“No, Claire, they don’t. I’m in your corner. I know who did it. I just need a little more proof.”
“Proof.” She scoffs. “They don’t seem to need that for me.” Her gaze slides into the middle distance. “One thing. I’m not going to live the rest of my life in prison.”
Her assertion fills me with dread.
The public defender’s office is on the second floor of an office building across from the court house. After leaving the jail, I walk the three blocks in the drizzling mist that blows in from the river.
The waiting area is full of square chairs that look like they were upholstered in the seventies and haven’t been altered since. The magazines on the table are almost as old. At least the receptionist is a little younger. Her name plate reads ‘Juanita.’ I march up to the counter and ask to speak to whoever is handling Claire Chandler’s case.
Juanita looks at me over the top of her glasses. “Who?”
“Claire Chandler. She’s being held over at the jail.”
“When’s her trial?”
“Hasn’t been scheduled. She needs someone to put things in motion.” Although now that I think about it, the whole speedy trial thing might not be in her best interests right this second. “I’d like to speak to her counsel. I think — no, I know — she’s innocent.”
Juanita’s eyes glaze over. Too late, I realize she’s probably heard that line a million billion times.
I strive to mitigate the damage. “Listen, I know what I’m talking about. I’m working as a private investigator. I used to be a cop. I was actually working for her when she was arrested.”
Just then, a youngish Indian man approaches the receptionist from an interior office. “Juanita, have you gotten a copy of the warrant for the Carlisle case?” Then he sees me. “Sorry for interrupting, but I’m preparing for a trial.” Looks back at the receptionist. “Juanita? The warrant?” His accent is low and rolling and slightly British.
“It’s in your inbox, Mr. Biswas.” She pronounces it biz-WAHZ.
“Thank you.” He looks back at me. “Are you receiving the help you need?”
Juanita says, “She wants to know who is representing a Charlotte Chandler.”
“That’s Claire Chandler,” I correct. “I have some information about her case. I’m a private investigator.” Rinse. Repeat.
“I’m sorry,” Biswas says. “We don’t have the resources to pay a private investigator. You could go to the police and maybe they’ll turn it over to us, if it’s exculpatory.”
“I’m not asking for money. I want to help her.”
He closes his eyes briefly. I get a sense of deep tiredness. “Juanita, who’s on the docket for incoming cases?”
“I think you are, Mr. Biswas. Ramirez and Jones got the last two.”
“Has Chandler’s case been assigned to us yet?”
“I haven’t seen anything come through.”
“Well, call over to the courthouse and get it expedited.” He looks at me, then glances at the wall clock that reads 11:50. “I have exactly ten minutes to speak to you before my lunch meeting. Do you know what the charge against Ms. Chandler is?”
I hesitate. “Probably something like first degree murder.”
“Who did she kill?”
“I don’t think she killed anyone. The police think she killed her husband.”
“Premeditated? Or an accident?”
“Not an accident.”
“Paid to do it? Torture, multiple victims, prior convictions?”
“None of the above.”
“Probably murder in the second degree, then. What’s your angle?”
At least he seems to know his law. “As I said, I’m a private investigator. I was working for her at the time, and the circumstances don’t add up.”
He raises a skeptical eyebrow. “What were you doing? Investigating the husband for infidelity before he died?” Glances at his watch.
I wince at his summation. “No — I was looking into the death of Victoria Harkness.”
“Huh. She hired you to investigate another murder? Then killed someone herself, while you were still on the job? That sounds unlikely.”
“I’m saying she didn’t kill anyone. I know who the real killer is.”
Both eyebrows go up. “You should tell the police.”
“I tried. They weren’t interested.”
Biswas stands. “I’ve got to leave now, but it sounds like we should definitely talk. Make an appointment with Juanita before you go.” He bustles out of the room, straightening his tie as he goes.
“Wait! Mr. Biswas!” I run after him. “Please, go talk to her. Soon. I’m afraid —“
“What, Ms. Lake? I really have to go.”
I swallow hard. “I’m afraid she may try to take her own life.”
He closes his eyes briefly and grabs his briefcase. “Juanita, set up a consultation with Claire Chandler at the jail. And an appointment for Ms. Lake.” And he’s gone, practically leaving a dust cloud behind him.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
THINGS ARE MOVING. Claire’s lawyer is engaged. Now I need to follow Zoe’s advice and get Eric to confess. And for that I’ll need assistance.
The ring tone sounds three times before someone answers.
“Candide.”
“Jane. I need your help.”
She sighs with gusto. “Hello, Audrey. Are you having a nice day? Me, not so much.”
“Listen, Jane, I’ve got a witness.”
“A witness to what?”
“To Victoria Harkness’s murder.”
A pause, where I can hear background noise of people talking and phones ringing.
“What? Who? Why hasn’t that person come forward?”
“He’s...got some issues.”
“What does that mean? He’s crazy? A criminal? An alien abductee?”
“Listen, Jane. He has details that no one could know. I believe he was there, that he saw what he says.”
“Details that no one knows. Maybe he made them up.”
“He didn’t.”
“How do you know?”
And what am I supposed to say? That Travis’s story tallied with my vision of Victoria’s murder? Jane’s question is reasonable. I would have asked it myself, if I was in her shoes. And
