Rain trickled down my back, and I pressed myself harder into the wall.
I heard nothing.
Not a sound.
“Kennedy?” I said.
“Clear,” he said.
I breathed out, went inside, and turned on the lights. I must’ve left my desk lamp burning this morning. That’s not like me. I was being careful. If Dell hadn’t offered me the cash to represent Child, I had planned to put this month’s electric bill on my credit card. We shook off more rain from our clothes. Then I took off my jacket and sat down to read the contents of the folder Kennedy had given to me.
The documents Kennedy brought didn’t contain much more than I’d seen already. Only a few other pages of exhibit lists and a clearer, larger version of the map of David’s apartment.
“You still think your client is innocent?” asked Kennedy.
I nodded.
“I don’t like the way it played out with Dell, so I’ll do what I can, but I’ve got to know why you’re so certain about Child,” he said.
“I know how it looks. But I’ve looked him in the eyes. He doesn’t have it in him. It looks bad for David because that’s the way it’s supposed to look. Whoever set him up wanted him nailed for Clara’s murder. By the way, you haven’t shown me what you got on the victim.”
The FBI man put both hands in his pockets, drew them out, and held open his empty hands.
“Nothing?” I asked.
“No tax records, no Social Security number, no medical records in this state. Same with dental. No birth records, no cell phone registered in her name. The only thing I got was a driver’s license, library card, and an ATM card all issued around six months ago to Clara Reece.”
“That ever happen to you before?”
“Nope. Come to think of it, I’ve always been able to get more than one hit, even if it’s only birth registration. Her cell phone was an expensive burner. She had cash in her purse—no credit cards, just the checking account. Apparently PD sent a car to the address David gave for Clara. I know that she’d just moved in with David, but the apartment was cleared out. No furniture, no letters, and no TV, even. There wasn’t a scrap of paper in that place. Oh, and the smell; apparently the whole place had been steam-cleaned and chemically treated a few days before the murder. She’d told her super that she was moving in with David, but he says he didn’t clean the apartment. Somebody did, and they were thorough. The cops weren’t even able to grab a hair from that apartment.”
“It’s almost like she’s been erased,” I said.
Nodding his head, Kennedy said, “I got to admit, that threw me. The DA has got this set up as a wild crime of passion. Somehow, it doesn’t feel that way to me. Sounds to me like Clara Reece was running from something, or somebody, and hit the jackpot when she met your client. It doesn’t prove anything, Eddie. But it’s something to throw into the mix. I just don’t know how far any of this will get you.”
“If I’m right, it was a setup,” I said.
He suppressed a laugh. “Well, if he has been framed, then it’s the best setup I’ve ever seen. Your client says he left his apartment at twenty oh two, having just kissed Clara goodbye. She was alive and well when he left, according to him. Yet Gershbaum hears the shots, goes to his balcony and sees the window blowing out from the stray bullet and calls security—his call is logged at twenty oh two. The security camera doesn’t show anybody else going near the apartment until the security guards arrive four minutes later. The only person in that apartment is our dead victim. If there’s another killer, well, they must have flown away. Child shot her, Eddie. Why can’t you see that? So, what’s your client’s defense? Either he’s lying or Clara Reece shot herself in the back of the head twelve times. I don’t think she could’ve managed that, and there’s no one else who could’ve done it, because no one else was there. Gershbaum didn’t see anyone escaping onto his balcony, and nobody left his apartment in that time either—you can see his front door from the security footage, too. And if that weren’t enough, the murder weapon is in his car. Face it, this man killed her. You have to stop seeing what you want to see and look at the bare facts.”
Something Kennedy said pulled at me, but I wasn’t sure what it was. It was like I’d just been flashed a deck of cards and the dealer had held on to one card a microsecond longer than any other as he ripped through the deck. The dealer would show me the card he wanted me to remember—in fact, it would be the only card I could see. The others would go by in a blur. In my mind, I repeated what Kennedy had said, looking for my card.
I found it.
“You said I’m seeing what I want to see. And I want him to be innocent,” I said.
“I didn’t mean it so sound to blunt, but you needed to hear it,” he replied.
“But that’s it. That’s the key.”
It was simple. It was the cornerstone of any hustle: People believe what they can see.
Kennedy stretched his back and, as he did so, the file on his knee slipped off onto the floor. I stood and cracked my neck, then walked around my desk to bring the blood back into my feet.
“I need another favor. And I need a ride,” I said.
“Where to?” asked Kennedy, checking his watch.
It was coming up on one a.m.
“Central Park West. I need to take a look at the crime scene.”
“That may be difficult.”
“That building runs twenty-four hours a day. We can get in. We’ll figure something out. If this plays out the way I think it will, then I’m going to need you to look into an alternative suspect for Clara’s murder. Guy called Bernard Langhiemer.”
“Never heard of him.”
“He’s hiding something. David and Langhiemer have history. I talked to him today, and he—” The words caught in my throat. I stood at the window, gazing through the blinds at the street below. A blue Chevy had parked thirty feet from my office. The driver’s window must’ve been open. I could see the wisps of smoke gently trailing above the roof of the car.
“We’ve got company,” I said.
“Who?” said Kennedy.
“I can’t see from here,” I said. The light from my desk lamp reflected onto the window, masking the view of the driver.
I heard Kennedy get up from his seat to come take a look. I turned and saw that he’d spotted the lamp’s reflection on the glass. He took two steps toward the desk. He was going to shut off the lamp so we could get a better view.
Something in the back of my mind began to grow. It wasn’t a theory, or a thought; it was deeper. A feeling of unease that was now exploding into panic.
“Don’t move. Wait!” I said.
Kennedy stopped in his tracks, his hand on my desk.
“Before Dell offered me the money yesterday, I was getting worried about how I was going to pay the electric bill.”
He looked puzzled.
“Don’t you get it? I’m pretty positive I didn’t leave that lamp on. Somebody’s been here.”