Stress Test (35 page)

Mrs. Penland made a hand gesture for him to remain seated. “I said there were a couple of things on our agenda. Don’t you want to know what the second one is?”

“Um, certainly.”

She reached out and placed her hand lightly on his. “If you’ll let me, before you go I’d like to pray with you.” Then she amended her statement. “Pray with you—and for you.”

Matt was overwhelmed. He’d come here to thank a woman for going the second mile for him, and he was leaving with her assurance that she was confident of his innocence, her pledge to back him even further, and the support of her prayers. How could he possibly fail? As she began to pray, Matt flashed back on another Scripture he’d heard Joe quote.
“Those who are with us are greater than those who are with
them.”
Right now Matt wanted badly to believe that.

“Aren’t you going to read the whole report?” Merrilee Ames asked.

“Yeah, yeah. I’ll read it when you’re not hanging over my shoulder,”
Grimes grumbled. “But I’ve seen enough. I need you to put together a warrant for the arrest of Dr. Matt Newman. The charge is two counts of murder: Cara Mendiola and Edgar Lopez. Bring it to me when you’ve got it ready. I want to be sure it goes to a judge who owes me a few favors.”

Ames glared at him and stalked away. Grimes was already fantasizing about knocking on Newman’s door at four a.m. and taking him into custody. He knew a couple of people at the local TV stations who’d love to be tipped off. If they just happened to have reporters and cameramen at the police station when Grimes brought in Newman, the doctor’s perp walk would be all over the morning news. Too bad it wouldn’t make the early edition of the papers, but you couldn’t have everything.

Grimes polished his reading glasses with the end of his tie and slipped them back on. The next page of the report was mainly fingerprint data. There were no prints on the gun—nothing unexpected there. There were, however, fingerprints on the empty shell casings in the revolver’s chambers. Crooks so often forgot that, and Newman obviously had fallen into that trap.

The next sentence caused Grimes to slow down a bit. The prints on the cartridges weren’t Newman’s. They matched those of the deceased, Edgar Lopez. That still worked for Grimes. Matter of fact, it meant that it wasn’t so important to trace the ownership of the weapon. Newman had shot Lopez with his own gun.

Grimes turned the page. This was about the gloves. There was gunshot residue present on them, which jibed nicely with the absence of fingerprints on the gun. No surprise there. Was the lab able to lift any prints from inside the gloves? No. Grimes shrugged. Despite what people who watched
CSI
and shows like that expected, usable prints inside latex gloves were about as common as flying pigs.

He started to lay the reports aside when the last paragraph on the final page caught his eye. Through some of their magic—Grimes didn’t care how they did it—the techs lifted identifiable prints of a thumb and first two fingers from the cuff of the left glove. This should seal it.

He read the name. Rubbed his eyes, squinted, read it again. Slowly, carefully, he squeezed the paper, sheet by sheet, crumpling each into a wad the size of a golf ball. Then he slammed them into the wastebasket as though chucking rocks at a rat. With a kick that sent a painful shock into his foot, he made the basket careen across the squad room. Then, muttering words he hadn’t learned in Sunday school, Grimes moved off to find Ames before she finished that warrant.

TWENTY-FIVE

Matt wondered what new development might be the cause for this visit to Sandra’s office. She’d called him that morning to see if he could come by sometime before noon. When he asked for details, she’d put him off, saying she’d rather discuss it in person.

It seemed to Matt that every time there might be a ray of hope in his case, something new had come up to dash his hopes. He wondered what new problem loomed on the horizon. Oh well. He was about to find out.

Sandra asked him to close the door before taking a chair. A meeting with his attorney behind closed doors wasn’t unusual, but in the past it had generally signaled something bad. Matt sat down with a sigh, resigning himself to yet another blow, another hurdle to clear. He crossed his legs, leaned forward slightly, and said, “What’s the news this time?”

Sandra smiled, which seemed a bit out of character for meetings like this. Was the smile because she was about to earn even more fees? At what point would Matt have to admit that he was at
the end of his resources? When would he be forced to give up the fight?

“First, let me warn you that this isn’t official. I got this information through a back channel into the police lab, probably even before Grimes and Ames heard it. So, for now, this has to stay between us.”

“Fair enough. What did you find out? Does this have something to do with the questions I gave you during our late night phone call?”

Sandra touched the tip of her nose. “Bingo. And I don’t know how you got onto that track, but you were right. Some of that information appears to clear you, and not just from the Lopez killing.”

Matt listened intently as she explained the police lab findings. It was impressive how Sandra could fit the building blocks of evidence together. He could see how she’d do well laying out a case to a jury.

When she was finished, she asked, “Any questions?”

“Lots, but first let me see if I have the high points correct. The gun the police found was not only the one that killed that hood—Edgar something or other—but also the one that shot Cara Mendiola. Edgar’s prints were on the shell cases, so it was his weapon. There was gunshot residue on the left glove and fingerprints on the cuff of the right glove, so the person who shot Edgar was left-handed.”

“Correct,” Sandra said.

“I’m right-handed, and can get affidavits from a dozen people to that effect, so that makes me less of a suspect for Edgar’s murder.” Matt scratched his chin. “Do the prints on the cuff of the glove tell us who shot him?”

“You bet. They belong to a small-time crook named Lou Hecht. He’s been arrested a couple of times for felony theft, but the charges never stuck. When the computer ran his known associates, number one on the list was Edgar Lopez.”

“So Edgar shot Cara Mendiola. And Hecht shot Edgar. But why were they in my house?”

“We can only guess. But here’s another question for you,” Sandra said. “You asked if the dead man had evidence of an injury to his right shin? As it turns out, he had a fairly new scar there. Now it’s your turn to tell me what that means.”

Matt had to resist the temptation to jump in the air, pump his fist, and shout, “Yes!”

“From the expression on your face, I take it this is welcome news.”

“It ties things up in a neat little package,” Matt said. “Remember the story of my kidnapping? One of the guys, the smaller one, tripped over a garbage can and cut his leg—his right one. That was Lopez. I’m betting that when you check out Hecht you’ll find he’s a big man with a voice like a cement mixer, and that he’s left-handed. Those are the two guys who kidnapped me. And they’re still out to get me—or, at least, the one who’s still alive is. I don’t know the reason, but maybe now someone will believe me.”

“I’m happy for you,” Sandra said, “but I have to warn you. The police and the DA haven’t seen this evidence yet. Until they do—and until they buy into it—you’re still a person of interest in two murders.”

“But what do you think?” Matt held his breath until Sandra smiled.

“I think you’re in the clear. Barring some totally weird development, I think you’re not going to need a lawyer anymore.”

Was this the time? Matt worked up his courage, cleared his throat twice, and said, “Since it appears we’re no longer attorney and client, I have a question I want to ask you.”

It was midafternoon and midweek. Lunches were over—whether a hurried sandwich at Subway or a two-martini version at The
Palm—and the tiny bar on a side street in downtown Dallas was essentially deserted.

The contrast from the sunshine outside to the gloom inside the room made Grimes squint. He paused in the doorway for a moment to let his eyes adjust. The bar was at the back—six stools, only one occupied. Booths stood along the right wall, all of them empty. Grimes took a seat in the first booth, facing the door. A waitress sidled up and slapped a coaster in front of him. He ordered a beer. He didn’t plan to drink it, but he needed something on the table to keep the waitress at bay. This was a business meeting, and as soon as his business was concluded, he’d be out of there. Meanwhile, he didn’t want to do or say anything that would make her remember him or the man he was meeting.

He didn’t have to wait long. In a moment, a man took the seat opposite him, as furtive as someone sneaking into an X-rated movie. He waved the waitress away before she could get to the booth, and hunched as though by making himself smaller he could avoid being noticed. Grimes almost expected him to turn up the collar of his suit coat and burrow his head down into it.

“Relax,” Grimes said. “You’re acting like a spy selling government secrets. Nobody you know is going to come in. Let’s get this meeting over, then you can get back to being a respectable—”

“Never mind that. Just confirm it for me. I want to hear it from your own lips.”

“Yeah, the murder case against Newman is up in smoke. None of the evidence I thought we could use is going to hold up. Matter of fact, it probably supports his original story about—”

“Hold on!” The words were whispered, but the venom showed through.

The waitress returned and put a Miller Lite in front of Grimes.
He nodded his thanks and waved her away. He centered the bottle on the coaster and focused on the drops of condensation that worked their way slowly downward.

Once the waitress was out of earshot, the man said, “So now there’s no case against Newman for drug possession or either of the two murders that involved him. There’ll be no arrest, no trial. Right?”

Grimes nodded.

“Okay, then here are your new orders. Eliminate him, and make him look dirty when you do it.”

Grimes held up both hands in a “stop” gesture. “Whoa. I was willing to bend some rules to arrest the man. But if I’m hearing you right, you don’t want a policeman anymore. You want a hit man. I don’t do that.”

The man took a thick envelope from his inside coat pocket and waved it. “You’ll do it if you don’t want this mailed. It’s already stamped and addressed.” He turned it so Grimes could see.

Grimes removed a rumpled handkerchief from his hip pocket and wiped his forehead. “Can you promise me that if I get rid of Newman, the stuff in that envelope will never see the light of day?”

“If you eliminate the good doctor, this will end up in your mailbox. Then you can burn it, shred it, or read it on cold winter evenings. Whatever.”

Grimes shoved the handkerchief back into his pocket. He moved his bottle off the coaster and began to make wet interlocking rings on the table. His eyes downcast, he said, “How long do I have?”

“A week. After that—”

“All right. I’ll do it. Now get out of here.”

He watched the man slip out the door. Then Grimes lifted the beer to his lips and drained the bottle in several swallows, regretting that he hadn’t ordered a double shot of bourbon instead.