After Dark (31 page)

"On every negative strip but the one with the shot of the shed, the number is on the edge of the frame. On the strip with 15 to 16A, the numbers are slightly closer to the center of the frame.

Can you see that?" Tracy nodded.

"That's impossible," he continued, "if that strip was on the roll with the rest of the shots."

Barry put down the strips. "What I don't understand," he said, "is how Griffen was able to get away from her house, take the picture and make the switch without setting off the electronic monitoring system."

"You don't understand because you don't want to, Barry," Tracy said sadly.

Barry stared at Tracy. "You can't think . . ."

"It's the only answer."

"Bullshit," Barry shouted angrily.

"I don't want to believe it either. But the simple fact is that Abigail Griffen could not have left the house. And even if she was able to defeat the electronic monitoring system, there's no way she could have known where on the roll to fix the faked strip. We had the negatives here along with the camera."

"Ah, no," Barry said in a voice so filled with grief that Tracy felt herself melt with pity for him.

"It was Matt," she said softly. "It has to be. He had access to the negatives and the camera arid he's a great photographer. You would have to know an awful lot about cameras to come up with this scheme."

"But why, Tracy?"

"You know the answer to that, too. You've seen how she's played him.

He's so in love with her that she only had to whisper the suggestion and he'd do it."

"Not Matt," Barry said desperately.

"He's a brilliant attorney, Barry, but he's not a god. He's just a human being."

Barry stood up and paced the room. Tracy let him work it out.

When Barry turned toward' her he appeared to have made a decision.

"What are you going to do?" he asked, his voice flat and cold.

"You know I don't have a choice. I have to go to Judge Baldwin. This is a criminal offense. If I don't tell the court, I'm guilty as an aider and abettor."

"You can't do it, Tracy," Barry begged her. "If you tell Baldwin, Matt will be destroyed. He'd be disbarred. Geddes will go berserk. He'll make sure Matt goes to prison, for God's sake."

Tracy placed a hand on Barry's shoulder.

"Don't you think I know that? But what else can I do? He broke the law. And you're forgetting something else. Griffen wouldn't need a fake photograph unless the dynamite was in the shed. Deems knew about the dynamite, because Abbie showed it to him, which means she asked Deems to kill her husband. If she convinced Matt to fake the picture, it's because she's guilty. If I don't tell the court, Abigail Griffen will go free. She's a murderer, Barry. She killed Robert Griffen."

Tracy paused and her features became devoid of pity. When she spoke, her voice was hard as granite.

"She may have done something else, Barry. She may have killed Laura Rizzatti, my friend. And I'm not going to let her get away with that."

Barry had not heard her. He was too overwhelmed by the facts he was forced to face. He looked at the floor and, in a voice on the edge of tears, he said, "I don't believe it, Tracy. He's the most honorable man I've ever met. He would never fake evidence in a court case."

"I understand how you feel, but I can't keep quiet about this."

Barry's face fell. Tracy had never seen another human being so distraught.

"If you do this, you'll do it without me. I won't hurt Matt. And if you do . . ."

Barry couldn't go on. He simply stood in from of Tracy and shook his head.

"Barry, please. Don't do this to us."

"Don't do this to Matt."

"What about Griffen? Do you want her to walk away from a murder charge?"

"I don't care about Abigail Griffen. One hundred of her are not worth one man like Matthew Reynolds. Think of all the good he's done. All of the sacrifices he's made. Let her walk, for Christ's sake. Don't crucify Matt. Don't destroy him"

"He broke the law. I'm an officer of the court. You're asking me to betray everything I believe in and to let a cold-blooded murderer go free."

"I'm asking you to be human. We're talking about a man's life.

And not just any man. Think about what you're doing."

Tracy shook her head. She could not believe what Barry was asking of her.

"I can't let this go, Barry, but I'll talk to Matt before I go to see Judge Baldwin and I'll give him a chance to show me I'm wrong."

Barry looked directly into Tracy's eyes. His own were dead.

"Do what you have to do, Tracy. But if you destroy Matthew Reynolds, I can never see you again."

Chapter TWENTY-SIX

For the sake of appearances, Matthew did not spend the night with Abbie.

At four-thirty in the morning, he let himself into his house through a back door and climbed a staircase that went straight to his living quarters. Forgotten for the moment was the turn the trial had taken.

Tonight, all of his dreams had come true.

Not only had he and Abbie made love, but he had learned that she really loved him.

Before he went to bed, Matthew took out the manila envelope with the articles about Abbie and the photographs of her. This time when he looked at the photographs he did not feel longing or despair. In fact, they evoked no emotions. For the first time, he understood that the photographs were not Abbie. She was a warm, vibrant person. These two-dimensional images were as insubstantial as ghosts. He could not bring himself to destroy them, but he felt uncomfortable looking at them, as if by viewing the pictures he was betraying the woman he loved.

For the first time in a long time, Matthew awakened to sunlight.

He showered and made himself his usual breakfast of toast and black coffee. One of his correspondence chess games had taken a peculiar turn. In a position where Matthew thought he held a slight advantage, his opponent, an architect in Nebraska, had made an odd and unexpected knight move that had him worried.

Matthew carried his mug into the den and sipped cooling coffee until he was satisfied that he knew the architect's strategy. He addressed a postcard, wrote his move on the back of the card and descended to his office. Matthew's secretary was surprised to hear him humming.

A memo on the law of prior-crime evidence was waiting on his desk.

Reynolds read the memo, then buzzed Tracy's office. There was no answer. He buzzed the receptionist. "Do you know where Tracy is?"

"I haven't seen her this morning."

It was nine-thirty. Tracy was normally in by eight at the latest.

"Please tell her to see me as soon as she comes in," Reynolds said. Then he picked up the memo and walked down to the office library to read the cases Tracy had cited.

Tracy offered to drive Barry to his apartment, but he chose to walk the twenty blocks of nighttime streets back to the loft. Barry cared for Tracy, he might even love her, but he could not bear to be with her and he desperately needed time to think. Tracy was relieved to be alone.

The pain she and Barry had caused each other was too intense. She needed time away from him as much as he needed to be apart from her.

Tracy arrived at her waterfront apartment at two-thirty. She tried to sleep, but gave up after tossing and turning for half an hour. Whenever she closed her eyes, she saw the face of Laura Rizzatti or Matthew Reynolds.

Around three-fifteen, Tracy got out of bed and wandered into her kitchen. She poured herself a glass of milk and walked over to the sliding-glass door that opened onto her terrace. The terrace overlooked the Willamette. She pressed her forehead to the glass and stared at the lights on the Hawthorne and Morrison Street bridges. The ghostly glow of headlights swept over them like a legion of spirits aswirl in the night. After a while, Tracy was too exhausted to stand up. She curled in a ball on her sofa. Her eyes refused to stay open, but she could not sleep. The sadness of it all suddenly overwhelmed her. Laura and the judge dead, Matthew Reynolds's career on the verge of destruction and her relationship with Barry in ruins. She began to sob and made no attempt to hold back her tears. Her body shook quietly as she let herself go.

When the dawn came, her tears had dried.

"There you are," Matthew said with a friendly smile when Tracy walked into his office at eleven-thirty. Tracy could not help noticing how relaxed he looked. She, on the other hand, was exhausted and drained of energy. It had taken all of her courage to come to Reynolds's office to confront him.

Tracy shut the door and sagged into a chair.

"There's something we have to talk about," she said.

"Can it wait?" he asked pleasantly. "We've got to whip this memo into shape and I have some ideas I want to run by you."

"I don't think the memo matters anymore, Mr. Reynolds," she said sadly.

Reynolds frowned. "What do you mean?"

"I know Mrs. Griffen is guilty," Tracy said.

For a moment, Reynolds did not react. Then he looked at her as if he was not certain he'd heard Tracy correctly. "What are you talking about?"

Tracy took the FotoFast envelope out of her purse and laid the photo of the shed on Reynolds's blotter.

"I spent last night looking at the negatives with Barry," she said. "He explained how it was done."

Reynolds looked confused. He glanced at the photograph, then back at Tracy.

"I'm afraid you've lost me."

"This photograph of the shed is a fake. It was taken in September.

We'll have to tell Chuck Geddes and Judge Baldwin.

We'll have to resign from the case."

Reynolds studied the photograph, but made no move to touch it. When he looked at Tracy there was no indication of guilt or fear on his features. If Tracy had not seen the way Reynolds controlled his emotions in court, she would have concluded that he was innocent.

"What makes you think the photograph was faked?" Reynolds asked calmly.

Tracy told Matthew about her trip to the cabin with Barry and explained about the position of the volleyball.

"It must be a coincidence," Matthew said. "The ball was in the position in the photograph on August 12. Then Sheriff Dillard or one of his deputies moved it onto the net when he checked the shed for the dynamite."

"I hoped that was the solution, but it's not."

"Then how could the negative have August 12 stamped on it?"

Tracy explained the way the fake was created, hoping that Matthew would drop his pretense and admit what he had done.

As she spoke, Reynolds grew agitated and began to shift in his chair.

"But how could Mrs. Griffen have created the substitute strip?" Matthew snapped when Tracy was through with her explanation. "It's ridiculous.

She's been confined to her house since the last week in August."

"She didn't make the fake. Mrs. Griffen had an accomplice.

Someone who had access to the Pentax and the negatives. Someone who knows enough about photography to think up this scheme.

"How could you do it, Matthew? She's a murderer. She killed a good, decent man for money and she killed a good friend of mine."

Reynolds tried to maintain his composure, but he failed. Moments before, he had been the happiest person in the world. Now everything was slipping away from him. His shoulders hunched and he slumped in his seat. He took a deep breath. When he spoke, his voice was barely above a whisper.

"I'm sorry," he managed. "I know how this looks, but, believe me, it's not what it seems."

Matthew's chest heaved. It took him a moment to regain his composure.

"Abbie had nothing to do with the photograph and she didn't kill her husband or Laura Rizzatti."

"I don't believe that."

Matthew paused again. Tracy could see he was trembling. He closed his eyes and let his head fall back. When he opened his eyes, they were moist with tears.

"When you interviewed with me, I told you about several fine attorneys who have visited a prison after dark and left with their client dead.

Then I told you that neither I nor any attorney who worked for me had ever visited a prison after dark. That wasn't true.

"When I was eight years old, I visited a prison after dark.

When I left the prison before dawn, the man I had spoken with was dead.

He was my father. I loved him very much. He was executed for the murder of a young woman with whom he worked. The prosecutor convinced a jury that my father had been having an affair with this woman and had killed her because she threatened to tell my mother about their affair.

My father swore that he loved my mother and was only the girl's friend.

The jury didn't believe him and he was executed in the electric chair.

"Two years after he died, the real murderer confessed. He worked with the woman and they were having an affair. My father had simply been the woman's friend. He was executed for a crime he never committed. If it wasn't for the death penalty, he would have been freed from prison and I would have had my father back."

Matthew leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes.

"I know I must disgust you, Tracy. Preaching about morality and honor and dishonoring myself and my profession. But I had to . . . I was compelled to . . . I saw no other way."

Matthew stopped again. He looked across the desk at Tracy.

His eyes pied for understanding.

"She's innocent, Tracy. I'm absolutely certain. And I couldn't bear the thought that she might die. She doesn't know a thing about the photograph of the shed."

"But how could you invent evidence?" Tracy asked, the words catching in her chest.

"I can't do it anymore," Matthew said. "Fighting for every inch, every minute I'm in trial. Having to be perfect, every time, because my client dies if I'm not perfect. It's worn me down. I've lost my confidence. I know I'm going to lose someday. That a client of mine will lie."

Reynolds paused again. Tracy could see him struggle to come up with the words he spoke next.

"You have no idea what my life has been like. I'm so alone. At first, my loneliness was a badge of honor. I had my crusade against death and I didn't need anything else. Then the crusade became an ordeal. So much was expected of me. I wanted someone to share my pain and there was no one. Then I met Abbie."