The Last Innocent Man Page 8
“Excuse me,” Ortiz said. The boy looked up.
“There was a lawyer in here just now, with blond hair. Can you tell me who he is?”
“Why do you ask?” the boy asked suspiciously.
Ortiz realized that he was dressed for undercover work and looked as grubby as the degenerates he had to mix with. He walked across the room and flashed his badge.
“Now, can you tell me his name?”
The boy studied his badge, then hesitated. Ortiz knew he was thinking about the constitutional rights his professors had told him he had.
“I don’t know if-” the boy began.
“You’d better,” Ortiz said softly, and there must have been something in his tone, because the boy spoke.
“Stafford. Larry Stafford.”
“And where does he work?”
“The Price, Winward firm. It’s in the Standard Plaza Building.”
Ortiz put his badge away and headed for the door. Halfway there, he stopped and turned.
“This is official police business, you hear, and I don’t want this mentioned to anyone. If it gets back to me that you opened your mouth, you’re in serious trouble.”
There was a pay phone near the elevators. The phone book had two listings for Lawrence Dean Stafford. Ortiz wrote them both down; then he called homicide. Ron Crosby answered.
“This is Bert Ortiz, Ron. I want you to check something for me. I need the make of car for Lawrence Dean Stafford, 22310 Newgate Terrace.”
“Why do you want to know?”
“Just do it for me by this afternoon, okay? I’ll be back to you.”
“Does this have something to do with the Hersch case?”
“Everything.”
The lunch hour crawled by and Ortiz made his second call to Crosby shortly after one.
“I’ve got your information,” the detective said quietly. The tension on the other end of the line was the tip-off. Crosby had struck pay dirt. “There are two cars registered to Lawrence Dean Stafford. The first is a Porsche and the second is a Mercedes-Benz.”
Ortiz said nothing. He was cradling the phone and staring at the wall of the phone booth, without seeing it or feeling the plastic thing in his hand. He was back on Morrison Street and the Mercedes was right in front of him.
“Is this your man, Bert?”
“I think so, but I have to see his face.”
“You saw the killer’s face?”
“Before I blacked out. I know the man’s face.”
“Where are you? I’ll be right over.”
“No. Let me handle this. You get a DA and have a judge on standby to issue a search warrant. I want to be sure.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Follow him. If it’s the car, I’ll know. Then we can search for the clothes. But I want it all legal. I don’t want this one to slip away.”
“Price, Winward, Lexington and Rice,” the receptionist said in a pleasing singsong.
“I’d like to speak to Larry Stafford.”
“Who shall I say is calling?”
“Stan Reynolds. I was referred to Mr. Stafford by an old friend.”
“Please hold and I’ll see if Mr. Stafford is in.”
There was a click and the line went dead. Ortiz held the receiver to his ear and waited. Thirty seconds later there was another click.
“This is Larry Stafford, Mr. Reynolds. Can I help you?”
“I hope so. I’m in a kind of a bind and I was told you’re the man to see. I run a small construction company. Spec housing. I’m doin’ pretty good now financially, but I’m beginnin’ to have some hassles with my partner, and I need some advice fast.”
“Well…” Stafford said, and Ortiz could hear paper rattling, “I’ve got a spot open tomorrow at…Let’s see. How about three o’clock?”
Ortiz was taking in the voice and trying to size up the man. The voice had strong, confident qualities, but there was a slick gloss to the tones, as if the timbre and pitch were learned, not natural.
“Gee, I was hopin’ I could see you today.”
“I’m afraid I have a pretty full schedule for the rest of the afternoon.”
“I see,” Ortiz said. He paused, as if thinking, then asked, “How late will you be at your office?”
“My last appointment should be over at seven.”
Ortiz paused again.
“Well, I guess I can wait until tomorrow.”
“Good. I’ll see you then.”
They hung up and Ortiz stepped out of the booth. He was across the street from the Standard Plaza. The light changed and he crossed the street. It took him ten minutes to find the beige Mercedes in the underground garage. It was near the fire door toward the rear of the second parking level. He checked the license number against the number Crosby had given him; then he left the building. All he had to do now was wait for seven o’clock.
Abner Rosenthal was a small, dapper man with a large legal reputation. He had made a fortune as a corporate lawyer, then taken an enormous cut in salary to become a circuit-court judge. It was common knowledge that he had passed up several opportunities to be appointed to the state supreme court because he enjoyed being a trial judge. Rosenthal especially liked criminal cases, and he had developed an expertise in the area of search-and-seizure law. The police usually sought him out when they needed a search warrant in a particularly sensitive case.
The doorbell rang just as the judge was finishing dinner. His teenage son started to stand, but Rosenthal waved him down. Monica Powers had called him earlier to alert him that there was a breakthrough in the Darlene Hersch case.
“Sorry to bother you, Judge,” Monica said when the door opened. “Do you know Ron Crosby and Bert Ortiz?”
“I’ve met Detective Crosby before,” the judge said as he led them into his den. “I don’t believe I know Officer Ortiz.”
As soon as they were seated, Monica handed the judge the search warrant and the affidavit Ortiz had sworn to in support of it. The affidavit set out all the information that Ortiz felt supported his belief that Lawrence Dean Stafford had murdered Darlene Hersch and that evidence of that crime could be found in Stafford’s house. The judge looked grim when he finished reading it. He looked at Ortiz long enough to make the policeman feel uncomfortable.
“Are you aware that Larry Stafford was in my courtroom this very day, Officer Ortiz?”
“Yes, sir.”
Rosenthal reread a section of the affidavit.
“I’ve read this, but I want you to tell me. Are you positive that Larry Stafford is the man you saw at the motel?”
Ortiz’s mouth felt dry. Was he positive? Could he have made a mistake? No. He had waited outside Stafford’s office at seven. He had seen Stafford leave the office. He had seen the face of Darlene’s killer.
“Larry Stafford killed Darlene Hersch,” Ortiz answered, but there was a slight quiver in his voice.
“And you, Miss Powers?”
“I don’t like this any more than you do, Judge, but I’ve worked with Officer Ortiz before, and I trust his judgment.”
The judge took a pen out of his pocket.
“I’m going to sign this warrant, but you’d better keep a tight lid on this if you don’t make an arrest. This case is going to be sensational. If you’re wrong,” he said, looking directly at Ortiz, “the publicity alone will be enough to destroy Larry Stafford’s career at a firm like Price, Winward. Do you understand me?”
“Yes, sir,” Ortiz said.
No one spoke when Rosenthal signed the warrant. Monica picked up the documents and they left, Monica for home and Ortiz, Crosby, and a second carload of men for Larry Stafford’s house.
New gate terrace was a long, winding, tree-lined country road fifteen minutes from downtown Portland. At uneven intervals driveways led the way to expensive homes, few of which were visible from the street. Stafford’s home was at the end of a stretch of straight road. A row of tall hedges screened the house from view, and the policem
en were not able to see it until they had driven a short distance up the driveway. The house was a two-story Tudor design painted a traditional brown and white. The grounds had the well-manicured look of professional care, and there were several large shade trees. The driveway circled in front of the house, and Ortiz imagined the Mercedes parked in the garage that adjoined it on the left.
The young woman who answered the door was puzzled by the appearance of two carloads of uniformed policemen at her doorstep.
“Mrs. Stafford?” Ron Crosby asked.
“Yes,” the woman answered with a tentative smile.
“Is your husband home?”
“Yes.”
“Could you please ask him to come to the door?”
“What’s this all about?”
“We have a matter to go over with your husband. I’d appreciate it if you would get him.”
The woman hesitated for a second, as if hoping for more of an explanation. She got none.
“If you’ll wait here, I’ll get him,” she said, and walked toward the end of the hall, disappearing around the back of a staircase that led upstairs from the foyer. Ortiz watched her go and his stomach tightened. In a few moments the man who killed Darlene Hersch would come down that hall.
Ortiz was in uniform, and he had placed himself at the rear of the small group of policemen. He wanted a long second look at Stafford before the lawyer got an opportunity to recognize him. Crosby and two policemen had stepped into the foyer to await Mrs. Stafford’s return. A moment later Larry Stafford, dressed in Bermuda shorts and a red-and-black-striped rugby shirt, walked down the carpeted corridor. His wife trailed behind, more visibly worried now.
“What can I do for you?” he asked with a wide smile. Ortiz concentrated on the face. There was so much light in the hallway, and there had been so little in the motel room. Still, he was sure. It was him.
Crosby handed Stafford the search warrant. Ortiz watched him carefully as he read it. If Stafford was nervous or upset, he did not show it.
“I’m afraid I don’t understand… What did you say your name was?”
“Crosby. Detective Ron Crosby, Mr. Stafford.”
“Well, Detective Crosby, I don’t understand what this is all about.”
“That is a search warrant, Mr. Stafford. It is an authorization by a judge to search your house for the items listed in the warrant.”
“I can see it’s a search warrant,” Stafford said with a trace of impatience. “What I want to know is why you feel it is necessary to invade my privacy in the middle of the night and rummage through my personal effects.”
“I’d prefer not to go into that right now, Mr. Stafford,” Crosby said quietly. “If you’ll just permit us to do what we came for, we won’t take much of your time.”
Stafford scanned the warrant again.
“Judge Rosenthal signed this warrant?” he asked incredulously.
“Yes, sir.”
Stafford said nothing for a moment. There seemed to be a private war waging inside him. Then he relaxed.
“Search if you want to. I’m sorry if I gave you a hard time. It’s just that I’ve never had anything like this happen before. I’ll even make it easy for you. I own several sport shirts of this type,” he said, indicating the list of clothing set out in the warrant, “and at least three pair of tan slacks. Why don’t you come up to my room and I’ll show you. Then, if you’re not satisfied, you can search the house.”
Stafford was not reacting the way Ortiz had expected him to. The man was too self-possessed. Maybe he was wrong. After all, he had gotten only a fast look at the murderer’s face, and he was dazed and in pain at the time. And there was the lighting. No, there had been enough light. The globe outside the motel room was very bright. Still, it had been so fast.
Stafford started to climb the stairs to the second floor with his wife close behind. Ortiz stayed to the rear as several officers followed Crosby. Two men stationed themselves in the foyer.
Stafford’s bedroom was toward the rear of the house. It was bright and airy and had a decidedly masculine feel about it. A sliding glass door led to a small balcony, and Ortiz glanced out into the darkness. A twin bed sat against the north wall. It was unmade, and the edge of one of the blankets touched the hardwood floor. A large walk-in closet occupied the east wall, and an expensive-looking chest of drawers stood to their right as the party entered the room. Stafford pulled out one of the middle drawers and stood back.
“My sport shirts are in here. My slacks are in the closet.”
Crosby signaled to Ortiz and the policeman stepped over to the closet. He opened the louvered doors and started to examine several pairs of slacks that hung on a long row of wooden hangers. He pushed several aside before stopping at a pair of tan slacks. He wasn’t positive, but they were close. It was the shirt he could be sure about. The flowered pattern was distinctive.
He finished sorting through the hangers, then walked back down the line and selected the tan pants. He looked at Stafford. The man had not changed his expression of detached interest, and he had given no indication that he recognized Ortiz.
“Let me see the shirts,” he said to Crosby. The detective stepped back, and Ortiz carefully lifted one shirt after another out of the drawer, placing them in a neat pile on top of the chest of drawers. Midway down, he stopped. It was sitting there. A shirt of brown and forest-green with a leaf-and-flower design. The shirt that the man who killed Darlene Hersch had been wearing. Ortiz called Crosby aside, and the two men conferred in the corridor. Mrs. Stafford stood on one side of the room, nervously shifting her attention between her husband and the door to the hallway. Crosby and Ortiz reentered the room. They looked grim. There were two other policemen with them. That made a total of six officers, and the large bedroom was beginning to shrink in size.
“Mr. Stafford, I am going to have to place you under arrest.”
Mrs. Stafford blanched, and her husband’s composure began to slip.
“What do you mean? Now, see here. I…”
“Before you say anything, Mr. Stafford, I have to advise you concerning your constitutional rights.”
“My rights! Are you insane? Now, I’ve cooperated with you and let you into my home. What nonsense is this? What am I being arrested for?”
Crosby looked at Stafford, and Ortiz watched for a reaction.
“I am arresting you for the murder of Darlene Hersch.”
“Who?” Stafford asked, his brows knitting in puzzlement. Mrs. Stafford’s hand flew to her mouth, and Ortiz heard her say, “My God.” Crosby began reciting Stafford’s Miranda rights.
“You have a right to remain silent. If you choose to-”
“Wait a second. Wait a second. Who is Darlene Hersch? Is this a joke?”
“Mr. Stafford, this is no joke. Now, I know you’re an attorney, but I am going to explain your rights to you anyway, and I want you to listen carefully.”
Mrs. Stafford edged over to her husband with a slow, sideways, crablike movement. Stafford was beginning to look scared. Crosby finished reciting Stafford’s rights and took a pair of handcuffs from his rear pocket.
“Why don’t you change into a pair of long pants and a long-sleeved shirt?” Crosby said. “And I’m going to have to cuff you. I’m sorry about that, but it’s a procedure I have to follow.”
“Now, you listen to me. I happen to be an attorney-”
“I know, Mr. Stafford.”
“Then you know that as of right now you are going to be on the end of one hell of a lawsuit.”
“Getting excited is not going to help your situation, Mr. Stafford. I’d suggest that you keep calm and have your wife contact an attorney.
“Mrs. Stafford,” Crosby said, turning his attention to the lawyer’s wife, “you had better contact an attorney to represent your husband. He will be at the county jail within the hour.”
The woman acted as if she had not heard Crosby. Stafford started toward her, stopped, and looked at Crosby.
“I can send most of my men out, but someone will have to stay in the room.”
Stafford started to say something, then stopped. He seemed to be back in control.
“That would be fine.”
Stafford waited to go to his wife until all but one policeman had left. She looked confused and frightened.
“Larry, what’s going on?”
Stafford took her by the shoulders and led her to the far corner of the room.
“This is obviously some mistake. Now, call Charlie Holt. Tell him what happened and where I am. Charlie will know what to do.”
“He said murder, Larry.”
“I know what he said,” Stafford said firmly. “Now, do as I say. Believe me, it will be all right.”
Stafford changed his clothes and his wife watched in silence. When Stafford was finished, Crosby put on the handcuffs and escorted the prisoner downstairs. Ortiz watched Stafford closely. He said nothing as they led him to the car. He walked with assurance, his back straight and his shoulders squared. Mrs. Stafford stood alone in the open doorway. Ortiz watched her shrink in the distance as they drove away.
2
“There’s a Mr. Holt to see you, Mr. Nash,” the receptionist said. “He says it’s urgent.”
David looked at his watch. It was eight-thirty. He had been at the office since seven working on a brief that was due in two days, and he was only half-done. He was tempted to tell Charlie to come back, but Charlie would not be at his office this early unless there was an emergency. He sighed.
“Tell him I’ll be right out.”
He finished editing a paragraph and carefully moved his work to one side. He placed an empty legal pad on his blotter, straightened his tie, and put on his suit jacket.
Charlie Holt was pacing in front of the bar that separated clients from the well-endowed redhead who served as the receptionist at Banks, Kelton, Skaarstad and Nash. Only Charlie was not looking at the girl. His eyes were straining toward the swinging doors that opened onto the lawyers’ offices. Charlie was a tall, balding securities lawyer who had never lost the military bearing he had acquired in the Marines. His movements were always sharp and jerky, as if he were on parade. It was an exhausting experience spending time with Charlie: you always felt like a passenger in a sports car driving on a winding mountain road at top speed.