The Law Partners (Michael Gresham Legal Thriller Series Book 3) (4 page)

"So. What are we thinking? Is someone trying to frame me?"

"Normally I would say so. But why the drawing on the wall and the cross above his head? What's that stuff all about? You wouldn't be expected to be into Satanism. Whoever did this didn't need Satanism. If anything, it makes it look
less
like something you would have done."

Mira follows my eye as I survey the scene. She nods.

"It's all about misdirection, isn't it?" she asks, pointing her hands to indicate the upside-down cross and five-point star with circle.

I pull out my phone and punch in 9-1-1.

She is right. The tableau is phony. Someone has tried to make it look like she failed in her attempt to point the finger at Satanists. Someone is very shrewd.

Satan was never here.

W
hile we are waiting
for the police to arrive, I send Mira to the shower.

"Use plenty of soap. All over, please."

She disappears into her bedroom and the door closes behind.

Marcel comes in and sits across from me at the dining table as I have moved away from the scene.

"What are you thinking?" I ask him.

He runs a hand back over his dark hair. He keeps it quite long, slicked straight back, and he wears a savvy Italian suit like you might see tooling around Rome on a Vespa scooter in search of romantically inclined females. One long clump has fallen down across his forehead. He continually attempts brushing it back into place, but it doesn't hold and soon returns to his forehead. But it's the middle of the night, so he gets a pass.

"I'm thinking we've obstructed justice, with all of our preparations."

"Oh?"

"Washing hands, soaking dress, hiding the cigarette butt--yes, I saw when you dropped it in your pocket. Taking of shower, ingesting of Ambien. It's like you're the set decorator in some
Lincoln Lawyer
episode."

"You're saying I'm a Matthew McConaughey look-alike?"

"With that mug?"

My face is scarred from too many plastic surgery revisions. A result of being severely burned two years ago. The face no longer elicits the smiles of women like it did before the fire. Now it draws pained expressions and averted eyes. But luckily I managed to snag a brilliant wife anyway and so that requirement for my life has been met. Notice that I said brilliant wife, not beautiful wife. Men my age are starting to reach the point where they prefer brilliant to beautiful if there must be a choice of one over the other. I think Danny is also beautiful but I'm prejudiced. I'm not alone in that: she also thinks I'm handsome, scars and all.

My wife, Danny, is also a lawyer but tonight she’s at home in our bed, fast asleep while I'm out on this house call. I am jealous of her rest but glad for her. She's even given me a daughter, Dania, and a son, Mikey, is on the way. Our world revolves around Dania and will Mikey, too, when he makes his appearance. Nowadays I try case after case after case in the criminal courts of Cook County with hardly a break in between. We are extremely busy ever since our defense of the son of a Chicago priest. Wife Danny all but runs my law office and bears much of the burden of supporting my efforts as a full-time trial lawyer.

"You're saying I don't look like McConaughey's Mickey Haller?"

"You look like Frankenstein's older brother, truth be told. Sorry to have to break the news, Michael."

I shrug and smile. "My wife adores me. That will have to do."

"You're a lucky man."

"What do we tell the cops we have accomplished since arriving?"

"Let's talk to Mira about that."

Just then, she returns. She is wearing a terrycloth bathrobe and pulling a wood-handled brush through her damp hair.

"Please, sit," I tell her.

"Story time?" she asks.

"Yes. Again, you will say nothing. You will defer all questions to me and I mean all questions. Same with you, Marcel: you answer nothing, all questions are passed off to me. Everyone understand?"

"Does that make us complicit in the lies you're going to unload on them?"

I smile. "Not at all. I'm taking the fall on this one."

"They're going to vacuum."

He means the carpet under and around the scene of the crime. We will have left hair and fibers in the crime scene, but that's to be expected.

"We've been careful. But even if not, we're in close quarters here. It would be reasonable for you to lose a long hair or two in the middle of the scene. Easily explained."

"What about the writing on the wall?"

"Handwriting expert? Sure, they'll try that. We'll have to cross that bridge when we come to it."

"What about the gun and my purse?" asks Miranda.

"For one thing, call the credit card issuers."

"What about the gun?"

I start to respond but she cuts me off.

"I can say--"

I raise my hand. "No, you don't do anything. Listen, Mira. Your first inclination will be to answer the questions they ask you. You're verbal, like me, and you will want to explain. It comes naturally to you. But you're not going to say one word while they're here. And you're taking off next week to get your head together. We can work out your next moves then."

"I'm thinking they'll put me on leave until this mess gets sorted out."

"I would expect that. Which works for me: it will keep you out of the office and away from casual questions and cops. It's a good thing."

She nods. She gets up from the table, puts down her brush, and goes to the coffee maker.

"Anyone?" she asks.

We both shake our heads. There's still a chance we'll steal some sleep tonight if we lay off the coffee. She won't and she knows it, so why not?

Repeated buzzing startles us as the cops assault the doorbell.

"Let me get it," I tell them. "Remember, not even 'hello.' Understand?"

Heads nod. I believe I have made my point.

I cross into the living room, giving Darrell Harrow wide berth, and I open the door. Two uniforms lead the way inside, followed by a plainclothes dick and several CSI's. They are all notepads and evidence kits. The techs shoulder past me and arrange themselves around the dead guy. The dick lingers.

"Your name?" he asks.

"Michael Gresham."

"You live here?"

"No, I'm Ms. Morales' lawyer. She is seated at the dining table. She has orders from me not to speak with you. Please don't speak to her."

"Anyone else?"

"My investigator, Marcel Rainford. Also at the dining table. He won't be speaking to you either."

"Nicely done, counsel."

"You would do the same if you were in my shoes, detective. So let's not play any games, shall we?"

He looks me up and down and shakes his head in disgust. I return the look.

"Names?"

"He's Marcel Rainford. She's Miranda Morales."

"Morales? I've worked with a Miranda Morales out of the DA's office. Mira. That her?"

"Yes."

"Any weapons in the residence?"

"She carries a gun in her purse. She's licensed to carry. The gun and the purse are in the master bedroom."

"Has anyone touched it?"

"Hey, you’re the police. Why don’t you tell me?"

"I need more than that."

"All I'm going to say is that she's licensed to carry a gun."

"She is if she's the Miranda Morales I know. Homicide prosecutor, right?"

"Right. My investigator will be carrying a gun, too."

He sighs and records a note on his smartphone.

"Please join your friends," he next says and looks up, bored with me.

I leave without a word and go into the dining room. I take my seat and ask for a cup of coffee after all. It's going to be a long one and tomorrow's Sunday so I can sleep in. Coffee is definitely indicated now that the excitement has begun.

The dick comes into the kitchen. He looks over our trio.

"Miss Morales, hello. I know you won't speak to me but I'm wondering if you or anyone can ID the body?"

I speak up. "He's a prosecutor from the District Attorney's office. Name of Darrell Harrow. I'm surprised you don't recognize him."

"Is that supposed to be funny?"

"Not at all."

"Why was he here tonight?"

We all look straight ahead.

"Mr. Gresham, it would help me better understand this case if you would tell me a few things."

"Such as?"

"Why was he here? Hell, why are you here? Who called you? How long were you here before you called us?"

"Those matters are confidential. What else?"

"Have you people walked through the scene? Am I going to find your fingerprints in the scene, hairs, fibers, whatever?"

"I doubt you'll find one iota of interference."

"You doubt I'll find it or you doubt it exists?

"Both. I doubt you'll find it and I also doubt it even exists."

"For all our sakes let's hope you're right."

"Anything else?"

"Are you aware of any other evidence around this condo that is maybe connected to the dead guy? Or the shooter?"

"No."

"Is there anything else you can add that might help me?"

"No."

"We would like to swab your client's hands. Gunshot residue test. Would you allow that?"

"Help yourself."

"What about a blood draw?"

"Draw away."

"What about the clothes she was wearing tonight?"

"She spilled wine on the dress. It's soaking in soapy water right now."

Huge sigh of disgust. "All right."

He turns and leaves us to ourselves. I know he's in there traipsing through his crime scene right now, moving things, spreading his own prints around, crouching just outside the camera's lens--all of which will be cured, by the time the actual lab reports and glossies go to print. Every report, every witness, every investigation will say the same thing: "Nothing was moved."

Of course not. After all, police are sworn to tell the truth. We believe them.

"How long will this take?" Mira asks me.

"All night. They won't leave until they've removed a large part of the carpet under the dead guy. They won't leave until they've taken apart the traps under your sinks and saved the glop. But you know this, you've worked crime scenes before."

"I guess I've never stayed till the bitter end."

"They should be out of here by nine in the morning."

"Do I have to wait here? I've never been a suspect before."

Just then a CSI comes into the room and swabs Mira's hands, wrists, and forearms. The samples are placed into a plastic evidence bag and the CSI thanks her and leaves.

Then another arrives and punctures her arm with a long needle. Blood is drawn, capped, and initialed.

We continue our talk.

I say, "You're not a suspect now, Mira. Are you not telling us something?"

She ignores that question. She goes to the counter and slides open the top drawer. She withdraws a checkbook and pen.

"How much?" she asks and nods at me.

"Well, there's no case filed and we don't know if there will be. So why don't we wait for that until we see which way this is going to go."

"But I need to pay you something. Confidentiality."

"Five thousand, then."

She stoops over the dishwasher and begins writing out the check. Two minutes and she hands it to me. Five thousand dollars, payable now. I fold and put it in my shirt pocket.

"Now, where should I go tonight? Obviously I can't stay here or they'll pounce on me after you're gone, asking everything they can think of to trap me."

Danny and I have a solemn pact that we'll never again have a defendant on our property. So inviting her over to our guest room for the night is out of the question. I just return her stare.

Marcel says, "Hotel? There's a dozen good ones within two blocks of where we're standing."

It's true. Her condo is less than a mile from the Lower Loop.

"Can one of you drop me at the Marriott?"

"I can," Marcel says, stepping up. "Which Marriott?"

She leaves with Marcel; no explanations to anyone, no phone numbers, no objections: everyone knows I'm here and it's from me only that they're going to hear. Even the detective hardly looks up as they pass by and out the front door.

I decide to photograph the after-scene while the police and CSI's are doing their work. First the guest room, where I find one uniformed officer and one CSI going over the room with ultraviolet lights. Next is Mira's bedroom where there is one uniform searching for evidence. He abruptly leaves the room when I enter, but not before I snap his picture. He grimaces but says nothing. Then I am back in the living room, where two CSI's and the detective are examining the body. A third uniform stands guard at the front door. No one is being allowed in and of course no one is going out, not since Mira and Marcel left. I snap off several pictures of the dead body details, the workers, the detective, the pentagram wall, and finish up with the uniform at the door.

Then I approach the detective.

"My client is going to need access in the morning for clothes to wear to work."

"Someone will be here."

"You're not just going to walk away and leave her door chained, are you? Don't forget, she's one of you."

"Naw, I'll leave someone here until she's in and out. Officer," he says to the uniform at the door. You saw the woman who just left? Let her back in when she returns for clothes. Clothes, that's all she takes out of here."

"Got it. Will do," says the uniform.

I am relieved. I've now done all I can to help my client tonight.

I say, "Thanks. I know she'll be relieved to at least get some clothes out."

"You taking her home with you tonight?"

"Nope."

"Hotel?"

"Can't say."

"But it would be under your name anyway, right?"

"You're very creative. Let me make a note."

"Fuck off, Gresham. Time for you to leave, too."

"I was just going. By the way, officer, I never caught your name."

He fishes a card out of his badge case. Handing it to me, he flashes the detective shield as well.

I look it over. "Okay, Jamison Weldon. Thanks for the card. Don't stay up too late."

I glide past him, past the uniform at the front door, and I am gone.

Funny thing, no one asked us for one fingerprint. How else are they going to know whose prints are whose when they start comparing things?

They didn't ask; it's almost like Detective Weldon knows something I don't. I realize part of the answer: Mira’s fingerprints are officially stored on police computers because of her work as a DA. They already have her prints and they knew that.

Downstairs, the parking garage is empty and the light is very dim. A good place for a killer to lurk. I shiver and double-time to my Mercedes.

Once inside, I quickly lock up and get the engine turning.

Then, my mind is racing along.

Darrell Harrow. He's a jack-of-all-trades in the District Attorney's office, a trial lawyer so experienced that he can cover any type of case on a moment's notice. Every large-city prosecutor's office has several of these floaters on staff.