The 3rd Victim (11 page)

‘And I thought it was because you God complex-types were all a load of up-yourselves pricks,’ said Joe as he pushed past the doctor and out into the reception area beyond. ‘But I am just a lowly cop who puts liars in prison – so what the fuck would I know?’

*

Minutes later Dick Davenport was on the phone, outlining the entire conversation. And his friend listened intently, without interrupting, before hanging up the phone.

24

J
oe Mannix and Frank McKay were holed up in the back of a Downtown Crossing coffee shop, one of those places where the regulars sat at the counter and the transients took what was left to them – in Joe and Frank's case, a rickety table with two mismatched chairs. They had not had a chance to talk, Joe instead using the ten minutes in the car – they were on their way to visit the DA at his One Bullfinch Place offices when they decided to make a slight detour to this café to discuss their meeting with Dick Davenport – to listen to the messages on his cell: three long ones which came from an impatient Roger Katz, and one brief ‘call me’ request from his good friend, the attorney for the defence.

‘There were actually two to begin with, you know,’ said Frank McKay, his eyes now focused on the old-fashioned TV above the counter, currently airing one of those morning entertainment news programs on the celebrity-obsessed channel E!

‘Two of what?’ asked Joe, knowing his partner was going to expand on his random observation, whether Joe liked it or not.

‘Two yellow brick roads,’ said Frank, now pointing his half-eaten cinnamon donut at the show which was currently running some old archival footage of the original
Wizard of Oz
.

Well blind Freddie could have seen that one coming, thought Joe. What the hell else have we got to discuss this morning bar Judy Garland and her hairy mutt's route?

‘You're talking about the movie,’ he replied, knowing Frank would want to run this out – and truth be told, Joe was on board with it, knowing Frank's crazy musings often had a point.

‘Not exactly. I'm talking about one of the books on which the movie was based. It was called “The Patchwork Girl of Oz” – which was, as a matter of interest, the third in the series by L. Frank Baum.’

‘You giving up your shield to become an American literature major, McKay? Because if you are, given literature majors don't have to put up with abusive pricks like our persistent DA or lying assholes like Davenport, I can certainly understand your motivation.’

‘That's a good point, Chief. But pricks aside, I was just thinking how interesting it is that Dorothy chose the harder of the two roads.’

‘Judy Garland took a wrong turn?’

‘Not Judy, she was in the movie.’

Of course.

‘I'm talking about the original Dorothy Gale. The one from the –’

‘Books,’ finished Joe. ‘Is there a point here, McKay?’

Frank held up his coffee as if to say,
Give me a minute, I'm getting to it.
‘Both yellow brick roads started at Munchkin City, and both ended up in Oz, but one was longer and tricker to negotiate, and that's the one that Dorothy took.’

A frustrated Joe tried to make sense of it. ‘Maybe if she took the other one she wouldn't have met up with her pals, Frank – you know, the scarecrow, and lion and the guy made out of iron.’

‘Tin.’

‘What?’

‘Tin. The man missing the heart was made out of tin. But I think you're right, Chief,’ McKay pushed on, undeterred. ‘I think L. Frank Baum set her on that harder path so that we – the readers or the movie goers – could learn the things that she learnt along the way. Sort of like he was navigating our course from the get-go – you know, like the invisible captain, steering his ship.’

‘That's what authors do, Frank.’

‘Exactly – authors of books, makers of movies, anybody who has designs on how they want a certain story to be unveiled. People do it to us all the time, Chief, paint pictures in the way they want
us
to see them, not necessarily as they really are.’

Joe started to see it. ‘You're talking about Davenport,’ he said. ‘You think he paved his own yellow brick road for us,’ he added, recalling his own earlier suspicions that the conceited medico was choosing his words with deliberation.

‘I think the good doctor may have been showing us one road while steering us toward another. He spent a lot of time defending Walker, Chief, while simultaneously –’

‘– selling her up the river,’ finished Joe. ‘That stuff about her husband wanting the baby more than she did – about her career and so forth.’

Frank nodded. ‘Seems to me he went on and on about his denying us access to the file but gave us enough information to question the woman's possible motives. He seemed determined
not
to confirm she had PPD – but maybe there was a reason for that – like …’

‘Like she doesn't have PPD after all.’

‘And her motivations may be more self-centred in nature.’

Joe nodded, knowing exactly what Frank was getting at. ‘But to what end?’ he asked after a time. ‘I mean, what has Davenport got to gain from selling Sienna Walker out?’

‘Maybe he's a good guy after all – and wants to avenge the death of that poor little girl.’

‘Maybe, but I'm thinking not,’ said Joe.

Frank nodded again, as he used his index finger to scrape the sugared cinnamon from his now donut-free plate. ‘Maybe he held a grudge against Walker for deciding to go to that midwife for the child's birth. It certainly appeared to rile him.’

Joe nodded. ‘I noticed, but that could well be just his ego talking.’

‘I tend to agree with you,’ replied Frank. ‘But this is where the road gets foggy. If Davenport's motives are self-centred, then what the hell are they?’

‘The same as Daniel Hunt's,’ offered Joe.

Another nod from Frank. ‘Which are?’

Joe thought about it as he sipped his coffee, trying to use Frank's line of thinking to home in on Hunt's voracious interest in this case. ‘I think you may have something with that road theory, Frank. I think Hunt and his friend are steering us toward one road simply because they do not want us to find out what is down the other.’

‘Because the other road leads to the truth.’

‘And maybe screws their arrogant asses to the wall.’

Frank grabbed a napkin to wipe his mouth and fingers before continuing. ‘There is one person who might be able to help us,’ he suggested – perhaps wary of how his boss might take the proposition.

‘No, Frank,’ Joe said, already shaking his head. ‘David works for the defendant.’

‘Hasn't stopped us in the past, Chief.’

‘That was because we knew his clients were innocent.’

‘And we know for sure that Sienna Walker is guilty?’

Joe went to answer in the positive, but found himself hesitating and falling into silence once again. ‘We don't know she's
not
guilty, Frank,’ he managed after a pause. ‘All the evidence points toward her. And besides, I am not sure David will be too keen to “share” when he finds out what we have against his client.’

Joe frowned and Frank read his thoughts. ‘You're beating yourself up for not giving Cavanaugh a heads-up on the forensics the moment Martinelli called you.’

Joe said nothing. The truth was, he did feel guilty for not having called David and told him of the evidence they had discovered – and even those, like the nightshirt, that they had not. Strictly speaking, this was not his job. It was the DA's responsibility to make available to the defence all items of discovery under Rule 14 (an obligation the Kat always delayed), and Joe knew Katz would have his badge if he had proof Joe was communicating directly with the defence. But Joe wasn't worried about his job, he was wondering if David, considering his criteria for representation, might find some way to have himself removed as Sienna Walker's attorney. Joe had confided in David regarding his suspicions of the mom's culpability, after all, so he knew the evidence was stacked up against her – was then, and was even more so now.

‘You have a second sense about these things, Chief,’ said Frank. ‘You'll know when to call Cavanaugh and fill him in.’

Joe managed a nod.

‘You think we should discuss our line of thinking on our friend Dr Dick with the DA?’ asked Frank, changing tack.

‘Did Dorothy give the Wicked Witch a detailed itinerary of her travel plans?’ answered Joe, offering his friend a conciliatory smile. ‘Let's see what we can find out first.’

Frank grinned. ‘They don't call you the Wizard of Homicide for nothing, Chief.’

‘They call me that?’

‘Nah. But I could start something.’

‘Over your dead body, McKay, over your dead body.’

25

‘T
he Kat is pissing all over you,’ said
Boston Tribune
Deputy Editor Marc Rigotti.

It was almost one on Thursday afternoon, and while David was proud of himself for avoiding the press for as long as he had, he knew this face-to-face with Marc Rigotti was both necessary and overdue. Rigotti needed David now, but David knew his cooperation would be repaid in the form of fair coverage leading up to and during the trial. And besides, Rigotti was a friend.

‘I gather we're talking the Kat with a “K”,’ responded David as Rigotti led him into yet another high-ceilinged room.

Rigotti shrugged. ‘Could be either, given both of their piss stinks.’ He smiled. ‘What I mean to say is, the DA is playing the media like a maestro. He's already painting your client as the “Mommy Dearest” from hell, and you've been – well, let's just say you've been customarily quiet.’

‘Not in my nature to hog the limelight, Rigotti,’ said David.

‘The front page is yours if you want it.’

‘At this stage I'd rather stick to the old adage that no news is good news,’ replied David before raising his arms to indicate his surroundings.

‘What's this all about?’ he asked after a pause, wondering why Marc had suggested they meet here, at the Isabella Gardner Stewart Gallery in Fenway. David guessed Rigotti's choice of venue had something to do with the fact that the gallery was Sienna Walker's most recent place of employment. Chances were the short-on-time hack planned on killing two birds with one stone – interviewing David and then the gallery curator in the space of one afternoon – ideally building some sort of profile on the accused, and the life she had led before her arrest.

‘Not what, who,’ said Rigotti, before stopping in front of a portrait painted in a combination of blues and greys. ‘Impressive, isn't it?’

David turned toward the wall. ‘She's a good-looking kid, Marc,’ he said, referring to the child depicted in the artwork before him. David freely admitted he took after his dock worker dad rather than his school teacher mom when it came to an appreciation of art. ‘If you need to ask me some questions, I am willing to give you a brief statement, but I'm pretty strapped for time so …’

Rigotti held up his hand. ‘Jesus, Cavanaugh, step off your fucking treadmill. Look at the painting,’ he said, ‘tell me what you see?’

And so a patient David obliged, stepping forward so that he could examine the portrait up close. He took in the colours and the rough but carefully placed brushstrokes that formed the girl's face. He studied the old-fashioned lace collar painted in delicate white flecks around the little girl's neck. He noted how the artist had used thicker paint to make the girl's long hair look lifelike, and in the girl's pale blue eyes he sensed a sadness, a loneliness, a … ‘
Jesus
,’ he said.

Rigotti smiled. ‘I knew you'd get it eventually.’

‘It's her. It's Sienna Walker.’

Rigotti shook his head. ‘Close – it's her mother. It's called “The Price of Innocence” and it's one of a small number of portraits executed by a respected English artist named Alistair D. Granby. Granby stopped painting in 1968 at the age of forty-one. Word has it he suffered from liver disease and early onset dementia from excessive drinking and now lives like a hermit in some backwater English country village. He was reportedly descended from British gentry, a duke or earl or something, which might explain the madness, considering the rampant inbreeding that lot got up to.’

Rigotti took a breath. ‘Anyway, Granby's works were few and far between. Sienna Walker's mother was his daughter – or, in other words, the artist was your client's grandfather.’ Rigotti looked at the painting again. ‘Pretty talented, don't you think? Maybe it's that fine line between madness and genius thing. You know, walking the line between bonkers and brilliance.’

David nodded. Despite his lack of instinctual appreciation David understood exactly what Rigotti was talking about. This Granby captured more than just the kid's image, he seemed to have harnessed her soul.

‘Did he do a lot of portraits of his daughter?’

‘No. So far as anyone knows this was the only one. According to my guy in London, Granby was kind of a lunatic – my contact describes him as an eccentric, misogynous prick who made his wife and his only child's lives hell before drinking himself into an irreversible stupor. This portrait is on loan from the Tate in London. Your client arranged for it to be here. Obviously it's a subject close to her heart given her mother died when she was a kid. Hard to draw your eyes away from it, isn't it? Kind of haunting – considering all that's going down.’

David looked at the painting again before registering a rush of self-admonishment. Unlike Rigotti, he had no idea who Sienna Walker really was – where she'd come from, who she'd been. He reasoned that this was because of how fast things had been moving, but he made a mental note to get Nora to do some research, and promised himself that his next meeting with his client would be spent trying to get to know the daughter of the little girl in the white lace collar with the sad blue eyes.

‘Why did you ask me here, Marc?’ David asked at last, sensing there was more to this meeting than just a history lesson on Sienna Walker's past.

‘Maybe I know you too well,’ said Rigotti after a pause. ‘Maybe I needed to know if you'd stick to your convictions and give this case a pass.’

There it was, the statement that told David that
everyone
in this city, Rigotti included, believed his client was guilty.

‘I'm on this case to stay, Marc,’ said David, noting the determination in his own voice.

But Rigotti said nothing.

David cut to the chase, needing to know. ‘What? You think I'm making a mistake?’

‘Maybe,’ replied Rigotti after a pause. ‘You didn't ask for this case, David. The cops are building a solid case against your client, and you and I both know you made that little pact with yourself never to go to bat for anyone who –’

David was sick of hearing it. ‘Listen, Marc, I did make a promise to myself, but why would you think I am compromising it by agreeing to represent Sienna Walker? What is it with this case? Why are people so desperate to bury her? She's innocent until proven guilty, just like any other defendant.’

‘But she cut her kid's throat, man.’ Rigotti shook his head.

‘You channelling the DA now, Rigotti?’

‘You know that's not it.’

‘Then what?’

‘There's more to this shit than you think, David.’

‘This shit? What shit?’ David felt his heart skip a beat. ‘Are you trying to tell me something, Marc, because if you are, if the DA's given you a heads-up on information he has a legal obligation to disclose to me then …’ he took a breath.

‘This didn't come from the Kat,’ said Rigotti, his voice now low. ‘No, that's not quite right. Let's just say I found myself in a situation where I happened to hear a conversation relating specifically to your case.’

‘A conversation between who?’

Rigotti raised his eyebrows, indicating David was asking too much.

‘Okay, so when did you hear this exchange?’

‘Just before her arrest.’

David immediately knew that, whatever the nature of the information Rigotti had overheard, he was indebted to the New York-born hack before him, given Rigotti had obviously held on to it until he'd had an opportunity to talk to David and sort out what was what.

‘I know what you're thinking,’ said Rigotti, reading David's mind. ‘But don't give me too much credit. I'm a good friend, David, but I'm not stupid. I held on to this so that I could check it, wait for further intel to filter through. I also figured that if you got wind of it you'd probably walk, which would have sent a message loud and clear to the universe that Walker was guilty, so whatever which way she was fucked.’

‘Jesus, Marc,’ said David. ‘What in the hell have you got?’

Rigotti swallowed before looking David in the eye. ‘The wire screen in the kid's bedroom was unscrewed from the inside, there's evidence the mom didn't bother to turn on the light after she found the kid was missing and … the blood in the bedroom, most of it came from the victim but early tests indicate that the mom's blood – and apparently a lot of it – was in the mix too. She must have cut herself, David, in the process of knifing her kid and …’ Rigotti took a breath. ‘I'm sorry, dude, but DNA don't lie.’

David's heart stopped. He could feel the beats suspend themselves while he took in this last piece of information.

‘There's one thing in your favour. The ME thinks the kid bled out while being cradled by her killer – but your girl's clothing didn't fit this picture, so unless she stashed the top she was wearing when she …’ He stopped there, obviously reading the shock in David's expression. ‘How much of that did you know?’ he asked.

‘Some,’ said David, understanding Rigotti knew him too well to even attempt a lie at this point. He began to feel hot. ‘Did Mannix confirm this with you?’ he asked, his anger at his detective friend now building. According to Rigotti the information on the blood and the other forensics had been discussed with Katz on Tuesday, and David knew there was only one person in a position to deliver such details – Boston PD's crime lab guru Dan Martinelli, via David's good friend Joe.

‘Like I said, David, right place right time,’ said Rigotti, obviously having read David's tone. He lowered his voice. ‘Thing is, David, you and Mannix may be tight but, when it comes down to it, he's a cop and you're representing the accused and –’

Rigotti was interrupted by the ringing of his cell. He looked at the screen. ‘My editor, I gotta take this,’ he said, pressing receive and taking a slight step back. And that was the moment when the timing switched from pause to fast forward, when Rigotti held his breath and looked at his watch and pocketed his cell before turning to David, an expression of urgency on his face.

‘What is it?’ asked David.

‘You wanna get on the front foot?’ asked Rigotti as he paced toward the exit. ‘Then you'd better come with me.’