But Andrews had his eyewitness. His sure thing. The middle-aged woman took the stand. She’d heard the shot and seen the boy’s face. She claimed he practically ran into her.
When Andrews was through, the defense attorney spent an hour going over the details in cross-examination. How sure she was and why. Then he spent another hour drilling her on the boy’s physical description. His face. What color his eyes were, their shape and size. And what about his nose, his mouth and hair? The defense attorney was blocking the witness’s view of the defendant. Every time she tried to peek around him, he’d step in her way. The attorney said he wanted to know what the defendant looked like on the night of the murder. Not now.
What Andrews didn’t know, nor anyone else, was that the defense attorney had hired an artist to sit in the courtroom. A young woman who taught at the College of Art. She was sketching the face based on the witness’s description. When the testimony seemed complete, the defense attorney showed the picture to the witness and asked if this was the man who had fled the crime scene. The woman said yes. She was emphatic about it. That picture was him. Then the attorney passed the drawing to the jury for a look. It wasn’t the defendant at all. The likeness wasn’t even close.
Teddy’s eyes rose above the summary, searching out the defense attorney’s name. It was a man he’d never heard of, and this surprised him. His work was impressive and stood out.
Teddy set the stack of summaries down. Disappointed that he hadn’t found anything relevant to the Holmes case, he let his mind wander. Three trials. Three losses. Andrews had licked his wounds after that and turned his life around. Become more shrewd and found a way to win. Still, there had to be something. A reason why Andrews wanted to plea the Holmes case away. Andrews needed to get something in return for the deal. There had to be some kind of tradeoff.
Teddy looked at Jill, typing something into the computer.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“I found a Web site that publishes political contributions,” she said. “Andrews already has a lot of money in his war chest. The election’s more than a year off.”
“You mean the names are there? The contributors?”
Jill nodded.
“Read them,” he said. “All I need are last names.”
Teddy grabbed the printout. As Jill read the names aloud, he searched through Andrews’s cases. There were more than three hundred contributors, and it took time to page through the sheets of paper. But after an hour, he’d found a match. It was the only one. A case that Andrews had handled a year before he ran for district attorney. It wasn’t a felony case. Not even a misdemeanor. It was a case in which Andrews had decided not to prosecute. Instead, the accused was sent to a psychiatric facility for treatment. His name was Edward Trisco III.
Teddy glanced at the summary. Apparently, Edward was an aspiring artist with a drug problem.
FIFTY-THREE
He bolted up Seventeenth Street, zigzagging his way to Benny’s Cafe Blue at a full run. He had a photograph in his pocket of Edward Trisco III printed off the Internet. There had been a lot of pictures of Edward Trisco. More than they needed.
The Trisco family was a brand name.
They owned several technology companies and had a major interest in one of the state’s largest banks. Their political influence was substantial. Once Jill had a name, she typed it into the search window on the election Web site. The list that appeared was up to date and included every contribution the family had made over the past three presidential campaigns. Most of their individual contributions went to conservative candidates running for every type of office in every state in the nation. But the big money, some checks written for a million dollars or more, went directly to the national committee in Washington.
When Jill isolated their contributions to Alan Andrews, Teddy realized what a fool he’d been. Andrews hadn’t sent Edward Trisco to a psychiatric facility because the boy needed help and it may or may not have been the right thing to do.
It had been a pass.
Andrews received his first political contribution from the family two days after Edward’s arrest. A check in the amount of two hundred and fifty thousand dollars followed one week later. It was made out to the state party. Teddy knew all about soft money. Frank Miles, a media consultant from Washington, had been a guest lecturer on campus last year. The quarter million would have been laundered through the system. Once the money disappeared, it would have made a surprise return in the form of TV ads against Andrews’s opponent.
But this wasn’t about money. This was about Edward Trisco III. An aspiring artist who’d kidnapped a model. The model managed to escape and was unharmed. She hadn’t pressed charges. When Teddy finished reading the stories that appeared in the newspapers, it felt like lightning shooting through his veins.
He saw the cafe ahead. In spite of the traffic, he charged across the street and ripped open the door. As he hurried to the counter, he looked for the manager, Harris Carmichael, but didn’t see him. A young woman he recognized from last night stood behind the counter. Her hair was black and appeared dyed, the color of her eyes lost behind a pair of blue tinted glasses set in heavy black frames.
“Where’s Harris?” Teddy said.
She gave him a look and appeared frightened. Harris Carmichael must have filled her in after Teddy and Powell left last night.
“We don’t know,” she said, glancing at the kid mixing coffees on the far side of the counter. “He hasn’t shown up yet.”
“What time does he usually come in?”
“He opens the place,” she said. “Melvin called me this morning. I came down with the keys as soon as I could.”
“Did you try calling him?” Teddy asked.
“Nonstop,” she said. “No answer.”
Teddy could feel the pin pricks moving up his neck and through his scalp. He pulled the photo out of his pocket and unfolded it.
“I need to know if you’ve ever seen this man before,” he said.
She looked at the photograph of Edward Trisco III. She was staring at Trisco’s face, trying to remember. Teddy slid the paper across the counter and she leaned closer.
“He looks familiar,” she said. “But people come in every day. He’s not a regular.”
Teddy knew it would be tough. If what Harris Carmichael had said was true, Trisco sat at the corner table with his back to the room so that he could watch Rosemary Gibb work out at her club across the street.
“Do you remember serving anyone here that seemed strange?” Teddy said.
“We get a lot of those.”
“What about bad teeth?”
Her eyes pitched back to the photo and something clicked. Dread washed over her face.
“He comes in at night,” she said. “He smells like paint.”
“Where does he sit?”
The rush of adrenalin hit Teddy between the eyes as she pointed at the table by the window.
“There,” she said. “With his back turned.”
FIFTY-FOUR
The hills were snow covered and blushed out in a deep red from the afternoon sun sinking below the horizon. Splotches of purple marked the shadows. As Teddy gazed out the window from the passenger seat in Nash’s Lexus, the landscape appeared in a deep sleep and heavily bruised.
They were making the drive out to the Haverhills Psychiatric Facility. The institution was located about five miles south of Bryn Mawr Hospital in the suburbs. Teddy turned away from the sight of new homes under construction. The fields were gone. The woods. And he didn’t want to think about his father right now. Instead, he watched Nash launch the car through the winding two-lane road at high speed. The engine made a rushing sound. It felt like they were burning jet fuel.