Billy gave up on sleep at 5:35 am. He showered then went to the sofa to work on a strategy for the coming confrontation with Sharma.
Five days gone since the murder. If Sharma had an alibi, Vanderman should have produced it by now unless the doctor was preventing him from revealing it. Or Sharma was innocent but had no alibi, or he was guilty as a bucket of sin.
Looking at the evidence, they had a solid case. Sharma’s harassment set the tone. Munford Hale had placed Sharma’s car near the crime scene. The .32 revolver in his nightstand could be the murder weapon. If not, the second .32 might be under the driver’s seat of the Escalade. The prescription bottle could be an indication of drug addiction, the kind that makes a hotheaded man more violent. That would add an interesting slant to the interrogation.
In a perfect world Sharma would walk into the squad room and confess. With Vanderman there, that wasn’t going to happen.
Finished with his notes, he made a breakfast of eggs over medium, bacon, grits, toast, and orange juice. Plenty of coffee. He pulled into the CJC lot at 7:35 am. The overweight officer Frankie had nicknamed Snackbar was standing outside the rear entrance door smoking a cigarette. As soon as Billy got out of the car, Snackbar was on him.
“Got a minute, Detective?”
He took a breath of cold air. “Sure. What’s up?”
“I heard Munford Hale placed your perp near the Lee crime scene.”
“You know Hale?” Billy asked.
“He’s a fishing buddy.” Snackbar flicked the cigarette against the wall. “Good officer in his day. Committed.” He rubbed the side of his nose with his forefinger and looked down the street. “You know how it is with us old farts. His mind started playing tricks a few years back. He took early retirement because he knew he was slipping.”
Oh, shit.
“What are you telling me?”
“He gets his days confused. Can’t remember his grandkids’ names. The wife lets him drive to Shelby Farms at night. He says he walks the track, but he sits in the car and listens to the radio.” Snackbar shrugged. “His testimony won’t hold up in court, but there’s no reason you can’t use his statement to pressure your suspect.”
In the squad room, Billy found Frankie at her desk unpacking her satchel. Her complexion looked dull from a hard week and lack of sleep. He would like to take her out for a hot breakfast instead of her eating those stupid PowerBars. He’d want to tell her about his takedown of the KODA operative on the landing, Highsmith wielding the lamp, and the consternation on Martin’s face when he’d walked Highsmith out of the building in cuffs. But he couldn’t do that, because he would also have to tell her he’d caught Highsmith red-handed committing a felony and then let him go. That could lead to all kinds of hassles for both of them.
All he could give her this morning was the news that Snackbar had just blown a hole in their case.
She waved to him and covered a yawn. “Sorry. Not awake yet. And I’m afraid there’s not much positive news. The ballistic comparison on Sharma’s revolver is negative, and the lab is having trouble analyzing the specks of blood on the slacks. One good thing. The pharmacist at the hospital traced Sharma’s prescription bottle to a hospital in Houston.”
“We’ve lost our witness,” he said.
She squinted. “What? What’s the problem?”
“You picked up on it last night. Munford Hale has dementia.” He recounted Snackbar’s parking lot revelation.
She dropped her head in her hands and groaned.
“Hold on,” he said. “Hale may have a memory problem, but that doesn’t mean Sharma’s Escalade wasn’t in the parking lot on Monday night.”
She lowered her hands and looked at him as if he was nuts. “We can’t use it. Vanderman will discredit his testimony on cross.”
“We can use it today as leverage. Vanderman doesn’t know Hale has dementia. And if Sharma has a drug addiction, I want to use it. You think you can identify the drug before they get here?”
She sat back. “I put a call into the Houston hospital, but I don’t hold much hope they’ll talk to me. I’ve given the list of compounds to Dr. Ramos and asked him to try and identify them as a backup.”
“Ramos? You’re still seeing the witchdoctor?”
She gave him a grim look. “He’s a highly regarded psychologist who happens to be a Santeriá priest. He has the same access to medical research sites as any M.D., and he’s willing to help.” She started typing. “And who I see is none of your business.”
Billy was still thrown by the bond between straightlaced Frankie and the mysterious Cuban psychologist. Her ties with the Santeriá religion, which started during her Key West upbringing, had been a surprise. Still, Ramos was a smart guy and had played a role in breaking their last big case. He might come through again.
At nine o’clock, the secretary at Reception buzzed the intercom. “Detective Able, Mr. Vanderman is here.”
“Is his client with him?”
“Not unless he’s the Invisible Man.”
“I knew it,” Frankie said, ease dropping.
“On my way,” he said.
Vanderman was standing next to the reception desk in his thousand-dollar suit. When he saw Billy he thrust out his hand. “Dr. Sharma’s flight from Houston was delayed. He’ll be here in twenty minutes.”
“I have a warrant for his arrest. How do you know he’s not on a plane to Fiji?”
“He’ll be here,” Vanderman said, but he looked uncomfortable.
“I’ll give him the twenty minutes. After that I’ll have him arrested in the parking lot.”
He left the attorney pacing among Reception’s plastic chairs and returned to his desk.
“And?” Frankie asked.
“Sharma’s flight was delayed. Houston.”
“Houston means he made a drug run, or he’s AWOL. Vanderman showed up to protect his own credibility.”
“You may be right,” he said, his fallback response when he wanted to shut down a conversation. He’d been in this position before, a tight case unraveling. He went to the break room and returned with a cup of scorched coffee. He checked his mobile. It was after nine and still nothing from Blue. Maybe his dad had gotten sick during the night. Billy texted his concern and paced around the squad room, ending up at the window where the Pyramid gleamed above the mighty Mississippi. A pigeon landed on the ledge and eyed him.
He looked at the clock. “Six minutes,” he told the bird.
Detective Kloss waved him over to his desk. “I heard you say Munford Hale has dementia. I don’t understand. He was right as rain yesterday when I interviewed him.”
A fried chicken biscuit sat in front of Kloss in its greasy wrapper. Kloss picked it up. “You’ve got Sharma on the ropes even without Hale’s ID, right?” He took a bite.
They both knew the murder charge depended on Hale’s testimony.
“Not exactly,” Billy said, watching biscuit crumbs fall in Kloss’s lap.
Kloss took another bite and chewed. “A female cab driver is coming in. Cabbies see a lot of shit on the road, you know. Maybe she’s got something.”
Billy nodded, only half listening. As he was walking back to his desk, the secretary buzzed in.
“Detective. Tall, dark, and agitated just showed up.”
Frankie looked up from her keyboard. “I’ll send uniforms downstairs to look for the Escalade. If it’s not there, we’ll check the house.”
In Reception, Vanderman shook Billy’s hand like they hadn’t done it a few minutes earlier. Sharma loomed behind his attorney. Billy hadn’t seen him dressed in anything but scrubs. Today he wore tan slacks, a red sweater, and a brown leather jacket. He had his hair slicked back, his brow an ashen color. He looked thin, almost skeletal.
Sharma stepped around his attorney and stabbed a finger at Billy. “You broke my front doors. You violated my home.” His voice sounded rough as if he’d been huffing sand.
“Settle down, Doctor,” Vanderman cautioned.
“You weren’t home so we let ourselves in,” Billy said. “I hear you’ve been in Houston.”
Sharma threw Vanderman a nasty look, obviously furious his attorney had disclosed the trip.
“Detective, I need a moment with my client,” Vanderman said.
“This way.” Billy ushered them down the hall, an acrid odor trailing Sharma. In the squad room, Vanderman ignored Frankie as he passed her desk. That was a mistake. One day she would be the lead detective on a case he was defending.
He showed them into the interview room with four chairs around a table. Sharma stalked past him, and Vanderman closed the door behind him.
Billy turned to Frankie and shook his head.
“A hospital attorney called while you were in Reception,” she said. “They wouldn’t tell me a thing. I’m counting on Ramos to come through.” She cocked her head toward the interview room. “Sharma looks awful.”
He went to his desk and picked up the arrest warrant and a case file that he’d bulked up with enough extra material to put a scare into Sharma. Billy liked his reputation as a closer, but this time he had very little ammunition. He noticed Vanderman had opened the door.
“Put your phone on vibrate,” Frankie whispered. “I’ll buzz you if Ramos comes through with intel on the drugs.”
He walked in, noting that Vanderman had seated Sharma at the table and positioned himself behind the chair for control. Billy would’ve preferred to put Sharma in a chair with his back to the corner and go after him, but that wasn’t about to happen with Vanderman there. The doctor had his head down and was flipping a burner phone from hand to hand as Billy took the chair across from him. He laid the arrest warrant on the table. Sharma pocketed the phone, deliberately avoiding eye contact.
“Dr. Sharma,” Billy said. “You have an opportunity to help yourself by explaining what happened between you and your former fiancé on Monday night.”
Vanderman peered over the top of his glasses. “Talk to me, Detective. Not my client.”
Billy tapped his finger on the warrant. “He’s going to be charged with first degree murder. If he cooperates, the DA may consider reducing the charge to second degree.”
Sharma picked up the warrant and handed it over his shoulder to Vanderman. “Get on with this. I have a surgery scheduled in two hours.”
Vanderman read the warrant and tossed it on the table. “If your witness swears to this identification he’ll perjure himself. Put him on the stand, and you’ll be in trouble.”
Vanderman sounded confident, but then he was a professional bluffer. “Our witness is a former police officer, a trained observer,” Billy said.
Vanderman pulled an envelope from his inside suit pocket and withdrew two rectangular pieces of paper. “That may be, but he’s wrong in this instance. My client flew out of Memphis on Monday three hours before Miss Lee was murdered. Here are his boarding passes.” He dropped the cards on top of the warrant.
Billy picked them up and studied them. They looked authentic. “He could’ve ducked out on the flight.”
“The airline will verify that I boarded the aircraft.” Sharma waved his hand in disgust. “This is ridiculous.”
The boarding passes were a blow, but Billy refused to give up. There had to be some explanation, but damned if he could see it. If he could fire up Sharma’s temper, the doctor might blurt out something incriminating. And he knew the man’s weak spot.
“I don’t accept these passes as an alibi. Someone could’ve flown in your place. What I do know from evidence we seized at your home is that Caroline humiliated you and your family. Your mother is sick with shame. Your friends are laughing behind your back.
“You were worried Caroline had another man. I can assure you she did. And I’ve met him.”
Sharma lunged to his feet. Billy expected an explosion, but Vanderman gripped his client’s shoulder and pushed him down into his chair.
“You’re lying to make me angry,” Sharma said. A twitch had begun at the corner of his mouth, but he took a breath, put his elbows on the table, and eased forward. “I’m a doctor. I save lives. You save no one. You mop up after the mongrels who shoot each other down in the street. You’re nothing but a garbage man.”
“That’s enough, Doctor.” Vanderman pulled out his mobile. “I have more proof right here.”
“No!” Sharma said, straightening in his chair. “We’ve given sufficient proof of my innocence.”
“Innocent men go to jail all the time,” Vanderman said. He tapped the screen and slid his mobile across the table to Billy.
Billy picked it up. The screen showed a letter from Dr. Wallace Trane in Houston. It stated that Mr. Raj Sharma had been with him until eight o’clock on Monday. And Dr. Trane had seen Mr. Sharma the following morning on rounds.
“Dr. Trane is your personal physician?” he asked.
“None of your business,” Sharma snapped.
Vanderman reached across the table for his mobile. “This proves Dr. Sharma was not in Memphis at the time Miss Lee was murdered. Dr. Trane will FedEx a signed and notarized affidavit later today.”
Vanderman pocketed his mobile. Sharma crossed his arms and bared his teeth in a hostile smile.
Game over. Billy’s mobile vibrated in his pocket, thank God. He stood. “Excuse me.”
Frankie was waiting outside the door with a note pad in one hand and Sharma’s prescription bottle in the other. “You look like you’ve been hit by a bus.”
“We’re done,” Billy said. “Sharma has a boarding pass for a flight he took Monday evening. Dr. Trane in Houston sent a letter stating Mr. Sharma was with him at the time of the murder.”
“Trane in Houston,” she said. “That fits. Ramos tracked down the compounds in the prescription. Dr. Wallace Trane is the principle investigator for a phase III clinical drug trial for Huntington’s Disease. Sharma must be a participant.”
“Huntington’s. Jesus. That’s a living hell and then it kills you.” Billy turned back to look through the one way mirror and saw that the tick at the side of Sharma’s mouth had worsened.
“That explains his outbursts and weight loss,” she said. “Even worse is the impaired cognitive ability and uncontrolled movements. Ramos said that if Sharma isn’t exhibiting full-blown symptoms of the disease, the compounds he’s taking are powerful enough to make him very sick. You think Trane knows Sharma is a neurosurgeon?”
“I’m sure Sharma did everything possible to hide his profession from Trane and his illness from the medical community here. He had an ironclad alibi for the night of the murder, but he didn’t want his trips to Houston and his connection to Dr. Trane exposed. He waited until he was charged to produce his alibi.”
“He’s still operating on patients,” she said. “We should find out if Vanderman knows about the Huntington’s.”
“I’ll do that now.” He took the prescription bottle and wagged it at Frankie. “Thanks, partner.”
“Light him up,” she said.
Through the one-way mirror he saw Sharma on his feet and waving his hands at Vanderman, probably berating him for revealing his connection to Trane in Houston. Billy opened the door.
“That bitch,” Sharma snarled to Vanderman. “Caroline deserved what she got. My father warned me she would bring shame on our family.”
The attorney’s gaze flicked to Billy. He leaned in and spoke to Sharma.
“Do not tell me to shut up,” Sharma said. He swatted the air in Billy’s direction. “I don’t care what he hears.”
Billy held up the script bottle. “Maybe you’ll care about this. CSU found it during our search. My partner traced it to Dr. Trane in Houston.” He glanced at Vanderman, who looked alarmed.
He put the bottle on the table. “You said Caroline deserved what she got. What about your patients? Do they deserve a surgeon so loaded up on drugs he can’t think straight? How many have you killed?”
“That’s slander,” Vanderman said.
“No, it’s a question. Your client is participating in a drug trial for Huntington’s Disease. Our next call will be to Dr. Trane to find out if he knows Sharma is a practicing neurosurgeon.”
“What Dr. Trane knows isn’t my responsibility,” Vanderman said. “We came to prove Dr. Sharma did not kill Miss Lee. We’ve accomplished our goal. End of story.”
“Counselor, if you knew about the Huntington’s and didn’t report it to the state licensing board and hospitals where Dr. Sharma operates you’re in deep trouble yourself.”
Vanderman drew himself up. “Dr. Sharma has the right to attorney-client privilege. That prevents me from revealing to outsiders anything I know about him.”
“Bullshit. There’s no privilege when an attorney knows his client intends to commit a crime. That’s crim law 101, the crime-fraud exception. Sharma stated he plans to operate in two hours. Stop him or I’ll make damn sure your own license gets jerked.”
Billy glanced over at Sharma. The guy should look pretty beat up by now. Instead, a wild kind of energy was pouring off of him. Definitely not the person he’d want to see leaning over him with a scalpel in his hand.
Sharma’s lips drew back in an ugly snarl. “You can’t stop me from practicing medicine.”
“Vanderman will do that,” Billy said. “And afterward, you’ll need an army of lawyers when the malpractice suits start piling up. Now both of you, get out.”