Unlucky in Law (34 page)

“Well,” Gabe had said. “Thanks anyway.”

Gabe asked for a glass of water. Salas called an afternoon break, and then they resumed. The jurors showed no sign of the usual afternoon yawns.

“What did you do after seeing Mr. Turk, with regard to Christina Zhukovsky?” Nina asked him.

“A couple days later, I went back to Christina's apartment on Eighth Street. We had made an appointment, and when I came back, I brought along a few motion-detecting lights, that kind of thing. Told her I didn't have the gun, but I could bring it on Friday.”

“And when was this?”

“Thursday.”

“Why didn't you just tell her the truth?”

“That I was her half-brother? I wanted to have another lawyer lined up and know exactly how we were going to proceed. I wasn't ready.”

Nina shook her head. “What did she say when you told her about the gun?”

“She was impatient. She wanted it right away. We agreed I'd bring it over that Friday.”

“The eleventh of April, the night she died. And did you bring her a gun that night?” Nina asked, praying to herself, please, no interruptions, let him go where he's going now. . . .

“Yes.”

“What time did you arrive?”

“About ten. She opened the door right away. Dumb move. I could have been anybody.”

“You say, about ten?”

“I think so, yeah.”

“You had brought a gun?”

“I borrowed one from a friend of mine. It was just to get in and try again to look around. The first time she had watched me like a hawk.” Again that bitter smile. “I didn't care about her stories. I didn't care if she was stark raving mad. What I cared about was her money. Her and Alex's money. But I decided to use the story to get to her. I wanted—I'll be honest—I wanted to get into her place and look for documents.”

“Why?”

“I wanted to find out exactly how much money she had.”

The atmosphere of the courtroom closed around them, a mixture of sweat and too much stale air. Although it was nearly four o'clock, there was none of the usual coffee-deprived shuffling. It was a good jury.

Nina said, “What did happen?”

“She offered me a glass of brandy. I said sure, and she went into the kitchen. When she came back, I was looking in her desk drawer. My timing was off.”

“You say you touched her desk drawer?”

“It was a cold night. I was wearing gloves.”

“How long were you there before she came back in?”

“Coupla minutes.”

There seemed to be no limit to his cooperation. He was digging a grave like Stefan, only it was his own. Had Salas cautioned him properly about his rights? She hoped so. But Gabe barreled on, throwing the memories out as if he were projectile vomiting. He had a queer expression of distaste on his face now.

“She caught you?”

“Yes.”

“What happened then?” Nina asked, looking directly at the jury, not at Gabe.

“You know what? Her brother Alex was right. She was nuts. She way overreacted, got mad and, I think, scared. She didn't ask what I was doing, but went back into the kitchen. It was as if she'd known all the time I wasn't really there to help. I followed her. She threw a glass of brandy at me, connecting with my scalp. It was some thin little glass, so it hurt and shattered. Couldn't have been worse. I put my hand up and I was bleeding. The situation was out of control. She screamed at me to get out before she called nine-one-one. I was so surprised that when she yelled at me to get out, you know what I did?”

“No,” Nina said. “What did you do, Mr. Wyatt?”

He seemed unaware of the impact of his words on the courtroom. Even the court reporter waited hungrily.

“I left. I just went like a kid obeying his mom. She slammed the door behind me.”

What, no murder? No hands around her neck? No struggle? All the air seeped out of the bloated balloon of anticipation in the courtroom.

“Your testimony is that you immediately left?”

Gabe spread his hands. “I swear it.”

“Did you then return?” Nina asked.

“No. I was bleeding. I went home and took care of myself. I gave my friend his gun back the next day.”

“You didn't return later that night?”

“No.”

“You didn't sweep up the glass?”

“What? No.”

“Mr. Wyatt, why did you run when we approached you in the hallway a few minutes ago?”

“I had a damn good reason. You people put my brother in jail on blood evidence. I knew my blood was there, too. I thought maybe you had found it finally, and would put me in jail, even though I had nothing to do with hurting that woman.”

“You're trying to tell us,” Nina said, “that you were alone with Christina Zhukovsky late at night on the night of her murder. By chance, you were wearing gloves. The situation became violent. You were injured by her. You were jealous of her and searching through her private papers, but you didn't kill her? Is that what you claim?”

“I don't claim anything,” Gabe said. He nodded. “I didn't kill her. It was my blood on that glass, that I admit, but I never touched her. She was alive and hopping mad when I left, but when I heard she had been killed, I knew how it would look. I broke down. I sat down at my house, waiting for the police. But they didn't come. They arrested Stefan instead. They said he left blood there, too. I couldn't figure out what was going on.”

Nina felt dizzy. The intensity of the last hour had drained her. Too much information bombarded her, too fast. Did they have enough from this brother who appeared willing to say anything except the ultimate thing, that he was guilty, guilty, guilty?

The blood! The most important thing! Confess or don't confess, pal, she told Wyatt in her mind. You're going to clear your brother. She turned briefly toward Stefan at the counsel table. Their eyes met and she tried to keep from giving him an encouraging nod.

The case against Stefan was starting to fall messily apart. But Stefan blinked at his brother's testimony, trying to take it all in, frightened. He didn't want it to be his brother.

“All right. Let's get back to that blood you left in Christina's home. Are you aware of Dr. Hirabayashi's testimony earlier in this courtroom?”

“No.”

The judge allowed a brief explanation, which Gabe followed with amazement.

“I heard his blood was found at the scene, and there was nothing said about my blood. I assumed he went there after me that night. I couldn't understand—”

“You suffered from leukemia when you were young. You were the recipient of a bone-marrow transplant?”

“Yes. It cured me.”

“Who donated the bone marrow that cured you?”

“Stefan was the donor.”

“Isn't it true that you knew your brother, the defendant, shared the same blood as you?”

“Wait a minute, I had no idea. How could we still have the same blood? The transplant was so many years ago, I assumed by now I had my own blood, you know, that it came back.”

“That's not how it works, Mr. Wyatt,” Nina said.

“Objection.”

“Sustained. Strike that last statement by counsel.”

Nina walked back to the counsel table and picked up her notes. The courtroom was waiting, on her side. Salas actually rubbed his hands together, a sign that he was excited. She knew exactly what question to ask now, what the answer had to be.

“How did Christina Zhukovsky come to have your brother's name and phone number?”

“She asked me at one point if I knew anyone who could help her with odd jobs. I was trying to get close to her. I wish to God I hadn't done it.”

Bingo! And Christina passed Stefan to Alex! A huge hole in Stefan's story was filled in.

“How helpful of you. Isn't it—”

“Objection!”

“Sustained. Counsel, do not comment on witness testimony. The jury will disregard the comment.”

Nina knew that she was too excited. Moving away from Gabe Wyatt, she got as close to the jury as she dared, hyped up, angry, outraged at what he had put Stefan through. She made sure her voice carried to the back rows as she asked, “Isn't it true that you planned to kill Christina Zhukovsky and set your brother up as her killer?”

“No!” His voice softened. “I'm embarrassed to admit, I really thought Stef must have done it. He's always been the one who screwed up. This time, I thought, he must have gone in way too deep. I never wanted to be the one who connected my brother directly to Christina. I tried to protect him.”

“But all along, it was your blood on the glass, Mr. Wyatt. You killed her, didn't you? And then you told lies to protect yourself. This is your chance to make things right for your brother. Tell this jury the truth.”

“I
am
making things right. I'm telling the truth. I didn't kill her.”

“You spied on Christina. You were at the scene of her murder in the time frame of her murder. You admit to a violent confrontation. Your jealousy and hatred of this woman, who had grown up with your father's love and been given his money, got the better of you that night, didn't it, Gabe?” Nina said.

“No! Somebody came there after me! If it wasn't Stef, then—I—”

Nina turned to the jury.

“Expect us to believe that?” she said softly.

“Objection!” Jaime roared.

“Withdrawn. I am finished with this witness, Your Honor.”

28

Monday 9/29

S
ALAS ADJOURNED IMMEDIATELY AFTER
G
ABE
W
YATT
'
S DIRECT
examination. What a hell of an endless day. They all needed to go to their offices and homes to cogitate and reflect.

Jaime could reflect on how he was losing his murder case. Another lawyer might care deeply about that and try to bring the case under control, at the expense of the truth. Jaime couldn't help himself. He wanted the truth, too. Sitting in her little office in the Pohlmann Building after hours that night, Nina thought, He's gonna end up on the defense side. He has a bad character flaw for a prosecutor; he hears both sides.

Nina drew pictures on the pizza box on her desk: a big young man falling off a giant fishhook, Stefan a Christlike figure with his arms out. Most of the pizza reposed in her stomach right now, along with a healthy infusion of red wine. She looked at her watch.

Almost ten
P.M.
Bob was home alone at their house in Pacific Grove; Paul had left a message that he'd be back very late; Klaus, feeling better, according to his wife, rested in his bed in the big house on Peter Pan Way in Carmel Highlands; Sandy packed up suitcases in Big Sur.

A massive deconstruction was going on.

Meantime, Stefan was innocent, she was positive of that now. There were still problems. What seemed clear to her wasn't necessarily clear to the jury. Ginger's testimony had flashed by like a telecommunications satellite, too high to grasp except as a bright moving point in a sky of confusion.

And Gabe hadn't sounded guilty enough. Nina could hear it now. At least one jury member was going to use the word flimflam.

She tried not to think about the evidence, but instead to concentrate on the people. Stefan, a young man in love and in jail, wanting only to marry and create the happy family he had never had. Christina, a shy woman who transformed herself to live a life she finally found purposeful, pursuing a dream.

Father Giorgi, hearing all his prayers for the old Russia come true when Christina came to him, and watching them fade when she died.

Sergey Krilov, Christina's lover, still something of a mystery, but likely another hopeful wanting to cash in on Christina's potential.

And Gabe, forever aggrieved, seeking his share of whatever it was that his father had given to Alex and Christina, but never able to attain the love he so desperately wanted.

He must have done it.

Nina picked off a piece of pepperoni from the single piece of pizza swiftly turning rancid in its cardboard box. Her door was shut and she was alone in the building. To avoid the creepy feeling night fog always gave her, she had closed the blinds. She clicked back to Google on her computer and searched for some more of the Russian Web sites. So many things were still unexplained. What had brought Sergey Krilov to the U.S.? Where was he? What relationship had he had with Christina?

Yawning, Nina pushed her hair back. She had reached that bleary place beyond simple exhaustion, where you can go on forever.

What a story Christina could have told, if she had lived. Romance, Russia, assassination. An alluring fabrication, unfortunately, like Anastasia's story, like the stories of all the pretenders to the Empire of the Russias. It would have made a lively press conference, though.

Even immersed in her fantasy, how could Christina explain to herself the one obvious fact that made it all impossible, that all the Web sites with their escape theories had to acknowledge? Constantin Zhukovsky could not have been a fourteen-year-old tsarevitch in 1918, for the simple, well-known reason that, aside from the fact that he was almost certainly assassinated at Ekaterinburg along with the rest of his family, the tsarevitch had hemophilia.

Alexis's mother, the tsarina, Alexandra, had brought Rasputin in, hoping he could help cure her chronically ailing son. Ultimately, that relationship was one of the biggest factors in the downfall of the Romanovs. The Russian people, already reeling from the suffering caused by war, drew the line at being ruled by this haughty German woman and her wild-eyed lover.

“Hemophilia/tsarevitch.” Lots of sites. She scrolled down a Web page about a tsarevitch pretender who supposedly had come to Washington State via Estonia after escaping the bullets of the Bolsheviks. This particular site was chock-full of colorful theories. She read down the page, her head aching.

Then her eye stuck on a word. She went back and looked.

Thrombocytopenia.

“It is always said that even if the tsarevitch escaped the assassinations he would have died soon after from hemophilia. But maybe Alexis did not have hemophilia. He may have suffered from a similar condition called thrombocytopenia, a medical syndrome referring to a hemorrhagic condition which is underlain by another disease, such as—”

Had she read it right?

“Such as aplastic anemia.”

She stared at the page. Gabe Wyatt had just testified that afternoon that he had been diagnosed with aplastic anemia, which had led eventually to leukemia. She hadn't known Gabe's symptoms could include hemorrhaging.

Strange to have such a rare illness pop up twice in one day.

Where was that death certificate? She found it eventually, sandwiched between two sets of pleadings.

She had remembered correctly. The treating physician had listed the cause of Constantin Zhukovsky's death as “thrombocytopenia.”

Associated cause of death: “aplastic anemia.”

Confused, Nina went back to the Web site. The site went on to quote an anxious letter from the tsarina in the early 1900s referring to Alexis's bouts with fever. “It's possible the diagnosis for his illness was in error, since hemophiliacs do not suffer fever during their attacks,” the Web page said.

She called Ginger. “You up?”

“Always.”

“First of all, is there any possibility Constantin Zhukovsky really was the tsarevitch? Was he misdiagnosed with thrombowhatchamacallit, but really had hemophilia?”

“I would have to examine his medical records to be sure,” she said, “but I would have to say no. He was born in 1904, before there was an adequate treatment for hemophilia. I don't think he could have lived into his seventies. He would certainly have been an invalid from an early age. No, I don't think it's possible. He died of thrombocytopenia, which is also a hemorrhagic syndrome, but some of the symptoms are different.”

“Okay, then here's something else. I've been doing some reading about hemophilia. This Web page says hemophiliacs don't have fever during bleeding spells. Is that true?”

“Let me check. I know a lot, but not every single thing.” Ginger's phone clunked down.

Nina rubbed her head, trying to move the aching from one side to the other while she waited for Ginger to return.

“It's true. Fever isn't associated with hemophilia in general, but Nina, people with that disease can get a lot of associated problems, infections, all kinds of things that might cause fever.”

They hung up, Ginger returning to her nocturnal lab ramblings, and Nina returning to the tsarina's letter. So maybe the tsarevitch was a sick hemophiliac with complications that caused fever.

Or maybe the Web site was right and the tsarevitch was the one who was misdiagnosed, way back at the turn of the century. He didn't have hemophilia, but had thrombo—thrombo—whatever.

His body was not buried at Ekaterinburg along with the rest of his family. Maybe he escaped.

Maybe Constantin Zhukovsky really was Alexis Nicholaevich Romanov. Then Christina had been heir to the tsar all along. Then Alex, then Gabe, and, ultimately, Stefan.

The doorknob twisted. Wearing a striped cardigan over a white shirt, white hair rumpled as if he had been napping, Klaus poked his head in. “How did it go today?” he asked as if it weren't almost midnight.

“Did you drive here?” Nina asked.

“Still playing baby-sitter.” Klaus sat down heavily opposite her. “I am annoyed with you, Miss Reilly. I did not enjoy being hustled off to the doctor like a sick person. My wife got alarmed unnecessarily.”

“You didn't seem well. I'm sorry.”

“Pizza?” He picked up the slice and ate hungrily. “Excellent. So. I hear you have implicated Mr. Gabriel Wyatt in the murder of Christina Zhukovsky.”

“Stefan never even went to Christina's,” Nina said. “I think we'll get an acquittal. Jaime still has a lot of cross-examining to do, but after he's finished I think we should rest on the defense side and let the case go to the jury.”

“Very good. However.”

Nina felt her insides clench. Pizza or Pohlmann? “I can summarize the closing argument for you right now,” she said. “I don't know exactly what happened after Gabe Wyatt got into her apartment, but I don't have to know. He was there, he was jealous of her, and they got into a fight. He killed her. He's a slimeball. He let his brother go through the arrest and trial, and probably would have let Stefan spend his life in jail.”

“Perhaps.”

“What? What, Klaus?”

“What happened to the egg?” Klaus said. “Constantin's little blue egg? He seems to have been very proud of it. That is why I hauled my ancient body out of bed tonight, left my warm wife, and drove my car back here, even though I have no business driving. I want to look at the Zhukovsky probate file again.”

“The egg?” She didn't ask, Are you crazy? So much craziness skulked around the fringes of this case, she couldn't fight it anymore.

“May I have the file?”

Nina pulled it out of the stack.

Klaus pulled his chair up to the opposite side of the desk, bowed his head, and started looking through it. Bits of mozzarella clung to his white beard. “Here's the inventory and appraisal for the estate,” he said. “Note the absence of an egg. Any egg, even a reproduction of a Fabergé egg.”

“Maybe Constantin sold it. Christina hadn't seen it since she was a child.”

“He wouldn't do that. It was his proof.”

“It proved he was the tsarevitch?”

“Yes. No need to get cranky, my dear.”

“You've been on the Net.”

“I twiddled my digits all afternoon. I went to the very same page you are on right now,” Klaus said.

“These people with their stories. There were doubts about the diagnosis. The tsarevitch escaped from Ekaterinburg with a friendly family to Vladivostok, then Japan. Or Vienna to Paris. Estonia to Washington. Finland to Monterey, California. Maybe he did, maybe he didn't.”

“Do you think I have lost my wits? Gone dotty?” His eyes were on her, rheumy to be sure but extremely sharp at the moment.

Nina decided the time had come for honesty. He deserved that from her. “I think you have trouble with your memory, and I wonder about your judgment,” she said.

“Then I'm wasting my time with you.” Klaus got up. “Good evening. I will see you in court in the morning.” The door closed.

He had taken the sheets from the probate file, and Nina was afraid she would never see them again. She got up quickly and looked out into the dark hall.

Klaus hadn't left. He had skittered down the hall to Alan's office. The door was closed, but she could hear drawers opening and closing, see light under Alan's door.

The connection was obvious. Alan had handled the probate and Gabe had consulted him. Klaus was going to read the privileged file made after Gabe's consultation.

What a wicked old man! But what a good idea; unethical, but good. They could always put the papers back exactly as they had found them and never tell anybody.

Pushing the door open a crack, Nina crept down the hallway. Klaus had already made a mess: Alan would never leave papers on the floor.

Klaus bent down in the corner, pulling up the rug.

He had truly fallen off the deep end. Nina entered the room. His back was to her. Crouching on the floor, he pulled mightily at the corner of the heavy rug. He had moved Alan's prized reproduction gilt Louis XIV client chair aside.

“Need help?”

Klaus reared up, falling backward. “Miss Reilly! Do not do that ever, ever again!”

“I just thought you might need assistance with your completely unethical prying through Alan's files. What are you up to?”

Klaus had gone back to his tugging. “Come help me.”

Together they pried up the corner, folding back a three-foot square.

Installed in the floor, black, about a foot square, was a safe. “He uses it for sensitive files, original wills, probate items he hasn't distributed yet, that sort of thing,” Klaus told Nina.

“You know the combination?”

He nodded. “I have the information in case something happened to Alan. Although I have never tested them before, I assume my numbers are correct. Do it for me, please, my dear. My knees ache.”

Nina bent down and, using the numbers Klaus gave her, heard a click. She pulled on the handle and the door opened.

“Let's have a look,” Klaus said. “Open sesame.”

“But Alan . . .”

“Are you in or out?” Klaus challenged her. Nina almost laughed. “All right then,” he said.

Inside, one compartment held files, the other, a few wrapped packages. She pulled the files out. “Ferrari,” the top one was labeled in Alan's neat hand. The next one said “Pickering Will.” Then “Chavez Estate,” “Monte Rosa Will,” “Matter of Egler,” “My Will.” Nina said, “Nothing,” leafing through the files.

“Let us check the rest.”

“We are so bad.”

“In for a penny, in for a ruble. If you are having scruples, get out of my way.”

“I'll do it.” She pulled out the boxes. They looked like valuable items from probates Alan was handling, just what they ought to be. She opened a box marked “Monte Rosa,” and found a mass of diamond and gold jewelry piled inside. Two other marked boxes contained jewelry and coins. She had been down the hall from a lot of money and hadn't known it. Alan should have kept this stuff in a safe-deposit box at a bank, but apparently he liked to keep an eye on things. The floor safe
was
a safe, after all. There was no rule against it.

A smaller box caught her eye. Unlabeled, with an old red ribbon circling the long end, it was made of carved wood. She raised an eyebrow at Klaus, who nodded. They were both sitting on the rug like kids opening Christmas presents. Slipping off the ribbon, she opened the box. Inside, she found something wrapped in yellow silk. It glimmered blue in the light of Alan's green banker's lamp.