A Good Marriage(87)

“Zach is on board, definitely. I warned him the lab work could be expensive, too. Why don’t I call his accountant right now, from here?” I offered. And I actually did feel the tiniest bit better for the first time since Zach had threatened me. If Zach hadn’t done it, maybe I really could get him off with a clear conscience and save myself. Even Wendy Wallace would be hard-pressed to ignore bloody prints belonging to the real perpetrator. “I’ll get you guys paid, and then we can get on with this.”

Millie shook her head. “Oh, you don’t have to call right now, that’s—”

“Great,” Vinnie said. “A great idea. Call right now.”

“Can I first ask—are the same person’s prints also on the golf club?”

Millie and Vinnie glanced at each other, then back at me.

“Um, the police have the golf club, hon,” Millie said, her tone polite but sharp. Like she was nicely reminding me to wake the fuck up. “So we’ve got no idea.”

“Oh, right,” I said. It was the prosecutor in me, forgetting.

Of course we didn’t have the golf club yet. Or Amanda’s all-important phone, which could contain God only knows how much further confirmation of her father’s stalking. That is, if the prosecution decided to go digging. Deleted messages, unknown numbers—those things weren’t looked into unless the prosecution needed to find a suspect. In Zach’s case, they were convinced they had their man, and they certainly didn’t need phone calls to prove a connection between him and Amanda. It was only thanks to very recent changes in New York law that we would soon even be privy to something like Amanda’s phone log. Up until now, all of the prosecution’s evidence would have been sprung on us right before trial, a procedure that had—of course—always seemed perfectly reasonable to me when I was on the other side of the equation. It did make me think about getting Zach’s phone. I was no expert on the specificity of cell phone pings in a place as densely populated as Brooklyn, but if we could locate Zach’s phone on the Brooklyn Heights Promenade at the time Amanda was killed, that would be extremely helpful.

“Could be for the best we don’t have the club,” Vinnie offered. “You test that particular golf club, and it doesn’t have the same prints you’re hoping for? Then all the evidence you have becomes about all the evidence you don’t have. Because maybe this other guy, whoever he is, was smart enough to wear a glove on the one hand he used to hold the club, but not on the other. Maybe he only touched the bag and that one step with his nondominant hand because he lost his balance? Like this—” He imitated the motion. “Those scenarios sound ridiculous, but no more ridiculous than their blood spatter story. Weird, fucked-up shit happens during the commission of a crime.”

“I think I might know who the prints belong to,” I said.

“Care to fucking share?” Vinnie asked.

“Amanda’s father. Her estranged father. He lives upstate. He was sexually abusive when she was young, and ever since they moved back to New York, she thought he was stalking her. That he had been, for months. She kept a log in her journal about it. There were phone calls, and he was following her. He even left some flowers.”

“Really?” Millie asked, intrigued. “Well, that sure as hell sounds like a solid lead.”

“I think I’ve got him tracked down, too. But I’ll need to go upstate, to a town called St. Colomb Falls, to talk to him to be—”

“No, no, no,” Millie said. “Absolutely not. Rapists don’t love it when you show up out of nowhere, accusing them of murder.” I hadn’t wanted to ask Millie to go to St. Colomb Falls, not when she was already helping me so much. But I had brought up Xavier Lynch, hoping she might offer.

“I’d go myself, but …” Millie looked down, uncomfortable. “I’ve got this thing I can’t miss, starting tomorrow. It’ll last a few days. And Vinnie’s no good in the field. Sending him would be worse than sending no one.”

“Gee, thanks,” Vinnie said mildly.

“I know a couple other guys I trust, though. I use them sometimes for canvassing. They’re not cheap, and they don’t always have time. But I can ask.”

“I think someone needs to talk to him soon,” I said.

“Okay, let me reach out and see what they say. Otherwise, we’ll just have to wait. It’s not like there’s some big rush anyway. We’ve got time until trial.”

“If you don’t mind asking, that would be great,” I said, already knowing there was no way I was waiting. “Can I take that file with me? I’d like to look at the photos and the rest of it.”

When Vinnie showed me the fingerprint analysis, I’d glimpsed some other documents in the file: what looked like maps of the neighborhood, printouts of internet search results, notes from interviews. I was partly hoping there might be something in there that made Zach look guilty. Maybe something I could use to reverse-extort him. It wasn’t exactly ethical to threaten to rat out your own client—especially when you suspected he was innocent—but Zach and I were well past ethical now.

“Oh, sure, we’ll hand over all our work product. Just as soon as your client pays us,” Vinnie said, gripping the folder tighter. “Fifteen thousand for past fees and a twenty-thousand retainer for future costs should do it. I can provide an itemization, if needed.”