I pull open the desk’s narrow top drawer, scanning for a letter opener. Slipping the thin blade under one silver disc, then the other, I pop the circles off, which allows me to pull the book’s pages apart. “See? It would have been easy for Dorie to create a fake page for that night and insert it in the right place. Instant alibi.” I snap the book back together, hoping Franklin can come up with a reason we’re not one step forward with the logbook, two steps back with its easy-open binding. “She could have done it before the murder.”
For a moment, the only sound is a soft swish as Franklin turns the pages of the employee time sheets. Just as I had done, he folds one page over to the next, comparing signatures.
“Still, ‘could have done it’ doesn’t mean ‘did do it,’” he says, looking at the time sheets. “More to the point, if she did, why didn’t she make a big deal about it? You’d have to think police checked them. And yet they still arrested her. And she confessed.”
“But if detectives had the time sheet and held it back-that’s huge.” I’m beginning to see a glimmer of hope for our story. And for Dorinda. “Law enforcement misconduct like that, withholding exculpatory evidence. That’s enough on its own to get Dorie a new trial. Rankin and Will are going to love…wait a minute.”
I lean back in my chair, then grab on to the desk when the chair tips back precariously farther than I expected. I carefully let go, keeping a toe on the floor and trying to keep at least my physical equilibrium. Our search for answers is only unearthing more questions. I’m beginning to realize why they call it a deadline. The reporter’s career is on the line, and if she fails, her career is dead.
“Will Easterly,” I say. Even though he’s the one who’s brought us this story, we’ve never really checked him out. His background. His connections. His motives. “I know he told us he was trying to redeem himself for his negligence in Dorie’s defense, but why didn’t he think to examine this book? I mean, it’s the definition of reasonable doubt.”
“Vodka, I’d say,” Franklin replies. “Or whatever his alcohol of choice was at the time. As he told us, he was probably so buzzed back then, or hungover, he just didn’t think of it.”
“And of course,” I say, my voice bleak, “let us not forget the two words that continue to haunt us-she confessed. And after that confession, no one was looking for evidence of anything.”
The door to the Client Services office clicks open, and I look up, expecting to see Amelia giving us a time’s-up. But it’s not just Amelia.
A battleship in a pin-striped suit, lapels wide and electric-yellow tie even wider, takes up all the space in the doorway. Amelia is attempting to peek over his shoulder, but all I can see are her feet, on tiptoe, and the top of her head.
“This is Mr. Bellarusso,” I hear Amelia say, as she darts her head back and forth, up and down, trying to be seen around the apparently immovable object blocking the view. “Head of our security.”
Mr. Bellarusso reaches over to crush my hand, then Franklin’s, giving Amelia just enough room to sneak by and enter the office one shoulder at a time. “Mr. Bellarusso wanted to make sure-”
“Joe,” he says, interrupting. “Joe B.” Joe Bellarusso wears an American flag as a lapel pin. His pink scalp shows through his thinning colorless hair, and when he claps one hand onto the door frame, his sports coat opens to reveal the straps and pouch of a shoulder holster. Empty. “Charlie McNally, right? Do for you?”
I translate this to mean that he’s asking what he can do for us, and actually, there are a few things I’d like to know. I point to the logbook and turn it to face him.
“Did the police ever look at these time sheets? After Ray Sweeney’s murder? Or maybe recently?” I’m wondering if Oscar Ortega’s office, knowing Rankin’s on their case, might have gone back over their investigation, retracing their steps to make sure they crossed all the legal T’s. Tek Mattheissen had been lead cop for the Swampscott PD. If the Sweeney case blows up, his past and his future would both be on the line.
“A Detective Masterson, name like that, looked at the time books. His partner Clay Gettings looked, too. Back then,” JoeB. says. He takes out a tiny spiral-bound notebook from his inside jacket pocket, gives his thumb a lick and uses it to turn over the pencil-covered pages, one at a time. “Insurance company fella. Just the other day. And it’s Mattheissen, not Masterson.” Joe B. closes the notebook and tucks it back in place.
“You worked here?” I ask. “Time of the murder?” I’m starting to talk like Joe B.
“How about the tapes?” Franklin’s talking at the same time.
Bellarusso lumbers to a row of cabinets lining one wall and slides open one floor-to-ceiling door. Behind it are a row of tiny television screens, most of them turned off. The one in the upper right corner, however, is showing, live, the same view of the meds room we saw in Rankin’s office. And the one next to it shows what must be the back door of the building.
Bellarusso gestures to the array of screens. “Course, we’re not up to speed on this,” he says. “Right now, we still got just the meds room and the back. We keep them for a week, then tape over them.”
“It’s a cost-saving measure,” Amelia puts in. “We simply don’t have the money to expand our security system. It’s always on the list,” she says, “but something else always seems to come first.”
“And the tape for the night of the murder…?” Franklin asks, looking at Mr. B.
“I yanked it,” he says. “Couple of days after the arrest. Locked it away. Only been on the job a week, just moved up here. Figured they’d need it for the trial.” He shrugs. “Then, you know.”
“She confessed,” I say. I hate those words.
“Yep. First week on the job, this happens.” He smiles, a cherub on steroids. “Never a dull moment.”
CHAPTER 12
I slide Dorinda’s time sheet across the conference table toward Will Easterly, offering it as if we’re sharing. But I’m really testing him. I had confided my latest suspicions to Franklin on our way to CJP offices. Unfortunately for my paranoia, Franklin couldn’t come up with a convincing reason that I’m wrong.
Franklin’s off feeding his e-mail addiction, and then he’s going to call the Swampscott PD, seeing if he can track down Mattheissen’s partner. My job is to see if we’re dealing with a hoax.
I’m worried that Will Easterly is a plant-a fraud-paid off, maybe, by the D.A. to trap us. What if Will forged the time sheet? He’d certainly have enough of Dorie’s signatures to copy with all the legal documents she must have signed. What if Will was the “insurance guy” Joe B. mentioned? Went in “just the other day” and tucked in an alibi? Down on his luck, gets signed up by the Great and Powerful Oz to bait the do-gooder Rankin into championing a losing case. And takes Franklin and me down as collateral damage in their battle for political power.
I watch Will’s reaction. If this time sheet existed at the time of the murder and he hadn’t looked for it, it’s a jaw-dropping dereliction of duty. If he had looked back then and it wasn’t there, it’s a jaw-dropping complication.
“Damn it.” Will rolls his chair away from the table, knocking into Oliver Rankin, who had been looking over his shoulder. Rankin steps back, surprised, as Will stalks toward the closed door. I see his fists are clenched, his head lowered. He reaches for the doorknob-is he going to leave? And what will that mean?
Then he turns, facing us. His fists are so taut I can see the blue veins on his pale hands. He swallows, holding his chin high. “Step Ten,” he says. “Continue to take personal inventory and when we are wrong, promptly admit it.” He shakes his head, looking rueful, one lock of lanky gray hair falling onto his forehead. “Funny how there’s a step for every occasion. And this one-well, hell. I thought I was on the right road, you know? Getting the tape? One step forward in my recovery. Now this. One step back.”