John Lescroart - The Suspect

Juhle threw his pen down on the desk, relieved after all at the respite. He pushed himself back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. "You know who I've been thinking about, Ger? Fidel fucking Rayas, that's who. Wondering why we've got to waste time and money on a trial for the son of a bitch."

"Because, my son, as I'm sure you know and appreciate, he's innocent in the eyes of the law until proven guilty. Who is he?"

"Christina Hidalgo's boyfriend. Also, p.s., the killer of her son, age five months."

"Shook him, did he?"

Juhle nodded. "Maybe a bit more than that. Although he's on his way to convincing Christina that it wasn't his fault, at least enough that she won't testify to it. He didn't really shake him. He just picked the kid up, trying to quiet it down, and then he just stopped breathing. Maybe because his skull got cracked. Somehow. Falling off his bed, maybe."

Abrams closed the gap between himself and Juhle's desk and plunked himself on a corner of it. "Tell her if it wasn't him, the only person that leaves is her. That ought to bring her right around."

Drawing a deep breath, fully disgusted, Juhle let out a string of matter-of-fact profanity. "I want to just shoot him right now," he concluded. "I swear to God, I do."

Abrams nodded. "I couldn't agree more, Dev. Really. The saddest thing about life here in San Francisco is there's no chance getting a death penalty. Maybe you could arrest him and accidentally slam into a telephone pole while you're driving him downtown. Guys like Fidel, I bet they're too macho to use their seat belts. You're going fast enough, he's toast."

Juhle perked up, straightened in his chair. "You know what, Ger? That's not a bad idea. Cost of a car against a murder trial, the city wins big time. I could get a medal." Juhle took a breath, seemed to shake the evil thoughts off his body, changed the subject. "So what were you thinking about Gorman? I thought yesterday we didn't have any evidence? You get something I don't know about?"

"No. But I watched the news last night."

"The fox?"

"His wife's sister. You saw her, then?" "She was hard to miss. Va-voom, huh?"

"At least. But you put her in the mix, suddenly we might be at a tipping point."

"Is she in the mix? Were they together?"

Abrams fairly beamed. "Why I love television. Noon news, just breaking. Her ex-husband says they went up to his cabin-that cabin again-for nearly a week. Alone together."

Juhle whistled, impressed. "But wait," he said. "There's been another development beyond that, not saying it's going to un-tip you, but you need to hear about it."

"What's that?" Abrams listened while Juhle explained about the TSNK e-mails. When the story was over, he said, "He's going proactive, that's all. Trying to give us something else, get us off him."

"That's how I read it too," Juhle said, "but it was a pretty good press. His lawyer and her investigator."

"Who's the lawyer?"

"Gina Roake."

Abrams brightened. "Roake. I don't recall her ever doing a homicide before. I should ask around. If she hasn't, it's something else to consider. The call on whether or not to bring him in is close enough. If he's got a first-timer defending him, odds on us go up. Maybe only slightly, but with everything else that might be enough."

"So what were you thinking about that brought you down here?"

"What we actually had." Suddenly the assistant district attorney was on his feet, pacing between Juhle's desk and the lockers. "Look, we've been going on about the lack of physical evidence, and there's no doubt that's a problem. The question is whether it's insurmountable. With this woman, finally-the sister-in-law-I'm starting to believe maybe it isn't."

"I'm listening."

"Okay, you're a jury. You hear about Gorman leaving the lakes at two o'clock in the morning. Squirrelly right off the bat, no? He takes way too long to show up at Rancho Cordova. And by the way, I did check and there were no traffic problems. Any way you cut it, there's lost time in there. It makes more sense that he drove up from the city after the murder. Then he's got a neighbor-and not just any neighbor, someone who's going to be a hostile witness for us and his daughter's friend-who puts him and his car at the house. He's doing CPR on a corpse in full rigor when the first squad arrives. Then there's the money. And finally, now, the other woman. This thing sings like Pavarotti."

"You're preaching to the choir, Gerry. But you're the DA. You've got to make the call."

Abrams' eyes flicked at the ceiling, came back to Juhle. "We don't do something, he's gonna walk. Are you expecting more from the morgue or the lab?"

"Nope. We could always get surprised, but…"

Abrams crossed back to the lockers one more time, his finger tattooing the echoing metal, trying to make up his mind.

Just at that moment, the telephone on the desk rang. Juhle held a finger up to Abrams and picked it up. "Juhle, Homicide." He all but came to attention in his chair, straightening up, grabbing for his pen. "Yes, Mrs. Robley," he said, "go ahead. I'm listening." And as he listened, his face clouded over until it was set in darkness. "Yes, ma'am," he said. "Should I talk to her? No. Sure. I understand." After another minute of monosyllables, Juhle hung up and looked over at Gerry Abrams. "Bethany Robley's mother," he said. "The son of a bitch sent his own daughter to threaten Bethany to change her testimony."

This wasn't good news for the witness by any means, but it brought a cold smile to Abrams' face. "We've just tipped, Dev. Go talk to her on tape. Nail it down. Then let's go find us a judge, get the sucker in jail while we've still got the chance."

Robert McAfee greeted Wyatt Hunt in the doorway of the newly built warehouse-like structure on Geary at the eastern edge of Japantown. The site of the city's soon-to-be-completed Total Joint Clinic was not in a low-rent neighborhood by any stretch, and its now-sole principal betrayed a distinct pride of ownership as he shook Hunt's hand.

McAfee, dressed more like a construction worker than a doctor, in heavy work boots, tan denim pants and a black and gold Giants windbreaker, looked young and fit enough to play with the big club. He had all of his hair, and none of it was gray above a subtle widow's peak that bisected an unlined forehead. With his piercing gray eyes, strong nose, good teeth and day-and-a-half stubble, he was as handsome as a movie star. He also accepted without question, and without looking at the proffered business card, Hunt's description of himself as a defense investigator looking into the death of Caryn Dryden, offering only, "But I already talked to one of your partners, whose name escapes me, I'm sorry."

"Devin Juhle?" Hunt volunteered, willing to take advantage of McAfee's lack of distinction between police and defense investigators. Hunt had done what the Penal Code required-identified himself and given the witness a business card. What the witness chose to believe after that was not Hunt's problem.

"That was it. Juhle. I told him I was asleep on Sunday night, which I was. Though of course I was devastated to hear about Caryn. I still am. But I don't know what else you need to know from me. I hadn't seen her since last Thursday. Surely I'm not a suspect, am I?"

Hunt loved it when he was mistakenly taken for a policeman. He answered with an open, guileless look. "Until somebody's arrested, the field's technically open, but you were home in bed when the murder occurred." He phrased it as fact, although he knew from Gina that McAfee was Stuart's pick as most likely suspect which, if true, meant the alibi was bogus.

"That's right."

"So my real interest is that as Caryn's business partner, you might know something about her and either not know that you know it or not realize its importance."