Mystery Writers of America Presents the Prosecution Rests (47 page)

Eisner collapsed into a chair. “Now you’re getting yourself all wet. What the hell are you wearing?”

Sophie didn’t move or speak. Looking at Ms. Moore, Eisner held up his hands as if to ask,
What?

Ms. Moore sat again in her chair. “She says she might be an accessory to a crime.”

Eisner looked at Sophie. “What crime?”

Ms. Moore, slightly exasperated, said, “We hadn’t gotten there yet.”

Eisner pulled out his notebook, now damp and tattered, then sat back. “Shouldn’t you be home packing?”

Sophie’s head jerked up. She stared at him wide-eyed. Finally: “Oh. Nicaragua.” She looked away again. “That’s over.”

Eisner frowned, puzzled. “Okay.” Then he leaned forward. “What crime, Dr. Black?”

“Theft.”

“Theft of what?” asked Ms. Moore.

“Of artifacts. Stolen from… Dana called them my ‘dog and pony shows.’ I’d do one every few months, or when I found something
special. The university would invite wealthy supporters, serve wine and cheese. Slides and a speech from me, as project leader.
The interruptions to my work were annoying, but—that’s why they funded me, after all, for publicity.” She paled and looked
away. “Dana wrote my speeches. She said I have poor communication skills.”

Eisner rubbed his eyes. “She’s right. Okay, believe it or not, I’m with you. Somebody stole artifacts you brought to D.C.
for exhibitions to impress the moneymen.”

Sophie looked relieved. “Yes. Months ago somebody complained that a statue had never returned from Mortensen. I mean, the
only reason I’m allowed to borrow these things is because the countries trust me to bring them back. So… I looked into it.
I tracked through the bills of lading. The statue had never even been listed for transport. When I examined earlier shipments,
I discovered other items had vanished. I’m guessing, but I’m sure the thief is selling to collectors. Some collectors can
be ruthless.”

“Were the missing artifacts valuable?” Eisner asked while making notes.

“You mean, like gold? Sometimes. But technically, all antiquities are irreplaceable, and thus priceless.”

“And you figured out who the thief was.”

Sophie exhaled. “Yes.”

Eisner said, “With proof?”

“Is his blackmailing me proof?”

“In my book. What hold did he have over you?”

Sophie said weakly, “Obvious, isn’t it? My work. When I confronted him, he laughed. He reminded me of his power over my funding.
I’d never destroy my life’s work just to stop him from making a little profit, he said. And—he was right. I was arrogant.
I thought what I was doing was so important that the thefts didn’t matter in comparison. So I did nothing. At my next dig,
though, I couldn’t continue. Those people trust me. And their antiquities, their histories, are important to them, as important
as my work was to me. I realized I’d made a terrible mistake. I told him he had to stop. That’s when he cut off my funding.
Then he told me Interpol would be interested in my activities. He’d set me up to look like the thief.”

“He can do this?”

“He’s doing it. He stole only from remote areas with few resources. Documents are easy for a man in his position to manufacture.
My reputation is good, but pitted against his?” She shook her head.

Ms. Moore said, “Ah. Then you confided in Dana. Who watches your back.”

“I never intended for her to do anything. But she”—Sophie took a moment to swallow—“she refused to let me ruin myself. She
said she would make him her private crusade. She would stop him, protect me, and I could continue my work. She’s very… strong.
And clever! So I agreed.”

Ms. Moore considered her. “And then she was poisoned.”

“God, yes.”

Eisner said, “But this type of radiation only comes from—”

“Nuclear plants. Yeah, I read Dana’s research. And right before she died, Dana named Fremont. I thought she was saying that
somebody from there poisoned her. She told me to make sure you knew that. Still protecting me.”

Ms. Moore frowned. “So her murder had nothing to do with your stolen antiquities?”

“I didn’t—I still don’t see how it could! But either way, I had to do something. So this afternoon I went to Fremont. And
I saw him!”

Ms. Moore’s eyes narrowed. “Who? The thief? At Fremont? Who is this person? Who killed Dana Fallon?”

Sophie clutched her head. “Me! My selfishness. I never thought about her being in danger, I thought only about myself! The
only person in the world who loved me, and I killed her!”

Ms. Moore leaned across the table and grabbed her hands. “Cut the melodrama. You didn’t kill her! Who is the thief?”

Sophie shook her head. “You wouldn’t believe me. Besides, it makes no sense.” She looked at Ms. Moore. “Because I just killed
him. And he’s not dead.”

Ms. Moore threw up her hands, then stood and began to pace. “You killed him?”

Eisner demanded, “What happened?”

“I got inside Fremont. Dana was right, it’s way too easy. And I saw him in the employees’ cafeteria. He saw me too. I got
out fast, but he chased me. In a big dark Mercedes sedan, I couldn’t tell what color it was. So shiny it half-blinded me.
He tried to ram me. I pulled off the road. He handled his car badly, all that snow. He crashed. He crawled out of his car,
though, and—he damn near shot me in the head! I panicked. I ran him down.”

Eisner goggled. “Deliberately?”

“Twice.”

Ms. Moore stopped her pacing and stared. “Twice?” And after a pause: “Twice? What’s his name?”

“Victor Rubinski, director of—”

Ms. Moore interrupted: “Director of the Jones-Formen Foundation. That gatekeeper institution for scientific grants.” She whirled
to face Eisner. “The fourth guy at Fallon’s dinner.”

Eisner flipped open his cell phone. “Where was this car crash?”

Sophie thought, then described the last green sign she’d passed before stopping. “I don’t know much about Long Island, sorry.”

He made two calls. Ms. Moore went into her kitchen. Sophie sat huddled miserably on the couch, sunk in thought. In fifteen
minutes, Eisner’s cell phone rang. Ms. Moore returned from the kitchen, the aroma of hot coffee following her. Eisner listened,
then sighed. “Thanks.” He glanced at Sophie. “Some crackups due to weather, but no Mercedes of any type. You’re sure about
the make?”

Sophie nodded.

He shook his head. “No car or body found, Georgie. But Rubinski does own a Mercedes S600 Metallic Capri Blue sedan. That’s
shiny dark blue, if you drop the sales pitch.”

Ms. Moore frowned, then let out a sound, half laugh, half exasperation. “Well, she did say he wasn’t dead. Give me a minute
to dress.”

Eisner eyed Sophie. Ms. Moore said, “Let her come. I’d like to hear what he says when he sees her.”

In twenty minutes they were pushing the doorbell at an elegant Murray Hill townhouse owned by Victor Rubinski.

When a man opened his door, before he could speak, Sophie let out a muffled squeal. Eisner elbowed her. “Victor Rubinski?”

Rubinski paused to wrap his maroon bathrobe tighter and cinch the belt. He was a long-faced man with thinning brown hair,
in his late fifties, lean except for a small paunch, a few inches shorter than Sophie. “Yes?”

“Eisner, Homeland Security. I’m sure you remember U.S. Attorney Moore. A few minutes of your time.” Rubinski hesitated, but
Eisner swept him aside with a heavy arm, and made room for the two women to enter. He stepped in and closed the door.

They stood in a long, darkly paneled hallway, crowded together. Rubinski made no move to invite them in any farther. “Ah.
Hello, Sophie. Surprised to see you here. Hah, you’ve combed your hair. I am surprised!” His drawled words revealed a faint
European accent. He looked up at Eisner with a pained smile. “And you’re here because?”

“Your car, Mr. Rubinski.”

“My car?”

“Where is it?”

Rubinski’s eyebrows lifted. “I suppose… in the garage. Where I left it last Friday, after I drove home from Washington.”

“Where’s this garage?” asked Eisner.

“Oh, come now. Around the corner, on… on Thirty-sixth. What’s the fuss?”

“We’d like to see it,” said Eisner.

Rubinski made an exasperated noise. “Get a warrant. Isn’t that the drill?”

Eisner sighed. “Don’t need one, Rubinski. Nobody seems to remember that.”

Rubinski darted forward, as if intending to shoulder through them to get to the front door.

As he rushed past Sophie, she sidestepped and blocked the door. She blurted, “You can’t just arrest him! He tortured Dana!
Think what she suffered!” Ms. Moore touched her on the shoulder, but Sophie wrenched away.

Rubinski snarled, “Hah! This woman’s a known criminal. To accuse me—”

Suddenly a gun appeared in Sophie’s hand. She slammed Rubinski against the wall and dug the muzzle deep into the soft spot
beneath his ear. He gaped, mouth opening and closing like a fish drowning in air, but made no sound.

She wiped tears from her cheek with her shoulder. With her thumb she drew back the hammer. “You monster! You think I’d let
them tuck you away in some cell? Pay for what you did with jail time? No death penalty in New York.”

Eisner and Moore, startled, separated, and moved deeper into the hallway.

Rubinski suddenly recovered his voice. “I told you she’s a criminal! You, Homeland, grab her! Do something!” He tried to jerk
away, but she had him pinned too well with her body.

Eisner didn’t move, but gestured at the gun. “You good with that?”

Rubinski snapped, “Of course she is, you cretin.”

Ms. Moore sighed. “Deserts and jungles, Ed. I believe him.” She said softly to Sophie, “Do you think shooting him will hurt
him enough? Could anything hurt him enough to pay for Dana’s suffering?”

Sophie didn’t answer, but glanced uncertainly at Ms. Moore.

Rubinski, in a burst of new energy, struggled hard, but Sophie stiffened her hold. She hesitated, then shoved the gun harder
against his neck. “Where’s your brother or cousin?” she suddenly demanded. “In the trunk of your Mercedes?”

Rubinski’s mouth opened halfway and stayed there.

Sophie continued: “Where’s the car? Not in any heated garage, not with a body in it.”

Eisner said, “In it?”

“Has to be. Too cold to dig a hole. And this happened—what. Two hours ago? Now that I think of it, the guy I hit crawled out
of the passenger side. I never saw a second person, but it was so dark. Took me a while to get up the nerve to check that
he was—and I couldn’t find him! Rubinski could’ve pulled the body into the car. I looked all around, but never inside the
car. I never thought of a second person. Hard to total a Mercedes. I bet he drove it away, hid it in Long Island somewhere
near a train station.”

Eisner nodded. “I can buy that.”

Rubinski snapped, “Why would I be at Fremont!”

“Fremont, Rubinski?” Eisner asked with interest. “Who mentioned Fremont?”

“What relative? And how did you guess?” Ms. Moore stared at Sophie.

“No guess. People are my subject.” Sophie smiled bitterly. “I’m a trained observer of physiognomy. If I was fooled, the resemblance
had to be close, probably a brother. A cousin, at most. Victor’s standing here, so I must’ve killed his relative.”

Eisner said, “We knew he had a brother, didn’t know he worked at Fremont.”

Rubinski said, “He didn’t. Consultant. And only a half-brother. Hardly a real sibling.” Then Rubinski grinned. “Fortuitous,
don’t you think? Dana Fallon got the public all roused, leading Fremont to hire poor Jerry to patch up some engineering carelessness.”
He added sullenly, “Greedy piece of shit, charged me a fortune for that bit of isotope. Then elbowed in on my… business.”
He gestured at Sophie. “Still. She murdered him! She confessed it right in front of you!”

Ms. Moore considered this. She eyed Sophie, who kept her attention steadily on Rubinski. “You flew in at JFK yesterday from
Panama, right?”

Sophie frowned. “Yes.”

“Not Dana’s gun?”

“No.”

“So, you, ah, found it… where?”

“In the road. It fell out of his half-brother’s hand after he shot at me.”

“Ed, arrest Rubinski. Attempted murder will do to start. We’ll sort out the details and the, ah,
twice
, in the morning. Please, carefully, relieve Sophie of Mr. Rubinski’s, or his brother’s, weapon.”

She smiled at Sophie. “We might manage to rescue a few fingerprints.”

Sophie hesitated, a worried frown on her face as she replaced the hammer. “Check the bullets. When people load, those are
the fingerprints they usually forget to wipe off.”

Rubinski gasped.

Eisner said, amused, “I’ve, uh, heard that.”

“Honey, trust Ed. Come with me. Let’s get you warm.”

Sophie took the pen from her pocket, inserted it into the trigger guard, and handed both revolver and pen to Eisner.

BY LINDA FAIRSTEIN

I
had dreamed about getting the gold shield ever since I was a kid. My grandfather’s detective badge—gleaming yellow metal
framing cobalt-blue enamel—had attracted and intrigued me for as long as I could remember. I had obeyed my parents’ demand
that I finish college, but four days after graduation I joined the rookie class at the New York Police Department’s academy,
to become a cop.

Promotion from the uniformed ranks to the detective bureau can be a long and hard-fought battle. Some officers seem content
to walk a beat for their entire careers, while others take daring risks and perform heroic acts to merit the shift to plainclothes
investigations. You can’t sit for any exams to get the job the way you can for administrative posts. And I had no one looking
out for me down at Headquarters to push me along the way.

There was nothing I wouldn’t do, I had vowed to myself the morning I came on the job, to earn that shield.

____

“A
RE YOU OUT
of your mind? You think I’m gonna volunteer to let some guy molest me when I’m not even conscious?” I looked across the table
at Mike Chapman, who was chewing the last bite of his cheeseburger as the waitress slipped the check under his plate.