There was a side to her that you didn't know.'
Gene's head bowed.
'I'm not much in bed. She was so young, so vigorous. I couldn't please her. She taunted me. Made fun of me. And she said there was this man, someone who . . . who made her feel . . .'
'People say things they don't mean,' Martin managed. 'Stupid things.' Gene opened his eyes and looked directly at Martin.
'I don't think she ever loved me. I think she was escaping from something and used me to get away. As soon as she had the time to really look at me, she realized the mistake she'd made.'
'Don't run yourself down like this. You've been through so much you're not thinking straight. I've seen Melissa and you together. She did care,' Martin lied. 'She couldn't fake that.'
Gene turned away. To Martin he seemed the very image of hopelessness.
Martin made it home from the jail at midnight. His wound ached, but his heart ached more, and his mind was racing. After twenty minutes of tossing and turning in bed, he gave up.
It was a hot night, but there was usually a cool breeze on the veranda. Martin filled a glass with Scotch and ice and sat down by the pool. The stars were bright and there were few clouds. If he had never known Patty, it might have been a perfect moment, but Patty was dead, Gene Arnold was locked up in the Laurel County jail, and someone was laughing at everyone. But who?
Lester Dobbs had testified that Paul McCann called someone on his cell phone after he murdered Patty. Whom did he call? Suddenly Martin sat up straight. Did McCann call anyone? The only reason everyone believed that a third man was involved in Patty's kidnapping was because Lester Dobbs claimed to have overheard Paul's phone conversation in the desert.
Alvarez took a sip of Scotch and let his mind wander. What if Dobbs had made up the story about the third man? Dobbs had been out of jail when Melissa was kidnapped. Did anyone know where he'd been at the crucial times? There was definitely another person with Dobbs at the Alvarez drop site, but maybe there were only two people-not three-involved in the plot to kidnap Patty Alvarez.
It was time to talk to Lester Dobbs.
Dobbs had been living in a trailer park on the outskirts of town; a privilege he'd earned when he agreed to turn state's evidence. His trailer was at the far end of the last row; beyond it were wide-open spaces. Martin neared the trailer door. Somewhere in the hills a coyote howled. The sound unnerved him. He collected himself before knocking on the metal door.
No one answered the knock. Martin strained to hear movement inside the trailer. A stiff wind rattled the metal siding.
'Dobbs! Open up!'
The coyote howled again and an eerie wailing answered his call. The coyotes were hunting. So was he.
Martin took out his .45 and opened the door. He paused for a moment, listening. Then he stepped inside praying that Dobbs was not waiting for him in the dark. Another step. Nothing. Martin touched a switch on the wall. Light filled the narrow confines of the trailer. Martin turned slowly and saw a sink filled with unwashed pots and dishes and a countertop littered with empty beer cans. Dobbs's clothes were scattered along the floor leading to his bed. Then he noticed a shape under the covers on the bed, and the hair stood up on the nape of his neck.
'Lester,' he called, but he knew that Dobbs was not going to answer.
Martin pulled back the thin green blanket and the sheet, then stepped back and stared. A deep, jagged gash started on one side of Dobbs's throat and ended at the other. The sheets were coated with dried blood. If Dobbs knew anything about the identity of Melissa's kidnapper, he had taken the information to the grave.
'He's been dead for two days,' Norm Chisholm told Martin. They were sitting in a police car. It was seven in the morning. Alvarez was cradling a cup of steaming-hot coffee. It tasted like battery acid but helped him keep his eyes open.
'Did anything in Dobbs's trailer connect him to Melissa?'
'Nothing so far, and the forensic guys have been over every inch of the place. But I didn't expect to find anything. We questioned Dobbs as soon as Gene reported the kidnapping. He had an alibi.'
'Then why kill him?' Martin asked. 'It doesn't make any sense.'
'Dobbs must have known something that threatened the kidnapper. Maybe he lied when he testified that he didn't know the person McCann called after he killed Patty.'
'Does this let Gene off the hook?' Martin asked hopefully.
'Afraid not. Dobbs was killed the night before we arrested Gene. Gene was alone all evening. He has no alibi.'
12
A week after Dobbs's murder, Paul McCann's wife was waiting for Aaron Flynn by the door to Judge Schrieber's courtroom.
'Will you get him out?' Joan asked, anxiously twisting the strap of her purse. Her blue eyes were sunk in their sockets and there were dark shadows around them.
'I think so, Joan, but there are no guarantees in this business.' Flynn patted her on the shoulder and smiled. 'We'll have our answer soon.'
Joan started to say something, but she stopped when she saw Martin Alvarez bearing down on her husband's attorney.
'Ramon told me what you're trying to do, Flynn.'
'I'm trying to do my job, Martin. This isn't personal.'
'It's personal to me,' Alvarez said in a chilling tone. 'Your client is safer in jail, safer on death row, than he'll be if he walks out of this courthouse.'
'Martin, this is not the way,' Flynn said in a conciliatory tone.
'McCann killed my wife. If the law doesn't punish him I won't wait to find out if God will. Let him know that.'
'You're asking for a new trial, Mr. Flynn?' Judge Schrieber said. He had read Flynn's motion and the memorandum of law in support of it and he looked very troubled.
'Yes, Your Honor. My memo sets out the relevant cases and statutes. Read together, they hold that you must order a new trial if an appeal can't be prosecuted because the reporter's notes have been lost or destroyed through no fault of the defendant, every reasonable effort has been made to find a substitute for the missing record, and the defendant has made a prima facie showing of error or unfairness in the trial.
'I've submitted a list of potential trial errors that I would have asserted as bases for reversal on appeal. There is no substitute for the missing record of Mr. McCann's trial. The police have made every reasonable effort to recover it and the record is missing through no fault of Mr. McCann.'
'What do you say to Mr. Flynn's argument, Mr. Quiroz?' the judge asked.
Ramon rose slowly, as if trying to delay the inevitable.
'I agree that Mr. Flynn has raised several issues that could lead to reversal, though I don't think they actually would.'
'But that's not the test, is it?' Judge Schrieber asked. 'He doesn't have to prove he would win. You aren't asserting that?'
'No. I agree that Mr. McCann has met the test of making his prima facie case on the possibility of error in the trial. I don't agree on much else, though. For instance, the police have searched pretty thoroughly, but they're not through looking. I think the court should give them more time.'
'Where are they going to look, Your Honor?' Flynn asked. 'They searched both of Mr. Arnold's residences, Mrs. Arnold's car, her office, his office. This appeal has to be prosecuted quickly. We can't wait indefinitely in the hopes that years from now the transcription tapes may show up.'
'Mr. Quiroz,' the judge asked, 'do you have anything more than wishful thinking that leads you to believe that the lost record in this case will soon be recovered?'
Ramon shook his head. 'No, Your Honor, I don't. I just feel that it's too soon to give up.'
'Is there a substitute for the missing record?'
'No, Your Honor. None that I know of. It seems that the notes and backup disks for every case that Mrs.
