that he was, he appeared to sense the tension and adopted a more serious, professional appearance. He introduced himself by name and recited the various specials for the evening.
A moment later, they placed their orders. The man collected their menus and announced he would bring the salads shortly. Madison turned to Chandler. “You said there were a few things that piqued your interest.”
“Your fingerprints aren’t on any of the beer cans. And the prints on the steering wheel are smudged.”
“Probably meaning that the driver was wearing gloves,” Hellman said.
“What else?” Madison asked.
“All the physical evidence proves is that the car was definitely at the crime scene. It doesn’t prove that you were driving it. Am I right?” He was looking at Hellman.
“Yeah, it’s all circumstantial. There’s no direct link. In fact, I wouldn’t be worried, except for the fact that Phil doesn’t have an alibi, and there’s no evidence pointing to any other suspect. Phil’s easy prey.”
“Let’s look at this from another angle,” Chandler said. “Who else could’ve done this? I mean, it’s not like some punk ran down a couple of people and fled the scene. This person broke into your garage, stole your car, drove it into the worst neighborhood in town, and then returned the car to your garage. He left a six-pack of empty beer cans in the backseat, and wore gloves. This isn’t the work of a common criminal or car-theft punk. This was a calculated plot designed to frame you, Phil. We need to start approaching this from a different perspective. Agreed?”
Hellman nodded, eyebrows straining skyward, as if to say,
I’ve got nothing better to offer.
“All right then. Was there anyone who hated you enough to construct an elaborate crime, kill two people, and then pin it on you?”
“Didn’t you tell him?” Hellman asked, looking at Madison.
“I hadn’t gotten to it yet. Your phone call interrupted us.”
Hellman shook his head. “I forgot that you take forever to tell a story.”
“I didn’t want to leave anything out. I thought Ryan should have all the details.”
“Fine,” he said, leaning back as the waiter served the salads. He poured a glass of Pinot Noir for Hellman, placed a Sprite in front of Chandler, and left.
“I take it that you mean Brittany Harding. The witch with a capital
B
,” Chandler said with a smile.
“The one and only.”
Chandler tilted his head and crinkled his brow. “I’m not convinced.”
“Maybe you should finish telling him the story, Phil,” Hellman said. “Then he’ll understand.”
Madison tossed his napkin on the table. “So much for fine dining.”
Madison picked up the story where he had left off: Harding had gone beyond reasonable and professional conduct in telling Chuck Nallin about the disagreement Madison had had with her at the Fifth Street Café. “It wasn’t as if it was an innocent conversation between friends,” Madison told Chandler. “She made a deliberate attempt to strike up a conversation with someone she barely knew, just to spread word of discord between us.”
A couple of weeks passed. After the incident at the gas station, Madison asked John Stevens to keep his ears open and to let him know if any other Harding rumors came his way. Stevens sympathized with Madison and graciously agreed to keep him informed.
Madison’s relationship with Harding was strained, at best. He attempted to minimize contact with her as much as possible, but it was time again to touch base regarding the up-and-coming board meeting. As he was about to call her late in the afternoon after a full day of patients, he retrieved a voicemail from Michael Murphy. The message lacked its usual verve. Although there were more pressing calls regarding patients and the total hip replacement scheduled for tomorrow, Madison phoned Murphy first.
Murphy began by relating a conversation he had had with a prospective client, a twenty-two-year-old mother of a
A moment later, they placed their orders. The man collected their menus and announced he would bring the salads shortly. Madison turned to Chandler. “You said there were a few things that piqued your interest.”
“Your fingerprints aren’t on any of the beer cans. And the prints on the steering wheel are smudged.”
“Probably meaning that the driver was wearing gloves,” Hellman said.
“What else?” Madison asked.
“All the physical evidence proves is that the car was definitely at the crime scene. It doesn’t prove that you were driving it. Am I right?” He was looking at Hellman.
“Yeah, it’s all circumstantial. There’s no direct link. In fact, I wouldn’t be worried, except for the fact that Phil doesn’t have an alibi, and there’s no evidence pointing to any other suspect. Phil’s easy prey.”
“Let’s look at this from another angle,” Chandler said. “Who else could’ve done this? I mean, it’s not like some punk ran down a couple of people and fled the scene. This person broke into your garage, stole your car, drove it into the worst neighborhood in town, and then returned the car to your garage. He left a six-pack of empty beer cans in the backseat, and wore gloves. This isn’t the work of a common criminal or car-theft punk. This was a calculated plot designed to frame you, Phil. We need to start approaching this from a different perspective. Agreed?”
Hellman nodded, eyebrows straining skyward, as if to say,
I’ve got nothing better to offer.
“All right then. Was there anyone who hated you enough to construct an elaborate crime, kill two people, and then pin it on you?”
“Didn’t you tell him?” Hellman asked, looking at Madison.
“I hadn’t gotten to it yet. Your phone call interrupted us.”
Hellman shook his head. “I forgot that you take forever to tell a story.”
“I didn’t want to leave anything out. I thought Ryan should have all the details.”
“Fine,” he said, leaning back as the waiter served the salads. He poured a glass of Pinot Noir for Hellman, placed a Sprite in front of Chandler, and left.
“I take it that you mean Brittany Harding. The witch with a capital
B
,” Chandler said with a smile.
“The one and only.”
Chandler tilted his head and crinkled his brow. “I’m not convinced.”
“Maybe you should finish telling him the story, Phil,” Hellman said. “Then he’ll understand.”
Madison tossed his napkin on the table. “So much for fine dining.”
Madison picked up the story where he had left off: Harding had gone beyond reasonable and professional conduct in telling Chuck Nallin about the disagreement Madison had had with her at the Fifth Street Café. “It wasn’t as if it was an innocent conversation between friends,” Madison told Chandler. “She made a deliberate attempt to strike up a conversation with someone she barely knew, just to spread word of discord between us.”
A couple of weeks passed. After the incident at the gas station, Madison asked John Stevens to keep his ears open and to let him know if any other Harding rumors came his way. Stevens sympathized with Madison and graciously agreed to keep him informed.
Madison’s relationship with Harding was strained, at best. He attempted to minimize contact with her as much as possible, but it was time again to touch base regarding the up-and-coming board meeting. As he was about to call her late in the afternoon after a full day of patients, he retrieved a voicemail from Michael Murphy. The message lacked its usual verve. Although there were more pressing calls regarding patients and the total hip replacement scheduled for tomorrow, Madison phoned Murphy first.
Murphy began by relating a conversation he had had with a prospective client, a twenty-two-year-old mother of a
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