You Bet Your Life (15 page)

“Henry? From the wedding.”

“Yes, Henry Quint. Victor’s man in New York. Soon after Victor died, the little bugger threatened to leave if I didn’t cough up a partnership. He knew I couldn’t handle the state-side business alone and there wasn’t time to audition new managerial talent with so many deals hanging fire.”

“So he blackmailed you into a partnership.”

“You could say that.”

“That doesn’t make for very cordial business relations, does it?”

Tony smirked. “He’ll get rich, but I’ll get even in the end.”

“He was in Las Vegas on the day Victor was killed. Did you know that?”

“Who was?”

“Henry.”

“You must be mistaken. He was in Mexico City. We’d sent him there with a deal for a new client.”

“Victor’s housekeeper saw his blue-and-white convertible the morning of the murder.”

“Are you sure?”

“The business reimburses him for travel expenses, doesn’t it?”

“Of course.”

“Can you check his travel vouchers?”

“I’ll call Pearl in the morning.”

While we’d been talking members of a big band had been assembling their instruments and music stands on the stage. One musician tapped a key on the piano, and his colleagues tuned their instruments to the note. I noticed that every seat was filled and that people were standing along the back and sides of the room. With the band members in place, the lights in the room dimmed and went out. A sonorous voice intoned: “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the Fontana Bar at beautiful Bellagio. We have a special musical treat for you tonight from the heart of the Mediterranean. The Greeks have always appreciated beauty. In Athens, they say the Trojan War would never have taken place if Paris had seen this face first. Forget Helen of Troy. Direct to Bellagio from her sold-out world tour, it’s the ravishing, fascinating Effie.”

In the dark, a drum solo established a rhythmic pattern, building in intensity until a spotlight poured a pool of white onto the stage. Breaking into the edge of the light were a gold-sandaled foot and then a knee, followed by a thigh and hip encased in red silk. Effie slithered into the spotlight and cocked her head at the audience, which wildly cheered her entrance. Long black hair partly covered one eye and fell into the deep vee of the singer’s evening gown. She flicked her hair over her shoulder and purred into the microphone, her hip keeping time with the drum. And she began to sing.

It was hard not to pick up the enthusiasm of the audience for this performer. And by the end of her opening song, I was as taken with her as her ardent admirers were. Hers was a new kind of music unfamiliar to me, a combination of stirring ethnic melodies, the insistent beat of a rock band, and improvised lines, almost jazzy in their interpretation, delivered by a strikingly beautiful, charismatic woman.

It had been a long time since I’d attended a performance so exhilarating. Carried away by the music, I felt myself relaxing for the first time since I’d come back to Las Vegas.

“I knew you’d love Effie,” Tony said when her set ended.

“Thank you,” I said. “I’d forgotten how stirring a talented entertainer can be.”

“We’ve got to get you out more.”

“Actually, I get out pretty often. Admittedly, most of the shows I see are put on by our local theater troupe—Martha was one of their star players when she lived in Cabot Cave. I also attend concerts by our local orchestra. A good friend of mine is the conductor. And I get to see a fair amount of entertainment in my travels, too—Broadway when I’m in New York, the West End in London. And tonight, thanks to you, I saw a singer I’d only read about before. So you see, I’m not culturally deprived by any means.”

“I would never suggest that. I was merely looking for an excuse to invite you out again. Would you like another drink?” he said, looking at his watch. “We can stay for her second set if you like.”

“Not tonight, Tony, but I’ll ...”

“Take a rain check,” he filled in. “I knew you were going to say that.”

“It’s late, and I have to be in court in the morning.”

“Well, then, let me escort you wherever you’d like to go,” he said, standing up and holding my chair.

We joined the line of people filing out, and as we passed near the front of the stage, the entertainer herself emerged from the wings and descended the steps from the proscenium to speak with friends and admirers who’d gathered to congratulate her. One young fan, clasping a glossy photo of the singer to his chest, called out, “Effie, I love you. Will you many me?”

Laughter lit her large brown eyes. “Ah, what a romantic,” she said in a husky voice. “We are in the city famous for getting married. Who shall marry us? Elvis Presley or Julius Caesar? Maybe we can get married right here at the Bellagio. But if we do, we’ll have to keep it a secret; otherwise my husband might object.”

“Objection!”

“Sustained. Mr. Fordice, restate your question.”

The prosecutor continued his questioning of Kay Bergl, a technician from the state forensic laboratory, who’d been on the stand for the past half hour. She was a small, delicate woman with sharp features who spoke rapidly and with assurance. She testified that fibers found on the wrench allegedly used to kill Victor had come from the right-hand glove of the pair found at the scene, the same sort of silver lamé gloves owned by Martha. In addition, she stated that the small drops of blood found on the gloves belonged to Victor Kildare. The lab’s DNA testing confirmed that.

“How certain can you be about that?” Fordice asked.

“Absolutely certain,” Ms. Bergl responded. “Only one in eighty-six million people could have that particular DNA match.”

Fordice turned the witness over to Vince Nastasi, who hammered away at the fact that although fibers from that slot machine glove matched the fibers on the wrench, Ms. Bergl and the lab had no way of knowing who had worn those gloves. The forensic lab was unable to lift fingerprints from the fabric or to determine anything about the killer, not even his or her sex.

While Nastasi cross-examined the witness, I glanced behind me. The rows of seats for observers were full, which was not unusual in a high-profile trial, and the coverage by Court TV guaranteed that. I spotted Tony in the back, next to Henry, and saw Daria and Jane across the room. Oliver Smith was there, too—he was sitting next to a man with even larger shoulders than his own—but Cindy was not in attendance, nor was Isobel Alvarez. I didn’t know anyone else by name, but there were some familiar faces, mostly likely because I’d seen them before at the trial. In every murder trial I’d ever attended, wherever in the world it took place, there were always regulars, court buffs who enjoyed sitting in on a trial day after day, following the proceedings, analyzing the strategies of the attorneys, and second-guessing the judge and the jury. The popularity of Court TV had generated a whole new population of court buffs, who could watch from the comfort of their homes or offices. But ardent fans wanted to see the trial up close, get the feeling of the courtroom, be there in person to hear the judge’s instructions and the reactions of defendants and their families to the verdict.

I turned around and focused on a thick sheaf of papers, computer printouts Nastasi had shown me before the trial began that morning. The prosecutor had provided the defense with an extensive analysis of phone calls made by the victim and the defendant for the week leading up to the murder, and the printouts chronicled those calls. According to Nastasi, a representative of the phone company would testify at some point that day. I asked what significance the calls would have, but Judge Tapansky entered the courtroom before Nastasi could respond.

The next witness called by the prosecution was the owner of a Las Vegas store, Jenkins’s Gamblers’ Heaven, which sold all sorts of paraphernalia associated with gambling, including gloves used by slot machine players to keep their hands clean. He was sworn in and gave his name, Matt Jenkins. He was a large, affable man with a few wet strands of hair combed up over an expanse of bald pate. He wore a multicolored Western shirt with a wide white yoke, and jeans. The casual way witnesses dressed surprised me, although I realized this was Las Vegas, an informal Western city.

Fordice began his direct examination by introducing a sales receipt, which Jenkins confirmed came from Gamblers’ Heaven. Handwritten on it was
1pr. slot glvs.

“Do you recognize this?” Fordice asked.

“I sure do,” replied Jenkins.

“Did you write this receipt?”

“Yes, sir.”

Fordice next entered into evidence Victor Kildare’s platinum American Express card. The account number matched the number on the receipt.

“Do you remember selling a pair of gloves to this individual?” Fordice asked, holding up a large color photo of Victor.

“Yes, sir, I surely do.”

“Why do you remember this particular sale after two years, Mr. Jenkins?”

“A couple ’a reasons. First, I knew who Mr. Kildare was. I’d seen pictures of him. And he said he was buyin’ the gloves as a wedding present for the woman he was marrying. Seemed to me like a strange gift to give a bride. I remember laughing about it. He laughed, too, as I recall.”

Fordice held up the pair of gloves found at the scene of the murder, dangling them from the evidence tag attached by the police. “Are these the gloves you sold to Victor Kildare?”

“Objection!” Nastasi said. “The witness can’t possibly identify these particular gloves as the ones he sold—to anyone!”

“Overruled,” Tapansky said. “Let the jury decide whether he can or not. Answer the question.”

“All I can say is that we sell that type of glove at the store, and it’s the same sorta gloves I sold Mr. Kildare.”

Fordice concluded by asking what sizes the gloves came in.

Jenkins laughed. “Only one size, Mr. Fordice, and that’s small. For ladies. Only the ladies wear gloves when they play the slots. The company that makes those gloves only makes ’em in one size.”

“And, Mr. Jenkins, you’re not a lady; anyone can see that.”

“No one ever accused me ’a that.” Jenkins chuckled, and I looked over to see many members of the jury smiling.

“I’m sure they haven’t,” Fordice said. “So these gloves wouldn’t fit you.”

Jenkins shook his head. “No, sir.”

“Just to show the court how small these gloves are, would you mind helping us out by trying to put one on?”

“Objection. Not probative. This is just theatrics on the part of the prosecution, Your Honor. Mr. Fordice is making a mockery of the court.” Nastasi was red in the face.

“Overruled,” the judge announced. “Proceed, Counselor.”

Fordice waited while Jenkins struggled into a pair of the latex gloves, used when handling evidence, and then handed the big man the silver lamé gloves. The shop owner took the right-hand glove, the one where the blood evidence had been found, and poked his fingers into the opening of the glove.

“Now, try to pull it on, Mr. Jenkins,” Fordice said.

It was as if the entire court held its breath. Jenkins took hold of the edge of the glove and tugged. His large fingers and his broad palm stretched the fabric at the wrist, but he could push them no farther. He looked at Fordice and shook his head. “They’ll tear.”

“That’s fine, Mr. Jenkins,” the prosecutor said. “Just raise your hand so the jury can see.”

A wave of murmuring flowed through the observers.

Tapansky banged his gavel on his desk and quiet descended in the court.

“Your witness.”

On cross-examination, Nastasi established that silver lamé gloves were a popular item, getting Jenkins to reveal that he sold more than four dozen pairs annually, mostly to tourists, but also to Las Vegas residents. But he couldn’t budge the shop owner from his belief that only ladies wore slots gloves. He excused the witness and returned to his seat, his mouth a thin line of frustration. The judge declared a fifteen-minute recess and left the courtroom.

“How are you holding up, Martha?” I asked as we sat together at the defense table. The young attorney who’d driven me from the airport the day I arrived in Las Vegas, Dean Brown, had joined Nastasi for the trial that day, and the two men huddled in whispered conversation.

“All right, I guess.” Martha sat back in her seat, dejected. “I have no way of knowing if those gloves belong to me or not,” she said, “but mine always felt as if they were a size too large.”

“Just because the glove didn’t fit Mr. Jenkins doesn’t mean it wouldn’t fit someone else, someone smaller,” I said. “He’s a pretty big man.”

“I told the police that I couldn’t find my gloves, and I’d been looking everywhere for them. The killer must have stolen mine or else bought a pair exactly like them. The jury can’t convict me just because Victor gave me a pair of gloves, can they?” she asked as Nastasi turned his attention to her.

“You never can tell what a jury will decide, Martha,” he responded. “What makes sense to us might not make sense to them. But, yeah, the whole glove theory of their case is weak.”

“But someone wanted the police to think it was you,” I said to Martha. “Whoever killed Victor went to the trouble of stealing your gioves—or buying a duplicate pair—to cast suspicion on you. Can you think of anyone who had a grudge against you?”

“I’m sure there were people who were jealous that Victor married me, but no one ever expressed outright animosity, at least not to my face. I didn’t have any real friends here, except Betsy, and I haven’t heard from her—or anyone—since I’ve been in jail. Maybe you could give her a call, Jessica, and see how she is. She’s pretty sturdy for a woman her age, but I worry about her.”

“I’ll do that.”

“I have another favor, but I really hesitate to ask.”

“Tell me what I can do.”

“I know this is a great imposition—you must be so comfortable at the Bellagio—but if you could move into my house, just for a little while, I’d be very appreciative.”