Sleight of Hand

CHAPTER Twenty-Eight

Christopher Rauh’s hamlike hands were clenched, his massive body leaned threateningly toward Stephanie Robb, and his face was beet red.

“Are you out of your f*cking mind?” the man in charge of the Lee County Homicide Division asked, his voice only a few decibels below a scream.

“He killed her,” Stephanie Robb answered defiantly.

“Do you have any idea how powerful Horace Blair is? I’ve had Ray Mancuso on my ass all morning,” he said, naming the commonwealth attorney, “and he’s had the mayor on his ass, and the governor has been screaming at the mayor.”

“Powerful people don’t get a pass in America, Chris,” Robb argued. “You kill someone, you go down. Virginia isn’t a banana republic.”

Rick Hamada laughed. He was short and chubby and his sweater vest and slicked-down black hair made him look like a nerd, but in court, Lee County’s chief criminal deputy was Attila the Hun.

“Blair’s buddies live in the White House, Steph,” Hamada said. “He has Supreme Court justices over to his house for brunch. He’s a multi-f*cking-millionaire who contributes to every influential politician in this state. For guys with Blair’s influence, Virginia is a banana republic.”

“We can nail him,” Robb insisted.

“Not on what you’ve given me,” Hamada said. “There’s an old saying about not missing when you aim at a king. If you arrest Horace Blair for murder and the case blows up, you’re going to be spending the rest of your law-enforcement career in animal control.”

“It’s her blood and her hair,” Robb said. “Read the lab report. We have witnesses who will testify that the Blairs had a heated argument at the Theodore Roosevelt hotel a week before she disappeared. And don’t forget the gun.”

“Which you can’t connect to a murder because you don’t even know if Carrie Blair is dead,” the assistant commonwealth attorney reminded Robb.

“You should never have made Blair spend a minute in jail,” Rauh snapped. “You knew Benedict would get him out on bail.”

“The gun gave us a legit basis for arresting Blair,” Santoro said calmly, in hopes of lowering the temperature in the room.

“Were Blair’s prints found on the gun?” Hamada asked.

“No,” Santoro answered, “but neither were anyone else’s. It was wiped clean.”

“This could turn into a major cluster f*ck,” Rauh fumed. “But it won’t, because we are going to dismiss this stupid gun charge. Then you are going to stay away from Horace Blair unless I tell you otherwise.”

“So we’re off the case?” Robb asked, making no attempt to hide her anger.

“No. You’re on the case. But you will not—I repeat, will not—contact Horace Blair or anyone who knows him until you have cleared it with me. Is that understood?”



“That was pleasant,” Frank said as the detectives walked back to their desks.

“A*shole motherf*ckers,” Robb muttered.

“They did make a few good points,” Frank said.

Before Robb could reply, the intercom on Santoro’s desk buzzed.

“Detective Santoro, there’s an Arthur Jefferson out here,” the receptionist said. “He wants to speak to you about the Blair case.”

Robb started to say that they didn’t have time, but Santoro held up his hand.

“Okay, send him in.”

“Jefferson is a bottom feeder,” Robb said as soon as Santoro let up on the button. “He barely makes a living off of court appointments and traffic cases. What could he possibly know about the Blairs?”

“Hey, we can use all the help we can get. And the tip about the Bentley panned out.”

Arthur Jefferson was a skinny, light-complexioned black man with a wide smile and outsized gestures. He talked too loud, he swung his arms to emphasize his points, and he was quick to bend the truth. He also looked like he wasn’t doing too well. His dark blue suit was shiny from wear, the collar of his white shirt was frayed, and his shoes were scuffed.

“How y’all doin’?” Jefferson asked when he drew in sight of the detectives.

“We’re doing good,” Frank answered. “How about you?”

“Can’t complain, can’t complain.”

“So, Arthur,” Robb began impatiently, “what brings you here?”

Jefferson grinned. “I am here to make your day. Yes, ma’am, I am here to make you one happy detective.”

“And how are you going to do that?” Santoro asked.

“Y’all been lookin’ for Carrie Blair, have you not?”

“We have.”

“A client of mine can help you find her.”

“Who is this client?”

Jefferson threw his hands out at his side. “Not so fast. We got to come to an agreement first.”

“Keep talking,” Santoro said.

“My client fell in with a bad crowd, yes sir, a bad crowd.” The lawyer shook his head slowly to show how bewildered he was that one so good could have made such a tragic mistake. “Now he’s facing some jail time. If he helps you out, we’d like you to make things right for him.”

“And how exactly is he going to help us?” Santoro asked.

“He’s gonna tell you where Carrie Blair is buried.”