Amanda laid out what she knew. Tony tensed when she described the similarities between the Milton County and Multnomah County crime scenes, and his brow furrowed when she explained that an anonymous caller had summoned the police to the farmhouse.
It looks like a setup, Tony concluded when Amanda was done. I can't believe that the cops don't see it.
A setup doesn't fit into their scenario. It complicates matters, and the cops like their cases to have simple solutions.
What about the anonymous call that sent the cops to the farmhouse? How do they explain that?
The DA says he doesn't have to explain it, that it's my job to construct a defense for Justine.
That's bullshit. It's obviously a frame. And you know what I think? It's got to be someone with access to the hospital. Think about it. The scrubs, the cap, the scalpel all that stuff came from St. Francis, and they aren't something a casual visitor could pick up. You' d have to know when Justine was going to be in surgery, you' d have to have access to the room where Justine discarded her cap and scrubs.
That means Justine has an enemy at St. Francis, Amanda said. Do you know anyone who hates her so much he would do something like this?
Tony thought for a moment, then shook his head.
The only person I can think of ... No, it's not possible.
You're thinking about Vincent Cardoni.
Yeah, but he's dead.
We don't know that for sure, Amanda said. His body was never recovered.
You think Cardoni is working at St. Francis?
I think it's possible. He' d have to have had plastic surgery and he couldn't be working as a doctor. He doesn't have a hand.
Actually ... , Tony started, then stopped, lost in thought.
What?
Tony looked up. He leaned toward Amanda.
A hand transplant, he said excitedly. It's possible to transplant a hand. They tried it for the first time in Ecuador in 1964. The operation failed because the tissue was rejected, but there are new antirejection drugs and advanced surgical techniques that have resulted in several successful hand transplants.
Of course, Amanda answered, echoing Tony's excitement. I remember reading about them. She sobered suddenly. A transplant would be so spectacular that everyone would know about it. The one I remember was front-page news. If Cardoni had a hand transplant in the past four years, we' d have heard.
Not if it was done clandestinely. Didn't Justine believe that Cardoni had money stashed away in offshore accounts?
Yes.
With enough money, Cardoni could find a doctor who would change his appearance and try a hand transplant. And he doesn't have to be working as a doctor. Maybe he has a prosthesis and is working at some other job.
Tony thought for a moment. Do you know when the farmhouse was purchased?
About two years ago, I think.
Tony leaned forward. He looked intense.
That's it, then. I'll get someone in personnel at St. Francis to give me a printout of every male employee who was hired in the past two years. Cardoni could change his appearance and his weight. He could also change his height, but I' m betting he didn' t. I'll look for white men about six-two who are roughly Cardoni's age.
Tony reached across the table and covered Amanda's hand with his.
If Cardoni is at St. Francis, I'll track him down. We'll catch him, Amanda.
The waiter arrived with their wine and the first course, and Amanda had a chance to calm down. She ate her salad in silence while she thought about getting Tony involved in Justine's case.
Maybe I should have our investigator get the personnel records.
Why?
If Cardoni is our killer, you' d be putting yourself in danger by looking for him.
Your investigator wouldn't have the expertise to spot a really good facial reconstruction. I' d recognize one in an instant. And believe me, I' m not going to take any chances. If I find Cardoni, we'll go straight to the police.
Amanda hesitated.
Amanda, I like Justine. I don't want to see an innocent person suffer. But I like me, too, and I' m too young to die. I appreciate how dangerous this can be. I' m not going to put myself at risk.
Promise?
Promise.
You know what? Tony asked.
What?
I think we should stop talking shop for the rest of our meal.
Amanda smiled. I agree. What shall we talk about?
I just had an idea. Have you seen the new Jackie Chan flick?
I haven't seen a movie in ages.
It's showing at the Broadway Metroplex at ten-thirty. Are you in the mood for some mindless violence?
You bet.
Tony smiled. You're a girl after my own heart.
Chapter 45
When Bobby Vasquez had called earlier for an appointment, Mary Ann Jager had answered her own phone. Now he knew why: The lawyer's tiny waiting room reeked of failure. There was no receptionist, and the top of the receptionist's desk was bare and covered with a light layer of dust. Vasquez knocked on the doorjamb of an open doorway. A slender woman with short brown hair looked up, startled, from the fashion magazine she was reading.
Vasquez had learned a lot about Jager from the Martindale-Hubbell Law Directory listing of attorneys' rTsumTs and the file of complaints against Jager that he had obtained through the Oregon state bar. She had gone to work for a midsized firm for a decent salary after graduating high in her law school class. There were no problems until shortly before her divorce, when a client complained about irregularities in her trust account and rumors of substance abuse began to circulate. Jager was suspended from the practice of law for a year and fired from her firm. When she could practice again, she opened her own office. Jager's history was very similar to that of Walter Stoops, and Vasquez wondered if Cardoni found his lawyers by studying complaints filed against members of the bar.
Ms. Jager? I' m Bobby Vasquez. I called earlier.
The lawyer stood up quickly, walked around her desk and extended a damp hand. Vasquez noticed a slight tremor.
I hope you weren't waiting outside long, Jager said nervously. My receptionist is out with that flu that's going around.
Bobby smiled sympathetically, though he was certain that there was no receptionist and very little business, to judge from the empty state of Jager's in-box and her bare desktop.
I' m interested in contacting the owner of some land you purchased approximately two years ago for Intercontinental Properties, a corporation you formed, Vasquez said when they were seated.
Jager frowned. That was a farm, right?
Vasquez nodded, breathing a silent prayer of thanks that he had beaten the police to Jager and that she did not know that the land she had purchased had been turned into a slaughterhouse.
I' d like to help you, but I have no idea who owns the property. The owner contacted me by mail. I was paid to form Intercontinental Properties for the sole purpose of buying the land. My retainer and the money for the property were paid in cashier's checks. I forwarded the title to a post office box in California.
If you could give me the owner's name, I can try to trace him.
I don't have a name. There was no signature on my instructions.
This all sounds very mysterious.
It is, but it's completely legal.
Of course.
Vasquez paused, then acted like a man who has just gotten an idea.
Could I see your file? Maybe there's a clue to the owner's identity in it.
I don't know if I can do that. The information in the file is privileged.
Vasquez leaned forward and lowered his voice, even though he and the lawyer were alone.
Ms. Jager, my client is very intent on negotiating for this property. He has authorized me to compensate you for your time and for reasonable copying costs. I don't see where a problem would arise. Most of the information is public record anyway.