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Authors: William Bernhardt
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report to Ben. “We searched Lombardi’s suite from top to bottom, but we didn’t find anything else of particular significance. Look for yourself.”
Ben scanned the report. It itemized and detailed everything found in the penthouse. Dirty laundry—hardly unusual for a man living alone. An open carafe of rosé on the end table beside the chair. The TV was on. The phone was off the hook.
“What about the medical examiner’s report?” Ben asked.
Mike rifled through his folder, then retrieved a three-page document. “The preliminary report is pretty much as expected. Lombardi died as a result of bullet wounds to the head. Koregai’s having trouble confirming the time of death from the body heat of the liver. He’s promised a supplemental report. Oh, one other thing. Koregai is absolutely positive about this. He’s a D.R.T.—dead right there.”
“Well, that hardly proves Christina killed him.”
“Ben,” Mike said, “think about it for a minute. Her story is that she fell asleep in that chair, not four feet from the body. Four feet from where Lombardi was killed, where that gun was fired four times. How could she possibly have slept through that?”
“Maybe the killer used a silencer.”
“Not with a revolver.”
Ben snapped his fingers. “She must’ve been drugged.”
“Drugged?”
“Yeah. She said she drank something, almost immediately fell asleep, and didn’t wake up until hours later. It all fits. Mike, I need you to get a lab tech in to do a blood test on Christina.”
A third voice suddenly boomed through the cubicle. “What the fucking hell is going on here?”
Ben whirled around. There was a man hovering over him—tall, young, dark-haired, and bearing a disgusted expression.
Mike stood up. “Jim, this is—”
“I know goddamn well who this is,” the man shouted. “I want to know what the hell is going on!”
Mike’s face tightened. “We were reviewing some of the preliminary evidence—”
“Shit! This is the goddamn adversary you’re talking to. Adversary, remember that? That’s why they call it an adversarial system.”
Ben watched Mike clench and reclench his fists. “The defense will be entitled to see our evidence—“
“In time— maybe. ” The man scooped the file off the table and cradled it in his arms, as if to protect it from Ben’s corrupting influence. “After Mr. Defense Attorney files his paperwork, he may be entitled to see anything we deem exculpatory or intend to use at trial. Not the whole fucking file!”
“Jim, there’s really no need—”
“Jesus Christ! We’ve got a goddamn slam dunk, and you’re already trying to screw it up!”
“Mike,” Ben said evenly, “who is this asshole?”
Mike stifled a smile. “This is Jim Abshire of the FBI. He’s one of the FBI agents working this case.”
“I’m the man who made this case fucking happen,” Abshire said.
With some reluctance, Ben extended his hand. “I’m Ben Kincaid, the attorn—”
“I know who you are.” He waved Ben’s hand away. “Nothing personal, Kincaid, but my years of experience have taught me that it’s bad policy to get too close to the opposition. Clouds your judgment.”
Ben frowned. Years of experience? “You can’t be much older than I am.”
“How old are you?”
“I’m thirty.”
“Well, I’m thirty-two.”
Ahh, Ben thought. That explains your heightened maturity. “Look, Mike didn’t really want to show me these reports. I sort of twisted his arm—”
“Don’t give me that crap,” Abshire said. “I know all about you two. You’re college buddies formerly related by marriage. And I don’t want any of that nostalgic bullshit polluting my case.”
“ Your case?”
“Damn straight, my case. I’ve been setting up this sting for over a year. This is going to take us straight to the big boys. And I put it together.”
“Under the supervision of his boss,” Mike said. “Roger Stanford.”
Abshire smirked. “Well, I’m
Ben scanned the report. It itemized and detailed everything found in the penthouse. Dirty laundry—hardly unusual for a man living alone. An open carafe of rosé on the end table beside the chair. The TV was on. The phone was off the hook.
“What about the medical examiner’s report?” Ben asked.
Mike rifled through his folder, then retrieved a three-page document. “The preliminary report is pretty much as expected. Lombardi died as a result of bullet wounds to the head. Koregai’s having trouble confirming the time of death from the body heat of the liver. He’s promised a supplemental report. Oh, one other thing. Koregai is absolutely positive about this. He’s a D.R.T.—dead right there.”
“Well, that hardly proves Christina killed him.”
“Ben,” Mike said, “think about it for a minute. Her story is that she fell asleep in that chair, not four feet from the body. Four feet from where Lombardi was killed, where that gun was fired four times. How could she possibly have slept through that?”
“Maybe the killer used a silencer.”
“Not with a revolver.”
Ben snapped his fingers. “She must’ve been drugged.”
“Drugged?”
“Yeah. She said she drank something, almost immediately fell asleep, and didn’t wake up until hours later. It all fits. Mike, I need you to get a lab tech in to do a blood test on Christina.”
A third voice suddenly boomed through the cubicle. “What the fucking hell is going on here?”
Ben whirled around. There was a man hovering over him—tall, young, dark-haired, and bearing a disgusted expression.
Mike stood up. “Jim, this is—”
“I know goddamn well who this is,” the man shouted. “I want to know what the hell is going on!”
Mike’s face tightened. “We were reviewing some of the preliminary evidence—”
“Shit! This is the goddamn adversary you’re talking to. Adversary, remember that? That’s why they call it an adversarial system.”
Ben watched Mike clench and reclench his fists. “The defense will be entitled to see our evidence—“
“In time— maybe. ” The man scooped the file off the table and cradled it in his arms, as if to protect it from Ben’s corrupting influence. “After Mr. Defense Attorney files his paperwork, he may be entitled to see anything we deem exculpatory or intend to use at trial. Not the whole fucking file!”
“Jim, there’s really no need—”
“Jesus Christ! We’ve got a goddamn slam dunk, and you’re already trying to screw it up!”
“Mike,” Ben said evenly, “who is this asshole?”
Mike stifled a smile. “This is Jim Abshire of the FBI. He’s one of the FBI agents working this case.”
“I’m the man who made this case fucking happen,” Abshire said.
With some reluctance, Ben extended his hand. “I’m Ben Kincaid, the attorn—”
“I know who you are.” He waved Ben’s hand away. “Nothing personal, Kincaid, but my years of experience have taught me that it’s bad policy to get too close to the opposition. Clouds your judgment.”
Ben frowned. Years of experience? “You can’t be much older than I am.”
“How old are you?”
“I’m thirty.”
“Well, I’m thirty-two.”
Ahh, Ben thought. That explains your heightened maturity. “Look, Mike didn’t really want to show me these reports. I sort of twisted his arm—”
“Don’t give me that crap,” Abshire said. “I know all about you two. You’re college buddies formerly related by marriage. And I don’t want any of that nostalgic bullshit polluting my case.”
“ Your case?”
“Damn straight, my case. I’ve been setting up this sting for over a year. This is going to take us straight to the big boys. And I put it together.”
“Under the supervision of his boss,” Mike said. “Roger Stanford.”
Abshire smirked. “Well, I’m
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