Trick or Deadly Treat (8 page)

T
hat afternoon, while Phyllis was working on her casserole recipe, Sam went up to his room and called Mike on his cell phone. Not surprisingly, he had to leave a message, but Mike called him back about a half hour later, while Sam was watching an episode of
Gunsmoke.

“Hey, Sam, what's up?”

“I was just wonderin' if you'd heard any more about the Baxter murder case,” Sam said.

The slight hesitation on the other end of the line made him think that Mike was probably frowning. After a moment Mike said, “Why are you asking about that? I thought my mother was going to steer clear of this one. Good grief. Has she got you doing legwork for her again? Already?”

“Nope, not at all. She doesn't even know I called you. I'm just askin' because I like the guy, and I'm worried about what's gonna happen to him.”

“Oh.” Mike sounded relieved. “Well, I don't really know
any more than I did yesterday evening. I assume Dr. Baxter was arraigned this morning and bail was set.”

“You don't know how much it'd be or whether he was able to pay it, though.”

“Not a clue,” Mike agreed. He paused again. “I could call a friend of mine at the courthouse . . .”

“I'd sure be curious to know,” Sam said.

“I'm not sure I like the way this is going. Are you thinking about doing something crazy, Sam?”

Sam laughed and said, “Who, me? You ever know me to be anything but steady, dependable Sam?”

“Well, no, but you've been around my mother for several years now. And I know you've helped her poke around in criminal cases before. You can get in trouble doing that.”

“I know. I know. I just want to find out how the doc's doin', that's all.”

With skepticism obvious in his voice, Mike said, “I'm still not sure my mother didn't put you up to this, but what the hey, I'll find out what I can and call you back, okay?”

“I appreciate it,” Sam said. He said good-bye and went back to watching Festus squabble with Doc, but he had trouble keeping his mind on the TV show. Normally, those two had him smiling and laughing, but today he wore a slight frown as he tried to keep his thoughts from wandering.

When his cell phone buzzed a half hour later, he answered it immediately. Mike said, “Hi, Sam. I found out a little about the Baxter case, if you still want to know.”

“Yeah, I do,” Sam said.

“Dr. Baxter was arraigned this morning and the judge set bail at a million dollars.”

Sam let out a low whistle. “That's a lot of money. Do you know if he was able to pay it and get out of jail?”

“A bail bondsman did. Baxter's out. I don't know, of course, but I suspect he put up his veterinary practice as collateral. It's probably not worth a million bucks by itself, but maybe he has some other property he was able to throw in.”

“So he made bail and was released.”

“That's what my friend at the courthouse said. Jimmy D'Angelo showed up and handled the arraignment, and then Baxter left with him.”

“Who's this fella D'Angelo?” Sam asked.

“Defense attorney. He represented the defendants in several trials where I had to testify, but nothing anywhere near as major as a murder case. That's all I really know about him, though.”

Sam nodded even though Mike couldn't see him over the phone. He was glad that Hank Baxter had a lawyer, although he didn't have any idea how competent Jimmy D'Angelo was.

“So now the case goes to the grand jury.”

“Right,” Mike said, “but that won't be for a few weeks.”

“In the meantime the cops'll be investigatin' the case some more?”

Mike hesitated before answering. “They'll be looking for evidence to bolster their case. There must be some already, or Sullivan wouldn't have signed off on the arrest warrant. He'll want more, though.”

“What if Sullivan's not reelected?”

District Attorney Timothy Sullivan was running for reelection, and the vote would be in less than a week. Sam intended to cast his ballot against the DA, who'd had Phyllis
locked up for tampering with evidence and obstruction of justice in a previous case.

Sam supposed that technically Phyllis
had
tampered with evidence, but she hadn't obstructed justice in the slightest. In fact, if it hadn't been for her efforts, a cunning killer would have gotten away with murder. Phyllis had been responsible for justice being done.

“I'm afraid that won't really make any difference,” Mike replied to Sam's question. “Baxter's case is already in the system, and it'll proceed no matter who the DA is. I don't think Sullivan has any personal ax to grind against Baxter. He's just doing his job, and that's what the next guy'll do.” Mike grunted. “Anyway, I think it's pretty much a foregone conclusion that Sullivan will win the election.”

“Yeah, politics is one of the few professions where bein' a weasel seems to give you an advantage.” Sam sighed. “All right, Mike. Thanks. I didn't really want to ask this favor of you, but I didn't know what else to do.”

“Sam, are you
sure
my mom's not gonna get mixed up in this?”

“All I know is what she tells me, and she said she wasn't.”

“All right,” Mike said. “I hope she doesn't change her mind.”

“Yeah,” Sam said, but the word sounded a little hollow in his ears. He was starting to come to the conclusion that as far as detective work was concerned, he was in over his head.

*   *   *

Later that afternoon, Sam told Phyllis, “I've got to go out again.”

“Well, you're as busy as can be lately,” she said.

“Not really. Just tryin' to get some things done.”

“Well, go ahead,” she told him with a wave of her hand as she stood at the kitchen counter with some mixing bowls in front of her. “I'll keep an eye on Buck.”

Sam glanced out the window into the backyard.

“Rain's stopped,” he commented. “Looks like the sun's tryin' to come out. I can put him out before I go if you want.”

“No, that's all right.” She looked down to where the Dalmatian was lying in a corner of the kitchen. “Is that fine with you, Buck?”

The dog's tail thumped against the floor as he wagged it.

Sam chuckled and said, “All right. I appreciate it.”

He got in his pickup and drove the few blocks to downtown. He had looked up Jimmy D'Angelo on his laptop and found that the defense attorney's office was in a building just off the square, which came as no surprise because the courthouse was in easy walking distance from there.

Sam found a parking place and walked across the square. A brisk north wind blew, but it was a dry wind now that the rain was over. Big patches of blue sky showed through the clouds overhead as they broke up. It would be cold tonight, Sam knew, but Buck would be snug in his bed next to the dryer.

Sam found Jimmy D'Angelo's office. The defense attorney was part of a firm called Harvick, Webber, and Crane. D'Angelo was an associate. Maybe a partner. Sam didn't really know how that worked. The carpet was thick in the office, though, and the furnishings were expensive. The atmosphere was hushed. From the looks of it, the firm was quite successful.

A woman with ash-blond hair was behind a reception desk. She smiled at Sam and asked, “May I help you, sir?”

Sam had left his lumberyard cap at home since it wasn't raining anymore, so he didn't have to take it off as he returned the woman's smile and said, “Yes, ma'am. I was hopin' I could talk to Mr. D'Angelo for a minute.”

“Do you have an appointment?”

Sam was expecting that question, so he was ready with an answer. “No, ma'am, but it's about one of his cases, and I think he'll want to talk to me.”

“Which case?”

Sam didn't particularly want to blurt out that information, but as he glanced around the waiting room, he saw that it was empty, so he figured it would be all right.

“The Baxter case,” he said. “Dr. Hank Baxter.”

The woman got to her feet and said, “If you'll excuse me for just a minute. Please, have a seat.” As she started to turn away, she paused and added, “If you wouldn't mind telling me your name . . .”

“It's Fletcher. Sam Fletcher.”

“I'll be right back, Mr. Fletcher.”

She went through a door in the wall behind her desk. Sam caught a glimpse of a wide corridor with darkly paneled walls before she closed the door. He went over to a brown leather armchair with thick upholstery. Probably not too many blue-jeans-clad butts had sat on it in the past, he thought. Or maybe they had. Rednecks sometimes needed lawyers, too, after all.

A few minutes went by. Sam tried not to fidget, but it wasn't easy. Then the door opened and the woman reappeared.

“If you'll come right this way, please,” she said.

Sam followed her through the door into the fancy
corridor. Now he could see that portraits of a bunch of rich-looking men and women hung on the walls between the doors that opened on either side. Probably members of the firm, he thought. At the far end of the hall were massive oak double doors. He figured that on the other side of them was either a conference room or the private office of Harvick, Webber, or Crane, whoever was the head honcho around here.

None of the doors had nameplates or anything like that on them. The woman knew who was behind which door. She opened one of them on the left and stood aside for Sam to go in. As he did, a man stood up from behind the big desk that dominated the room.

“Mr. Fletcher,” the man said. “Please come in.” He extended his hand. “I'm Jimmy D'Angelo.”

Sam knew as soon as the fella opened his mouth that he wasn't from around here. D'Angelo was short and stocky, with thick dark hair and a square, slightly florid face. His voice betrayed his northeastern origins, although Sam couldn't pin it down any more precisely than that.

He shook hands with D'Angelo, who then waved him into a chair that was every bit the equal of the one out in the waiting room. Maybe even better. The attorney said, “Margaret tells me that this visit is about the Baxter case. What can I do for you, Mr. Fletcher?”

“Well, Hank—Dr. Baxter—is a friend of mine,” Sam began, “and I want to make sure he's got all the help he needs.”

“So you're checking me out. Is that it?”

“I wouldn't go so far as to say that—”

“No, it's all right,” D'Angelo said as he waved a pudgy hand. “I like the way you're looking out for the doctor because
he's a pal. People don't look out for each other enough these days; you know what I mean? I see proof of that all the time in my job.”

“I'm sure you do,” Sam said with a nod.

D'Angelo leaned back and laced his hands together over his belly. He wore a large ring on each hand. He was well-fed, well-dressed, the epitome of success. Sam saw several framed diplomas on the wall. One of them was from Harvard.

“I like to think I'm a good lawyer,” D'Angelo went on. “I'll represent Dr. Baxter the very best I can, Mr. Fletcher.”

“If there's anything I can do to help . . .”

“You mean like money? I'll be honest with you; you don't look like a particularly wealthy man.”

Sam tried not to take offense at that. He said, “I reckon I'm what they call comfortable—”

“Here's the thing, though,” D'Angelo cut in. “I've been in Texas long enough to know that sometimes the richest guys don't dress like it at all. So I've learned not to judge people by the way they look.”

“That's pretty smart,” Sam said.

“Anyway, money's not an issue. Dr. Baxter is able to afford my retainer, and we'll work out all the details later. Right now I'm more interested in the case.”

“You want to see justice done, too, then.”

D'Angelo unlaced his hands and spread his fingers. “I didn't say anything about justice. I want to win.”

Again Sam had to control his temper. He said, “A man's life isn't a game.”

“Of course not. But surviving in a high-pressure law firm is. I haven't handled any murder cases since I came to Texas.
Winning this one would give me some street cred around here.”

“Then you don't think Hank Baxter is innocent,” Sam said.

“He tells me he is, and that's all I really need to know in order to mount a legitimate defense. Do you know anything that will help me do that, Mr. Fletcher?”

Sam put his hands on the arms of the chair and scraped it back a little. As he started to stand up, he said, “No, and I think I've wasted enough of your time. Sorry. I should go now—”

D'Angelo sat forward and used both hands to wave him back into the chair. “Please, Mr. Fletcher, sit down. I think we got off on the wrong foot here. Please, sit.”

Reluctantly, and only to be polite, Sam lowered himself into the plush chair again.

“Listen, it doesn't matter whether or not I believe Dr. Baxter is innocent. My job is to defend him to the best of my abilities and secure the best possible verdict for him. Since you're his friend, would you be all right with letting me use you as a sounding board?”

“Well, I suppose so,” Sam said with a frown. He had hoped to get some more information about the case from D'Angelo, and it sounded like the attorney was about to share that very thing, although Sam hadn't really done anything to prompt it.

“I'll tell you what I know about the case against the doctor, and you tell me how it squares up with what you know about him, okay?”

Sam nodded and said, “Okay.”

“Early yesterday afternoon, Dr. Baxter—Dr. Henry Baxter—ah, for simplicity's sake, let's just call him Hank, since there
are two Dr. Baxters in this case. Yesterday afternoon, Hank was seen going into his wife Susan's office over by the hospital. Susan's staff had already left for lunch, so she was there by herself. About forty-five minutes later, her receptionist comes back to the office. The door's locked, but she has a key so she lets herself in. She sees that the door to Susan Baxter's private office is open, so she glances in and finds Susan lying in front of the desk, dead from a blow to the head.”