Sleight of Hand: A Novel of Suspense (Dana Cutler) (22 page)

Chapter Fifty-Three

Charles Benedict woke up with a smile on his face. The nubile young blonde who had shared his bed last night had been expertly trained by one of Nikolai’s whoremasters, and her performance had left him drained and satisfied, but not as satisfied as he was with the way the case was proceeding.

If there was an afterlife, Tiffany Starr and Gregor Karpinski were residing in very hot accommodations in its low-rent region. He had no idea where Ernest Brodsky was, and he didn’t care. What mattered was that none of them could testify against him.

Better still, Horace was falling apart. His arrogance would alienate the jurors and he would make a terrible witness. Meanwhile, Benedict would make enough subtle errors to ensure his client’s conviction. With Horace behind bars for Carrie’s murder, the case would die and he would be safe.

Benedict stretched and got out of bed. He was on his way to take a shower when his cell phone rang. Caller ID told him that Jack Pratt was on the line. He debated not answering, because he couldn’t stand the supercilious prick, but curiosity got the better of him.

“Hey, Jack, what’s up?”

“Horace would like to see you at the jail as soon as possible.”

“Oh, about what?”

“He’ll tell you. When can you be there?”

Pratt’s tone was not friendly and alarm bells began to go off.

“I should be able to make it by nine-thirty.”

“Good,” Pratt said before ending the call abruptly.

Benedict showered and shaved and arrived at the jail an hour and twenty minutes later. When he told the jailer at reception why he was there he was shown to a contact visiting room. When the door opened he saw Horace Blair, Jack Pratt, and Bobby Schatz.

“Hey, Charlie, come on in,” said Schatz, who had met Benedict at several Bar Association functions.

Benedict didn’t move from the doorway. He looked back and forth between his client and the two attorneys.

“What’s going on?” he asked.

“I’ve decided to hire Mr. Schatz to defend me at my trial,” Blair said. His voice was firm and Benedict knew immediately that there would be no way to change his mind, especially with Pratt and Schatz in the room. He faked a smile.

“Bobby is a terrific lawyer. I have no problem being second chair to someone of his caliber.”

“I haven’t made myself clear,” Blair said. “Your services will no longer be required. Mr. Schatz will take over all aspects of my defense.”

“What’s the story here, Horace? Is this about the plea offer or the bail hearing? I told you I have a duty as an officer of the court to tell you any plea offer the prosecutor makes, and you heard the evidence at the bail hearing. If you think Schatz could have done better, you’re mistaken.”

“The problem is experience,” Pratt said. “You’re an expert in certain types of cases. If this were a drug case, we wouldn’t be having this conversation. But you’re not experienced when it comes to homicides, and Mr. Schatz is.”

An image of the three men sprawled in pools of blood flashed through Benedict’s brain but he realized very quickly that his best move was to bow out gracefully. He ignored Pratt and addressed Blair, forcing himself to sound magnanimous.

“I’m sorry you feel this way, Horace, but you’re in excellent hands. I want you to know that there are no hard feelings on my part. I wish you the best.”

“Thank you, I appreciate everything you’ve done for me,” Horace said.

Benedict could tell that he didn’t mean a word of what he’d said. What had happened to make Blair decide to fire him?

Benedict rang for the guard and all four men felt uncomfortable in the ensuing silence. As soon as the heavy metal door closed behind Benedict his fists curled into a knot and he had to restrain himself from smashing them into the concrete walls as he walked toward the exit. It was that motherfucker Pratt. Benedict was certain of it. He toyed with the idea of waiting for him in his parking garage or breaking into his house and blowing his brains out but passed on those ideas quickly because there was no benefit to them. What he needed to do was remain calm and assess the situation.

The evidence was still in place and the evidence pointed unerringly toward guilt. Schatz was good, but Benedict didn’t think he was good enough to convince a jury that Horace Blair did not kill his wife. So maybe he had no reason to be concerned. Sure, he would lose the money he would have made defending Blair at trial, but he could go on with his life without having to worry about being arrested for Carrie Blair’s murder. Even if Schatz got Blair off, the cops and the prosecutors would still think Blair killed his wife. And if Blair was convicted with Schatz handling the trial, no one would think that he’d thrown the case. By the time Benedict parked in the lot behind his office he had concluded that getting fired wasn’t such a bad thing after all.

Benedict entered the building through the side door. He settled behind his desk and read through his mail. Then he buzzed his secretary and asked for messages.

“Robert Curry called about the Hernandez case, Martin Schechter wanted you to call about the deposition in
Raines
, and a woman named Myra Blankenship called from Seattle.”

“Blankenship? What did she want?”

“An appointment.”

“Did she say what it’s about?”

“No, and she didn’t leave a phone number.”

Benedict frowned. The name rang no bells. Oh, well. If Myra Blankenship showed up, he would find out what she wanted.

Chapter Fifty-Four

The day after Horace Blair fired him, Charles Benedict’s receptionist surprised him by announcing that Bobby Schatz was
calling
.

“What’s up, Bobby,” Benedict said in a cheerful voice.

“I’d like to take you to lunch.”

“Oh?”

“Can you meet me at Venezia at one?” Bobby asked, naming the most expensive Italian restaurant in D.C.

“Why do you want to meet?”

“I want to pick your brain about Horace’s case.”

“Does your client know we’re meeting?”

“No, and I don’t want him to know because he’ll tell Pratt, and Pratt will throw a fit.”

Schatz paused. When he spoke again his tone was conciliatory.

“Look, Charlie, I know how it feels to be dumped by a client, and I’m sorry it happened to you. It’s Pratt who got you fired. He’s got a bug up his ass about that bail hearing and he convinced Blair you weren’t competent. When he called me I told him you were perfectly capable of trying Blair’s case, but he insisted that you were out.”

Benedict paused for effect to make Schatz think that he was hesitant to meet, but meeting Blair’s new lawyer was a no-brainer. It would give him a chance to learn some of Bobby’s strategy and find out if there were any holes in his plan.

“Okay, Bobby. One it is,” Benedict said. He was smiling when he disconnected.

Bobby Schatz was waiting in a booth the restaurant reserved for him whenever he called. The maître d’ showed Benedict to the back, where he and Schatz would be hard to see and just as hard to hear. Then he hovered while Bobby asked Benedict if he’d eaten at Venezia before.

“It’s my first time,” Charlie admitted.

“Do you mind if I order for you?” Schatz asked.

“Go ahead.”

Bobby told the maître d’ what he wanted in rapid-fire Italian, then asked for a recommendation for the wine. The maître d’ thought for a moment before making a suggestion. When Bobby agreed, the maître d’ smiled and left them.

“You’re in for a treat,” Bobby assured Benedict. Then he got down to business.

“I haven’t had a chance to read the file yet,” Schatz said.

“I’ll messenger it over to you tomorrow.”

“Thanks. But, from what I’ve heard, Hamada has a strong case.”

“I agree.”

“Why don’t you give me your take on how to defend Blair.”

Over the antipasto and the first glass of wine, Benedict told Schatz how he thought the commonwealth attorney was going to present his case.

“So where’s the weakness?” Schatz asked when Benedict finished.

“Quite honestly, I don’t see any. I mean, there are the anonymous tips. You can argue they’re suspicious. And I made the point at the bail hearing that it’s hard to explain how that key got in the grave.”

“Yeah, I thought that was very astute,” Schatz said.

“But you’re still left with the evidence the cops found in the trunk, and the prenup.”

Schatz leaned forward and lowered his voice. “But they don’t have the prenuptial agreement—the actual document—and that gives me a way to wedge open the case. Hamada’s theory about the motive hinges on the idea that Blair killed his wife to keep her from getting twenty million dollars. How are they going to prove that?”

Rick Hamada’s boss, Ray Mancuso, was also worried about not having the prenup, but Benedict decided to keep that tidbit to himself.

“Barry Lester will claim Horace confessed the motive while they were locked up together,” Benedict said.

“Charlie, think about it. Everything Lester claims Blair told him about the prenup was in the newspapers, and those stories are inadmissible hearsay. I’ve had my investigator running down Lester’s background, and I’ll have a field day with him. I even think I’ve got a shot at keeping his statements about the prenup out because they mirror the newspaper story.”

“Hamada can subpoena Pratt to bring the agreement to court,” Benedict said.

Schatz smiled. “He doesn’t have it. There are only two copies. They can’t make Blair incriminate himself by subpoenaing his copy, and no one knows where Carrie hid hers. So Hamada is fucked if he’s counting on producing the document in court.”

“That is a lucky break,” Benedict said.

“You aren’t kidding. If Hamada can prove that Blair was going to have to pay Carrie twenty million dollars during the week she was murdered, Blair can start making plans to furnish his cell on death row.”

Chapter Fifty-Five

Charles Benedict was in an excellent mood when he returned to his office. The meal at Venezia had been outstanding, and Bobby Schatz’s plan for defending Horace Blair was not. Schatz was one of the best, but even great boxers like Muhammad Ali lost on occasion, and once in a while a great pitcher will get tagged for a home run. If Schatz tried Blair’s case the way he said he would,
Commonwealth v. Blair
would be tallied in Schatz’s loss column.

A woman with glasses and short, gray-streaked black hair looked up when Benedict entered his waiting room. She was dressed expensively in a severe charcoal-gray pantsuit, a black silk shirt, and a tasteful pearl necklace.

Benedict asked his receptionist about the visitor in a low voice.

“Her name is Myra Blankenship,” she whispered back. “She came in an hour ago. I told her that I didn’t know when you would return but she insisted on waiting.”

“Didn’t she call a day or so ago?”

“I believe so.”

“Did she tell you what she wants?”

“She said it was confidential and she’ll only talk to you.”

Normally Benedict would have had his secretary deal with someone who walked in without an appointment, but Blankenship’s attire suggested that she had money, and someone with money always deserved an audience. Benedict walked over to his visitor. Blankenship sprang to her feet. The attorney flashed his warmest smile.

“I’m Charles Benedict. I understand you want to see me.”

“Myra Blankenship,” the woman said as she extended her hand.

Benedict shook it. “How can I help you?”

The woman looked over Benedict’s shoulder at the receptionist. “The matter is rather delicate. I’d prefer to discuss it where we can’t be overheard.”

“Of course.”

Benedict led Blankenship to his office.

“I flew here from Seattle as soon as I heard,” Blankenship said as soon as Benedict shut the door.

“Heard what?”

“That Carrie Blair had been murdered. I was in Asia on a buying trip. I was supposed to return a few weeks ago but I was delayed. I e-mailed several times and called but Mrs. Blair didn’t get back to me. I was very upset. I thought the deal had fallen through. Then I arrived back in the States yesterday and learned that Mrs. Blair had been murdered and her husband was in jail.”

Benedict had no idea what Blankenship was talking about.

“Don’t get me wrong. Mrs. Blair’s violent demise is a terrible thing, but there are millions involved and I’m anxious to know if she left any instructions, or if perhaps Mr. Blair was interested despite his”—Blankenship paused, looking for the right words—“present situation.”

The phrase “millions involved” had piqued Benedict’s
interest
.

“What is it you do, exactly?”

“I’m sorry. I’m just wound up, and I’m still a bit jet-lagged. I’m an art dealer. Martin Draper owns a gallery in Seattle. He sells contemporary pieces: a lot of glass, modern art, some local artists, and a few with national reputations. Every once in a while he is approached about acquiring Asian art. My specialty is Oriental antiquities. I lived in Asia for several years and made contacts there. When a customer wants something in this area, Martin calls me.”

Blankenship paused, and her eyes lost focus as if she were looking at something far away that only she could see.

“The scepter is special, Mr. Benedict. Martin could sense it. He called me immediately but I must admit I’ve never handled anything like it before.”

“What is your connection to the Blairs?”

“They have a home on Isla de Muerta, an island off the coast of Washington State. They came to the gallery looking for pieces to decorate their home. Some of the art they wanted was from Japan and China. That’s how I met them, through Martin.

“I only met Mr. Blair one time. Mrs. Blair was usually the person who came to the gallery. It wasn’t unusual for her to visit the gallery when she was in Seattle. I was consulted because the piece she was interested in was within my area of expertise.”

Blankenship paused. Benedict thought that she looked
anxious
.

“The papers said you’re representing Mr. Blair,” the woman said.

Benedict nodded. He had been fired but no substitution of counsel had been filed yet, so technically he was still Horace’s lawyer.

“Has he mentioned the scepter?”

“Not specifically. Perhaps you can tell me a little about it so I’ll be knowledgeable when we discuss it.”

“When Sultan Mehmet II conquered Constantinople in 1453 he was concerned that there would be an appeal to Rome for liberation that would set off a new round of Crusades.”

Benedict nodded knowingly, although he had no idea what Blankenship was talking about. He’d had one history course in college, and that was many years ago and he couldn’t remember if Constantinople had been mentioned. All he knew for certain was that Constantinople was now Istanbul and Turks lived there.

“The Eastern Orthodox Church commanded the loyalty of the masses,” Blankenship continued, “so Mehmet asked Gennadius, who was hostile to the West, to become the first Patriarch of Constantinople under Islamic rule. When Gennadius accepted, the sultan gave him a gold, bejeweled scepter as a symbol of authority. This scepter disappeared until it was rediscovered by Antoine Girard, a French soldier of fortune, in a bazaar in Cairo in 1922. Girard spent many years authenticating the scepter. Then he was murdered and the scepter was stolen.

“Recently, we were contacted by a person who purported to own the scepter. He was in financial straits as a result of some very bad investments and had to sell it. I thought of the Blairs immediately.”

“Why the Blairs? Why not a museum?”

“May I be frank?”

“Please.”

“And can I count on you keeping a confidence?”

“Of course.”

“My seller insisted that I only deal with a private buyer. I don’t know this for a fact but I suspect that he didn’t want me to approach a museum because the scepter may be stolen goods.”

“But why the Blairs?”

“There are no longer any jewels in the scepter, but the scepter is solid gold. However, the value of the gold is secondary. The historical importance of the scepter makes it incredibly valuable.”

“What does that mean in dollars?” Benedict asked.

“I can’t say exactly, but as I said, we’re talking millions. That’s why I contacted Mrs. Blair.”

“You mean Mr. Blair,” Benedict said.

“No, Mr. Blair never seemed terribly interested in art or collecting. But Mrs. Blair had a true appreciation of the value of the scepter.”

“From what I’ve learned, Carrie Blair didn’t have the kind of money you’re talking about.”

“But she was going to. That’s why I had to get back to the States. The week Mrs. Blair died was the week she would have met the terms of a prenuptial agreement she had entered into when she married Mr. Blair. Under the terms of that agreement, she stood to receive twenty million dollars, part of which she planned to use to buy the scepter.”

Benedict’s heart thudded in his chest but he kept his voice calm.

“There’s been a lot of speculation about this prenup but no one seems to have seen it,” he said.

“I have. Mrs. Blair showed it to me.”

“Why did she do that?”

“I called her about the scepter, assuming that she would talk to her husband about purchasing it, but she told me she didn’t want Mr. Blair involved. I was dubious about Mrs. Blair’s ability to pay, so she gave me a copy of the agreement.”

“You have it?” Benedict asked casually, giving the impression that the prenuptial agreement was of little interest to him.

“Not with me.”

“In Seattle?”

“No, I brought it here. It’s at my hotel, in my file. Mr. Benedict, can you tell me what Mr. Blair said about the scepter? Did Mrs. Blair tell him about it? Does he have any interest in obtaining it?”

Benedict pretended to be in conflict while his visitor fidgeted.

“Ms. Blankenship, I’ve sworn to keep your confidences, and an attorney also has a duty to keep secret those matters his client discusses with him.”

“Of course,” the woman answered as she leaned forward expectantly.

“Will you promise not to divulge what I’m going to tell you?”

“Yes.”

“Mr. Blair has mentioned the scepter.”

“Then he’s interested?”

“I’m not certain. During one of our conferences—when we were discussing Mrs. Blair—he told me that she had mentioned purchasing an expensive historical relic. Presumably that was the scepter.”

“What else did he say?”

“Nothing. You can understand that his present predicament has dominated his thoughts, but we have high hopes that we’ll win his case. And then he can turn his thoughts elsewhere.”

Benedict’s features displayed an expression of the utmost seriousness.

“I can assure you that Mr. Blair is innocent. He loved his wife very much. If Mrs. Blair wanted this scepter, Mr. Blair might want to honor her wishes. But I’ll have to convince him that she was sincere in her desire to possess it.”

“I can give him that assurance.”

Benedict shook his head. “No offense, but your word would not carry a lot of weight.”

Blankenship straightened up. She looked insulted.

“Mr. Blair knows me. We’ve had business dealings.”

“I didn’t mean to disparage you, but let me ask a question. Will you profit if you broker this deal?”

“Of course.”

“And I assume we’re talking about a very hefty commission.”

Blankenship hesitated before nodding.

Benedict spread his hands. “Surely you see the problem. If Mr. Blair was unaware that Mrs. Blair wanted to pay several million dollars for the scepter, your statement won’t convince him if you are going to make a large profit from the deal.”

“What do you suggest?”

Benedict thought for a moment. Then he brightened.

“If I had a copy of the prenuptial agreement to show Mr. Blair, it would convince him that Carrie trusted you and was deadly serious about buying the scepter. Do you think you can get me a copy of the agreement to show to Mr. Blair?”

The woman’s head bobbed up and down. “Definitely.”

“I assume that you have to act quickly if this sale is to go through?”

“Very quickly.”

Benedict looked at his watch. “Where are you staying?”

Blankenship named a hotel near Dulles Airport and gave Benedict her room number.

“I have a few matters I must attend to,” Benedict said. “Go back to your hotel and I’ll call you when I’m done. We can meet and you can give me a copy of the agreement. I’ll take the document to Mr. Blair today and tell him about the urgency of making a decision about buying the scepter.”

“Thank you,” the woman said.

Benedict smiled. “I hope this works out for you. And it might take Horace’s mind off of his troubles. Of course, you understand that the utmost secrecy is required. Don’t tell anyone, even Mr. Draper, we’ve met, and do not, under any circumstances, discuss the scepter or the prenuptial agreement with anyone. From here on in, we must keep this matter strictly between us until I have an opportunity to discuss it with Mr. Blair.”

Benedict saw out Blankenship. As soon as the door closed, the lawyer went online and typed in Martin Draper’s name. His search turned up the existence of a Martin Draper Gallery in Seattle. A description of the art the gallery handled jibed with what Myra Blankenship had told him.

A search for Myra Blankenship turned up a small website that gave her academic credentials and a brief statement about her specialty, Asian antiquities.

Benedict called the gallery. Draper answered the phone. Benedict gave a false name, then said he wanted to contact Myra Blankenship. Draper said she was in Washington, D.C., on business, and hoped to be back in Seattle soon. He also confirmed that she had just returned from Asia.

Benedict told his secretary to hold his calls. Then he leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. Blankenship was a gift from the gods. The problem was time. Benedict would have to act fast, because it would soon become public knowledge that he was no longer Blair’s attorney.

Benedict made a decision. He would meet Blankenship and get a copy of the prenuptial agreement. Then he would kill Blankenship and dispose of the body. After that, he would go to Blair’s estate. There was a good chance he could get into the mansion unseen. Horace had told him that the houseman lived in a cottage on the estate and that there was only a skeleton staff now that Carrie was dead and he was locked up. He had gotten the codes for Blair’s front gate and house alarm so he could get suits, ties, and shirts for Blair’s court appearances. When he was inside the mansion, he would hide the copy of the prenup. Then he would tip off Rick Hamada to its hiding place with enough specificity to establish probable cause for a search warrant.