Buried Evidence (20 page)

“Reasonable, sure, right,” she said, sniffing back tears. “I thought you loved me, that we were going to get married, start a family. I wasted three years of my life on you. By the time I find someone else, I might be too old to have children. What you’re doing to me isn’t fair. You used me, and now you’re throwing me out like I’m some kind of garbage.”

Richard imagined another brick falling into his guilt basket. “I never said I wanted to get married,” he told her, scowling. The waiter, dark and small in stature, unobtrusively placed the platters of food he had ordered on the table, then quickly disappeared. “One of our biggest problems is that you’ve never listened,” he continued, toying with the stem of his wineglass. “I don’t want to have another child. A few years from now Greg will get married and start a family of his own. Then I’ll have grandchildren. If you wanted a more serious relationship, you should have moved on a long time ago. You knew where I stood on these issues. I’ve never deceived you.”

Joyce was sobbing now, mascara streaming down her face, her legs splayed out underneath the table. People in the restaurant were staring at them. “But I thought—”

“I’m sorry,” Richard said, letting out a long sigh. He glanced at the platters of food. His stomach was rumbling with hunger, but he knew there was no way he could eat. He looked over his shoulder for the waiter, intending to have him box up the food, then get the check so they could leave before things got even more out of hand. “We’re not in high school, Joyce,” he told her.
“You need to concentrate on your business right now. I have to put all my energy into my law practice. Do we really have to turn this into an emotional nightmare? Can’t we end this like two civilized adults?”

Richard was reaching in his pocket for his wallet as Joyce stood. She picked up a platter of curried chicken and threw it at him, barely missing his head. The dish shattered on the floor behind him, but the brownish-yellow sauce splattered onto his suit, his hair, his tie, even his cell phone. He scooted his chair back and began picking pieces of sticky chicken out of his lap. Joyce circled the table, grabbed his wineglass, and dumped the dark red liquid over his head. Then she stomped out of the restaurant.

The owner, along with several waiters, rushed over, shouting at Richard in broken English. The only word he could make out was “police.” He held his hands in the air. “I’ll pay,” he said. “Don’t call the police, please.” He pulled out two hundred-dollar bills and handed them to the owner. Removing his jacket, he draped it over one of the chairs, knowing it was ruined. “See,” he said, pointing at his jacket, “I even left you a present.”

The owner shook his fist, spouting out another stream of what had to be profanities. Richard ignored him, wrapping his cell phone in a napkin and beating a hasty exit out the rear door of the restaurant. So much for dinner, he decided, getting in his car and steering back in the direction of his office. He hadn’t installed a shower and a convertible sofa in his office for nothing, just as his offer to foot all the bills during the time a woman lived with him reached beyond generosity. When you provided perks, there was less to complain about at the end of the line. Being afraid of returning to his own home was crazy, but when a relationship was over, things invariably got ugly. Tomorrow he would call Joyce and give her a week to move out. If she refused to comply, he’d get a court order.

E
ven though the drapes were drawn and the windows locked, the morning sun blazed into Lily’s bedroom in Montecito Thursday morning. She had driven straight to Santa Barbara after they had left the police station, finding a blanket in the trunk and insisting that Shana curl up in the backseat during the long ride. Under the circumstances, seeing her father had been out of the question, and missing classes for a few days was unimportant compared to the problems they both were facing.

Tossing on a pink terry-cloth bathrobe, Lily peeked into the extra bedroom to make certain Shana was all right before heading to the kitchen to put on a pot of coffee. She had forgotten to set her alarm clock, and it was already past nine. Generally she was awake by sunrise, but the events of the night before would have drained anyone. Once the coffee was made, she poured herself a cup and went outside onto the small porch, using her portable phone to call Matt Kingsley and let him know that she would be taking the day off.

“Did you come down with the flu?” the young prosecutor asked. “It’s already going around, you know. They say everyone should take a flu shot.”

“I’m not sick,” Lily said. “Something else has come up. Tell Brennan I’m taking a vacation day. You’ll have to cover my calendar.”

“Is something wrong?”

“My daughter came into town unexpectedly,” she told him. “I’d really appreciate it if you could take care of a few things for me. How does your day look?”

“Pretty light,” he said, glancing at his computer screen. “I’ve got two appearances this morning. Since they’re both arraignments,
I should be able to get in and out fairly quick. I was going to spend the majority of the day on Middleton.”

“Good,” Lily said. “Here’s what I’d like you to do. Are you ready?”

“Shoot.”

“Call Ron Spencer and go over the details of the plea agreement we’re offering his client, Mervin Hatteras, on the aggravated-assault charges. We have a settlement conference scheduled for next week. I want to make certain they’re not going to pull something idiotic and force me to take the case to trial. You shouldn’t have any trouble finding the file. It’s somewhere on the top of my desk.”

“I’ve never even heard of this Hatteras guy,” Kingsley whined, anxious that she wanted him to go so far as to attempt to obtain a settlement on a case he knew nothing about.

“The guy they call the ‘Bug,’ remember?” Lily said. “He’s the drug dealer with a prior, the one who wanted to eliminate his competition. Advise Spencer that I’m willing to commit to two years in prison in exchange for a guilty plea as to count one, the assault charge. If his client agrees, we’ll drop the enhancement for GBI and put the case to bed. The man Mervin stabbed had a record a mile long, the majority of his previous offenses unbelievably violent.”

“Fine,” Kingsley said crisply. “Anything else?”

“Lenora interviewed Deborah Saginaw,” she continued, “the victim in the Bentley child molest. I never got a chance to talk to her. Find out what additional information she might have obtained from the victim, then get her to e-mail me a copy of her report here at the house. I’m certain this case is going to trial, so we need to stay on top of it.”

Kingsley was scribbling notes to himself as fast as he could, but when Lily shifted into high gear, it was hard to keep up with her. “Aren’t you coming in tomorrow?”

“I’m not certain right now,” she told him, glancing back at the door to the cottage. “What did you find out at the lab the other day regarding Middleton? Anything new?”

“Well,” he said, on more familiar ground now, “I’ve been
trying to learn everything I can about strychnine. Are you aware that dealers use it to cut cocaine, heroin, as well as amphetamines?”

“No,” Lily said, wondering if this information would have any bearing on the case. “My expertise isn’t that strong when it comes to narcotics cases. I’ve heard of them cutting drugs with baby laxatives, that type of thing.”

“Adams over at the lab told me that tons of dealers use strychnine because it hypes people up, similar to what they expect from the illegal drugs they’re used to taking. Strychnine exaggerates responses to visual, auditory, and tactile stimulation, meaning a person might think they’re getting LSD or something similar.” He paused, glancing at the paperwork the lab had given him. “Years ago hospitals also used strychnine as an antidote in instances of barbiturate overdose, in the treatment of an illness called sleep apnea, and a number of other medical problems.”

“We’re not concerned with antiquated forms of medical treatment, Matt.”

“I know,” he said. “I just thought you should know that all the dealer has to do is go into a hardware store and say he has a mouse problem. Certox, Kwik-kit, Mouse-Rid, Mouse-Tox, Pied Piper Mouse Seed, Ro-Dex…all these products contain highly concentrated amounts of strychnine.”

“We’ve already covered this ground,” Lily said, thinking he was wasting her time. “Most people use exterminators, anyway. You’re the one who flushed out Jake Nash and the SOS people where Middleton supposedly got the strychnine.”

“Hold on,” Kingsley said, “I have to take this call.”

While Lily was waiting, she contemplated what he had told her. Betsy Middleton had ingested what they assumed was sugar laced with strychnine. The lab had found traces of both substances on the straw-shaped candy the Middletons claimed she had been given at an unknown location while trick or treating on Halloween. Other than her regular prescription medications and the strychnine, no other drugs or chemicals had been discovered in the child’s system. When Betsy had first been brought into the emergency room, however, the physicians had assumed that the
seizures, along with the other symptoms she was exhibiting, were related to her illness. Three days had passed before a doctor had suspected something out of the ordinary and ordered a toxicology report. A drug such as cocaine, as well as most amphetamines, would have no longer been detectable after this period of time, since these forms of narcotics passed quickly through a person’s system.

“Sorry,” Kingsley said, coming back on the line. “That was the court, or I wouldn’t have taken the call. Where were we?”

Lily’s mind was spinning. “You might be on to something with this cocaine thing,” she told him. “The only reason we arrived at the decision that the delivery system for the strychnine was that particular brand of candy was because the Middletons suggested it. They even provided the police with the empty straws to send to the crime lab.”

“That’s because they wanted the police to believe that some nutcase placed the strychnine in the Halloween candy,” Kingsley quickly countered. “We know Henry did it, Lily. We have a witness who saw him purchasing that exact type of candy. Also, there have only been a few isolated cases of people tampering with Halloween candy over the past five or ten years. Most responsible parents monitor their kids’ candy very closely.”

“They claim Betsy grabbed it and ate it while they weren’t looking,” Lily told him. “Because she was mentally as well as physically handicapped, Middleton was probably proud of himself for coming up with such a believable story. I’m certain he remembered the days when people put razor blades and the like in Halloween candy. Remember, put yourself in the mind of the offender.”

“I’m trying, Lily,” Kingsley said, sighing from exhaustion. “You have no idea how many hours a day I’ve been devoting to this case.”

“If you want to play with the big boys,” she told him, “you might as well get used to it. By the time this thing gets close to going to trial, you’ll be lucky to squeeze in two hours of sleep in a day.”

“Jesus Christ,” he said, falling back into his spoiled, you’re-beating-me-to-death routine.

“Good call, Kingsley,” Lily said. “But I suggest you do your own homework.”

On the front section of the porch were plants in hanging baskets. Lily reached up and snapped off a dead leaf, then rested her back against one of the wooden pillars. “Before we can convict Henry Middleton,” she explained, “we have to know precisely what happened, not only on the night the crime was allegedly committed, but in the days leading up to it. What if Henry or someone else in that household was using cocaine or some other drug cut with strychnine? I keep mentioning cocaine because the Middletons were successful, and that’s the type of drug use you generally see with people who have money. What if Betsy got her hands on their stash accidentally? That means the whole thing could have been an elaborate cover-up.”

“What about Jake Nash?” Kingsley asked. “Our primary motive centers on the fact that Middleton poisoned Betsy so he could collect on the insurance. The way you’re talking, you’re batting our motive right out of the ballpark.”

“When you’re desperate to convict someone,” Lily explained, “you jump on anything that makes sense. I’m not trying to undermine what you accomplished in finding Nash. But ask yourself what the man really saw. Middleton walking next door to the exterminating company, chatting with the people who worked there, then acting a little strange when a soda fell out of his pocket. We’re talking one humongous leap to convince a jury that Middleton stole liquid strychnine from these people in broad daylight, then stored it in a soft drink container, particularly since you just emphasized how easy it would have been for him to get it from another source.”

“Slow down a minute,” the attorney said, even more agitated than before. “I only mentioned that cocaine was used as a cutting agent because I thought it was an interesting fact. And don’t forget that most people, even drug dealers, might not have a problem walking in and buying the products I just mentioned. But Middleton isn’t a drug dealer, Lily, and he wasn’t buying strychnine
to kill gophers or mice. He was preparing to commit an atrocious crime against his own daughter.”

“Don’t you see?” Lily said, still excited about the unfolding possibilities the young attorney had brought to light. “We’re going to have one hell of a hard time convincing a sophisticated Santa Barbara jury that a well-to-do, church-going member of their own tightly knit community possessed the degree of cruelty necessary to poison his handicapped daughter for profit. The straw factor may be more significant than you think. What do most people use to snort cocaine?”

“Rolled-up bills,” Kingsley answered, remembering a report he had once read that claimed that half the paper money in circulation had trace elements of cocaine on it.

“They also use straws,” Lily told him. Just then she saw Shana standing in the doorway rubbing her eyes. “We’ll discuss this later. Just keep rolling it around in your mind, see how it fits into the picture. We can’t merely concoct a motive that sounds good. We have to be able to prove it beyond a reasonable doubt. Don’t forget that Betsy may not be alive by the time this goes to trial. When you ask a jury to put a man to death, you damn sure better have the truth in your hands.”