Steve ignored him. The woman bounded to her feet. She moved toward the door.
The judge hit his steam whistle. Spectators jerked up in their seats.
The woman pushed through the door to the corridor.
“Mr. Solomon! Ms. Lord hasn’t finished her opening. You don’t jump off a moving train-”
“Sorry, Judge. But nature calls.”
“Now?”
“Those cafeteria burritos, Your Honor.” He was out the door before the judge could reply.
In the corridor, Steve wheeled left, then right. Caught a glimpse as the woman turned a corner at the escalators. Six flights down to the lobby. He could beat her there by taking the stairwell.
He ran to the stairwell door, nearly knocking over two young lawyers in spiffy suits, sniffing the halls of Justice for fresh business. Steve took the steps two at a time, vaulting over the bannister to cut corners at each landing.
The floors flew by.
He burst through the door into the lobby.
The usual suspects. Cops. Corrections officers. Clerks. Public defenders, prosecutors. Spectators and witnesses and downtown lawyers. Milling about, buzzing like bees in a hive.
Steve waited at the bottom of the escalator. No blonde in a tennis jacket, with or without sunglasses. Maybe she got off the escalator on one of the higher floors, then switched to the elevator. Steve hurried to the elevator bank. A dozen people poured out of two cars. She wasn’t among them.
Damn.
No use standing here. He had to do something. And he had to get back to the courtroom before Judge Gridley held him in contempt.
Steve took the down escalator up, catching stares from the security guards and glares from the people he passed, going the wrong way. From lobby to second floor, then second floor to third.
And there it was.
A blond wig sticking out of a trash can. A white tennis jacket jammed underneath.
“Mr. Solomon.”
A man’s sleepy voice.
Elwood Reed, in his baggy bailiff’s uniform. Reaching into his pocket.
Oh, shit. Am I gonna be handcuffed?
“Judge thought you might need these,” Reed said, handing Steve a small bottle of pills.
Steve peered at the label. “Equilactin?”
“Judge says it’ll help form solid stools.”
“Well, he oughta know,” Steve allowed.
Thirty-one
“You’re sure the woman was Nash’s ex-girlfriend?” Victoria asked.
“Why else would she run from me like that?” Steve answered.
“She could be your ex-girlfriend.”
“She never calls Nash, then shows up at the trial. Now, why would she do that?”
“What does Nash say?”
“No idea. He’s still heartbroken she ran out on him in the first place.”
They were sitting in the backyard of their home on Kumquat Avenue, Victoria sipping Chardonnay, Steve knocking back a Morimoto Ale. Friday night. On Monday morning, Victoria would put Wade Grisby on the witness stand, and Steve had nothing to poke holes in his story. A bleak thought occurred to him.
Maybe Grisby’s telling the truth. Maybe he was only defending himself when he gunned down Sanders.
There was nothing to tie Grisby to Hardcastle. There was no evidence Grisby had ever encountered Sanders before the raid. Without some link, without some motive for Grisby to kill Sanders, Steve had nothing.
Zilch. Bupkes. Gornisht.
Guilty as charged.
“I’ve never felt so clueless in a trial,” he said.
“Are you gaming me?”
He shook his head. “You’re going to beat me. But that’s not what’s bothering me. I’m letting Nash down. He’s just a naive kid who deserves better.”
She heard it in his voice. He was wounded.
“You’ve got lots of clues,” she said. “You just don’t know where they lead.”
“Are you trying to tell me something?”
She didn’t answer, just took another sip of the wine.
“Because if you know something about Passion Conner,” he pressed her, “under the discovery rules, you better tell me.”
“You don’t have to remind me about my ethical duties. And I don’t know anything about Passion Conner, except I’m glad my parents weren’t as creative when it came time for the baby naming.”
“She could be connected to Sanders,” Steve said. “They both sought out Gerald Nash. When Sanders suggested they hit Cetacean Park, Passion cheered him on. When Nash tried to call her, she’d already canceled her cell phone. The backstory she gave him, Marine Biology degree from Rosenstiel, was phony. No one with that name ever attended the school. And crewing on a tuna boat, getting radicalized in the animal rights movement. No way to disprove it, but I doubt it’s true.”
Victoria tried nudging him in another direction. “If you’re at a dead end with her, why not focus on Sanders?”
“I already know who he was-an ex-Navy SEAL who went to work for Hardcastle.”
“With a stop in between at an insurance company.”
Steve laughed. “Yeah. His cover story. Nash told me.”
Victoria gave him one of her looks. The one that came with a little shake of the head.
“What?” he asked.
“Did you go through the personal effects from Sanders’ car?”
“Everything on your discovery list. A pre-paid calling card. Some shorts and Hawaiian shirts. A wallet with a bunch of hundred-dollar bills. No credit cards, no receipts from the laundry, no lottery tickets.”
“So you didn’t notice the business card. ‘Charles J. Sanders. Chief Adjuster.’”
“I saw it. Some phony insurance company.”
“You’re sure it’s phony?”
“I could print a card saying I’m king of the world.”
Victoria finished her wine and sighed. “You’re getting sloppy, and you know why? Because I always do the detail work for you.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Did you call the number on the card?”
“Of course. I got Sanders’ voice mail. It was his cell phone, not an insurance company.”
“Did you listen to his message?”
“It said he was unavailable. Which was a real understatement.”
“And that’s where you stopped?”
“Yeah. The technical legal term, Vic, is ‘dead end.’”
“But you have his phone number. You could subpoena the carrier and find out the name on the account.”
“Who would do that? No lawyer I know would do that.” He paused a moment. “You did that?”
“I don’t have to tell you anything else. I’ve given you more than the law requires. There’s nothing that says I have to lead you by the hand.”
“Nothing except your sense of justice. If I missed something that might result in an injustice, you’d tell me. And not just because we love each other. You’d do it no matter who was defending the case.”
“Don’t play me, Steve.”
“Okay. Okay. I’ll get a subpoena issued for the phone carrier. I’ll get a process server. I’ll be a real grind.”
“Good.”
“And when I get the records, what am I going to learn?”
“Steve!”
“You’re right. You’ve helped enough. Thanks.”
She sighed, a single breath of exasperation. “The cell phone is registered to an insurance company. Bestia Casualty. They’re headquartered in Denver.”
“They’re real?”
“Sanders worked there. Chief Adjuster.”
“I’m having trouble picturing Chuck Sanders in a white shirt and tie and holding a clipboard.”
“It’s not auto insurance. He wasn’t appraising fender benders.”
Steve seemed to think it over a moment. In the backyard bottlebrush tree, a mockingbird was calling to its mate. “Just what kind of insurance does Bestia sell?”
“Specialized business casualty.”
“Specialized? What’s that mean?”
Victoria poured herself more wine. “In the industry, it’s what they call ‘unusual risks.’”