Michael Mcgarrity - Slow Kill

“Will do, Chief.”

As Kerney turned and walked away, Ramona wondered what else she could possibly do to link Claudia Spalding directly to the murder of her husband. She paused in front of the door to the interrogation room where Mitch and the ADA were meeting. After she finished up at the jail and did the search for drugs at Griffin’s house, she would give Ellie Lowrey a call.

Maybe between the two of them they could brainstorm something.

Kim Dean had been cutting legal corners for a long time, but up to now he’d never needed the services of a criminal trial lawyer. He’d used his one phone call from the jail to contact the only attorney he knew, a woman who specialized in real-estate law. She was unable to clear her schedule, but promised to send a junior member of the firm to see him as soon as possible.

Stubbs was the lawyer’s name, Howard Alan Stubbs, and he was talking to Dean about all the things he needed to do to get a clear picture of the situation.

Stubbs called it a “situation,” but Kim knew better; he was in a pile of shit ten feet deep. He also knew he needed a sharper, more experienced lawyer who could dig him out of a hole.

Stubbs looked like his name: short arms and short legs with a Humpty Dumpty body. He wore a brown suit, brown shoes, and a paisley tie that stopped just below his belly button. His pale young face was round as a beach ball.

Dean interrupted Stubbs’s ramblings and asked him when he could get out of jail.

“We won’t know that,” Stubbs replied, “until your arraignment.”

Dean nodded. His right foot tapped a staccato beat on the floor. He pushed down hard on his leg with a hand to make it stop.

“But from what you’ve told me,” Stubbs said, “you may not be released. The DA will ask that you be held without bond, and of course I’ll argue against it. Perhaps I can get the judge to agree to a large cash bond. If not, you’re here until the preliminary hearing. That’s when I’ll get a first look at the evidence against you.”

“Not until then?” Dean asked.

Stubbs shook his head. “And we won’t see everything right away.”

“I want out of this place,” Dean said.

“I can’t guarantee that,” Stubbs said.

“The cop who arrested me said something about federal drug laws. She said I should talk to you about it.”

“As I understand it,” Stubbs said, “the federal laws are more severe. You could find yourself facing trial in both state and federal courts.”

“As you understand it?” Dean snapped.

Stubbs flushed. “I’ll research the statutes.”

That sealed it, Dean thought. Stubbs was in way over his head. “I want you to call someone for me.”

“Sure,” Stubbs answered agreeably.

Dean gave him Claudia’s cell phone number. “Tell the woman who answers where I am and that I need help, lots of it, right away,” he said.

“Who is this woman?” Stubbs asked.

“Just a friend.”

“What’s her name?”

“Just call her and tell her about my situation. She’ll know what to do.”

Stubbs frowned and packed his notebook in his briefcase. “Don’t talk to anyone unless I’m present,” he said.

“Don’t worry, I won’t.”

Dean didn’t move after Stubbs left the room. He sat with the fingers of his hands interlaced, hidden from view under the table. If he eased up and stopped squeezing his hands together his whole body would start shaking.

None of this was supposed to happen. He wanted to push it aside, smash it to bits, stomp it into oblivion. He could feel sweat under his armpits dripping down his rib cage, taste it on his upper lip.

Dean knew he had to stay in control and not do any talking to the cops. And he had to replace Stubbs with somebody sharp. A good prosecutor would push Stubbs around as easily as he had. He needed a crusading defense lawyer with a high profile who knew how to work the media. He had to stay calm and wait for Claudia to come through for him.

A jailer stepped into the room and took him down the hall. Doors slammed closed behind him, glaring light bounced off the polished tile floors, buzzers sounded as electronic locks opened, eyes followed him. The jailer took him back to the isolation cell, locked him in, and peeked at him through the small window.

There was an elevated concrete slab built into one wall to sit or lie on, a steel sink with one cold water tap, three shielded, recessed lights in the ceiling, a steel toilet with a flush valve. Just that, nothing more.

He sat on the concrete slab, stared at the floor, and told himself over and over again to say nothing and wait. It didn’t erase the fear he felt, but it helped.

There were enough pharmaceuticals in Mitch Griffin’s house to keep dozens of dopers, pillheads, and speed freaks happy for weeks-and that was just from the stash Ramona and the officers found in the kitchen cabinet above the refrigerator. Further searching turned up ten pounds of marijuana Griffin had hidden in a locked contractor’s truck box that sat on a shelf in the garage. Additionally, seventeen thousand dollars in cash was found in a trombone case under Mitch’s bed.

While detectives continued searching the house, Ramona stood outside and looked down the lane. Although the hill hid the small village of La Cienega from view, she could see the tops of the old willow trees that lined the valley. A few puffy white clouds drifted overhead in a washed-out, pale blue sky.

Unless Dean talked, she had two days at best to gather enough evidence against Claudia Spalding to arrest her. If Dean didn’t implicate Spalding, and no physical evidence tied her to the crime, what would it take?

Ramona had worked circumstantial evidence cases before, and knew that sometimes they were successful in court and sometimes not. She flipped open her cell phone and dialed Sergeant Ellie Lowrey’s number in California, hoping for some good news.

“Have you got anything?” she asked when Ellie answered.

“Yeah, and it’s all bad,” Lowrey replied. “We got partials off the medicine bottle. They belong to Clifford Spalding and the limo driver. That’s it.”

“Dammit,” Ramona said.

“Tell me about it. What’s up on your end?”

“Dean’s in custody. I booked him on a half dozen felony counts, including drug trafficking and murder. He’s got a lawyer and he isn’t talking.”

“Well, at least you’ve got him,” Ellie said. “That’s half a victory.”

“Not even, if we can’t make a case against Claudia,” Ramona replied. “Any ideas?”

“Just one,” Ellie replied. “Chief Kerney told me that the ranch manager in Paso Robles characterized Claudia as a big flirt.”

“Do you think Claudia has other lovers besides Dean?” Ramona asked.

“I think anything is possible with that woman,” Ellie replied. “What if she wanted out of the marriage in spite of the sexual freedom she had?”

“Or maybe she violated the terms of her agreement with Clifford and he found out about it,” Ramona said.

“Exactly,” Ellie said. “If we could prove that, we’d have a solid motive for murder.”

“So let’s find out if there have been any other lovers in Claudia’s life during the past four years,” Ramona said.

“It’s a deal,” Ellie said. “Keep in touch.”

“Talk to you later,” Ramona said.

She disconnected, turned the house search over to a senior detective, and headed back to the jail. Although Mitch Griffin had denied any sexual involvement with Claudia, Ramona decided it was time to push the subject a bit harder with him to see where it led.

Kerney’s house was built on a shallow depression along a gently sloping ridgeline above a red sandstone canyon. From the portal that ran the length of the south-facing house, he could look down on the meadow below. Cut by a wandering, sandy arroyo and bordered by a stand of old cottonwood trees, the meadow was frequently visited by a small herd of antelope that grazed on the native bunch grasses that grew in the poor soil.