Part 8 (2/2)

”Gee, I sort of had plans for tonight,” I say as I race at high speed toward the airport.

”Okay, I'll hitch a ride with the good-looking guy I sat next to on the plane.”

”Or I can change my plans.”

I'm at the terminal within ten minutes, and Laurie is waiting for me outside baggage claim.

She looks fantastic, which does not come as a major surprise. A long flight is not going to affect that; she could go through three wash cycles at Kevin's Law-dromat and come out looking one corsage short of ready for the prom.

As I pull up, I'm faced with a choice. I can get out and help her get the suitcases into the car, or I can let her do it herself. My instinct is to get out, but it means that our hug and kiss h.e.l.lo will take place out in public, surrounded by travelers. If she gets in, we can do it in the car, in relative privacy.

It's decision making like this that is the reason they pay me the big bucks.

I get out, put the suitcases in the trunk, and we do the hug and kiss routine for all Newark Airport to see. It's not ideal, but it's not half bad, either. In fact, it's so not half bad that I briefly consider whether to take a room at the airport hotel.

Five minutes into our ride, Laurie says, ”Is this where you got shot at?”

I was so focused on getting Laurie home that I hadn't even noticed that. ”Just up ahead.”

”Is Marcus around?”

I shrug. ”You know Marcus. He'll show up if I need him.” Then it hits me. ”Wait a minute-you switched your vacation and came here early because you were worried about me. You don't think I can take care of myself.”

She smiles. ”You can't.”

I laugh. ”Then it's good you showed up.”

We get home, and Laurie spends five minutes petting and hugging Tara, then another five meeting and petting Reggie.

”You want something to eat?” I ask.

She shakes her head. ”I want to get these clothes off.”

”Don't let me stop you,” I say.

She smiles. ”I was talking about your clothes.”

”Don't let me stop you.”

GETTING OUT OF bed early has never been my strong point. bed early has never been my strong point.

It usually runs counter to my enjoyment drive; the bed is comfortable, right near my television, and an easy stroll to the kitchen refrigerator. All in all, not a good place to leave.

Leaving it when Laurie is lying next to me is positively goofy, and I am simply not going to do it. Unfortunately, Tara and Reggie have a different point of view, and at six thirty their scratching on the door tells me in no uncertain terms that they are anxious to take their morning walk.

I get up and grab the leashes, resisting the impulse to leave an ”I'll be right back” sign on my side of the mattress. We walk for about twenty minutes, which is about nineteen minutes longer than I had planned. They just seem to enjoy it too much to cut it short.

Reggie has developed an interesting walking style. He keeps his nose close to the ground at all times, as if it were a metal detector. When he hears a sudden noise, like a car horn, his ears lift up but his nose stays down.

When we get back, my own ears alert me to an impending crus.h.i.+ng disappointment. The shower is running, which means Laurie is out of bed, which in turn takes away my reason for getting back in. My day is officially starting, far too soon.

I grab a cup of coffee and head for the bedroom to get dressed. Laurie is already on the way out, in sweats.h.i.+rt, sweatpants, and running shoes. It is one of her idiosyncrasies that she showers before and after exercising. ”You want to go running?” she asks.

”I'd sooner go root ca.n.a.ling,” I say, and she leaves.

She comes back maybe ten seconds later. ”Miss me?” I ask.

”Let me have your cell phone,” she says, her voice serious.

I get it off the table and hand it to her. ”What is it?”

”There was a phone guy working on the line by the house. He was just leaving when I got outside, and when I called to him he drove off.”

”So?”

”So it's seven o'clock in the morning. Has the phone company changed that much since I lived here?”

She calls a former colleague in the Paterson Police Department and asks him to send someone out to check the house for bugs. Then she says she'll wait for him to arrive, so I have to a.s.sume he's sending someone right away.

I think she's overreacting to this and is being overly cautious. When she hangs up, I ask, ”Do you want me to hang around? We could get back in bed.”

”Have a nice day, Andy.”

”I take it that's a no?”

”That's a no.”

I head for the office and an early meeting that Kevin has arranged with Dr. Gerald King, a prominent criminologist. We had sent Dr. King the photographs, toxicology, and other reports on the physical evidence that we received from Lawrence Koppell. Koppell had admitted that he didn't have the resources to hire the top available experts to aid in the defense, so we decided to pay to get the best.

Dr. King is at least sixty years old, with degrees in everything from criminology to toxicology, to chemistry, and just about every other ”y” I can think of. When I arrive he is drinking a cup of Edna's coffee-or, more accurately, looking at it. My guess is, he's anxious to take it back to the lab to find out what bizarre ingredients she puts into it to give it that lumpy texture and uniquely horrible taste.

I'm expecting a dry, tedious recitation of Dr. King's findings, but that expectation lasts for about three seconds. ”Events on that boat were not as the prosecution described them,” is how he begins.

Suffice it to say that he's gotten my attention. ”How were they different?”

Dr. King takes out the pictures of the inside of the boat, and those of Richard. He points to a substantial bruise on the left side of Richard's head, which the prosecution claimed happened when Richard fell out of bed after being knocked out by the sleeping pills.

”This is not a bruise that could have been received from falling out of this bed.” He proceeds to talk about the pattern of the bruise and how it could only have been caused by a blunt, rounded instrument. Then he goes over to the couch and demonstrates that the fall from that height, and at that angle, would have had Richard land on the right side of his head, not the left.

It's compelling but not overwhelming, and I'm hoping there's more. There is.

He takes out the toxicology reports, which show an overdose of Amenipam, the sleeping pills that almost killed Richard. His estimate is that Richard would have been dead if the Coast Guard medics had gotten to him fifteen minutes later. ”But he did not take those pills; the drug was either ingested in liquid form or, more likely, administered by injection after he was unconscious.”

This, if true and if it can be proven, is a blockbuster. ”How do you know that?”

He points to a line on the toxicology report that shows Richard had traces of campene, a preservative used in test tubes. His theory is that liquid Amenipam was administered, that it was preserved in a test tube before that, and that that is why the trace was found in Richard's blood.

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