Slow Kill Page 24

  “I believe so,” Warren said, pushing aside the thought of what she might be like in bed. “Let me tell you what we can do in the short term.”

  It took only a few minutes for Warren to lay out his strategy and explain the rationale behind it. Claudia asked several questions about the points of law he’d raised, then she stood and offered Warren her hand. Her palm was cool to the touch, her nails perfectly manicured, and her grip sure and firm.

  “I’ll expect to hear from you directly,” she said with a brief, fleeting smile.

  “Of course,” Warren replied, waiting for an out-pouring of relief. None came.

  He watched as the guard took her away. Something about the woman was dark, unfathomable, and fascinating, like the ancient maps that marked uncharted waters with the warning HERE BE MONSTERS.

  The image of Claudia Spalding, cool and aloof in her jail jumpsuit, stayed with Jefferson Warren as he climbed the courthouse steps in San Luis Obispo on a Friday afternoon and walked through the stylized pediment entrance into the dark hallway.

  Outside the judge’s chambers, the DA, a pompous man with a wide, horseshoe bald spot that covered most of his freckled skull, intercepted him at the door.

  “You’re wasting my time if you’re planning to ask the judge to reconsider granting bail,” he said smugly.

  Warren smiled down at the portly DA, smoothed his silk tie against his cream-colored shirt, buttoned his jacket, and opened the door. “I’m sure you know the judge’s mind far better than I ever will.”

  They found the presiding judge, Truett Frye, in his chambers watching the early evening news on a small portable color television. Frye clicked off the televison and stood, unwinding his lanky six-five frame as the two men approached his desk.

  “This better be worth my time, Mr. Warren,” he said. “I should have been home an hour ago.”

  “It’s really quite simple, your honor,” Warren said. “The alleged murder of Clifford Spalding did not occur within your jurisdiction.”

  “He died here,” the DA interjected.

  “Granted,” Warren replied. “But the legal definition of homicide requires a willful, deliberate, and premeditated act. According to the arrest affidavit and supporting documents, no such act occurred within San Luis Obispo County in the state of California.”

  The DA snorted in disbelief. “For a two-month period, Clifford Spalding took medication that was prepared and deliberately given to him by his wife and her lover expressly to cause his death. It doesn’t matter where it all started; they were killing him slowly, here, in New Mexico, and wherever else he might have been during that time.”

  Frye looked at Warren. “Your rebuttal, counselor?”

  “There is nothing in the statute that speaks to how long it takes a victim to die, or where he dies, Your Honor. Suppose a man is shot but survives long enough to drive himself to a hospital across the county line, or even into a neighboring state. In what jurisdiction should the killer be held accountable for the act?”

  “Where the act took place,” Frye said, swinging his attention to the DA.

  “Think of the altered medication Clifford Spalding was given as a poison, Judge,” the DA said. “He took it every day, as prescribed by his doctor, which means he was poisoned in California.”

  “Can you prove that?” Warren asked.

  “The autopsy blood work confirms it,” the DA said.

  Warren shook his head. “It only confirms that Spalding ingested the substance, not where he took it. Therefore, arguably, the murder occurred in New Mexico, where my client allegedly acted with specific intent to cause the death of her husband, time and place notwithstanding.”

  “We have a confession from Spalding’s lover,” the DA said, “that fully implicates her.”

  “And proves my point,” Warren noted.

  Frye gave the DA a cold stare. “Who signed the warrant and affidavit?”

  The DA named the judge.

  He held out his hand. “Let me see them.”

  The DA passed the documents to Frye, who put on his glasses, paged through them, and then looked at Warren.

  “I see your point, Mr. Warren,” he said, “but I don’t see what good it will do your client. The DA can drop his charges and continue to hold Mrs. Spalding in custody on the New Mexico warrant.”

  “There is no New Mexico arrest warrant, Your Honor,” Warren said.

  “Is that so?” Frye asked the DA.

  “I’ll get one,” the DA answered nervously.

  Warren smiled. “Until such time, Your Honor, I respectfully request that Mrs. Spalding be released from jail.”

  Frye glared at him. “So ordered.”

  “Thank you. Would you call the jail now?”

  Frye slammed his hand down on the telephone. “You’d better make damn sure your client stays put, Mr. Warren.”

  “She gave me assurances to that effect, Your Honor. She’ll be at her home in Montecito. I’ll take her there myself.”

  While Frye made the call, the DA used his cell phone to rally the sheriff’s troops.

  With a signed release order in hand, Warren left the courthouse, called the jail, and told them he would be picking up Mrs. Spalding in a matter of minutes. Two deputies in unmarked police cars were waiting when he arrived. Warren figured a surveillance team was probably on the way to Montecito to make sure she stayed put while other detectives scrambled to get an arrest warrant from New Mexico.

  He went inside and got Claudia, who didn’t say a word until they were in his car.

  “Well done,” she said as she buckled her seat belt.

  “I don’t think you’ll be free for very long,” Warren said as he pulled onto the highway, the two unmarked police cars close behind. He explained the situation. “Perhaps no more than a matter of hours.”

  “I understand,” Claudia said softly.

  Warren glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. The hem of her black dress rode up an inch above her knees, showing sleek, smooth calves. Her hips were nicely rounded, her neck long and flawless.

  She turned her head and smiled warmly at him. “Could you hurry a bit, please?”

  Claudia Spalding’s allure was subtle yet powerful, and Warren found himself obediently hurrying along.

  At the gate to the estate, the two unmarked police cars pulled to the curb as he turned into the driveway and entered the code Claudia provided on the keypad. He drove up the lane not knowing what to expect. But he’d represented many celebrity clients, was familiar with their extravagant lifestyles, and figured the estate had to be top of the line. When the mansion came into view it matched anything he’d seen in Beverly Hills.

  He parked and looked at Claudia Spalding. “There’s a slight chance the judge will reconsider granting bail if you’re here when the police show up with a new warrant. I’ll certainly make a strong argument for it.”

  “That’s something to look forward to,” Claudia said.

  “Would you like me to stay with you until they arrive?”

  Claudia shook her head, her hand on the door latch. “No, Mr. Warren, that won’t be necessary.”

  “It would be in your best interest to have me stick around,” he said, fully aware his motives were mixed.

  Claudia flashed him a knowing smile and stepped out of the car. “Yes, I’m sure it would. Good night, Mr. Warren.”

  He watched her walk to the house, her posture perfect, body moving in a lithesome rhythm, as though she didn’t have a care in the world.

  Lieutenant Dante Macy found it no easy matter to have a warrant for Claudia Spalding’s arrest issued by a Santa Fe district court judge. Since it was after normal working hours on a Friday, he first had to go through a Santa Fe PD dispatcher, who put him in touch with the highest ranking officer on duty, a patrol captain, who in turn referred him to the lieutenant in charge of special investigations.

  Macy called the lieutenant at home, who contacted an off-duty detective named Matt Chacon. Detective Chacon g
ot on the stick in a hurry and talked to the ADA on duty. He reported back promptly to Macy that the original arrest affidavit prepared by Sergeant Pino had been turned down by the DA and would have to be reworked and re-submitted.

  Macy knew Pino was on her way to California, bringing with her all the case materials. “Do you have the information you need to do it?”

  “We have copies of everything,” Chacon replied.

  “How long will it take you?”

  “I’ll use what the sergeant wrote, add in the Dean confession, and that should do it.”

  “How long?” Macy repeated.

  “An hour to do the paperwork,” Chacon replied. “I’ll hand-carry it to the ADA, who has the judge who signed the warrant for Dean standing by.”

  “My sheriff, who’s not a happy camper, is hovering over my shoulder on this, Detective. When will I get a faxed copy?”

  “Give it two or three hours, Lieutenant,” Chacon said, “barring any unforeseen delays.”

  “Like what?” Macy asked.

  “The district attorney wants to sign off on it. I think he’s talking to your DA as we speak.”

  “Are there any political issues regarding Claudia Spalding I should know about?” Macy asked.

  Chacon chuckled. “I don’t think Claudia Spalding has any political clout at all in Santa Fe. From what I know about her, she didn’t come here to engage in civic affairs, if you get my meaning.”

  In spite of himself, Macy laughed. “Okay. Thanks for pushing it along, Detective.”

  “No problem. I’ll have it to you as fast as I can.”

  Macy called Bill Price, who had a team of officers on stakeout at the Spalding mansion. “Is everything quiet?”

  “No problem, LT. She hasn’t moved, and no one’s been to visit since the lawyer dropped her off.”

  “We should have a warrant from New Mexico in two or three hours. I’ll let you know as soon as it comes through.”

  “Ten-four,” Price said.

  Because Ramona’s tickets had been booked a day before her departure, she wasn’t able to fly directly to San Luis Obispo and had to lay over at the Phoenix airport and catch the last flight to Santa Barbara.

  For a time, she sat in the busy concourse oblivious to the people around her and read through the chief’s case notes on George Spalding.

  Kerney had put everything in chronological sequence, and his narrative style was crisp, clear, thoroughly detailed, and filled with solid observations. The notes read like a compelling mystery, and by the time Ramona finished she was caught up in the case, eager to know where George Spalding was and why he’d faked his own death.

  Ramona wasn’t surprised by Kerney’s investigative skills. She’d watched him work several major crimes, and knew he’d spent most of his career in the major felony crime unit as he rose through the ranks.

  Because of his background in investigations, Kerney paid a bit more attention to the unit than most chiefs normally would. But he didn’t shirk his larger responsibilities, and Ramona hadn’t heard any complaints of favoritism from members of the other divisions.

  She put the case notes away and did some people watching. Businessmen and -women in rumpled suits traveling home for the weekend wandered back and forth pulling their wheeled carry-on bags and talking on cell phones. Weary parents chased after hyperactive children. Electric carts with flashing red warning lights passed by carrying senior citizens, frail and disabled people, and young mothers holding infants. Teenage girls in tight jeans showing bare midriffs clattered along. There were middle-aged men in baggy shorts and T-shirts, and an abundance of overweight people.

  Her flight left on time and the small turbojet flew west into the sun, with Phoenix and its suburbs below spreading out for miles across the desert floor. Not yet immune to the fun of flying, Ramona passed the time looking out the window. When the plane banked and turned on its final approach to Santa Barbara the ocean came into view, shimmering like an enormous undulating sheet, each wave tufted in white as it broke against the shore.

  The Santa Barbara airport was much like the one in Santa Fe, which also served only commuter jets and private aircraft. Portable stairs were rolled up to the plane to unload the passengers, and the terminal, a quaint, tidy California mission-style building, was just a few steps away. Inside, the passenger area was empty, and a small cluster of people waited behind the security barrier, manned by a bored-looking guard sitting on a stool next to the baggage screening machine.

  A pretty woman, perhaps two inches taller than Ramona, with short, dark hair and a dimple in her cheek, stepped forward and waved in her direction.

  “Ramona?” the woman asked with an easy smile.

  “You must be Ellie.” Impulsively, she stepped forward and gave Lowrey a hug.

  “Welcome to California,” Ellie said. “Let’s get your bags and hit the road.”

  As they waited at the covered baggage stall next to the terminal, Ellie’s cell phone rang.

  “Is Sergeant Pino with you?” Lieutenant Macy asked.

  “Yes, she just arrived,” Ellie said.

  “Good. I need you both here now,” Macy said. “Claudia Spalding is out of jail.”

  “What happened?”

  “The judge threw out the arrest on a technicality and released her. She’s home, but I’ve got people there making sure she stays put.”

  “Do you want us at Montecito?” Ellie asked.

  “No, the sheriff and the DA want you and Pino here to vet the new arrest affidavit before it’s served. They want everything in perfect order.”

  “Does it need vetting?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “Are they just covering their butts?”

  “I didn’t say that either,” Macy replied.

  “We’re on our way.”

  “Problems?” Ramona asked as she picked up her luggage.

  Ellie smiled. “We’ve been called into work. I’ll tell you about it on the drive.”

  “Another Friday evening shot to hell,” Ramona said cheerfully as she followed Ellie to her unit.

  Much more than three hours passed while Detective Bill Price waited in his unit with all the windows down so that no outside sound would go unnoticed. Every ten minutes he checked in with his team by radio. All the entrances were covered, two detectives were constantly circling the estate perimeter in units looking for any sign of movement, and an officer was on station at the bottom of the hill ready to stop, ID, and question the destination of any drivers entering the street.

  Price checked the time as he unwrapped a stick of gum and folded it into his mouth. The night breeze whispered through the trees, soft and soothing, and a full moon flung tangled webs of shadows from the branches across the roadway.

  The distant sound of rotors made Price stiffen, listen intently, and look up at the empty sky through the windshield.

  He got out and did a three-sixty scan. Tall trees blocked his line of sight in every direction.

  The sound grew closer and a helicopter broke into view, traveling fast, descending quickly, veering toward the estate.

  Price decided he couldn’t wait for Macy’s call. He reached into the car and grabbed the microphone. “Go, go, go,” he yelled. “Stop that chopper.”

  Car engines roared to life, entrance gates opened, and police cars barreled onto the grounds from three directions, converging on the house. Price swerved around the lead car and braked hard by the front door just in time to see the chopper rise above the rooftop, displaying only the tail boom and rear fins as it flew away.

  His cell phone rang. He took a deep breath to swallow his frustration and answered.

  “You’re good to go,” Macy said.

  Price watched the flashing anticollision beacon on the upper fin of the chopper recede in the sky. “It’s too late. A helicopter just picked her up.”

  “Dammit,” Macy said. “You’re sure of that?”

  “It just left, Lieutenant. We’re at the house now, but
we haven’t searched it yet.”

  “Do it,” Macy snapped. “I’ll notify all the area airports and local police departments.”

  Price thought about LAX and Burbank, which weren’t that far by air, Santa Barbara just minutes away, and all the other, smaller fields Spalding could land at before any cops could get there in time. It seemed hopeless.

  “Ten-four,” he said.

  “Did you ID the chopper?” Macy asked.

  “Negative, I couldn’t read the markings.”

  “Dammit,” Macy said, this time with more feeling. “Seal that place off and search every inch of it. I’ll take care of the warrant affidavit. I want to know exactly what Spalding took with her.”

  “Roger that.” Price put the cell phone away, gathered his team, and began the search.

  The only person they found on the premises was Glenn Davitt, the estate manager, waiting for them in his quarters. He cheerfully admitted that he’d seen Claudia fly away.

  “Did she say where she was going?” Price asked.

  “No,” Davitt replied, “just that her arrest had all been a big mistake.”

  “Were you with her when she arranged for the helicopter?”

  Davitt shook his head. “I didn’t even know about it until it landed.”

  “But you saw her leave.”

  “Yeah.”

  “What air charter company did she use?”

  “I didn’t notice.”

  “What was she carrying?”

  “Two bags and a briefcase.”

  “Did you see her pack?”

  “No.”

  “Where’s the housekeeper?” Price asked.

  “She gave herself the night off.”

  “But you stayed here. Why?”

  “Look, I didn’t help Claudia, if that’s what you mean. And even if I had, like I said, she told me everything was cool and you guys had fucked up.”

  Price didn’t believe one word of it. Pissed beyond belief, Price told Davitt he would be held as a material witness.

  “What does that mean?” Davitt asked.

  “You’re going to jail, and you’ll stay there until you’re called to appear at Spalding’s trial.”