Slow Kill (29 page)

Ramona put the card in her purse. “I’ll be glad to keep you informed, Chief.”

“It’s not just that,” Kerney said with a smile. “Although I’d appreciate updates. I want you to take a very close look at Spalding’s will and his corporate and personal financial records.”

“According to the San Luis Obispo Sheriff’s Department, they found nothing in Spalding’s will that strengthens our case,” Ramona said.

“This is for a completely different matter,” Kerney said. “Clifford Spalding had a son by his first wife, a boy named George, who ostensibly died while serving in Vietnam. I believe he faked his death, is still alive, and that his father knew the truth and covered it up for over thirty years.”

“Why?” Ramona asked.

“I don’t know,” Kerney said as he slid a manila folder across the desk to Ramona. “But it could have something to do with money.”

Ramona opened the folder, which contained a copy of Kerney’s case notes. “I’m not an accountant, Chief. Wouldn’t it be better to use auditors for this kind of assignment?”

Kerney nodded. “It would, if I wanted a full-scale financial investigation. All I’d like you to do is find out if Spalding or his company had any financial dealings with four people: Debbie Calderwood, who was George Spalding’s teenage girlfriend; Dick Chase, a Santa Barbara police captain; Ed Ramsey, the former police chief; and Jude Forester, a young detective in the department.”

“Cops on the pad?” Ramona asked.

“Possibly. I think you’ll understand my reasoning after you’ve read the file.”

“So much for sneaking in a day at the beach in sunny California,” Ramona said with a smile.

Kerney laughed. “Is your bathing suit packed?”

Ramona grinned, nodded, and got to her feet. “That was wishful thinking on my part, I guess.”

“Go swimming, Sergeant,” Kerney said. “That’s an order.”

“Yes, sir.” Ramona turned on her heel and left the office.

Kerney lowered his gaze to the desktop, where there were letters to be signed, memos to be read, agendas of meetings to attend, and messages to be returned before he could leave for Virginia.

Kerney put his book aside as the plane taxied for takeoff at the Albuquerque airport. The afternoon summer sky was an unusually low gray blanket of formless clouds that dissolved at the base of the foothills, allowing sunlight to pour down on the mountains east of the city.

Once the plane was airborne, he tried to return to his book, a biography of Benjamin Franklin, but his thoughts were already in Arlington with Sara and Patrick. He had a vivid memory of the Cape Cod-style house where his wife and son would be waiting, and the events that put them there.

He remembered the long cross-country drive in Sara’s SUV with Patrick tucked safely in his infant seat, their arrival in Arlington, and the scramble to find housing within a reasonable distance of the Pentagon.

Sara had thought an apartment would be best, so they toured an area of Arlington known as Crystal City, with high-rise apartments, condominiums, hotels, and malls with trendy stores strung out along a busy thoroughfare.

Many of the apartment and condo rentals had magnificent views that looked across the river and took in the Washington Monument, the long grassy mall, and the Capitol in the distance. Kerney had liked none of them; they were boxy and the rents were totally preposterous.

One evening they left their hotel room with Patrick snug and happy in his carriage and took a walk through a nearby residential neighborhood.

“I don’t know why you’re so dead-set against an apartment,” Sara said as they walked the quiet, hilly streets of older homes with green grass lawns and big trees that towered over them. “Besides, you won’t be spending much time there.”

“Marble countertops, stainless steel appliances, plush carpeting, cedar closets, and city views aside,” Kerney said, “I just wouldn’t be happy back in Santa Fe thinking of you and Patrick living in some high-rise box.”

“Oh, I see,” she said teasingly, “this is all about you. Unfortunately, my basic housing allowance won’t cover anything but a rental.”

“How many real houses have you lived in since you graduated from West Point?” Kerney asked.

“Except for the brief times I’m in Santa Fe, not one,” Sara said as she bent down to give Patrick a quick look, who gurgled in response at the sight of her.

They sauntered around a corner and climbed a small rise where the homes and lots were larger, except for one vacant house at the bottom of the far side of the hill. It was a small brick house with a shingled pitched roof containing a row of second-story gabled windows. The front door, accented with pilasters, was reached by three steps. First-floor casement windows were lined up neatly on either side of the entrance. A FOR SALE sign in the front yard advertised “Immediate Possession.”

“That looks nice,” Kerney said.

Sara gave it a wistful glance. “It’s probably way out of the range of what I can afford.”

“If it’s sound, not overpriced, and meets with your approval, I think we should buy it.”

Sara looked at the house with heightened interest and then back at Kerney.

“We can afford it, you know,” Kerney said over his shoulder as he went to inspect the backyard. It had a thick carpet of grass, several large shade trees, and one long, raised flowerbed. “It’s fenced. Perfect for Patrick.”

“I’ll only be assigned to the Pentagon for three years at the most,” Sara said, not yet willing to get enthusiastic. “What if the house needs repair or renovation? That could be expensive.”

“Think of it as an investment,” Kerney said when he returned. “We’ll put a chunk of money down, pay the mortgage out of my inheritance income, and you can use your military housing allowance to gussie up the place if need be.”

Sara’s eyes danced. “Are you serious?”

“It would make me happy. Patrick would have a backyard to play in, you’d have a place with some peace and quiet, and I wouldn’t feel trapped inside a glass and steel high-rise when I come to visit.”

Sara laughed.

“What?”

“So it is really all about you,” she said.

Kerney grinned. “Only partially.”

The next day, they toured the house with the Realtor, who told them it had just come on the market and would sell quickly. They found it charming, in good condition, and because of its small size reasonably priced for the neighborhood. A similar property in the south capital district of Santa Fe would cost about the same.

Kerney made an offer to the owners through the Realtor, who saw no reason for it to be refused. He gave the man an earnest money check, and together with Sara signed a binder requiring the owners to accept their offer by 5 P.M.

Outside of the house, Sara stood with Patrick on her hip, cradled at her side in a protective arm. She smiled up at Kerney. “Amazing.”

Her time in New Mexico had deepened the small line of freckles across her nose, lightened her strawberry blond hair, and given her a bit of a high-desert tan. Her green eyes never looked more lovely.

“What’s amazing?” Kerney asked.

Sara laughed. “You are. I’m a very lucky woman.”

Kerney pulled her close and kissed her. “No, I’m the lucky one,” he said seriously.

Nothing pleased Jefferson Warren more than representing clients who were tough-minded, clear-headed, and readily understood that the application of law was institutionalized warfare between citizens and the state, bound by legal rules, court opinions, precedent, and statutes.

Warren liked fighters, and Claudia Spalding was scrappy, focused, and unruffled. He’d had such clients before upon occasion, but never one like Claudia, who seemed to possess an icy inner core coated by a refined but readily apparent sexuality. She aroused him in a strange, exciting way.

As always, Warren’s first questions had been the most important ones. Had she made any statements to the police? Confessed to the crime? Talked about her case to inmates, jail staff, prosecutors-anybody?

“Of course not,” Spalding answered, as though the questions were absurd. “I’ve only spoken to the attorney who represented me at the arraignment.”

Warren waited for more; in fact, he expected it. Some clients rushed to proclaim their innocence, while others, stung by the reality of jail, feverishly questioned him about what could be done to gain their freedom. Some clients even wanted to confess to him, and were shocked when he stopped them quickly and told them he was a lawyer, not a priest.

Claudia Spalding fit none of those profiles. She sat with her back straight, clear-eyed and poised, her slender, elegant hands folded on the table, and looked at him comfortably during the long silence.

“You have no questions for me?” Warren finally asked, amazed at her composure.

“Do you have a plan?” she asked, without a hint of dismay.

“I believe so,” Warren said, pushing aside the thought of what she might be like in bed. “Let me tell you what we can do in the short term.”

It took only a few minutes for Warren to lay out his strategy and explain the rationale behind it. Claudia asked several questions about the points of law he’d raised, then she stood and offered Warren her hand. Her palm was cool to the touch, her nails perfectly manicured, and her grip sure and firm.

“I’ll expect to hear from you directly,” she said with a brief, fleeting smile.

“Of course,” Warren replied, waiting for an out-pouring of relief. None came.

He watched as the guard took her away. Something about the woman was dark, unfathomable, and fascinating, like the ancient maps that marked uncharted waters with the warning HERE BE MONSTERS.

The image of Claudia Spalding, cool and aloof in her jail jumpsuit, stayed with Jefferson Warren as he climbed the courthouse steps in San Luis Obispo on a Friday afternoon and walked through the stylized pediment entrance into the dark hallway.

Outside the judge’s chambers, the DA, a pompous man with a wide, horseshoe bald spot that covered most of his freckled skull, intercepted him at the door.

“You’re wasting my time if you’re planning to ask the judge to reconsider granting bail,” he said smugly.

Warren smiled down at the portly DA, smoothed his silk tie against his cream-colored shirt, buttoned his jacket, and opened the door. “I’m sure you know the judge’s mind far better than I ever will.”

They found the presiding judge, Truett Frye, in his chambers watching the early evening news on a small portable color television. Frye clicked off the televison and stood, unwinding his lanky six-five frame as the two men approached his desk.

“This better be worth my time, Mr. Warren,” he said. “I should have been home an hour ago.”

“It’s really quite simple, your honor,” Warren said. “The alleged murder of Clifford Spalding did not occur within your jurisdiction.”

“He died here,” the DA interjected.

“Granted,” Warren replied. “But the legal definition of homicide requires a willful, deliberate, and premeditated act. According to the arrest affidavit and supporting documents, no such act occurred within San Luis Obispo County in the state of California.”

The DA snorted in disbelief. “For a two-month period, Clifford Spalding took medication that was prepared and deliberately given to him by his wife and her lover expressly to cause his death. It doesn’t matter where it all started; they were killing him slowly, here, in New Mexico, and wherever else he might have been during that time.”

Frye looked at Warren. “Your rebuttal, counselor?”

“There is nothing in the statute that speaks to how long it takes a victim to die, or where he dies, Your Honor. Suppose a man is shot but survives long enough to drive himself to a hospital across the county line, or even into a neighboring state. In what jurisdiction should the killer be held accountable for the act?”

“Where the act took place,” Frye said, swinging his attention to the DA.

“Think of the altered medication Clifford Spalding was given as a poison, Judge,” the DA said. “He took it every day, as prescribed by his doctor, which means he was poisoned in California.”

“Can you prove that?” Warren asked.

“The autopsy blood work confirms it,” the DA said.

Warren shook his head. “It only confirms that Spalding ingested the substance, not where he took it. Therefore, arguably, the murder occurred in New Mexico, where my client allegedly acted with specific intent to cause the death of her husband, time and place notwithstanding.”

“We have a confession from Spalding’s lover,” the DA said, “that fully implicates her.”

“And proves my point,” Warren noted.

Frye gave the DA a cold stare. “Who signed the warrant and affidavit?”

The DA named the judge.

He held out his hand. “Let me see them.”

The DA passed the documents to Frye, who put on his glasses, paged through them, and then looked at Warren.

“I see your point, Mr. Warren,” he said, “but I don’t see what good it will do your client. The DA can drop his charges and continue to hold Mrs. Spalding in custody on the New Mexico warrant.”

“There is no New Mexico arrest warrant, Your Honor,” Warren said.

“Is that so?” Frye asked the DA.

“I’ll get one,” the DA answered nervously.

Warren smiled. “Until such time, Your Honor, I respectfully request that Mrs. Spalding be released from jail.”

Frye glared at him. “So ordered.”

“Thank you. Would you call the jail now?”

Frye slammed his hand down on the telephone. “You’d better make damn sure your client stays put, Mr. Warren.”

“She gave me assurances to that effect, Your Honor. She’ll be at her home in Montecito. I’ll take her there myself.”

While Frye made the call, the DA used his cell phone to rally the sheriff’s troops.

With a signed release order in hand, Warren left the courthouse, called the jail, and told them he would be picking up Mrs. Spalding in a matter of minutes. Two deputies in unmarked police cars were waiting when he arrived. Warren figured a surveillance team was probably on the way to Montecito to make sure she stayed put while other detectives scrambled to get an arrest warrant from New Mexico.