“Rose doesn’t strike me as the type who’d lose sleep over a woman telling him their affair was over. No offense, but I’m guessing you’re not the first club member he’s seduced.”
“I know for a fact I’m not. And, for the record, I seduced him. But Tony is used to being the one who breaks off the affair and I think I bruised his ego.”
“What’s your other idea?”
“Senior got to him just like he got to Jarvis. Tony’s not real big on ethics. He’d have no compunction about lying under oath if he was paid enough. Hell, if I had offered him a quarter million dollars to kill Arnie I bet he’d have done it.”
Frank was about to say something else when Herb Cross pushed through the courtroom doors, sporting a wide smile.
“What’s up?” Frank asked.
“I found the photographer.”
“Great work. Have you talked to him yet?”
“No, but I know where he lives. I figured you’d want to come along.”
CHAPTER 20
Hey, is this Jack Rodriguez?” Herb Cross asked as soon as someone answered the phone. Cross was calling from Frank’s car, which was parked across the street from a poorly maintained rental home in a rundown section of North Portland. Weeds outnumbered grass in the overgrown postage-stamp front lawn, and the small Cape Cod hadn’t seen a new coat of paint in recent memory.
“Who’s this?” was the cautious answer.
“Are you the private detective?” Cross asked, trying to sound as paranoid as the man to whom he was speaking.
“Yeah,” Rodriguez answered, perkier now that he smelled a buck. “What can I do for you?”
“Look, I don’t feel comfortable talking on the phone, if you know what I mean.”
“Certainly. I definitely understand the need for confidentiality. So, where do you want to meet?”
“Do you have an office?”
“No, I find it’s better not to draw too much attention to myself.”
“Oh yeah, that’s right. Mr. Jarvis told me you don’t have an office. I forgot.”
“Who?”
Cross heard panic in the PI’s voice.
“Otto Jarvis, the lawyer. He gave me your number. He said you do really good work.”
There was dead air. When Rodriguez spoke, he sounded very nervous.
“Here’s the thing. I just checked my calendar and I forgot about a project that’s going to take me out of town for a while. So I don’t think I can do anything for you right now.”
“Oh man, that’s disappointing, because Mr. Jarvis said you’re the go-to guy if someone thinks their wife is, uh, you know what I mean.”
“Not really, and I think you have the wrong guy, anyway, because I don’t know this Jarvis guy. So, good luck with your wife.”
The moment Rodriguez hung up, Cross called Frank, who was stationed near the back door of the PI’s house.
“He denied knowing Jarvis, but he got very panicky as soon as I mentioned his name. I figure he’ll be coming out any minute. I’ve got the front.”
Cross put the cell phone in his pocket and started across the street. He saw a curtain move. He hoped Rodriguez would make a break for it so they wouldn’t have to figure out how to get in his house. He also hoped the PI didn’t have a gun.
FRANK HAD SWAPPED his suit for a black leather jacket, a black turtleneck, and black slacks, which-along with his thick upper body and broken nose-made him look like a thug. As soon as he heard the back door open and close, he stepped around the corner of the house and into Rodriguez’s path.
“Where you headed, Mr. Rodriguez?” he asked as the PI skidded to a stop. Rodriguez was skinny and about five foot seven. His long black hair was greasy and unkempt and Frank saw acne scars on his sunken cheeks. The lawyer didn’t think Rodriguez would try to fight but he looked like he might be fast, so Frank clamped a hand on his forearm.
“Who the fuck are you?” Rodriguez asked, trying to sound tough and failing miserably.
“Why don’t we tell you inside,” Frank said as Herb Cross walked up behind the PI.
Frank’s investigator had his hand stuffed in his jacket pocket as if he were holding a gun. Rodriguez’s eyes darted between his captors. While the PI was making up his mind, Herb opened the back door and Frank made the choice for him by pushing Rodriguez inside.
The blinds were down and a low-wattage bulb in a standing lamp cast a sickly pale light over a disgustingly dirty living room. Soiled clothes, skin magazines, and dirty dishes were strewn around. The smell of stale pizza and sweat made Frank wince. He decided that calling the house a pigsty would insult swine everywhere. The only neat spot was a corner of the room given over to a computer, printer, fax, and telephone. Frank guessed that this oasis of cleanliness served as Rodriguez’s office.
“How do you live here?” Frank asked.
“Fuck you,” the PI answered without much conviction.
Frank shoved Rodriguez onto the couch and stood over him, because he was afraid to sit on any of the furniture.
“What’s this all about?” Rodriguez asked.
“We know you took the pictures of Sally Pope with Charlie Marsh,” Frank said.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Rodriguez said as he folded his arms across his chest and turned his head so he wouldn’t have to look at Frank.
“Explain how he fucked up,” Frank said to Cross.
“You made a really amateurish mistake, Jack,” Frank’s investigator said. He handed the PI one of the photographs that had been shot through the windshield of a car.
“I’ve never seen this before.”
“Then someone stole your ride. A VIN number is a seventeen-character alphanumeric code specific to each vehicle.”
“Tell me something I don’t know,” Rodriguez said, but he was staring at a section of the photo and he’d started to sweat.
“The VIN is mounted on a strip where the dashboard and the windshield meet on the driver’s side. Yours is reflected in the picture. Like I said, an amateur’s mistake. I traced the VIN back to you, Jack.”
“You’re in a lot of trouble,” Frank said. “I’m sure you know that Sally Pope is on trial for killing her husband.”
“What’s that have to do with me?”
“Do you know the DA’s theory? He thinks your photos were used to lure Congressman Pope to his death. That makes you an accessory to murder.”
“Bullshit.” Rodriguez hugged himself tighter. “I want a lawyer.”
“Cops have to get suspects lawyers. I’m not a cop.”
“Then who the fuck are you?”
“Your savior, Jack. The man who can keep you from facing a murder charge.”
CHAPTER 21
Karl Burdett was in a great mood when he led his trial assistants into the courtroom the next morning. Frank Jaffe was supposed to be a hot shot but Karl felt that he had him on the ropes. True, Jaffe had scored some points with Otto Jarvis, but he didn’t think he’d lay a glove on Tony Rose. If the jurors believed Rose, the case was over.
“Mr. Burdett,” Judge Hansen’s bailiff said while Karl was swinging his attaché case onto the prosecution table, “the judge wants you in chambers.”
“What’s up?”
“I don’t know, but Judge Hansen, Mr. Jaffe, his client, and two other men are waiting for you.”
Karl frowned. He told his assistants to get his files ready and walked toward the judge’s chambers. He didn’t like surprises.
“Morning, Karl,” the judge said. She hadn’t donned her robes yet and was wearing a black pants suit and white silk blouse. Even though it was illegal to smoke in a public building, Hansen was on her third cigarette and the room stank from cigarette smoke.
Karl recognized Herb Cross, who was sitting on a couch against the wall next to a scrawny, unkempt man who looked to be in his late twenties and was wearing a sweatshirt, jeans, and running shoes.