The 24th Letter

SIXTY

District attorney Stanley Rosen finished a tenth lap in his backyard pool. He climbed out, toweled off, and stood by his terracotta tile wet bar to mix a vodka and tonic. As he squeezed a fresh lime in the drink, he saw something move to his far left.

“Hello, counselor,” O’Brien said, opening the screened pool door and stepping onto the Mexican-tiled patio.

“What are you doing here, O’Brien?” Rosen sipped his drink.

“I have an audio tape of Jonathan Russo admitting to stabbing Alexandria Cole eleven years ago.”

“Did you have to assault Russo to get it?”

“Those media reports aren’t accurate.”

O’Brien pressed the play button on the small tape recorder. His voice came through the speaker: “ I won’t cheat the state out of its right to lock you away, Russo, so I’ll dial 911, but before I do…tell me, did you kill Alexandria Cole? The truth!”

“All right!” screamed Russo. “All right! I killed the bitch! That what you wanted to hear?”

Rosen said, “What did you mean, ‘right to lock you away?’”

“I wanted Russo to admit his guilt in the Alexandria Cole killing.”

Rosen sipped the drink. “First we have to indict Russo. If he’s found guilty-”

“You can use his admission to request a stay. Buy me some time, Rosen.”

“Why? Doesn’t mean I’d get one. Besides, like I told you in my office, a place where we ought to be having this discussion, I’m not going in front of a jury to reopen the Cole case unless I have solid proof-real evidence-that I feel will result in a conviction. This screaming match between you and Russo won’t stand up.”

“Maybe not, but a stay will give me time to find what you need.”

“Find what?”

“The murder weapon for starters. FBI’s running tests on a piece of paper that was directly beneath the page that Sam Spelling used to write the confession. We couldn’t find Spelling’s letter on Father Callahan’s body, but we believe we can find the knife in a matter of days.”

“Even if you find it, O’Brien, you don’t know if there’s anything on it. Could have been wiped clean.”

“Maybe, but we don’t know until we run tests.”

“You won’t know that until you find it. Until then, I’d appreciate it if you leave my property. And the next time, make an appointment.” Rosen turned and walked over to a chaise lounge and sat down.

O’Brien said, “Alexandria Cole was murdered. In the last two days, three people who knew the ID of the killer are dead. The last one was a prison guard who overheard Spelling’s confession to Father Callahan. They just found his body. Shot in the head. Close range. I think Russo’s hired a pro. And now Charlie Williams has thirty-five hours to live. They’ll remove him from his cell and take him to a death watch cage less

than fifty feet from the death chamber. You have a chance to postpone it for a few days. If I can’t find evidence, at least you tried to save an innocent man’s life.”

“Twelve people agreed Williams killed his girlfriend in a fit of jealous rage. You helped convict him, remember? And nothing you’ve said to me or have shown me changes that. If you aren’t gone in ten seconds, I’ll have you locked up.”

“I can admit my mistake. You won’t even consider the fact you’re making one. But consider this, counselor, you’ll be just as guilty as Russo if Williams dies. If I find the proof after Williams is dead, you can tell the media why you did nothing to stop it.”

O’Brien walked to his car parked on the side of the palm-tree-lined street.

Rosen knocked back the rest of his vodka, picked up the cell phone by his chair, dialed a number, and said, “This is district attorney Stan Rosen, I understand there’s an APB out for Sean O’Brien.” He paused. “O’Brien just left my house, on Monroe Terrace. Looks like he’s in a green Jeep and heading south toward Collins.”