Sleight of Hand - By Phillip Margolin Page 0,78
anything like that.”
The detectives talked with Dr. Raptis a little longer before they headed for the elevator. Santoro got his cell phone out and speed-dialed the medical examiner’s office while they waited for the car to come. After he spoke to Nick Winters, Santoro called Dana Cutler and told her that another avenue for proving that Charles Benedict had killed Carrie Blair had been closed.
Chapter Forty-Nine
At 10:30 a.m. The Scene was deserted except for a handful of alcoholics who were nursing drinks at the bar. Peter Perkovic found his boss going over the books in the back office. Orlansky looked up when Perkovic walked in. Perkovic looked upset.
“What happened?” Orlansky asked.
“Gregor is dead.”
“How did he die?”
“They’re saying cardiac arrest, but I saw his chart when I went to the hospital. There was nothing wrong with his heart.”
“So?”
“There are ways. An injection of potassium would be my choice.”
“There will be an autopsy?”
Perkovic nodded.
“Can you get the results?”
“Of course, but potassium poisoning is virtually undetectable.”
Orlansky stared into space and Perkovic waited patiently. Orlansky came back to Earth.
“Charlie?” he asked.
“A dead Gregor cannot talk to the police. And Charlie would know that it would upset you to learn that he told Gregor you had said it was okay to threaten this woman.”
“I agree. Talk to me as soon as you know the results of the autopsy.”
Chapter Fifty
One look at his waiting area and a potential client would know that hiring Bobby Schatz was going to be an expensive proposition. The magazines on the end tables focused on life in the Hamptons, Saint Croix, and Biarritz. Elegant sofas stood on either side of a Persian carpet that was laid across a polished hardwood floor, and the lawyer’s receptionist, who was so stunning that she could grace the cover of Vogue without makeup, was positioned behind a handcrafted mahogany desk.
The first and only time Dana had worked with Schatz, the capital’s preeminent criminal attorney had hired her to assist in the defense of an American-born terrorist who had tried to blow up the football stadium where the Washington Redskins play. The relationship had ended under strange and unpleasant circumstances.
“May I help you?” the receptionist asked in a friendly voice that betrayed none of the disdain she may have felt for a woman wearing jeans, shades, and a motorcycle jacket. Schatz had stopped representing biker gangs and other lowlifes long ago. Nowadays, the defendants he escorted to court were disgraced hedge-fund managers and nattily dressed political perverts.
“Tell Bobby that Dana Cutler wants a moment of his valuable time.”
“Do you have an appointment?”
“No, and I don’t need one. Just tell him who’s in the waiting room.”
The receptionist hesitated, but something about Dana made her reconsider. She pressed a button and conveyed the message.
“He’ll see you,” she told Dana. The woman started to get up but Dana motioned her to stay seated.
“Bobby and I are old friends. I know the way to his inner sanctum.”
Dana walked down a narrow hall, past offices staffed by the attorney’s associates, then stopped in the doorway of a large corner office decorated with expensive art and photographs of Bobby with the rich and famous. Sitting behind a desk the size of an aircraft carrier was a thickset man with slicked-back dyed black hair who was dressed in an elegant gray pinstripe suit. A red polka-dot bow tie was secured under the collar of a white silk shirt, and a silk handkerchief poked out of the pocket beneath the jacket’s left lapel.
Schatz remembered his last meeting with Dana. “Do I need to call security?” he asked, only half kidding.
“No, Bobby. I’m not going to shoot you—at least not today.”
“That’s a relief.”
Dana sat in a high-backed armchair and took in the view of the Capitol dome.
“You’re still doing well,” she remarked.
Schatz shrugged. “I get by.”
“You’d do even better if Horace Blair was a client.”
“Once was enough, thank you,” Bobby answered.
“You two have a history?”
“Ten years ago, I had the displeasure of representing Horace when he was charged with drunk driving.”
“That’s right! Wasn’t that the trial where he met Carrie Blair?”
Schatz nodded.
“What was the problem?”
“My client. Carrie Blair was the prosecutor and she had one witness, the arresting officer. I made mincemeat of him during cross. If we’d rested without putting on any witnesses we would have won, but it was love at first sight for Horace and he insisted on testifying so he could make gooey eyes at Carrie.”
Schatz shook his head in disgust. “I did everything I could to talk him out of