Leading the Witness Read online

  Starr stared at the picture of the Congress Street Bridge where crowds flocked at sundown from spring to fall to watch the nightly bat flight across Lady Bird Lake. She’d driven over the bridge just a few hours ago on her way to Jo’s Coffee and then back again after she’d shared coffee with Catherine. When she was a kid she’d been fascinated with the bats too. Was Catherine?

  Where did that thought come from? She spent a second entertaining it and decided she doubted Catherine was a bat watcher. She wasn’t sure why. Could be because Catherine had remarked about how she wasn’t much of an outdoor person. Made it hard to imagine her hanging over the rail of the bridge, trying to spot the first dark cluster of flying mammals heading out for their evening meal.

  “I don’t think it will be helpful, but that’s all I can think of,” Turner said, holding open the door to signal their private meeting was over.

  “Thank you,” Starr said, but as she started to leave an idea struck her. “I’d like to look at Hannah’s room one more time. That would be okay, wouldn’t it?”

  “Uh, sure.” Turner motioned to the stairs. “If it’s okay with you, I’ll stay down here.”

  “Of course.”

  Hannah’s bedroom was as she remembered it, but Starr’s perspective had changed. Now she was looking for some sign that Hannah was aware of and troubled by her parents’ marital strife. She seriously doubted Hannah had run away from home. If she had, then she was either completely out of touch with media or she was the most heartless twelve-year-old that had ever lived, considering the massive amounts of coverage about her disappearance and pleas for her safe return. Starr wasn’t sure why she wanted to dig deeper into Hannah’s psyche, but something told her she should, that maybe a deeper understanding would give her a clue about who had taken her away from her sheltered, privileged life with no discernible explanation.

  She entered Hannah’s room and looked around, starting with Hannah’s desk. Hannah was a doodler and the desk pad was a collage of drawings, some completed and some half-finished. Everything from horses to ladybugs, and lots of bats sprinkled in. Starr traced one of the drawings with her forefinger as if she could capture some connection to Hannah by doing so, but all she got for her efforts was pencil lead on her skin. Where are you? The words ran on repeat like a steady drumbeat in the back of her head but getting louder and louder with each refrain. Time was running out.

  Chapter Seven

  Catherine held the remote in her hand, but she didn’t click the on button. She felt like someone who was trying to incrementally give up cigarettes by holding an unlit one as the first step. It wasn’t working. She didn’t need to click the button to know what she’d see on any of the local news channels. Or on the radio. Or in the newspaper. With no new information on the case, there would only be endless speculation by fact-starved reporters and news anchors charged with keeping viewers tuned in at all costs.

  She got it. The people who had kids were glued to the television, hanging on the hope that Hannah would be found as some universal reassurance this would never happen to them. Everyone else had their reasons, and it wasn’t for her to judge although she wanted to. She wanted to tell them all to stop sitting in front of their televisions and get out of the house and start looking for Hannah because, if she was alive, she was probably close by. And if she wasn’t alive, then…

  Catherine shuddered as she remembered a time she thought dying would be preferable to being held against her will, being groomed to face a future that would be unbearable and from which she would have no escape. Her own experience both motivated and held her back from getting more involved, but that was a cop out. She should be out there with the rest of the volunteers, helping put up signs, manning the hotlines, walking the neighborhoods. Did she have the strength to do so?

  Her phone buzzed with a text and she grabbed it, happy for the distraction. It was Doris. Sorry to bug you on a Saturday, but the office vm had a message from a potential new client who wants to meet today. Let me know what you want me to tell them.

  Catherine wasted no time responding. I can meet them at four pm at the office. Send me the initial info. Thanks. Relieved for the distraction, she sprang to her feet and headed to the shower. When she emerged, she checked her phone again and made a few notes about the new case. A nice, nonviolent, federal white-collar case. Exactly what she needed. Hopefully there would be lots of documents and accounting to review—plenty to keep her mind occupied while she and the rest of the city waited for news of the missing girl. She made a mental promise to join the volunteers if Hannah wasn’t found by the time her appointment was over.

  She looked through her closet and settled on a suit. Federal court was more formal than state court, and white-collar clients tended to consider appearance more closely in determining which attorneys were the most successful. She did a quick Google search of the name Doris had texted her and found the case involved Medicare fraud with no associated violence or other sordid details. She sighed, relieved to have something to focus on other than Hannah’s case, something impersonal and bland.

  The drive was quiet and quick. She actually liked working on Saturdays—less traffic and no ringing phones. When she arrived, she unlocked the office door and wandered through the house turned law office. She’d loved this place since the first day she’d started working with Neil Daniels, Doris’s old boss, and one of the few people who’d known about her past when she’d relocated to Texas. Neil had helped her change her last name and facilitate her application to law school and the state bar in a way that allowed her to retain her privacy while avoiding the questions that would naturally come up with the required background checks. He’d been her mentor and her friend, and ultimately her benefactor, having left his practice to her when he dropped dead of a heart attack five years before in this very office.

  Her therapist had questioned her about her decision to keep the building after the trauma of Neil’s death, but selling it felt like a betrayal. Neil had loved this space and she took comfort in its familiarity. The house/office included a reception area, a large open kitchen and living room/conference room, and three good-sized rooms, two of which comprised her office and a library. About once a year, Doris pointed out that they could lease out the extra room to another lawyer, but Catherine brushed her off. She would never invite strangers to share this space. She put on a pot of coffee, and while it was brewing, she made sure the conference room was picked up. The coffee pot had just beeped when she heard the bell on the front door jingle.

  “Hello?”

  Catherine turned toward the sound of the voice. Dr. M often asked her if she ever felt vulnerable working alone in the office or dealing with people who’d been accused of committing crimes. The short answer was yes, but there was a part of her that enjoyed testing that vulnerability, because unlike when she was a child facing the terror of a man who was holding her captive, she was a strong, powerful adult who knew how to exercise her power. And fire a gun. For a second, her attention pulled to the SIG Sauer P238 tucked under her desk. Truth was the gun probably wouldn’t do much good unless she was sitting at her desk during an attack, but Catherine felt better knowing it was there. Once a month, she took it to the range, used it to shoot up a target, cleaned it, and put it back where it belonged.

  The young couple standing in the doorway surprised her. She’d expected her potential client to be older, more established, but this guy looked to be in his late twenties. She stuck out a hand. “I’m Catherine Landauer.”

  They introduced themselves as Clive and Violet Burson, and she led them to the conference room. “Thanks for meeting us on such short notice,” Violet said. “Clive’s been frantic since the FBI showed up at the house.”

  “I imagine that was scary for both of you.” Catherine looked down at her notes. “I did a little research since you talked to Doris. Clive, you worked for Haltech Medical for six years?”

  “You sound surprised,” he said.

  “I am, a little. Don’t t
ake this the wrong way, but you look pretty young. Both of you.”

  “I started working for a smaller medical billing provider when I was in college. My dad got me the job. The owner was an old friend of his. About a year after I started, the company sold out to Haltech, but I stayed on. I was never crazy about the new owners, but they seemed to know what they were doing. Guess I was wrong about that.”

  Catherine made a note to ask him if they’d offered to get him his own attorney and focused on his impressions of the owners. “Tell me more about your gut feelings about the owners.”

  “It’s hard to explain. They’re nice and they treat me well, but I’ve always gotten the sense that they’re on the verge of busting out of this business. The guy before had it forever, and I think if he’d had kids who wanted to follow in his footsteps, he never would’ve sold, but these guys seemed like they were trying to leverage the business for something else. Doesn’t give the rest of the staff a lot of confidence in their career futures.”

  Catherine nodded, but she wasn’t sure what to make of his description. “The FBI arrested you for Medicare fraud. I checked the online court system and you haven’t been indicted yet and the arrest warrant is sealed. I might be able to get a copy of it when the courts reopen on Monday, but in the meantime, did they tell you anything about why you were arrested?”

  “Sure. They came to the office a few times, trying to talk to employees when the owners weren’t there. All I ever told them was that I wasn’t in charge and that I hadn’t done anything illegal.”

  “And you talked to them each time they came?” He nodded. “And how many times was that?”

  “Three. No, wait. It was four. This one agent would hang out outside and wait for us to go to lunch.”

  Catherine wanted to pound her head against the table. There should be a class in high school with the theme “call your lawyer when…” She forced her expression into neutral and asked him several questions about the length and content of each conversation. “When did you first suspect the agent was focused on you as part of his investigation?”

  “I never thought he was focused on me. He said he wanted to help me out of this situation. That he knew I probably didn’t know my employer was breaking the law, but it could spill over onto me unless I helped him out.”

  “And you declined to help?”

  “I told them I’d have to think about it. In the meantime, they started talking to my boss, and then I never heard from them again. What do you make of that?”

  Catherine folded her hands on the table. “I think that your boss took their offer faster than you did, so instead of directing them to the problem, you’re now part of it. It’s likely that your boss, what’s his name?”

  “Jerry Randolf.”

  “Jerry, by virtue of his position, probably has more usable information than you did, which would make him more credible on the witness stand. He’s probably going to testify before the grand jury.”

  “So, I’ve missed my opportunity?”

  “Not necessarily, but if you want to try and work something out, we’ll need to give the agents some information that they either can’t get from Jerry or that bolsters whatever he’s telling them.”

  “And how will we know?”

  “I’ll ask them. If you hire me to represent you, the first step is for me to find out everything I can about the case, including pinning down their goals so we can figure out if you can assist. But there will be no guarantees up front about outcomes, either from me or the FBI. The process can be brutal. If you decide to cooperate, you will go through numerous debriefings which may seem like interrogations before they decide they can trust you. If you contradict yourself at all, all bets are off and you’re back where you started, and they can use your statements against you if you go to trial and attempt to say something different. Even if they believe you, they might decide your information was not substantial enough and might not agree to recommend that your sentence be reduced. It’s happened many times.”

  She paused to let her admonitions sink in. There were plenty of attorneys who wouldn’t go to these lengths to give all the cons about cooperating, who would instead cast cooperation as the be-all end-all of getting out of doing federal time. It was true that cooperation was the key to staying out of prison, but she wasn’t going to be the one who gave false hope just to sign a client. “But at the end of the day, you’ll still have to decide which risk you want to take, jury trial or helping the prosecutor and hoping the judge gives you a decent sentence.”

  Clive’s phone lit up and buzzed on the table. He apologized and turned it over. “Sorry about that.” He glanced at his wife. “Do you have any questions?”

  Violet pulled a piece of paper out of her purse and spread it out in front of her. Catherine braced for the interrogation, but Clive’s phone buzzed again. He picked it up with a sheepish look. “Sorry, I’ll make sure it’s off.” Before he could do so, there were two more buzzes in quick succession. “Oh wow,” he said, staring at the screen.

  “Is everything okay?” Catherine asked while Violet looked over his shoulder.

  “We’ve been following the news about that missing girl,” he said. “You know, the mayor’s kid. Our little girl is the same age, and I—we—can’t even imagine what it would be like if she disappeared. We’ve been glued to the news ever since the story first broke…”

  He kept talking, but all Catherine heard was a dull roar that built to a loud pitch. She half stood. “Did they find her?”

  He pointed at his phone. “They’re about to have a press conference. KVUE says they found something.”

  Catherine wanted to shoo them from her office and bolt for home where she could stare at the TV until the news appeared. She caught Clive looking up at the TV on the wall. “When’s the press conference?”

  “Right now.” He shifted in his seat. “I know we have a lot to cover, but do you mind if we check it out?”

  Catherine grabbed the remote and clicked the TV on, bracing for whatever news would appear once the screen awoke. The startup time seemed to take longer than usual, and she tried hard not to resort to her usual pacing while she waited. After what seemed like forever, the picture came into view, and Catherine realized she was looking at the lobby of police headquarters. A podium had been placed in the center of the room, and the camera zoomed in as Starr Rio approached it, her face grim and her eyes tired. She looked even more haggard than she had this morning, and Catherine feared the worst, but when Starr held up a tagged evidence bag containing a large white bow, cold chills ran through her body, and she grabbed her throat with fear. Her knees buckled and the room went black.

  Chapter Eight

  Starr had reservations about the press conference. Once they shared that they’d found a clue and what it was, crazies would start to come out of the woodwork. In her opinion, they should keep looking at Professor Turner’s brother, Ricky, since he was their only viable suspect so far and stats said the most likely culprit was someone close to the family. But ultimately, she agreed with Murphy and the police chief that a deluge of leads was better than not enough of them.

  Murphy had asked her to be the one on camera today. It was a big deal, but she knew he’d likely picked her to give a feminine face to the investigation. She should be happy for the free press. She’d be featured on all the networks, interrupting the early evening news, but right now she didn’t care how this exposure would benefit her future campaign. The only thing she cared about was getting Hannah back, and today’s press conference was designed to spook the abductor into thinking they were very close to finding him. To that end, Pearson had a patrol unit watching Ricky Turner’s apartment in case the press conference prompted him to make a move.

  The police chief introduced her and she stepped to the microphone. “Good evening. I’d like to jump right in and let you know that the entire Austin Police Force and the Travis County Sheriff’s Office is hard at work on this case, but we need your help. Today, we receiv
ed an anonymous tip about a clue in the case, which led us to this item.” She held up a glassine bag containing the white bow and took a breath before delivering the lie she’d practiced. “We’ve verified that this bow contains physical evidence linking it to Hannah Turner.”

  She leaned forward and stared hard into the cameras in what she hoped was a strong but pleading way. “If you know anything about this bow or have any information at all about Hannah’s disappearance, please call the hotline number that’s running across your screen. I’m not going to disclose the location where this clue was found or the attendant circumstances. If you know that information, that would certainly lend some credibility to any information you have to offer. Basically, we are looking for anything that can lead to the recovery of Hannah Turner as quickly as possible, and we need your help. This must be a community effort. The phone line is open and you can elect to remain anonymous, but it’s imperative we hear from you today. The sun set twenty minutes ago, and the temperature is dropping. If you have children of your own, you would want them inside right now so they can eat a hot meal before you tuck them into their warm bed. Let’s bring Hannah Turner home.”

  She moved quickly from the podium despite the many raised hands and a loud chorus of shouted questions. She and Murphy had decided in advance she shouldn’t take any questions in order to keep their messaging on point and to manage the flow of information. All it would take was one reporter who’d dug up Ricky Turner’s criminal record and the entire conference would spin out into an indictment of the mayor’s family instead of a means to try to get the public to come forward with any information they might have.

  Pearson met her off stage. He jabbed at his cell phone. “The calls are already starting to come in. They’ll text me the ones that appear to be actual clues instead of lookie-loos.” He shoved the phone in his pocket. “You did good.”