Ben stood sputtering for several seconds, trying to frame a question. Nothing in law school had ever prepared him for an examination like this. “But…how can you know why he killed himself?”
“I’ve still got the suicide note he left,” she answered. “It’s clearly in his handwriting.”
“But…you said before that you shot him.”
“Of course.” She almost laughed, seemingly amazed at his stupidity. “How do you think he managed to end up with four shots to the head? He only fired the first; he was dead after that. I picked up his gun from where it fell on the floor and, after wrapping my hand in my scarf to avoid leaving fingerprints, supplied the final three shots.”
“Why?”
Margot’s eyes drifted away from Ben, to a place at the table behind him. “To get…her.”
She was staring at Christina, of course.
“I’d been married to Tony for twelve years, Mr. Kincaid. I had a lot…invested in him. For better or worse, he was all I had. I had no desire to be divorced. And I especially had no desire to be the spurned woman. The castaway. Last year’s model. The woman who gets shunted aside when a newer, livelier one comes along.”
Ben remembered what Spud had told him. She was a madwoman, he’d said. Crazy jealous. The pieces were finally beginning to fall into place. “So you fired the additional shots into your husband’s head after he was already dead, and took the suicide note, to make it look like a murder. To frame Christina.”
“It was a perfect setup. There she was, lying in the same room with him, sound asleep, and nobody knew I had even been there. I guess I’m weak. It was more than I could resist.”
“That would explain why the coroner had so much trouble establishing a time of death,” Ben said, thinking aloud. “There were two times of death, so to speak. What did you do after you fired the shots?”
“The obvious. I wiped the gun clean and put it on the floor beside her. I considered pressing her fingers against it, but I was afraid that would wake her. I made sure I hadn’t touched anything in the apartment, and I left. I expected to be interrogated, if not arrested, but it never happened. No one suspected. Even when the police finally questioned me, it was strictly routine.”
That’s because they already had their patsy, Ben mused.
“Afterward, I tried to rinse the dye out of my hair but, to my surprise, it wouldn’t come out. I must’ve mixed it wrong—given myself too concentrated a dose. I didn’t want to be seen buying any blonde hair color; after Tony’s death was announced, that would be likely to arouse suspicions. So I just left it the way it was.”
Ben knew he had enough. There was no reason to keep pressing. “Thank you for your candor, Mrs. Lombardi. I know it wasn’t easy for you, and that you’ve put yourself at mercy of possible criminal charges.”
“For what?” She laughed quietly. “I told you—he was already dead. What am I going to be charged with? Tampering with a corpse?”
Ben suspected Moltke would be more imaginative than that, but there was no reason to bring it up now. “Your honor,” he said, “I have no more questions. And I move for dismissal.”
Derek looked sternly at Moltke. “Any objections, Mr. Prosecutor?”
Moltke’s dismay was obvious, but under the circumstances, he had no alternative. “No, your honor. We’ll consent to dismissal.”
“Very well,” Derek said. “The charges are hereby dismissed. Miss McCall, you are free to go.” He banged the gavel. It reverberated through the courtroom like a clap of thunder.
Everyone leaped to their feet at once. The crowd was loud and raucous, cheering and shouting more like the audience for a rock concert than a criminal trial. Ben saw Jones in the back of the courtroom giving him the thumbs-up. He saw Loving pressing his way to the front, yelling something about a “perfect Perry Mason moment.” The reporters (the ones who were still there) leaned against the railing, shouting questions at Ben.
He ignored them all and strolled back to counsel table. “Well, ma cherie,” he said to Christina, “it looks as if—”
He never managed to finish, Christina threw her arms around his neck and kissed him, right there in front of everybody. A big wet smoocher.
Square on the lips.
PART FOUR
Six Impossible Things
42
“HAVE I TOLD YOU recently how sick I am of this case?” Mike asked.
“Aw, what a whiner,” Ben replied. He glanced at Mike’s desk. “At least you’re not reading Shakespeare any more. Tell me what you’ve discovered about the suicide note since the trial.”
“No surprises. Our experts are convinced it’s genuine. The handwriting matches, plus the note makes reference to financial matters Margot couldn’t have known about. Probably no one could have, other than Lombardi. And we’ve checked with Quinn Reynolds. It’s all accurate. Bottom line—it must have happened just as Margot said it did.”
“Amazing. How could anyone have guessed?”
“I don’t know,” Mike said. “How did you guess?”
“I didn’t. Not really. Jones was the one who had the revelation. Despite my telling him not to on repeated occasions, he snuck out to the scene of the crime, as he likes to say, and visited with Spud while he was on duty. Jones picked up on it pretty quickly—the drinking, the nearsightedness. Maybe it was the stress of the trial, but for whatever reason, Spud was hitting the bottle heavily and couldn’t see well at all.”
“And that led you to Margot.”
“Very good, shamus. You’ve been back to crime school.” Ben stretched out in his chair. “I realized then we were looking for someone Spud mistook for one of the three suspects—but which one? Reynolds and Langdell both admitted they went to Lombardi’s apartment; only DeCarlo denied it. That suggested that the person in question had passed him—or herself off as DeCarlo. I saw Margot on my way back into the courtroom and I began to remember—the dark sunglasses, the discrepancy over her hair color. That’s when I figured it out.”
“You had a lot of guts, Ben, calling her to the stand on a wild hunch like that. And no hard evidence.”
“Yeah. But, of course, it wasn’t as if I had a lot of other alternatives. I was very lucky.”
“Chance favors the prepared mind.”
“Is that Shakespeare?”
“No. But it should be.”
“Have you got everything you need?” Mike asked.
“I think so.” Ben scanned the papers spread across the table in Mike’s office. “Requisition forms, invoices, declassified FBI reports, the works.”
“Let’s just hope everything goes according to plan.”
“It will,” Ben said. I hope, he thought silently.
At that moment, Abshire bounced into the office, his thumb tucked behind his suspenders. “What the hell is this?” He bent over the table and ran his fingers through Ben’s papers. “These are confidential FBI documents. How did you get this stuff?”
“Through the Freedom of Information Act, mostly,” Ben said, not looking him in the eye.
“Like hell,” Abshire replied. “FIA requests take a month, minimum, even assuming you know what to ask for.” He whirled around. “Cards-on-the-table time, boys. You did this, didn’t you, Morelli?”
“As a matter of fact,” Mike said, “I did.”
Abshire approached him, gritting his teeth. “When are you going to figure out which side you’re on, Morelli? I specifically said I wanted no cooperation—”
“The case is over, Abshire. You lost. Give it up.”
Abshire’s fists balled up. “Goddamn it, this benevolent attitude of yours is probably the reason we lost the case. May I remind you that a second murder remains unsolved?”