Jack Hennings, Ortiz’s partner, looked up from his newspaper when the courtroom door opened.
“You’re on,” Ortiz said.
Hennings handed the paper to Mike Elvin and went through the door. Ortiz turned toward Elvin to ask for the sports section when he noticed two men talking at the other end of the corridor. His hand started to shake and his chest felt suddenly constricted. The two men concluded their conversation, and the older man walked toward him. Ortiz did not see him. His eyes were riveted on the younger man-the blond. He had started down the hall that led to the elevators, but Ortiz was seeing him in a different place. He was remembering a man with curly blond hair walking quickly along the landing that ran outside the rooms at the Raleigh Motel, and he was seeing a face spotlighted for a moment in the doorway of the motel room where Darlene Hersch had died.
The older man passed him, and the blond disappeared around the corner.
“Tell Jack to wait for me,” he said to Elvin. Elvin looked up, but Ortiz was already halfway down the corridor.
There was no one in the hall when Ortiz reached the corner. He looked up at the floor indicator. Both elevator cars had reached the ground floor. Ortiz walked back toward Judge Rosenthal’s courtroom. The law student who served as the judge’s clerk was reading a textbook in the empty courtroom and munching on a sandwich.
“Excuse me,” Ortiz said. The boy looked up.
“There was a lawyer in here just now, with blond hair. Can you tell me who he is?”
“Why do you ask?” the boy asked suspiciously.
Ortiz realized that he was dressed for undercover work and looked as grubby as the degenerates he had to mix with. He walked across the room and flashed his badge.
“Now, can you tell me his name?”
The boy studied his badge, then hesitated. Ortiz knew he was thinking about the constitutional rights his professors had told him he had.
“I don’t know if-” the boy began.
“You’d better,” Ortiz said softly, and there must have been something in his tone, because the boy spoke.
“Stafford. Larry Stafford.”
“And where does he work?”
“The Price, Winward firm. It’s in the Standard Plaza Building.”
Ortiz put his badge away and headed for the door. Halfway there, he stopped and turned.
“This is official police business, you hear, and I don’t want this mentioned to anyone. If it gets back to me that you opened your mouth, you’re in serious trouble.”
There was a pay phone near the elevators. The phone book had two listings for Lawrence Dean Stafford. Ortiz wrote them both down; then he called homicide. Ron Crosby answered.
“This is Bert Ortiz, Ron. I want you to check something for me. I need the make of car for Lawrence Dean Stafford, 22310 Newgate Terrace.”
“Why do you want to know?”
“Just do it for me by this afternoon, okay? I’ll be back to you.”
“Does this have something to do with the Hersch case?”
“Everything.”
The lunch hour crawled by and Ortiz made his second call to Crosby shortly after one.
“I’ve got your information,” the detective said quietly. The tension on the other end of the line was the tip-off. Crosby had struck pay dirt. “There are two cars registered to Lawrence Dean Stafford. The first is a Porsche and the second is a Mercedes-Benz.”
Ortiz said nothing. He was cradling the phone and staring at the wall of the phone booth, without seeing it or feeling the plastic thing in his hand. He was back on Morrison Street and the Mercedes was right in front of him.
“Is this your man, Bert?”
“I think so, but I have to see his face.”
“You saw the killer’s face?”
“Before I blacked out. I know the man’s face.”
“Where are you? I’ll be right over.”
“No. Let me handle this. You get a DA and have a judge on standby to issue a search warrant. I want to be sure.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Follow him. If it’s the car, I’ll know. Then we can search for the clothes. But I want it all legal. I don’t want this one to slip away.”
“Price, Winward, Lexington and Rice,” the receptionist said in a pleasing singsong.
“I’d like to speak to Larry Stafford.”
“Who shall I say is calling?”
“Stan Reynolds. I was referred to Mr. Stafford by an old friend.”
“Please hold and I’ll see if Mr. Stafford is in.”
There was a click and the line went dead. Ortiz held the receiver to his ear and waited. Thirty seconds later there was another click.
“This is Larry Stafford, Mr. Reynolds. Can I help you?”
“I hope so. I’m in a kind of a bind and I was told you’re the man to see. I run a small construction company. Spec housing. I’m doin’ pretty good now financially, but I’m beginnin’ to have some hassles with my partner, and I need some advice fast.”
“Well…” Stafford said, and Ortiz could hear paper rattling, “I’ve got a spot open tomorrow at…Let’s see. How about three o’clock?”
Ortiz was taking in the voice and trying to size up the man. The voice had strong, confident qualities, but there was a slick gloss to the tones, as if the timbre and pitch were learned, not natural.
“Gee, I was hopin’ I could see you today.”
“I’m afraid I have a pretty full schedule for the rest of the afternoon.”
“I see,” Ortiz said. He paused, as if thinking, then asked, “How late will you be at your office?”
“My last appointment should be over at seven.”
Ortiz paused again.
“Well, I guess I can wait until tomorrow.”
“Good. I’ll see you then.”
They hung up and Ortiz stepped out of the booth. He was across the street from the Standard Plaza. The light changed and he crossed the street. It took him ten minutes to find the beige Mercedes in the underground garage. It was near the fire door toward the rear of the second parking level. He checked the license number against the number Crosby had given him; then he left the building. All he had to do now was wait for seven o’clock.
Abner Rosenthal was a small, dapper man with a large legal reputation. He had made a fortune as a corporate lawyer, then taken an enormous cut in salary to become a circuit-court judge. It was common knowledge that he had passed up several opportunities to be appointed to the state supreme court because he enjoyed being a trial judge. Rosenthal especially liked criminal cases, and he had developed an expertise in the area of search-and- seizure law. The police usually sought him out when they needed a search warrant in a particularly sensitive case.
The doorbell rang just as the judge was finishing dinner. His teenage son started to stand, but Rosenthal waved him down. Monica Powers had called him earlier to alert him that there was a breakthrough in the Darlene Hersch case.
“Sorry to bother you, Judge,” Monica said when the door opened. “Do you know Ron Crosby and Bert Ortiz?”
“I’ve met Detective Crosby before,” the judge said as he led them into his den. “I don’t believe I know Officer
