Simon said, “I’m not asking you to get involved. I need Spade’s help. Spade knows the right people.”
“Yes, and he came very close to getting busted two years ago. He’s gun-shy. Can’t blame him.”
“Here’s what I’m asking, Chub. I want you to talk to Spade so I don’t have to. Spade talks to a hacker. The hacker never knows my name, but he gives me a blueprint on how to hack into the personnel records of the hospital. Spade breaks no laws, neither do you, neither does the hacker. If I get caught, what the hell? I’m a convicted murderer headed to prison with nothing to lose.”
“You wanna hack a hospital?”
“Yeah. I figure it’s an easy job.”
“Beats me, man. Not my world.”
“I know, but Spade lives there and he knows the right people.”
Chub took a swig from his bottle and stared at the wall of football jerseys. “What if Spade wants a fee?”
“Then remind Spade that I got the FBI off his back last December. Tell Spade that I was sleeping with the special agent, a woman, who was in charge of the investigation. You might want to remember that too.”
“Oh, I remember it well.” Another swig. “You were banging a Fibbie?”
“An old friend from law school. And, please, this needs to be kept quiet.”
“Who would I tell, other than Spade? All of my conversations are off the record, Latch. You know that.”
Of course. Either off the record or recorded by law enforcement.
“I do. Lean on Spade, Chub. I need some help. I’m rather desperate.”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
Chapter 55
He met Landy at an interstate hotel near Staunton, Virginia, two hours south of Braxton. She was in the area working a case and had a few hours she could waste without raising questions. While eager to help, she had become increasingly worried about moonlighting on Simon’s case. Her supervisor was pushing for arrests in some white-collar investigations and she felt the pressure. In addition to her professional problems, her divorce was now final and, while relieved with the split, she was going through the usual letdown. Simon’s conviction didn’t help. She had even mentioned changing careers, but starting a new one as a forty-three-year-old rookie associate at a less than prestigious law firm was not that appealing. With an endless supply of young talent, few law firms were in the market for someone like Landy.
Simon bought coffees in the lobby and took them to her room. It was not yet 4 P.M., too early to think about drinks and dinner. Not that they were in the mood. Both of their lives were upside down.
She said, “I hope you’re ignoring social media.”
“I am. I’m avoiding it, along with the television, newspapers, and magazines. I assume the story has legs.”
“To put it mildly. It’s the rage. The tabloids are out of control. The stories border on fiction. The posts are as idiotic as anything I’ve ever seen. It’s outrageous.”
“Spare me, Landy. Things are bad enough. Paula informed me today that the kids have been outed at school. The name Latch is not that common.”
“I’m sorry. And I’m sorry I brought it up. Just thought you should know.”
“Thanks. I know you’re concerned.”
Without stepping out of bounds and violating agency rules, she had gathered some information on Matilda Clark and her boyfriend. In February, Jerry Korsak had signed a six-month lease for a one-bedroom apartment in Fredericksburg. Matilda left Simon’s employment in March, said she was going to Florida, but instead moved in with Jerry. She was now working as a secretary in a car rental agency near Reagan National Airport, about an hour from her apartment. The job appeared to be full-time.
If Jerry had a job, it was not evident. He was not registered with the Virginia Employment Commission, so there was no paycheck from which to withhold taxes. He was fifty-one years old and his work history was sketchy at best. Now that he was trying to get appointed as administrator of Eleanor’s estate, he would be easier to monitor. Court appearances would be required; petitions had to be filed. Judge Pointer had not yet approved his request to be appointed, but at the moment he was the only person asking for the position.
If Matilda and Jerry were legitimate suspects in Eleanor’s death, there were several rather formidable problems with investigating them. The most obvious was that Detective Roger Barr had all but closed his file. He had arrested the right suspect, got him indicted, helped get him convicted, and as far as Barr was concerned the case was over. The convicted murderer could not ask the cops to keep digging into an effort to get his conviction overturned. Another problem was the lack of evidence. There was none. If Matilda and Jerry did the deed, where were the witnesses? Not a single employee at the hospital had seen them there after hours. Where was the poison? Any not consumed by the victim had been flushed months ago. Where was the proof that they had procured it? Finding a dealer in the black market would be impossible.
And where, exactly, was the black market? As Landy suspected, not even the FBI was too concerned about the illegal trafficking of a poison that had virtually no demand. The agency, along with dozens of others, was far too busy trying to stop the flow of substances much more popular.
She said, “It’s a dead end, Simon. The FBI has no jurisdiction and the local boys have done their job. They got their man.”
Simon nodded in muted agreement. Possessing thallium was not a crime. Producing it was. And it probably came from the third world.
He pulled some papers out of his briefcase and put them on the table. “Next project. Here are the names of some hospital employees. Were you in the courtroom when Raymond flashed a bunch of faces on the screen?”
“Yes, last Thursday, wasn’t it?”
“That’s right. There were at least thirty-three doctors, nurses, and other employees with access to the room. I’ve eliminated all but these ten. Can you dig for dirt and give me their backgrounds? Without setting off alarms?”
She flipped through the pages. Each name had a color headshot next to it and a short paragraph about the employee. Raymond had obtained the information during discovery.
Landy looked at the list and said, “Two pharmacists, two technicians, dietitian, two nurse’s assistants, three orderlies. You really think the dietitian would poison a patient?”
“No. But neither would her lawyer.”
“And the pharmacists don’t make the rounds, do they?”
“I’m desperate here, Landy, okay? Indulge me.”
“All right, all right.”
“How much information do you have?”
“Tons. The agency’s database is enormous. Property ownership, utility services, credit card activity, marital history, education, religion, lawsuits, credit reports, rap sheets, employment history, and on and on.”
“On every American?”
“Virtually every adult. But almost all of the data comes from other sources, many of them public. The agency just sort of collects and indexes everything.”
“And you have access to this data?”
She kicked it for a second, shrugged, and said, “Sure, within reason. I’ll see what I can find.”
They finally got around to drinks and dinner. Simon did not want to drive home and shuddered at the thought of another night in The Closet. So, they slept together in her hotel bed, with thoughts of intimacy somewhere far away.
After one week as a convicted felon, Simon needed a change of scenery. He was tired of living in the shadows and behind locked doors, flinching every time some jerk banged on his office door. As far as he could tell, no progress had been made in his efforts to exonerate himself. For days he had been buried in piles of hospital records, searching for more names of employees who worked on the hospital’s third floor when Eleanor was there. When he wasn’t digging through that monotonous material, he worked on the first draft of his appellate brief to the Virginia Supreme Court. During his career, he had appealed two cases, both dull zoning matters, to the court. In both cases he’d been the lawyer, not the client. Now, sitting in the other seat was downright bizarre. Instead of cranking out stilted legalese based on old cases, he was writing to save his neck. He vowed to do a dozen drafts until every word was perfect, persuasive, and gave the court no alternative but to reverse the verdict. If beautiful prose and clever arguments could win the day, he would somehow produce them.