Stress Test (34 page)

Sandra wiggled her stocking-covered toes under her desk. She longed to be back in law school, when the uniform of the day included sweats and oh-so-comfortable Reeboks. The shoes she wore these days were a lot more stylish, but by the end of the day, her feet screamed for relief.

The silence on the other end of this phone call was stretching out much too long for comfort. “Jerry, are you there?” No answer.

Matt’s phone call had kept her up most of the rest of the night pondering the ramifications of his requests. She was pretty sure the police lab would already have done the tests he wanted. The results might point to Matt as the shooter. If so, Grimes would undoubtedly charge Matt with murder. But suppose the tests favored Matt’s innocence. Maybe she could turn Detective Grimes away from her client before they brought such a charge. To this point, Grimes certainly seemed single-minded in his determination to put Matt behind bars. And he stubbornly refused to even consider Matt’s kidnapping story, investigating it in the most cursory of ways. She felt as though she were hitting her head against a wall.

Jerry’s voice brought her back to the present. “Are you still there?”

“I’m here,” Sandra said. “Can you tell me what you found?”

“Uh, yeah. I was thinking . . . I’m not sure I ought to do that,” Jerry Klipstein said. “You know the procedure is for me to send these to the detective in charge of the case. He gives them to the DA, and eventually you get the information.”

“Jerry, I’ve known you since you were a kid. I used to babysit you and your little sister. I’d think that by now you’d trust me. You know I’ll get those results anyway. Why not let me have an advance peek at them?”

“Well . . .”

Sandra knew she was going to win this one. She just had to be patient now. “Tell you what. I’ll ask you a few simple questions. Just answer them. No paper trail. No one but us will ever know.”

The silence stretched out, but eventually Jerry said, “Okay. Ask me. But just a few.”

“Did you find fingerprints inside the gloves?”

“We looked at the tips of the fingers, but it’s almost impossible to lift usable prints from inside latex gloves.”

Maybe it was her legal training, programming her to look at how answers were phrased. Whatever the cause, Sandra’s next question was, “Did you find fingerprints anywhere else on the gloves?”

“Good one,” Jerry said. “Yes. People tend to take rubber gloves off by pulling on the cuff. They use their dominant hand first, and since it is still gloved, there won’t be prints on the non-dominant glove. But a right-handed person will then use their bare left hand to peel off the right glove.”

“And did you find prints on the cuff of one glove?”

“Yes. We found an identifiable print of the thumb and first two fingers on the cuff of one glove.”

“You’re really making me work for this. Which glove?”

“The left glove . . . the same one the gunshot residue was on.”

Virgil Grimes sat at his desk and fumed. He felt the acid move from his stomach into his throat. He took a sip of the cold coffee in his cup, but that just made it worse. The heroin should have been enough to let them hold Newman until they gathered evidence to convict him of Edgar’s murder. But an envelope full of lactose wasn’t going to do it. If he’d just—

“Virgil?”

The single word, spoken in a soft Southern drawl, was enough to tell Virgil Grimes that Merrilee Ames was standing across the desk from him. He signaled his annoyance at the interruption with a frown, then counted to five before looking up from his computer monitor. “What?”

She held up a large manila envelope like a quarterback brandishing a Super Bowl trophy. “The reports on the Edgar Lopez shooting are back. And I think you’re going to want to see them.”

Grimes took the envelope and unwound the red string, looped around two cardboard buttons, holding it closed. Inside were a dozen sheets of computer-printed material.

“Is it going to help me more than the negative tests for gunshot residue on Newman’s clothes?” he asked. He’d had to scramble to find an expert who’d swear that it was possible to fire a handgun and not have blowback residue on one’s clothes. But he was tired of trying to pull figurative rabbits out of a hat.

“Check the ballistics report first,” Ames said.

Grimes knew he should wave her to a chair, but chose to keep her standing. Since Ames had been paired with him, he’d chafed at
having to partner with a woman who’d only earned her gold badge a month earlier. His previous partner and he were both veteran officers, old school, hardened by dealing with criminals, and savvy in the ways of the world—that is, the underworld. Neither had flinched if they had to bend a few rules to put away the bad guys. But Norm had retired to Florida and probably spent his time playing shuffleboard and eating the early bird special at Denny’s. Now instead of a partner who would look the other way when it was necessary, Grimes had Ames, an eager beaver who watched his every move.

He pulled a pair of reading glasses from his shirt pocket and slipped them on. He tried not to wear them around other people, and he hated for Ames to see them now, but Grimes didn’t want to miss anything. He shuffled through the sheets to find the ballistics report. The gun found in the storm drain near Newman’s house was described as a .38 caliber revolver, Smith & Wesson Airweight. Someone had made an attempt to remove the serial numbers with acid. Although the lab could probably bring them up by some of their newfangled methods, it didn’t matter. Dollars to donuts, the weapon was stolen.

When found, the pistol’s chambers contained five empty shells. He skipped the technical stuff about lands and grooves, but his eyes lit up when he read the conclusion. Test bullets fired from this gun were a match for the slugs removed from the body of Edgar Lopez.

Ames had moved, uninvited, to his side of the desk and was reading over Grimes’s shoulder. “Keep reading,” she said. “Check out the next page.”

Grimes frowned. The only thing he hated more than being told what to do was being told what to do by a woman. He gritted his teeth but didn’t say anything. But after he flipped to the next page, his anger dissolved. When an investigation provided bullets fired from an unidentified gun, the techs entered the characteristics of the slug into a
database. Now, through the magic of computerization, those unidentified bullets could be compared with those test-fired by other guns sent to the lab. And in this case, the computer had yielded a hit. The .38 special Airweight that murdered Edgar Lopez was also the gun that killed Cara Mendiola.

Lopez had been offed in Newman’s house. Mendiola’s body was found in the trunk of Newman’s car. Newman was linked to both crimes. Grimes could practically taste victory, but he was careful not to voice his thoughts. It wouldn’t do for Ames to hear him say it. But he certainly thought it.
Newman, you’re going down
.

Matt’s finger hovered over the doorbell. He looked around him and wondered, for about the hundredth time, what he was doing here.

It had been surprisingly easy to find the address, and at the time, he thought this trip was the right thing. But the further into this area of Highland Park he ventured, the more out of place Matt felt. Around him were homes that belonged on the pages of
Architectural
Digest
, houses that would sell for a million dollars or more, provided the owners decided to part with them. Circular driveways served as parking places for Lexus and Mercedes sedans and SUVs, with an occasional BMW or Porsche thrown in for variety.

Matt’s choice of gray slacks and an open-necked white shirt under a blue blazer was certainly appropriate for most occasions. But now that he was here, he felt as out of place as his nondescript Chevy parked at the curb in sight of all those high-priced autos.

This is the right thing to do. Get on with it
. He pressed the bell and soft tones inside the house announced his presence. In a moment, he heard footsteps approach. The peephole darkened, then the door opened. Matt expected to be greeted by a maid or even a butler. Instead,
the woman who opened the door was the one he’d come to see. There was a moment’s hesitation as she scanned his face before recognition lit her eyes with genuine pleasure.

“Dr. Newman. How nice to see you,” Abby Penland said. “Please come in.”

Matt followed her inside, taking in the beautifully furnished and decorated rooms as she led him toward the back of the house. The far wall of the room they entered was composed of glass panels. Two sliding glass doors in the center led to a covered porch where several chairs were grouped around an umbrella-shaded table.

“You . . . you have a lovely home,” Matt said.

“Thank you. Would you like to sit out on the porch? It’s quite comfortable.”

“That would be nice.” Matt’s throat suddenly felt as though he’d been gargling with sandpaper. He tried unsuccessfully to clear it.

“Let me get us something to drink. How about fresh lemonade?”

Matt nodded and was surprised once more. He expected Mrs. Penland to ring for a servant. Instead, she excused herself and told him to have a seat outside. She returned in a few moments with a tray bearing a frosty pitcher and two glasses of ice. After pouring for both of them, she settled herself in the chair next to Matt. “I must say, this visit is a surprise. But I’m glad you’ve come.”

“I thought I should thank you in person. It was totally unexpected and very gracious of you to put up my bail. You need to know that I won’t do anything to disappoint you.”

“You mean you don’t plan to skip out on your bail and catch a plane for Mexico?” The words were accompanied by a twinkle in her eye and a smile flitting across her lips.

“No, I have no intention of doing any such thing. Besides that, and I’m sure your attorney has told you this, the charges have been
dropped. Someone tried to set me up to look like a narcotics dealer, but they got tripped up. So your money is safe.”

“I know. Mr. Banks called me with the good news. Not that your innocence surprised me. I’m a good judge of people, and the way you made the effort to check on my son, to assure me, told me a lot.”

“How is Roland?” Matt asked.

“Doing well, thank you. His brush with death has done a great deal to improve his driving habits. Much more than any admonitions from his mother, certainly.”

“I’m glad to hear that. Please give him my regards.”

Mrs. Penland said, “Roland is my only son, so what you did is very special to me. Only a few doctors would have taken the risk you did to save his life. Even fewer would have cared enough to follow up.”

Matt tipped the glass to drain the last of his lemonade, and Mrs. Penland immediately poured more for him. He nodded his thanks. “I think you give me more credit than I deserve, but thank you.” He drank deeply, then set the glass on the table. “I’ve taken enough of your time.”

She touched his arm lightly. “Before you go, there are a couple of other things.”

Matt sat back in his chair. When in doubt, say nothing, and that’s exactly what he did.

Mrs. Penland gave him a smile that would have done the Mona Lisa proud. “Just because I live in a nice house in Highland Park doesn’t mean I’m unaware of some of the uglier things going on in Dallas. For instance, I know about the murder at your house. And my attorney, who has sources in the district attorney’s office, tells me the police still consider you a suspect in that murder.”

Matt could only nod and wonder what was coming next. He didn’t have to wait long.

“Dr. Newman, are you a murderer?”

It took Matt a moment to process the question. This lady certainly didn’t pull punches. He took a deep breath. “No, ma’am. I’m not.”

“I thought as much, but I prefer to hear it directly from you.” She finished her lemonade and set the glass aside. “Should the police arrest you for murder or for any other crime, real or fabricated, you should have your attorney contact Mr. Banks. My initial offer still stands. I’ll provide surety for your bail up to a million dollars.”

“I . . . I don’t know what to say.”

“A simple thank you is sufficient.”

“Thank you,” Matt said. “I’m touched.” He pushed himself up from his chair. “I guess I really should be going.”