The Trials of Nikki Hill (34 page)

“Are you familiar with a woman named Edith ‘Edie’ Jastrup?”

He’d been expecting the question, but still his heart sank.

“Yes,” he replied, his face showing nothing.

“Did you not live with Miss Edith Jastrup for a period of... nine months and twelve days?”

“Sounds like you’ve got a better record of it than I do, but that seems about right.”

“Objection, your honor,” Nikki said. “What’s the relevance of Detective Goodman’s personal life?”

“An excellent question, Ms. Dayne.”

“Sidebar, your honor?”

Goodman’s calming breaths didn’t seem to be working. He felt lightheaded as he watched Nikki and the defense attorney standing a few yards away.

Anna Marie Dayne handed the judge a document. “I’m going to put this in evidence, your honor.” It was too far away for Goodman to see.

“What is it?” Nikki asked. “You’ve submitted nothing to our office.”

“It came into our possession yesterday afternoon,” Goodman heard Dayne reply. “A copy was hand delivered to the district attorney’s office last night at seven P.M., and we have a receipt for the delivery, if you want to look at it.”

“What’s its significance, Ms. Dayne?” the judge asked.

The defense attorney shot Goodman a look, then leaned closer to the judge, whispering something that the detective couldn’t hope to hear. Instead, he concentrated on Nikki’s face and could tell by her knit brows that he was in for a rocky ride.

“We haven’t had the opportunity to check the authenticity of this document,” Nikki objected. “Show me the provenance.”

“It’s authentic,” Dayne said. “There’s the stamp. There are his initials.”

“It’s a copy,” Nikki said. “Where’s the original?”

“In the interest of moving along,” Judge Vetters said, “I’m inclined to allow this to be placed into evidence with the proviso that the defense provide this court proper identification within forty-eight hours. But I warn you, Ms. Dayne, if such identification is not forthcoming, I will do considerably more than merely expunge the applicable section of Detective Goodman’s testimony.”

“Understood, your honor.” Dayne resumed her cross-examination by placing her document into evidence, with Nikki objecting for the record.

The defense attorney handed Goodman the document and asked, “Could you describe that item to the court please?”

“It looks like a copy of an arrest warrant,” Goodman said.

“Are there any names on that warrant that ring any bells, detective?”

Goodman took his time reading the list of women’s names.

“Yes,” he said.

“Could you tell us the familiar names?”

“Edith Jastrup and Evelyn Jastrup,” he said, his throat as dry as noonday sand.

“The same Edith Jastrup you lived with?”

“I imagine.”

“And Evelyn is...?”

“Her sister.”

“How did this woman you lived with for more than nine months and her sister earn their daily bread, detective?”

“They said they were models.”

“But you know differently.”

“No, I do not,” Goodman answered.

For the first time, Anna Marie Dayne seemed a bit surprised. “What are they accused of on this warrant?”

“It says Code Section 647b.”

“What crime are we talking about?”

“Prostitution,” Goodman said calmly.

“So I ask you again, detective, how did the Jastrup sisters earn their money?”

“As far as I knew they modeled clothes.”

Dayne seemed frustrated. “In spite of what this warrant says?”

“This just seems to be a warrant,” he said. “I’m not sure that constitutes proof of guilt. We served your client with a warrant.”

Dayne turned to look out into the courtroom. Goodman tried to follow her line of sight, but couldn’t, because, almost immediately, she was back at him. “Aren’t those your initials on the warrant?”

“No, they are not.”

“How can you be so certain?”

“Why would I have signed a warrant involving a prostitution case? Seven years ago, the date on this warrant, I was working homicide.”

“Let’s say you knew one or two of the parties involved and you wanted to take a look at the warrant, you might have been asked to initial it. Right?”

“Maybe. But that didn’t happen. I’ve never seen this warrant before.” Goodman realized this was clearly contrary to what Dayne had been expecting. Which meant she was convinced the warrant was genuine.

She stood there, staring at him for what seemed like an eternity, saying nothing.

“Ms. Dayne?” the judge inquired.

“Sorry, your honor.” She took the copy of the warrant from the detective and handed it to the judge. Then she moved back to her table. “I’d like to return to Ms. Cooper’s interrogation by Detectives Goodman and Morales.” She picked up her copy of the transcript and carried it to Goodman. “Would you please read the section indicated by the arrows, detective?”

Goodman blinked at the page. He was still thinking about Edie. He said, “ ‘I asked the defendant, “Did you murder Madeleine Gray?” ’ ”

“What was Ms. Cooper’s exact reply?”

“ ‘No, I did not.’ ”

“Thank you, detective. That’s all.”

“You’re excused, Detective Goodman,” Judge Vetters said. “Unless my watch is fast, it’s about time for lunch.”

Nikki stopped Goodman in the hall. She said, very seriously, “Upstairs. Now.”

“What’s the matter?” he asked. “I thought it went okay.”

“We’ll talk in my office.”

The wait for an elevator was painful. Neither of them spoke.

Finally, they made it to the eighteenth floor, past the barriers, down the hall, and into her office. She closed the door and turned to him. “You may have blown the case for us today, detective.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about perjury.”

“You got me all wrong, Nikki,” he said, disappointed by her lack of faith.

“You’d never seen that warrant before?” she asked, wanting to believe, but not quite up to the task.

“I may have seen a similar one,” he said. “But not that one. That one’s bogus. Somebody whipped it up for the trial, and they neglected to tell Dayne it was fake.”

“How can you be so positive?”

“Because,” Goodman said, “I set fire to the original seven years ago.”

S
IXTY-SEVEN

A
n hour later, Goodman entered Robbery-Homicide to find Morales sitting at his desk, moodily staring into space. A shiny blue murder book rested open in front of him. He shook himself out of his trance long enough to ask, “How’d it go in court?”

“You didn’t miss anything,” Goodman said. He swung his chair around and sat, facing Morales. “There’s something I gotta do, partner.”

“Get lunch?”

“No. I’m gonna take a run at this Doyle bastard, try to shake him up. You with me?”

“Not today.” Morales stood up. “I got plans.”

“Now?”

“Cover for me, huh?”

“Where you headed?”

“In due time, amigo,” Morales told him. “In due time.”

Goodman watched him saunter from the room. Then he rolled his chair to his partner’s desk. The Madeleine Gray murder book was open to a page of Jamal Deschamps’s initial interrogation.

Goodman was trying to decipher his partner’s less-than-expert typing when Lieutenant Corben yelled their names across the squad room.

“Where’s Morales?” the lieutenant asked as Goodman entered the office.

“Dentist, I think. Bad wisdom.”

“Yeah?” Corben asked, as if he assumed Goodman was lying but didn’t give a damn. “We got some action on the Lydon murder. Lab finally got around to sending us a list of prints found at his apartment.”

Goodman looked at the list. Stephen Palmer made it, of course. Two-thirds of the other male names would probably be more of the deceased’s romances, one-night stands in the main. Then he saw a name that rang all the bells. The guy’s fingerprint had been found on a color snapshot of Maddie Gray located inside Lydon’s locked safe.

“Something?” Corben asked.

Goodman nodded.

“Gonna keep it to yourself?” Corben asked.

S
IXTY-EIGHT

T
hat night, Jimmy Doyle was in bed, getting a hand job from the beautiful but disdainful Zorina, when the phone rang. The young woman, whose hair was now a raspberry shade, didn’t call what she was doing a hand job. It was a sensuous massage. She sat on the bed next to Doyle, naked, massaging him sensuously while watching Jay Leno do one of his Iron Jay routines.

Doyle scowled, annoyed that the phone had broken the mood. He shifted his aural attention from the TV to the answering machine. After a few clicks and whirs and wheezes, he heard Pete Sandoval say, “If you’re there, Jimmy, pick up.”

With a grunt, Doyle shifted, daintily removed Zorina’s hand from his penis, and lifted the phone. “I’m here,” he said.

“Jimmy, thank God. I’m in the shit, buddy.”

“Minute,” Doyle told him. He covered the phone and said, “Zor, honey, could you and Jay move it to the living room?”

She shrugged. “I’ll just give myself a sensuous massage,” she said. It was one of the things he loved about her. She simply didn’t give a damn about anything.

He watched her move languidly toward the door, a full-breasted woman with raspberry hair and, as if anyone in their right mind could mistake it for her natural color, a matching pubic thatch.

“Where the hell are you?” he asked Sandoval as he clicked off the TV. “You said you’d call before five to let me know how you were progressing on Walden.”

“Sorry, Jimmy. I didn’t have time to work on that.”

“Didn’t have time? What are you talking about?”

“I... I’m on the run. I only had minutes to pack.”

Doyle couldn’t believe it. If you couldn’t count on Sandoval...“Tell me about it.”

“When I, ah, visited that certain party’s apartment, I left something behind.”

“Talk English, damn it. I check for taps every hour.”

“I left a print at Lydon’s place. The cops have made it.”

“You’re shattering my faith in your professionalism,” Doyle said, mind awhirl.

“The little bastard had an International TL-30 in his matchbox pad. Too much safe for average use. I had to take my right glove off to feel the combination. There were photos inside. I guess I picked one up before I put the glove back on.”

Doyle didn’t care about any of that. “How clean a break did you make?”

“Ten minutes after Lattimer called about the fingerprint, somebody was knocking on my office door. I barely got out of there with my laptop and Fuck You money.”

“Leaving behind what?”

“Nothing much. I took your advice and converted to computer files years ago.”

“Any link to the clients or to me?”

“Not that I can think of.”

“That’s not totally reassuring,” Doyle told him.

“It’s the best I can do, Jimmy, under the circumstances.”

“And your plan is...?”

“Take a vacation for a while.”

Doyle was boiling. “I thought you owned this town,” he said, sticking the knife in.

“You know why I’m running, don’t you?” Sandoval asked.

“Just a guess, but maybe you don’t have an alibi for the Lydon murder. And there’s a bloody machete under your bed for the cops to find.”

“Aw, Jimmy. You know fucking well that kind of weapon isn’t my style at all. No. I’m leaving because of you.”

Now this was worthy of the Sandoval Doyle had come to love. “Elucidate on that one, Peter.”

“The fingerprint won’t mean much in the long run. It might let some people I’ve fucked over through the years have a little fun with me. But nothing serious’ll come of it. Not with
my
lawyers. On the other hand, it’s enough to give the cops license to ask me certain questions, like why I was in Lydon’s apartment. Eventually the questions could get around to our association.”

“In other words, you feel I should keep you on the payroll while you’re having fun in the sun down South or wherever. Maybe even pop for your expenses.”

“Nothing like that. I screwed up and I cover my own ass. I just want you to know I’m doing the Polanski out of respect for our longtime relationship, Jimmy. That’s all.”

“Then
vaya con Dios,
old son,” Doyle told him. “
Vaya con Dios.
”

S
IXTY-NINE

S
o Sandoval is in the wind?” Lieutenant Corben asked Goodman.

“Must’ve just missed him last night. The paper shredder was still warm,” Goodman said. He and Morales were in Corben’s office, watching him feed his goldfish breakfast.

“Any salvageable material?”

Goodman shook his head. “They’re poking around, and maybe they can tape some of it together,” he said. “But the pieces are smaller than confetti.”

“Was he tipped?” Corben asked.

“Looks that way.”

“Any suggestions on who did the tipping?”

“Sandoval used to be a cop,” Goodman said. “Maybe his partner, if he’s still around.”

Corben nodded. “I’ll look into it myself,” he said. “You seriously think Sandoval cut down Lydon?”

“I think Lydon’s death was connected to the Maddie Gray murder,” Goodman said. “And I believe I can tie Sandoval to Dyana Cooper.”

Corben put down the box of fish food and returned to his desk. “Let’s hear it.”

“A while back, I investigated the death of a guy named Martin Lobrano who was an exec at Golden State Savings.”

“I remember that,” Corben said. “The head man was Leonard Quarles. I had money in his goddamn S&L when it went bust.”

“Sandoval was working for Quarles at the time,” Goodman said. “And so was a character named James Doyle. Doyle’s in tight with the Willins family.”

“You figure Doyle set up Lydon’s murder?” Corben asked.

“All I know is that we’ve got a connection from Sandoval, whose fingerprint was in Lydon’s apartment, to Doyle to Dyana Cooper, who we assume killed Madeleine Gray.”

“What do you know about Doyle?”

Goodman had done some phoning and had pieced together a short bio that went from Doyle’s birth forty-nine years before in Boston, Massachusetts, to the present. In between were a Harvard MBA, a short apprenticeship at a D.C. public relations firm, and some years as an effective lobbyist before moving on to handle the successful congressional campaign of a local businessman. Since then, he had assisted in the election of a Democratic president and two Republican governors and had signed on as a hired gun for a number of people in the public and private sectors who were in extreme need of image polishing. Included were a U.S. Army general who’d been accused of murdering his wife, and Leonard Quarles, who, it was assumed, had drained millions of dollars out of Golden State Savings and Loan before it went belly-up. Both the general and Quarles were free as the breeze.