Misfortune (27 page)

“Don’t start that, Frances. You know damn well that my people spend a lot of time reviewing my list of contributors, checking names, addresses. This doesn’t happen in my campaign. We would have caught so many people with the same street address. We would have checked on the ages of the Bryant kids.”

“I didn’t mean to offend you. My only point is that I think we should let Ethics deal with it.”

Malcolm took a step into Frances’s office and closed the door behind him. He appeared taller than before as he stood directly across the desk from her, looking down. When he spoke, his voice was low and firm. “I thought I made it perfectly clear that I wanted an indictment in this case. Have you or have you not presented the evidence to a grand jury?”

Frances paused for a moment before responding as she recalled the status of the case. “I’ve done most of the presentation. They’ve seen back records. We subpoenaed the Bryant kids, one of whom is eight years old, whose testimony, by the way, was that his allowance was fifty dollars a week, and that he saved up to make a political contribution. It was cute.”

“Are you telling me there’s no case?”

“No. That’s not what I’m saying. Detective Marsha Kendrick told the grand jury about her interviews with the cook, the maid, and the Bryants’ driver, all of whom said that Bryant gave them cash as a gift, and that they made contributions to Wetherbee’s campaign shortly thereafter because they wanted to. Kendrick asked one of the servants what they knew about Wetherbee. Basically, she didn’t even know what office he was running for. That’s where we are. Disgusting conduct, but I don’t really know that a prosecution makes sense given that Ethics will sanction him anyway.”

“That’s not a decision you’re in a position to make.”

“Why not?”

“I’m the district attorney. I’m charged with enforcing the laws, including the campaign finance laws. There has been a violation, an egregious one at that. I want an indictment.”

Frances tried to give him a bemused look, a look that would break the mounting tension. She wanted them both to laugh about the eight-year-old campaign contributor, the lying servants, the shared humor of prosecutors brought on by witnesses with incredible stories, but Malcolm’s face showed no sign of amusement. He put one foot up on the edge of her desk and leaned forward as if he might leap across it. The muscles of his legs strained the seams of his pin-striped pants.

“Let me be perfectly clear. There’s no discussion about whether to bring this case. The decision’s been made. By me. Let me know when the grand jury returns the indictment.” He took his foot down. “I’m sorry about Clio, I really am, but if you’re going to stay in this office, I need you to concentrate on your work.” He turned and walked out.

Stunned, Frances watched his long stride down the hall and listened to the click of his hard soles on the linoleum floor. Never once in her seven years as a prosecutor in Malcolm’s office had he questioned her decisions, her judgment, or the exercise of her prosecutorial discretion. His concern was always the scoreboard, and his chief financial crimes prosecutor had a fourteen-to-three track record in this fiscal year. So why now?

Malcolm’s reputation as a crime fighter above politics, as a district attorney who made decisions based only on the facts and the law, was too good to risk tarnishing by his appearing to use the criminal process to exact vengeance on his enemies. He didn’t need this case. The ethics commission would do it.

Frances sat back and picked at a slowly spreading hole in the well-worn upholstery of her chair. It was barely one o’clock and she was exhausted. She rifled through a pile of message slips. The Victims Assistance Program coordinator had called to say that the Hortons weren’t entitled to compensation because Avery’s crime wasn’t violent. Bureaucracy at its finest, Frances thought. Had he broken into their home, beaten them, and locked them in a closet while he stole their money, the state would help them out, but where they were merely emotionally ravaged and financially wiped out by a slick con man, they got nothing.

Frances rarely allowed herself to question why she did what she did. She enjoyed the criminal law, the intellectual intricacies of putting together a case, her work as a prosecutor since she had first started twelve years ago in the Manhattan District Attorney’s Office fresh out of law school. The work fit her disposition. Prosecutors and the state troopers they worked with were a jovial lot, unpretentious, content to share stories over beers or doughnuts, depending on the time of day. Assistant district attorneys, by and large, did not spend their professional lives in emotional quandaries about what they were doing. They had Right on their side. They protected victims. They put away criminals.

Then, every so often, or increasingly more often, Frances now thought, something like the Avery case came along. A simple case: Bad guy befriends innocent elderly couple and steals their money. Avery should have sold his assets, paid the Hortons $517,000, and gone off to a minimum-security facility to pay his debt to society. But instead the Hortons lost and Avery won. Were the Hortons guilty because they had been stupid enough to trust a fellow church member? Frances shook her head as if to rid her brain of this thought.

Dreading the telephone call she had to make, she dialed the Hortons’ number. Roger picked up on the fifth ring.

“It’s Frances from the DA’s office.”

“Oh,” he said expectantly.

“Unfortunately, I’m calling with only bad news. I wish it were otherwise.” Frances paused and tried to think of how to explain what she dreaded relaying. “Do you remember the Victims Assistance Program, the one I told you about?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I tried to get that organization to bend its rules a little bit so that you and Mary Lou could be compensated for your losses like other victims of crime. But the problem is that, by statute, the money available to the Victims Assistance Program isn’t intended for restitution. It’s limited to victims of violent crime, to pay for medical expenses, funeral expenses, that type of thing.”

There was a long pause. “Well, I suppose, then, we’re lucky. Apparently things could have been worse.”

Frances was silent. Why was Roger Horton stoic when he had been treated so badly? “I’m sure it doesn’t seem that way. I know how badly this case has gone for you. I wish it could have been different. I wish I could have done something more to help.”

“We thank you for all you’ve done, and all you’ve tried to do, for us. We know it hasn’t been easy.”

“It has been my privilege,” she managed to say. His graciousness in the face of such unfairness astounded her, and she felt at a loss for words. “I’ll still keep trying to find you a good contingent fee lawyer if you want.”

“If it’s no trouble.”

“No. No. Of course not. It’s the least I can do.”

“Well then, we’ll wait to hear your recommendation. Have a good afternoon, Miss Pratt.”

Frances replaced the receiver, swiveled her chair around to her left, and stared out through the smudged glass panes. As she pushed open the window, sounds of cars, kids laughing, a skateboard hitting the curb, floated in on the warm July breeze. Across the street, the sun beamed down on the gravel of Andrew Bryant’s driveway, making it sparkle. A red BMW convertible pulled up to the front door of the house, and Bryant got out. Poor bastard, Frances thought as she watched him disappear through his front door. A criminal prosecution is coming your way.

Frances picked at the sugar-crusted crown of her blueberry muffin. She dreaded stepping outside the confines of her small office. The buzz of Clio’s murder seemed to be everywhere, the subject of virtually every conversation, the source of endless speculation. She couldn’t listen and wondered what had happened to all the other homicides, robberies, rapes, and home invasions that the office was supposedly trying to prosecute. Clio seemed to be the only crime that mattered.

Frances heard a knock on the door. “I’m not here,” she called out.

The door opened, and Meaty peered inside. “Can I bother you for a moment?” he asked tentatively.

“Yeah.”

Meaty stepped through the threshold and shut the door behind him. His collar was open, and he loosened the knot of his tie.

“You look tired,” Frances said.

“You would be too if you had Cogswell breathing down your neck every two fucking seconds.”

Frances’s eyes fell on several sheets of paper in his hand. “What’s that?”

Meaty shook the pages. “The ME’s final report. Clio’s cause of death is listed as toxicosis. Heart failure induced by lethal interaction of phenelzine and Dexedrine. No surprise. No different from the preliminary.”

“Any idea how the drugs got in her?”

“She probably ingested Dexedrine in a drink. It’s water soluble. The lab’s running tests on every used plastic cup at the Fair Lawn Country Club to check for traces. So far, we’ve found nothing. We can’t test glassware because it was run through a dishwasher before we started on this needle-in-a-haystack search. Frankly, I think it’s a waste of time. It’s a pretty efficient cleanup operation over there, and we started too late.”

“Anything else?”

“Yeah. Forensics turned up several black hairs. One was at the table where Clio had sat shortly before she went to the ladies’ room, and two were found on her body.”

Frances looked puzzled.

“I mean black as in belonging to a black person, an African American, as you politically correct people say.” Meaty’s tone was sarcastic. He cocked his head to one side, trying to catch her eye. “Don’t be naive, Fanny. What black person do you know with access to Fair Lawn?”

“I have no idea.” Frances understood his insinuations. It wouldn’t have taken a doctorate degree in sociology to figure out that the Fair Lawn Country Club was racially and ethnically exclusive. “Meaty, you’re not suggesting that because there were a few hairs, a black person killed Clio.” She tried to reflect her disapproval of such reasoning.

“All I’m saying is we need to explore options. If someone, anyone, was out of place, I want to know why. And you should, too.”

“Who are you looking at?”

“We’ve collected lists of clubhouse staff and grounds crew. There’s one guy, part of kitchen cleanup. He’s black. But as far as we can tell, he wasn’t working July Fourth, although we haven’t talked to him yet.”

“Perhaps Forensics made a mistake about the hair.”

“Look, kiddo, I don’t purport to defend the quality of the forensic work that this department performs. They make mistakes. But apparently the characteristics of Negro and Caucasian hair are such that not even a beginner would confuse them.”

“Have you considered the membership?”

Meaty looked skeptical.

“I thought private clubs had to allow minorities,” Frances said. “Although I have to tell you, your theory, if you can even call it that, is disgusting. If you had found a platinum blond hair, we wouldn’t be having this discussion.”

“It’s not a theory. It’s just a hunch.”

“Go to Cogswell with it, then.”

“I already have,” Meaty said reluctantly. “He says it’s too much of a political firecracker to explore without more evidence. He’s more interested in looking good in the media than looking for suspects. I keep reminding him that we don’t have much to go on here. The bathroom had a million prints, makeup smears, used tissues, and, I admit, platinum blond hairs, most with dark roots, I might add. But none of it adds up to a lead.”

“What about Miles?” Frances said, reminding him of their conversation the night before.

“At best, we’ve got a motive. We haven’t found one shred of physical evidence linking him to the scene.”

“He was at the club. His wife told me they were staying there as guests of my father and Clio.” Frances proceeded to relay her conversation with Penny Adler from the night before. “So you’ve got motive, and I’ve given you opportunity,” she said.

Meaty cracked a smile, amused at her detective work. “Did the Adlers see your father last weekend?”

“No. They were supposed to see him and Clio for drinks on the Fourth, but they hurried back to Manhattan instead, and Miles spent the night on the telephone arranging his business trip to Mexico City.”

“Interesting,” Meaty remarked. “We weren’t able to locate him. All I got from his secretary was that he was out of town. You’re right. She’s discreet.”

Annabelle Cabot gets paid to be, Frances thought. She broke off a piece of her muffin and ate it. “I’m about to leave. I’ve got an appointment in the city.” She checked her watch.

“Who’s in charge of the club’s membership?” Meaty asked, ignoring her.

“There’s a committee, unless things have changed recently. A friend of Dad’s, a woman named Gail Davis, used to be on it. She might still be.”

“Could you check now? I’d appreciate it,” Meaty said. Before she could respond, he settled himself in the chair opposite Frances, apparently intending to wait. He bit at a fingernail.

Frances called directory assistance and had the number patched in.

“Davis Design,” answered a female voice.

“Gail?”

“Yes.”

“It’s Frances Pratt.”

For the next minute or so Frances felt Meaty’s eyes staring at her as she listened to Gail’s expressions of sympathy and sorrow. “Clio was absolutely adored by everyone,” Gail said in an airy tone like an exhale. “Just a lovely person, so gracious. I can’t understand who would do this.”

“I need to ask you a favor,” Frances interrupted.

“What can I possibly do to help?” Gail asked in a way that made clear she had nothing of import to contribute.

“Are you still on the Membership Committee of the Fair Lawn Country Club?”

“Yes. I’m the secretary.”

“I’m trying to find out what information you might have about African American members.”

There was silence on the other end of the line. Then Gail said stiffly, “That’s a rather odd request. Might I ask why you’re interested in this information?”

“I need to know if Fair Lawn has any black members.” Frances had no intention of disclosing Meaty’s hunch to Gail Davis.

“We don’t,” she said matter-of-factly. “It’s not that they’re not welcome, mind you, but we’ve never gotten any qualified applicants. The financial burdens of membership are quite considerable, you know that,” she added by way of explanation.