studied Dana long enough to make her uncomfortable. Dana returned Marchand’s stare.

“I’d like you to step into the waiting room while I make a call,” Marchand said.

Dana left the room and Marchand shut the door behind her. It occurred to Dana that she had not seen a telephone on Marchand’s desk, so she assumed he was using a cell.

Dana wandered over to the end table and thumbed through one of the magazines. It was several years old. Dana smiled. Maybe that was appropriate in the office of an antiques dealer.

Ten minutes passed, then the door to Marchand’s office opened and he signaled her in.

“For a price, I can put you in touch with someone with whom you can deal,” Marchand said.

“How much?”

“Five thousand dollars.”

Dana laughed. “I’ll give you one thousand. If your contact is legit, I’ll come back with the rest. If this is a setup, I’ll find you and take back more than the money.”

Marchand lost color. “I don’t like being threatened.”

“Mr. Marchand, I do not make threats. I make promises.” Dana took out a wad of bills and peeled off one thousand dollars of Margo Laurent’s money. She placed it on the desk and covered it with her hand. “The name and address, please.”

Marchand eyed the money. He hesitated, and Dana knew he was deciding if he could push her. Dana’s features hardened.

“Do you know where Victoria Island is?”

“It’s near Vancouver, British Columbia.”

“Correct. The countess will be there on Wednesday. She’ll be staying in her condominium on the harbor.” Marchand wrote an address. “Be there at nine a.m., and don’t be late. The countess detests people who aren’t prompt.”

Dana took the paper with the address and Marchand grabbed the money. As she rode to the lobby, Dana thought back on the past few days. There was something about her meeting with Margo Laurent, the trip to the island, and her meeting with Marchand that didn’t sit right, but she couldn’t put her finger on it.

When Dana stepped outside, a harsh wind was gusting off of Elliott Bay. Ferries were crossing the stormy waters but the weather was keeping pleasure boats away. As Dana headed back to her hotel she saw movement in her peripheral vision. She paused to look in the window of a coffee shop and pretended to study the menu. A large man with close-cropped blond hair and wearing a knee-length black leather coat stepped into a doorway half a block behind her. He was far enough away so she couldn’t make out his features in the reflection.

Dana started walking. She stopped at a restaurant and saw the man reflected in the window. He stopped walking when Dana stopped and pretended to look in a store window. Dana went inside and found a seat facing the street. The man walked by on the other side.

Dana ordered coffee and took her time finishing the cup. When she left the restaurant half an hour later her tail was nowhere in sight but she spotted him again two blocks from the hotel. Dana wondered if her secret admirer was the man who had tried to kill Otto Pickering. Dana had not gotten a good look at the shooter, so she had no way to know. Instinctively, she brushed her pocket and felt the reassuring bulge created by the .38 nestled there.

When Dana was in her room, she locked the door and called Margot Laurent to give her an update. The call went to voice mail.

Chapter Eight

On Monday morning,
Commonwealth of Virginia v. Ross
commenced in the most ornate courtroom in the Lee County Courthouse. It had been built in the days when floor-to-ceiling columns of real marble were affordable and workmen knew how to decorate a high ceiling with frescoes of chubby cherubs and Roman gods. Somber oil paintings of judges past stared down at the litigants and spectators from cream-colored walls, and the bench was elaborately carved oak. All in all, it was a fitting place to hold court if you thought you were royalty, which described the mind-set of the Honorable Preston L. Gardner III.

Gardner had been the youngest judge in the state when he was appointed three years earlier. He had piercing blue eyes fixed in a perpetual squint, thin lips always set in a disapproving scowl, and plastered-down, jet-black hair. He reminded Charles Benedict of the obnoxious nerds he had loved to torment in junior high.

Benedict had been in Gardner’s court on a number of occasions and had never seen him dressed in anything but a black, three-piece suit; blue, red, and yellow striped tie; and his Phi Beta Kappa key. Gardner wore the key because he loved to remind people that he was brilliant. The first things one noticed entering his chambers were diplomas attesting to the honors he’d been awarded at Dartmouth and Harvard Law and the certificate proving that he was a member of Mensa. If the Guinness Book of Records kept track of oversized egos, Benedict was certain that Gardner would be listed.

Sitting next to Benedict was Kyle Ross. The defendant was a twenty-year-old junior at the University of Virginia majoring in prelaw. He had curly blond hair, soft blue eyes, and a deceptively boyish appearance. Kyle was an insufferable whiner, but Benedict could put up with any jerk who paid his outrageous fee.

Seated behind Benedict was Devon Ross, Kyle’s father, and Devon’s trophy wife, a peroxide blonde who was only slightly older than Kyle. With his heavily veined nose, slightly bloated face, and middle-age spread, Devon Ross was a preview of what Kyle would look like in twenty years. Devon was a senior partner in the Richmond law firm Kyle would join when he graduated from law school. But Kyle would never be able to go to law school if he was convicted of possession and distribution of cocaine.

It had taken the whole morning to pick a jury, and both sides concluded their opening statements a little after two. As soon as the opening statements had been made, Judge Gardner told the commonwealth to call its first witness.

“You’re on top of this, right?” Kyle asked Benedict nervously.

“Relax,” Benedict whispered. “You’re going to be fine.”

“Because that bitch is lying, and so is that cop.”

Benedict restrained himself from smashing Ross in the face. The so-called bitch was an innocent thirteen-year-old girl, and two decorated police officers supported her story.

“The commonwealth calls Anita Lesley, Your Honor,” Mary Maguire said. Benedict had met with Maguire a few times to talk about the case. She was high-strung and very insecure, which was not surprising for a new hire handling her first major felony.

During pretrial motions the rail-thin redhead had looked stressed out. She had fidgeted at counsel table, moved files around, tapped her left foot incessantly, and shifted on her chair every few seconds. Maguire argued long after it was clear that the judge was not going to rule the way she wanted him to, and her voice grew strident when an adverse witness did not answer a question the way she had anticipated. Even when she prevailed, Maguire had looked more relieved than happy.

The door to the courtroom opened and a shy, conservatively dressed teenager walked down the aisle to the witness stand. She had wheat-colored hair and pale skin. Benedict noticed that Anita Lesley scrupulously avoided looking at his client and that her hand shook when she took the oath.

“Please tell the jury your age,” Maguire said.

The girl’s answer was inaudible and the judge told her to speak up.

“I’m thirteen.”

“What grade are you in?”

“Eighth.”

“Do you have an older brother?”

“Yes, Jerry.”

“Where does he go to school?”

“The University of Virginia.”

“Is he a classmate of the defendant?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“On the evening of April 7 did your brother have a party at your house?”

“Our folks were out of town and he wasn’t supposed to, but he had a bunch of his fraternity brothers over.”

“Is the defendant a member of your brother’s fraternity?”

“Yes.”

“Was the party loud?”

“Yeah, they had the music turned way up and people were yelling.”

“Did you come in contact with the defendant during the party?”

“Yes.”

“Tell the jurors what happened.”

“I knew Kyle,” Anita said. She was looking at her lap and her voice quivered. Several of the jurors flashed smiles of encouragement. “He’d been at my house before and he’d always been nice. So I didn’t think anything about it when he came over and talked to me.”

“What did you talk about?”

“Nothing much. We just talked, you know.”

“What happened next?”

“Kyle said it was hot and did I want to go outside. So we went outside and he asked me about school and we walked.”

“Where did you end up?”

“On the street where his car was.”

“Did he ask you to go into his car?”

“He said he had a surprise for me, a present.”

“Where was the present?”

“Kyle said it was in the car.”

“Did you get in the car?”

“Well, yeah. I was a little nervous. But he wasn’t acting strange or anything and I trusted him because he was my brother’s friend.”

“What happened in the car?”

“He closed the door. Then he put his arm sort of behind me. Not touching but right above my shoulders.”

“Did he say anything to you?”

“Yeah, he told me he always thought I was . . . was hot.”

“How did that make you feel?”

Anita shrugged. “Embarrassed, I guess.”

“What else did he say?”

“How I was more mature than the stuck-up girls at his school, and smarter. Then he asked me if I wanted my present. I was
curious
so I said yeah.”

“What was the present?”

“He leaned over and kissed me.”

“How did that make you feel?”

“A little scared, but I wasn’t worried.”

“Did you make out?”

Anita turned red. “A little.”

Once again, the witness’s answer was barely audible. Judge Gardner reminded her to speak up in an uncharacteristically sympathetic tone.

“Did the defendant do anything that made you want to stop making out?” the prosecutor continued.

“Yeah, he started touching me in . . . in places. I asked him to stop. He said he knew I wanted to and I said I didn’t.”

“What happened then?”

“He got this ziplock bag out of his glove compartment and he said it would loosen me up.”

“What was in the bag?”

“Objection,” Benedict said. “That would require an expert opinion, Your Honor.”

“I’ll retract the question,” Maguire said before the judge could rule.

“Did the defendant tell you what was in the bag?” Maguire asked.

“No. He just said it would make me feel great.”

“What did the material in the bag look like?”

“White powder.”

Benedict watched as the jurors turned their attention to his client. None of them looked sympathetic.

“Did you try some?”

“No. I got scared. I said I wanted to go back to the party.”

“Did the defendant let you?”

“No. He sort of moved on top of me in my seat, the passenger seat, and he started to . . . to feel me up.”

Some of the women on the jury looked upset. Two of the men were frowning.

“What did you do?”

“I tried to push him off and I yelled for him to stop.”

“What happened then?”

“There was a knock on the window.”

“Who knocked?”

“It was a policeman. He was shining a light into the car. He said to open the door.”

“What happened then?”

“Kyle freaked out. He tried to crawl over me to get out on my side. I grabbed the lock and pulled it up.”

“Why did you do that?”

“I wanted him off of me.”

“What happened then?”

“Kyle scrambled out of the car, but he didn’t see the other policeman, and that policeman grabbed him.”

“What did you do?”

“Nothing. I was scared, so I just sat there.”

“What happened next?”

“After they grabbed Kyle, the first policeman asked me if I was okay. I said yeah. That’s when he saw the ziplock bag. He said, ‘What have we here?’ and I said I didn’t know and that I hadn’t touched it. Then he told me to get out of the car, and he told me to go away from Kyle.”

“What happened between the defendant and the officers?”

“I don’t know. I just waited. I was scared and I didn’t want anything to do with it.”

“Did the officers arrest you?”

“No, they put Kyle in the back of a police car. Then they brought me inside and told everyone they’d had complaints about the noise and everyone should go home.”

“No further questions,” the prosecutor said.

“Nothing, Your Honor,” Benedict said.

Kyle pulled at Benedict’s sleeve. “Don’t let her off. Cross-examine that lying cunt.”

“She’s got the jurors on her side, Kyle. If I get on her it will just upset them.”

“But she’s lying. That was her coke. And I never touched her. I can get any girl I want. Why would I waste time on that scrawny bitch?”

“Keep your cool and remember what you have to do. You’re going to be okay,” Benedict reassured Ross.

“Call your next witness, Miss Maguire,” Judge Gardner said.

Stephen Hurley, the arresting officer, took the stand. He testified that he and his partner had driven to the party because of complaints about the noise. They were walking toward the house when they saw Miss Lesley and the defendant struggling in the front seat of a parked car. Hurley explained how he’d found a ziplock bag containing a white powder in the front seat and had arrested the defendant. Hurley told the jury that the ziplock bag had been turned over to the crime lab for testing.

After Benedict told the court that he had no questions for the witness, Maguire called Justin Wing, a pudgy forensic expert who testified frequently for the commonwealth in drug cases. The prosecutor asked the chemist to list his credentials. Then she picked up an object that had been entered in evidence.

“Officer Wing, I’m handing you Commonwealth Exhibit Six. Do you recognize it?”

“Yes. That’s the ziplock bag containing a white powder that was given to me by Officer Hurley.”

“Did you find any fingerprints on Exhibit Six?”

“I did.”

“To whom did they belong?”

“All of the fingerprints I found on Exhibit Six belonged to the defendant, Kyle Ross.”

“Now, Officer, did you test some of the powder in Exhibit Six at the crime lab?”

“I did.”

“And what did your tests reveal?”

“I concluded that the substance in the ziplock bag was a controlled substance, cocaine.”

“Thank you. I have no further questions for the witness.”

“Officer Wing,” Benedict said as he crossed the room, “may I please see Exhibit Six?”

The witness handed the bag to Benedict. As soon as he had the bag, Benedict turned his back so that the judge, prosecutor, and witness could not see his hands. When Benedict was halfway to the defense counsel table he dipped his chin a fraction of an inch.

Kyle Ross leaped to his feet. “This is a goddamn frame,” he screamed.

Every eye in the courtroom turned toward Ross. The judge banged his gavel and called for order but Kyle kept screaming. Benedict handed the ziplock bag to the bailiff and rushed to his client.

“Stop this, Kyle,” Benedict said loudly. He grabbed his client and forced him into his seat. Ross resisted for a moment before dropping onto his chair. Benedict sat beside Kyle and placed a reassuring hand on Kyle’s shoulder while he whispered to him. A moment later, Benedict stood.

“Your Honor, may we take a short recess so my client can compose himself?”

Gardner looked at the clock. “It’s almost time for the afternoon recess, so let’s take a fifteen-minute break.”

Gardner sent the jury out. Then the judge cast a stern look at the defense table.

“Tell your client about contempt of court, Mr. Benedict. One more outburst and I’ll be the one explaining it to him.”

“I’ll talk to him, Your Honor,” Benedict assured the judge as Gardner stormed off the bench. Benedict conferred with Kyle for a few minutes for appearances’ sake. Then he headed up the aisle, out of the courtroom, and down the hall toward the men’s room. When he was halfway down the hall, a short, unassuming man passed him going the other way. This man worked for Nikolai Orlansky. Benedict and the short man touched palms. When the short man left the courthouse, a ziplock bag was tucked into his inside jacket pocket.

“Mr. Wing,” Benedict said when court reconvened, “you’ve testified that Officer Hurley gave you Exhibit Six and that you tested the white powder in it and concluded that it was cocaine?”

“That’s correct.”

Benedict turned to the dais. “Your Honor, I’ve served a subpoena on the crime lab and I have a person waiting in the hall. I’d like to have her come into the courtroom at this time.”

Mary Maguire sprang to her feet. “I object. Mr. Benedict didn’t put anyone from the crime lab on his witness list.”

“I apologize for not being clear. This person is not a witness. She merely transported some equipment from the lab that I want Officer Wing to use.”

Judge Gardner frowned. “Bailiff, take the jury out.”

When the jury was in the jury room, Gardner turned to Benedict.

“Have this person come in so we can learn what this is about.”

Moments later, Carolyn Bosh walked to the front of the courtroom. She was a forensic expert who was well known to Maguire and the judge.

“Officer Bosh,” Benedict asked the forensic expert, “at my request have you brought to court everything Officer Wing would need to test the white powder in Exhibit Six to see if it is cocaine?”