Defensive Wounds Page 4

  The detectives offered to help, but there was little they could do beyond Neil Kelly’s holding the manila envelopes open for her as she dropped in carpet samples. Finally she could wrap up the cords and open the curtains with the sense of relief a minorly claustrophobic person feels to see daylight again.

  Neil and Powell searched the room as she gathered her envelopes. They found nothing save for a paper clip and the corner of an ancient Twinkie wrapper wedged behind the nightstand, next to a dead cockroach and half of a Len Barker baseball card.

  “Engorged with Twinkie crumbs is not a bad way to go,” Neil pointed out, “but who rips up a perfectly good baseball card?”

  Len Barker had pitched a perfect game for the Indians in 1981, only the eighteenth no-hitter in major-league history. “Would that be worth a lot?” Theresa asked.

  Powell said, “No, they’re not that rare. But I’ll bet it’s got a story behind it. Just not one involving Marie Corrigan.”

  The two detectives kept up a running vaudeville act on the various possible explanations for all the stains they’d seen, like the overgrown boys they were. Theresa escaped to process the door to the hallway for fingerprints, as well as the hallway door to the stairwell, and then she could finally strip off the gloves and gather up her envelopes and equipment from the plush carpeting. “I think that’s about it.”

  Powell moved to the outer room to make a phone call. Neil Kelly took one more look around, then said to her, “I want to ask your daughter a few questions. Do you want to be there?”

  Theresa got to her feet immediately. “You better believe it.”

  CHAPTER 5

  *

  The lobby bustled with human activity. Dinner hour approached with checkin time, and new guests queued up at Rachael’s desk. The conference sessions were breaking up, and small groups of people with identical name badges gathered, discussing the murder and also where to get a decent steak.

  Theresa made Neil wait until Rachael had checked in a group of tourists from Norway and could turn her counter over to another girl, feeling that tiny frisson of anxiety one does when introducing one’s child to another adult, especially this man—a peer, sort of. Would he have the good sense to discern the obvious superiority of her offspring? Or would he remain clueless, uninterested in the child’s intelligence and wit? Not that it mattered to Theresa, of course.

  Rachael joined them next to a statue of three running horses, realistically captured in bronze. “We’ll have to talk fast, ’cause I’m not supposed to hang around the lobby. So who did it? Do we have some psycho killer running loose in this place?”

  So much for wowing Mom’s new acquaintance. “Rachael! This isn’t a TV show.”

  “Sorry,” she said. “I guess I can afford to be flip—I don’t have to go into some empty room off a silent hallway all the time like the maids. They’re totally freaked out. I think they may revolt.”

  “That’s not funny.”

  “It wasn’t meant to be. They’re talking about walking out unless the hotel provides armed security guards on each floor.”

  “I don’t blame them,” Theresa said.

  Rachael’s line of sight swung to a young man in a cook’s white shirt who was leaving the lounge. He toted a white cardboard box labeled POTATOES and headed for the restaurant but paused to give her a nod and a grin. Rachael burst into a smile of such wattage that for a second or two Theresa forgot about the dead lawyer. “Let me guess—that’s the William I’ve been hearing so much about.”

  “The very same,” Rachael happily confirmed, her gaze lingering on the kid until he disappeared behind the frosted-glass doors of Muse. The Ritz-Carlton’s well-known restaurant served both foie gras and macaroni and cheese, which happened to be an excellent culinary representation of the city at large and its distinct and varied populace.

  Neil Kelly leaned an elbow on the stallion’s rump and cleared his throat, so Theresa got back to business—which happened to be the safety of her only child. “So you’re here in the lobby for your entire shift, then.”

  “Yeah, unless Karla sends me off on an errand. But usually—oh, come on, Mom. I know what you’re going to say.”

  “Yes, you do. You’re confined to this lobby until we wrap this up. No going anywhere in this building alone, got it? I don’t care if Elvis Presley checks in and wants a mint julep.”

  “Isn’t Elvis dead?”

  Neil cleared his throat again, loudly enough to be heard even over the growing hubbub of conversations around them.

  “Rachael, this is Detective Kelly. He needs to ask you a few questions.”

  He gave Rachael a grown-up handshake and asked, “Neil Kelly. As exactly as you can remember, what time did you get that call from the Presidential Suite?”

  Rachael squared her shoulders, which were reflected in the marble wall behind her. “One thirty-one. I remember because I was staring at the phone display. When anyone calls from one of the suite rooms, we’re supposed to address them by name. Like, I’m supposed to answer the phone ‘Yes, Mr. Jones, how can I help you?’ But the display was blank, and I couldn’t figure out why—I get it now, because no one was staying in that room, but at the time it made me totally stuck.”

  “So when you answered, what did the man say?”

  Rachael went over the conversation, telling them nothing they didn’t already know. Finally Neil thanked Theresa’s daughter with what seemed like genuine warmth and left to find his partner. Rachael said that her shift had ended, but she volunteered to wait and go home with Theresa, avoiding a long bus ride.

  “I’m done here. We’ll just run by the lab so I can hang up her clothing and make sure the blood dries, and we can go. What happened to your uncle?”

  “The Ambassador Room, seventh floor.” Rachael’s hair swung toward the elevator bank. “They’re talking to all the lawyers. Who’s that guy, the one who just talked to me? Do you know him?”

  “Vaguely.”

  “He knows you.”

  “Here, grab this ALS—and what does that mean?”

  “He likes you. I can tell.”

  Theresa shook her head as she shuffled her load. Despite firm biceps, an ability to ride a skateboard, terrific mathematics skills, and a local Halo championship under her belt, Rachael was all girl. A born people manager, and there was nothing she enjoyed managing more than her mother’s love life. “How nice. Just wait for me here, okay? And try not to get murdered.”

  “Not allowed.”

  “To get murdered?”

  “To sit around in the public areas. It’s a no-no for staff. I’ll wait in the office behind the desk. Come and get me there.”

  Rachael passed the ALS back. Theresa first stored her equipment and evidence in the county station wagon and then went in search of the other family member present.

  Every available Homicide detective had been assigned to assist, which was how Frank Patrick came to be sitting in the Ritz-Carlton’s Ambassador Room. The Ambassador Room had been designed for seminars given by very well-to-do corporations or perhaps for the elegantly understated second wedding with a limited guest list. Walls the color of a pale burnt sienna contrasted with rich bronze draperies. Sheers underneath blocked the harsh world outside, creating a quiet haven of good taste. Apparently the conference hadn’t needed this room; tables were set up with matching but unblemished tablecloths, each chair in place. The ten or so people in the room hovered at one end of it, around uncovered tables with mismatched folding chairs. The hotel would give the police a room to work in so long as they didn’t mess up the place settings, like Frank’s mother protecting the dining room on a bridge-club day.

  Normally, witnesses would not be questioned in the same room, but with a pool this size, speed and efficiency were of the essence. Cops kept their voices low, and the attorneys were doing the same. His partner, Angela Sanchez, had arrived as well, and now the olive-skinned woman with shoulder-length raven hair sat across from a young attorney, leaning away as he zoomed
in on her pert nose and scoop-necked T-shirt. Good luck there, pal, Frank thought. Half the force had already tried, with no more success than that turn-of-last-century’s baseball team, the Cleveland Spiders.

  His cousin appeared in front of him, with a weary look and a smudge of black powder on both her chin and the ivory blouse. “Getting anywhere?” she asked.

  “These are defense attorneys.”

  “Refusing to talk without, what, an attorney?”

  “No,” he sighed. “Obviously trying to confuse me, they’ve all been pretty forthcoming. At least half of them are from out of town, so maybe they’re more willing to let their guard down and set a dangerous precedent of cooperation. Except for the last guy, and him only because he doesn’t want his wife or his boss finding out where he spent his expense account last night. Otherwise they’ve been surprisingly open. The last sighting of Marie Corrigan, so far, seems to be five-thirty last night, in the bar. A group of them, all from different cities and all men—no surprise there—bought her drinks and planned to go over to East Fourth, hit Michael Symon’s place for dinner, and then do the bars. Marie left to powder her nose and never came back. They drank for another hour, then figured she’d ditched them and staggered off to East Fourth on their own, but, being from out of town, they headed west instead and wound up at Brasa’s.”

  “Which is just as good, assuming their expense accounts can keep up. And they never saw Marie again,” Theresa said, as if to clarify.

  “According to them. I’ve gotten five other statements from people who recognized her photo, having been in the same audience at this or that lecture. They have quite the agenda. Today they had ‘How to Make Not-Guilty Happen,’ ‘Criminal Defense in a Down Economy,’ and ‘Defending Child-Pornography Cases.’ ”

  “Sounds a lot racier than forensic conventions. We have things like ‘The Life Cycle of the Cochliomyia.’ ”

  “What?”

  “Blowfly.”

  “Oh. There’s also ‘Forensic Science in the Courtroom,’ ” he added, reaching over to rub the powder off her face with one thumb. “Maybe you should sit in on that.”

  “Maybe I should. What did the five other people say about Marie?”

  “Never saw her after the sessions were over.”

  “So she died, approximately, between five-thirty and”—Theresa thought about the condition of the body—“say, midnight. That doesn’t narrow it down much. These people were all coming, going—”

  “Looking forward to relaxing after a busy day of learning how to keep their clients on the street, free to commit more crimes.”

  “Not much of a loss, is she?” someone said from behind Theresa.

  Frank groaned inwardly. Sonia Battle.

  Never had a woman been more appropriately named—the Battle part, not Sonia. She’d been Theresa’s college roommate and gone on to become a criminal defense attorney. He knew that Sonia had gone into law because of some incident with her brother, and her passion to help the little guy oppressed by an uncaring, bigoted state had not abated, only grown stronger. Frank and Theresa, of course, were considered agents of this uncaring state.

  Theresa hugged the woman. “Sonia! You were at this thing, too?”

  “Of course. You know how dedicated I am to getting my scumbag clients back on the streets.” She glared at Frank.

  “Please sit down.” Theresa retrieved one of the nicely cushioned chairs from the set tables and placed it across from Frank. The hotel would have to adapt.

  Sonia sat. She continued to glare—at him only. She cut his cousin slack, everywhere but in the courtroom.

  Marie Corrigan had, when alive, looked exactly like the kind of person she was—sexy, glitzy, driven, ready to eat men and even other women for breakfast to get what she wanted, without much concern for people’s feelings, the rules of law, or justice. Sonia Battle’s life could also be read from her appearance—weary-faced, with straight hair she didn’t bother to style, round glasses to ease the eyestrain from reading briefs all night instead of going on dates, and a body she didn’t have time to tone underneath the ill-fitting clothes she bought because she couldn’t afford anything more on an Office of the Public Defender salary. Sonia had great concern for people’s feelings (people other than cops and prosecutors, that was), the rules of law, and justice. So much concern that it seemed to eat her alive.

  Theresa asked, “How are you? Did you know Marie?”

  Sonia pressed fleshy lips together. “I knew her. And I know how the cops felt about her. Hell, I know how you felt about her.”

  “Last year she practically accused me of planting paint chips from the suspect’s car on the victim’s jeans,” Theresa pointed out. Frank knew that there were more recent—and more virulent—experiences with Marie Corrigan, but if his cousin wasn’t going to mention that to her old buddy, neither would he.

  “She asked if it was a possibility there’d been cross-contamination at the lab, that’s all.”

  “No, she asked, ‘Did you take paint chips from my client’s front bumper and put them in an envelope to indicate you’d found them on a pair of jeans?’ And how did you know about that anyway?”

  “I keep up on who’s trying what case and its outcome. We all do. Cleveland’s a small town in a lot of ways, and like any profession, ours can get a bit incestuous. You disliked Marie because she was good at her job—you just won’t admit it.”

  “I disliked her because she flat-out lied to juries. She told one that two hundred years of fingerprint analysis should be considered junk science.”

  “Well, you can’t prove that there couldn’t be two people with the same fingerprint!”

  “No, and by golly, I can’t understand why we would think that when there’s approximately six hundred billion comparisons done every day across the globe and we still haven’t found two the same—”

  “Ladies,” Frank interrupted. “Can we talk about Marie Corrigan?”

  Sonia turned to him. “That’s exactly who we’re talking about, Detective Patrick. The woman you all despise because she beat you at your own games. Tell me you haven’t done a fist bump over her cooling body. Reporters are already prepping sound bites wondering if Marie’s own handiwork came back to haunt her in the form of some psycho she kept on the streets. Some sensible-looking lady in the bar asked me if the bitch was really dead. Why should I believe you’re going to properly investigate this murder?”

  “Let me get this straight,” he said. “You’re worried about someone getting off?”

  Sonia threw up her hands. “See what I mean? We’re below some Quincy Avenue gangbangers in your estimation. You’re waiting to pin a medal on whoever killed her.”

  “Yeah, a big shiny one. But I’ll still have to catch him first. Are you going to help or not?”

  “Sonia,” Theresa said, probably figuring she’d better get a lid on her friend before the attorney could work up a really good fury of righteous indignation, “when did you last see Marie?”

  The woman sighed. “At the luncheon yesterday.”

  Frank stopped her to ask if she would sign a statement, and she agreed, but then he let Theresa ask the questions.

  Sonia told them, “I grabbed a spot at her table, for the same reason she had—because the ‘Recent Supreme Court Decisions’ speaker was sitting there, and I wanted to ask him about Melendez-Diaz v. Massachusetts.”

  “And what did Marie want?”

  “To sit with a speaker and not just a bunch of schlubs. Marie had the art of career networking down pat.” Sonia shook her head, but with a small, admiring smile. “Anyway, before you ask, we just talked about the seminar and what to do in Cleveland and the high price of parking. Marie seemed fine, glowing, the life of the party, just like always.”

  “No arguments, complaints?” Theresa asked.

  “None.”

  “Did she flirt with this speaker?”

  “Yeah, but he didn’t seem to be going for it. He had a wedding ring on.”

&nbs
p; Frank stifled a chuckle at the idea that a ring would stop a man at an out-of-town function. Theresa went on. “Anyone else seem especially taken with Marie?”

  “Only the usual—every guy at the table checking out her rack.”

  “Someone mentioned that Marie had raised some sort of a fuss at the luncheon?”

  Sonia rubbed her eyes, devoid of makeup. “No. She sent her veal piccata back, said it tasted old, and refused another one. She got pretty curt with the waiter. I felt sorry for him, but with Marie—she either wanted more attention from the speaker guy or just an excuse not to eat her lunch. I’ve seen her at a lot of functions, and she never eats much. I’ve always suspected bulimia there. Did you know that surgeons and trial lawyers have the highest rate of alcoholism, drug addiction, and eating disorders? And she’s got to keep her figure to keep her image. No one’s afraid of an attorney who looks like me,” she added, prodding her own rolling waistline.