Holding the Dream Page 0,95

lady treats being served at Chez Kusack. He definitely preferred the smell of stale coffee, the headachy ringing of phones, and the incessant bickering and complaining of his colleagues to the cloying perfumes, the giggles and gossip of the ladies' bridge club.

There was always paperwork to see to. Though it would have earned him sneers to admit it, he enjoyed paperwork and plowed through it like a St. Bernard through a blizzard. Slow and steady.

He liked the tangibility of it, even the foolish convoluted policespeak so necessary to any official report. He'd made the adjustment to computers more smoothly than many cops his age. To Kusack a keyboard was a keyboard, and he had used what he called the Bible method of typing - seek and ye shall find - all of his professional life.

It never failed him.

He was tapping on keys, grinning to himself as the letters popped onto his screen when a man in a tuxedo interrupted him.

"Detective Kusack?"

"Yeah." Kusack sat back, skimmed his cop's eyes over the suit. No rental job, he deduced. Tailor-made and very pricey. "It ain't prom night, and you're too old anyhow. What can I do for you?"

"I'm Byron De Witt. I'm here regarding Katherine Powell."

Kusack grunted, picked up his can of soda. "I thought her lawyer's name was Templeton."

"I'm not her lawyer, I'm her... friend."

"Uh-huh. Well, friend, I can't discuss Ms. Powell's business with anybody who walks in here. No matter how nice they dress."

"Kate didn't mention how gracious you were. May I?"

"Make yourself at home," Kusack said sourly. He wanted the monotony of his paperwork, not chitchat with Prince Charming. "Underpaid public servants are always at your disposal."

"It won't take long. I have new evidence that I believe weighs in Ms. Powell's favor. Are you interested, Kusack, or shall I wait until you finish your dinner?"

Kusack ran his tongue around his teeth and eyed the second half of his meatball sub. "Information is always welcome, Mr. De Witt, and I'm here to serve." At least until the bridge club clears out. "What is it you think you have?"

"I obtained copies of the documents in question."

"Did you?" Kusack's bland eyes narrowed. "Did you really? And how did you do that?"

"Without breaking any laws, detective. Once the copies were in my possession, I did what it seems to me, in my muddled civilian capacity, should have been done at the outset. I sent them to a handwriting expert."

Leaning back, Kusack picked up what remained of his dinner, used his free hand to motion Byron to continue.

"I just received my expert's report, via phone. I had him fax it to me." Byron took the sheet out of his inside pocket, unfolded it, and laid it on Kusack's desk.

"Fitzgerald," Kusack said with his mouth full. "Good man. Considered tops in his field."

So Josh had said, Byron thought. "He's been used for over a decade by both prosecutors and defense attorneys."

"Mostly for the defense - rich defense," said Kusack. He caught the whiff of Templeton influence. "Costs a goddamn fortune."

And has a very full schedule, Byron thought. Hence the delay in the report. "Whatever his fee, detective, his reputation is unimpeachable. If you care to read his report, you'll see - ''

"Don't have to. I know what it says." It was small of him, Kusack supposed, but it gave him a little lift to tweak a man who didn't appear to have an ounce of extra fat on his body and who could wear a monkey suit and not look like a fool.

Byron folded his hands. Patience was, and always had been, his best weapon. "Then you've been in contact with Mr. Fitzgerald on this matter."

"Nope." Kusack dug out a napkin, wiped his mouth. "Got our own handwriting analysts. Got their final take in a couple weeks ago." Politely, he stifled a belch. "The signatures on the altered forms are an exact match. Too exact," he added before Byron could snarl. "Nobody writes their name the exact and precise same way every time. All the doctored forms have the same precise signature, stroke for stroke, loop for loop. Copies. Likely tracings of Ms. Powell's signature on the one 1040."

"If you know that, why are you sitting here? This is hell for her."

"Yeah, I figured that. Trouble is I gotta cross all my t's, dot all my i's. That's the way things work around here. We've got a few lines of inquiry going here."

"That may be, detective, but Ms. Powell has a right to know the status