Upon leaving the firm’s law library, Chandler was intercepted by the receptionist.
“Mr. Chandler, I just took a call for you. I didn’t want to interrupt your meeting, so I took a message.” She handed him a slip, and after barely taking the time to read all the words, he body-slammed the front door on the way out of the office.
“Who called?” Hellman asked.
“Lou Palucci. He tried reading Mr. Chandler on his cell, but it went to voicemail. He wanted me to tell him that the lip print analysis was ready.”
Hellman reached over and gave Madison’s shoulder a squeeze. “It’s okay to breathe, Phil,” he said. “We’ll know the results soon enough.”
Blowing past the thirty-five-mile-per-hour speed limit signs at near fifty, Chandler made it to the Department of Justice in under ten minutes-just as Gray was preparing to leave for a late lunch.
“They are likely not Madison’s,” Gray said as he brushed a lock of stringy hair off his face.
Chandler was still trying to clip the visitor’s pass on his shirt, but was having a tough time of it. “What kind of probability match would you give it?”
“It was only a partial,” he said, offering him an enlarged copy of the print. “I’d give it a seventy percent probability that we’re dealing with someone else.”
“Seventy percent,” Chandler said, looking at the swirling lines on the printout. “Seventy percent…not enough to get them to drop the charges. This helps, but we’re gonna need the DNA in order to get him off.”
Gray shrugged and glanced at his watch. “Look, you got what you wanted. Mind if I go to lunch now?” He pushed past Chandler and headed out of the lab.
Chandler yelled a thank-you through the rapidly closing door, and then left with his escort. While the results bolstered the argument for Madison’s innocence, they did not go far enough. For the prosecution to drop its case, he would need to produce clear and convincing evidence that his friend and client was free of all guilt and that someone else was responsible. And although he was gaining momentum, he was still far from being able to do that.
In the late afternoon, a collect call for Detective Jennings came through to the station from a person who lived in Del Morro Heights. An hour later, Jennings and Detective Moreno swung by to meet with Clarence Hollowes, the homeless man who had witnessed the hit-and-run.
“I was walking by this Giants store over by the mall,” Hollowes said, chewing on a piece of gum supplied by Moreno. “And, I saw this hat there, a black job with a white design.” He paused, eyeing the female detective. “Got anything else to eat?”
Moreno pulled a couple of fives from her pocket. “Buy yourself a sandwich, Clarence.”
“But first tell us about this hat,” Jennings said. “What kind of design was art it?”
“Take me to the store, an’ I show you.”
The mall, a fifteen-minute drive from Hollowes’s neighborhood, was teeming with shoppers. They pulled up in front of the San Francisco Giants store and Moreno took their witness inside.
“That’s it, right there. That’s the hat.”
“Chicago Cubs?”
“That’s the hat I seen.”
Moreno pulled it from the rack and turned to Clarence. “Are you a Giants fan?”
“No ma’am. Dodger blue, through and through.”
Moreno grabbed a Dodgers hat and brought them both to the register. As they walked out of the store, Clarence fingered the bill of the cap and carefully shaped it before placing it on his head.
Moreno shoved a few dollars into his palm. “Use that money for dinner.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said, throwing his right hand up to the bill of his new hat.
She smiled. “C’mon, we’ll drive you back to the neighborhood.”
Denton, at the courthouse on an unrelated case, ran into Hellman in the hallway. They made small talk before Hellman informed him of the new information pertaining to the Cubs logo.
“Brittany Harding is from Chicago,” Hellman said.
Denton waved a hand in the air as if he were trying to make Hellman’s words disappear. “We have our man,” he said. “And unfortunately for you, he’s your client. Cubs fan or not.”
When Chandler arrived home, he found a message from Denise scrawled out on a piece of paper that was left on his desk by Leeza. She wrote under it, “Remember-validate her feelings.”
The message indicated that Denise’s doctor’s appointment was three days away. Before calling her, Chandler phoned American Airlines and booked a flight, a red-eye leaving in twenty-four hours, arriving in New York the morning of her appointment.
He dialed Denise, who answered with a monotone, “Hello, Ryan. You didn’t need to call me, I left a message.”
“I did need to call. To say I’m sorry.” He paused, but she didn’t respond. “I wasn’t thinking clearly. You must be scared, with your family history and all. I booked a flight that leaves tomorrow night.”
“I am frightened, Ryan. Of what it could mean. And what if I’m pregnant…” Her voice trailed off.
He could tell she was on the verge of tears, and probably had been since he had last spoken to her a few hours ago. He rubbed his temples, took a deep breath.
“Then we’ll face it together,” he said. He felt terrible; he had never seen her like this. In all the years he had known her, she had never appeared so vulnerable. Perhaps it was because she was married now, with a young child…the mothering instinct overpowering everything else of significance.
“I love you, Denise. Whatever comes our way, we’ll deal with it together. As for this lump, I understand it’s a terrible thing to have to deal with, no matter what it turns out to be. But I’m telling you everything’s going to turn out okay, I just know it.” He was not sure what gave him the authority to make that assertion, and he knew it might not be what she wanted to hear. But right now, it was all he could do to hold things together-if not for her, then for himself.
CHAPTER 45
Brittany Harding was more attractive than Chandler had envisioned. She was taller than he had thought- about five foot eleven, he figured. The blackmail picture he had seen of her had not done her justice.
Her perfume was light but distinct, her makeup minimal and strategically applied to emphasize her striking features-lip gloss and some rouge to showcase her prominent cheekbones.
She had suggested Frank Fat’s, an upscale Pan-Asian restaurant located downtown. Since Chandler was paying, he reasoned that she chose a place that she would not normally go to on her own when she was picking up the tab.
The interior was richly decorated, with golds, blacks and blood reds the dominant color theme. The hostess showed him to the table where his guest was already sitting and waiting.
“Miss Harding,” Chandler said, extending his hand as he sat down.
“Please, call me Brittany,” she said with a big toothy smile, extending a limp hand in response.
“Brittany.” Chandler smiled back, his eyes inadvertently locking on the sheer, form-fitting outfit she was wearing.
The waitress came over and handed them two menus, quickly reciting the specials they were showcasing for today. Most of the patrons were business executives having “Capitol Power lunches” while negotiating deals, networking, finalizing contracts, or drumming up new business.
“You aren’t a Sacramento native, I take it,” Chandler said, trying to start their relationship off on a light note.
“My mother’s Japanese, my father’s American. I grew up in Chicago, can’t you tell?”
Chandler flashed a coy smile. “Well, I did detect a little Midwestern dialect. What brought you out here?”
“Long story. Let’s just say I’d moved in with this guy when I was twenty, around the time when my father’s job transferred him to Sacramento. My parents and little sister moved and I stayed behind. My situation went from
