One week later, Monday 12:14 P.M.
“Bloody paragon. She’d depress the devil!” Slick Danny smoothed a hand down his silk tie, took a long drag on his cigarette.
Slick Danny hated infidelity investigations, especially since most are wives spying on their husbands. Said he liked tailing the wife for a change. Guess he was still sore ex-wife-number-three hired our competition to check up on him.
Our assignment was simple. Eleven days ago, when our client Richard Montebella left the District for a bankers’ convention, we’d begun investigating his wife. He wanted some dirt in case Sandra filed for divorce. Slick Danny says it’s ’cause Montebella’s a cheater and if we didn’t get anything on her, she’d take her soon-to-be-ex-husband to the cleaners.
We’d had a promising lead, too. Our client had left us a photocopy of his wife’s datebook, the name ‘Carl’ circled. They met once a week. So we waited and we watched. Carl turned out to be Carlotta Culford, one of the best divorce lawyers in the District. Montebella was right to worry.
Next, we dug into her past. No speeding or parking tickets on record. No bounced checks. Great credit score. One arrest during a rally in support of embryonic stem-cell research, when protesters marched on the governor of Virginia’s home. Two hundred were charged with trespass and assault, but the charges were dropped. By our standards, squeaky clean.
After my Digital Delights run-in, my partner followed Sandra during the day. Mostly she volunteered. Did a lot for the Leukemia Society and sat on the boards of two hospitals. Liked kids and animals. Helped the elderly across the street.
I spent my evenings in Friendship Heights watching Sandra and her kids. A boy and a girl. Cute.
On Friday night, she dropped off the kids with friends, then returned home. The Montebellas lived in one of those new lot-line houses—rebuilds that go from one edge of the postage-stamp-sized property to the other and are an arm’s length from their neighbors’ lot-line homes.
You’d think watching someone in this area would be tough, but the neighbors don’t notice much. Unless you’re driving the wrong car. Slick Danny taught me that. So, I’d borrowed my uncle’s Lexus SUV to fit in. I hunkered down in my seat, getting comfortable, binoculars slung around my neck.
Sandra didn’t close the curtains in the living room, making my job a lot easier. Like she was being considerate. She’d changed into an oversized Hoyas sweatshirt and navy track pants, put her pretty blond hair in a ponytail. Grabbing popcorn, she curled up on the couch and watched some tearjerker of a movie, ’cause she cried and cried. Wished I could have seen it. I liked those kind of movies.
Our surveillance continued through the weekend. When Montebella came to our Rockville offices at 9:23 A.M. this morning, we told him what we knew. He wasn’t happy, but he paid his bill. Thought that was the last I’d see of him.
* * * *
3 weeks, 1 day later—Tuesday, 1:59 P.M.
I was riding the Red Line to Shady Grove to meet Slick Danny and tail a new subject. I was reading the Post and what do I see? A grainy picture of Sandra Montebella in handcuffs. Charged with murder. Killed her husband? Nope, he stood in the background covering his face from the camera. The headline read:
SUSPECT ARRESTED IN
GEORGETOWN MURDER
Seems they found Sandra’s blood on the body of a young secretary who worked down at the Department of Labor. Leslie Galt, 29, was smothered with a pillow in her townhome. No signs of a break-in. A quote from her fiancé said, “I don’t know who would do this to Leslie. She had no enemies.” A small picture of the victim showed a big (my mom would say large-boned) brunette with a doughy smile.
As I said, I’m no good at reading people, but I understand facts. If the police identified Sandra’s blood, it meant they had her DNA on file. DNA, now that’s a big fact. Hard to argue against. Except the murder had taken place on the Friday evening I watched Sandra cry through her movie. That’s another fact. I had my eyes on her the whole time. I don’t want to say my eyes are better than DNA, but I knew she didn’t commit that crime.
Slick Danny picked me up at the Metro station, and I showed him the article. “We gotta tell the police,” I said.
“Hold up there, Michael, we haven’t checked with our client. Can’t call in without him knowing. Just common decency.”
* * * *
Tuesday, 4:16 P.M.
Back at the office, Slick Danny did the talking. He leaned against our large filing cabinet, while I worked on clearing a paper jam from the printer.
“Yessir, that’s what I’m sayin’. We can alibi your wife. Hold off? Uh huh, I hear you, yessir. A bonus would be mighty nice. I’ll come by your office later today. No, no problem. My partner will understand. Good doin’ business with you.” Slick Danny hung up the phone. “Montebella doesn’t want us calling this in, Michael. See what I’m saying?”
I didn’t. “We gotta tell the police.” I rocked the jammed paper back and forth, trying to inch it out from the printer’s wheels. The smell of the hot toner cartridge made me a little light-headed.
“We don’t have to do anything.” He opened his mouth to say something more, closed it, then began again. “Don’t get me wrong. Mr. Montebella wants us to tell the police—”
“Then let’s call—”
Slick Danny held up a hand. “Don’t think we should, Michael. DNA’s strong evidence, and what do we have? Just your word. No pictures, no video. Nothin’ to prove nothin’. Now you see what I’m sayin’?”
“Evidence. Gotta get more evidence.” I pulled the paper from the printer with a flourish.
Slick Danny’s jaw worked, but no words came out.
“You could help,” I said. “Check if Montebella really went out of town to some conference. What kind of conference goes for ten days, anyway? Could be he planted her DNA. They’re getting divorced, right? And you said he’s had other girlfriends. Maybe that secretary was one of ’em.”
Slick Danny fiddled with a button on his dress shirt, adjusted the gold watch on his wrist. “Michael, don’t go off half cocked and call the cops, okay? ’Specially that hellcat cousin of yours. If Mrs. Montebella didn’t do it, she’ll get off. Let the system take care of her.”
I patted him on the back. “Evidence. That’s what we need.”
“Yeah, evidence.” He smiled, only for some reason he didn’t look happy.
* * * *
Wednesday between 8:56 A.M. and 1:01 P.M.
The next morning, I called my cousin Jules Reese and asked her to meet me at noon in the Starbucks down the road from the Second District station. Jules is a uniform at 2D. She’s been hoping to go plainclothes, but it’s a tough road. Jules is what my mom calls well-endowed. Mom says when Jules walks in a room all the air seems to get sucked out. Men pull at their collars and stammer. Same thing happens to her boss. Seems being well-endowed has its disadvantages when trying for a promotion. To me, she’s just the little cousin
