The 3rd Victim (21 page)

David stepped sideways, moving out of the glare. ‘What else does it do?’

‘It's used in cryopreservation.’ Joe put his hands in his pockets, his shadow tight and constricted behind him.

‘Cryopreservation,’ repeated David.

A memory came back to him from a case several years ago. Something about a court order to freeze a perp's blood for international transportation so that it could be linked to evidence at a Boston crime scene. ‘If you freeze normal blood the water in it crystallises, damaging the cells,’ he said, pulling the detail from the recesses of his brain. ‘So the water is replaced by a cryopreservative, which has to be washed out of the blood before it is used again.’

Joe nodded. ‘That's the gist of it. So following that chain of thought you could ask … what if the washing process wasn't as efficient as it should have been? What if your client's blood had been frozen and then washed but the traces of DMSO were still intact? It would explain the forensic results but leave us with the question as to how the preservative got there in the first place, given she wasn't taking the DMSO for medical reasons, or at least, that's what she told you.’

David could not explain the sensation that came to him then, but it was something like a physical cog finally locking into place, like a wheel that had been grinding metal against metal had finally sunken into a groove.

‘Jesus, Joe, her blood may have been preserved. Hunt and Davenport … they could have taken her blood months ago and frozen it – kept it in storage until the time was right, until they needed to pour it all over that crime scene in order to nail this murder on my client.’

Joe shrugged. ‘It's a crazy hypothesis, David.’

‘Maybe so, but it explains a lot, don't you think? You've met Hunt. You know what a conceited prick the man is. He thinks he's invincible.’

‘Conceited doesn't spell murder, David.’

‘Maybe not, but the cryopreservatives might.’

Joe conceded with the slightest of nods. ‘The DMSO points the arrow back at Davenport.’

‘You think he's the easier target?’

‘I think it doesn't matter what I think,’ replied Joe. ‘I think you're running out of time. I think, if we're right, these assholes are already ten steps ahead of us and we don't have a hope in hell of catching up to them unless we play this hard and fast.’

‘I said that a month ago, Joe, but it's difficult to move when every avenue you take leads you to a dead end.’

But Joe was shaking his head. ‘Maybe they aren't dead ends, just made to look that way.’

David's brow furrowed. ‘What are you thinking?’ he asked.

‘I'm thinking we need to split our priorities,’ said Joe. ‘You work on the insider trading thing, this Dudek and the Senator down in DC, and me and Frank, we try to find this Wallace and …’ Joe hesitated, on the precipice of taking that leap.

David waited for him to continue, not wanting to push his detective friend any further than he already had.

‘Frank and I are going to Baltimore,’ he said, his feet now well and truly off the ground.

David exhaled. ‘The truck driver.’

‘De Lorenzo.’

‘His statement said Walker veered over to his side of the road.’

‘My guess is he's right.’

‘But you're more interested in the why than the what.’

Joe shrugged. ‘I'm not sure how much the driver can help us with that, David, but I think it's worth a shot.’

David nodded – in relief, appreciation, hope – before the pair fell silent once again.

‘There's one condition,’ said Joe. ‘I want you to arrange a meeting between me and your client – but it has to be alone, David, just the two of us, one on one.’

David took a breath. This was highly unusual, the lead investigator for the prosecution wanting time alone with the defendant. Any criminal defence attorney would call this certifiable suicide, but David wasn't just any criminal defence attorney, and Joe was – well … Joe.

‘I'll set it up,’ said David.

‘I'll wait for your call,’ replied Joe as he nodded at his attorney friend and turned to make his way toward his car.

‘Joe,’ David called after him. He wanted to find a way to say thank you, but he didn't know where to start.

But Joe did not answer, simply kept on walking, his shadow stretching like a trail behind him, until he moved into the darkness and was swallowed by the night once more.

46

M
adonna Carerra's underarms were sweating. They were all hot and tingly, and it took all her strength not to lift her elbow and sniff herself in front of the impeccably dressed couple before her.

She could not stop thinking of last night's phone call. She had a sense it was going to be bad news as soon as she heard those little beeps. She'd almost hung up. It was instinctual. Her mom had always told her to hang up on the international beeps because it would only be Uncle Amos and he was a lying son-of-a-bitch who was just after her mother to wire him some more goddamned money. But she was at work when the call came so she knew it couldn't have been Uncle Amos, a fact confirmed when she realised the caller was female, her toffy voice echoing from what sounded like a million miles away.

The
Titanic
thing didn't happen. Esther Wallace was alive and well. The good news was that she said she wasn't coming back to steal Madonna's job out from under her, but the bad was that she'd made a request.

Madonna had made a serious mistake and it took that old spinster to point it out. How the hell was she supposed to know that emailing such a report was part of her job description? Dr Davenport hadn't mentioned it – at least Madonna didn't
remember
him doing so. But then again, the doctor had listed a number of things she was meant to do when he first employed her, and Madonna recalled not understanding a couple of them, but nodding as if she did and hoping he wouldn't notice. And he hadn't as far as she could tell – noticed, that was. But that old up-herself cow Wallace said she'd got a call on her cell from some angry clerk at some bank that stored embryos and sperm and eggs and other things called gametes and that the clerk said he was missing some very important report that was meant to have been filed like – three months ago, not long after Madonna started.

Madonna wanted to tell Wallace to go jump – preferably off the side of that cruise ship without a life-jacket – but then Wallace said she'd be happy to help Madonna out by disseminating the information that needed to be sent to the bank if Madonna would just forward her Dr Davenport's patient file. She said she could put an old date on the info to make it look like it was sent ages ago so that Madonna would not get into trouble. Trust the old biddy to be nice and challenge Madonna's determined desire to despise her!

But then Madonna explained that
Dick
– she called him Dick – was super careful when it came to assuring his patients' confidentialness and that she wasn't sure if forwarding the latest patient list – which itemised names and addresses and phone numbers and treatment info and everything – was appropriate. But then Wallace said that it was because it was secret shit that Madonna could find herself in the crapper. She said that if the bank didn't get the info they needed, they might contact the patients directly and then they'd wonder why Dr Davenport had given out their details to some bank dude – details about their ‘fertility status’, which some of these rich, important clients guarded within an inch of their lives given it basically revealed the fact that their spunk didn't cut the mustard. And an angry executive with dud spunk was not someone Madonna wanted to face off against, and Dr Davenport already had the shits with her, so …

What to do, what to do? She didn't want to stuff up because, let's face it, despite the odd hiccup, this job was like heaven. But she also didn't like taking instructions from the old bird with a plum in her mouth.

In the end she did what she always did when it came to making a decision. She settled on getting rid of the problem as quickly as was humanly possible. She figured that, if she did what Wallace asked her to do, she would not only get Wallace off her back, not only prevent any patients from freaking at the news of their personal shortcomings getting ‘out there’, but also have someone else to blame if her actions came back to bite her. If worse comes to worse I can just blame Wallace, she told herself, trying desperately to banish the feeling that she should probably be thanking the woman for offering to help her out.

And so she swivelled in her chair and pulled up her Outlook and typed in the email address Esther Wallace had given her. And then she logged on to Dr Davenport's system and typed in the password that Wallace had provided. And then she attached the document Wallace had asked for and waited for it to appear as an ominous little paperclip that sat at the top of the screen. And then she placed her long pointed fingernail (painted with Kinky in Helsinki) on the left-hand side of the mouse and closed her eyes before she clicked.

And then the email was gone and Madonna breathed a sigh of relief, just as the doctor came out to usher the pair – a new couple who hadn't made an appointment – into his rooms, enabling Madonna to race to the restrooms and spray her musk-scented deodorant carefully up the sleeve of her faux silk blouse.

47

R
oger Katz considered the psychological expert before him. The man was a caricature. He looked more like an antiques salesman than a leading British psychiatrist. He wore a monocle, for Christ's sakes. He had a fob watch hanging from a buttonhole on his waistcoat, his moustache was shaped like a handlebar and his cheeks were networked with capillaries stressed by the years of downing matured double malts. Worse still, he obviously thought that everything that came out of his mouth was interesting and superior. He was full of psychobabble – stuff Katz would have to water down to something more comprehensible before he introduced this man to the court.

The man's name was St John but you pronounced it Sinjin – the fuck knows why. He was some fancy psychologist whose specialty was psychopathic personalities and genetics. Katz would have much preferred going with one of his regular, prosecutorial slanting psych experts – in fact one of them, a pushover named Shoebridge, had interviewed the defendant with the aim at creating a psychological profile some months ago – but Professor Horace Sinjin was special, given he had a direct link to Sienna Walker's ancestors, or more specifically, her crazy genius grandfather who Sinjin had once examined after an altercation between the artist and his then long-suffering wife.

It had been Davenport who had given him the idea. Davenport admitted that there had been times when he treated Sienna Walker – most notably after she had successfully conceived her daughter – that he had found her to be devoid of any sense of empathy. He said that, during appointments when her doting husband was not present, Sienna was not only nonchalant about the impending birth of her child, but at times resentful. He said he sensed the woman was angry at her career having been forcibly ‘put on hold’, that she even admitted that the birth would slow down her progress, that playing mom was a waste of the gifts her genetics had bestowed upon her.

And that was when Katz had put two and two together. He remembered that article Rigotti had written about Walker's crazy-as-all-hell artist grandfather, and he decided he could team this intel with the stuff he got from Davenport – which led to his locating the fat pompous ass now sitting in front of him, even paying for his airfare from London where Sinjin played shrink to members of the inbred aristocracy. And he made a bucket-load of money doing so, from what Katz could tell.

‘Alistair Granby was an interesting subject,’ said Sinjin. ‘He was quite brilliant, of course – one of the smartest subjects I have ever examined. But intelligence often goes hand in hand with psychopathy, Mr Katz.’

Katz nodded. ‘You classified Mr Granby as psychopathic?’

The Professor nodded. ‘He assaulted his wife while under the influence of alcohol, sir. I was hired by the courts to assess him.’

‘A lot of men are violent while drunk, Professor Sinjin, but not many of them are diagnosed as psychopaths.’ Katz was concerned about the Brit's generalisations. ‘Was it in the court's interest to have Mr Granby incarcerated?’

Sinjin smiled. ‘The Crown Prosecutor concerned was an up and comer – much like yourself, Mr Katz – and yes, I dare say his winning such a case against a man who had garnered quite a reputation in his chosen field would have done his career no damage.’

Katz returned the smile – he knew how this worked. ‘But the Crown Prosecutor lost the case.’

‘Yes, but my testimony was very convincing, Mr Katz. I dare say Granby's fortune had something to do with the dismissal of the charges.’

Katz nodded, deciding that while this man's testimony might be a jewel in his own prosecutorial crown, he would have to be coached with vigilance.

‘What else did you learn about Mr Granby during your examination, Professor Sinjin?’

‘That he was frustrated, corralled by a family situation he had no desire to be in. That he was a loner, as many psychopaths are, that he resented the constraints put upon him by his wife and daughter, that he was determined to break free.’

Sinjin smiled and Katz knew he understood what was being asked of him – perhaps this witness would not be such a problem after all. ‘Would it surprise you if I told you we have evidence that Sienna Walker also felt a similar resentment?’

‘Not at all. She is her grandfather's granddaughter after all, Mr Katz. There is an inherited association with psychopathy to do with what is referred to as a serotonin transporter gene. Extensive studies have shown that those born with longer alleles for the transporter gene score much higher on psychopathic traits. These children exhibit less empathy, are more prone to arrogance, deceitfulness and high levels of violence.’

This was getting better by the minute.

‘And, Mr Granby, did he have one of those longer serotonin transporters genes which …’

‘It is the alleles that are longer and yes, indeed he did, Mr Katz. It was myself that recommended the Crown Prosecutor test Granby's DNA for the gene and sure enough they found it.’

‘He has the gene of a psychopath?’

‘Yes.’

‘And from what I read from your notes, Professor Sinjin, this gene sits on the X chromosome.’

‘Yes.’

‘So it can be transferred from father to daughter.’

‘Yes.’

‘And then granddaughter after that.’

‘Indeed.’

‘Indeed, indeed,’ said Katz, unable to help himself falling blissfully into the Professor's vernacular.

‘The interesting thing is,’ a self-satisfied Sinjin continued, ‘that this gene is also linked to high intelligence, to creative genius. The longer alleles increase serotonin production in the brain and serotonin is associated with the ability to learn, apply, excel.’

Katz nodded, delighted with what he was hearing. ‘There is one problem, Mr Sinjin. I would prefer it if your examination of the defendant took place … shall we say, remotely. Some months ago I engaged another psychological professional by the name of Neil Shoebridge, who examined Mrs Walker at length. Dr Shoebridge is – how might I put it? – adequate, but I feel your expertise would certainly add to the testimony of another expert on my witness list – an FBI profiler whose findings sync well with your own.’

Sinjin smiled at the association. ‘I gather you want me to make a psychological analysis of the patient via a second-hand examination?’ asked Sinjin. ‘You're asking me to view Mr Shoebridge's interview and conduct my analysis from there?’

Katz was concerned this could be a deal-breaker. ‘Well, yes. To be completely frank, Mr Sinjin, at this stage I would prefer not to alert the defence to –’

‘Of course!’ interrupted the large man before him. ‘I completely understand, Mr Katz. Further to that I must tell you that despite your discretionary concerns, I would almost
recommend
I assess the defendant remotely. People like Mrs Walker – well, let's just say they know their intellectual equal when they meet them, and they rise to the challenge, Mr Katz, I can tell you. Therefore, it might be better if I view her through the eyes of your Mr Shoebridge who, no offence, might not have the skills garnered by the years of study and experience I have accumulated.’

Dear god, the man's ego is almost as big as his waistline, thought Katz. More luck to me.

‘Of course I understand, Mr Sinjin. One genius to another and all that.’

‘I am here to help, Mr Katz,’ smiled Sinjin. ‘Of course, before we proceed there is a small matter of my scheduled fee. I do hope my assistant forwarded you the details of my …’

‘I have them, Professor Sinjin,’ said Katz.

‘And there will be some additional costs – living expenses and so forth while I am in your fair city?’

‘Of course,’ said Katz. The man was an opportunist of the highest order but Katz couldn't have given a fuck. Sinjin's payment wasn't coming out of his own pocket, for Christ's sakes. No, the lucky taxpayer would be footing the bill for this man's indulgences – which was fair enough, given Katz worked his butt off to represent the ‘People’ after all.

‘Just one more thing, Professor. I believe this Alistair Granby was some form of British gentry.’

‘Yes, sir, technically he was an earl.’

‘And would that make the defendant, as his granddaughter, some sort of …?’

‘Oh yes indeed. Mrs Walker is a Lady.’

Katz smiled. ‘That's a matter of opinion, Professor. Still, it might not hurt if you referred to her as Lady Walker in court.’

‘Productive use of an oxymoron,’ smiled Sinjin.

‘I can see we are men cut from the same cloth, Professor Sinjin.’ Katz got to his feet, having decided that he had more than he had wanted for the time being and now it was time to move on. ‘I'll send the discs of Mr Shoebridge's examination of the defendant over to …?’

‘The Four Seasons,’ said Sinjin. ‘I took the liberty of booking myself a suite.’

Of course you did, thought Katz, given it was the only five-star hotel in the city.

‘While I am here, Mr Katz,’ Sinjin went on, ‘I plan to take in some of the local colour, starting with that Shakespearean festival playing at the Plaza.’

To Katz's horror Sinjin lifted his arms theatrically.

‘Look like the innocent flower, But be the serpent under it,’ said the fat Brit. ‘Lady Macbeth,’ he added.

‘Or Sienna Walker,’ replied Katz.

‘Quite,’ replied Sinjin. ‘Quite.’