“What are you looking for?” asked Rosa.
“This.” He cleared away the other photographs and laid one on the desktop. It was a close-up of the wound to Jessie’s wrist. He examined it carefully and said, “Bingo.”
“Bingo what?”
“Jessie’s left wrist was slashed, which is exactly what you’d expect from a right-handed person.”
“Are you saying Jessie was left-handed?”
“No. She was right-handed.”
“Then what’s the big revelation?”
“The slash mark runs at the wrong angle.”
“What?”
He turned his palm face-up, demonstrating. “Look at my wrist. Let’s call the thumb-side the left and the pinky-side the right. A right-handed person would probably slash top left to bottom right, or even straight across, left to right. But top right to bottom left is an awkward movement.”
Rosa checked the photograph once more. “It’s not a severe angle. But now that you mention it, Jessie’s appears to be top right to bottom left.”
“Exactly.”
“So what does this mean? She didn’t kill herself? We sort of knew that all along.”
“It means more than that.” Jack took the letter opener from her desk, then grabbed Rosa’s wrist to make his point more clearly. “I’m right-handed. Let’s say I’m facing you and cutting your left wrist, trying to make your death look like a suicide. My natural movement is to cut from top left to bottom right. That leaves a wound at the exact same angle you would leave if you had cut your own wrist. Try it.”
She took the letter opener, ran it across her veins. “You’re right.”
Jack took back the opener and switched hands. “But if I’m a left-handed person, and I cut your left wrist, the cut runs at the opposite angle. From your vantage point, it’s top right to bottom left.”
She simply nodded, following the logic. “So exactly what are you saying?”
“I’m saying that the only way you end up with a slit at this angle is if a left-handed person is facing his victim just as I’m facing you right now and slashes her left wrist.”
Rosa looked at the photo, then at Jack, her expression stone-cold serious. “Know anyone who’s left-handed?”
“I think I’ve got a pretty good idea.”
“Who?”
He tapped the blade of the letter opener into the palm of his hand and said, “Someone I’ve suspected since the day he came to my office, talking about Jessie’s death as if it were just a business hassle.”
“One Dr. Joseph Marsh?”
“You got it,” said Jack.
57
•
Dr. Marsh lived in a Mediterranean-style house near Pennsylvania Avenue, a few blocks west of where the noisy Miami Beach nightlife began. The neighborhood was once a haven for retirees, but with the overall revitalization of South Beach, mountain bikes and Rollerblades had long since replaced the wheelchairs and walkers. It was an eclectic area, lots of artists, musicians, gays, and young people-the perfect relocation spot for a rich, recently divorced doctor in pursuit of hard bodies.
Jack parked on the street and killed the engine. It was a dark night, and the canopy of a sprawling oak tree blocked most of the light from a distant street lamp. Rosa was barely visible in the passenger seat beside him.
“This is the last time I’m going to say this, Jack. I don’t think a confrontation with the government’s chief witness is a good idea.”
“I don’t intend to get in his face. I’ve met him several times but I’ve never really focused on whether he’s left-handed or right-handed. I just have to see with my own eyes.”
“What are you going to do, ask him to grab his glove and have a catch?”
“No, I thought I’d just tell him to slap you upside the head.”
“I just want you to be sure about this.”
“I am. This thing I figured out with the angle of the slash on Jessie’s wrist is only one piece of the puzzle. Even if Marsh is left-handed, that’s not the only thing that points to him as the killer. I think she screwed him over.”
“How do you mean?”
“Somehow, the entire million and a half dollars that Jessie wormed out of her viatical investors ended up in a bank account that didn’t have his name on it. I’m sure that Marsh went along with that arrangement because he wanted to prevent his wife from getting her hands on it in the divorce. But something tells me that when it came time to give the doctor his half of the loot, Jessie gave him the heave-ho-‘It’s been nice, doc, thanks for helping with the scam, now see ya later.’”
“You realize we’re totally shifting gears. The whole defense we’ve been crafting so far is that Jessie was murdered by the investors she scammed.”
“Which is probably why we aren’t making any headway. One thing has always bothered me about that anyway. Why would they kill Jessie and let the doctor live?”
“I don’t know.”
“And how do you think Dr. Marsh is going to react when I ask him that question?”
“I think he’ll say exactly what he said to the grand jury: you killed her. So, please, don’t have that kind of talk with him. Just get him to sip coffee or write something down, anything to satisfy yourself that he’s left-handed. Don’t take it any further than that.”
“We’ll see how it goes.”
“No, I already see where it’s going. If all you really wanted to know was whether Marsh is left-handed, you could go ask his wife. You want to get in there, go toe-to-toe, get your friend Theo off the hook, and stem off your own indictment. He got the best of you in that last conversation you had in your office, and now you want to even the score.”
“I’m just feeling him out, okay? From what I’ve seen of Dr. Marsh, he’s way too impressed by his own cleverness. If I keep my composure and push the right buttons, I honestly think he’s arrogant enough to say something we can use to hang him.”
She shook her head, as if she didn’t approve. “I see there’s no talking you out of this.”
“Nope.”
“You realize I’m not going with you. The last thing I need to do is be a witness to a conversation that might disqualify me from being your lawyer.”
“I agree.”
“Good luck.”
“Thanks.” He stepped down from the car, pushed the door shut, and headed up the walkway. It was a short walk, but it seemed long. The small front lawn was well kept, surrounded by an eight-foot-tall cherry hedge that was trimmed and squared-off neatly to resemble fortress walls. Jack almost checked for a moat. Long rows of colorful impatiens flanked either side of the curved path of stepping stones that led to the front door. The driveway was off to the left, and the doctor’s Mercedes was parked in it. That was promising, almost as good as a sign on the door saying the doctor is in.
Jack climbed one step at a time, three in total, acutely aware of the scratchy sound of his soles on rough concrete. This was technically no sneak attack, but the closer he got to the front door, the less welcome he felt. It wasn’t anything he heard or saw. Just vibes.
He drew a breath and knocked on the door.
A full minute passed. Jack heard nothing. He knocked again, a little harder. Then he waited. He checked his watch. Almost ninety seconds. It was a small house. Even from the most remote corner, it couldn’t possibly take more than a minute or so to reach the front door. Unless he was showering or sleeping or-
Who the hell cares if I’m bothering him? He knocked a third time, a good solid pounding that could easily have preceded the announcement, Police, open up!
He waited a full three minutes. No one home. Or at least no one was willing to come to the door. In the back of his mind he could almost see Rosa smiling and saying something along the lines of Just as well, God’s doing us a favor.