Стюарт Вудс - Contraband

Herbie came back after half a minute.

“That was my client,” he said. “The plumbing contractor, the one who forgot to install water cutoffs in a dozen bathrooms. Now what were you rabbiting on about?”

“As you’re aware, your esteemed client, Roberta Calder, is no longer in need of a divorce attorney. But all is not lost. You may yet have the opportunity to defend her on one or more murder charges.”

“Has she been arrested?”

“Not yet. The police are at her apartment now, requesting that they be allowed to tear it apart like hungry bears.”

“You talked to her?”

“Only to tell her to talk to you, and to shut up and not allow a search until after speaking to you.”

“I’ve heard nothing from her.”

“Check your cell and e-mails.”

There was a brief pause, then, “She texted me: ‘Come quick, the police are here.’ She doesn’t say where.”

Stone gave him her address and phone number. “I suggest you call her, then get your ass over there.”

“On my way.” Herbie hung up.

Joan buzzed. “Guess who on one.”

Stone sighed. “Yes?”

“I called him, but he hasn’t shown up,” Robbie said.

“No, you texted him, and he only just now got the message, and you didn’t bother to tell him where you are.”

“Are you coming?”

“No, but Herb is. I gave him your address, and he’s on his way. Keep the police out until he arrives, and don’t say a word to them.” He hung up.

Joan came into his office. “I take it there is some sort of flap on with Robbie.”

“Good guess,” Stone replied.

Joan went back to her office.

Stone tried to go back to work. Three-quarters of an hour later, Herbie Fisher called.

“What’s happening?”

“Let’s see. I think ‘All hell has broken loose’ covers it.”

Stone groaned. “Tell me.”

“I arrived here to find the police gleefully ransacking her home, because she said they could, while she attacked me for being unresponsive to her needs.”

“I hope she didn’t fire you,” Stone said.

“I wish she had. Oh, did I mention that they took her away in handcuffs, they’re charging her with double murder, and that I have to go downtown now for her arraignment and make a hopeless plea for bail?”

“She may be able to come up with a lot of collateral. Try for house arrest. She has twenty-two employees working in her basement, and they have spouses and hungry children.”

“Where did you come up with that number?”

“It’s an estimate. The judge isn’t going to go over there and count noses.”

“Well...”

“Did they have a warrant?”

“They didn’t need one. She told them to go ahead, like I told you.”

“Did they find anything?”

“Oh, didn’t I mention that? They found a snub-nosed Smith & Wesson .38, with four rounds fired, cleverly concealed in her underwear drawer.”

“It’s not the murder weapon,” Stone said confidently.

“How do you know? Did you kill them yourself, then hide the gun in her underwear drawer?”

“No, Dino told me the cops had found a snub-nosed .38 in a dumpster, a couple of blocks from where Hedger got his.”

“Well, I’m going to say a little prayer that ballistics makes the dumpster .38 the murder weapon, then I might get bail. I’m outta here.” He hung up.

Stone was surprised that ten minutes passed before Dino called. “You heard?”

“I hear some stuff I can’t believe,” Stone said.

“Looks like your client is in the clear, for the moment.”

“Oh? How did she manage that?”

“The .38 in the dumpster wasn’t a ballistics match. All of us here are very disappointed.”

“Well, pal, don’t give up hope,” Stone said. “The cops have just turned over Robbie’s place and found a snub-nosed .38 in her underwear drawer. But, before you get too excited, it could be an illegal search.”

“Just my luck,” Dino said.

“Herbie is on his way downtown to seek bail, as we speak.”

“Maybe I’ll pop over to the courthouse and attend that arraignment, instead of getting all my news from you.” Dino hung up.

Stone called Herbie on his cell.

“Yeah?”

“It’s Stone.”

“I’m just walking into the courtroom.”

“The .38 the cops found in the dumpster isn’t a match. My advice is to claim an illegal search.”

“They say they got her permission.”

“Find out what she says, and if she says she did, tell her to shut up. Let me know how you come out.”

They both hung up.

Herbert Fisher sat down on a bench next to his new client, Roberta Calder. He wanted to address her with his hands around her throat, but he observed courtroom decorum.

“You wouldn’t believe what I went through, who I had to share a cell with,” Roberta said.

“All right, Robbie,” he said, “tell me what you’ve done.”

“Done? Me?”

“Why didn’t you telephone me, as Stone advised, when the police arrived?”

“I did telephone you, and you didn’t show up.”

“You texted me, and you didn’t tell me where to come.”

“Well!” she exploded, causing him to put a finger to his lips.

“Did you tell the police they could search your apartment?”

“I did not.”

“What, exactly, did you say to them?”

“I told them they wouldn’t find anything they were looking for in my home!”

“In exactly those words?”

“More or less.”

“I need to know exactly what words you spoke to them.”

“I may have said something like, ‘Go ahead, you won’t find anything in my home!’”

“Can you see how they might have interpreted the words ‘Go ahead’ as an affirmative response to their request to search your apartment?”

“Well, interpretation is their problem, isn’t it?”

“We’ll see shortly. Now, what else did you say to them?”

“Absolutely nothing.”

“Did they ask you any questions?”

She shrugged. “I suppose.”

“What was the first question they asked you?”

“They said, ‘Where’s the gun?’”

“And how did you respond?”

“I said, ‘Go ahead, you won’t find a gun here.’”

Herb took a very deep breath and let it out slowly. “But they did find a gun, didn’t they?”

“Well, that’s what they said. They shouldn’t be rummaging around in a person’s underwear drawer.”

“Did they show you a gun?”

“Yes, a very small one.”

“Had you seen the gun before?”

“I may have, during the short time Randy and I lived together.”

“Was it his gun?”

“Well, who else’s?”

“Did he show it to you?”

“Yes.”

“Did he say, ‘This is my gun’?”

“Words to that effect.”

“Did he ever fire the gun in your presence?”

“Only once,” she said.

“How many times?”

“On one occasion, but he fired it more than once.”

“How many times?”

“Several.”

“Can you put a number on it?”

“Eight?”

“The gun in question holds only six rounds.”

“What are rounds ?”

“Bullets.”

“Okay, less than eight times. I’m not sure how many.”

“Where did the bullets go?”

“Out the barrel, of course.”

“What was the gun pointed at?”

“Me!”

“But he missed?”

“Obviously. I’m not dead.”

“Did the bullets strike something behind you, like a wall?”

“I suppose.”

“Where were you standing at the time?”

“In the corner of my living room.”

They were interrupted by the bailiff, who shouted, “Roberta Hedger!”