'So you can see it too.' Susan sounded relieved. 'I was wondering if
it was just my imagination. I'm really starting to worry about him.
When I was with the family last night, he was totally out of it, but I
only saw him have one drink.'
I thought about it. Townsend had seemed almost drunk at the death
penalty meeting, but I hadn't smelled any alcohol on him, either then
or today in court.
'Maybe it's just lack of sleep,' I offered. 'And he might still be
suffering from shock.'
'You're probably right. Well, it's the end of a long day, and I'm sure
you want to go home. I was really only calling to see if you could try
to protect Townsend in court today, but as it turned out it wasn't
necessary.'
'Sorry I didn't get back to you sooner.'
'Not a problem. I'm just glad you think what he's going through is
normal. You've probably seen a lot more of this than I have,
fortunately.'
Actually, I hadn't. I had no idea what normal behavior was from a man
whose wife had been murdered. And Townsend was a man with access to
his own personal prescription pad.
'Still, Susan, you should probably keep an eye out for him and ask
Clarissa's family to do the same. He could be prescribing himself
medication.'
'I was wondering the same thing but didn't want to say it. He could
lose his license for that, couldn't he?'
'Maybe not under the circumstances, but let's not get ahead of
ourselves. Just keep your eyes open, maybe check the medicine
cabinets, that kind of thing.' Then I remembered I wasn't just a
sympathetic human being; I was a prosecutor. 'Look around if you
choose to as a private party, I mean, not as an agent of the
government.'
I could almost hear a small smile. 'I get what you're saying. And,
Samantha, thanks a lot.'
'No problem.'
I hung up pleased that I had earned Susan's trust. Even though
prosecutors aren't victims' attorneys, they should in most cases be
their advocates. If I could handle a busy caseload and still find time
and compassion for the people in that caseload, I'd be proud of my
job.
I went back to searching for the envelope from Jenna Mark-son, working
backward from my office, starting with the mail slots on the sixth
floor. It could have been worse. The envelope hadn't made it into the
slot for MCU, but I found it when I pawed through a bin of mail left in
front of the boxes. The mail guy had probably checked out at precisely
5 p.m.
Inside I found the printouts Jenna had run on Gunderson. They
contained exactly what I was looking for: a list of the properties
Gunderson had owned when he had filed for Chapter 11.
It was too late to get into the public library's archives to do the
research I was planning, so I headed home for a long run before Chuck
was scheduled to show up. By the time I finished, I had mustered up
the energy to call my father, but all I got was his machine. I hung up
without leaving a message.
When Chuck showed up twenty minutes late with beer on his breath, I was
good and didn't ask him where he'd been. Then he was better and
apologized for being late, explaining how he'd gotten trapped at a
sit-down with Calabrese. Apparently Mike and his wife were having a
hard time adjusting to life with a new baby.
We were total gluttons and ordered a large pie from Pizza-cata half
pepperoni for him, half goat cheese and artichoke for me. An hour and
a bottle of chianti later, we were starting to fool around on the sofa
while Chris Matthews and his guests played hardball. Some folks might
have a problem getting turned on with talking heads going at each other
in the background, but with Chuck and me, anything could lead to
fore-play, even those icky surgery shows. One minute I'm trying to
grab the remote from him, and the next, we've got our own doctor show
going on my coffee table.
Around the time Chuck had flung my bra into the empty pizza box and I
was beyond caring, the phone rang. I started to wiggle out from
beneath him, but his warm breath in my ear stopped me. 'Don't even try
it.'
I heard my own voice on the machine. 'You've reached Sam and Vinnie.
Maybe we're home, maybe not. At the tone, proceed at your own risk.'
'Hi uh, sorry to call so late. I'm going to assume that's a joke so I
can hold on to my remaining self-esteem in the event no one picks up.
This is a message for Samantha Kincaid.'
See? It works. Ever since Roger moved out and Vinnie moved in, my
