The Perfect Alibi (Robin Lockwood #2)(19)

“There are some good points for an appeal,” Armstrong said, anxious to get away.

“You think we’re going to let you handle Blaine’s appeal after the piss-poor job you just did? You’re fired.”

“You have to do what you think is best,” Armstrong said before hurrying out of the courtroom. Several reporters waylaid him, but he fended off their questions with a repeated “No comment.” Then he hurried down the steps to the lobby, too anxious to get away from the Hastings to wait for the elevator.



* * *



Frank Nylander, Armstrong’s partner, was talking to their receptionist when Doug walked into the waiting room. Nylander was a head taller than his partner. Though he was ten years older, his trim figure and full head of black hair made him look as if they were the same age. Nylander turned when he heard the door open. Doug looked disheveled and unhappy. His tie was askew and his white shirt was rumpled and sweat stained.

“I take it that things did not go well,” Nylander said.

“They went as badly as they could possibly go.”

“As you predicted.”

“I didn’t predict that Hastings would go ballistic in court.” Armstrong shook his head. “He made a complete ass of himself, and Judge Redding revoked his bail.”

Nylander shrugged. “As ye sow so shall ye reap.”

“The only good news is that Blaine Hastings is not my problem anymore. His father fired me.”

“Is that why you look upset?”

“No. Actually, I’ve never been so glad to be fired. Hastings Senior and Junior were some of the most unpleasant clients I’ve ever represented.”

“Then what’s got you in a lather?” Nylander asked.

“Junior threatened me during the trial.”

“You’re not worried he’ll get out, are you?”

“No. There are some arguments that can be made in an appeal, but I don’t see them winning.”

“Then relax. Hastings is locked up, and he’ll have a lot more to worry about than getting revenge on you. A pretty boy like that in prison. I’ve heard that cons don’t like child molesters and rapists.”

“Anything he gets he deserves,” Armstrong agreed.

Nylander studied his friend. “You look like shit, Doug. Slap some water on your face, comb what’s left of your hair, and I’ll take you out for a stiff drink.”

“I should get home to Marsha.”

“She’ll be a lot happier to see you if you’re not in a state. Come on. That’s what friends and law partners are for.”

Armstrong hesitated. Then he smiled. “You are a friend, Frank, a good friend. Let me call Marsha and get myself together. I can definitely use that drink.”





CHAPTER ELEVEN


Ivar Gorski sat in the front seat of his rental car and took a sip from his thermos. Just a sip, because he did not want to have to relieve himself, thus creating the possibility that he would miss his subject.

Ivar was whip-thin with wiry muscles kept hard by hours in a Manhattan dojo. He began his study of the martial arts in the Ukraine, where he had served in the army, and he had continued his training after emigrating to the United States, where his job occasionally required violence.

Ivar focused his dark, deep-set eyes on a house halfway down the street. Those eyes were on either side of a narrow nose that bent like a hawk’s beak. Ivar’s wide, flat forehead, close-cropped blond hair, high cheekbones, and pale skin made his head look vaguely like a skull.

The door to the house opened and Ivar sat up. A woman in jeans and a Windbreaker pushed Leonard Voss’s wheelchair outside before locking the door. Voss’s head canted to one side and he slumped in the chair: a stroke victim, just as it said in the medical report Norcross Pharmaceuticals had received.

Ivar wrote down his observations in a notebook. He had been following Voss for a week, and he’d seen nothing to indicate that Voss was faking, which was bad news for his employer.

The woman pushing the wheelchair was Rita, Voss’s wife. She opened the door of their van and helped her husband inside. They were probably on their way to a doctor’s appointment. Mrs. Voss started to walk to the driver’s door. Then she stopped and looked down the street at Ivar. After a moment’s hesitation, she started walking toward his car. Ivar turned the car away from the Voss’s van and sped away. He thought he’d been careful, but he’d been spotted. It didn’t really matter. He had all the information he needed, but his pride as a professional was wounded.



* * *



Rita Voss got her husband in the van. Then she got in the driver’s seat and locked the doors. She thought she had seen the red Honda Accord following them to two of Leonard’s hospital appointments. Now that the driver had driven off so quickly, she was certain that Norcross was having Leonard followed.

Rita hesitated. Was she being paranoid? No, she was sure that someone was following them. She pulled out her phone and dialed 911.

“What’s your emergency?” the operator asked.

“It’s not an emergency, but I think my husband is being followed.”

“Are you in immediate danger?”

“No. The … the person drove away.”

“Nine-one-one is for emergencies, but if you’ll hold on for a moment, I’ll give you the number for the nearest police station and you can ask how you can file a complaint.”