Until the Final Verdict (4 page)

“W
HAT WAS THAT ABOUT
?”
Granz turned on the windshield wipers and pulled the Jeep out of the Keefes' driveway.

Mackay shook her head. “Damned unusual change in attitude. Maybe he figures he's next.”

“Can't overlook the possibility. You want to help us toss Tucker's house?”

“No, I should pick Emma up from Ruth's. If I don't take her home, she won't get any sleep, and Sunday's her homework day.”

Granz pulled his Jeep into the empty parking lot in front of Starbucks, beside Mackay's Audi. “I'll call you tomorrow morning and let you know what we turn up.”

“Okay.” She touched his lips with her fingertips, kissed him on the cheek, and opened the door.

“Kate?”

She stopped with her hand on the Jeep's door handle and leaned back inside.

“Yeah?”

“I've been serious every time I've asked you to marry me. I hope you aren't sorry about what you said earlier tonight.”

“Frightened, yes. Sorry, definitely not.”

“W
HAT TIME IS IT
?”
Mackay answered the phone on the second ring, still half awake.

“It's only eight o'clock, Babe, but I want to fill you in on our search of Tucker's home. Get yourself some coffee and call me back.”

“Okay, give me a few minutes.” She tossed the covers off, stretched and yawned, swung her legs over the side of the bed, and stood up, straightening the Santa Cruz Harley-Davidson T-shirt that she almost always slept in, a gift from Dave. She tiptoed into Emma's room, tucked the covers around her neck, gave her a peck on the cheek, then carried the phone into the bathroom. When she had brushed her teeth, rinsed her face, and put on a navy DEA sweatshirt, she brewed coffee and sat at the kitchen counter.

“So, how'd it go?” she asked when Granz answered the phone.

“Told you I had a feeling about Sanchez,” Granz began. “We seized a box of size-twenty-two Cincinnati Surgical disposable scalpels. Big ones. They come ten to a box, one was missing.”

“The murder weapon could have been
any
sharp instrument, and he's a doctor.”

“Sure, but why keep a box of scalpels at home?”

“Point taken. What else?”

“We seized some greeting cards—Christmas, birthday, anniversary, that sort of thing. One of them was an I'm Sorry card. It had a handwritten note inside that said,
‘
Jemima— Please reconsider. I can't lose you. Let's work things out.' ”

“Where was it?”

“A dresser drawer in Jemima's bedroom.”

“Jemima's
bedroom?”

“Looks like she and Sanchez didn't share a bedroom.”

“I'll be damned. Did Sanchez write the note?”

“Can't tell, it wasn't signed. We found an invoice for a consultation with Margaret Whittier.”

Mackay had started to sip her coffee, but stopped and set it on the counter. “Margaret Whittier?”

“Right, Santa Rita's meaner-than-a-junkyard-dog divorce lawyer. Whittier had written on it, ‘J— Call me when you decide.—M.' ”

“Did you contact Whittier?”

“Her answering service says she's out of town until Monday. I called Sanchez and set up an interview. Can you make it?”

“Where and when?”

“My office in an hour.” He paused. “Sorry, Babe, I know it's Sunday morning, but I wanted to talk to him before he had time to put together an alibi.”

“No problem, I'll give Ruth a buzz. Is he bringing his attorney?”

“Didn't say.”

“He was married to a judge. She'd have warned him to never talk to the cops without an attorney.”

“Let's hope he ignores her advice,” Granz quipped.

“I'll fix Emma's breakfast before I take her up to Ruth's.” She glanced at the clock and dumped her coffee into the sink. “See you in an hour.”

O
UTSIDE, THE FIVE-STORY
concrete County Government Center was ugly at best—on drizzly Sunday afternoons, it was downright depressing. The inside was no better. The ceiling of the Sheriff's third-floor office was a maze of HVAC ducts, electrical cables, and pipes, all sprayed with an ineffective, gray asbestos soundproofing that County officials claimed wasn't a health hazard.

Granz sat behind his metal government-issue desk, wearing faded Levi's, a blue Indian Motorcycles T-shirt, and Sperry Top-Siders. He pulled a Panasonic minirecorder from his center drawer and set it on the desk but didn't turn it on, then leaned back in his chair.

Alejandro Sanchez perched uncomfortably on the
edge of an old, forest-green leather chair facing Granz' desk, his pale blue Armani shirt and charcoal slacks heavily wrinkled. Even with his thick, jet-black hair mussed and his cheeks covered with black stubble, he was astonishingly handsome. His sleepy, bloodshot eyes squinted at Granz through stylish wire-framed glasses.

Mackay sat in the other chair, half turned so she could see Granz and Sanchez. “We very much appreciate your coming here this afternoon, Doctor. It will save us all a lot of time and trouble.”

Granz inserted a fresh cassette in the recorder, then nodded.

“Do you mind if we record our conversation? I find it much more accurate than taking notes.”

Sanchez shook his head. “I don't mind.”

“Thank you.” Mackay waited for Granz to flip on the recorder, then announced the date, time, and the name of each person present.

“Are you going to read me my rights?” Sanchez asked.

Granz and Mackay didn't want to run the risk that Sanchez would lawyer up, but they knew that no statement would be admissible in court unless he was advised of his Miranda Rights, and waived them, before a custodial interrogation commenced.

“You're not in custody, Doctor,” Mackay said. “You are free to stop cooperating and walk out of this interview whenever you wish. Do you understand?”

“Am I a suspect?”

“In the early stages of a homicide investigation, everyone is a suspect, including family members,”
Granz explained. “To avoid adding to their grief, we try to eliminate them as quickly as possible, and focus on more productive leads.”

“I see.”

“Do you know of anyone who might want to kill your wife?” Granz asked.

“She's sent hundreds of violent criminals to prison. It wouldn't be surprising if someone hated her enough to kill her.”

“Is that what you think happened?”

“I thought it was your job to find out.”

“That's what we're trying to do, and we're considering the possibility that it might be someone Judge Tucker sent away. Did she ever mention receiving strange phone calls, threats, or that she was afraid of anyone in particular?”

“She rarely discussed her work with me.”

“Anyone else who might bear a grudge against either or both of you?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Unhappy ex-spouses or lovers?”

“Don't be ridiculous.”

Granz sighed. “I realize some of our questions might be difficult, but the sooner we find out all the important facts, the faster we will catch your wife's murderer. Did either of you gamble, use illegal drugs, or have serious debt or financial problems?”

“Definitely not.”

“How would you describe your relationship with your wife?”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“Was your marriage happy?”

“We had our problems, but our relationship was secure and we were happy.”

Granz leaned back in his chair. “You weren't aware that she had contacted a divorce attorney?”

Sanchez squirmed and crossed one leg over the other. “Well—I suspected. We'd been arguing lately, and the subject came up. But she wouldn't have gone through with it.”

“Arguing about what?” Granz persisted.

“Nothing in particular, just the usual things that married couples argue about.”

“They were serious enough that you weren't sleeping together.”

“All married couples go through these things. Like I said, she'd have gotten over it.”

Granz leaned forward, forearms on his desk, and stared at Sanchez. “Where were you Friday evening?”

“Are you going to arrest me?”

Granz ignored the question. “It'd help if you told us where you were Friday evening.”

“Working.”

“Hospital records say you signed in at noon Friday, and didn't sign out until noon Saturday, after we spoke with you. But you went out for an hour or so at about six
P.M.”

“I went to dinner.”

“Where did you eat?” Granz flipped open his notebook. “The respiratory therapist paged you several times while you were gone, but you never answered the page.”

“It's embarrassing.” Sanchez averted his eyes and
hesitated. “I didn't actually go to dinner. I was with someone.”

“Who?”

Sanchez shook his head. “I can't tell you her name.”

“Why not?”

“She's married.”

“We'll verify your story with her as discreetly as possible,” Mackay assured him.

“If I don't tell you her name, you'll arrest me?”

“It's a possibility.”

“Bonnie.”

“Excuse me?”

“I was with Bonnie Keefe.”

“S
TART YOUR HOMEWORK, HONEY,
”
Kathryn told Emma as soon as they walked into their condo.

“How do you know I didn't already do it?”

“A mother knows,” Kathryn answered. “I'll bet you and Ruth watched a movie. Right?”

Emma tried unsuccessfully to suppress a grin. “
Vertical Limit,”
she admitted, then hinted, “It was awesome, 'specially with Ruth's big-screen TV and surround sound.”

Kathryn laughed. “Dream on. Now start your homework, I'm going to work out.”

When Emma disappeared into her room, Kathryn changed into sweats, turned on the treadmill, grabbed the evidence and property reports from the Tucker crime scene, and started walking at a brisk
pace. After about fifteen minutes, her telephone beeped.

“I tried to confirm Sanchez' alibi,” Granz reported. “It'll have to wait, the Keefes are away till tomorrow.”

“That's not surprising. Keefe was pretty upset about Tucker's death.”

“I'd say he was more scared than upset, and decided to get the hell out of town.”

“Do you think someone might go after another judge?”

“No, I'm pretty sure Tucker was targeted, but to be safe I'll bump up court security first thing tomorrow morning.”

“Not a bad idea.”

“Well, enjoy the rest of your Sunday off. I'll call you in the morning. I love you.”

“Me, too. Talk to you tomorrow.”

Kathryn hung up the phone and climbed back aboard the treadmill, but just got up to speed when the phone rang again.

“Mackay?” It was an unfamiliar man's voice.

Kathryn frowned. “Who is this?”

“Check your office e-mail.” The line went dead. She booted up her laptop, and clicked on Outlook Express. When she punched in her password, the county's e-mail system brought up a blank page with an electronic paper clip in the upper left corner. She clicked the attachment icon.

“Damn!”

“What's wrong, Mom?” Emma yelled from her bedroom.

“Nothing, honey, my computer's acting up.”

The telephoto picture was grainy and deteriorated from scanned digitization and electronic transmission, but she recognized Robert Simmons, laughing, standing beside a woman in front of a sign that read:

Clínica de Salud La Playa

Un servicio gratis público

de Ciudad Torremolinos

Provincia de Málaga y

Comunidad Autonoma Andalucia

She inspected the photograph for a moment, then pulled a map of Europe out of a drawer, traced the location with her finger, and dialed the phone.

Dave answered the phone after the first ring.

“It's me. Robert Simmons is in Spain,” she said without preamble, then described the e-mail.

“Whoever called you sent the e-mail. Did you backtrack the e-mail address?”

“It was sent from a Borders bookstore public Internet access center in Houston, Texas.
Untraceable.”

“Berroa?”

“Possible—he could've sent it before he sneaked across the border to Monterrey, where his family lives. What's the difference, we know Simmons is in Torremolinos, on the southwestern Atlantic coast.”

“He won't be there long if he finds out we've got a fix on him. I'd better book a flight to Spain ASAP.”

“I want to go with you.”

“I know better than to try to talk you out of it. I'll assign Miller to head up the Tucker investigation—hell,
that's what my Chief of Detectives gets paid for. I assume you want to keep your office involved?”

“I'll ask Jim Fields to assign someone,” Mackay volunteered, referring to her Chief of Inspectors.

“Should I make both our flight arrangements or do you want to make your own?” he asked.

“Could you do it? I need to pack and arrange for Emma to stay with Ruth for a couple of days. And I'd like to cook dinner and spend the evening with her.”

Kathryn was loading the dinner dishes into the dishwasher when the phone rang.

“I phoned the Spanish National Police. They had me fax Simmons' photo, fingerprint card, and the arrest warrant. They'll contact Torremolinos Municipal Police in Málaga Province to coordinate Simmons' arrest. We fly British Airways from San Francisco at six o'clock tomorrow morning, change planes at London Heathrow for Barcelona. I'll pick you up in the morning and drive you to the airport.”

“Thanks, Babe. Sleep tight.”