VC04 - Jury Double (41 page)

Judge Bernheim’s gavel slammed down onto the shuddering bench. An armed guard stepped forward.

“All rise,” the bailiff commanded.

The spectators rose. Judge Bernheim stood, drawing her robe around her. An absolute stillness suffused the courtroom as she glided granite-faced to the door.

A slam shattered the silence. The benches broke into movement.

Corey Lyle—crisp in his navy blazer and red striped tie—rose from his chair. He pulled a pair of dark glasses from his pocket and fitted them over his eyes. Masked now, he smiled a triumphant smile.

At the rear of the courtroom, a guard’s voice howled, “Hey! She’s got my gun!”

A hundred-voiced scream ignited and spiked upward. Leaping and spilling across benches, spectators shouldered and jammed in a stampede to clear the aisle.

Yolanda Lopez, eyes blazing, pushed forward through the whirlpooling panic. Gripping a police service revolver in her right hand, she stopped six feet from Corey Lyle and pointed the gun barrel at his chest.

“Yolanda—don’t!” Corey Lyle’s voice was pushed high and shrill. “Don’t! In the name of God—”

The first shot cracked out. Corey Lyle stumbled three steps backward.

A second shot.

The defense table broke his sideways fall. He slid slowly to the linoleum and lay there, eyes staring upward at the ceiling.

Papers fluttered down.

Yolanda stepped up to the body and fired three shots straight into his face.

Anne’s guard sprang from the cover of the prosecutor’s table. He dove in a running crouch and grabbed Yolanda Lopez.

FORTY-ONE

11:40 A.M.

“M
ADHOUSE AROUND HERE TODAY.
” The guard led Anne through pale cigarette-stained corridors. “We haven’t had a courtroom shooting in months.”

“Where did she get the gun?”

“Grabbed it from a guard. What a guard’s doing, leaving his holster unbuckled, don’t ask me.”

He opened the door of a small office crammed with metal filing cabinets. The walls were painted puce and the air-conditioning hit like a slap in the face with an iced catfish.

“That one works.” He pointed to the phone on the desk. “You better call a lawyer.”

The guard left and a key clicked in the lock. She lifted the receiver and tapped in Mark’s direct line at work.

“Mark Wells.”

“The secret word is
mistrial
.”

“Anne? Hung jury already?”

“Jury tampering. I told Judge Bernheim I’m Anne.”

A beat of silence.

“That would do it,” Mark said.

“That’s not all. When Bernheim declared a mistrial, Yolanda Lopez grabbed a guard’s revolver and shot Corey Lyle dead.”

“Jesus.”

“Mark, can you get me out of here?”

“What’s your bail?”

“Two point five million.”

Mark whistled. “I’ll try.”

The elevator stopped on eleven. A gassy smell floated in the air, faint and familiar. Cardozo followed his nose down the long gray-carpeted corridor to the door of 11-E. The smell grew thicker, with the stomach-turning sweetness of rotted pastries.

He pushed the doorbell. A moment later the door opened and a foul odor gushed out. The doorman stood there, a wet paper towel pressed over his nose and mouth.

“Okay, Jerry, what have we got?”

Jerry shrugged a shoulder. “The Con Ed man’s in there looking. He says it’s not a gas leak.”

Cardozo stepped into the apartment. The air felt hypersaturated, like a rain forest. He saw at a glance that Anne Bingham’s living room was a workplace. It had been given a light airbrushing of decor—two Chinese vases on a bookshelf, jungle-bird pattern curtains that matched the coverings on the chair and the convertible sofa. But over half the space was taken up by a worktable piled with computer and electronic gear, angled for easy access to the keyboards of a bank of synthesizers.

There was a monotonous humming sound. The windows were open, and the air conditioner was running on high fan. Cardozo frowned.

A crystal vase of dead cut flowers had been knocked over on the coffee table. A lamp lay at the edge of the threadbare Oriental rug, its shade crushed. A potted corn plant, upended in the corner, trailed a comet-tail of soil. A goldfish lay dead on the rug amid the shards of its shattered bowl.

Cardozo hurried down the hallway to the bathroom. The door was ajar and the stink was overpowering. For a moment he had to brace himself against the door frame, fighting back a gag reflex.

He snapped on the light.

The bathroom was tiled in pink ceramic. A bath mat in matching pink had been crumpled against the toilet stand, and a pink towel lay across the sink.

Cardozo’s eye flicked across a narrow dribble of caked rust running from the sink to the tub. There was a swaying movement at the edge of the shower curtain where water pattered softly on plastic.

He pushed back the curtain.

The showerhead had been left dribbling. The opening in the overflow plate siphoned off the excess. The bathwater had reached the color and consistency of gazpacho.

A fully clothed woman lay in the tub on her side, an island of gray in the fetid dark slime. With gaping mouth and staring green eyes, the face had a look of abject terror.

Cardozo felt a disorienting stab of recognition. The woman was Kyra Talbot.

Cardozo’s stomach turned over. “Hey, Jerry!”

Jerry’s head poked into the bathroom. His eyes recoiled.

“Do you recognize her?”

Jerry nodded. “She’s the owner of this apartment. Anne Bingham.”

Anne turned at the sound of a key clicking in the lock. The door of the dusty little room flew open, and Mark Wells—hair flying and necktie over his shoulder—burst in. He wasn’t alone.

“Anne, do you know Kyra’s boss, Nort Stanley?”

She shook the hand of a bald man with Coke-bottle eyeglasses.

“God,” he said, “you’re a dead ringer for Kyra.”

“Here’s the deal.” Mark’s voice was a breathless rasp, as if he’d been running and negotiating at the same time. “Nort’s posting your bail, plus you get a fifty-thousand-dollar advance against two hundred fifty thousand.”

“What am I getting an advance for?”

There was a beat of hesitation, as if Mark was mystified that she should be mystified. “You’ll write a three-part series on the trial. For the
Manhattanite
.”

“I’m not a writer.”

“You are now.”

“We want you, Annie.” Behind the wire-rimmed glasses, Nort Stanley’s eyes had a hungry, focused glow. “We want you bad.”

Mark opened his briefcase and shoved papers at her. “Initial the bottom of each page and sign the last.”

The corridor echoed with the pandemonium of a street carnival.

“The next few minutes are going to be tough. So hang tight.” Mark sliced a path through the mob.

Outside the courthouse, bodies crushed and voices hollered and minicams of five networks jostled. Anne and Mark broke loose from the crowd and ran.

The sun was shining, the sky was a benevolent blue. The afternoon air was choked with exhaust, but to Anne it had the clean smell of freedom.

Mark’s green Mercedes was double-parked in a no-parking stretch of Centre Street. He gunned the motor and the car was already in motion as she dropped into the seat. Soft beige leather cushioned her fall.

Mark angled up Centre and turned right on Canal, smack into the middle of a honking traffic jam. Pedestrians and pushcarts clogged the sidewalks.

Anne felt energy rippling out from the brawling, sprawling world of Chinese superettes and electronic hot shops and vendors and discount stores. It was fall. The season when the city geared up. New York was loud and bright and brash again.

“Have you heard anything from Kyra or Toby?”

Mark shook his head. “Not a thing.”

“What if the Coreyites have them both?”

“Now that Corey’s dead, there’s no reason to harm them. The Coreyites aren’t about to complicate their legal problems with another pair of murders.”

“I wish I had your optimism.”

“Not optimism—cynicism.” Mark patted her knee. It was an oddly unthinking movement, as though they had been touching one another for years. “Now, where can I give you a lift to?”

“I’d love a nice long stop at my bathtub.”

He swung a sharp left onto Bowery. “Coming up.”

As they turned onto Anne’s block they could see two blue-and-white squad cars and an NYPD Emergency Service van nose-to-nose in front of her building.

Mark braked.

A group of uniformed officers had taken over the lobby. Anxious clusters of tenants milled. A redheaded sergeant told Anne and Mark he was sorry, but for the moment there was no traffic in or out of the building.

Anne felt the pressure of Mark’s finger on her elbow. A signal.
Let me handle this.

“Mrs. Bingham lives in eleven-E, and I’m her lawyer. My client needs to get into her apartment.”

For an instant of charged silence the sergeant stared at Anne. “Mrs. Anne Bingham?” As though there was something in that name that made her a celebrity; or a freak. “You can go right up, ma’am.”

The sergeant cleared their way to the elevator. Anne could feel tenants’ eyes on her, resentful, wondering how she rated privileged treatment. They rode up in silence. Mark’s eyes were calm and she tried to feel calm in the hold of his gaze.

The elevator opened at eleven. Their steps were soundless on the gray carpeting. She took out her key. Her hand stopped at the sound of men’s voices on the other side of the door.

She caught Mark’s warning glance. He gave the door a push and it swung inward.

There was only a split second to glimpse the figure crouched in the living room, holding a flash camera. An explosion of light blinded her.

As the afterimage cleared, she saw a uniformed woman officer standing with a steno pad in her hands.

“I’m Mrs. Bingham’s attorney,” Mark said. “What are these people doing in my client’s home?”

The policewoman looked at Anne carefully, as if searching for a typo in a line of fine print. “Would you come this way, please?”

They followed her into the living room. A man wearing plastic surgical gloves was scattering crystals from a blue glass jar. The air had a heavy smell of artificial violets, masking a heavier, more disturbing smell. A lamp had been knocked over and boxes and plants had been spilled. A long black bag shaped like a sofa bolster lay in the center of the room.

A dozen men and women were crouching, crawling, measuring, marking, dusting, photographing. The policewoman led Anne and Mark around the outskirts of activity.

“Lieutenant,” she said, “the owner of the apartment is here.”

Anne recognized the police detective who had rescued her from the picketer and testified at the trial.

“
You’re
Anne Bingham?” His expression was startled, almost incredulous.

“Yes, I am.”

“I’m Lieutenant Vince Cardozo, Twenty-second Precinct.” He kept staring at her. “Tell me, Mrs. Bingham—when were you last in this apartment?”

“Wednesday morning last week.”

“Lieutenant,” Mark interrupted. “I’m Mrs. Bingham’s attorney. Could I ask what’s happening here?”

“A neighbor reported smelling a gas leak in this apartment. Mrs. Bingham couldn’t be contacted. Con Ed came in and found a dead woman in the bathtub.”

At that moment Anne had a helium balloon for a heart.

“I wonder if Mrs. Bingham would be willing to identify her?”

Mark took Anne’s left hand, protecting her. Her right hand went to her neck and touched Kyra’s locket.

The detective crouched by the black bag. She could see the curves of a body. A zipper squeaked.

She stared down into lifeless green eyes. Recognition hit like a boot in the skull. “My God—Kyra—no! Oh, my God—my God!”

Cardozo spoke gently. “I’m very sorry.”

Mark slipped his arms around her and held her close.

“The man who kidnapped Toby,” Cardozo said, “had a letter. Kyra Talbot wrote that letter on stationery from this apartment. Which makes him the prime suspect in her murder. If you don’t mind, Mrs. Bingham, I’m afraid I have to ask you a few questions.”

“You’re not going to ask Mrs. Bingham anything now.” Mark spoke in flat refusal mode. “She’s in no condition.” He pressed a glass of water into her hand. “Take some. You’ll feel better.”

She sipped. His hand helped the glass up. A finger of fire stung her throat. It was brandy, not water. She pushed the glass away. “I’m fine. I’m all right.”

She burst into body-racking sobs.

“Vince?” Tess diAngeli on the line now, something skittery in her voice. “You were right. They conned me.”

Cardozo had to put a finger to one ear to shut out all the crime-scene ruckus. “What? Who? How?”

“In exchange for testimony, the Justice Department promised Mickey no prosecution for
any
previous crimes—and
no surveillance
.”

Cardozo’s stomach felt as if he were trapped in a free-falling elevator. “Then what about those guards?”

“They lied to me. They were running passive surveillance. Mickey phoned in three times a day.” In a tired voice, she reeled off the flat details. “It was a ruse to pacify me and a few other New York types who worried about Mickey being a danger to society. Vince—you were right and I was wrong and I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry too.” Cardozo’s tone held no criticism; he himself had been burned in more than one Justice Department power play. But this was obviously Tess’s maiden voyage. “Don’t brood and don’t take it personally. It’s not the first double-cross they’ve pulled. It certainly won’t be the last.”

As he hung up the receiver, Greg Monteleone shoved his way into the apartment. “Hey, Vince, what the hell’s wrong with Bingham’s phone? I’ve been trying to call you for half an hour.”

“There weren’t any rings here.”

“Sometimes the line was busy, and sometimes I got a recorded Ding-a-ling spiel and a dozen beeps.”

Cardozo glanced down at the phone and realized what had happened. “The machine’s set to pick up, but the answering tape’s full. Why didn’t you beep me?”

“I did.”

Cardozo pulled the pager off his belt and saw he’d forgotten to reset it after Tess’s beep. “My fault. What’s up?”