Читать книгу Her Best Defense - Jackie/Lori Merritt/Myles - Страница 12

At the Westbrook Depot, Lisa detrained and hailed a cab for the rest of her journey into the land of wealth and privilege. She was amazed at the size of what people called houses in this neighborhood. Each estate she passed seemed grander than the last. Each “house” was surrounded by tall rock or block walls covered in greenery, with only the roofs showing above them. The actual homes could only be glimpsed through security gates that allowed visitors access to the grounds—by invitation only, of course. The Witherington mansion was no exception. The only difference between that stunning property and others in the neighborhood was the herd of reporters camped out on the street in front.

“Does someone famous live here?” the cab driver asked.

“In a manner of speaking,” Lisa said dryly. “Whatever you do, don’t stop.”

“I’ll do my best.”

The cab driver pulled up to the gate so that Lisa could speak through the intercom system that was connected to the house, her picture being snapped all the while her head was stuck out of the backseat window. Soon the gate swung open, and the drive up to the main house began. Lisa, trying to ignore the barrage of flashes and reporters shouting questions, took note of the absence of a keypad anywhere near the gate so that a code could be entered to gain entrance onto the estate grounds. That meant that each car coming in either had to be admitted by way of the intercom or had to be outfitted with some sort of device similar to a garage door opener. She made a mental note to ask Glory how many of these devices they owned and in whose possession they might be. Did she pass them out to prospective and current boyfriends, for instance?

The driveway was long and U-shaped. Near the house, the place where Mateo’s body had been found was cordoned off by yellow crime scene tape, and a chalk outline was still visible on the pavement and grass. What appeared to be bloodstains also remained.

“What the hell happened here, lady?” the cabbie asked. “Hey, is this the place where that rich broad murdered her boyfriend? Is that why all those reporters are out there?”

Oh, the power of the press, Lisa thought. To the driver she said nothing. She just threw some money at him and climbed out of the backseat.

“You want me to come back later and get you?” he asked, as she walked up to the large, elaborate front doors.

“I’ll call if I need you,” Lisa threw over her shoulder.

“Ask for Danny White,” he yelled out the window.

Lisa nodded but didn’t turn around. She was too interested in the crime scene at the moment and she certainly didn’t want the cab driver hanging around any longer than necessary, asking her questions she wasn’t going to answer. Soon she heard the cab moving back down the driveway.

Lisa rang the bell. In moments, one of the ornate doors opened and she found herself looking at a young Hispanic woman who appeared to be still in her teens.

“Are you Maria?” she asked.

“Oh, no,” the young woman said with a heavy accent. “Maria no feel well.”

“That will be all, Connie.” Glory seemed to appear out of thin air behind the young woman. “Come in, Lisa. Is this going to take long?” There was blatant impatience in her voice.

“It will take as long as it takes, Glory,” Lisa said, managing to keep the edge out of her voice. Obviously Glory was still planning on her tennis match, as she was dressed in a sleeveless white sweater with a long-sleeved white sweater wrapped around her shoulders, a white sweatband on each wrist, a pair of white tennis shoes and a short, short white skirt. Lisa couldn’t help wondering how she managed to have such a good tan at this time of year. Probably a tanning salon, but maybe she’d spent a month in the Caribbean. Oh, the advantages of great wealth, she thought with an inner sigh.

“Fine,” Glory huffed as she walked Lisa into a room that was easily recognizable as a library because of all of the beautifully bound books lining the walls. “We can sit in here.”

The room was exquisite; the whole house was beautiful. Spectacular, actually. Lisa had been in extraordinary homes before, but none quite like the Witherington mansion.

“Have a seat. Over there by the fireplace,” Glory said with a careless wave of her hand.

The fireplace was without flame or heat, neither of which was needed for temperature or atmosphere during this rather strained meeting. Not that it should be strained, Lisa thought, telling herself again, as she had on the train, to overlook Glory’s grating personality and behave with grace and unruffled professionalism.

Lisa chose one of the butter-soft leather chairs and set her briefcase down on the carpet next to it, thinking that Glory would immediately join her. Instead, Glory approached a few steps and asked, “What would you like to drink?”

“I would love a glass of cold water.”

“Now that’s exciting,” Glory drawled, and turned away to head over to the bar that Lisa had noticed, albeit with very little interest.

Now she took full note of it. The bar and six stools were constructed of an uncommon wood—to Lisa, at least—possibly imported from some far-off exotic place, elaborately carved and stained. The back bar was a series of glass-fronted shelves that suddenly showed their wares when the lights came on. Obviously Glory had hit a switch, and while Lisa watched, she poured some kind of amber liquor into a small glass and drank it in one swallow.

Lisa gaped but said nothing. She had no right to judge Glory, even though she would much rather have her client totally clearheaded while they talked.

Glory walked from the bar to Lisa’s chair carrying two glasses, one with water and ice chips, which she handed to Lisa, and the small shot glass, refilled of course, for herself. She sat nearby in another leather chair.

Lisa murmured “Thanks” for the water, took a drink and then held the glass with her left hand while picking up her briefcase with her right. “I need my notepad and pen,” she said, noticing Glory sipping from her glass. She also noticed Glory’s facial expression—impatient and petulant—and her body language. The woman was poised to jump and run. Lisa had to bite her tongue not to harangue Glory again about her unbelievably naive attitude. Anyone who didn’t take a murder charge seriously couldn’t possibly be operating with a full set of marbles.

Lisa frowned as she pondered an insanity defense. Given Glory’s complete absence of fear or even an appearance of understanding or caring about the charge against her, that might be her best bet, Lisa thought.

“Glory, would you consent to talking with a psychiatrist?”

“What for?”

“Well, you have no memory of the homicide. Is it completely impossible that you did shoot Mateo during a blackout and simply don’t recollect it?”

Glory looked pained. “If that’s the best you can do, we should probably find ourselves another attorney.” She leaned forward, her blue eyes blazing. “I’m not talking to a psychiatrist, I am not pleading temporary insanity, I’m not going to jail! Did you get all of that or would you like me to repeat it?”

Lisa was stunned. This woman, who most of the time acted as though she were living in some sort of dream world, was fully cognizant of the situation. What Glory Witherington was, along with being drop-dead gorgeous and wealthy beyond measure, was either a sensational actress or a split personality.

Lisa opened her notebook and took her pen in hand. With her mind racing a mile a minute behind a passive expression, she said calmly, “I understood every word perfectly, plus I learned that you’re not the airhead that you normally pretend to be. Perhaps you and I are finally getting to know each other. Let’s get started, all right?”

Glory knocked back the second shot and put the glass on a small table to her right. “Started and finished,” she retorted. “I have plans, remember?”

“Oh, yes, your tennis game. First, let me mention Maria. Connie, the young lady who answered the door said Maria wasn’t well. Is it something serious?”

“She’s just hysterical over finding a body in the driveway when she came to work that morning.”

“So she isn’t ill, she’s upset?”

“I thought Maria was strong and sensible, but she lost it that day.”

“Lost it? Isn’t that understandable? It surely must have affected you in a similar way.”

Glory shrugged. “I don’t happen to be a hysterical female, and Maria is. She’ll get over it.”

“I certainly hope so. I need to talk to her. What’s her telephone number and street address?”

“Oh, for crying out loud,” Glory complained, but she got to her feet and started for the door. “I’ll get it. Wait here.”

She was back in a few moments with a piece of paper. “Here, I wrote it down.”

“Thank you.” Lisa glanced at the scrawled information on the paper, then tucked it into her briefcase.

Glory returned to her chair but sat stiffly with her arms folded across her midriff. “What else?” she demanded.

“What time did Mateo leave this house the night he was killed?”

Glory’s jaw dropped. “You sound extremely accusing!”

“I sound like your attorney. Please answer the question.”

“Well, how in hell would I know? I told you I’d taken sleeping pills.”

“So he was still here…and alive…when you went to bed?”

A frown drew Glory’s perfectly arched eyebrows closer together. “I guess so.”

“But that’s only a guess? Let me put it another way. Do you recall the time of night you took the pills? Incidentally, when you mentioned sleeping pills before, you gave me the impression that you’d taken only one pill. Now you’re using the plural. How many pills did you take that night, Glory?”

“God, I hate being questioned like this!”

“If you hate this, wait until you’re on the witness stand and a prosecuting attorney is doing the questioning. Glory, you must cooperate with me. I would work myself into an early grave to attain justice for a client, but the client has to freely cooperate. Now, think back and do your utmost to remember how many pills you took, and if Mateo was still here and alive when you took them.”

Glory looked sullen but she said, “I probably took three…maybe four. I don’t usually keep count.”

“And what were they?”

Glory shrugged. “I don’t know. It was something my doctors gave me for my nerves and to sleep. All perfectly legal, counselor. I don’t do street drugs.”

“Never?”

A flush crept into Glory’s cheeks. “I never say never, Lisa, and neither should you. I’m sure you’re not nearly as perfect as you want people to believe.”

“I’m not perfect, nor have I ever tried to trick or charm people into believing I am. But neither am I going to have to appear before a judge and jury to stand trial for murder. You are, so let’s continue, shall we?”

“Fine! But I was out cold when Mateo was shot, so even a fool could see that I couldn’t have pulled the trigger. And the trigger of what gun? Where’s the murder weapon? Did the police find it?”

“You’re saying there’s never been a gun in this house?”

“That’s what I’m saying, yes. Other than Chandler’s collection of hunting rifles, that is.”

“Did the police see those?”

“They saw everything. They practically tore the house apart, which I’m sure is perfectly obvious. The place is still a mess.”

“Your house is immaculate. I don’t see any mess.”

“It’s gradually being put back together,” Glory said crossly. She looked at her watch. “Can we please hurry this up?”

“Gladly. Chandler was in Detroit that night, right?”

“Right.”

“He was there on business?”

“What do you think he does, fly to Detroit and spend a night in a hotel for the hell of it? Of course he was there on business.”

“I’ll get the receipts for that trip from him. Glory, do you have even the tiniest recollection of saying good night to Mateo?”

“No.”

“Did he always come and go through the front door?”

“What?”

“From the angle of the bullet into his back, the shot had to have been fired from the front door, or very close to it.” Lisa was reaching with that comment, as the only thing she knew for certain was that Mateo had been shot in the back. But from the chalk marks outside and their distance from the house, it appeared that he’d been shot while leaving the house through the front door. She felt that she’d gained a little ground when Glory didn’t totally discount the theory, although there was some denial in her reply.

“Someone could have been hiding in the shrubbery at the front of the house, waiting for him to leave.”

Lisa pressed her slender advantage. “True, but maybe the killer was waiting for Chandler to walk through that door. Did you ever consider that possibility?”

Glory’s face paled. “Chandler wasn’t home.”

“Yes, but did the killer know that?”

“Why are you trying so hard to confuse me?” Glory got up, went behind the bar and found a small pill bottle. She took a tablet from the bottle, put it in her mouth and swallowed it without water.

Lisa watched the whole thing in amazement. “What did you just take?”

“Something for my nerves. You’ve got me all worked up.”

“Glory, didn’t the police ask you these same questions?”

“I don’t know.”

“Glory, were you ever aware of any sort of relationship between one of your housemaids and Mateo?”

“No, but since I’m not in the habit of following the help around to keep tabs on their activities, I suppose there could have been something going on.”

“Hmm,” Lisa murmured. Romance gone sour was the motive for countless homicides. She quickly wrote down notes on that theory for later consideration.

Lisa put her notebook and pen back into her briefcase. “I have one more question, then I’ll go and let you get on with your tennis party. Did you ever notice anything of value to be missing after one of Mateo’s visits?”

“Something of value such as the plasma TV in the screening room?”

Her sarcasm was almost more than Lisa could take, but she replied evenly, “No, something of value such as one of those gold ashtrays, or perhaps a piece of jewelry.”

“I hardly maintain a running inventory of small items scattered throughout the house, Lisa, nor do I leave my jewelry lying about. Why do you ask?”

“Just a theory I was working on. Oh, one more thing. Do you and Chandler carry electronic gate openers in your vehicles? Perhaps Maria, as well?”

“Everyone who comes and goes from this place has one.”

“Did Mateo?”

“I don’t keep a list, Lisa. He might’ve, but I really don’t know for sure.”

Lisa was suddenly weary of this song and dance. Maybe Chandler and Maria would be more cooperative, she thought as she put her things back into her briefcase. “I’ll call a taxi on my cell from outdoors,” she said. “I want a better look around the grounds.”

“Have fun playing detective,” Glory said sweetly. “As for me, I’m off to the tennis club.”

In spite of all the high-minded promises Lisa had heaped upon her own head during the trip out there, she couldn’t stop herself from whispering, “How on earth am I going to defend this fruitcake?”

The day got away from Lisa. After the fiasco with Glory, Lisa took care of some errands that had been stacking up all week, finishing up around five with grocery shopping. Finally at home again, she unloaded her goods into the refrigerator and cupboards, then went upstairs to her desk and checked her voice mail for messages. There were none of any importance. Next, she dialed into her telephone at the firm and listened to half a dozen messages, mostly business-related. They could wait until Monday.

One was from Grant Gowan.

“Lisa, you’re a hard woman to catch up to. I know you’re busy with the Witherington case, but I sure would like to see you again. You do take time to eat once in a while, don’t you? Give me a call and we’ll have a nice relaxing dinner somewhere quiet. Please call. You have my number.”

Lisa sat staring out the window over her desk and thought about Grant. She should call him. She didn’t have to go out with him, but he deserved the courtesy of a phone call.

She picked up the phone again, but instead of dialing Grant’s number she dialed Pamela’s. “Pam, it’s me.”

“Glad you called, since we missed each other at the office this morning. But you don’t sound exactly perky. What’s going on?”

“I can’t deny that I’m pretty far down in the dumps, but there’s no major catastrophe causing it…unless you want to call Glory Witherington a catastrophe.” Lisa and Pamela often talked to each other about their respective cases. Neither talked out of turn to anyone else about what had been said in their gab sessions, so Lisa felt completely confident that anything she told her friend about the Witheringtons would go no farther.

“What’s she doing?”

“Acting as though being arrested for murder is barely worthy of notice. I’ve dealt with all sorts of clients, but not one of them before this acted as though the whole thing was just going to vanish on its own. I can’t get a straight answer out of her to save my soul.”

“Maybe you should get Ludlow’s permission to turn the case over to someone else.”

“And admit defeat so soon? You know I can’t do that. Neither could you.”

“True, but if you’re beating your head against a stone wall…”

“I saw her take a pill—she made no attempt to hide it—and when I asked her what it was, she said it was something a doctor prescribed for her nerves. I can’t get the name of any drug she takes out of her. I’m beginning to think she’s a prescription pill addict, although she does have moments of lucidity. But she says she popped sleeping pills the night Mateo was shot and apparently takes other drugs during the day.”

“Well, the police searched her house, didn’t they? They would have a list of her medications and drugs?”

Lisa fell silent a moment, then said slowly, “Yes, of course. I should have thought of that myself.”

“Lisa, didn’t they move awfully fast on this case? I mean, Glory was arrested within days of Mateo’s murder.”

“The prosecution is positive she did it, even though the premise behind their certainty has more holes in it than an old sweater. The evidence they have against her that I’ve been given is entirely circumstantial.”

“And yet they’re so certain. You have to find out why. There’s something you haven’t yet figured out, Lisa.”

“Yes, and I think I know what it is. Drugs. I have to see a complete list of everything they found in that house during their search.”

“They’ve withheld that information?”

“So far, yes. I’m sure I’ll get it on Monday.” Lisa’s wheels were turning faster and faster. “Pam, I’m going to sign off. I have to make some other calls. Talk to you later, okay?”

“Good luck.”

“Thanks.”

Lisa began thumbing through her personal phone directory, wondering whom to call about the drugs that might have been found in Glory’s possession. She couldn’t wait until Monday. In the end she sat and stared at Detective Sandoval’s name and accompanying phone numbers. Calling him on a Saturday night didn’t feel quite right to her. If he wasn’t on the job, then he would be home with his wife and kids; if he was on duty, he might be busy and annoyed with an interruption.