“Yes, sir.”
Rosenthal reread a section of the affidavit.
“I’ve read this, but I want you to tell me. Are you positive that Larry Stafford is the man you saw at the motel?”
Ortiz’s mouth felt dry. Was he positive? Could he have made a mistake? No. He had waited outside Stafford’s office at seven. He had seen Stafford leave the office. He had seen the face of Darlene’s killer.
“Larry Stafford killed Darlene Hersch,” Ortiz answered, but there was a slight quiver in his voice.
“And you, Miss Powers?”
“I don’t like this any more than you do, Judge, but I’ve worked with Officer Ortiz before, and I trust his judgment.”
The judge took a pen out of his pocket.
“I’m going to sign this warrant, but you’d better keep a tight lid on this if you don’t make an arrest. This case is going to be sensational. If you’re wrong,” he said, looking directly at Ortiz, “the publicity alone will be enough to destroy Larry Stafford’s career at a firm like Price, Winward. Do you understand me?”
“Yes, sir,” Ortiz said.
No one spoke when Rosenthal signed the warrant. Monica picked up the documents and they left, Monica for home and Ortiz, Crosby, and a second carload of men for Larry Stafford’s house.
NEWGATETERRACE WASa long, winding, tree-lined country road fifteen minutes from downtown Portland. At uneven intervals driveways led the way to expensive homes, few of which were visible from the street. Stafford’s home was at the end of a stretch of straight road. A row of tall hedges screened the house from view, and the policemen were not able to see it until they had driven a short distance up the driveway. The house was a two- story Tudor design painted a traditional brown and white. The grounds had the well-manicured look of professional care, and there were several large shade trees. The driveway circled in front of the house, and Ortiz imagined the Mercedes parked in the garage that adjoined it on the left.
The young woman who answered the door was puzzled by the appearance of two carloads of uniformed policemen at her doorstep.
“Mrs. Stafford?” Ron Crosby asked.
“Yes,” the woman answered with a tentative smile.
“Is your husband home?”
“Yes.”
“Could you please ask him to come to the door?”
“What’s this all about?”
“We have a matter to go over with your husband. I’d appreciate it if you would get him.”
The woman hesitated for a second, as if hoping for more of an explanation. She got none.
“If you’ll wait here, I’ll get him,” she said, and walked toward the end of the hall, disappearing around the back of a staircase that led upstairs from the foyer. Ortiz watched her go and his stomach tightened. In a few moments the man who killed Darlene Hersch would come down that hall.
Ortiz was in uniform, and he had placed himself at the rear of the small group of policemen. He wanted a long second look at Stafford before the lawyer got an opportunity to recognize him. Crosby and two policemen had stepped into the foyer to await Mrs. Stafford’s return. A moment later Larry Stafford, dressed in Bermuda shorts and a red-and-black-striped rugby shirt, walked down the carpeted corridor. His wife trailed behind, more visibly worried now.
“What can I do for you?” he asked with a wide smile. Ortiz concentrated on the face. There was so much light in the hallway, and there had been so little in the motel room. Still, he was sure. It was him.
Crosby handed Stafford the search warrant. Ortiz watched him carefully as he read it. If Stafford was nervous or upset, he did not show it.
“I’m afraid I don’t understand… What did you say your name was?”
“Crosby. Detective Ron Crosby, Mr. Stafford.”
“Well, Detective Crosby, I don’t understand what this is all about.”
“That is a search warrant, Mr. Stafford. It is an authorization by a judge to search your house for the items listed in the warrant.”
“I can see it’s a search warrant,” Stafford said with a trace of impatience. “What I want to know is why you feel it is necessary to invade my privacy in the middle of the night and rummage through my personal effects.”
“I’d prefer not to go into that right now, Mr. Stafford,” Crosby said quietly. “If you’ll just permit us to do what we came for, we won’t take much of your time.”
Stafford scanned the warrant again.
“Judge Rosenthal signed this warrant?” he asked incredulously.
“Yes, sir.”
Stafford said nothing for a moment. There seemed to be a private war waging inside him. Then he relaxed.
“Search if you want to. I’m sorry if I gave you a hard time. It’s just that I’ve never had anything like this happen before. I’ll even make it easy for you. I own several sport shirts of this type,” he said, indicating the list of clothing set out in the warrant, “and at least three pair of tan slacks. Why don’t you come up to my room and I’ll show you. Then, if you’re not satisfied, you can search the house.”
Stafford was not reacting the way Ortiz had expected him to. The man was too self-possessed. Maybe he was wrong. After all, he had gotten only a fast look at the murderer’s face, and he was dazed and in pain at the time. And there was the lighting. No, there had been enough light. The globe outside the motel room was very bright. Still, it had been so fast.
Stafford started to climb the stairs to the second floor with his wife close behind. Ortiz stayed to the rear as several officers followed Crosby. Two men stationed themselves in the foyer.
Stafford’s bedroom was toward the rear of the house. It was bright and airy and had a decidedly masculine feel about it. A sliding glass door led to a small balcony, and Ortiz glanced out into the darkness. A twin bed sat against the north wall. It was unmade, and the edge of one of the blankets touched the hardwood floor. A large walk-in closet occupied the east wall, and an expensive-looking chest of drawers stood to their right as the party entered the room. Stafford pulled out one of the middle drawers and stood back.
“My sport shirts are in here. My slacks are in the closet.”
Crosby signaled to Ortiz and the policeman stepped over to the closet. He opened the louvered doors and started to examine several pairs of slacks that hung on a long row of wooden hangers. He pushed several aside before stopping at a pair of tan slacks. He wasn’t positive, but they were close. It was the shirt he could be sure about. The flowered pattern was distinctive.
He finished sorting through the hangers, then walked back down the line and selected the tan pants. He looked at Stafford. The man had not changed his expression of detached interest, and he had given no indication that he recognized Ortiz.
“Let me see the shirts,” he said to Crosby. The detective stepped back, and Ortiz carefully lifted one shirt after another out of the drawer, placing them in a neat pile on top of the chest of drawers. Midway down, he stopped. It was sitting there. A shirt of brown and forest-green with a leaf-and-flower design. The shirt that the man who killed Darlene Hersch had been wearing. Ortiz called Crosby aside, and the two men conferred in the corridor. Mrs. Stafford stood on one side of the room, nervously shifting her attention between her husband and the door to the hallway. Crosby and Ortiz reentered the room. They looked grim. There were two other policemen with them. That made a total of six officers, and the large bedroom was beginning to shrink in size.
“Mr. Stafford, I am going to have to place you under arrest.”
Mrs. Stafford blanched, and her husband’s composure began to slip.
“What do you mean? Now, see here. I…”
“Before you say anything, Mr. Stafford, I have to advise you concerning your constitutional rights.”
“My rights! Are you insane? Now, I’ve cooperated with you and let you into my home. What nonsense is this? What am I being arrested for?”
Crosby looked at Stafford, and Ortiz watched for a reaction.
“I am arresting you for the murder of Darlene Hersch.”
