Double Tap (13 page)

And Gerald Satz, once a convicted felon, found himself minister, soon to be in charge of the tree of knowledge—not just an opportunity to pluck a little fruit but fee-simple title, ownership, everything, including the roots, trunk, and branches. Even J. Edgar Hoover had been reduced to using three-by-five cards and wooden file drawers in his closet in order to compile dirt on his enemies. Satz, who had a long list of get-even announcements waiting to be printed, was being given a warehouse filled with the latest supercomputers and a portfolio to go forth and ransack the lives of everyone in the country. All Americans, including every member of Congress, the Supreme Court, and the press—their lives were part of his playground now. It was enough to put the fear of God into anything that moved.

Opponents in Congress were suddenly howling that the administration, inadvertently or not, had put the poster boy for perjury in charge of the most sensitive government program in U.S. history.

CHAPTER TEN

T
he missing art glass has been a puzzler from the beginning. The district attorney is going to have to deal with it in his case. But how? The real question being what do they know that we don’t? It is possible that the cops are as confused as we are by a lonely part that doesn’t seem to fit anywhere, as if the picture on a puzzle’s box cover is a Currier & Ives print, but the piece in your hand is something from a Picasso.

“You’re never gonna believe what Herman found.” Harry is smiling like a Cheshire cat.

I shake my head: no clue. Herman is already inside my office, shifting around on the couch against the wall, trying to get comfortable.

Harry is seated in one of the client chairs on the other side of my desk. He has a stack of papers and files in his lap. We have been meeting each Thursday morning to go through the evidence, new items that have come from discovery, motions to produce delivered to the police and the DA, and subpoenas served on private parties.

“She paid a small fortune for it,” says Harry. “The
Orb at the Edge
. Guess how much?” Harry wants to play twenty questions.

“How much?”

“Almost six hundred grand,” he says.

I whistle. “It must be nice to have that kind of pocket change for an afternoon shopping spree.”

“Five hundred ninety thousand and change, assuming you don’t wanna put a fine point on it,” says Herman. He’s reading from a piece of paper he has pulled from his coat pocket, a pair of reading spectacles pushed down toward the end of his nose. He hands the paper to Harry, who looks at it and hands it to me.

The document is a copy of the bill of sale. From the form, it looks like the kind you might buy by the booklet in any stationery store. In the upper left-hand corner is the name and address of the gallery in La Jolla. This appears to have been impressed on what was probably foolscap on the original form, since the inked stamp seems to have bled a little into the paper.

“Apparently the thing, the
Orb
, had a history,” says Herman. “Once belonged to the widow of the Shah of Iran. I’m told that type of thing tends to drive the price up. According to an expert we talked to, the highest-end Tiffany lamps, the very tip-top, go for maybe two hundred thousand dollars. That gives you a kind of benchmark of what we’re talking about here.”

This doesn’t help much, since I doubt that I have ever seen a real Tiffany lamp, much less purchased one.

“Course, I ain’t no expert,” Herman goes on, “but listen to this.” He starts reading from a second sheet of paper he’s unfolded from his coat pocket. “The work christened
Orb at the Edge
is composed of the most expensive sa . . . sa . . . sa-fussid . . .”

Harry looks over his shoulder and reads, “Suffused.”

“Yeah.‘ . . . suffused blue crystal known to man. . . .”’ From the ragged edge on the paper, I assume Herman is reading from something he probably ripped from an art catalog in the library when no one was looking. “‘The
Orb
is carved and shaped from a solid block of lead crystal that weighed nearly one hundred pounds before it was reduced. In its original form, the crystal took more than two weeks to cool.’ Can you imagine that? ‘The shimmering cobalt-blue
Orb
, with its filigreed threads of twenty-four-karat gold spun through the crystal in a style and using techniques known only to ancient Venetian glassmakers, last sold at auction in New York for two hundred and fifty thousand dollars.’ That was more than ten years ago,” says Herman. “Probably before the Shah’s wife bought it.”

“No wonder the cops didn’t want us to know about it.” Harry is indignant. “According to the shop owner, Chapman wrote him a check on the spot and took the piece with her when she left the store. The gallery offered to deliver it but she said no. She wanted to take it with her. They packed it up and helped her load it into the front seat of her car.”

“And the cops have no idea what happened to it?” I ask.

“Catch this: we hit ‘em with a motion for discovery,” says Harry. “Demanded everything they had regarding that object of art previously owned and in the possession of the victim, Madelyn Chapman, and known as the
Orb at the Edge
. We attached a photograph and a written description of the glass from the catalog.” Harry is holding an envelope. He removes a folded piece of paper, a single sheet through which I can see three or four lines typed on the other side. “Listen to this. This is what we get back. And I quote: ‘This office is not in possession of any object either identified as the
Orb at the Edge
or resembling the item described in your motion for discovery dated . . .’ blah, blah, blah.” Harry looks at me and smiles, teeth bared, like a shark. “That’s it. That’s all they say. Can you believe it? An item valued at more than half a million dollars is missing, the owner is dead, shot twice through the head, and they see no motive for murder in any of this.”

“Come trial, they may claim our client took it,” I tell him.

“Then where is it?” Harry asks.

“Your guess is as good as mine. Maybe as good as theirs. Any idea how many other people were in the gallery at the time Chapman showed up to look at the piece?”

“Exactly what I was thinking,” says Harry.

“Problem is,” says Herman, “according to the shop owner, only other people in that part of the store that afternoon were two old ladies. He remembers ‘cuz he wanted ‘em to leave so he and Chapman could talk in private.”

“I’ll bet.” I’m looking at the single page from the DA’s office that Harry has just handed to me. I spin around in my chair and begin thumbing through a stack of files on the credenza behind me.

“What are you looking for?”

“I’ll know when I find it,” I tell him. It takes a minute or so. I locate it about halfway down in the stack that has been growing steadily with each motion for discovery served on the DA and the cops. I pull several stapled pages from the pile along with an envelope containing some photographs. I place the stapled pages on my desk next to the DA’s letter. I jot a note to myself on a Post-it and stick it on the letter. Then I paper-clip the entire bundle together, with the DA’s letter on top.

“What is it?” says Harry.

“Could be a point for our side—that is, if the sand doesn’t shift under our feet between now and trial.”

“Let’s just hope the cops don’t find this
Orb
thing in a pawnshop somewhere with a ticket under Ruiz’s name,” says Herman.

“Now, that’s a cheery thought,” says Harry.

“Well, like your partner says, that’s the kinda sand you don’t want shiftin’. You want lotsa optimism, go into politics,” says Herman.

Herman is right. Happy thoughts of easy endings are fine for those who deal in pixie dust. But a criminal-defense lawyer who skips into court on a bubble of buoyancy is likely to slink out missing a sizable chunk of his ass, to say nothing of his client’s. Even when you’ve crossed all the
t
‘s and dotted all the
i
‘s, you can still find yourself bouncing objections off the uneven surface of some intellectual gremlin in black robes. Unanswered questions about the
Orb
, why it disappeared and where it went, may be one of our better arguments, but to place all of our hopes in this one basket would not be wise. Ask any defense lawyer and they will tell you. You can usually punch more holes in a prosecutor’s case with a shotgun than a rifle.

For the moment we drop it and move on.

“Do we know whether the cops have a time frame for the murder?” I ask.

“If they do, they aren’t saying,” says Harry. “Playing it close to the vest.” According to Harry, they are going to make us pick through everything in their reports to reconstruct the state’s best guess as to when the murder occurred. “According to the police reports, none of the neighbors heard the shots,” he says.

“No mystery to that. Silencer on the rocks.” Herman makes it sound like a posh new drink in some upscale bar.

Besides the murder weapon, the handgun that the police found in a flower bed in the backyard, they also found a six-inch cylindrical silencer, its gun-blue finish not even scratched or dented on the sandstone ledge of rocks behind the victim’s house on the other side of the wall near the ocean.

“We do have something from the art shop where she bought the glass,” says Herman. He takes a small notebook from his pocket and starts flipping pages. The cheaters have now slid down his nose so that he is holding the notebook at arm’s length and reading long-distance. “Talked to the owner and his son. Middle Eastern fella. Last name is Asani. Father is Ibram. Boy’s first name is Hassan. Best they could figure, the victim left the store a few minutes after five. Kid says five-ten, no later than five-fifteen. The father says it could have been as late as five-thirty. Old man was a little uptight, the kid was spacey. You want my advice, I’d go with the father.”

“Do we know whether she stopped anywhere else before going home?” I look at them, elbows on the desk, hands open, looking for an answer. Herman shrugs his shoulders. “Last place she was seen alive was the art shop. Far as I know.”

Harry shakes his head. “Figure it’s unlikely she’s gonna stop anywhere else. I wouldn’t want to leave something as valuable as the
Orb
inside a vehicle on the street or in a parking lot, would you?”

“Unless, of course, she delivered it someplace else on her way home.” I tap the DA’s letter still lying faceup on my desk. “Of course, if she did that, then what’s all this packing material doing all over her kitchen?” I turn the police photograph around and show it to Harry. The victim’s kitchen.

Harry peers at the photo. “Quite a mess.”

“Surpassed only by the blood all over the entrance hall,” I tell him. “Her purse and some bottles were spilled on the floor out in the garage.”

“You think there was a struggle?” says Harry.

“No. I think we have a lady in a hurry.”

“You think they’re playing games with us on the
Orb
?”

“Who knows?”

“It wouldn’t be the first time some cagey prosecutor left a tempting piece of evidence out on the end of a limb, hoping some stupid defense lawyer would crawl out there to get it.”

“Let me see the DA’s letter again,” says Harry.

I hand it to him.

He reads silently to himself, forefinger of his right hand running over the letters on the page. “Interesting,” he says. “They say they don’t have it. Doesn’t say they don’t know where it is.”

“Yeah. I noticed that too.”

“They can do that?” Herman asks.

“That depends. If it’s only an educated guess and it can’t later be said that they had specific information, maybe.”

“Is it possible she took it back to her office?” Harry offers.

“Five-thirty on Friday night. The traffic in the area around La Jolla can get thick. We know she had a dinner engagement later that night.”

“Eight o’clock,” says Harry. “She was meeting friends for dinner.”

“She coulda brought the glass piece to her office instead of the house,” says Herman.

“I don’t think so,” says Harry. “Cops found all the packing material at her house. The box, tape, bubble wrap.”

“I can check with the company, this Isotenics place,” says Herman. “See if they have any record of the
Orb
bein’ there.”

“Check it,” I tell him. “But I suspect Harry is right.”

“If it’s not there at her office, and the cops don’t have it, we have to figure whoever killed her grabbed it,” says Harry.

“One would think so. Back to the time of death: what do we have from the state’s pathologist?” This is not likely to be of much help. Without witnesses to nail it down—someone who saw the victim alive, and another who discovered the body—this is a guessing game at best.

“He says it could have happened anytime between five-fifty and ten-forty that night. They’re assuming she left the glass gallery sometime between five-fifteen and five-thirty. The cops found the body just before eleven that night,” says Harry.

“Sounds to me like they’re operating on the notion we are: that she went straight home from the art shop,” Herman says.

“How do you figure?” Harry asks.

“She couldn’t have gone to her office and made it back home in twenty minutes,” Herman explains. “Not that time of day—not with the traffic and all.”

“That’s if she left at five-thirty,” Harry says. “What if she left a few minutes earlier? What if the shop owner’s son is right?”

“Maybe,” says Herman. “But I don’t think so. Traffic’s too heavy to go anywhere else. And, like you say, she ain’t gonna park the car someplace and leave the
Orb
sittin’ there.”

“If no one heard the shot, why did the cops show up at her house? Who called them?” I wonder.

“She missed a dinner appointment,” says Harry. He is looking through the pile of papers in his lap, finds what he wants, and scans it with his eyes. “Chapman had a dinner appointment at eight o’clock that evening. A place in San Diego. Restaurant in the Gaslamp Quarter. When she didn’t show, people waiting for her called the house, then her cell phone. They left messages both places. The cops confirmed it: messages on voice mail. First one was received at eight twenty-two that evening. She didn’t answer.”

“Then the pathologist is off,” I say.

Harry looks at me.

“The time of death. Medical examiner is saying anytime between five-fifty that evening and ten-forty that night when the responding officers showed up. But if she wasn’t answering the phone at eight twenty-two, it’s a fair assumption that she was already dead.”

“You’re right,” says Harry.

We are now down to a time frame for the murder of less than three hours. Unfortunately, Ruiz has no alibi for the evening in question. According to the statement he gave the police, he was at home alone in his apartment, asleep, since he had worked the graveyard shift the day before and was scheduled to go to work at eleven that night.

“Cause of death,” says Harry, “was bleeding coupled with massive trauma to the brain.” He is looking at the pathology report.

“Who was it that called the cops?”