housing. It took my investigator about four seconds to slip it with a
credit card."
It still didn't sound right. The framing of a defendant is rare
enough, but the way Slip spelled it out, this one involved not only
someone from the property site but also an elected official. It didn't
fly without a connection between the two.
not
Maybe Slip would find one. I fished the property receipt out of my bag
and scribbled my home phone number on the back.
"Here's a present," I said. "Don't say I never did anything for you.
I had some work to do this weekend too, but first I needed to track
down the envelope that Jenna Markson had sent interoffice.
Searching for it in my office, I remembered that I still hadn't
returned Susan Kerr's call from the morning. Better to do it now than
to call her over the weekend or let it sit until Monday.
She thanked me for calling. "I feel stupid bothering you when you're
in the middle of the hearing, but I "
"Don't worry about it, Susan. What's up?"
"I was just wondering how Townsend was at the hearing today."
"He was there with his lawyer, but as it turned out he didn't need to
testify."
"Is that good?"
"Sure. Court proceedings are always difficult for victims."
"But when you first said he didn't need to testify, you said it in a
way that suggested you were particularly appreciative. Was there a
reason for that?"
I wouldn't normally run down my victim's husband, but Susan and Tara
had already expressed concern about Town-send's recent appearance, so
it wasn't like I was saying something new. "Well, quite honestly, he
didn't look like he was up to it."
"So you can see it too." Susan sounded relieved. "I was wondering if
it was just my imagination. I'm really starting to worry about him.
When I was with the family last night, he was totally out of it, but I
only saw him have one drink."
I thought about it. Townsend had seemed almost drunk at the death
penalty meeting, but I hadn't smelled any alcohol on him, either then
or today in court.
"Maybe it's just lack of sleep," I offered. "And he might still be
suffering from shock."
"You're probably right. Well, it's the end of a long day, and I'm sure
you want to go home. I was really only calling to see if you could try
to protect Townsend in court today, but as it turned out it wasn't
necessary."
"Sorry I didn't get back to you sooner."
"Not a problem. I'm just glad you think what he's going through is
normal. You've probably seen a lot more of this than I have,
fortunately."
Actually, I hadn't. I had no idea what normal behavior was from a man
whose wife had been murdered. And Townsend was a man with access to
his own personal prescription pad.
"Still, Susan, you should probably keep an eye out for him and ask
Clarissa's family to do the same. He could be prescribing himself
medication."
"I was wondering the same thing but didn't want to say it. He could
lose his license for that, couldn't he?"
"Maybe not under the circumstances, but let's not get ahead of
ourselves. Just keep your eyes open, maybe check the medicine
cabinets, that kind of thing." Then I remembered I wasn't just a
sympathetic human being; I was a prosecutor. "Look around if you
choose to as a private party, I mean, not as an agent of the
government."
I could almost hear a small smile. "I get what you're saying. And,
Samantha, thanks a lot."
"No problem."
I hung up pleased that I had earned Susan's trust. Even though
prosecutors aren't victims' attorneys, they should in most cases be
their advocates. If I could handle a busy caseload and still find time
and compassion for the people in that caseload, I'd be proud of my
job.
I went back to searching for the envelope from Jenna Mark-son, working
backward from my office, starting with the mail slots on the sixth
floor. It could have been worse. The envelope hadn't made it into the
slot for MCU, but I found it when I pawed through a bin of mail left in
front of the boxes. The mail guy had probably checked out at precisely
5 p.m.
Inside I found the printouts Jenna had run on Gunderson. They
contained exactly what I was looking for: a list of the properties
Gunderson had owned when he had filed for Chapter 11.
It was too late to get into the public library's archives to do the
research I was planning, so I headed home for a long run before Chuck
was scheduled to show up. By the time I finished, I had mustered up
the energy to call my father, but all I got was his machine. I hung up
without leaving a message.
When Chuck showed up twenty minutes late with beer on his breath, I was
good and didn't ask him where he'd been. Then he was better and
apologized for being late, explaining how he'd gotten trapped at a
sit-down with Calabrese. Apparently Mike and his wife were having a
hard time adjusting to life with a new baby.
We were total gluttons and ordered a large pie from Pizza-cata half
pepperoni for him, half goat cheese and artichoke for me. An hour and
a bottle of chianti later, we were starting to fool around on the sofa
while Chris Matthews and his guests played hardball. Some folks might
have a problem getting turned on with talking heads going at each other
in the background, but with Chuck and me, anything could lead to
fore-play, even those icky surgery shows. One minute I'm trying to
grab the remote from him, and the next, we've got our own doctor show
going on my coffee table.
Around the time Chuck had flung my bra into the empty pizza box and I
was beyond caring, the phone rang. I started to wiggle out from
beneath him, but his warm breath in my ear stopped me. "Don't even try
it."
I heard my own voice on the machine. "You've reached Sam and Vinnie.
Maybe we're home, maybe not. At the tone, proceed at your own risk."
"Hi uh, sorry to call so late. I'm going to assume that's a joke so I
can hold on to my remaining self-esteem in the event no one picks up.
This is a message for Samantha Kincaid."
See? It works. Ever since Roger moved out and Vinnie moved in, my
Frenchie had been my other half on the all-important outgoing message.
No reason to advertise your woman-alone status to every creep out there
dialing random numbers for kicks.
"This is Graham Szlipkowski."
My wiggling resumed. In fact, it escalated to an outright scramble.
When Chuck realized I was serious about getting to the phone, he sat