False Witness (25 page)

“So what do you think? Are we still Woodward and Bernstein, or have we pole vaulted out of
All The President’s Men
into
One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest
?”

She raised her eyebrows. “Are you saying I’m Nurse Ratched now?”

“Heaven forbid.”

“I don’t think we’re crazy,” she said. “Not yet, anyway. But we
are
trying to put together a jigsaw puzzle with a bunch of missing pieces.”

“And no picture on the box to guide us.”

“So no, I don’t think we’re crazy. But I do think our next move has to
be
something crazy. In fact, we need to do it right now, before we talk ourselves out of it. If we’re going to head down the rabbit hole, we need to just hold our breath and jump in head first.”

“Way ahead of you,” said Sam, pulling out his phone and tapping the contacts icon. He scrolled through the names until he got to M, then hit Diane Manning’s number.

“Ledger, Larson and Manning,” said a cheery female voice. “How may I help you?”

“Yes, is Ms. Manning available this afternoon?”

“As a matter of fact she is,” said the voice. “She just got back from lunch.”

Crowe first spotted the tail in the Navigator’s rearview mirror about a mile before 70
th
Avenue turned into Crowchild Trail. The big, black GMC kept its distance for the twenty-minute drive on the freeway, but closed the gap as Crowe jigged left onto Glenmore and then right onto Macleod Trail. He wondered what he had done to suddenly pique the cops’ interest in him again; they hadn’t followed him for days now. He and the Roses had been model citizens since the day after Chuck Palliser and Richie Duff were murdered.

Did they see me meeting with Trinh?
He’d cleared the area himself, and had Digger scan with the Remington’s scope just to be sure. Both had come up clean. Not that it mattered; nothing illegal about meeting a friend for a drink at Eau Claire on a sunny afternoon.
Jason Crowe, man about town
.

The black SUV had a little more trouble keeping up in the stop-and-go traffic on Macleod, but never for long. It would fall back on one light, catch up on the next. Crowe made a conscious effort to stick to the speed limit and avoid any moving violations. He had a permit to carry the Sig Sauer in the Lincoln, but he definitely did
not
have one for the blade in his boot. The last place he wanted to be right now was inside a holding cell.

Fifteen minutes later, Crowe reached the offices of Ledger, Larson and Manning. The firm was housed in one of the gleaming new glass-and-steel towers that seemed to rise overnight in the southwest corner of the city as it expanded relentlessly towards the foothills. The skyline in this part of Calgary was filled with cranes suspended over the shells of buildings, like giant birds feeding their young, always hungry for more, more, more. It was one of the many reasons Crowe hated Calgary: the city was young and artless and greedy, utterly devoid of sophistication. It was the antithesis of everything he loved about Europe and Asia. And if he had to live through another winter here, he might just blow his brains out.

For just a moment, Crowe thought about cranking the Navigator’s wheel and heading east toward Deerfoot Trail, the freeway that would take him to the airport. He could abandon the Lincoln in long-term parking and buy a ticket to Singapore, or Instanbul, or his beloved Paris. Hell, maybe Cairo or Damascus – hired guns were always in high demand. Just write off his whole experience with the Wild Roses as a bad debt, start a new chapter.

He shot down the idea almost as quickly as it had come, and not just out of loyalty to Rufus Hodge. The boss wanted answers, and he wanted revenge. So did Crowe.

The GMC was nowhere in sight as he pulled into the parking lot and nosed the Navigator into one of a dozen empty stalls. It was possible he’d lost the tail, but more likely that the cop had given up when he realized Crowe was just meeting with his boss’s lawyer. The only GMC vehicle in the lot was a dilapidated blue Suburban, jacked up on a lift kit, with what appeared to be cast iron bumpers.

#

Diane Manning’s office was a lot like the woman herself: classy and expensive, but with a cutting edge. The floor-to-ceiling windows were covered in sheer fabric blinds that allowed the room to be awash in natural light, but without blinding reflections from the chrome accents of the ultramodern furniture. Sam estimated that, between the desk, the leather chairs, and the suede sofa, the total cost would be more than he made in a year at the
Chronicle
.

Tess seemed far less impressed with the office. Or maybe it was just the circumstances. “I can’t believe I let you drive today,” she whispered. “Now my blouse smells like the inside of that monstrosity.”

Sam scoffed. “Blue Thunder is a classic automobile.”

“It’s a hunting wagon with no air conditioning!”

“What can I say? I’m a man’s man.”

“You’re a cheap SOB is what you are. I’m going to have to burn this outfit.”

They had spent the ride to Ledger, Larson and Manning in silence, due mainly to the jet-engine blast of noise generated by the front windows being down at freeway speed. It had prompted Sam to think briefly about buying a different vehicle, but the thought had blown out the window almost as quickly as it had blown in. Blue Thunder was the only long-term relationship he’d ever had in his life, outside of his family, and he couldn’t care less if he ever saw
them
again.

Now he leaned closer to Tess. “How do you think we should handle this?”

“You’re asking
me?
” she said, eyes wide. “This is
your
show! I’m having severe second thoughts about this.”

“I don’t think we have a choice. We can’t talk to Leslie Singer because we don’t know where the hell she is, or if she’s even coming back. I don’t know where else we can go with this.”

“We could go
home
and forget this ever happened. You realize we’re about to help the appeal process of a guy who makes Paul Bernardo look like one of the Backstreet Boys.”

Sam leaned forward, elbows on knees, and sighed. “You’re right,” he said. The reality of the situation had sunk in. They weren’t down a rabbit hole, they were in a pit of quicksand. “This really is as crazy as it sounds. Listen, go ahead and leave right now. I don’t want to drag you into something that could ruin your career.”

“Then you come with me,” she said. She placed a hand on his. It felt good.

“I can’t,” he said simply. “If I don’t see this through, it’ll drive me crazy. Every instinct I have is telling me that there’s something fundamentally wrong with this case. That means what I spent the last eight months writing about may be utter horseshit. I have to find out the truth.” He shrugged. “It’s the way I am.”

Tess stared at him for a long, appraising moment. Her expression was one Sam had never seen before, and couldn’t read. Finally, she picked up her purse and rose from her chair.
This is it
, he thought.
This is where it ends
.

She swatted him in the head with the bag so hard he winced, catching him in the ear with one of the chrome buckles. “Jesus, you’re an asshole!” she whispered. Her green eyes blazed. “Fine! It’ll be a cold day in hell when I let you scoop me, buster. Nobody’s going to eat
my
lunch.”

Diane Manning chose that moment to walk through the door.

#

Crowe pressed the button for the tenth floor just as his cell phone rang. He muttered a curse as he drew the phone from the front pocket of his jeans and strode to a secluded corner of the lobby. The area was empty except for a few potted plants, but he was a cautious man by nature, especially in light of picking up a tail after leaving his meeting with Joe Trinh.

“Yeah,” he barked into the phone.

“Hey boss,” said the familiar voice on the other end of the line. “Just checkin in. Still nothin new.”

“Fine. I’ll talk to you later.”

“Boss, wait!”

“Make it quick,” Crowe snapped. “I’m in the middle of something.”

“Do I really have to keep doing this? I mean, it’s over two weeks now and still nothin.”

“Yes, you have to keep doing this.” Crowe wasn’t an ogre; he understood the job was boring. But it was necessary. In fact, he was beginning to think it was absolutely imperative. “I’m working on something right now that might help the situation. But for now, you have to stay on the job. Understood?”

A dejected sigh. “Yeah. Sorry, I shouldn’ta said anything. You can count on me.”

Crowe almost ended the call without responding, then thought better of it. “Thanks,” he said reluctantly. “I appreciate it. I really do.”

The voice on the other end brightened. “Hey, anything for you, man. I’m a good soldier.”

“Yeah,” said Crowe. “You’re a good soldier.”

He hung up and walked back to the elevator.
Christ
, he thought.
I’m a fucking middle manager now.
Next thing you know, I’ll be taking a seminar on motivation.

He scowled as he pressed the button for the tenth floor again.

#

Sam took a deep breath and stood up from his chair as Diane Manning walked into the room. She wore a sleeveless summer dress, cut to mid-thigh, with a braided leather belt that made him think of the handle of a whip. Her shoes, as always, were pumps with three-inch heels.

Before he could speak, Tess rose beside him and moved towards Diane in a single fluid motion, extending her hand.

“Tess Gallagher of the
Chronicle
, Ms. Manning, pleased to meet you,” she said, giving Diane’s hand a firm pump. She gestured to Sam. “I believe you already know my associate, Sam Walsh.”

If Diane was ruffled by the abruptness, it didn’t show. “Of course,” she said. “Sam and I talked often during the Rufus Hodge – ”

Tess cut her off. “That’s what we’re here about, Ms. Manning. We have some very pointed questions about the trial and other aspects of the case. I’m sure you won’t mind an interview? Your assistant said your afternoon was open.”

If Sam hadn’t been impressed by his de facto partner before, he certainly was now. Tess had gone from walking out on the whole thing to knee-deep in a brilliant strategy in the space of just a few seconds. If they could keep the canny lawyer off balance from the outset, put Diane on the defensive, they might have a shot at getting through this with their careers intact.

“Well, yes,” Diane said, obviously flustered. She sat down behind her desk. “I suppose I have the time. But what – ”

“Excellent,” Tess said with a hint of disdain. She and Sam sat back down. “To begin with, Ms. Manning – ”

“Diane, please.”

Tess looked up from her notebook for a moment. “Yes, of course.
Diane
, Sam and I have several questions regarding the Rufus Hodge case as it stands now.” Her gaze returned to her notebook, where she riffled through pages that Sam hoped Diane couldn’t see were quite blank. “If you recall, on the day Mr. Hodge was convicted, you said the crown’s case was flimsy and that you would appeal at the earliest opportunity.” She looked up again. “That opportunity was weeks ago, and yet as far as we can discern, you haven’t filed anything. Why is that?”

Sam looked from Tess to Diane. Tess’s performance was so mesmerizing, he’d almost forgotten why they had come in the first place. His own interviews with the lawyer had been brief, with her always in control. In fact, looking back now, he was mildly ashamed to realize he had done little more than transcribe exactly what she told him in his stories during the trial.

Diane’s eyes were wide under her impossibly thick lashes. “Well, Tess – ”

“I believe your exact words were that the prosecutors built their case on ‘pillars of sand.’ Can you elaborate on that?”

Diane glanced at Sam. He put on a serious expression that he knew would be almost comical in contrast with his heat-wilted appearance, but he didn’t care. Wherever the hell this was going, he was sure of one thing: he was all in. Tess’s instinctive gambit was working so far; Diane was definitely off balance. But why? She should have expected this line of questioning from someone in the media eventually. What was she hiding?

“Uh, yes, those were my words,” she said. Was she blushing? “And I, uh, I still believe that. Absolutely. Rufus Hodge was convicted because he was convenient.”

Tess arched an eyebrow. “I’m sorry, can you explain what you mean by that?”

“Certainly.” Diane seemed to have recovered some composure, but she was still wary. “Chuck Palliser and the other investigators discovered a link between my client and the storage unit that was destroyed the night of Tom Ferbey’s death, and they made up their minds that Rufus Hodge was guilty of murder. They tailored their case to match that conclusion. There was no physical evidence other than that single frame from Alex Dunn’s camera, which could have been anyone. The prosecution couldn’t even physically establish the presence of any drugs in the unit. Their whole claim that it was blown up to hide evidence was nothing more than speculation. And don’t get me started on Richie Duff.” She rolled her eyes, but to Sam, the gesture seemed more practiced than sincere.

“What about Alex Dunn?” asked Tess. “He testified that Tom Ferbey had called him several times and told him there was methamphetamine in that unit. Hundreds of kilos of it.”

“Yes, and I could have called Alex Dunn and told him the moon was made of green cheese. That doesn’t make it so. Testimony is not evidence, as I’m sure you know. There wasn’t a single shred of physical evidence that the storage unit ever contained drugs.”

Tess looked at her notebook. “Yes, I’ve heard C4 explosives will do that to a crime scene. That doesn’t mean – ”

“With all due respect, Diane, I’ve heard that song before several times,” Sam interrupted. He ignored a glare from Tess; she wasn’t the only one who didn’t like getting their lunch eaten. “We’re looking for anything that didn’t come up during the trial.”

Diane shifted – squirmed? – in her chair and shook her head. “Obviously, I can’t go into specifics. Attorney-client privilege.”