The Case of the Meddling Attorney
Chapter 7
1
Sergeant Ed Brown hurried into Ironside's office. He came down the ramp and headed straight for his boss. "Chief . . . "
Before he could say anything more, Ironside growled, "You're late, Sergeant."
"With good reason, Chief. I got a call from someone who was in the pool hall yesterday. I had to check out what he said."
"Pool hall? Ed, our first priority is to find my aunt before she gets herself in trouble."
"That's just it, Chief. I think she already has," Ed said.
Mark Sanger brought two cups of coffee to the table and set it down in front of the detectives. He sat down to listen to what Ed had to report.
"What are you talking about? What has that to do with Victoria?" Ironside asked his sergeant.
"The man, his name is George Willington, was in the pool hall when an elderly woman showed up. She marched right up to Louis Taggart . . . "
"Taggart?"
"Right, Chief. Willington recognized the woman right away," Ed explained.
"My Aunt Victoria," Ironside surmised.
"Right. Anyway, she gave a phony name and asked him to get her in touch with Roland Hubbard."
Ironside groaned. "At least she had enough sense to give a phony name."
"Unfortunately, it didn't do any good. The bartender recognized her. He saw her on television with you. He knew she was your aunt. Victoria told Taggart that Roland Hubbard owed her money and she just wanted to collect it from him. He believes Taggart told Victoria where to find Hubbard."
"What do you mean believes? Did he tell her or not?" Ironside demanded.
"He didn't know. One of the waitresses was serving the bartender fries and a hamburger. She was talking to him, so he missed what Taggart said.
"What time does that pool hall open?" Ironside said.
"They aren't just a pool hall, Chief. They serve food and booze. They open for breakfast at 10:00."
"Mark, let's go." Ironside headed for the ramp.
"Chief, you aren't going in there by yourself, are you?" Ed asked. "Maybe I should go with you." Ed hated saying that. He knew his boss was a proud man, and he didn't like to, as he put it, be mothered. Still, Brown didn't like the idea of the chief going into the pool hall where Louis Taggart and his ilk would be. Mark wasn't a cop. He didn't carry a gun. Although Ed knew Mark would do everything he could to protect the chief, some of those thugs could be carrying guns. Mark was no match for a loaded fire arm.
Ironside looked back at Brown. "Why? Don't you think I can take care of myself?" Ironside asked.
Sergeant Brown walked over to the desk and pulled out the chief's service revolver. "Humor me, Chief. Take this with you. You are always telling us a police officer carries his weapon while on duty." Ironside wheeled his chair back to Brown and took the gun from his hand. Brown looked at Mark, who understood what he was trying to convey.
"Chief, I got a major test coming up. I need to study for it. Can't Ed go with you this one time?"
Ironside was aware what the two of them were doing. Rather than argue with them or issue an order to prove a point, he said, "Well, come on if you are coming, Sergeant." As he headed for the ramp, Ed Brown ran to catch up with him.
2
Malcolm Atkins looked out between the bars of his jail cell. He was scared. They were going to charge him with murder within 72 hours. Malcolm didn't kill anyone. How he wished he had never entered that house. Admittedly, he was a drunken homeless man. Not all of it was his fault. Society wouldn't help him in anyway. Malcolm was a Viet Nam veteran. He did horrible things over there under orders. Not a night went by when he didn't have nightmares. Every single one of his buddies who were blown to bits in front of him came back to him over and over in his dreams.
Malcolm didn't know what he was going to do. He couldn't afford an attorney. He had no money. Court appointed attorneys were useless from what he heard. They didn't make any money, so they just didn't care if he was convicted of a crime he didn't commit, and he didn't kill Becky Morris.
They said his fingerprints were found on the barrel of the gun. It simply wasn't true. He had never touched that gun, at least not that he remembered. Why would he? He only went in to see if he could find a bit of cash or something he could sell. After all, a man had to eat, didn't he? It was bad enough that he didn't have a place to live. He slept in homeless shelters, on the streets and in abandon buildings. Malcolm even slept on skid row when he had to.
He wasn't a violent man. It was one of the reasons he found it extremely difficult to shoot and kill the enemy in Viet Nam. There he had no choice. It was kill or be killed, and he was determined to return home to his wife. His wife – what a gem she turned out to be. The bitch had affairs with two men while he was away fighting for his country. She divorced him for the second one. And here he had carried her picture in his wallet the entire time he was in Nam. She couldn't keep from screwing around while he was gone. How did she think he felt? It didn't matter to her that he was risking his life for his country. That meant nothing to her.
He returned home only to be served with divorce papers. Malcolm fell apart. The only thing that kept him going while he was in Nam was knowing his wife was waiting for him to come home, or so he thought.
He couldn't get the horror of war out of his mind. It affected him so badly that he began drinking. He couldn't find a job, and with no money, he couldn't afford a place to live. All attempts at getting help failed.
Still, none of that was as bad as what he was facing now. Murder! He would never have dreamed he would ever be accused of murder. Ironic! He could kill in Viet Nam and it was considered his duty. He didn't kill in Atlanta and he was accused of murder! Where was the justice?
"Atkins!"
Malcolm turned around to see the officer in charge of the jail. "Yeah."
"Your attorney is here to see you." The police officer unlocked the cell and indicated for Atkins to follow him.
He wondered who the hell the attorney was. He hadn't asked for a court appointed attorney. Malcolm couldn't even think straight since he was arrested for murder. Nevertheless, he followed the police officer into an interrogation room. When he arrived, he couldn't believe his eyes. It was Ben Matlock! One of the best attorneys in the country. But, why was he here? Atkins heard he charged $100,000.00 up front. He didn't have that kind of money. Hell, he didn't have any money at all, so what was Matlock doing here?
"Sit down, Mister Atkins. I want to talk to you," Matlock said.
Malcolm looked at the attorney. This was the man who had become legendary in Georgia for the cases he won that allowed him to charge such outrageous fees? He was white-haired, old and wearing a rumpled suit. He certainly didn't look the part of a successful attorney. "I am sorry, Mister Matlock, but I don't have the money to hire you. There must be some mistake."
Matlock sat down in the chair on the opposite side of the table. "There isn't any mistake. I am here to talk to you, not as your attorney, but I do believe I can help you."
His shoulder slumped. He should have guessed Matlock wouldn't defend him, but if he wasn't here to defend him, then why was he here in the first place? "I don't understand. If you are not here to take my case, how can you help me?"
"I don't believe for one second that you killed Becky Morris. Baron Stover killed her."
"But you defended him, and he was found not guilty," Atkins said.
"I have reason to believe he actually did murder Miss Morris."
"Then why don't you tell the police that so I can get out of here?" Atkins asked.
"I can't prove it yet, that is why I am here. I think you might be able to help me. If you help me, I can help get this charge against you dropped."
Given some hope he would not go to trial for a murder he didn't commit, Malcolm assured the lawyer, "I'll help in any way I can. What did you want to know, Mister Matlock?"
Ben sighed. "Why did you go into that house?"
Hanging his head, he admitted, "I needed money. I was hoping there might be money laying around, or maybe something I could sell for cash."
"They are saying she caught you in the act of stealing, that you grabbed the gun by the barrel and removed it from her hand, that you then strangled her to death."
"It's not true. She was dead when I went in the house, or at least I thought she was. She wasn't moving."
Ben squinted his eyes and nodded. "Did you touch the gun?"
"No sir. I served in Nam. I know better than to do that."
"Did you see anyone leave the house just before you entered?"
"Yep. A man left the house in rather a hurry."
Ben pulled a picture out of his suit coat pocket and handed it to Atkins. "Is this the man you saw?"
Malcolm studied the picture before saying, "It could be. The man in this picture is about the right height and build, but I didn't see his face." He handed the picture back to the lawyer.
Disappointed Atkins was unable to clearly identify Baron Stover, Matlock put the picture back in his pocket. "Did you touch anything when you went into the house?"
"Oh yes, plenty of things. I was looking for money. Will you take my case, Mister Matlock? I know you charge a lot, which I don't have, but . . . well . . ."
"I'll make sure you have a good attorney, and I promise you I will do everything I can to prove you didn't commit this murder."
The disappointment of not being able to have Matlock as his attorney showed on Atkins' face. "Thanks for that at least."
Ben nodded, shook Atkins' hand and left the jail. Sergeant Boyd MacDonald said there were no other fingerprints on the gun other than Baron Stover's. If that were true, than Officer Sean Rockwell somehow added Atkins' prints on the barrel of the gun. The ones on the doorknob would be understandable, and if Atkins looked around the house, those also would be genuine. Rockwell must have altered the police reports, it was the only explanation. Ben just didn't know how he was going to prove it. He couldn't let Stover get away with framing an innocent man.
3
Conrad McMasters entered the office of Benjamin Matlock. He immediately went into Leanne's office. She looked up when she saw him enter. "What are you doing here? I thought you were going to follow Ben to see what he was up to."
"I was . . . I did. Unfortunately, Ben knows how to lose a tail. He timed the light just right. I couldn't even take a chance and run the red light; there was just too much traffic," Conrad explained. "By the time, I got through the light, he was long gone. I couldn't find him anywhere."
"Conrad, he probably went to see Stover. Didn't you go over to his house?"
"Mansion is more of a description of that place. Of course, I did. Again, by the time I got his address and found the place, Ben was nowhere in sight if he had been there. From there, I don't know where he went." McMasters sat down heavily in the chair in front of Leanne's desk.
"What are we going to do? If Ben is right about Stover murdering Becky Morris, then he could be putting himself in danger. Ben's a great lawyer, but he is no spring chicken. Not a match for Stover, that's for sure."
"You think I don't know that?" McMasters snapped. "He is not exactly a run-of-the-mill perp. He was never going to be easy to follow. Ben's too smart for that. He can spot a tail a mile away, and he knows how to lose one as well."
"We have to find him," Leanne said. "I'm worried about him."
"So am I, Leanne. I just don't know how we can keep a tail on him even if we can find him."
She tapped her pen on the desk while thinking. "Do you suppose it would do any good for you to go see Stover?"
"He's not going to tell us the truth, Leanne," Conrad said.
"No, but he'll probably tell us if Ben went there after you lost him."
"All right, I'll go see Stover and find out if Ben was there. After that, I don't know where to look for him. Atlanta is a big city."
"Come on, Conrad. You're a detective. Find him," she goated.
McMasters gave her a look and left the law office. "Find him, she says," he complained, talking to himself. "Ben knows all the tricks. He is not as easy to find as she thinks."
4
Perry Mason and Paul Drake pulled up in front of Pascal Bouvier's home. Mason needed to find out, once and for all, if Bouvier was lying to him. If he was, he would either plead the case or drop it altogether. The lawyer didn't like being lied to. How many times did he tell a client there was nothing worse they could do than lie to him? Yet, time and again, his clients did it all the time. If they didn't lied, they left out important information that wouldn't have been as devastating if he'd known about it from the start. Perry always told them to tell him everything no matter how bad it was. Quite often his clients were trying to protect someone; a son, a daughter or a spouse. It wasn't the case this particular time. Bouvier didn't have anyone to protect . . . except himself. Perry had the sinking feeling it was exactly the case.
They walked up to the Pascal's home. Paul stopped and looked at his long-time friend and employer. "Please tell me you are not planning on breaking and entering the house."
Mason grinned. "Not exactly breaking and entering. After all, he is my client." Paul groaned as Mason tried the front door. It was locked just as he expected to find it.
"Now what?" Drake said.
"We find a window we can open," Mason said.
"Perry . . . "
"Relax, Paul. Bouvier told me to do anything and everything to clear him. Finding a way into his home falls under that, don't you think?" Mason left Paul and headed around to the back of the house. Shaking his head, Drake followed him.
"One of these days, Perry, you are going to get both of us in hot water," Drake complained. "Why didn't you just get a key from Bouvier?"
"Because I don't think he is telling me the truth. I am not going into court suspecting he is guilty of the murder. I have to know. I will not give a murderer a Get out of jail card. If he is guilty of killing his wife, he is going to jail. I'll plea bargain it, but I won't work to turn him loose."
Drake stopped Mason's forward motion by taking hold of his arm. "Wait a minute, aren't you supposed to defend your client whether he did it or not? Most attorneys wouldn't care whether he was guilty or not."
"I am not most attorneys. I care about justice. I'll move mountains to defend a client I believe is innocent, but if he did the crime, he has to go to jail. I'll get a lesser sentence by plea bargaining with Hamilton, but I won't help anyone get away with murder. That goes against everything I believe in."
"And if he is guilty and won't let you plea bargain?" Drake asked.
"Then he can find himself a new lawyer," Mason said as he tried the window they were standing next to. "If he was expecting me to help him get away with murder, he came to the wrong attorney."
Drake smiled. One of the things he liked about Perry was he would do whatever he had to to clear his client. But unlike many attorneys who, even if a client admitted to their lawyer that they did murder the victim, the lawyer would still do everything they could to get them out of the murder charge. Not Perry, as he said, he would plea bargain to a lesser sentence, but there wasn't any way he would get them off from the murder. Perry always said he would not be able to look the families of the victims in the eye, and that was unacceptable to him. The families deserve to see the murderer of their loved ones pay for what they did. So, Drake knew if they came up with evidence proving Pascale Bouvier guilty, Perry was not going to plead him innocent no matter how much the client offered him. He had principles and stood by them.
"Look here, Paul," Mason said with a grin, pointing at a window in the back of the house."
Drake groaned again. Perry always seemed to be able to locate an open window or an unlocked door. And, he knew what that meant . . . they were going in.
"Give me a hand," Mason said. The window had a lock on it from the inside, but the latch was not turned into the lock position.
Both men placed their hands at the top of the window and pushed upward. Although the window was stiff, they managed to get it open without much trouble. Mason pointed at the now open window. "After you."
As Drake was crawling into the window, he grumbled, "Remind me to ask for a separate cell from you when we get arrested."
Mason chuckled and crawled into the window behind his friend and detective. They realized immediately, they entered the master bedroom in the house. Paul pulled two pairs of surgical gloves out of his suit coat. He handed one to Mason. "Here, take these. Let's not make it easy for Tragg to arrest us."
"Tragg would not be the one arresting us; he works homicide. It would be someone from burglary," Mason corrected him taking the gloves from Drake.
"I'm betting he would make an exception just so he could flash that smirk at both of us. So, what the devil are we looking for, Perry?"
Mason grinned. "The hang if I know. Let's just see what we can see."
"See what we can see, huh. I see a bailing out of jail in our future for breaking and entering."
"We didn't break in. The window wasn't locked. So it's just entering," Mason quipped.
"Somehow, I don't think a court would agree with you." Drake moved away from Mason and began searching the room.
"I'll take a look at another room," Mason said and left the bedroom. Entering the hall, he was surprised to find the carpet was a plush white. The light fixtures in the hallway were expensive. The walls had paintings down the entire hall about three feet apart. Mason studied the one directly in front of him. It was signed by a very well-known artist from the Los Angeles area. He had attended one of his showings just recently with Della, who loved to go to art shows.
Mason was well aware what it cost to purchase one of his paintings. He and Della had taken a fancy to one of the artist's paintings, but when Della saw the price of it, she balked at letting Perry purchase it for her. Although, he would deny her nothing, she just felt she couldn't justify allowing Perry to pay that much for the painting. After all, the artist was well-known in the Los Angeles area, but no where else. Perry had tried to argue that the painter was up and coming; that the painting would be worth a lot of money in the future. Della, being the practical one, said it wasn't worth it now and it was not worth it to have it at the sky-high price the artist was charging. So, the couple passed it up.
Mason checked the paintings down the hall. Most of the artists, he recognized; a few he didn't. Mason knew just enough about art to know Pascale Bouvier had some pretty expensive paintings on the walls, and this was only the hallway!
Peeking into the room that was across the hall where Drake was not searching, Mason could see a desk. Bouvier was proving to be a neat freak as Della would call him. There wasn't one thing out of place on that desk. It had the usual pen sitting in a holder, a digital calendar, and a pad that covered a good portion of the top of the desk. Mason walked over and started opening drawers. He found unpaid bills, laundry tickets, pens, pencils, and stationery, but not much else of interest.
Looking down he saw the bottom left hand drawer was the largest of all the desk drawers and it was locked. Mason called out, " Paul, come here. After Drake entered the room, Mason said, "Can you pick a lock?"
"Come on, Perry. Are you trying to land us in jail?" Paul moaned.
Mason just grinned. "Stop worrying. I'm a very good lawyer."
Drake shook his head. "One of these days we are both going to get arrested."
"Well, until that day, pick this lock."
Paul walked over to the desk and examined the lock. "A child could pick this. Do you have a credit card on you?"
"Yes. I thought of that, but I don't think that will work. What about a fingernail file?" Mason asked.
Drake reached into his pocket and pulled out the file. Squatting down, he placed it between the drawer and the desk where the lock was located.
"Don't scratch the desk," Mason said.
Without looking up at Mason, Drake rolled his eyes. "Do you think I'm an amateur?" Drake went back to working the lock and soon had the drawer open. "Now what?"
"We take a look at what's in here. Mason started pulling files out of the drawer and examining their contents. After a few minutes, he came upon set of bank records. "Uh oh, Mister Bouvier has an overseas bank account and it has a lot of money in it. Paul, in what you have learn so far, is there any way he could have four million dollars?"
"What?" Drake said in surprise. "He supposedly isn't even working. Where would he get all that money? He's got more than you do."
Perry looked up with a smile on his face. "No, he doesn't."
"I am going to have to start charging you more. Is there any indication where he got the money?" Drake asked.
"No, just bank statements." Mason handed the papers to Drake. "Start taking pictures of these. I want to have the goods on him when I confront him."
"Perry, how are you going to explain how you got these?"
"That's easy. Bouvier won't suspect that I have been in his house and located these. I am going to have him sign a statement giving me access to his bank accounts and his business activities."
"Now just why would he do that?"
"He knows if he doesn't, he'll make me suspicious of what he is hiding. Besides, Paul, he won't suspect I know about the overseas account. He won't have any reason to think that I would check into it either. He'll give me the authorization. When he does, we will get court orders to get the actual documents."
"All right, can we get out of here now before Tragg shows up and arrests us?" Paul asked.
"Just a minute, I want to check out more of these files."
Paul groaned for the third time. "Perry, isn't what you discovered enough?"
"No. If he lied to me about his finances, he could have lied to me about something else," Mason said.
"Like what?"
Mason looked up from the paperwork he was inspecting and with a somber look on his face, said, "Like this."
"What is it?"
"Bouvier has been smuggling drugs into the country. Do any of the names listed in these records mean anything to you?"
Drake ran his eyes down the paper and whistled. "He's been dealing with some pretty shady characters. All of these men are suspected drug dealers. Perry, he's been bringing in drugs from all over the world."
"I can see that, Paul, which opens lots of possibilities. Maybe his wife found out about his side occupation and threatened to go to the police."
"And he killed her to keep her quiet. Maybe it had nothing to do with the real estate agent she was sleeping with," Drake surmised.
Mason's eyes widen. "Take a look at this."
Drake looked over Mason's shoulder. "Perry, this is proof he killed his wife!"
"His first wife, Paul. The letter states he is to pay one million dollars or the video of him killing his wife would be turned over to the police."
"What difference does it make? He's a murderer. You never defend murderers, only plea bargain them. You can't possibly go on with defending this guy," Drake said.
"No, I can't, but I want to be armed with facts when I confront him. Why would he keep the blackmail note in the first place? He was taking a chance of his wife finding it."
"Maybe he kept it as a trophy. Who knows? This guy got away with murder in France, and now by hiring you, he thinks he is going to get away with it again. Tragg was right, he's guilty. He did kill his wife."
"We don't have proof of that . . . yet. It doesn't make sense. Look at this. He filed for divorce against his wife. Both of them filed in separate filings. Then there is a formal letter from him telling his attorney to stop the divorce, that he and his wife have worked things out. He failed to mention any of this to me."
"Perry, my guess is she had money. He found out and decided not to divorce her. If she divorced him, she would likely get the money."
"Not in this state, Paul. It would be divided unless there was a prenuptial agreement."
Drake picked up a paper. "You mean like this?"
Mason took the paper and read. "He wouldn't have received any of the wife's money in a divorce. This agreement was filed in the courts."
"No," Drake said, "but he would have gotten all of it if she was murdered and he was in the clear. It's making more sense why he insisted on seeing you, the defense attorney that never loses."
Mason continued digging through the files. He pulled out another paper. "I was going to ask you to find out if the wife had any money. Well, here's the answer to that." He handed the bank statement to Drake.
After glancing over the paper, Drake looked at Mason. "This is an overseas account with ten million dollars in her name alone. She was hiding money from him."
"Yes, it seems he thinks it is okay for him to hide money from her, but not for her to hide money from him. Okay, Paul, I have what I need. I'll get him to sign a statement giving me authority to get his banking information. The divorces will be a matter of public record."
"But, you won't be able to confront him with the wife's overseas account."
"Oh, I think I will. When I hit him with all the other information, I'll mention the wife's account without any proof. He will just assume I have it because of all the rest of the information. Start taking pictures of all this while I take a look around the rest of the house."
Mason's cellphone rang. He removed it from his pocket and saw it was Della calling him. "Yes, Della."
"Perry, get out of there. Lieutenant Tragg was here looking for you. When he found out you weren't here, he said he was on his way over to Pascale Bouvier's house with a warrant to search it."
"Thanks, Della." Mason terminated the connection. "We better hurry with the pictures. Tragg's on his way here." Instead of putting his phone back in his pocket. Mason began taking pictures.
Paul shook his head. "I told you you were going to get us arrested."
5
Ironside and Brown arrived at the pool hall. Before Ed could even shut the engine off, his boss was on the lift and lowering his chair to the ground. Brown locked the van and ran to catch up with Ironside. Opening the door, he waited until the detective wheeled himself inside of the building.
Louis Taggart looked up from the pool table to see who had just come into the pool hall. He groaned when he saw the wheelchair carrying Ironside inside. "That just makes my day," he grumbled, but realizing it was expected. He ignored Ironside and continued to shoot pool.
As Ironside reached him, he watched Taggart for a minute before his patience wore thin. He didn't know why he expected common courtesy from a common crook. "Mister Taggart!"
Taggart looked up and feigned surprised. "Chief Ironside! What an unexpected displeasure."
"I'll get to the point. My aunt was here. What did she want from you?"
"Your aunt? Why, Chief, I didn't even know you had an aunt," Taggart said sarcastically.
"If you didn't, you knew as soon as you were told who the elderly woman was that came to see you," Ironside growled.
Taggart noticed that Ed Brown had pulled his suit coat back, revealing his service revolver in the holster connected to his belt. "Alright, Chief, relax. I was just messing with you. Your aunt was here."
"What did she want?" Ironside demanded.
"Now, there you go, trying to find out about a conversation that is none of your business. But, I'll tell you what. I'll tell you anyway. Never let it be said that I don't cooperate with the police. She wanted to play pool." The men standing around began laughing.
"Taggart, I don't have time for this. If you don't start talking, I am going to have Sergeant Brown bring you down town as a material witness. I can hold you for 48 hours. How would you like to spend time in jail?"
"Material witness for what. I told you your aunt was here. I don't know anything else. What could you possibly hold me on?"
"How about suspicion of kidnapping. My aunt is missing."
Taggart said nothing for the moment. How he hated this cripple. He was always pushing people around. It was too bad he wasn't in the Tower when it went down after the earthquake. No, the son-of-a-bitch had to survive and let Frank Hunt die there instead. He was nothing but a coward. Big, tough, talking Ironside, who always hid behind a gun and other cops.
"All right. She came in here looking for Roland Hubbard. She wanted me to tell her where to find him," Taggart said.
"And did you?"
"How could I? I don't have a clue where he is. He probably left town. After all, he had to know you would be looking for him."
"Do you take me for a fool, Taggart? Where did you send my aunt?" Ironside snarled.
"I didn't send her anywhere." He looked at the other guys standing around witnessing the exchange.
"Nope, he didn't," one man said, the others nodding in agreement.
Ironside was livid, but he wouldn't show it in front of this bunch of thugs. "Listen Taggart, and listen good, because if Roland Hubbard murders her, I will arrest you as an accessory. You got that?" Ironside demanded.
"I got it, Ironside." The smirk disappeared from Taggart's face.
"Let's get out of here, Ed." Ironside turned his chair around and wheeled toward the door. He wasn't going to get any information out of Louis Taggart. Taking him in would do no good. He could only hold him for 48 hours, and then he would have to turn him loose. He had nothing that would hold up in a court of law and Taggart knew it.
Once back in the van, the phone rang. Ironside picked it up and barked, "Ironside."
"Chief, it's Eve. I have some information on your aunt. She booked a flight. In fact she booked three of them."
"Three of them?" Ironside questioned.
"Yes, one to Houston, one to Los Angeles, and one to Atlanta."
Ironside shook his head. She was trying to keep him from finding out where she went. "Eve, contact the hotels close to the airports in those three cities and find out which city she registered in."
"Already doing that. Mark is checking Los Angeles, I am checking Houston. We'll check Atlanta if we don't come up with anything."
"All right, Eve. Ed and I are on our way in."
"Anything from Taggart?" Eve asked.
"No, he won't cooperate. He only admits she was there. He'll wish to God he never heard of me if anything happens to Victoria."
Eve had no doubt of that.