There it was. Wrapped up in a neat package, tied with a bow. The evidence might not be enough to convict him of murder—Matt hoped Sandra Murray would see to that—but it was certainly enough to ruin his life.
“That’s it.” Merrilee Ames tossed a thin folder on the desk in front of Detective Virgil Grimes. “Matt Newman’s house, his car, his locker at work—clean, no sign of a pistol. He’s never had a gun permit. None of his coworkers have ever seen him with one or heard him mention going to a firing range.”
Grimes frowned. “There are a hundred ways to get hold of a gun
illegally in this town, and another hundred to dispose of it. My guess is that it’s in a lake or pond, unless he took a chance and buried it in a Dumpster. Tell them to keep looking.”
Ames leaned a hip on Grimes’s desk. “Okay. But we’ve been digging into Newman’s relationship with Mendiola, and no one had any inkling they even knew each other. He was a surgeon; she was the head of Internet technology. So far as anyone knew, their only contact was nodding when they passed in the hall or cafeteria.” She pursed her lips. “And then there’s Newman’s story of being kidnapped.”
“When you’ve been at this as long as I have, you learn that people lie—they lie a lot. So I start with the premise that everything a suspect says is false until I can prove otherwise.”
A lock of blond hair had fallen across Ames’s right eye, and she brushed it back. “That’s pretty cynical, Virgil.”
“Cynical or not, that’s how I operate. And since I’m the lead on this investigation, I guess you’re going to have to learn to live with it.” He made a shooing motion. “Now get out there and find me some evidence that proves Newman killed Cara Mendiola.”
The next day Matt was moved from the ICU to a private room, still fairly close to the nurses’ station so they could check on him. He was glad to be recovering but was constantly aware of the murder charge that hung over his head like the sword of Damocles. He expected the burly figure of Detective Grimes to fill the doorway of his room at any moment, a pair of handcuffs in one hand, a warrant for Matt’s arrest in the other.
On his second day out of the ICU, Matt, like Ebenezer Scrooge, had three visitors. And, as it did with Scrooge, the news they brought shook Matt. The first was his attorney.
“I need to talk with your doctor,” she said from the door. “Let’s discuss what happens when he discharges you.” She closed the door and dragged the visitor’s chair to Matt’s bedside.
“I haven’t asked Ken . . . er, Dr. Gordon about my discharge,” Matt said, “but my guess is that he’s going to have to let me go soon.”
“Ken Gordon is your doctor?” she asked.
Matt wondered at the surprise in his lawyer’s voice but decided to let it go. “Yes, and he should be ready to discharge me soon. I suspect that my chart is on the desk of a utilization nurse right now.”
“And that means . . . ?”
“Those are nurses that work for the hospitals or insurance companies. Theoretically, they monitor a patient’s care and make sure everything’s appropriate. On a practical level, they make sure patients are discharged as soon as it’s safe, so somebody else can use the bed and the insurance companies can stop paying for inpatient care.” Matt sipped water from the Styrofoam cup at his bedside. “Why do you ask?”
“Because as soon as you’re well enough to be discharged, Grimes will want to get a statement and question you.”
“Don’t I get to appear before a judge and plead not guilty or something?”
She gave Matt a sympathetic glance. “You didn’t pay much attention in high school civics class, did you? Never mind. By the time this is over, you’ll be an expert on our legal system.” She ticked off the points on her fingers. “Point one. Right now you’re a suspect. If a reporter were to ask Grimes about you, you’re a ‘person of interest.’ Soon, if he hasn’t already done so, Grimes will brief an ADA on the case.”
“A what?”
“An assistant district attorney.” She touched her second finger. “At some point after your release, probably soon after, Grimes and the
ADA will bring you in for questioning. Don’t worry. I’ll be there. I don’t think they’ll arrest you, although they probably will tell you not to leave the city. That’s just standard practice.”
“No chance of my going anywhere. I don’t even have a car. When will I get mine back?”
Sandra waved off the question. “Later. Stay with me. They’re moving carefully because of your injury. Grimes will sweat you as much as he thinks he can get away with, but eventually he’ll have to turn you loose. However, if the ADA decides there’s enough evidence, he’ll present your case to a grand jury.” She touched a third finger. “And if they indict you, the police will come for you with an arrest warrant.”
Matt felt his heart drop to his shoes.
“After you’re taken into custody, you’re arraigned.” Now she had four fingers in the air. “The arraignment is when you appear before a judge. You have the opportunity to hear the charges against you and enter a plea. Most important for now, that’s when the judge either sets bail or denies it. The trial comes after that. Often a long time after that.”
“But I’ve been in custody for . . . how long have I been here? Why haven’t I been arraigned?”
“Because, despite Detective Grimes’s attempt to frighten you, you haven’t really been arrested. When you are, believe me, you’ll know it.”
“Ms. Murray—”
“Please, call me Sandra.”
“Okay, and I’m Matt.” He grimaced. “I hope that when this is over I still have a name, not a number.” He picked up his ever-present legal pad and flipped a couple of pages. “I’ve been trying to figure out where I’ll get the money for bail. How much do you think I’ll need?”
Her answer made Matt cringe. “I don’t see how I can raise that much.”
“Let’s talk a little about how bail works,” Sandra said. “If you
can’t put up the money or something worth that much, a bondsman will write the surety for a fee of ten percent of the bail. So we’re talking one-tenth of that amount I just mentioned.”
She mentioned a figure and he replied, “I guess I can raise that.”
A half hour later, when Sandra closed her briefcase and prepared to leave, she asked, “Do you have any other questions?”
“What about my kidnapping? Why don’t the police believe me?”
“Apparently because they think your story is a lie, dreamed up to cover the murder of Cara Mendiola. We can use the kidnapping story in our defense if we need to, but our first job is to convince the police you didn’t kill her. I’ll keep hammering them with the kidnapping, but right now Grimes is pretty convinced it’s a fiction.” She cocked her head. “Any other questions?”
“No,” Matt said. He had no more questions. Unfortunately he had very few answers to the ones already swimming in his head.
The second visitor was Matt’s neurosurgeon, Ken Gordon. The gist of the conversation was that Matt was recovering even more rapidly than Gordon hoped. That was the good news. The bad news was that Gordon would have to discharge Matt soon, and both men knew what Matt was facing once he left the hospital.
“Let’s make it day after tomorrow. Tell your lawyer about nine o’clock. She’ll probably want to be here.” He stuck out his hand and Matt shook it. “I hope we’ll be having lunch together in the medical center’s faculty club real soon.”
The third visitor both surprised and angered Matt. Why hadn’t Brad Franklin visited before this? After all, the man had hired Matt for a faculty position. Was it too much to expect the chairman of the surgery department to drop by? Sure, he was busy. Matt realized that. But this visit came much too late to suit Matt.
Franklin tapped on the door frame, and Matt motioned him
inside, barely suppressed anger roiling inside him. “Come in, Brad. I’ve been hoping you’d come by.”
On surgery days Franklin wore a clean, crisp, ironed scrub suit he brought from home, shunning the wrinkled garb everyone else wore. He covered the scrubs with a fresh white coat with his name and “Chairman, General Surgery” embroidered over the pocket. Matt had observed this on a previous visit and decided that if the chairman wanted to look better than everyone else, that was his business.
Apparently Franklin wasn’t operating today, but his clothes still told everyone he was a cut above average. His unbuttoned lab coat revealed a white-on-white dress shirt set off by a designer tie. Small rubies accented gold cuff links at either wrist. Brad Franklin looked every inch the department chair, and something in his manner today made the hairs on Matt’s neck stand at attention. Whatever was coming wasn’t good.
Franklin hitched up his trousers to preserve the crease and eased into a chair at Matt’s bedside. “How are you doing?” he asked.
“I’ve been better,” Matt said, “but Ken says he’ll be turning me loose soon. I guess you know that I have some legal problems to settle, but my attorney tells me the charges the police are bringing probably won’t hold up.”
Okay, so maybe I’m being too optimistic, but there’s no
need to tell him how bad things are
. “As soon as I can get that cleared up, I’m looking forward to starting my work here.”
Franklin appeared to find something fascinating in the region of his shoes. Still looking down, he said, “Actually, that’s what I wanted to talk about.”
Matt knew what was coming before the chairman started his next sentence. Sure enough, Franklin said he’d met with the dean, and they’d decided it was in the best interest of the medical center if Matt
didn’t officially join the staff until after his legal problems were put to rest. “I’m sure you understand,” Franklin said.
Matt didn’t really understand anything except that the chairman had just pulled the rug out from under him. The prospect of his new salary as an assistant professor of surgery had vanished. He’d already closed his private practice. Other than a few fees dribbling in from final bills and insurance claims, Matt had no real income and no prospects of any. And he was piling up debts faster than he could find a way to pay them.
Matt was already worried sick about getting the money together to pay his attorney. He figured he should be able to scrape up enough assets to cover posting bail. But this was the last straw.
The night before, in desperation, Matt had thumbed through a Bible he found in the drawer of his bedside table looking for comfort. He’d tried to pray. And finally he asked God to give him a sign that things would be all right. Now, as Franklin continued to justify his decision, Matt had one thought foremost in his mind.
If this is Your
sign, God, I don’t like it
.
Sandra Murray handed Elaine a steaming paper cup bearing the Starbucks logo. “Here you go. Your favorite.”
After Sandra settled into the chair across from her secretary’s desk, she flipped the lid from her own cup into the wastebasket and inhaled the rich aroma. Today she’d decided to shake things up with a caramel macchiato. Elaine had another mocha latte, and Sandra noticed that it did indeed mirror the woman’s skin tones almost exactly.
I hope
that when I’m her age, I look that good
.
Sandra sipped, licked a few drops of caramel-flavored foam from her upper lip, and said, “Elaine, how’s your pipeline into the DA’s office?”
Elaine moved her coffee aside and leaned forward over the desk. “Why? Want me to do a little undercover snooping for you?”
“Haven’t developed scruples against that, have you?” Sandra’s smile took any sting out of the banter.
“Nope, just want to know what you’d like me to find out. You know me.” She fluffed her hair and gave an exaggerated come-hither look. “Always happy to use my feminine wiles to help my boss.”
“Still dating Charlie Greaver?” Sandra asked. Charlie, the number two man in the DA’s office, was virtually a shoo-in to succeed the current DA, Jack Tanner. If so, he’d be the first African-American in Sandra’s memory to hold the position.
“I sometimes accept an invitation to go out with Charlie. After all, I’m a widow who’s still in the prime of life, and he’s a widower who’s . . . well, he’s a widower.”
“Right now, I’m more interested in his status at the DA’s office. I need to know where things stand with my client, Dr. Newman.”