Final Appeal (22 page)

Poor Mike. Toni's heart went out to him. He thought she wouldn't like him as much now that he'd admitted his problem. That was absurd. She had problems, too. Everyone did. And maybe they could help each other out.

“Let's go back to bed, Mike. You must be tired. Should I hide the car keys, just in case?”

“You don't have to do that, Toni. I'll go home. It'll be easier for you that way.”

“Oh, no, it won't!”

“What if I wander around your apartment or something? Won't that upset you?”

Toni kissed him. “No. It might just be fun, in a crazy kind of way. If I do things half-awake and you do things sleeping, it could be a lot of fun if we bump into each other on the way. Say, Mike . . . do you ever do any housecleaning in your sleep? Like washing the dishes or vacuuming the floors?”

“I don't know, Toni. I might.”

“Good, from now on I want you to think about refrigerators right before you go to sleep. My freezer hasn't been defrosted in over a year.”

It was two in the afternoon before Michael got back to his own apartment. It had been wonderful waking up with Toni for the very first time. They'd gone out to run and then eaten a leisurely breakfast. She'd been very understanding about his sleepwalking. Of course, he hadn't told her everything, but it was a real relief to have someone to confide in, even halfway.

Michael took a quick shower and dressed in jeans and a yellow sweatshirt he found in a drawer. It said THE UNIVERSITY OF AUCKLAND on the front. As far as he knew, Stan had never been to New Zealand, so he must have picked it up at a store.

There was a whole pile of sweatshirts, and Michael lifted them out to examine them. There was a red one from Moscow University. That was an appropriate color. And a black one from the University of Tasmania with a lion holding a torch. The blue one was from Swaziland. And there was a white one with a blue tree on the front from Beirut, Lebanon.

There were twelve sweatshirts in all, some from universities Michael had never heard of, like Bophuthatswana and Senegal. It was kind of interesting, in a way. He remembered meeting a couple of people who'd collected college sweatshirts, but either they'd had friends who attended those universities or they'd gone there themselves. This set appeared to be a strange mixture of unrelated colleges.

Stan had never been the type to collect things. Perhaps that had been a reaction to the stuffed animal collection that Aunt Alice had started for Michael. For whatever reason, Stan had always claimed that collectors were anal retentive. Michael was positive that the sweatshirts had never been part of a collection belonging to Stan. It was much more likely that Stan got a really good buy on a dozen assorted college sweatshirts that no one else had wanted to buy.

Michael was about to go into the office to work on his book when the telephone rang. Toni or Stan. No one else ever called him. He was betting on Toni. Stan never called him during the day unless there was a crisis. And so far the crises had all been murders. Mike picked up the phone to answer the call. The moment he heard the voice on the other end of the line, he started to frown.

“Mike? It's Stan.”

“Oh, hell!” The words were out before Michael could stop them, but Stan laughed.

“Oh, hell? Is that any way to greet the brother who's been burning the midnight oil to push through your appeal?”

“Sorry, Stan. That just slipped out. Please tell me that there wasn't another murder.”

Stan sighed. “Sorry, Mikey. There
was
another murder. Remember the Mexican guy on your jury?”

“Jose Sanchez? But that's impossible!”

“I'm afraid not. He was stabbed this morning at the Crossroads Truck stop. Why did you say that it was impossible?”

Michael thought fast. “I'm just shocked, that's all. I was hoping that no more jury members would be murdered. How did it happen?”

“The police figure Sanchez tried to stop some itinerant who was stealing food from the supply shed. He had a knife, but the other guy was quicker. Sanchez never even had a chance to defend himself.”

Michael's mind was spinning. Another murder. And he'd warned Jose Sanchez himself. After this, Stan just had to believe there was a connection between the jurors and the murders.

“Listen to me for a minute, Stan. Margo Jantzen, Neal Wallace, Lester Robinson, and now Jose Sanchez. That's four out of twelve, and they can't all be coincidences. It's got to be part of a crazy scheme to murder off the jurors at my trial. What else could it be?”

“Don't get so upset, Mikey. I admit you've got a point. But don't forget that Neal Wallace wasn't murdered. My contact at the police station said they went over that scaffolding with a fine-tooth comb, and it snapped from stress. They're sure of it.”

Michael did his best to keep his voice calm. There were times when Stan could be remarkably dense.

“That could be true, Stan. But you're ignoring what happened to his body at the mortuary. Maybe his death was an accident, but someone sure hacked him up afterwards. And that's the reason I think we've got to count him in on the four.”

“Well, maybe. I guess I'm beginning to believe your theory, Mike. It makes sense in a weird kind of way. But why would anyone want to kill off your jury?”

“I don't know, but the killer must have a reason. What can we do about it, Stan? I know we can't tell the police. If we point out the connection, they'll start looking for Michael Hart. But don't you think that I should at least warn the rest of the jury?”

“Don't talk crazy, Mikey!” Stan sounded angry. “You just sit tight and leave that up to me. I know where they are. I already told you I've kept track of them. You've got to promise me to stay out of it completely or you'll ruin all the work I've accomplished so far. You see that, don't you?”

Michael backtracked fast. Stan really sounded upset. “I see that, Stan. You're the boss, and I promise not to move a muscle. But you really will warn them?”

“Of course I will.” Stan sounded a bit mollified. “I'll start on it right away, Mike. By the time I call you tonight, everyone who's left will know to be extra careful.” There was a pause and then Stan spoke again. “Mikey? You're all right, aren't you? I mean, you sounded a little strange when I told you about Sanchez.”

“I'm okay, Stan. It was just the shock, that's all. I remember thinking that Sanchez looked like the type of man who could handle himself in any situation.”

“He did look that way, didn't he?” Stan sounded pleased. “You've got an incredible memory for those jury members, Mike. I think you remember more about them than I do.”

Michael was silent. Of course he remembered them. He remembered them so vividly that he saw them in his dreams every night.

Stan cleared his throat. “I'll sign off now, if you're sure you're all right. I've got tons of work to do. You know how that goes. Right, Mike?”

“Right, Stan. How's the appeal coming? When you called, you said you'd been burning the midnight oil, working on it.”

“That's right. I should have mentioined it before I told you about the Mexican juror. I'm sorry, Mikey. I know it's always on your mind, but I've got a million other things to handle and sometimes I forget to give you a progress report.”

“It's okay, Stan. I know you're very busy.”

“That's true. There's good progress on your appeal, though. I went over that footage I told you about with an expert, and he's agreed to testify that it's you. I had a lab blow up the best freeze frame, and the resolution is nice and sharp. My guy compared it to that last photo you had taken for your portfolio. Remember?”

“I remember. The photographer charged a small fortune. Which pose did you use?”

“I don't remember off the top of my head, Mikey. I think you were wearing a blue shirt. Anyway, there's no doubt in my expert's mind. And there won't be any doubt in the judge's mind either. How does that sound?”

“Just great, Stan.” Michael frowned. He remembered those photos very well, and none had been taken in a blue shirt. Oh, Well. Stan had never paid much attention to color. “My appeal will be coming up pretty soon, then?”

“That's right. If they schedule right away, and I'm pushing for that, it could be by the end of the month. So what do you think of your older brother right now, Mikey?”

“I think mom and dad were wrong. They should have named you Clarence Darrow Gerhardt.” Mike waited until Stan chuckled. “That's fantastic, Stan. This is the twenty-third already, so that means I could be cleared in a week!”

“Hold on a second, Mike. I said it could be
scheduled
by the end of the month. There'll be a delay. There always is. But even at the worst, it ought to come up within three or four weeks. You can be patient for that long, can't you, Mikey?”

“You bet I can, Stan. I was patient for years. Patient fifteen sixty-three, as a matter of fact.”

“What was that, Mike?”

“Just a joke, Stan. Fifteen sixty-three was my patient number at Oakdale.”

“Oh, very funny, Mike. Are you sure you're all right?”

Michael sighed. He'd have to remember not to try anymore jokes with Stan. His brother had never developed a good sense of humor.

“I'm fine, Stan. Don't worry about me. And thanks for working so hard on my appeal.”

“No problem, Mikey. Your case is my number one priority. I'm a little concerned about you, though. You sound tired. Maybe you should take a couple of aspirin and nap for a while. You had a real shock there with the news about Sanchez and the appeal and everything.”

“I'm not that tired, Stan, but maybe I will. Are you still planning to call me at nine tonight?”

“On the button. Okay, Mikey. You take that nap now, and I'll talk to you later, check?”

They said goodbye, and Michael hung up. The way he'd figured it, he'd gotten at least two hours sleep before he'd driven off in Toni's car, and another six after they had gone back to bed. Eight hours of sack time was enough for anyone. He felt more rested today than he ever had before, and he was sure he hadn't sounded tired. Not only had Stan turned into a paranoid, he was a worrywart, too.

Michael turned on his computer and sat down. He really shouldn't be so hard on his brother. Stan had his faults, but he had a brilliant legal mind. And he'd promised to warn the rest of the jurors. Michael just hoped that Stan's warnings would be more effective than his had been with Jose Sanchez.

 

 

Toni finished the calculation she was doing on the percentage of women in managerial positions from certain target areas, and inserted the figure in the proper table. She'd made great strides with the research project this afternoon. Now all she had left to do was to tally up some other statistics, draw up a projection graph, and print it all out. As she saved her work, she realized that the radio station she had selected on her office stereo was running the news. Because it was impossible for her to concentrate on figures while someone else was talking, she got up to put on one of her favorite CDs.

She listened to the news as she pulled Vivaldi's Four Seasons out of the drawer and slipped it into the machine. Trouble in Lebanon again. And Iran. And El Salvador. Another drug ring had been busted in Los Angeles, and a big jewelry store on Ventura Boulevard had been robbed. This city was just one ball of laughs. A murder, of course. There weres always murderers, child molesters, car jackers, and robbers in a city the size of Los Angeles. The news was so depressing, she seldom listened to it.

What was that? Toni turned up the volume, but all she got was the tail end of the story. Someone named Sanchez had been murdered last night. That name was very familiar. Where had she heard it before?

Toni switched to her CD and gave a big sigh of relief as Vivaldi's “Winter” came on. Or was it “Summer”? She could never tell the four seasons apart unless she read the description inside the cover of the CD. Why had the name of the murder victim been familiar? Sanchez. Wasn't that the name Mike had asked her to run through the data banks? Of course, there were lots of people named Sanchez. She knew that by the number of hits she'd gotten in the data. And even if the murder victim had been Jose Sanchez, it could be one of the other hundred or so who lived in this area. She'd ask Mike about it, if she remembered.

Now that Vivaldi was playing and she could concentrate on work again, Toni found she didn't want go back to her projections. Perhaps she needed a break. She went to the refrigerator to get herself a glass of iced tea, but that didn't really help either.

Mike's sleepwalking had been bothering her. She'd made a pretty good show of being nonchalant about it, but that purely was for Mike's benefit. Was there anything she could do to help him?

The moment she thought of it, Toni attempted to connect to the state computer bank in Ohio. She knew she was prying into Mike's personal life, but perhaps she could discover something in his past that was causing his sleepwalking. Then they could confront it together and resolve it. Of course, she didn't have any credentials for that sort of thing, but she'd heard about a study some prestigious university had done where bartenders and hairdressers had turned out to have a higher quotient of helping people with their problems then trained therapists did.

Toni sat back and waited to be connected. It seemed everyone was using the system today. She was lucky that she had a habit of memorizing numbers without realizing she was doing it. She could rattle off Harry's old badge number and the number of the workman who had inspected the elevator, even though she had no reason at all for remembering either of them. Her selective memory for numbers was usually a worthless talent, in fact, this was the very first time it had actually come in handy.

Last night, when she'd flipped through Mike's wallet, she had memorized the numbers on his drivers' license and his social security card. By plugging those numbers into the Ohio state computer system, she could find out more about Mike Kruger's life without coming right out and asking him.

At last she got through. It was a simple matter to access DMV files. Anyone with a little know-how could do it. She typed in Mike's name and his driver's license number and waited as the search began. In a moment, a message flashed on the screen. NOT FOUND. TRY AGAIN? She typed it in again, but she got the same message. Fine.

The Ohio DMV computer bank was obviously messed up. She'd try just the name. At least she knew that was right. She typed in KRUGER, MICHAEL S., exactly the way it had been written on the license and waited. After a moment, the same message appeared. NOT FOUND. TRY AGAIN?