Holly slotted the first DVD into the player. I stood, the Lizard took a knee, and David sat on the armchair. Leaning forward, fingers steepled over his mouth, he watched the graphic of a disk spinning as the video loaded.
The screen filled with an image of the lobby of Central Park Eleven—home to more of Manhattan’s billionaires than any other building. Huge potted plants and small trees lined the peach-colored, marble lobby. The camera must have been mounted over the reception desk. In the corner of the screen it read CAMERA 1, but there was no date or time stamp visible on-screen.
A skinny kid in a green hooded sports top, gray baggy pants, and red sneakers came into the lobby. The hood was down. It was David. He was holding hands with a young blond woman wearing blue jeans and a short navy jacket over a white blouse—Clara. I turned away from the TV and glanced at David, leaning so far forward he was barely perching on the armchair. In the flickering light from the plasma screen I saw a tear on his cheek. This was the last footage of Clara before she was murdered.
The couple breezed past reception, and the camera view changed. Now we were looking at an elevator camera. The doors opened, and Clara and David entered the elevator. From the pocket of his hoodie, David produced a fob, which he swiped at the elevator panel. He then selected a floor, turned, and embraced Clara. I glanced at Holly—her eyes shifted to the floor and then back to the screen, and when she saw the video, her hand closed over her open mouth.
I looked back at the TV, and Clara Reece was in the corner of the elevator, her eyes on the floor. David moved toward her and she raised her hand. He stopped. She looked awkward, unhappy. Maybe even a little afraid. When the doors opened, she stepped out fast.
I noticed that this footage was date- and time-stamped MARCH 14, 19:45.
The view switched again. This time we got the feed from camera fifty-three, which displayed a landing with two doors, fifty feet apart. Clara came out of the elevator first, followed by David, this time with his hood up. He put his arm around her shoulder and they walked toward his apartment. Beside each apartment were a standing mirror, an umbrella stand, and a small table. He used the fob again at the door on the right, then used his keys to open the door.
I paused the video and rewound. One minute they were hugging, and the next she didn’t want him near her. I said, “What was that, David? Clara looked pretty uncomfortable in the elevator. Did you have an argument?”
“God no. She was claustrophobic. Clara struggled being in the elevator with other people, even me. She was forcing herself to do it, trying to overcome that fear.”
David began sobbing into his hands. He turned away, went into the kitchen, and splashed water on his face.
The DA would sell the elevator footage as a fight between David and Clara. It could certainly look like a fight. The prosecution just got their motive.
The screen turned black, then fuzzed, and then the same image reappeared, this time of the empty landing. The figure of David, this time with his hood up and a gym bag slung over his shoulder, exited the apartment and closed the door. He hesitated for second, turned back toward the door. It was almost as if he’d forgotten something. Then he fished in the belly pocket of his sweater, removed an iPod or a phone with a pair of inner earphones dangling from it, placed them in his ears, and called the elevator. Around sixteen to seventeen minutes had elapsed from the time he and Clara had entered the apartment; the clock on the camera read 20:02. He waited for a moment or two, then got into the elevator. There was no footage of the downward journey. The last image was a still-hooded David exiting the elevator at the lobby and leaving the building. The DVD ended with a police serial number and an exhibit catalog reference, “RM #1–RM #5.”
The cop who’d compiled the footage said he’d watched the camera outside David’s apartment. Nobody went in after he left. Nobody came out. The next living soul to enter the apartment was the building security officer, who found Clara Reece dead on the kitchen floor and no one else in the apartment. It was simple: If the cop was right, and nobody went near David’s place after he left, then he was the only person who could’ve killed Clara.
Not a good start.
A buzz as the DVD ejected. I handed Holly the next one, and she fired it up. David was still in the little kitchen, leaning on the worktop.
“David, you need to watch this,” I said.
His face was still wet. He was sniffing and wiping his nose with a wet wipe. He turned toward the TV.
I looked back at the screen and saw a busy intersection in Manhattan, along Central Park West. The time stamp from the New York Department of Transportation traffic camera read 20:18. Around twelve minutes had elapsed between the footage of David leaving the apartment building and this camera picking him up.
“What are you driving again?” I asked David.
“Bugatti Veyron,” he said.
I saw the distinctive, 1.3-million-dollar car slow at the traffic lights. The Bugatti was facing the camera. Cars pulled out at the intersection for Central Park, moving left to right across the screen. Then traffic stopped and a few pedestrians crossed the street in front of David’s car. Once the last of them had crossed the street, there was a ten-second delay before I saw David’s car taking off. He moved quickly; just a touch of the throttle on the 1,000-BHP supercar would be enough. The Bugatti took off at speed, and somehow a Ford pickup, going in the opposite direction, veered into the Bugatti’s path at the last moment. Such was the force of the impact that I saw the Ford’s rear suspension leap off the ground, back tires airborne, chassis buckling with the impact. Steam billowed out from the Ford’s radiator almost instantly. Both vehicles remained stationary. The driver of the Ford got out of the cab first. The police statement said this guy, John Woodrow, was subsequently charged with DUI and reckless driving. He didn’t look too steady on his feet. He wore a white button-down shirt, half tucked into his jeans. As he moved around the truck I could see that he was limping badly.
No, not badly—distinctively.
His right leg flopped out in front of him, his foot swinging. The knee and ankle joints looked as if they were held together with string. Then he sprang forward onto his left before repeating the maneuver.
Two things stuck in my mind.
He could’ve badly injured his right knee and ankle in the crash. I couldn’t ignore that possibility. But in the back of my mind I knew this guy was limping from an old injury, and I thought I’d seen that limp before.
The camera zoomed in as he reached the passenger window of the Bugatti. He leaned in, as if to talk to David, his open, empty hands on the roof of the car. When he brought his head out of the car, the camera was almost framing his face. A row of oversized glistening white teeth shined for his close-up.
I knew right then that David had been framed for murder; the car crash was no accident. The driver of the pickup was a man I’d worked with many years ago. His real name wasn’t John Woodrow, and I remembered how he’d come by that limp.
And how he’d gotten his new teeth.
After his close-up, the pickup driver seemed to recoil from the passenger window, took a cell phone from his pocket, and called the cops. Both vehicles remained in situ until the police arrived two minutes later. A patrolman approached David, got him out of the car, and then he stopped and looked inside the Bugatti, as if he’d noticed something. The cop walked around the vehicle, hands empty, opened the passenger door, then ducked inside. When he came back up, he held the butt of a Ruger with pinched fingers. He spoke to Woodrow, then searched and cuffed my client. A second patrol car arrived and took the pickup driver away. David was placed in the rear of the first patrol car, which left the scene shortly after.
I paused the video, rewound, and watched the pickup driver and the cop approach David’s car. The pickup driver’s hands never got inside the Bugatti, and the cop wasn’t wearing a jacket and I could see his hands were empty when he put his head in the passenger side of the car. A second later his hands reappeared and he held the murder weapon.
David preempted my question.
“I have no idea how that gun got into my car,” he said.
“Is it possible that someone planted it there?”
“I doubt it. The car’s security system is state-of-the-art, and besides, I put my bag on the passenger seat. If there had been a gun in the passenger footwell, I’d have noticed it.”
I nodded. If I was right, then the gun had to have been planted in David’s car. It didn’t look like either the cop or the pickup driver could’ve planted it. How did they get it from David’s apartment to the car in the first place?
“The accident was a setup. The driver is a guy named Perry Lake. He’s a hit driver,” I said.
“A what?” said David.
“He sets up accidents,” I said.
I’d worked with Perry Lake for a few months, a lifetime ago. Perry used to race. He was a talented NASCAR driver, until his coke habit got him dropped and a DUI put the final bullet into his career. A man of Perry’s skills can always find work, though. With his penchant for narcotics, it was always going to be the illegal, top-paying kind of jobs. He was a getaway driver for a crew that operated out of Atlantic City for a couple of years, then a chauffeur for a high-end pimp that worked girls on the Upper East Side, and then finally he worked for me as a hit driver. Perry set up car accidents to defraud insurance companies with fake personal-injury cases. He made a lot of money, too. Then he slept with the wrong kind of woman—the kind that has a possessive, psychotic husband who left him with the limp and a lot of dental work.
“Bottom line, David, somebody paid Perry to swallow enough liquor to put him way over the limit and then slam his car into yours at that intersection, at that precise time on that precise day—so that the cops would find that gun.”
David said nothing. He started stupidly at the TV, and let his mouth fall open.
“That’s what I think, but it doesn’t make a lot of sense to me. Why set up a fake accident when the cops were going to come looking for you anyway, as soon as Clara’s body was found?” I said.
“You’re right. It doesn’t make sense,” said David.
I rubbed my chin, twirled my pen around my fingers.
“Holly, can I use your bedroom? I need a little time alone to think this out,” I said.
“Sure,” she said. “Just don’t take too long. We’ve only got an hour before court.”
I took in David’s outfit again, checked the bags.
“David, you’re going to need a suit.”