Face Time (11 page)

“Sorry,” she says again. “It’s only Virginia on duty today. And Joe B. of course. And Kiley, in at two. If she decides to show up.” She smiles brightly and tucks her pencil back in place, patting her spirals of gray hair as if checking to see if more pencils might be stored among the curls. She’s a combination of pack rat and air traffic controller.

I’m exhausted just watching her. I risk a glance at Franklin, who’s leaning against the counter and taking in the whole performance. I can tell he’s trying not to smile.

I open my mouth to remind her of what we need, but Amelia Soltisanto’s phone interrupts, trilling insistently. She holds up one finger, and this time Franklin actually laughs, which he quickly transforms into a cough.

“Hold please,” the administrator says. Putting one hand over the phone’s mouthpiece to shield her voice, she gestures with her head toward a door marked Client Services. “I pulled the records you asked for. In there. That’s all we still have.” She sighs as if trying to make a decision, her eyes darting to the phone, to the door, then back to us. “I have to—I can’t—” Back to the phone. “Hold please.” She holds up a finger, then points us to the door. “Fifteen minutes.”

W
E
’
RE GETTING NOWHERE FAST
. Franklin and I, shoulders touching, are sitting at the client services desk, turning the pages in an oversize logbook, a ledger-lined compilation of time sheets. It contains the hour-by-hour arrivals and departures of every employee at Beachview. A page per employee, a page per day. Thanks to the efficient Amelia, the book including the night of the murder was already pulled from the shelves of similar forest-green volumes archived behind us. I figured there’d have to be some record of who was on duty that night. Turns out there is—and there isn’t.

“The good news—doesn’t this handwriting all look the same? It does to me.” I turn the heavy logbook to Franklin, pointing out several daily entries. I twist it back to me, and flip to the front to reconfirm the date. “And for the entire seven months, back to the beginning of this group of time sheets, Dorinda K. Sweeney signed in at midnight, and out at 7:00 a.m. And looks like no one did it for her.” I turn the book back to Franklin, keeping my fingers in place to mark several of Dorinda’s pages. “See? Every day. Including the night of the murder.”

“The bad news…” I pause. “The bad news, who knows when these pages were filled out? They’re not numbered, and—look.”

It takes both hands for me to flip the book over so we’re looking at the back. A back that reveals two flat metal discs. I know they’re what’s holding the book together.

I pull open the desk’s narrow top drawer, scanning for a letter opener. Slipping the thin blade under one silver disc, then the other, I pop the circles off, which allows me to pull the book’s pages apart. “See? It would have been easy for Dorie to create a fake page for that night and insert it in the right place. Instant alibi.” I snap the book back together, hoping Franklin can come up with a reason we’re not one step forward with the logbook, two steps back with its easy-open binding. “She could have done it before the murder.”

For a moment, the only sound is a soft swish as Franklin turns the pages of the employee time sheets. Just as I had done, he folds one page over to the next, comparing signatures.

“Still, ‘could have done it’ doesn’t mean ‘did do it,’” he says, looking at the time sheets. “More to the point, if she did, why didn’t she make a big deal about it? You’d have to think police checked them. And yet they still arrested her. And she confessed.”

“But if detectives had the time sheet and held it back—that’s huge.” I’m beginning to see a glimmer of hope for our story. And for Dorinda. “Law enforcement misconduct like that, withholding exculpatory evidence. That’s enough on its own to get Dorie a new trial. Rankin and Will are going to love…wait a minute.”

I lean back in my chair, then grab on to the desk when the chair tips back precariously farther than I expected. I carefully let go, keeping a toe on the floor and trying to keep at least my physical equilibrium. Our search for answers is only unearthing more questions. I’m beginning to realize why they call it a deadline. The reporter’s career is on the line, and if she fails, her career is dead.

“Will Easterly,” I say. Even though he’s the one who’s brought us this story, we’ve never really checked him out. His background. His connections. His motives. “I know he told us he was trying to redeem himself for his negligence in Dorie’s defense, but why didn’t he think to examine this book? I mean, it’s the definition of reasonable doubt.”

“Vodka, I’d say,” Franklin replies. “Or whatever his alcohol of choice was at the time. As he told us, he was probably so buzzed back then, or hungover, he just didn’t think of it.”

“And of course,” I say, my voice bleak, “let us not forget the two words that continue to haunt us—
she confessed
. And after that confession, no one was looking for evidence of anything.”

The door to the Client Services office clicks open, and I look up, expecting to see Amelia giving us a time’s-up. But it’s not just Amelia.

A battleship in a pin-striped suit, lapels wide and electric-yellow tie even wider, takes up all the space in the doorway. Amelia is attempting to peek over his shoulder, but all I can see are her feet, on tiptoe, and the top of her head.

“This is Mr. Bellarusso,” I hear Amelia say, as she darts her head back and forth, up and down, trying to be seen around the apparently immovable object blocking the view. “Head of our security.”

Mr. Bellarusso reaches over to crush my hand, then Franklin’s, giving Amelia just enough room to sneak by and enter the office one shoulder at a time. “Mr. Bellarusso wanted to make sure—”

“Joe,” he says, interrupting. “Joe B.” Joe Bellarusso wears an American flag as a lapel pin. His pink scalp shows through his thinning colorless hair, and when he claps one hand onto the door frame, his sports coat opens to reveal the straps and pouch of a shoulder holster. Empty. “Charlie McNally, right? Do for you?”

I translate this to mean that he’s asking what he can do for us, and actually, there are a few things I’d like to know. I point to the logbook and turn it to face him.

“Did the police ever look at these time sheets? After Ray Sweeney’s murder? Or maybe recently?” I’m wondering if Oscar Ortega’s office, knowing Rankin’s on their case, might have gone back over their investigation, retracing their steps to make sure they crossed all the legal T’s. Tek Mattheissen had been lead cop for the Swampscott PD. If the Sweeney case blows up, his past and his future would both be on the line.

“A Detective Masterson, name like that, looked at the time books. His partner Clay Gettings looked, too. Back then,” JoeB. says. He takes out a tiny spiral-bound notebook from his inside jacket pocket, gives his thumb a lick and uses it to turn over the pencil-covered pages, one at a time. “Insurance company fella. Just the other day. And it’s Mattheissen, not Masterson.” Joe B. closes the notebook and tucks it back in place.

“You worked here?” I ask. “Time of the murder?” I’m starting to talk like Joe B.

“How about the tapes?” Franklin’s talking at the same time.

Bellarusso lumbers to a row of cabinets lining one wall and slides open one floor-to-ceiling door. Behind it are a row of tiny television screens, most of them turned off. The one in the upper right corner, however, is showing, live, the same view of the meds room we saw in Rankin’s office. And the one next to it shows what must be the back door of the building.

Bellarusso gestures to the array of screens. “Course, we’re not up to speed on this,” he says. “Right now, we still got just the meds room and the back. We keep them for a week, then tape over them.”

“It’s a cost-saving measure,” Amelia puts in. “We simply don’t have the money to expand our security system. It’s always on the list,” she says, “but something else always seems to come first.”

“And the tape for the night of the murder…?” Franklin asks, looking at Mr. B.

“I yanked it,” he says. “Couple of days after the arrest. Locked it away. Only been on the job a week, just moved up here. Figured they’d need it for the trial.” He shrugs. “Then, you know.”

“She confessed,” I say. I hate those words.

“Yep. First week on the job, this happens.” He smiles, a cherub on steroids. “Never a dull moment.”

I
slide Dorinda’s time sheet across the conference table toward Will Easterly, offering it as if we’re sharing. But I’m really testing him. I had confided my latest suspicions to Franklin on our way to CJP offices. Unfortunately for my paranoia, Franklin couldn’t come up with a convincing reason that I’m wrong.

Franklin’s off feeding his e-mail addiction, and then he’s going to call the Swampscott PD, seeing if he can track down Mattheissen’s partner. My job is to see if we’re dealing with a hoax.

I’m worried that Will Easterly is a plant—a fraud—paid off, maybe, by the D.A. to trap us. What if Will forged the time sheet? He’d certainly have enough of Dorie’s signatures to copy with all the legal documents she must have signed. What if Will was the “insurance guy” Joe B. mentioned? Went in “just the other day” and tucked in an alibi? Down on his luck, gets signed up by the Great and Powerful Oz to bait the do-gooder Rankin into championing a losing case. And takes Franklin and me down as collateral damage in their battle for political power.

I watch Will’s reaction. If this time sheet existed at the time of the murder and he hadn’t looked for it, it’s a jaw-dropping dereliction of duty. If he had looked back then and it wasn’t there, it’s a jaw-dropping complication.

“Damn it.” Will rolls his chair away from the table, knocking into Oliver Rankin, who had been looking over his shoulder. Rankin steps back, surprised, as Will stalks toward the closed door. I see his fists are clenched, his head lowered. He reaches for the doorknob—is he going to leave? And what will that mean?

Then he turns, facing us. His fists are so taut I can see the blue veins on his pale hands. He swallows, holding his chin high. “Step Ten,” he says. “Continue to take personal inventory and when we are wrong, promptly admit it.” He shakes his head, looking rueful, one lock of lanky gray hair falling onto his forehead. “Funny how there’s a step for every occasion. And this one—well, hell. I thought I was on the right road, you know? Getting the tape? One step forward in my recovery. Now this. One step back.”

Rankin drapes an arm across Will’s shoulders, an almost affectionate gesture I wouldn’t have predicted. “It’s all a process, Will. And it’s a process you initiated,” he says. “And Charlie and Franklin found the time sheet. It’s just another proof Dorie is innocent, is it not? Don’t be so harsh on yourself. This is not a step back, it’s forward.”

He turns Will’s chair around, gesturing his colleague to sit down. “Let’s focus on what this can mean. And how to use it.”

“I know. I’m being selfish.” He pulls away from Rankin. “It’s not about me, it’s about Dorie,” he says, but he heads for the door again. “I need some water. Or coffee. Can I bring you…?”

Rankin and I shake our heads, no. Will leaves, closing the door behind him. Is he really going to get water? Or to call someone? Rankin’s CJP could be in real jeopardy if Will turns out to be a—what? Double agent? I don’t have much time to float my suspicions, but for the sake of the CJP and of our reputation, I have to try.

Rankin’s picked up the time sheet and is holding it to the light, looking at the back, then the front again. It’s now or never. I perch on the conference table and outline my theory, quickly as I can.

I hop down and walk to the still-closed door, still talking, and stand in front of it as I wrap up my impromptu presentation. I’m my own early-warning system. If the doorknob clicks, I’ll step away and quickly change the subject.

Rankin started shaking his head, disagreeing, when I was halfway through my first sentence, and he hasn’t stopped since. It’s like talking to a pin-striped power-tied bobble-head doll, except this one is now talking back.

“I ’preciate your candor, Miz McNally,” Rankin says. He’s suddenly cordial, as if I’m a juror he’s trying to charm. “But you must know we don’t enter into these cases without thoroughly vetting every aspect. Our reputation is, of course, at stake every time.” He smiles, confident and untroubled. “Don’t worry yourself about Will. His story is solid. Of course the time sheet’s upset him. It’s just another reminder of his shortcomings.”

“But what if—”

“You’re a good reporter,” Rankin interrupts. “I admire your caution. But we’re full speed ahead here, no doubt in my mind. We can trust him, Charlie. If we’re going to defeat Oz, we’ve got to derail his law-and-order platform. Without flinching. I’ll need to make a copy of this time sheet for our files, so—”

“Defeat Oscar Ortega?” My turn to interrupt. That’s not what I thought the goal was. And Franklin and I can’t afford to get nailed in some political crossfire. “I thought this was about Dorinda. Listen, Mr. Rankin, we’re not about politics, we’re about the truth.” I sound a little like a made-for-TV movie about crusading reporters, but then, I am made for TV. “Crusading” reminds me of Susannah, which reminds me of the promos, which reminds me if this story blows up, we’re the first casualties.

The doorknob clicks, and I take two quick steps away, glancing at Rankin, hoping he’ll understand the subject is closed. At least for now.

Franklin and Will come in, each holding two bottles of water, apparently deep into a discussion of their own.

“But what about the eyewitness identification?” Franklin is saying as he hands me one of the bottles. “According to the paper, witnesses all picked out her picture. Pointed out Dorinda as the person arguing with Ray Sweeney in The Reefs Bar. At half an hour after midnight. According to the time sheet, she was at work. Can’t be two places at once.”

“Just a minute,” Rankin says, joining their conversation. He takes a bottle from Will. “Here’s something else we need to confirm. ‘Picked out’ her picture? From an array of photos?”

I fill them in on my meeting with Tek, set for tomorrow at the archives. “That’s what I wonder, too. We should find out exactly how it went down,” I say. “If the photos are in the D.A.’s case files. But from what I recall, the witnesses were describing just one picture.”

I nod, confirming my own memory. Then I remember one more thing. The article in
Police Chief.
I look at Rankin, then Will. “They’re not supposed to do it that way, is that what you’re getting at?”

“Correct. Indeed they are not,” the CJP director says. “Police are not supposed to do a ‘show up,’ where they just show one picture—that’s suggestive, and often causes witnesses to assume the person must be guilty. As a result, they pick them out. They’re supposed to do a serial lineup—show an array of pictures. Placeholders, ringers, people who could not have been at the scene. Certainly not just the one the police think is guilty. If we can prove they showed a bunch of drunk and tired people, late night, in a bar, just one photo, Dorie should get a new trial right there.”

“But bottom line, a photo is a photo, right?” Franklin says. “No matter how they show it? Do we know if any of the witnesses actually knew Dorie? Did they say, yes, that’s Dorinda Sweeney? Or yes, that’s the person I saw?”

“And what if police said her name? Said she was the wife?” I ask. “People might assume—”

“You could fill this room with the studies proving the unreliability of witnesses’ memories,” Rankin says. “And eyewitness ID is often wrong. It’s almost impossible for police not to telegraph the answers they want. People remember what they think they should remember and, even more dangerous, what they’re led to remember.”

“Close your eyes,” I instruct Franklin. I’m remembering something else from the article.

“Do what?” he says. “Can’t you just tell me whatever it is while I have my eyes open?

“Indulge me,” I say. “Close them. Tight.”

Franklin puts his bottle of water on the conference table, then picks it up, centers a napkin underneath and puts it down again. After looking at me skeptically, he slowly closes his eyes. He manages to still look skeptical. “Okay, they’re closed,” he says. “Now what?”

“Is my jacket black or brown?” I ask. “Keep your eyes closed.”

“Um, black.” Franklin answers.

“Open ’em,” I say, glancing at Will and Rankin. “It’s blue.”

Franklin, eyes now open and hands on hips, looks perplexed. “That wasn’t one of the choices.”

“Exactly,” I say. “You chose black because I suggested it as one of the choices. Not because you remembered seeing it.”

The room is silent for a moment. All this talk of photos and lineups and what a witness might or might not say. What the police might or might not have done. Tek is supposed to show me the case file with the actual photographs tomorrow anyway. It’s really only about one thing. Dorinda Sweeney. And there’s only one person who can get me to her.

“Will,” I say, hoping I’m not taking a fatal step into journalistic quicksand. “I’ve got to talk to Dorie. Let me ask her about the time sheets.” I bite my lip, contemplating an unpleasant option. Without an on-camera interview, our story is dead. Is it worth it, to go in with just a notebook? Newspaper reporters do it every day. Easy for them. I wish Franklin and I could discuss our next move, but there’s no time.

“Off camera, even,” I say. As I say the words, I know I may be setting myself up for trouble. It’s in the top-ten dilemmas of television journalism. “Tell her—I won’t even quote her unless she agrees.” Off the record, worse and worse.

This could be the last card we have to play. From the concern apparent on Franklin’s face, he knows it too. I shrug, acknowledging my unilateral last-ditch effort and hoping I haven’t given away the farm. “It’s better than nothing, isn’t it?”

“I sure hope so,” Franklin mutters.