Blood Rubies (19 page)

“The point is that it's gone missing, right?” Wes asked.

“Yes … and that it may still be intact.”

“Got it.” He wrote for another few minutes, then read the text to me, a paragraph maybe.

“That's good,” I told him.

“Thanks! I'm off, then.” Wes's eyes sank to my half-eaten sandwich. “I can stay. I'll keep you company.”

“Thanks, but go ahead.”

“Thanks,” he said.

He double-tapped the table, slid out of the booth, and was gone. He strode out of the diner and across the parking lot to his car like a man on a mission.

I waved at the waitress and asked for more hot water. I was just as glad to be alone, to eat slowly and have another cup of tea, to sit quietly and think.

*   *   *

Ellis called as I was paying the bill.

“There's something called the Uniform Act to Secure the Attendance of Witnesses. A judge up here has to sign a certificate telling a Massachusetts judge that Drake Milner's testimony is material. Judge Rutherson has scheduled a hearing at nine thirty tomorrow morning. Milner and his lawyer will be present. Tell me you're available.”

“I'm available.”

“Good. The ADA—Rusty Barton—do you know him?”

“No. What's he like?”

“Humorless. By the book. Skeptical. He doesn't like New York.”

“Well, to hell with him.”

“I tell myself that no one's perfect. He has a sterling reputation. Plus, he's Frank Harson's handpicked choice for the case.”

Ellis was communicating more than information. Frank Harson was New Hampshire's attorney general, and Ellis wanted me to know that he was taking a direct interest in the case.

“Mr. Barton must be honored.”

Ellis chuckled. “Or ready to run for the hills. In any event, he wants to review your testimony before you talk to the judge. Can you meet him now?”

I glanced out the window. Long shadows striped the asphalt. The day was shot. “Sure.”

“Good. He's in my office reviewing our files.”

“I'll be there in fifteen minutes.”

I got settled in my car, then called work to tell them I wouldn't be in. I checked e-mail, too. Lila from Zinsser's Antiques wrote to tell me they'd checked the warehouse, and no records relating to Winston Mackley's appraisal of a Fabergé egg existed. I forwarded the e-mail to Ellis, adding a note: “Another dead end.”

*   *   *

Rusty Barton rose when I walked in. He glanced at Ellis entering behind me, then looked back at me and extended a hand. “Thanks for coming in on such short notice.”

“Glad to help.”

“Have a seat. Let me tell you what the judge is going to want to hear.”

The round table near the window was covered with stacks of papers and manila folders. A yellow legal pad with several pages looped backward over the binding rested near his right hand. Ellis sat beside me.

Much to my surprise, Rusty Barton's hair wasn't red, reminding me never to jump to conclusions. His hair was black, slicked back in a leonine wave. His eyes were black, too, or maybe just a really dark brown. He wore a brown suit with a yellow shirt and a brown tie with tan diagonal stripes. He was younger than I expected, late twenties or early thirties.

Barton flipped back two sheets on his legal pad and scanned his notes. “First, the judge will want to know why we think learning about the Fabergé egg snow globe will help solve the murder.” His eyes shifted to Ellis. “Chief Hunter will explain that part. Second, he'll want to know why we think Drake Milner has material knowledge about the object.” He pinned me with his gaze. “That's where you come in.” He leaned back in his chair. “If I say, ‘Why do you think this man has knowledge of the Yartsin Fabergé Spring Egg snow globe?' what will you say?”

“Mr. Milner told me he appraised a Fabergé egg last week. I think it's this one.”

“Why?”

“Because the Yartsin Spring Egg is missing. For two Fabergé eggs to be in play at the same time would be a nearly inconceivable coincidence.”

“At this point Milner's lawyer will jump in. ‘So, Ms. Prescott, let's be clear. You're saying that you have no actual evidence that Milner has material knowledge about the Yartsin Fabergé Spring Egg snow globe, is that correct?' He'll turn to the judge, righteous indignation written across his face. ‘Your Honor, this is an outrage.' How can you confute him?”

I didn't know what to say.

“Ms. Prescott?” he prodded. “What will you say?”

I pressed my lips together, stymied.

Barton turned to Ellis. “We're in trouble. Big trouble.”

 

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Rocky Point's new courthouse was built of wood, fieldstone, and glass. It was contemporary in feel, yet stately. I spotted Ellis and Barton by a soaring stone column in the lobby, just past security. Once I was through, I joined them.

Ellis smiled as I approached. “Hey, Josie.”

ADA Barton's tension was evident. His brow was wrinkled, his shoulders stiff, and there were ash-colored smudges under his eyes.

“I'm ready,” I told him. “I know I messed up yesterday. I won't mess up today. I promise.”

A big man, both tall and wide, wearing a charcoal gray suit and a red and black striped tie, stopped short. “Rusty, you old dog. Don't tell me they've assigned you to this loser.”

“Dale … how do you know which case I'm on?”

“I don't. But if you're on it, it's going to be a loser.”

“Nice, nice. You're still Mr. Personality, I see. What are you doing here?”

“Up from Boston to protect the right to privacy. Rocky Point vs. Milner.”

“Then we are going to be meeting up soon.” Rusty leaned toward Dale and lowered his voice. “Except this time, you're going to be the loser.”

Dale chuckled and wagged his index finger in Rusty's face. “You were always good for a laugh, Rusty. See you in chambers.”

He strode across the lobby. Barton watched him until he turned the corner and disappeared from view.

“Dale Morrison,” Rusty said staring after him, “epitomizes the worst of the law. He's both amoral and articulate, a dastardly combination.” He turned to me. All signs of tension had disappeared. Now he looked angry. “He's a master at making witnesses feel foolish and look inept.” He faced Ellis. “This applies to you, too.”

“I'm a righteous man,” Ellis said. “When it comes to telling the truth, I fear nothing.”

Rusty nodded enthusiastically. “Yes, that's exactly the right approach. Take the high road.” He looked at me. “Will you be all right?”

“Yes. I'm righteous, too.”

“I hope so,” he muttered, not believing it.

“Really,” I assured him. “I'm prepared.”

He looked at me straight on and lowered his voice. “Meaning you're ready to answer the question that stumped you yesterday?”

I spoke softly. “Yes. After I left, I went home and wrote out what my reply should have been, the one I should have been able to deliver with calm confidence instead of going completely blank.” I shook my head, wincing at the memory. “I felt awful freezing like that. I went ahead and thought of every question I might be asked and prepared notes on my replies. After dinner, I read and reread them until I darn near memorized it all. I promise you that I won't forget the points I want to make.”

“I wish we had time to go over it,” Barton said. “Keep your answers responsive and short.” He glanced at Ellis. “Both of you.”

We nodded, then headed out, following the route Dale Morrison took. Our footsteps echoed on the stone flooring. Blinds blocked the view while allowing light. I wondered if the halls were wide and the ceilings high simply to make mere mortals feel small. It was working with me. We walked three abreast without filling half the corridor width.

Midway down the hall, Barton stopped and looked at me. “I'll do my best to keep the brunt of Dale's attack off of you, but no matter what, don't let him get to you. Stay cool. It's all right to take a few seconds to think.”

“Okay,” I said, swallowing hard.

“You, too, Ellis. Dale is going to try to bait you.”

“Let him try. He won't succeed.”

We took the elevator to the third floor and turned right, then right again. Rusty paused at the third door on the right. The top half of the door was frosted glass.
JUDGE MATTHEW Q. RUTHERSON
was lettered in gold, outlined in black. Barton opened the door and held it so Ellis and I could enter first.

A petite redhead older than me sat at the desk facing the door. To the right was a conference room with a long, narrow table covered with stacks of books, piles of file folders, and what seemed to be reams of paper. Some sheets had been crumpled and tossed aside. Three men and a woman, all in their early thirties, all in suits, sat around the table. They weren't talking. Two were reading; two were writing on legal pads. To the left was a hallway. At the end I could see an alcove containing a photocopier and a coffeemaker. Three doors ranged off the hall, all of them closed. Five blue upholstered chairs were positioned against the side wall.

Barton stepped up to the desk and greeted the receptionist by name, Ms. O'Neill.

At first I thought he'd been here before, but then I saw a brass plate affixed to a wooden stand on her desk. Her first name was Olive.

“I'm ADA Russell Barton. These are my witnesses.”

“How do you do? Have a seat for a moment, please.”

Barton turned away but didn't sit. I did. Ellis did a slow 360 taking in the scene. His scar looked darker under the fluorescent lighting than it did in natural or incandescent light.

Ms. O'Neill picked up the phone and pushed a button. “Mr. Barton and his witnesses are here … Yes, sir.”

She stood up, smiling at us with practiced professionalism. “This way.”

She led us behind her desk to a vestibule, opened a heavy wooden door, and announced, “ADA Barton.”

“Sit, sit,” the judge said.

Judge Rutherson was tall and thin, with the leathery brown skin of an outdoorsman. Four chairs were lined up in front of his desk. Barton stood in front of the chair closest to Morrison, then pointed at the most distant one and looked at me. I sat. Ellis sat between us. A court reporter sat off to the side in front of a metal wheeling table.

“This is going to be very informal,” the judge said with some kind of drawl, Texas maybe. “I have to be in court in thirty minutes, and I'm giving you fifteen of them. Don't mess up. Here's my plan. I'll ask you a few questions, and you'll answer them simply and clearly. And quickly. We're not going to have a lot of posturing or pontificating. Do you understand that, Counselor Morrison?”

Morrison paused before answering. “I assume I'll have sufficient time to present my client's point of view, is that correct, sir?”

The judge flipped his palm at Morrison, irritated. “Of course, of course.” He moved his eyes to Barton. “Do you understand it, too, Mr. Barton?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I appreciate brevity,” the judge said, sending his eyes around. He glanced over his shoulder. “You got that, Priscilla?”

The court reporter, an older woman with a thin face and curly brown hair, said, “Yes, sir.”

“Good, good. State your names for the record.” After we finished, the judge picked up a blue-covered document, then dropped it. “Let me summarize. You gentlemen don't agree on whether I should compel testimony from a Mr. Drake Milner, a Russian artifacts expert from Boston.”

“That's right.” Morrison crossed his legs and smiled, man to man. “Your Honor, we've both read this absurd application, and I'd like to say—”

“Be quiet, Dale,” Judge Rutherson said, his tone stern but not hostile. He looked from one of us to the next, starting with me, meeting each person's eyes for a good three-count before moving on to the next person. At the end, he moved back to Barton. “What is it you think this man Milner knows?”

“Chief Hunter will address that, Your Honor.”

“Mr. Milner appraised a Fabergé egg that we believe is relevant to a murder investigation.” Ellis described the connection, then added, “I don't think Milner has guilty knowledge. I think he's simply protecting a client.”

“He wants to be able to tell his client he had no choice,” the judge said.

“Yes, sir.”

“Your Honor!” Morrison said. “This is outrageous! They're going on a fishing expedition.”

“Maybe,” the judge said. He turned to Barton. “Give me one reason I should grant this application, why I should believe that you have evidence, that you're not just throwing toddlers into the swimming hole to see who makes it out. Do it now. Do it quick.”

“There are too many coincidences for it to be anything other than cause and effect.”

“Good answer. Explain.”

“Your Honor!” Morrison objected.

“Be quiet!” the judge said, raising intensity, not volume. He turned back to Barton. “Continue.”

Barton leaned forward and turned toward me. He smiled, the first time I'd seen him do so. He looked back at the judge.

“Josie Prescott is an antiques expert. She spoke to Drake Milner about his appraisal. I've asked her to describe the many coincidences she noted and tie it all together for us.”

“I read your statement about Ms. Prescott's qualifications and am ready to certify her as an antiques expert,” the judge said.

Morrison sat forward. “Your Honor! Ms. Prescott is neither a Russian decorative arts nor a Fabergé egg expert. You can't certify her.”

“I'm an antiques appraisal
process
expert,” I said, “and that's what's relevant here.”

“I agree,” Judge Rutherson said. Morrison expelled air, a sharp hissy sound of disapproval. “Proceed.”