Sasha McCandless 03 - Irretrievably Broken (21 page)

“Dickinson, are you still with Ms. McCandless?” Gilbert’s voice had crackled over the air.

“Yes, sir,” he’d said. “But we’re wrapping up here. She’s got a change of clothes and a pair of shoes in a cloth bag.”

Sasha had been calculating how long it would take her to drive home and crawl into bed beside Connelly for a few short hours before the dawn broke and he headed to the airport, when she’d heard Gilbert directing Officer Dickinson to proceed to a familiar address.

She’d turned her head and asked, “Why are you going to Greg Lang’s house?”

Dickinson had held up a hand to shush her while Gilbert had continued, “Search Mr. Costopolous’s vehicle. He informs me he’s been staying with Mr. Lang. Search the guest room, too.”

Two separate thoughts had taken off along parallel tracks in Sasha’s brain, like racing trains. One was that she was going to strangle Nick when she saw him. What exactly did he think “Don’t say anything” meant? Talk to Gilbert like he’s your best friend?  The other train zipped through the recesses of her memory, pulling up every case she’d briefed in Criminal Law as a first-year law student twelve years earlier.

She had to decide whether to object to the search of Nick’s vehicle in Greg’s garage. Greg had a reasonable expectation of privacy in his garage and its contents. The question was whether his houseguest did. Remembering a case involving a stack of boxes stored in a friend’s garage, she decided she had a strong argument that Nick did have such a privacy expectation, which would mean the truck was off-limits.

“Detective,” she’d said, before realizing that Gilbert couldn’t hear her.

She’d slung the bag over her shoulder and gestured for Dickinson to depress the button so Gilbert could hear her.

“Detective,” she’d begun again, “as Mr. Costopolous’s counsel, I’m afraid I can’t allow you to search his vehicle. Unless, of course, you’ve obtained a probable cause warrant, in which case, I’d like to see a copy.”

Dickinson had rolled his eyes and thumbed off the radio so Gilbert could respond.

“Counselor,” Gilbert had said, making no effort to hide the laughter in his voice, “your client volunteered the information that his vehicle was in the Lang garage and offered to let us search both it and the room he used at the Lang residence.”

Sasha had gritted her teeth and said, “Press the radio call button, please.”

Her frustration with Nick and Gilbert had been compounded by the logistics of conversation over a radio through an intermediary.

Before Dickinson could comply, however, Gilbert had rumbled on, “And don’t bother chewing me out for questioning your client, Ms. McCandless. I repeatedly reminded him that he invoked his right to counsel and that you instructed him not to talk.”

Gilbert had paused. Dickinson had shrugged and pressed the button, aiming the radio toward Sasha.

“What?” she’d demanded.

He’d clicked off.

“Oh, I just wanted to stop and give you a chance to thank me for looking out for your client. You’re welcome, in any event. So, as I was saying, Mr. Costopolous, or Nick, as he asked me to call him, had a great deal to say. Fear will do that to people. And, I have to admit, he’s a pretty-looking man. He has plenty to be afraid of at lockup.”

Sasha had shaken her head at the way Gilbert was manipulating Nick by suggesting he was going to be raped.

“Is he there with you now?” she had asked, hoping to talk to Nick and get him to pull himself together before he was transported to the jail.

“Nope. He’s off being fitted for his bright orange prom gown.”

Sasha had closed her eyes and breathed through her nose. If Dickinson hadn’t been standing there, she’d have gone into Tree Pose right there on the Costopolous’s front steps. Instead, she just focused on inhaling and exhaling until she trusted herself to speak without shouting.

“No one touches the car until I arrive at the Lang residence. Are we clear?”

“Suit yourself,” Gilbert had shot back through the radio. “If I had to be in court in the morning, I’d go home and get some shut-eye, but you’re an adult. Do what you want. Dickinson can give you a ride, if you like.”

“No thanks.”

Sasha had felt foolish doing it, but she’d raced down the steps and sprinted to her car. She’d thrown the bag and the suit on the passenger seat and had fumbled with her Bluetooth. She’d decided to beat Dickinson to the house, so she’d at least have a chance to manage the scene.

As she’d started the ignition, she’d used her phone’s voice-dialing function to call Greg before Dickinson had even reached his squad car. She’d pulled out and driven cautiously until she’d turned at the corner. Once she was out of Dickinson’s sight, she’d gunned it.

Arriving a full three minutes before Dickinson, she’d prepared Greg to put up a fight. When the officer informed Greg he had Nick’s permission to search his truck, Greg had refused to let the police officer into his garage. Instead, he had pulled the truck out and parked it in the driveway.

Officer Dickinson had hesitated, disappeared into his car, and reemerged, presumably after consulting with Gilbert. He’d shown no surprise when Sasha had further informed him that he was not welcome to search Nick’s guest room and that Nick lacked standing to consent to such a search over the homeowner’s objection. He’d merely shrugged and started combing through the pickup truck.

So, now she and a keyed-up Greg stood ramrod straight on the porch and watched Dickinson inspect every square inch of cab of Nick’s pickup.

“What is he looking for, I wonder?” Greg asked in a low voice, his eyes on Dickinson’s boots, which were sticking out of the cab as he leaned across the steering wheel and dusted the dashboard.

“I have no idea. Blood?”

“Wouldn’t they call a CSI unit out to do that kind of forensics work?”

Sasha didn’t know and almost asked him who processed Ellen’s crime scene, but she stopped herself.

“I suppose. Gilbert’s probably just doing this to ensure I’m exhausted at Nick’s preliminary arraignment tomorrow,” she told him in an effort to change the subject.

As she said it, she realized it was more than likely true: the authorities were no different from any large law firm that used its almost limitless resources to bury some harassed, overextended sole practitioner in paper and motions practice. It seemed to her that anyone with sufficient weight had a corresponding, almost irresistible, urge to throw that weight around.

And that was fine by her. As someone light on weight, she’d honed her skills at using her opponent’s weight against him. She figured it would work as well against Detective Gilbert and his friends at the district attorney’s office as it had against everyone else she’d gone toe-to-toe with in the courtroom, in the sparring studio, or on the street.

She allowed herself a small smile.

Finally satisfied with his search of the interior of the car, Officer Dickinson backed himself out of cab, pushing with his elbows, and jumped to the ground. Then he closed the door with a gloved hand, walked around to the back, and, one-handed, vaulted into the bed of the truck.

His clear blue eyes met Sasha’s and she realized he was showing off for her benefit. She filed that knowledge away for potential future use and drained her coffee.

She turned to Greg, intending to excuse herself so she could call Connelly. She hated to wake him, but, at Dickinson’s current pace, he’d be gone by the time she made it home. Greg spoke first.

“I have to tell you something.”

The way he  said it left no question that whatever Greg wanted to say, it wasn’t something she was going to enjoy hearing. Sasha felt herself droop, deflated.

“I’m listening.”

“I haven’t been completely honest with you,” Greg said, staring into his coffee mug.

Greg’s bombshell was hardly news, she thought. His timing, however, stunk. She waited for him to continue.

“I, well, I lied when I said I was just out walking around the night Ellen was killed.”

He winced and raised his eyes to meet her gaze.

She nodded. “I assumed as much, Greg. Are you ready to tell me where you were?”

“Yes. I was with Nick.”

Sasha didn’t know what she’d expected him to say, but it wasn’t that
his
alibi for his wife’s murder was the same man for whom
he
was providing an alibi. She bit down hard on her lip and kept her face neutral.

“Nick Costopolous?” she asked, holding out hope that it was some other Nick.

“Yes. His social club has a weekly poker game, a big money game. The buy-in’s five grand.”

“Where’d you get five thousand dollars, Greg?”

He was silent.

“Greg?”

“I borrowed it from the safe in Ellen’s home office,” he finally mumbled.

“You stole it, you mean,” Sasha said.

“Well, she didn’t move the key. She knew I could access it ...” he started, but trailed off in the face of Sasha’s glare. “Fine, I took it without permission. I wasn’t thinking clearly. I’d lost my job, I’d lost my wife. I didn’t know how much longer Ellen was going to agree to let me stay at the house. And, Nick said it was a soft game. I figured I could make enough to get a place of my own. I planned to return Ellen’s money to the safe. She would never have to know.”

What a blazingly stupid plan,
Sasha thought.

What she said was, “But you lost, didn’t you?”

He nodded, a miserable, slow nod. “I did. And then I realized what a terrible thing I’d done and that Ellen was right, I do have a gambling problem.”

He swallowed, a big lump visible in his throat, and sped up, with the words spilling out fast and jumbled.

“I knocked on her door when I got home to tell her she was right and that I was going to go back to Gamblers Anonymous. And to tell her about the money. I planned to come clean to her and beg her for another chance. Instead, I ... found her.” 

Sasha really hoped he wouldn’t cry. She didn’t think she had it in her to comfort him.

“Why would you keep this a secret, Greg? It gives you an alibi.”

“Two reasons. First, how would it look? I stole five grand from my estranged wife the same night she was murdered in our home? Come on, they’d just say we’d argued over the money when I got home and I’d killed her then.”

She had to agree that was a distinct possibility. “Okay. What’s the second reason?”

 “I didn’t want to involve Nick. Ellen and Clarissa were close friends. I knew if Clarissa heard about Nick taking me to a poker game it would cause huge problems for Nick.”

“Do you think she did hear?” 

Greg’s alibi could be problematic for Nick if it gave him a motive to kill his wife. The Greg and Nick Show was growing tiresome.

Greg shook his head. “No. None of her relatives were at the game.”

“This is great, though,” Sasha said, suddenly energized. “We don’t need Nick. The other players can alibi you.”

Greg made a face.

“What?”

“Maybe. I mean, I didn’t use my real name. Nick introduced me as Paul; he said I was an electrician he sometimes worked with. I was wearing a hat and sunglasses. It was dark in there. But, yeah, maybe,” he shrugged.

“You wore a disguise?”

“No, no, that’s just my card-playing persona. You know, so no one can see my eyes.”

“Why the alias?”

“That was Nick’s idea. He doesn’t play in that game; he says it’s too rich for his blood, so he’s not real tight with that group. But he wanted to make sure it didn’t get back to Clarissa’s father or any of her brothers that he’d brought me. I know it sounds stupid now. I know.”

“Actually, Greg, it sounds unbelievable. As in, not credible,” she said.

“It’s the truth,” he insisted.

“That doesn’t really matter; it sounds like a lie.”

He clenched his jaw and was about to respond when Dickinson raised his arm and waved.

“Ms. McCandless,” he called, “I’m about to open Mr. Costopolous’s toolbox. I’d like you to witness this, ma’am.”

“Why’s he want you to watch?” Greg asked, as he followed Sasha down the stairs and across the flagstone path to the driveway.

“Apparently, Officer Dickinson is smarter than he seems. He wants to head off any claim that he tampered with the contents by having me watch him open it.”

They circled around to the pickup’s truck bed, and Dickinson lowered the gate and hopped down. He reached forward into the truck and pulled a long, steel box toward the edge of the gate; then he hefted it and lowered it to the ground slowly.

“Heavy,” he breathed.

He and Sasha crouched in the driveway, one on each side of the double-latched toolbox. Greg stood back.

Sasha could make out the contours of the box in the light cast by the recessed porch lights and the two lanterns mounted on the sides of the garage bays, but Dickinson switched on his heavy flashlight and aimed the beam onto the box.

“Wanna do the honors?” he asked.

She flipped open the latches and pulled back the lid. The top tray was divided into several small compartments that held nails, screws, bolts, screwdrivers, and a pair of wire cutters.

Dickinson reached over and removed the top tray. He shined the light down into the bottom of the box to reveal a level, a carpenter’s square, and some stubby pencils. No hammer. Just an empty hammer-sized slot.

He looked up at her. Even in the shadows, his triumph was plain.

Sasha’s stomach turned and she inhaled sharply.

Beside her, Greg whispered, “What’s wrong?”

Sasha shook her head, but it was Dickinson who answered.

“It appears your pal, the master carpenter, doesn’t have a hammer,” he said, grinning up at them.

Sasha forced herself not to respond. Greg reared his head back, stunned.

Dickinson replaced the tray, and was closing the lid when Sasha put a hand on his forearm to stop him.

“What’s that?” she said, leaning in to get a closer look at a square taped to the inside of the lid.

Dickinson bathed it in light.

It was a photograph of Clarissa, taken on her wedding day, judging by the veil that brushed her bare shoulders and the joy that filled her smile.