The Lies that Bind (3 page)

I took out my yellow legal pad and put it in my lap. “All right,” I said. “Tell me exactly what happened.”

“When I left the AWC meeting on Siringo at ten, it was pouring rain. It was ten-fifteen when I got home. After I hit the speed bump, I parked, came inside and went to bed. I fell asleep and woke up when the police rang the doorbell.”

“What time was that?”

“I don't know. I'd been asleep, but I don't know for how long. It seemed like a bad dream. Men in uniform were standing at my door, telling me that girl was dead and it was my fault. They made me go outside in the rain and look at the body. I hadn't seen Justine for years, but I recognized her.”

“Did you identify her for the police?”

“
No. They already knew who she was; they found her identification inside her car.”

“Why did they ask you to look at the body?”

“I think they were trying to frighten me into making a confession.” Martha took a sip of her tea. “They also showed me my car, with the dents in the bumper and the hood.”

“Can you describe Justine for me?”

“Yes. Her body was crushed, and she was lying flat on her back. Her eyes … her eyes were open.”

“Was there much blood?”

“No; the rain had washed it away.” She put her cup down. “After they finished examining the body and the scene, the police asked me if they could come inside and look around.”

“You let them?”

“Yes.” Another mistake that could have been avoided if she'd called me sooner. An attorney would have made the police get a search warrant. “I had nothing to hide,” Martha said.

“What did they look at?”

“My typewriter. The police found a note in Justine's pocket inside a sealed envelope. They put it in a plastic bag, showed it to me and accused me of typing it on my typewriter. It was obvious that the type didn't match, but they took a sample from my Selectric anyway.”

“What did the note say?”

“‘I knew this was going to happen, but I couldn't prevent it.'”

That was the kind of message that sent the desert lizard racing down my spine. “Do you have any idea who would have given Justine a note like that?”

Her eyes met mine without a flicker. “No. After the police left, I called Whit and Cindy and they came over.”

“They came over here?” Phoenix was almost five hundred miles away, the last time I'd checked.

“They're living here now, in a house I own at Los Verdes Meadows, the golf course development on—”

“I know where it is. When did they move to Albuquerque?”

“About a month ago. Whit is in real estate, and business has not been good in Arizona. They'd been out to dinner, and they were in bed when I called. They got up anyway and came over. It was suggested that I call you, but it was the middle of the night by then. In the morning no one answered at your office and your line was busy at home, so I looked up your address, got a cab and went to your apartment.”

“Why didn't Cindy come with you?”

“I didn't ask her to.”

“
How is she?” I asked.

“All right. It's been difficult since Michael died, but—”

“Michael died?”

“Three years ago. He was her only son, my only grandson.”

“Oh, God. How did that happen?”

“In a car accident. Cynthia and Whit want to get together with you, and I suggested you all come here for dinner Saturday. Well, are you going to represent me?”

Was I? She was my old friend's mother, but we hadn't liked each other back then and it looked as though we weren't going to like each other much now. On the other hand, homicide is more interesting than real estate and divorce, and she obviously could afford to pay. “I'll require a retainer,” I said.

“I'll pay it.”

“All right,” I said. “I'll talk to the DA's office, and I'll be in touch.”

“Dinner will be here Saturday night at six,” she replied. “You will have spoken to the DA's office by then, so come at five and we'll have a chance to talk before Whit and Cindy arrive.”

“I'll check my calendar,” I said.

I drove out of Los Cerros in slow motion, taking the speed bumps at a pace the Nissan's aging shock absorbers could absorb. I wondered who the DA would assign to this case and why Cindy Reid hadn't called me when she moved to town. I saw a man putting on the putting green. It was a warm enough day to swim, and kids were playing Marco Polo in the pool. “Marco,” one kid yelled. “Polo,” another one answered. A dark-haired, heavyset guy in a wheelchair was rolling across the tennis court. He stopped and stared at me as I drove by.

3

I
N BERNALILLO COUNTY
there's always some controversy surrounding law enforcement. The police catch the blue flu and call in sick because they didn't get the pay raise they wanted. The sheriff promotes his wife to chief deputy with a fifty-thousand-dollar-a-year salary. That could happen anyplace, but what makes Bernalillo County unique is that the sheriff holds a news conference to announce it. The latest episode had to do with a guy named Jimmie Solano, who, in the midst of an attempted suicide, lunged at police officers with a three-inch pocket knife. The officers shot and killed him and kept him from killing himself. It was only one of a number of fatal shootings recently that have given the APD one of the worst records in the West. In the past few years the Duke City police have killed more people than the police in Tucson, Austin, El Paso, Tulsa and Colorado Springs combined. Often domestic violence is involved. Usually the victims are distraught or intoxicated. The APD are trained to “shoot to stop” when they believe they or another person is being threatened, as opposed to shooting to wound. Stopping means aiming at the largest part of the body, where the vital organs are located. A police officer from Tucson was quoted in the
Journal
recently as saying that perhaps the Albuquerque police had more victims because they were better shots. “It could be when they ‘shoot to stop,' they're connecting more,” he said.

Deputy District Attorney Anthony Saia, who had been assigned the Justine Virga case, was an old friend and my favorite deputy DA. He had a creased, rumpled, unmade-bed kind of face. He always looked comfortable—even in his suit—as if he were sitting around on Sunday morning in his bathrobe, reading the paper, eating sugar doughnuts, drinking black coffee and smoking cigarettes. That was one reason I liked him—he had bad habits to equal my own. There aren't many people left to smoke with anymore. His office made me feel right at home too; his desk was a city dump, his ashtray overflowed with ashes and butts. I also appreciated his world-weary, jaundiced attitude. You could call it cynical, you could call it common sense: depends on your point of view.

When I went to his office on Friday morning to talk to him, he was standing in front of a mirror, brushing his hair. It was black with gray highlights, thick and wiry, the kind of hair that reacts to every change in moisture, electricity or wind. Saia didn't pay much attention to his clothes, but he was vain about his hair.

“Hat head,” he said, finishing up and putting the brush in his drawer.

“Pleasure to see you too,” said I.

“Hey, Neil, you know you're my favorite defense lawyer.”

“
That's not saying much.”

He laughed and sat down at his desk. I sat in front of him. He lit a Camel with his Bic lighter. I lit a Marlboro and blew out the match.

“So the APD has the best shots in the West,” I said. Just because I liked the guy didn't mean I couldn't give him some shit.

He winced. “Don't believe everything you read in the papers. A man charging police officers with a weapon is asking for trouble.”

“When the weapon is a three-inch penknife?”

He shrugged, flicked an ash at his ashtray, missed.

“If the APD shot him to keep him from killing himself, what do you call that—murder or suicide?”

“Self-defense. You know, sometimes it's just a matter of luck whether a suspect dies or not.”

“Then the APD is lucky?”

“I'd say unlucky.” He laughed. “I don't think
your
luck's going to be so good on this one.”

“Tell me what I'm going to be reading in the papers.” So far Justine's death had gotten only a brief notice in the
Journal
and the
Tribune,
but sooner or later they'd find out she'd been the girlfriend of Martha's grandson, and that was likely to move the story up to page one.

“That a witness saw Martha Conover's car entering the Los Cerros complex at an excessive rate of speed around ten-fifteen. That a neighbor called the APD at eleven to say she'd found the body in the road.”

He could give me the names of the witness and the neighbor if he chose to. But he wouldn't choose to unless we were talking plea bargain, and he wouldn't have to unless Martha Conover was indicted. It's tough to get any information out of the DA's office while a case is under investigation. “The body wasn't found until eleven?” I asked.

“Yeah. There's not much traffic on that road at night. Nobody lives up there but old ladies, and they don't go out.” Saia picked up a rubber band from his desk, stretched it between his fingers and began moving the fingers back and forth like a sideways seesaw. “There were no brake marks on the pavement. Your client didn't even slow down.”

“Have you gotten the results of the autopsy back yet?”

“Yeah. Death on impact due to massive injuries to the vital organs.”

At least he wouldn't be able to depict Martha Conover as a heartless woman who'd left the victim lying alone in the road to bleed to death. “Did the OMI find any drugs and/or alcohol in Justine's blood? “

“Some antihistamines. That's all. She was Michael Velásquez's girlfriend. Did you know that?”

“Yeah.”

“
And three years ago, also on Halloween, she was driving the car he died in. Did you know that?”

By the time I thought of faking it, it was too late. My expression had given me away. “No,” I said.

“You're slipping, Neil. I thought you'd know your clients better than that.”

“Me, too.”

“One of the investigators thought Virga looked familiar, and he traced her to the previous accident. She was a beautiful girl; someone you'd remember.”

“Was Justine charged with any crime for that accident?”

“Nothing to charge her with. The Porsche came over Lopez Hill, a semi was jackknifed across the road. No way to avoid it.”

“Justine was driving a Porsche?”

“Yeah. It was Michael Velásquez's car.”

“Where did he get a Porsche?” I was thinking out loud, which is a mistake when Saia is listening.

“Maybe his grandmother gave it to him.”

“Maybe.” But it didn't sound like the purse-clutching Martha I knew. “Was Justine speeding or under the influence?”

“She was going close to seventy-five.” He shrugged, implying that was no big deal in New Mexico. “She took a Breathalyzer and came out clean. There
were
brake marks on that one.”

“Martha didn't consult me before she refused to take your Breathalyzer, you know,” I said.

“She was advised of her rights,” said Saia, “and told she had the right to call a lawyer. She declined.”

“Nice of the police not to put her in jail.”

“Hey, she was an old lady in a nightgown, full of Halcion and booze. What could they do? Put her to bed in a holding pen full of hookers? It looked like a simple hit-and-run until the investigation turned up the fact that Conover was Velásquez's grandmother and Virga was driving the car that killed Velásquez.” Saia lit himself another Camel, though one still smoldered in the ashtray. You know you're smoking too much when you've got one burning in the ashtray and another one in your mouth. I squished the butt in the ashtray with my thumb and rubbed it out, but he didn't notice.

The Halcion was something Martha hadn't told me about either, but I kept that lack of information to myself. Not only had Martha had the means, motive and opportunity to kill Justine Virga, she'd apparently had a couple of uninhibiting substances in her system as well.

“Your client told the investigating officer about the Halcion,” Saia continued. “Since she refused to take the Breathalyzer, we have to assume she'd been drinking too.”

It was my turn to shrug. Presumably the APD would interview (or already had interviewed) the
bartender
at the AWC meeting. As that bartender could be held liable for serving an intoxicated person, there was a good chance he or she wouldn't admit to serving Martha Conover two martinis. There might, however, have been witnesses.

“Do I get a copy of the note?” I asked.

“What note?” Saia replied.

“The one the police found in Justine's pocket. They went into Martha's house without a warrant, showed Martha the note and compared it to a sample they took from her typewriter.”

“She gave her consent; they didn't need a warrant.”

“The police woke her up and walked in on her in the middle of the night. I'd say they were taking advantage of a respectable senior citizen.” Saia wouldn't give me the note if it was evidence that would convict my client. If it would exculpate her, he'd have to produce it, but not yet. The note probably wouldn't do either, but
someone
had typed it. I needed to find out who.

Saia picked up the rubber band and stretched it between his fingers. He owed me a favor from a couple of years back, and the time had come to call it in. “You owe me one, Anthony,” I said. “Remember?”

“Yeah, I remember.” He reached into a folder on his desk and took out a piece of white paper. “Here. I made you a copy.”