Witness for the Defense Read online

  “She could have been finger spelling.”

  “That's different?”

  Bea nodded and again ran her hands over her skirt. “Or she might have been using SEE.”

  “See?”

  “Signing Exact English. It's a different form of sign language from ASL, or American Sign Language, which is what I know.”

  I wondered if Bea had intentionally neglected to point this out before now for fear I'd change my mind about involving her.

  “There are some others too,” she added slowly.

  “Great.”

  “But they're much rarer.”

  I sighed. “I guess we'll find out soon enough.”

  I rang the bell, then realized Mrs. Rudd wouldn't hear it.

  “She probably has a signal light,” Bea explained. “Most deaf people do.”

  The door opened not long after I'd pushed the bell. Mrs. Rudd was not as old as I'd been expecting. In truth, she was probably younger than Bea. But her skin was heavily wrinkled and her features were pinched in a scowl. She moved with the aid of a walker.

  She stared at us a moment with deep-set gray eyes, then pointed to her ear and shook her head.

  Bea's fingers started to move. Mrs. Rudd nodded and her expression softened. She steadied herself with one hand on her walker and responded with surprisingly quick finger movements of her own. They went back and forth a couple of times before I interrupted.

  “What's she saying?” I asked Bea.

  “I told her we were investigating the murder of a man in her neighborhood.”

  We were, sort of. But I was willing to bet Bea had embroidered our role considerably. Too late, I was beginning to doubt the wisdom of involving her.

  “Mrs. Rudd says she didn't know Weaver but she knew he was a celebrity of some sort.” Bea looked at the dancing fingers and nodded. “She says we already arrested somebody. A woman.”

  We. I was right. “Bea, you can't impersonate a police officer.”

  “I'm not impersonating anyone.”

  “Where'd she get this we, then?”

  “So maybe I'm a little sloppy with my signing.”

  “Bea, just ask her what she knows about the pizza delivery man.”

  More finger activity. Then suddenly the woman's face snapped back into a frown. Bea gestured more emphatically, but Mrs. Rudd ignored her. Bea stepped forward, as though to move inside. The door shut in our faces.

  “What was that about?” I asked.

  “I'd like to know myself.”

  “What did you say to her?” I didn't intend to sound accusatory, but I did.

  Bea gave me a sidelong glance and ignored the question. “We were getting on so well, too,” she humphed.

  Exasperated, I turned and laid a hand on her arm. “Would you please tell me what's going on.”

  “Mrs. Rudd says it's nobody's business but hers how much pizza she eats.”

  “You asked her that?”

  “Of course not. At least, I don't think I did.”

  I sighed. It was my own fault, I reminded myself. I was the one who'd asked for Bea's help.

  We started back down the front walkway. “What about the delivery man?” I asked. “What did she say about him?”

  “That's when she shut the door on us.” Bea chewed on her cheek, perplexed. “I wonder if I said something obscene by mistake. Some of the hand signs are only a wiggle away from words you don't want to use. Sort of like luck' and that word that rhymes with it.”

  Mrs. Rudd's reaction was so swift and so sudden, it must have been truly offensive.

  “I'm sorry, Kali. I guess maybe I've been away from it for too long.” Bea's round shoulders slumped.

  I was annoyed with myself more than Bea. “You did a better job than I could have done,” I told her.

  She gave me a disdainful look. “That's not saying much now, is it?”

  “Tell me again what you asked about the delivery man.”

  “As I recall, I said something about his maybe witnessing the murder. I know I asked about him by name.”

  “I bet that's what upset her. It wasn't how much pizza she ate, it was the questions about the man who delivered it.”

  “Why would that upset her?” Bea asked.

  “Beats me.” If Mrs. Rudd had been younger, or less wrinkled, I might have surmised that she and the pizza man were enmeshed in a clandestine love affair. Perhaps they were anyway. Maybe he wasn't as superficial as I was. Whatever the reason, it was clear she didn't want to talk about him.

  We'd reached the curb when a young, harried-looking woman pulled up in a station wagon full of kids and double-parked in front of the house. Holding a large, towel-draped basket, she stepped from the car, then leaned in to say something to the children, two of whom were scuffling in the backseat.

  “Looks like you've got your hands full,” Bea said to her.

  “This is only the tip of the iceberg.” The tussle escalated and one of the boys knocked against the baby, who began to howl.

  “Elliot!”

  “It's Jeremy's fault. He hit me first.”

  “Did not.”

  The baby's wails intensified.

  “Stop it! Both of you.” The young mother looked close to tears. She turned to us. “You weren't by chance visiting Sophia Rudd, were you?”

  “Yes,” Bea crowed, “we were just there.”

  I refrained from correcting her. I thought visit might have stretched the nature of our encounter.

  “Would you mind terribly taking this to her?” the woman asked, holding up the basket. “It's my day to bring dinner, but there's no place to park and I've got to pick my daughter up from school in ten minutes . . .”

  Bea grabbed the basket. “We'd be happy to. Who do we say it's from?”

  “From the church. She'll understand. Three days a week we bring her food. She can't drive since her stroke. I feel bad about running out on her today. I usually stay and visit for a bit. Tell her I'm really sorry.”

  “You know sign language?” I asked.

  The woman nodded and began signing. “My daughter is deaf,” she said at the same time.

  I was impressed that a young woman with so many demands took time to help another in need. “Mrs. Rudd must appreciate the company,” I told her.

  “I know she really appreciates that I usually stay a bit. Most of the members just drop off their meals and leave.”

  “She's lucky to have such a good support system,” Bea said.

  “She has a son who visits her, too,” the woman explained. “He comes every Sunday. Other times as well, I imagine. But every Sunday, like clockwork. Alexander's visits are the highlight of her week.”

  Every Sunday. Like Peter Longfellow, the pizza man. An idea tickled my brain. “Does her son by any chance deliver pizza?”

  “As a matter of fact, he does work at a pizza place. I think it's just temporary, though. To be honest, I don't really pay that much attention to what she says. I try, but there are so many things on my mind already.”

  “We'll take care of your meal,” Bea soothed. “You go get your daughter.”

  “Thank you. You've no idea what a godsend you two are.”

  I thought the poor woman could probably use a little more help from God than just us.

  Bea and I turned and headed back up the front walkway, basket in hand. I saw Mrs. Rudd peeking from behind a lace curtain, which is probably how she knew we hadn't returned to harass her further. She opened the door, took the basket, then shut the door firmly, without so much as a nod.

  “So,” Bea said, when we got into the car. “He's her son.”

  “It looks that way.”

  “Why couldn't she just tell us that? You think she's ashamed of what he does?”

  “I think she doesn't want people to know he's her son, or that he's visiting her. I bet that's why he comes in his work clothes, so it looks like she's simply getting a pizza delivery.”

  “But why?” Bea asked.

  That w
as the question pounding in my head as well. I dropped Bea at the house and went back to the office.

  “Mr. Billings has called twice,” Jared said, looking up from his computer screen. “Isn't he the guy who's a friend of Weaver's?”

  “Right. The two of them had dinner together the night Weaver was killed. A third friend as well, I think.”

  “He sounded angry. And he insisted on speaking to you directly.”

  I took the message slip Jared handed me and returned Billings' call. It was a direct line.

  “The police have talked to me, and cleared me,” he said. His words burned with outrage. “You've no right to bother my family. No right to harass me.”

  “Whoa. Mr. Billings, I'm not trying to harass you, I simply wanted to ask you a few questions.”

  “You stay away from me. Stay away from my family. Just butt out, you got that?”

  Loud and clear.

  CHAPTER 22

  Peter Longfellow is her son,” I told Nick. I'd called Monday evening and left a message but he didn't return my call until late Tuesday afternoon. “At least, that's my guess. And his name is actually Alexander.”

  “Interesting, because he's also dead.”

  “Dead! What happened? You just saw him on Sunday.” And we'd just talked to Mrs. Rudd on Monday. Had she known then about her son's death?

  “Not that kind of dead,” Nick amended. “Peter Longfellow died thirty-one years ago at the age of six. The man who might have seen something the night Weaver was killed is not Peter Longfellow. At least not the Peter Longfellow he claims to be.”

  “Who is he then?”

  “You just told me, the old lady's son.” Nick snickered at his own lame attempt at humor.

  “You mean he's using an assumed identity?”

  “Looks that way.”

  “Why?”

  “I haven't the foggiest idea. Trouble with the law, an ex-wife he's trying to lose, could be just about anything. I can dig around, but the answer probably has no relevance to Weaver's death.”

  “Probably not.”

  “Though it does explain why he was reluctant to talk to me.”

  I grunted agreement. “And why Mrs. Rudd slammed the door in our faces when Bea asked about him.”

  “How'd that church friend of hers find out, then?”

  “I guess Mrs. Rudd must have slipped up. The woman knows sign language and comes to visit on a regular basis. Mrs. Rudd probably finds it difficult not to talk about her son.”

  “You want me to pursue this?”

  “There's a chance he saw the killer, Nick. We'd be foolish not to.” Although getting Longfellow to testify might prove to be a serious challenge. A man in hiding is hardly going to step forward in a court of law.

  “Got it,” Nick said.

  “What about Weaver's friends, anything new there?”

  “I've got feelers out, but no real progress yet.”

  I told him about the call from Billings. “That kind of overreaction sets off alarms for me. Len Roemer was pretty hostile, too, for what that's worth.”

  “Yeah. I had the dubious pleasure of talking to him myself. Good thing he has a strong body because he hasn't got much of a brain.”

  “When did you talk to him?”

  “Yesterday. I dropped by the gym when he was at work.”

  “And?”

  “Nothing. He did confirm that he was at dinner with Billings and Weaver the night Weaver was killed.”

  “Did they have an argument?”

  Nick laughed. “No argument, no falling out. Says he doesn't know what Bram's kid was talking about. Roemer claims the three of them—Weaver, Billings, and him—have been best of friends since seventh grade. One for all, all for one, that sort of thing.”

  About what I expected. “How about the Coles?”

  “Well, they're an interesting couple. Mrs. Cole's first husband died. Shot, in fact.”

  I'd been doodling in the margin of the paper. I stopped and leaned forward. “When? How? Who shot him?”

  “About eight years ago. Someone followed him to his car in a dark parking lot.”

  “And?” When Steven had first proposed we consider the Coles as substitute killers, I'd been skeptical. Now, I was thinking we might be on to something.

  “That's all I've got for now,” Nick said. “But I'll keep you posted.”

  “This could be big. God knows they have a motive—Hannah. With a little bit more, it might be enough to raise reasonable doubt about Terri.”

  “I'm working on it, Kali. This kind of information isn't just there for the asking, you know.”

  Could have fooled me. Nick seemed able to get anything on anyone.

  “And you didn't let me finish about Roemer,” he continued. “I talked to a couple of his coworkers at the gym. It's a very upscale place, by the way. Lots of gorgeous, well-toned women running around in skimpy clothing. Not a bad place to work.”

  “Or conduct interviews, from the sounds of it.”

  Nick laughed. “I've been in worse environments.”

  “What did his coworkers have to say?”

  “For the most part, not much. But one of them, a young woman by the name of Darina, said Weaver came to see Roemer at the gym about a week before he was killed. Something about a business venture. She could tell from their body language that they were angry. They went outside to talk so she doesn't know any of the details. But she says that Roemer acted pissed the rest of the evening.”

  “Interesting. Tough to pin a murder on that, though.”

  “This is a work in progress, Kali. You gotta take the long view.”

  Hard to do with a trial date approaching. “Thanks, Nick. You're a wonder.”

  It was getting close to five o'clock. I pulled out the adoption file, something I'd avoided doing all day, and called the lab. I was transferred and put on hold several times before reaching someone who could help me. The man had a rich, mellow voice that reminded me of dark brandy.

  “I've got the report in front of me,” he said. “It's pretty clear. Weaver was not the baby's father.”

  “But the tests are based on probability, aren't they, not absolute certainty?”

  “You're right, in part. With the older forms of testing, the probability standard was lower. That left wiggle room for those who were looking to use it. The RFLP method that we use is the most accurate form of paternity testing available. If you want to prove paternity, we can say with 99.9% or greater certainty that a given man is the biological father of the child. Theoretically, I Suppose that still leaves wiggle room though the courts don't see it that way.

  “When it comes to excluding someone, however,” he continued, “the results are conclusive. No question about it, Weaver was not the father.”

  “I don't suppose you can discern anything from the test about who the actual father might be?”

  “You mean a profile based on genes—like dark hair, brown eyes, tall, with a strong jaw and a family pattern of baldness?”

  “Something like that.”

  He laughed. “Someday maybe, but not yet.”

  “Didn't think so.”

  “Hey, it's always good to ask. New techniques are being developed all the time.”

  “Thanks for your help.” I disconnected and started to dial Ted, then decided it was a subject better broached face to face. I closed up the office and headed for the city.

  Ted was watching the evening news when I arrived. I could hear the television in the background when he opened the door.

  “Something about Terri?” he asked with alarm.

  “No. Nothing new there. Can I come in? I'd like to talk with you.”

  “Sure.” Ted's good manners overtook his confusion. He stepped back and opened the door wider. “I'm in the den, with Hannah.”

  He ushered me to the back of the house. A different room than last time I'd visited. It was sleeker, more tailored. The paintings on the walls were bold abstracts.

  I took a seat o
n the couch where I could steal glances at Hannah, who was propped in an infant seat on the coffee table. Round cheeks, rosebud mouth, and a tiny button nose. She'd filled out and her hair had grown thicker. She was no longer a newborn.

  I reached out a finger and gently caressed a cotton-swaddled leg. When had my recent fascination with babies begun?

  “You want a glass of wine?” Ted asked. “I've just poured one for myself.”

  “Thanks. A small one.”

  He filled a cut-crystal glass with rich, red liquid and handed it to me. “Shalla is really taking it in the teeth for keeping Terri locked up. Serves him right.”

  “The Women's Alliance protest?”

  “Not only that. There was a letter to the editor in yesterday's paper. Shalla got hit with a question about it outside court today. They had it on the news just before you arrived. Not that the support is helping Terri. She's still in jail.”

  Hannah made a cooing sound. Ted touched her cheek and cooed back. “Hey, Hannah banana. You want your mom home, too, don't you?”

  Hannah stared into Ted's eyes and kicked her little feet like a propeller. I felt it again, that stirring somewhere deep in my chest.

  Ted flipped off the television with a stab of the remote. “Shalla is ambitious,” he said, turning his attention my way once again. “District attorney today, who knows what tomorrow, maybe mayor. Or senator. A groundswell of support for Terri would make him sit up and take note.”

  Only we were a long way from that. For every voice critical of Shalla, I'd heard another in support of him. No special treatment for the rich and privileged. It was practically a mantra for a large part of the city's population.

  “I can try for bail again, though I don't think it will do any good.”

  Ted sighed. He leaned back against the black and tan chenille seat cushion. “I wasn't faulting you. It's just so damned . . . so damned difficult. And there's so little I can do.”

  He paused, looked at the ceiling, then pressed his palm to his temple. “You can't imagine what it's like having someone you love in jail. Every time I pour myself a cup of coffee, or wine ...” He lifted the hand holding the glass. “Every time I look out the window, or cuddle Hannah, or wake to the sunlight coming through the bedroom window, I feel a knot of dread in the pit of my stomach. Terri gets a hard bunk and prison food. I worry about her, about how she's being treated, and how unhappy she must be.”