Fatal Flaw Part 34

"Anything's possible."

"And if that possibility occurred, and that person left after whatever it was he did, then he would have taken the wet object, whether bag or umbrella or boots, with him, unlike Guy, who was still there and would have left it right in place."

"Anything's possible, like I said."

"Yes it is, Officer. No further questions."

I COULDN'T help thinking through the course of the trial about Roylynn Prouix and her little black book. help thinking through the course of the trial about Roylynn Prouix and her little black book.

Troy Jefferson was laying out the smooth surface of his case, a simple explanation of time and s.p.a.ce that made it impossible for anyone other than Guy Forrest to have killed Hailey Prouix. I, on the other hand, was trying to create a disruption in his continuum, attempting to distort time and s.p.a.ce so that a gap appeared, a yawning hole big enough to allow someone other than Guy to step through and take the shot. It seemed a trick, what I was doing, a distortion, but as I worked, I realized it wasn't a trick at all. It was there, the gap, absolutely, and I was simply making its presence felt.

I thought of that primordial black hole of which Roylynn had spoken, the thing that had distorted her life and her sister's. She had said that Jesse Sterrett had been devoured by that same black hole. It had seemed at the time like the spinnings of a mind deranged by some great tragedy, but during the course of the trial I began to rea.s.sess. Each time in my cross-examinations that I bent the smooth surface of Troy Jefferson's case and allowed the hole to grow ever larger, it was as if the force of some ma.s.sive body was becoming more evident. It was still shadowy, this body, still unidentifiable, but it was there, twisting time and s.p.a.ce, opening its murderous gap.

The ma.s.s of a mountain, had said Roylynn Prouix, in a million millionth of an inch. With each cross, with each question, it seemed ever more present, ever more frightening, ever more true.

"OFFICER JENKINS, you testified that you found People's Exhibit Seven, which is a portable CD player with headphones, by the Jacuzzi in the master bathroom."

"That's right."

"Did this Jacuzzi have water jets built in?"

"Yes, there was a timer switch on the wall."

"Did you try the switch to see if the jets worked?"

"I did."

"Pretty loud, weren't they?"

"I suppose. In that small room, sure."

"Now, the headphones you found, are they the normal lightweight things that usually come with such players?"

"I don't know what usually comes with players, but these were pretty good headphones. If I can look at the exhibit, I could tell you more."

I brought People's Exhibit Seven to the witness stand. "Those are your initials on the bag, isn't that right?"

"My initials are first. The other initials are from the technicians who examined it in the lab."

"Fine. Now, if you could open the bag, take out the exhibit, and look at the headphones. Those are the same headphones you found by the tub, aren't they?"

"Yes. They are made by a company called Koss. They're the kind with padding that covers the ear."

"Pretty high quality?"

"I don't know for sure, but better than usual, I would suppose."

"And the disc inside was Louis Armstrong's Greatest Hits Louis Armstrong's Greatest Hits?"

"Yes, that's right."

"And it's still inside?"

The officer opened the case."Yes."

"Now, Officer, did you happen to check the settings on the disc player before you put it into that evidence bag?"

"What do you mean?"

"The player has a little digital readout, doesn't it?"

"Yes, it does."

"And that readout gives all kinds of information. It tells the track number of the song being played. It tells the state of the battery. It tells the volume it is being played at."

"I suppose so."

"And did you determine those numbers when you found the disc player and put it into that nice plastic bag you wrote your initials on?"

"I didn't want smear any fingerprints, so, no, I didn't play around with it. Can I check my notes and see if I took down anything else?"

"Please," I said, having already reviewed the notes and knowing that he did not.

"No, I suppose not," he said finally. "I did make sure it played, though. I listened a bit to the disc."

"And it played pretty loudly, didn't it?"

"I suppose, with the headphones on."

"Now, I wonder if you might help us get a little more specific. May I approach the witness, Your Honor?"

Judge Tifaro gave me a skeptical look, which grew more strained when I smiled and waved two AA batteries at her. She glanced at Troy Jefferson, who stood and thought about it before sitting down again without raising an objection. "Go ahead, Mr. Carl," she said.

"I'm going to put in some fresh batteries and play the same CD that was in the player when you found it, and I'd like you to tell me whether or not it was this loud when you listened to it on the night of the murder."

When the new batteries were in and the player was set to a track called "Basin Street Blues," I asked Officer Jenkins to put on the headphones.

"Do you think it might have been louder than this?"

"Excuse me?" he said loudly.

I gestured for him to take off the headphones.

"How are those headphones, Officer? Comfortable?"

"Oh, yeah, sure."

"Do you think that the volume it was set at the night of the murder when you checked the sound might have been louder than this?"

"Yes, I think so. Yes, it was pretty loud."

"Okay, now, what I'd like to do is for you to put the headphones back on, and slowly I'll raise the volume. I'd like you to look at the little digital readout and when you're absolutely sure that it is at least as loud as or louder than it was that night, I'd like you to raise your hand to let us know. Is that clear?"

"Yes, sir."

"We're looking for the outer boundary of volume."

"I understand."

"All right, let's try it."

He put the headphones back on and stared down at the digital monitor, as did I. Slowly I pressed the volume b.u.t.ton at the bottom of the player. I had started it very low, at two, and was raising it now to three, to three and a half, to four, to four and a half. I was watching not just the volume readout but also the time of the track. When it was at a volume of six and a half and the time into the track was 4:35, when Armstrong's brilliant horn is added to the mix in a roaring finale, I scratched my back.

A shot rang out, or something very much like a shot.

The whole courtroom jumped, the jury, the judge, the bailiff reached for his gun, all looked around crazily for the source of the shot, all but myself and Officer Jenkins, whose eyes were focused still on the little digital readout.

Beth, standing now, picked up the large legal volume she had dropped flat onto the defense table and apologized for the disturbance.

Troy Jefferson leaped to his feet and objected.

Judge Tifaro was starting to launch into a brutal admonishment aimed at Beth when Officer Jenkins raised his hand.

The judge stopped midsentence and, her mouth still open to speak, turned to stare at the witness.

Officer Jenkins took off his earphones. "It's hard to tell for certain, but my best guess," he said, still looking at the player, "is that the volume at the time was somewhere here between seven and eight, if that's helpful."

Officer Jenkins looked around at the quiet laughter, wondering what he had said that was so funny.

"Thank you, Officer," I said. "That's very helpful."

AND SO it continued, the trial of Guy Forrest, and so I continued with my witch's brew of cross-examination to bring to light a gap in time and s.p.a.ce big enough for a murderer to walk through. And as I worked, as carefully and methodically as Troy Jefferson, and as that primordial black hole became a presence ever more real, something strange happened that made me wonder if indeed the entire s.p.a.ce-time continuum had shifted. it continued, the trial of Guy Forrest, and so I continued with my witch's brew of cross-examination to bring to light a gap in time and s.p.a.ce big enough for a murderer to walk through. And as I worked, as carefully and methodically as Troy Jefferson, and as that primordial black hole became a presence ever more real, something strange happened that made me wonder if indeed the entire s.p.a.ce-time continuum had shifted.

A friend of Hailey's was testifying, which was strange, because I didn't know Hailey had any friends, and she was talking about the woman she knew. It wasn't such a flattering portrait, of a woman materialistic, casually cruel-I use the term "friend'' broadly here-but as she spoke, I could detect something slight in the air about me, so slight I almost missed it, something shimmering in the courtroom. I had maybe noticed something before, some small distortion as, bit by bit, the testimony of the neighbors, of the crime-scene officers, of the witnesses who one by one linked together suspect and murderer, began to paint a portrait through their words. But in the testimony of this witness, this friend, it became clearer and clearer, word by word. I looked around to see if anyone else had spotted it, but, no, it had come only for me, with its sharp cheekbones and pursed lips and the sadness in its eyes.

The friend testified at one time to being in Hailey's office and hearing her speak, over the speakerphone, to a man she didn't recognize. She had met Guy before, this friend, and so she knew it wasn't he, but no names were used, and Hailey didn't tell her who it was. Something about the Stallone matter was all she could get, but she could tell, this friend, that there was something going on between Hailey and the man, something intimate and strong. And, no, they hadn't been fighting. And, no, there were no intimations of problems. And, no, she couldn't imagine that the man on the other side of that phone conversation, the way he spoke so sweetly to her, could have been her murderer.

Before she had finished her testimony, I leaned over to Beth and whispered, "Why don't you take this one."

Beth was lovely on cross, strong, clear, making it obvious that from the conversation the woman could have no real idea whether the relationship had any future or whether or not the man on the other side of that line might have turned murderous when rejected. In fact, the only thing we could really glean from the conversation was the strong link between the two, a link that could easily have turned wrong. Jefferson had thought the testimony would defuse my theory, when all it did was make the missing lover more mysterious, more threatening, a disembodied voice able to wreak any havoc.

I concentrated as much as I could on the testimony, but as the vision of the specter grew stronger, my mind wandered. It was Hailey, of course, conjured by my alchemy from some strange place to remind me. I had been struggling so hard to save Guy and protect my secret that I had forgotten what had driven me from the start, but here she was, Hailey Prouix, come to keep me to the decision that had been made.

Over the dead body of my lover I had pledged that I would discover the truth behind her murder and that the truth I discovered would be served, whatever the price to be later paid. And what was I doing to learn what had really happened, to learn who had really pulled the trigger and bring that killer to justice? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. That realization made me sick to my stomach as the testimony continued and the specter shimmered.

But just then a note was dropped in front of me as if out of the air. Without looking up, I opened it.

WE NEED TO TALK.

We need to talk. Are there four more frightening words in the English language? For a moment I suspected the message had come from my personal specter, but when I looked up from the note, the spell had been broken and she was gone.

So who was it, who needed to talk with me? I searched around until I found him, looking at me with that strange, bent gaze of his, and I knew without doubt that I was in serious trouble.

Detective Breger, back from Vegas and now in search of the missing lover, wanted to have a chat.

40.

IF THIS had been a first date, there wouldn't have been a second. had been a first date, there wouldn't have been a second.

Breger sat next to me at the bar, but he wouldn't look at me. He seemed uncomfortable, almost embarra.s.sed to be meeting me without his partner, as if he were cheating. We talked a bit about the Eagles, we pa.s.sed plat.i.tudes about politics. It was the kind of conversation bored strangers with real interest in nothing other than their booze suffer through. We were at the bar of a pizza chain out near the big suburban mall, a place that felt as empty of context as the huge shopping park in whose shadow it sat, a place that could have been anywhere in this great land, on the side of any highway, sandwiched between any two fast-food joints, a fine enough place to go only when there's no place else to be. Breger had suggested this place with its yawning emptiness, a place where no one knew us or cared about what we had to say to one another. Both of us were drinking out of politeness, but neither of us was really paying attention to the beers in our frosted franchise mugs. I was waiting for him to get down to business, he was waiting for something else, though I couldn't quite tell what.

"What's up, Detective?" I said finally, when we had talked of the weather about as much as I could stand.

"I'm just trying to figure out what's going on inside your head."

"Not too much."

"So it seems, but still I'm wondering," he said. "Why do you keep fighting our attempts to examine your phone logs?"

"Attorney-client privilege."

"I know how you keep us from looking, and the judge has backed you each time we've made the request, but I'm asking why."

"Privilege is like a muscle, Detective. If you don't exercise it, next time you turn around, it has become withered and weak."

He gave a quick and dismissive glance at my biceps. "We're still trying to figure out how Guy called you after he found his fiancee dead."

"Let's hope you get to the bottom of that mystery once and for all, save everybody a bit of worry."

He shook his head, took a sip of his beer. He didn't like my answer. I didn't like that he was still asking the question.