A Matter of Life and Death by Phillip Margolin (ereader with dictionary TXT) 📕

“I was sitting in the front seat of the car, and he was a few houses from us, but he was definitely black, and he seemed to be average height.”

Carasco closed his eyes and tilted forward, deep in thought. When he opened his eyes, he looked triumphant.

“He had a scar! It was on his cheek. His right cheek.”

“You could see this from that far away?”

“Ian had his high beams on. It was like he was standing in a spotlight on a stage. I’m sure of the scar.”

“How was he dressed?”

“He was wearing a black rain jacket with a hood.”

“I assume that the hood was up because of the rain.”

“Yes.”

“And you could still see the scar?”

“When we turned into my street, he turned and stared at our car. The hood slipped back.”

“Okay. This is very useful,” Roger assured the judge. “Can you think of anything else that might help?”

Carasco thought for a moment before shaking his head.

“There are going to be people in and out of the house all night. Do you have someplace you can stay?”

“I’ll make a reservation at a hotel near the courthouse.”

“That’s good. Maybe Ian can drive you. Pack up your stuff, and I’ll see if Carrie is through talking to him.”

Roger put his notebook away and walked to Carasco’s kitchen, which seemed to be as big as Roger’s house. It was a large, open area dominated by a granite island. Roger spotted two dishwashers, two sinks, and a massive refrigerator-freezer. Carrie was talking to Hennessey at a rustic wooden table in a breakfast nook. She looked at her partner when he walked in.

“You finished with the judge?” she asked.

Roger nodded.

“We’re pretty much done here.” She turned to the prosecutor. “Is there anything you want to add, Ian?”

“No. Not now. If I think of anything else, I’ll call you.”

“Do that,” Carrie said as she passed Hennessey her card.

“The judge is going to stay at a hotel until we’re finished with the house,” Roger said. “Can you give him a lift?”

“Sure. No problem.”

“He’s packing. Why don’t you wait for him in the entryway?”

Hennessey looked shaky when he stood up.

“Is he okay?” Roger asked Carrie when Hennessey was out of earshot.

“He got a good look at Mrs. Carasco, and it really got to him.”

“Did he say anything useful?” Roger asked.

“The guy he saw leaving the house was black, medium height, and medium build, which fits a lot of the African American males in Portland.”

“Did he mention the scar?” Roger asked.

“He didn’t say anything about a scar.”

“The judge is certain the man he saw had a scar on his right cheek.”

Carrie frowned. “Ian said that it was raining hard when they turned into Carasco’s street. The wipers were going, and they were a few houses away from the man when they saw him. In other words, the visibility was shit.”

Roger shrugged. “Carasco says he saw the scar. He said Ian had his high beams on and the guy’s hood fell back.”

“That’s definitely going to help, if we have a suspect.”

“This looks like a robbery gone bad. If we’re lucky, the perp was stupid and we’ll get some juicy latents,” Roger said.

“From your lips to God’s ears.”

Roger smiled.

“Did Ian mention a phone call around seven or so from the wife to the judge, while they were eating?” he asked.

“He did. I checked when he told me. They bagged the victim’s cell phone. There was a call to the judge’s cell phone at seven thirteen.”

“I guess we can cross Carasco off our list of suspects.”

“Yeah,” Carrie agreed. “The husband’s usually the first person I look at when a wife is the victim, but Carasco was in the courthouse until six or so and with Ian the rest of the evening, so he’s got a solid alibi.”

“Let’s check with Sally and the lab techs,” Roger said.

Dr. Grace was leaving when Carrie and Roger returned to the entryway. She told them that she’d found nothing to contradict her initial impression that Betsy Carasco had died from blunt force trauma and that she would call if the autopsy turned up something else.

Ian Hennessey and Judge Carasco were preparing to leave while the detectives were talking to the medical examiner. Carrie talked to them briefly, then the two of them left the crime scene and made their way to Hennessey’s car. When he saw the judge and the prosecutor leave, the head of the team from the crime lab walked over. He told the detectives that they had found some muddy sneaker prints in the hall and many latents in the living room, which was to be expected. He agreed to call when they had been analyzed.

The rain had stopped when the detectives walked out of Carasco’s house. Roger looked at the horizon. The sun was rising behind Mount Hood, spraying the sky with vibrant reds and yellows. That lifted his spirits, and they rose higher when a policewoman ran over to them and told them about a call from headquarters.

“Detective Hammond at Homicide received an anonymous tip about the murder,” the officer told them. “The caller said a guy named Joseph Lattimore did it during a robbery.” The policewoman showed Carrie a mugshot that had been scanned to her. “The caller said that Lattimore is staying at the Riverview Motel on Division.”

Roger frowned. This was very convenient, but then again, a lot of crimes were solved by anonymous tips.

“He’s got a scar on his right cheek,” Carrie said.

Roger sighed. “I was counting on solving this case through brilliant detective work.”

Carrie smiled. “Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth. Let’s get some backup and head to the motel.”

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Joe staggered through the woods with no idea where he was going. Tree limbs raked his face, and tree roots tripped him. When he fell, mud caked his legs and soaked his pants.

In the beginning of his flight from the crime scene, adrenaline kept Joe moving, but it wore off after a while, and all he felt was despair. Maria and the