Steve Martini - Double Tap

“I can check with the company, this Isotenics place,” says Herman. “See if they have any record of the Orb bein’ there.”

“Check it,” I tell him. “But I suspect Harry is right.”

“If it’s not there at her office, and the cops don’t have it, we have to figure whoever killed her grabbed it,” says Harry.

“One would think so. Back to the time of death: what do we have from the state’s pathologist?” This is not likely to be of much help. Without witnesses to nail it down-someone who saw the victim alive, and another who discovered the body-this is a guessing game at best.

“He says it could have happened anytime between five-fifty and ten-forty that night. They’re assuming she left the glass gallery sometime between five-fifteen and five-thirty. The cops found the body just before eleven that night,” says Harry.

“Sounds to me like they’re operating on the notion we are: that she went straight home from the art shop,” Herman says.

“How do you figure?” Harry asks.

“She couldn’t have gone to her office and made it back home in twenty minutes,” Herman explains. “Not that time of day-not with the traffic and all.”

“That’s if she left at five-thirty,” Harry says. “What if she left a few minutes earlier? What if the shop owner’s son is right?”

“Maybe,” says Herman. “But I don’t think so. Traffic’s too heavy to go anywhere else. And, like you say, she ain’t gonna park the car someplace and leave the Orb sittin’ there.”

“If no one heard the shot, why did the cops show up at her house? Who called them?” I wonder.

“She missed a dinner appointment,” says Harry. He is looking through the pile of papers in his lap, finds what he wants, and scans it with his eyes. “Chapman had a dinner appointment at eight o’clock that evening. A place in San Diego. Restaurant in the Gaslamp Quarter. When she didn’t show, people waiting for her called the house, then her cell phone. They left messages both places. The cops confirmed it: messages on voice mail. First one was received at eight twenty-two that evening. She didn’t answer.”

“Then the pathologist is off,” I say.

Harry looks at me.

“The time of death. Medical examiner is saying anytime between five-fifty that evening and ten-forty that night when the responding officers showed up. But if she wasn’t answering the phone at eight twenty-two, it’s a fair assumption that she was already dead.”

“You’re right,” says Harry.

We are now down to a time frame for the murder of less than three hours. Unfortunately, Ruiz has no alibi for the evening in question. According to the statement he gave the police, he was at home alone in his apartment, asleep, since he had worked the graveyard shift the day before and was scheduled to go to work at eleven that night.

“Cause of death,” says Harry, “was bleeding coupled with massive trauma to the brain.” He is looking at the pathology report.

“Who was it that called the cops?”

“Someone in the dinner party waiting for her. They got worried about her and called the security contractors at Isotenics. When they couldn’t reach her and she didn’t show up at the restaurant, they called the police. They asked for a drive-by. Cop went to the front door and saw the body on the floor through an opening in the curtain on one of the windows next to the door.”

“Do we have a name, the dinner guest who placed the call?”

Harry looks through the papers. “Hmm. That’s strange.”

“What?”

“No name. The police report lists all the witnesses, neighbors they talked to, people at dinner waiting for her, but it doesn’t say who placed the call.”

“It had to be somebody who knew her pretty well if they had her cell phone number,” says Herman.

“See if you can find out,” I tell him. Herman makes a note. “So let’s work the time frame,” I say. “Figure it took her, what, maybe fifteen minutes to drive home from the glass studio, depending on traffic.”

“And assuming she didn’t stop anywhere else.” Harry is milling through one of the files on his lap as he talks.

“That would have put her in the house maybe five-forty-five at the latest. So play out the theories. First one to consider is theft.”

“The art glass,” says Harry.

“Right. Let’s say someone who saw her in the shop got a good look at the piece, a sense as to its value. Maybe he over-hears the sounds of commerce, a figure mentioned. He’d have to know where she lives.”

“Or follows her home,” says Herman.

“He’d have to have access or find a way in. But most important, he’d have to find the gun before he could shoot her.”

“Figure he followed her,” Harry hypothesizes. “Waited to break in. Got into the yard, found the window. Even if she’s in the house, like you say, it’s a big place. She’s downstairs. So maybe the killer goes upstairs looking for the Orb , doesn’t find it immediately, so he starts going through drawers.”

“Why would he be going through drawers? We have pictures of the item. It was too big to fit in a drawer,” I tell him.

“Maybe he figured he’d grab a few other trinkets as long as he was already inside.”

“And he stumbles on the gun?”

“It’s possible,” Harry says.

I’m shaking my head.

“Why not? Cops didn’t find the body until almost eleven.”

“Yes, but if we’re right, she was already dead by the time the call came in from the restaurant. That was what?”

“Eight twenty-two,” Harry answers. “That means the guy had about three hours.”

“It’s not the lack of time: it’s too much time.”

“What do you mean?” he says.

“Think about it. You break in and you’re rattling around in somebody’s house, a strange place, going from room to room, going through drawers. If it was that easy to get in, why take the chance on getting caught? Why not just go back to your car, watch the house until she leaves, then go back in and take whatever you want, including the Orb ?”

Harry mulls this over for a moment, the devil’s advocate at work. “Maybe she was in the shower. Didn’t hear the phone when they called her from the restaurant. In which case our guess as to time of death may be wrong.”

“No.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Because he killed her in the first few minutes after she got home.”

“How do you know that?”

“Where are the crime-scene shots? The ones showing the victim.”

Harry looks at me, then starts pawing through one of the files. He finds a large manila envelope, opens the flap, and turns it upside down so that a half dozen eight-by-ten glossies slip out and slide across the table, stopping only when I slap my hand down on them.

I pick up the photos and finger through them until I find the two I’m looking for. One of them shows Madelyn Chapman lying facedown on the floor. Her left eye, the one I can see, is open, staring at eternity. What is left of her lower jaw is resting in a large dark pool of blood, strings of blond hair matted to the floor. Blood has soaked into her white silk blouse, turning portions of it along her left side into what looks like a mottled, formless shade of black. A shot like this can subvert notions of justice. Mystical abstractions like the burden of proof and reasonable doubt tend to get lost when jurors start having nightmares. If this photo makes its way into the jury box, Harry and I will need the overhead sprinkler system in the courthouse to put out the fire every time Ruiz makes eye contact with a juror.

I turn the picture toward Harry. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but according to witnesses, her secretary at work and the studio owner, this is the outfit she was wearing that day.”