Powell's grin faded. "I'll talk to you about it. The motive was the husband's money. The boy got in the way. Period."
Hardy turned sideways out of the sun's glare. "You really believe that?"
"Do I really believe it? Tell you what, I think it's inherently believable."
"That's not what I asked you."
The Assistant DA ran his hand through the flowing hair. "Do I personally think she shot her boy in cold blood? To tell you the truth, I don't know. We've charged women with that particular crime four times in the last two years, so don't tell me it's just too heinous to even imagine a woman could do that."
Hardy persisted. "I'm saying she, Jennifer, didn't do it. I just spent some time with her upstairs."
"She was sad, was she?" Powell shook his head. "Remember Wanda Hayes, Diz?" He was referring to a highly publicized case from several months earlier. Hardy nodded, he remembered. "Well, Wanda was a real wreck, crying all the time. And she admitted that she killed two of her kids. She said she just kind of lost her temper one day, felt real sad about it."
"Okay, Dean, but-"
"But nothing, Diz. I'm not saying that Jennifer's plan was to kill her son. What she did do, and what we can prove, was that she planned to kill her husband and didn't take the time or whatever else to make sure her son was out of the way. Maybe she was just careless. I don't know and I don't care. The bottom line is the son's dead and she's going down for him, too."
The flash of anger spent, Powell suddenly exhaled, as though surprised at his show of emotion. He reined himself in. "Listen," he said, "I'm just on my way over to Lou's. You feel like a drink?"
Lou's was Lou the Greek's, the local watering hole for the cops and the DAs.
Hardy motioned to the file again, shaking his head. "Another time."
The Assistant DA's face tightened. Powell was said to be considering a run for State Attorney General in this year's special election and he had obviously been working on his public moves – this invitation for a drink had the ring of sincerity, for example – but it put Hardy on guard. Powell was saying that, as Hardy knew, one of the duties of the prosecutor was to provide full and free disclosure to the defense team. "You know, you might want to drop by Art's again. We don't want you to have any surprises."
Hardy squinted, moved to the side. This was unusual. "I just got the file an hour ago."
"Yes, well, Art and I discussed the case after you stopped by and we decided it would be better to lay it all out at the beginning. Like I said, we don't want any surprises."
"What surprises."
Powell's face took on a serious expression. "You haven't seen the indictment yet. We charged Mrs. Witt with a third count of murder."
"What third murder?"
"Her first husband died of a suspected drug overdose nine years ago. Did you know that? I don't know how the media hasn't come up with this yet but I'm sure they will."
Hardy stood still as a pole. He wondered whether his once-upon-a-time friend Art Drysdale had deliberately given him only half of the discovery – there wasn't really any legal advantage in doing so, but Drysdale had been know to mess with defense lawyers just to keep them off balance. It was a good reminder for Hardy – he really was on the other side.
"In any event," Powell went on, "Inspector Terrell, the arresting officer? He's been pushing for exhumation and got it through with Strout." This, was John Strout, the coroner. "It seems Mrs. Witt made a small bundle on that death, too. Something like seventy-five thousand dollars, which back then was a reasonable piece of change. Terrell found out she was dating a dentist when Ned – that was husband number one – bought it. Dating this dentist while they were still married? Bad form. Anyway, when Ned died it looked like an overdose – so the coroner ran the A scan, found coke and alcohol and ruled it an accidental overdose."
Hardy knew the medical examiner ran three levels of tests to scan for poisons in dead people. Level C included a lot more controlled substances – barbiturates, methamphetamines – then the check for volatiles – essentially alcohols – that turned up on a Level A scan, but it also cost a lot more to run, and when the apparent cause of death was found at the A level, unless there was an investigator's report indicating foul play, the coroner most often stopped there.
Hardy knew all this but he had to ask: "He didn't check for anything else?"
"Why would he? They found what they were looking for, coke and booze in an overdose situation… hell, you know. And Ned had 'em both, so the book got closed. But guess what?"
"I can't imagine." Hardy was feeling numb.
"Atropine."
"What?"
"Atropine. Jimson weed. Deadly nightshade."
"What about it?"
"Atropine is what killed him. We exhumed him on Terrell's hunch and there it was."
"So he OD'd on atropine."
Powell shook his head. "You don't just OD on atropine. Atropine doesn't make you high. It's not a recreational drug, but Ned was loaded with the stuff."
"That's not necessarily murder-"
"I think in connection with these latest two it is."
"She didn't do these either."
Powell favored Hardy with one of his world-weary looks, which said okay, that's a defense attorney's answer about his client, but between us two professionals we know the truth. What he said was: "Your Mrs. Witt's a black widow, Hardy. We're going for Murder One on these. A death sentence. This is a capital case."
3
"You can't be serious…"
The color was gone from Jennifer's face. She simply hung her head, then after a beat shook herself, stood and walked over to the window in the visitor's room, through which she stared out into the guard's office. "Ned killed himself, maybe by mistake… But somebody else killed Larry and Matt. I swear to God… I couldn't have killed my little boy."
Hardy noticed she didn't say the same about her husband. He sat with his shoulders hunched over, fingers locked together on the table in front of him. "Tell me about Anthony Alvarez," he said.
She combed her bangs back with her fingers, twice, still facing the window. "I don't know any Anthony Alvarez…"
Hardy kept his voice low. "The police report identifies him as your neighbor, lives across the street."
Now she turned. "Mr. Alvarez? Oh, that's Anthony Alvarez? I never knew his first name. What about him?"
"What about him is that he's a lot of the reason you're here." Hardy told her the gist of his testimony. While he talked she returned to the end of the table and sat again, kitty-corner to Hardy.
"But I didn't do that. I always start out by walking a couple of blocks to warm up. I wouldn't have just shut the gate and started out running. Not only wouldn't have, I didn't."
Hardy nodded. "Why do you think he says it was you? You have any words with him, anything like that?"
"I don't believe this." Jennifer inhaled, shook herself, let it out in a sigh. "Maybe in four years I've said a hundred words to the man. I don't think I'd recognize him if he wasn't standing near his house. Why is he doing this to me?"
"I don't know," Hardy said, "but for now I think we'd better concentrate on something that could help you. Was there anybody that might have seen you walking? Another neighbor?"
Jennifer shut her eyes, leaning back in her chair, revealing the curve of her body, the plane of her cheek. Hardy suddenly realized how attractive she was, even in the jail garb. Pouty lips, a strong nose. Bones well-limned.
"I passed a man," she said, eyes still closed. "An older guy, maybe black or Mexican, dark anyway."
"I read about him." Hardy sat forward now. "I don't think he's going to fly."
"What do you mean?" I did see somebody. I think it was, I mean it could have been the person…"