False accusations

CHAPTER 14

Chandler spent the last hour of the afternoon reviewing his notes, then unpacking his clothing and shoving it into the dresser in Madison’s guest room. He called Denise, talked to Noah, and apologized for not being there for his first soccer game. He was supposed to be coaching the team, a responsibility he had to bow out of at the last minute due to his unexpected trip to California.

Denise was still being tolerant of his need to be away, but Chandler knew there was a limit to her understanding. He figured he had another three, maybe four days before she began voicing her disapproval.

Denise told him that Hennessy, his boss, had called inquiring as to when he could expect his star forensic investigator to return. He had a murder case to report on, and he did not condone the taking of unauthorized vacations in the middle of a case workup. He, too, had a tolerance point for this type of behavior, star expert or not.

Chandler sat down at the teak desk in the large, meticulously decorated room and jotted down some supplemental thoughts on what he had seen in the forensic reports. The room was so well appointed, with elegant bedspread, plush carpeting, and lacy drapes, that he felt like he was staying at a three-hundred-dollar-a-night bed-and-breakfast inn.

As Chandler finished making his notes, Madison came home. He had been at the hospital late, consulting on a case as a favor to a friend.

“Hey doc,” Chandler said as he descended the stairs from the third floor. “We’ve got a lot to talk about.”

“Good. I just got a call from Jeffrey. He wants to meet us for dinner. He’s anxious to hear what you found out today.”

They drove over to the Bohemian Quarter, a provincial French restaurant tucked into the hills of old Fair Oaks, fifteen minutes from the house. The dimly illuminated candlelit interior was a perfect backdrop for the sobering, crow-eating discussion they were about to have regarding the evidence. The fireplace behind their table roared and occasionally crackled as the logs burned vigorously.

“How does it look?” Hellman was asking as the menus were handed to them by the hostess.

“How does it look?” Chandler sucked on his bottom lip a moment, then said, “Let me put it this way. It looks like the good doctor is a cold-blooded drunken hit-and-run killer. Does that paint a clear enough picture for you?”

“Shit,” Hellman said, reaching for his glass of water.

“What have they got?” Madison asked.

“A left ear print on the Mercedes’s windshield that matches the left ear of the female victim. They have no fingerprints in the car other than Phil’s. An empty six-pack of beer in the backseat. The blood spatter on the underside of the car matches the male victim’s blood type, and the tire mark found on the victim’s coat matches the tread on Phil’s car. There were clothing fibers on the grille, and guess what? They matched those on the victim’s coat. Other fibers matched the ones on the wiper blade.”

“I’m quickly losing my appetite,” Madison said, closing his menu.

“The good news is that your blood alcohol level was zero.”

“All I had was a glass of wine with dinner.”

“Yeah, but because of the beer cans they found in your car,” Hellman said, “they were probably thinking you’d consumed a lot more alcohol, like the entire six-pack. A solid positive reading and the fat lady would’ve been singing.”

“But because it was zero,” Madison said, “it hurts their case.”

Chandler was shaking his head. “Not really. It doesn’t hurt them but it doesn’t help them, either. It takes about an hour for one drink to clear your system. But if you’d drunk six cans of beer over a period of time, the alcohol would’ve been completely out of your system in about four to five hours.”

“I was arrested, what, about five hours after those people were run down.”

“Exactly,” Hellman said. “Even if they claim you drank the entire six-pack, they’d have absolutely no evidence to support it. After five hours, the reading would’ve been zero. So blood alcohol levels won’t have any bearing on your case one way or the other. I doubt they’ll even bring it up.”

“Then all we have to worry about, “Madison said, “is the mountain of other incriminating evidence.”

“We’re not giving up,” Chandler said. “There are some things that have piqued my interest.”

“Oh?” Hellman asked as the server came over. The man was dressed in a tuxedo and was all smiles. No one at the table wore a face of cheer, and being the seasoned waiter that he was, he appeared to sense the tension and adopted a more serious, professional appearance. He introduced himself by name and recited the various specials for the evening.

A moment later, they placed their orders. The man collected their menus and announced he would bring the salads shortly. Madison turned to Chandler. “You said there were a few things that piqued your interest.”

“Your fingerprints aren’t on any of the beer cans. And the prints on the steering wheel are smudged.”

“Probably meaning that the driver was wearing gloves,” Hellman said.

“What else?” Madison asked.

“All the physical evidence proves is that the car was definitely at the crime scene. It doesn’t prove that you were driving it. Am I right?” He was looking at Hellman.

“Yeah, it’s all circumstantial. There’s no direct link. In fact, I wouldn’t be worried, except for the fact that Phil doesn’t have an alibi, and there’s no evidence pointing to any other suspect. Phil’s easy prey.”

“Let’s look at this from another angle,” Chandler said. “Who else could’ve done this? I mean, it’s not like some punk ran down a couple of people and fled the scene. This person broke into your garage, stole your car, drove it into the worst neighborhood in town, and then returned the car to your garage. He left a six-pack of empty beer cans in the backseat, and wore gloves. This isn’t the work of a common criminal or car-theft punk. This was a calculated plot designed to frame you, Phil. We need to start approaching this from a different perspective. Agreed?”

Hellman nodded, eyebrows straining skyward, as if to say, I’ve got nothing better to offer.

“All right then. Was there anyone who hated you enough to construct an elaborate crime, kill two people, and then pin it on you?”

“Didn’t you tell him?” Hellman asked, looking at Madison.

“I hadn’t gotten to it yet. Your phone call interrupted us.”

Hellman shook his head. “I forgot that you take forever to tell a story.”

“I didn’t want to leave anything out. I thought Ryan should have all the details.”

“Fine,” he said, leaning back as the waiter served the salads. He poured a glass of Pinot Noir for Hellman, placed a Sprite in front of Chandler, and left.

“I take it that you mean Brittany Harding. The witch with a capital B,” Chandler said with a smile.

“The one and only.”

Chandler tilted his head and crinkled his brow. “I’m not convinced.”

“Maybe you should finish telling him the story, Phil,” Hellman said. “Then he’ll understand.”

Madison tossed his napkin on the table. “So much for fine dining.”

Madison picked up the story where he had left off: Harding had gone beyond reasonable and professional conduct in telling Chuck Nallin about the disagreement Madison had had with her at the Fifth Street Cafe. “It wasn’t as if it was an innocent conversation between friends,” Madison told Chandler. “She made a deliberate attempt to strike up a conversation with someone she barely knew, just to spread word of discord between us.”

A couple of weeks passed. After the incident at the gas station, Madison asked John Stevens to keep his ears open and to let him know if any other Harding rumors came his way. Stevens sympathized with Madison and graciously agreed to keep him informed.

Madison’s relationship with Harding was strained, at best. He attempted to minimize contact with her as much as possible, but it was time again to touch base regarding the up-and-coming board meeting. As he was about to call her late in the afternoon after a full day of patients, he retrieved a voicemail from Michael Murphy. The message lacked its usual verve. Although there were more pressing calls regarding patients and the total hip replacement scheduled for tomorrow, Madison phoned Murphy first.

Murphy began by relating a conversation he had had with a prospective client, a twenty-two-year-old mother of a four-year-old who had mental retardation. “She called to complain,” Murphy was saying, “because she was enraged by a comment Brittany had made during the intake interview.”

“What’d she say?”

“Brittany asked the mother what kind of drugs she’d taken during her pregnancy that caused her son to become mentally retarded.”

Madison leaned forward in his chair. “Tell me she didn’t really say that.”

“This poor mother was in tears, Phil. She’d been harboring enough guilt about having given birth to a child with Klinefelter’s…but to be subjected to such a question by the very organization that she came to for help…” His voice trailed off. Madison knew better than most that Klinefelter’s syndrome was a genetic disorder that had nothing to do with drug abuse during pregnancy.

“Brittany’s a time bomb waiting to explode, Murph.”

“I was beside myself, Phil. She represents the organization. The public doesn’t perceive her as just an employee. They look at her and see us.”

Madison rubbed his forehead. “How’d we get ourselves into this situation?” It was something he had asked himself a couple of weeks ago. “We should get together and discuss all this. I’m sorry I haven’t called you sooner, but I’ve been swamped. A few things have happened recently that you should know about.”

“Good idea, ‘cause I just got a call from Donna’s husband. She’s not gonna be returning. Inoperable brain tumor.”

“Oh, Jesus. Did he say what kind it was?”

“All I heard was ‘inoperable.’ I kind of spaced out the rest of what he was saying.”

“I guess it all fits, especially the abrupt change in personality and erratic behavior.” He shook his head. “She’s only forty-nine. Her husband must be devastated. I should give them a call, express my condolences-”

“Just let it go, Phil. He said she’s deteriorated pretty rapidly. I let him know how sorry we all are.” Murphy sighed. “We need to talk. When are you available?”

“When are you going to be in town?”

“When do you want me to be?”

“Tomorrow night, around seven. My office.”

“Phil, we were going to spend tomorrow night together,” Leeza said with the phone propped on her shoulder as she cleaned up the chopped onions. Her eyes were tearing and she was sniffling. “We haven’t had a night alone in three weeks.”

“Honey, I’m sorry. I know we had plans. I was looking forward to spending time together. But I don’t know what to do. Murph and I have to meet and figure it out. He’s just gonna have to fire her before we have a replacement. I promise, once we figure out a plan of action, we’ll be rid of her and her psychoses and then you and I can get back to normal.”

“I don’t want normal. Normal is I don’t see you. The kids don’t see you.”

“It was better, wasn’t it? After we talked and I rearranged my office schedule-”

“Yes,” she said between sniffles, wiping her eyes. The onion was on her fingertips and only caused her eyes to tear more. “It was better. Not great, but better.”

“I’ll make it up to you, I promise. It’s just been so damned stressful dealing with this nut. She’s got problems, Lee, and she needs help.”

“That’s not your responsibility.”

“I’m just interested in getting the Consortium back on track. Then things should ease. We’ll make reservations at that bed-and-breakfast we went to in Monterey, okay? Just the two of us, walking on the beach at night…”

“I got a call today from Blair.”

Madison’s assistant had walked in and handed him another two messages. He scanned them quickly.

“Phil, are you listening to me?”

“Blair. Your conversation with Blair.”

“Phil, you’re impossible.”

“I’m sorry. I’ve got a lot of things on my plate. I have six calls to return before I leave.”

“Blair said she heard a rumor that you and Brittany Harding were an item.”

“An item?” he asked. “What kind of item?”

“Having an affair.”

“Goddammit!” he said, crumpling papers that were beneath his right hand. “Blair’s your hairdresser, right?”

“Phil, just tell me it’s not true and I’ll let it go.”

“Honey,” he said, trying to compose himself, “it’s not true.”

“The first thing I did was laugh. I thought, when would he have the time?”

Madison sensed a definite lightening of her tone after his denial. “Leeza, honey, there’s nothing going on. Never has and never will be in a million years. You’re the only woman in my life.”

“It means a lot to hear you say that. I mean, I know that I am. It’s just that it caught me totally off guard. I thought it was a joke until I realized she was serious. Rumors like this spread quickly, people look at you funny. They think it’s true. And when you deny it, they think, What’s she gonna say? ”

Madison was nodding, clenching his jaw. “Where did Blair hear this?”

“She was talking to Serena yesterday.”

“Serena. How’d she get involved?”

“Serena’s cousin’s niece is enrolled in the program at CCMR.”

“Serena’s cousin’s niece…how would a rumor like that get started?”

“Supposedly slipped out during a conversation she was having with Brittany Harding.”

“Slipped out,” Madison said. “Now do you see why Murph and I need to meet tomorrow night?”

“Let’s just get her out of our life, Phil.”

“I’m working on it, honey. I promise you I’ll find some way of ending this nightmare.”

He hung up the phone and buried his face in his hands. She seemed to handle it well and accept his denial without resistance. But as he was to find out, dealing with Leeza was the easy part.