“We’ve got loads of reasonable doubt,” Neil said. “We’ve got an alibi showing Quinn was nowhere near the scene when the murder happened. We’ve got his cell-phone records. We’ve got a forensic expert.”
“It’s not enough,” Kira said. “You need to do more than plant seeds of doubt. You need to do more than tell the jury your guy didn’t do it. You have to let them know who did—or at least suggest it—or you’re not likely to get an acquittal.”
Brock watched her, his expression guarded.
“This was Ollie’s core operating principle, and it didn’t change from case to case,” Kira said. “I think he was developing an alternative scenario—”
“Meaning an alternative suspect besides Quinn?” Neil asked.
“That’s right. I think he found one, and that’s what he was working on when he got killed.”
“I don’t disagree with you,” Brock said. “Fact, I suggested the same thing to the detectives who interviewed me. But so far, none of this leads us in a specific direction.” He looked at Kira expectantly. “Unless you know something I don’t?”
She had better know something he didn’t was what his tone implied.
“A couple of days before his murder,” she said, “Ollie had been in touch with one of his legal contacts to get hold of a trial transcript.”
Brock’s gaze sharpened. “Who?”
“A lawyer with Duffy and Hersch.”
“What trial?”
“Defendant was Andre Markov,” Kira said. “It was an aggravated-assault case from two years ago. Ollie wanted the transcript so badly he asked his contact to have a staffer request it in person and put a rush on it.”
Brock’s and Neil’s matching frowns confirmed that this was news to both of them.
“Interesting lead. I’m impressed,” Brock said. “Any chance this criminal defendant killed Ollie?”
She shook her head. “I looked up his mug shot. He doesn’t resemble the guy I saw at your house at all. He’s much too short.”
“Why would Ollie go through Duffy and Hersch?” Neil asked. “He could have made the request himself. Or used an admin at Logan and Locke.”
“Maybe he didn’t want the request tying back to him,” Kira said.
“How would it?”
Kira stared at him. Of course, Neil didn’t know. He’d essentially been the Heisman Trophy winner of his law-school class, wined and dined and inundated with job offers. He’d clearly never worked as a clerk or a lowly court runner, filling out forms and racing documents around town.
Kira summoned her patience. “When you fill out an in-person request, they ask for a bar number or law firm number,” she explained to a man who probably made four times as much as she did. “If Ollie handled it himself, it would trace back to Logan and Locke.”
“But what’s that case got to do with the Quinn case?” Brock asked.
“I’m not sure, but I’ve got some ideas,” Kira said, stretching the truth like a rubber band. “I’ve requested the transcript, and I read through a summary of the case online and made a list of names to run down.”
“Who was the attorney?” Brock asked.
Kira flipped through her notepad and rattled off the names of the attorneys on both sides.
“You know them?” she asked.
“Not personally.” Brock looked at Neil. “You?”
He shook his head. “Who was the judge?”
“Erica Farland.”
“She’s tough. I’ve been in her courtroom.” Brock shook his head. “Still, none of this rings any bells. What’s a two-year-old assault case got to do with Ava Quinn’s murder?”
“Whatever this is, Ollie believed it was important. Important enough that it overshadowed everything else we were working on.”
Neil looked skeptical. Along with Brock and the rest of the team, he had been working on that “everything else” for months.
“Look, all due respect to Ollie, but this may not even matter,” Neil said to Brock. “We’ve got one of the nation’s top gunshot-residue experts ready to testify that the GSR on Quinn’s hands was transferred when he tried to render medical aid before the paramedics came. This expert is an amazing witness.” He looked at Kira. “She’s prepped and ready to go. And besides our forensics people who are going to cast doubt on the physical evidence, we’ve also got a rock-solid alibi in the form of a respected doctor who was having drinks with Quinn at the time of his wife’s murder.”
“Yeah, I’m not sure about that,” Kira said.
Neil’s eyebrows arched. “About what?”
“The respected part.”
“What do you mean? The guy’s a prominent surgeon and a big philanthropist. The jury’s going to love him.”
“Don’t be so sure,” Kira told Neil. “I’ve been checking him out. He’s got issues, including alleged spousal abuse.” She turned to Brock. “I told Ollie about it at your house, and normally he’d be freaking out over something like that, but he told me it didn’t matter. Whatever he’d discovered trumped the alibi witness being a wife beater.”
“Alleged wife beater,” Neil said.
Brock leaned forward, resting his uninjured arm on his knee. “You really believe Ollie had discovered a suspect besides Quinn?”
“Yes.”
Both men looked skeptical, and Kira felt annoyed.
“Let me ask you something,” she said to Brock. “Do you really believe Gavin Quinn is innocent? No spin. Do you truly believe that?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Why?”
“Lot of reasons,” Brock said. “Circumstances, physical evidence, conversations I’ve had with the guy. Sometimes it comes down to a gut feeling about people, and when he tells me he didn’t kill his wife, I believe him.” Brock smiled at Neil. “They say an innocent client is as rare as a unicorn. Or maybe a leprechaun, in Quinn’s case.” His face grew serious as he looked at Kira. “But I’m telling you, the man didn’t do it.”
Kira studied Brock’s eyes. Either he had an excellent poker face, or he really believed what he was saying. Probably both.
“I think it’s possible you’re right,” she said. “And I think Ollie figured out who did kill her, and that may have cost him his life.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
JEREMY WAS at Kira’s back door at nine A.M. sharp, but she didn’t answer. He knocked again and waited. He knew she was awake, because he’d seen her bedroom light go on at 0600, followed by the bathroom light.
Jeremy had watched her house from his truck as the sun came up, and for the first time since he’d started this career, he felt like a stalker.
Kira opened the door with a smile. “Morning.”
“You didn’t ask who it was.”
“Who else would it be? Trent told me you’d be here at nine.” She pulled the door back and ushered him inside. “Want coffee? Or a muffin?”
“I’m good.”
He stepped into her house and immediately regretted his answer. It smelled like a bakery. Better than a bakery—it smelled like his grandmother’s house on Easter morning.
He glanced around, and her kitchen was a wreck. Dishes filled the sink. A carton of eggshells sat on the stovetop. Tupperware bins and plates of banana muffins occupied every inch of counter space.
“Late-night snack attack?” he asked.
“I wish.” She poured coffee into a to-go mug. She was dressed nicer than usual today in black jeans and a silky white blouse, and she wore heeled sandals. “These are for Ollie’s daughter and her kids.”