Until the Final Verdict (21 page)

“J
ESUS,
D
AVE,
why did you tell Skinner about our conversation at Torremolinos?”

Kathryn, wearing her maroon jumpsuit, leaned forward on the jail watch commander's desk, one hand under her chin, the other holding the phone.

“I forgot about that conversation until McCaskill brought it up. She was surprised you agreed to waive the death penalty and asked how I talked you into it. I had no idea at the time that she'd roll over on you.”

“I should hope not! How'd McCaskill find out?”

Granz shifted the phone to his left hand, lay back on the bed, and propped his head up on the pillows.

“Probably gave it up to McCaskill when the evidence against you mounted.”

“Where are you?”

“Vancouver, B.C.”

“Have you talked to the flight attendant yet?”

He shook his head, then realized she couldn't see him. “No, by the time I cleared Customs, it was too late. I checked into the Wedgewood Hotel downtown. First thing tomorrow, I'll try to hook up with her, see what she has to say.”

“Let's hope it's something good.”

“It'll never repair the damage I did today. I'm sorry.”

“You couldn't have known McCaskill would get his hands on your notes.” She changed subjects. “Emma's at Ruth's?”

“Yeah.”

Kathryn was silent for several seconds. “Hurry home. I'm lonely knowing you're away.”

“I love you, Kate.”

“I know. Dave, I'm scared.”

“I'm going to clear this mess up somehow, and get you out of jail, Babe. I promise. You have to trust me.”

“I trust you, but . . .”

“But what?”

“I know you're trying to make me feel better, but even you can't get me out.”

“Y
OU
'
RE UP EARLY, SIR.
”
The Wedgewood Hotel doorman held the huge, arched glass half-door open and bowed deeply at the waist. He was young, tall, blond, handsome, and wore a tuxedo, a black top hat, and a brass name tag.

“Good morning, Carey.” A sudden icy wind rippled through the leafless trees behind the government center across the street. Granz shivered, zipped up his brown leather bomber jacket, and glanced up and down Hornby.

“Can I help you find something, sir?”

“I need to be at Air Canada's offices when they open at eight o'clock.”

“On West Georgia.” Carey pointed. “About four blocks north, take a left, they'll be on your right, second floor. Can't miss 'em.”

“Thanks.”

“Looking for breakfast?”

“Just coffee.”

“There's a great little coffeehouse at Hornby and Georgia. I work there weekends to help pay my UBC tuition.”

“UBC?”

“University of British Columbia. Criminology student. What do you do?”

Granz contemplated lying. “I'm a cop.”

“Really! Here on business?”

“Afraid so.” Granz stuck his hands in his jacket pockets and turned. “Thanks for the directions.”

“You bet.”

Human Resource Officer Jennifer Liu checked Granz' badge and ID, then punched a few computer keys and shook her head.

“You're too late.”

Granz slipped his badge case back into his pants pocket.

“What do you mean?”

“Andrea Lain's flight left Vancouver at six this morning.”

“When will she be back?”

“Friday.”

“Damn! Excuse me, but it's crucial that I see her today.”

Liu checked the computer screen again. “She's flying to Fort St. John, Fort Nelson, turning around at Whitehorse, then back to Fort St. John at four o'clock this afternoon before starting her four off-days.”

She punched more computer keys. “If it's really
important, I could book you on Flight 8593 out of Vancouver at twelve-thirty this afternoon. You could wait in Fort St. John for Andrea to get back from Whitehorse.”

“That'd be great, thanks.”

“We put flight crews up at the Alexander Mackenzie Inn. I'll call and make a reservation for you, then radio an in-flight message, ask her to page you when she gets to the hotel. What was your name again?”

“Sheriff Dave Granz, from Santa Rita, California.” He handed Liu his VISA card. “Thanks for your help.”

“No problem. Good luck, Sheriff.”

Granz swung Liu's office door closed softly.

“Luck, hell,” Granz muttered to himself. “We need a fuckin' miracle.”

T
HE
D
IXIE
C
HICKS
blasted from the Alexander Mackenzie Inn's Wrangler Pub jukebox. Construction workers swigged happy-hour draft beer and watched the Edmonton Oilers trounce the New York Islanders on a big-screen TV while a crowd at the bar shot Liars Dice.

When the busboy rolled out the buffet table, Granz heaped chips, minitacos, and chicken wings on his plate and carried it to his table. He ordered a Labatt Blue, dipped a wing in ranch dressing, gnawed off the meat, and ate a second. Then the rest of them.

When the wings were gone, he inhaled the minitacos and swallowed a handful of peanuts, and dropped the shells on the hardwood floor just as the outside door opened.

A woman in an Air Canada uniform adjusted her eyes to the dark. When she spotted Granz she waved, and wove her way through the tables, stopping most of the men in midsentence.

“Hello, Sheriff.” In her early forties, Andrea Lain was a gorgeous blonde in a petite but ample package; pale blue eyes, perfect skin, bright red lips, and an overbite that came off as a pout.

She motioned to the bartender, slipped off her jacket, pretending she didn't notice the eyes glued to her chest, and dropped into a chair beside Granz.

“Long day. Six takeoffs and landings. With Brit, I was usually in the air for six or eight hours at a stretch. Short hops are tough.” She extended her hand.

Granz shook it. “I appreciate your coming.” Her hand was soft and warm with graceful fingers and long, manicured red nails.

He finished the Labatt. The bartender handed Andrea a glass of white wine and pointed at Granz' empty. “ 'Nother beer?”

“Sure.”

Granz tossed a fistful of peanuts into his mouth, wishing Kathryn were there to make him savor them. “I'd like to talk to you about the incident in January. It's important.”

“My Calgary flight leaves in less than two hours. Besides, I told Mr. McCaskill everything I could remember.”

“I'd appreciate your repeating anything you still recall.”

“Worst flight of my career. First the drunk, then the heart attack. FAA now requires us to carry defibrillaters,
and the flight crews are trained to use them. If we'd had one on that flight, we might've saved him.”

“You couldn't have helped, Andrea. It wasn't a heart attack.”

“What do you mean?”

“Simmons died of a massive drug overdose. He was murdered.”

“Murdered!” Lain stopped her wineglass halfway to her mouth.

“Didn't McCaskill tell you?”

“No, but that doesn't surprise me.” She set down her glass. “What an asshole. Excuse my language.”

“I've heard worse. When did he ask you to meet with him?”

“He didn't ask, he ordered.”

“When was that, exactly?”

“The last weekend in January. He phoned me aboard a New York to San Francisco flight, ordered me to meet with him when we landed. Threatened to arrest me if I refused.”

“You're sure about the date?”

“Absolutely. My husband and I—he's a United pilot—scheduled our days off to visit the Wine Country. The bed-and-breakfast released our reservations when we didn't show. We ended up at Knuckles Sports Bar at the SFO Hyatt. Wasn't that bad, I'm a Niners fan.”

“Me, too, but you're right about McCaskill, he's a first-class jerk.”

“Why don't you fire him?”

“He doesn't work for me.”

“I thought you were Sheriff.”

“I am, why?”

“McCaskill told me he was investigating the death for the Sheriff's Department. He had a badge, so I thought he was one of your deputies.”

“He wasn't.” Granz did some quick mental math, reminding himself to check on when McCaskill was appointed DA.

“Who does he work for?”

“Himself. He's District Attorney.”

Andrea frowned. “Ms. Mackay told me she was District Attorney.”

“She was.”

“But now McCaskill is? I don't understand.”

Granz stopped peeling the label off the beer bottle and set it down with shaky hands. “Kathryn's been accused of giving Simmons the drug overdose that killed him.”

“Accused by whom?”

“McCaskill was appointed to replace her as DA when the evidence—all circumstantial—pointed to her. He charged her with murder. If he convicts her, she could get the death penalty.”

“Did she do it?”

“What did you tell McCaskill, Andrea?”

She waited for an answer to her question, but didn't get one. “Not much he didn't already seem to know. He kept muttering to himself, even threatened again to have me arrested if my memory didn't improve. He was looking for something, but I don't know if he got it.”

“I need to know exactly what you told him.”

“I really have to leave or I'll miss my flight.” She
glanced at her watch and stood. “He didn't tell you he taped my interview?”

“He never told anyone he interviewed you at all, much less that he recorded it. I bet the son of a bitch destroyed the tape.”

She sat back down, dug in her purse, pulled out a minicassette, and slid it across the table.

“After he threatened to arrest me, I figured I'd protect myself. I had a recorder in my purse.”

“Can I listen to it?”

“Take it.” She stood again and put on her jacket. The construction workers stopped talking again, but she didn't notice.

Granz dropped the tape into his jacket pocket, then pulled out a folded paper and handed it to her.

“What's this?”

“A subpoena, just in case. Consider yourself served.”

She dropped it into her purse. “You sure a California subpoena's valid in Canada?”

“The court in B.C. validated it,” he lied.

“Sure it did.”

She stood and extended her hand, and Granz shook it again, this time noting that her grip was firm and confident.

“Doesn't matter,” she told him. “But, if you call me to testify, I hope you don't screw up another romantic weekend for Joe and me. And I hope my testimony shoots that jerk McCaskill in the foot.”

“Me, too.”