Part 3 (1/2)

As the witness left the stand, eyes down and almost trotting out of the courtroom, the judge turned to the jury.

”After I hear some motions by counsel, we may have closing arguments tomorrow morning.” Then she told them when and where to report and excused them for the day.

After the last juror had filed out and the court officer closed the door, Rick Bla.s.singale threw his arms around Rothenberg, then extended his hand to shake mine, again closing his left over our two 'hands, saying warmly, ”All I could ask for, John. Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

For some reason, I felt sick.

Usually, cases are hard. Occasionally, they're easy. Virtually never is one served up on a silver platter, and so dramatically.

Leaving the courthouse, I went back to my office and sat with my eyes closed, going over in my head what I'd learned and how I'd learned it. Bla.s.singale giving me Claire Kinsour, Michael Oldham, and Gina Ferro. Kinsour telling me Rick was after her, not the other way around, but also mentioning that Gina might have changed her name after getting married. Oldham not knowing that new name but having a new address in his computer. Ferro remembering the date and time other dinner with Kinsour, who paid for it in a way that produced a time-stamped receipt. Almost like I was following directions.

At the cemetery, I'd told Beth that I didn't know who was telling the truth. If what Claire Kinsour said from the stand after seeing the receipt was reality, then Rick Bla.s.singale had been honest with me in Rothenberg's office. Ferro might have mentioned over dinner that she wasn't keeping up on the news, given the baby and all. But If Kinsour wanted to nail Rick as vengeance, why not just say she saw him running down the street at ten-thirty, not eight-thirty, which was still within the time-of-death bracketing? Especially when Kinsour had to know that Ferro, if found and interviewed, could destroy the eight-thirty version?

There was only one complete explanation, and I just hoped Michael Oldham's take on the players was right enough to help me prove it.

Dressed in dingy work pants, a sweater torn at the neck, and an old parka with the stuffing peeking out, I put a liter bottle of Sprite in a brown paper bag and crimped the paper at the top. Then, I drove down to the waterfront, parking three blocks from Rick Bla.s.singale's building on the wharf. I walked to the building, a little unsteadily, and slumped down against a wall across from the main entrance, taking a slug now and then from the Sprite as though it were something stronger.

n.o.body was on duty inside the door, which didn't surprise me. People came and went, several on entering having some trouble getting their keys to turn in the lock. Then a brunette appeared, her back toward me, walking toward the front door. Her hair was done in a pageboy flip, the long winter coat bulky around her body, making it hard to estimate weight.

She had trouble with the key, too. Then she held it up to the light, tapped with her index fingernail on her lower teeth, and tried the key again, this time getting it to work.

The woman disappeared inside, and I watched an upper-floor light come on, then go off. Shortly afterward, what might have been a living-room light dropped to a romantic level.

Oldham was right. Arrogance on the one hand and deference on the other.

Leaning over, I poured out the rest of the Sprite and went home.

Steve Rothenberg said, ”John, thanks for coming, but we really don't need you for the closings.”

I looked at both of them, people bustling around us in the corridor outside the courtroom. ”The judge denied your motions?”

Rothenberg glanced confidently at Rick Bla.s.singale beside him. ”Yes, but I expected that. Without the Kinsour woman's testimony, there was still barely enough for the prosecutor to carry his burden of production, so the judge is letting the case go to the jury. But after what happened yesterday on the stand, I'm not worried about this one.”

”You should be.”

Rothenberg darkened as the color ripened in his client's face. ”What does that mean?”

I pinched Bla.s.singale's arm gently at the elbow. ”Why don't we go over here, where it's a little more private.”

In the dead-end alcove, they stood while I sat on the stiff bench and crossed my arms, leaning back. ”I'm going to give you my own closing here, guys. Tell me what you think of it.”

Neither of them said anything.

”Rick Bla.s.singale is going through a bad divorce but has a new-or not so new-girlfriend. It'd be great to be a widower, be thinks. Unfortunately, though, he'd be the prime suspect, a role he'd rather not play. Then he sees a way to get what he wants without having to duck the role.”

Bla.s.singale said, ”You don't know what you're talking about.”

”It gets better. Rick has his girlfriend move into an apartment almost across the street from his wife's place. Using that as a base of operations, he ventures forth on the night of November fifteenth around eight P.M. in a fairly common jacket that was expendable. Unfortunately, a woman walking her dog spots him, but that alone isn't fatal. He uses his old key to get in his wife's building, then gets her to open up the apartment door on some pretext, maybe more talk or 'I have a let's-make-up present in the bag, Libby.'”

”You're nuts,” said Bla.s.singale.