Desperate Measures
- Автор: Вудс Стюарт
- Серия: Stone Barrington #47
- Год: 2018
- Язык: английский
- Год: G.P. Putnam's Sons
- ISBN: 978-0-7352-1922-9
- Жанр: Триллеры
Электронная книга - «Desperate Measures». Краткое содержание книги:
“I’ve already given Fred the rest of the night off,” he replied.
They kissed, and she undid one of his shirt buttons, slipped her hand inside and fondled a nipple.
“Sold,” Stone said, and they took the walk to her bedroom, shedding clothes along the way.
They turned back the bed’s covers and got into it.
“I’m going to make this good for your morale,” she said, reaching for other parts.
“I believe you,” Stone said, then gave himself to the moment and the rest of the night.
The following morning at the precinct, Muldoon put down the phone. “The commissioner wants the crime scene guys to make another visit to the Scott apartment and go over the kitchen again for prints.”
“As long as they’re taking another look,” Calabrese said, “they might as well get all the prints off Trask’s gun. It’s in the evidence room.”
“Dante,” Muldoon said, using his partner’s first name for the first time, “I believe you’ve switched your brain on.”
“Yeah, well, we should have printed him last night,” Calabrese said.
“Don’t worry,” Muldoon repled, “he was printed when he applied for his carry license.” Muldoon made the calls.
46
Stone, his morale refreshed, slipped out of bed at daybreak, got into his clothes, kissed Edie lightly on the ear, and let himself out of her apartment. Downstairs, he walked briskly through the lobby, nodded at the desk man, and allowed the doorman to get him a cab.
A half hour later he was in his own bed, eating his usual breakfast, when his cell phone rang. “Hello?”
“You sneaked out on me,” Edie said, petulantly.
“I didn’t know how long you might want to sleep,” he replied.
“I was looking forward to waking you,” she said.
“My apologies. When next we meet I’ll find a way to make it up to you.”
“I’ll accept that promise,” she said, then hung up.
That afternoon, Donald Trask sat across the desk from his new attorney, Alfred Goddard.
“Call me Alfie,” the lawyer said. “You like to be called Don?”
“I prefer Donald.”
“Okay, let me tell you how this is going to go, Don: first of all, you’re through talking to the cops.” He plucked a few cards from a tray on his desk and shoved them across. “Anybody asks you anything, like, ‘Isn’t it a nice day?’ you give him my card and tell him to call me. Do you clearly understand that?”
“I do.”
“If you should find yourself temporarily in a jail cell, especially don’t talk to anybody there. The DA is notorious for producing cellmate witnesses who swear the defendant made a full and complete confession, and the prisons are full of people who talked to cellmates.”
“I understand,” Trask replied.
“I want you to understand something else,” Goddard said. “If you went to trial tomorrow, I’d get you off scot-free, based on what they’ve got now for evidence.”
“That’s encouraging.”
“The thing is not to give them another shred of evidence for free.”
“Do you want to know whether I did it?”
“No, and I’ll tell you why. If you told me you did it, then I couldn’t put you on the stand and allow you to deny it. That would put me in deep shit, as well as you.”
“I understand.”
“Anything else you say to me is privileged — attorney-client relationship — so, apart from copping to the crime, feel free to talk.”
“All right, why couldn’t they convict me now with the evidence they have? Can’t a jury do anything they like?”
“It’s my job to see that they want for you what I want for you, and I’m good at it. I have one client who never confessed to me, but I believe had personally committed at least a dozen murders. He’s never served a day in prison.”
“Good work,” Trask replied.
“Another thing to remember, Don. The cops are not legally required to tell you the truth. They can tell you they’ve got movies of you killing your wife, if they feel like it. And if you fall for such a lie, you’re done. All the more reason not to talk to them, or even listen to them.”
“I’ll remember,” Trask said.
“Donald, have you got a temper?”
Trask shrugged. “Sometimes.”
“Not anymore. You can’t afford it. If somebody at a cocktail party accuses you of murdering your wife, politely deny it and find somebody else to talk to.”
“All right.”
“If somebody in a bar takes a swing at you because you were looking at his girlfriend’s tits, get up, apologize, pay his bar tab, and get out of there.”
“All right.”
“From now on, Don, you’re going to have to work at being the nicest guy in the world — even to the fucking media. If somebody points a camera at you and sticks a mic in your face, give him a little smile and say, ‘I’m sorry, but I’m sure you know that I can’t talk about that right now.’ Remember, in the unlikely event that this should ever go to trial, there will be future members of your jury watching this on TV.”
“All right.”
“Help old ladies across the street, and if somebody’s dog bites you, laugh it off, pat him on the head, and get a rabies shot.”
Goddard got up and walked him to the door. “Just relax, Don. Keep your mouth shut and everything will be all right.”
Trask decided to believe that.
As he walked out of the office building Trask was surprised to see the two detectives, Muldoon and Calabrese, sitting in their car watching him. Muldoon even took a cell phone photo of him. Trask smiled, gave them a little wave, and crossed the street to get a cab.
“He looks awful happy,” Calabrese said.
“Don’t worry about it,” Muldoon said. “He’s just had the pep talk from Alfie Goddard, that’s all. He’s still scared shitless.”
47
Stone and Dino met at their club, known to its members as the Club, and to hardly anyone else. The Club occupied a double-width townhouse in the East Sixties, and also had a garage, which allowed its members to enter the building discreetly.
They had a drink at the bar first and subtly gawked at their fellow members — senators, moguls, athletes, and the occasional movie star, in town to do publicity on his or her new film.
“I’ve got news,” Dino said, taking care not to be overheard.
“I hope it’s good news,” Stone said.
“It’s sorta good news,” Dino replied.
“How sorta?”
“About seventy-one percent.”
“Seventy-one percent of what?”
“Seventy-one-percent chance of being a hit.”
“A hit record?”
“A hit print. The crime scene people went back to Cilla’s apartment, which is still an official crime scene, and went over the kitchen with an extremely fine-tooth comb. They came up with a partial print on the wall phone.”
“That’s fantastic!” Stone enthused.
“Not yet.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, we don’t know yet when he touched it, but the computer that compares prints with our arrest database says the partial has a seventy-one-percent chance of belonging to Donald Trask.”
“Couldn’t it be encouraged to change that to ninety-nine percent?” Stone asked.
“You don’t encourage computers, and they don’t have a sense of humor, either.”
“Well, seventy-one percent is a lot better than it might be.”
“Yeah? Alfie Goddard is going to tell the jury that there’s a twenty-nine percent chance that the print belongs to one of the other millions in the national crime database, and that constitutes reasonable doubt.”
“Then put an expert on the stand who’ll testify that a score of seventy-one percent is a near-certainty, and there’s no room for reasonable doubt.”