* * *
“That went well,” Quinlan said sarcastically when they were back on the highway.
“That son of a bitch,” Ragland fumed. “We’ll see how smug he is when he’s rotting on death row.”
“Look, Peter, you’ve got to start being objective,” Quinlan said. “Chesterfield is a horse’s ass, but he’s a very intelligent horse’s ass. He was baiting you because he knows you don’t have a prosecutable case.”
“That’s where you and I disagree. I think I can get an indictment with what I have. Once Chesterfield is in custody, dressed in an orange jumpsuit instead of an Armani, we’ll see how fast he changes his tune.”
Quinlan was smart enough to know that he wasn’t going to change Ragland’s mind, so he stopped trying. Getting an indictment would not be a problem. Any prosecutor worth his salt could convince a grand jury to indict the pope for John Kennedy’s assassination. Winning this case when it went to trial was something else.
CHAPTER TEN
Morris Quinlan was sound asleep when his phone rang.
“My hunch paid off,” Peter Ragland bragged as soon as Quinlan answered.
“What hunch?” Quinlan asked, groggy and annoyed at being jarred out of a deep sleep.
“You know I got the murder indictments for Chesterfield last week?”
“I testified at the grand jury, Peter.”
“Well, I don’t just want to arrest His Lordship, I want to shake him up. I knew a guy like Chesterfield wouldn’t be able to keep it in his pants, so I called in a favor from an undercover at Vice and had a tail put on him. Guess what?” Ragland asked gleefully.
“You woke me from a deep sleep, Peter. I’m too tired for games. Please cut to the chase.”
“Lily Dowd is at her house on the coast. About an hour ago, Chesterfield escorted an attractive young woman up to Dowd’s Portland condo. They’re probably in the sack, doing the dirty right now, so I thought that this would be a perfect time to come calling. I’m in the lobby of the condo with two uniforms. Hustle on down, and you’ll be just in time to get in on the bust.”
* * *
Robert Chesterfield had just finished giving a young woman whose name he couldn’t remember her second orgasm when loud banging on the front door interrupted a most enjoyable evening.
“Stay here, my dear,” Chesterfield said as he got out of bed and slipped on a robe.
“Open up, police!” a familiar voice shouted.
Motherfucker, thought Chesterfield, who remained outwardly composed. “Is that you, Peter?” he asked through the door.
“Open up, Robert.”
“Why should I do that? It’s the middle of the night and I have a guest.”
“Tell your guest to get dressed. Playtime is over. I have a warrant for your arrest.”
“Put on some clothes, dear. The police are calling!” Chesterfield shouted. Then he sighed and opened the door. “Did you plan this bit of theater in the hopes of embarrassing me?” Chesterfield asked wearily. “Because you haven’t succeeded.”
Ragland walked into the penthouse and handed Chesterfield the arrest warrant. “Robert Chesterfield, I am arresting you for the murders of Arthur Gentry and Sophie Randall and the attempted murder of Samuel Moser,” the deputy DA said.
While Chesterfield was reading the warrant, Ragland told him his Miranda rights. He was just finishing when a frightened young woman walked out of Chesterfield’s bedroom.
Chesterfield turned toward her and flashed a reassuring smile. “Megan—” he began.
“It’s Mary,” the woman corrected.
“I apologize. This dapper young man is Peter Ragland, and he’s arresting me for several murders.”
Mary’s eyes grew wide.
“Don’t worry. I didn’t murder anyone, so you were never in any danger. Peter just loves to grab headlines.” Chesterfield turned to Ragland. “May Mary leave? I only met her a few hours ago.”
Ragland hesitated and Quinlan stepped in. “Let the young woman go, Peter, so we can get on with this.”
Ragland gestured toward the door. “Give these officers your name, address, and phone number. Then you can take off.”
Mary gripped her purse tightly to her chest and scurried out of the condo. One of the uniforms followed her.
“What shall we do now?” Chesterfield asked. “Would you and your companions like some tea?”
Ragland reddened. “Don’t you ever get tired of this phony Brit act? Put your hands behind your back so we can cuff them. You’ll have your tea and crumpets in the jail.”
“May I dress first?”
Quinlan was afraid Ragland would try to take Chesterfield to jail in his birthday suit, so he stepped in. “Go with him while he dresses,” the detective told the other uniform.
Ragland frowned, but he didn’t countermand the order.
“This has been a productive evening, if I do say so myself,” Ragland gloated when Chesterfield was out of sight.
“I hope you’re right,” Quinlan said. Ragland had acted rashly, and Quinlan was very worried that the case was going to blow up in Peter’s face.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
For the past four days, Regina Barrister had been in court in a county located in the desert, a five-hour drive from Portland. Her client was charged with murder, and the case was anything but easy. When the jury brought in the not guilty verdict, Regina had been relieved and subdued. That had not been the case when she was alone in her car. As soon as the engine started, Regina broke into a massive grin, put on Jump Back: The Best of The Rolling Stones, and sang along at the top of her lungs all the way back to Portland.
Regina arrived home a little before midnight and crawled into bed. She had just fallen asleep when the ringing of her phone jerked her awake again.
“I have a Mr. Chesterfield on the line, Miss Barrister,” said the operator at the answering service that put through urgent calls after hours. “He’s an inmate at the jail.”
“Have I the pleasure of talking to Regina Barrister?” a man asked when the call was put through.
“I’m Regina.”
“My name is Robert Chesterfield and I’ve just been arrested for two murders.”
* * *
Regina walked out of the jail elevator. Moments later, a guard opened a thick steel door and led her into a narrow corridor that ran in front of three contact visiting rooms. When she stopped in front of the middle room, Regina looked through a large window of shatterproof glass into a narrow concrete room where Robert Chesterfield was sitting at a table that was bolted to the floor. He was dressed in an orange jumpsuit that should have made him look common. Instead, he brought to mind the handsome British prisoners of war in World War II movies who faced captivity with a stiff upper lip while they plotted their escape.
“What an appropriate name for a successful trial attorney,” Chesterfield said when Regina was seated across from him.
“When my parents emigrated from Russia to the US, my family name was Batiashivili. My father learned English by reading British mystery novels. When he realized that Americans had a hard time with his last name, he changed it to Barrister.”