Authors: Jessica Fletcher
A Deadly Judgment (13 page)
“Yes, I am.”
“To your knowledge, Ms. Kiss, has any effort been made to match the DNA, and other evidence found at the crime scene, to such possible suspects as the young man arrested by Detective Sullivan ; and who, by the way, was in possession of a lethal weapon, a knife?”
“Objection. Beyond the scope of the witness’s knowledge.”
“Sustained.”
“Doesn’t it make common sense, Ms. Kiss, to see if a person, arrested at the same spot as a vicious stabbing, and possessing a knife—and not in jail—just might be—”
“Objection.”
“Rephrase the question, Mr. McLoon.”
He did.
The criminalist replied, “No, I was not asked by the police to check evidence found at the Brannigan crime scene with others known to have been arrested in that area.”
“You were never directed to examine evidence from an arrest made days earlier at the Public Garden that involved a knife?”
“That’s correct, sir.”
“Thank you, Ms. Kiss. I have no further questions for this
prosecution
witness.”
prosecution
witness.”
District Attorney James conducted a half-hearted redirect examination of Ms. Kiss, then called two other witnesses from the police, neither of whom could offer anything to link Billy Brannigan to the murder of his brother. Malcolm worked quickly during cross-examination, reinforcing for the jury the lack of tangible evidence against Billy Brannigan.
“It’s my understanding, Ms. James, that your next witnesses will testify regarding the trust fund,” said the judge.
“That’s correct, Your Honor.”
“Then I think this is a good time to recess. Court will reconvene at nine in the morning. Have a pleasant evening.”
Originally, we were to meet in Malcolm’s office immediately following the end of the trial day. But as we gathered in the hallway and braced for the press that lined the steps, he announced, “My dear friends and colleagues, this day calls for a celebration.”
Twenty minutes later we all sat at the boat-shaped bar at Jimmy Jr., the holding area for one of Boston’s most famous seafood restaurants, Jimmy’s Harborside, right on the fish pier. Malcolm was greeted with open arms by the owner, the son of the original Jimmy, and by the bartender who immediately asked, “The usual, counselor?”
Malcolm was in high spirits—without the drink. As we took stools at the bar, he remained standing, even did what can only be described as a little jig in place as he took the drink from the bartender, raised it to everyone in the room, and said loudly, “To justice. To freedom. To the loyal and hard-working members of the district attorney’s office who must present a case—without
having
one. I love it!”
having
one. I love it!”
I took a sip of my ginger ale and looked around the bar. It was crowded, made more so by a dozen members of the press who’d followed us inside. I said to Rachel Cohen, “Maybe he shouldn’t be so loud.”
She raised her eyes and said, “I always tell him that. But when things go well, he’s uncontrollable. He has this need to boast, to rub it in to the prosecution. Excuse me, Jessica, I have to call home. My son is sick.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Just a cold.”
She threaded the crowd in search of a public phone. When she returned, she said, “Josh has a fever. I have to go.”
I’ll go with you,” I said. “Not home with you. I’ll leave with you.”
Malcolm wasn’t happy when we told him we were leaving. He’d been building up a head of steam, his voice louder with each drink, his oratory more flowery and boastful. “Have you ever seen such a pathetic attempt to convict someone?” he roared. “That stream of the city’s finest, taking the oath and then having nothing to swear to. My God, I love it!” He did another jib. “We don’t need an alibi. We don’t need Cynthia Warren, bless her soul. Billy Brannigan was acquitted today. This case is o-v-e-r!”
I saw that many of the press were making notes. Although there weren’t any TV lights, I noticed a man pointing a small camcorder at Malcolm throughout his victory speech.
“Maybe we’d better get him out of here,” I said to Rachel Cohen as we gathered up our purses and briefcases.
“Forget it,” she said. “There’s no stopping him now. This is just the beginning of a long night. One bar after another until he runs out of steam. I have to run. The sitter has to get home.”
“Of course.”
As I passed Malcolm, he grabbed my arm. “The party’s just beginning, Jessica. The night is young, and so are we.”
“Malcolm, maybe it’s time for all of us to leave.”
“Nonsense.” He turned to Ritchie Fleigler, who was drinking a Boston mini-brew. “You won’t abandon ship, will you, my lad?”
“Hell, no,” the young investigator said.
“Tomorrow, Jessica, we’ll strike at the hearts of the prosecution again, particularly the stone-cold heart of Ms. James.”
“I still think you should—good night, Malcolm.”
He hugged me and attempted a kiss, but I slipped his grasp and followed Rachel out the door to the parking lot.
“A ride?” she asked.
“No. You get on home to that sick boy.” I then remembered that my nighttime driver wasn’t there. We’d taken off from the courthouse in Malcolm’s limo without telling the driver where we were going. “I’m fine,” I said.
The moment Rachel drove off in her car, I climbed into a waiting cab. “The Ritz-Carlton, please,” I told the driver.
“What’s going on here?” he asked. “What’s got all the newshounds out?”
“Nothing. Just some celebrity in Jimmy’s.”
It felt good to ride in a taxi, instead of a limo. It felt real. That was the problem, I realized. Being involved with Malcolm McLoon and the Brannigan case had become unreal to me, an impressionistic blur.
The moment I was in my suite, I undressed, showered, slipped into pajamas and a terry-cloth robe provided by the hotel, ordered up a sandwich from room service, and turned on the TV in the living room. A local newscast had just come on. After two stories about Boston politics, Cynthia Warren’s face filled the screen, a picture from her college yearbook. The newscaster said,
“The unsolved murder of Cynthia Warren in Harwichport, on the Cape, has thrown the outcome of the Billy Brannigan murder trial into doubt. As followers of the trial know, Ms. Warren was to testify that she and the defendant were together on the Cape the night his older brother, Jack Brannigan, was stabbed to death in a Swan Boat in the Public Garden. Although her sudden death leaves Brannigan without an alibi, his attorney, the flamboyant Malcolm McLoon, doesn’t seem to think it matters, according to statements made this evening at a popular waterfront restaurant. Our reporter, Frank Carlucci, is on the phone from there now. Frank?”
“That’s right, Steve. I’m here at Jimmy’s Harborside where Malcolm McLoon has been discussing the case with—well, with whoever will listen. It’s his contention—and he’s celebrating it at the bar—that the prosecution has already lost the case despite losing Ms. Warren’s alibi for his client. I sat through the trial today, Steve, and McLoon may be right. The prosecution presented nothing to link Brannigan to the murder of his brother. Tomorrow, they’ll try to introduce details of the trust District Attorney Whitney James claims was the motive for the murder. But having a motive—and committing a murder—are two different things. By the way, famed murder mystery writer, Jessica Fletcher, who’s working with McLoon as a jury consultant, was there at his side while he held court. Back to you.”
It took me all of a minute to pick up the phone and call Malcolm’s office. I assumed I’d reach the answering machine, but Georgia Bobley answered on the first ring.
“Georgia, Jessica Fletcher here. Look, since things are going so well, I thought I’d take a day or two off.”
She laughed. “I don’t blame you,” she said. “Going home?”
“No. I thought a leisurely day on Cape Cod would renew my vigor, recharge the engine, so to speak. Think Malcolm will mind?”
“I don’t know, but I wouldn’t worry about it. God, Jessica, I couldn’t wait to get out of Jimmy’s. He was still going strong when I left.”
“I’m sure he was. Well, please tell him I won’t be in court tomorrow, but I’ll check in.”
“Great. Enjoy the day. You’ve earned it.”
Knowing I wouldn’t have to face the courtroom lifted a weight from my shoulders. I called the limo service and arranged for Cathie to pick me up at the hotel at eight, enjoyed my sandwich, read a few chapters from a book, and was about to climb into bed when the phone rang. It was Vaughan Buckley calling from New York. “Wake you?” he asked.
“Another ten minutes and you would have.”
“I’ve been meaning to call, Jessica, ever since I heard you were in Boston for the Brannigan trial. What a marvelous opportunity to research your next novel.”
“I’m not sure I share your enthusiasm, Vaughan. It’s been a-well, let me just say it’s been a trying experience.”
“As I can certainly imagine, Jess. You found the body of Brannigan’s alibi witness.”
“Unfortunately, yes.”
“Will that detail the defense case? Will there be a mistrial declared?”
“No to both questions.”
“I assume the heroine in your next book will be a jury consultant.”
“Maybe. I’ve really been too busy to think plot and characters.”
“I love it. This bright and vibrant jury consultant to a murder case finds herself in jeopardy herself. Stalked, perhaps, by the real killer while an innocent man faces the electric chair.”
The chill I suddenly felt had nothing to do with the temperature in the room.
“Are you there, Jess?” Vaughan asked.
“Yes, I’m here. That’s a splendid idea, Vaughan. I’ll keep it in mind.”
“Need anything while you’re there?”
“No. Malcolm McLoon is taking excellent care of me.”
Vaughan laughed. “He’s quite a character, isn’t he?”
“That he is. Vaughan, I hate to cut this short, but I’m exhausted.”
“Then get to bed, lady. I’d like to come back to Cabot Cove after you get back, brainstorm a little about the next book, kick around some ideas.”
“I’d like that. Thanks for calling, Vaughan. It was thoughtful of you.”
Chapter Fourteen
The day’s newspaper was at my door when I awoke. The lead story on the front page was the Brannigan trial. There were two pictures: the same yearbook photo of Cynthia Warren used on TV the night before; and one of me exiting Jimmy’s Harborside.
The story dwelled on Malcolm’s statements at the bar, that the trial was, for all intents and purposes, sewn up at least as far as the prosecution was concerned. From the approach the writer of the article took, she seemed to agree with the eminent defense counsel, pointing out more than once the complete lack of hard evidence linking Billy Brannigan to the crime.
I assumed the press would be camped on the Ritz-Carlton’s doorstep when I came out to meet Cathie. But to my relief, there wasn’t a scribe in sight. I got in the front of the Lincoln Town Car. Somehow, riding in the back of limousines strikes me as unnecessarily elite, especially with such a pleasant and verbal driver. I enjoyed Cathie’s company, and we passed the drive to Cape Cod chatting about a variety of things—driving for a living, her eventual goal of owning her own limousine service, my writing routine, publishing, the Red Sox, gardening and, of course, the Brannigan trial.
Her take on the trial was simplistic: Once she heard that Jack Brannigan had wanted to be Billy Brannigan’s best man, and wanted to host a party in his honor, she decided Billy couldn’t have killed him.
Did juries make up their collective minds as simply and quickly as that? I wondered. If so, Billy Brannigan had nothing to worry about. Malcolm’s seemingly premature celebration last night was warranted.
“Where are we heading on the Cape?” Cathie asked as we crossed the Bourne Bridge.
“Police headquarters, on Sisson Road.”
As we drove into town, the image of Cynthia Warren’s body lying in a pool of blood on her living room floor filled the windshield. I couldn’t shake it, not because it was so gruesome and tragic—although Lord knows it was—but because there was something wrong with the picture. Something was askew, didn’t jibe.
But what was it?
“I’ll be here,” Cathie said as I opened my door.
“Get yourself some coffee, a second breakfast,” I said. “Take two hours. Even if I’m out before that, I’ll enjoy a walk.”
I entered the unassuming police department and was immediately greeted by Steven McPartland, the chief of police who’d arrived at Cynthia’s house as I was leaving the day the body was discovered. “Hello, Mrs. Fletcher,” he said pleasantly, a warm smile on his weather-beaten face.
“Good morning,” I said. “I hope you don’t mind me barging in unannounced.”
“Not at all. Not much doing around here this morning. Having a famous writer stop in is pretty exciting.”
“Hardly that,” I said. “I wonder if I could speak with you about Ms. Warren’s murder.”
“Sure. Come on in the office.”
The chiefs office was typical Cape Cod—simple wooden furniture, a large painting of a lobster boat and fisherman framed over the desk, and a horseshoe crab hanging upside down over the door, a twist on hanging horseshoes upside down for good luck.
“Well, what can I do for you, Mrs. Fletcher?” McPartland asked. “Oh, how about some coffee? Tea? I forgot my manners for a moment.”
“A cup of tea would be appreciated,” I said.
He opened the door and passed along my order, including coffee for himself.
Once seated again, I asked, “Have you developed any leads on Ms. Warren’s murder?”
He shook his head. Chief McPartland was a handsome man, with a head of thick white hair, clear blue eyes that appeared to be dancing, especially when he squinted, and an easy, deep-pitched laugh.
“Have you determined whether she was killed by someone robbing her house? Or was it someone who went there with the intention of murdering her?”
Other books
Rolling Thunder - 03 by Dirk Patton
The American Bride by Karla Darcy
The Chocolate Castle Clue by JoAnna Carl
Quiet Days in Clichy by Henry Miller
The Abduction: A Novel by Jonathan Holt
Hope Entangles: A New Adult Romantic Comedy (Book 2 of 3) by Alice Bello
By the Mountain Bound by Elizabeth Bear
Healer's Touch by Amy Raby
Third Strike by Zoe Sharp
