The Thousand - Kevin Guilfoile [16]
CNN had a deep pool of legal pundits, but when a celebrity got in serious trouble, especially the kind of trouble that left a body behind, they always summoned Reggie Vallentine to the studio for a comment. Since the Gold trial, Reggie had been a crossword answer, a Jeopardy question, and there had even been a recurring character on a Saturday-night comedy show named Ronnie Sweetheart, a sophisticated black lawyer with a bum arm and a charming smile who represented despicable but famous clients.
“Anyway, I called because I got some news,” Bobby said, piercing the lid of his Styrofoam cup with a straw.
“What’s that?”
Kloska locked eyes with him. “One of the guns used to shoot your client was used in another homicide last week.”
“What client?”
Kloska bounced his chin against his chest. “You’ve had more than one?”
Reggie set down his sandwich and lifted a paper napkin to his lip to collect a bit of sauce along with—Was it sweat that now appeared there? “I thought you already had the gun that killed Solomon in evidence. Did you lose it?”
“That gun is the gun that shot you in the shoulder and him in the leg, and it’s still there. But over by Harrison, they got a fifty-six-year-old female corpse, and buried inside that meat the ME found a bullet that looks like it blew out the barrel of the same gun Michael Liu used to shoot Solomon Gold between the eyes. Crazy, huh? Victim is known to friends, colleagues, and loved ones as Marlena Falcone. Name mean anything to you?”
Reggie shook his head.
“Marlena Falcone. Neurosurgeon. Pioneer in deep brain stimulation. Those electrodes they put in your skull when you want to quit smoking or overeating or control your seizures or whatever. Had her medical license stripped after a bunch of her patients went psycho following her treatment. Seems she jumped ahead of the FDA in implanting some of these brain things. Obituary in The New York Times and everything.”
“Of course. I remember now.”
“What hasn’t been all over the news yet is that this doctor and your client knew each other.”
“What are you talking about?”
“This procedure that got her in trouble? These implants? Apparently, she gave one to Gold’s daughter. You remember anything like that?”
Reggie commenced a slow, slight nodding of his head. “I do. Canada was actually still in the hospital the night we were shot.”
Kloska noticed the passive construction: “the night we were shot.” “See, there’s one enduring mystery about Solomon Gold’s murder. Our shithead, Michael Liu, used two different kinds of ammo. He shot you in the arm with a .357 Magnum. He also shot Gold in the leg with a .357 Mag. But the kill shot, the one to Solomon’s face, that bullet was a .38 Special. A day later, we find Liu with the back of his head blown out and a .357 revolver in his hand. Quick ballistics test matches that gun to the .357 slugs at the crime scene. And since our witness”—he rolled his hand in a royal wave—“the esteemed Reggie Vallentine, mentioned only the one gun, we figured Liu had picked up a handful of cartridges and mixed some .38s in with the .357s.”
“Because you can fire .38 Special ammunition in a .357 revolver,” Reggie said.
“Right. Not the other way around, though.”
Reggie started to say something, then stopped.
“We never tested the .38 slug that killed Solomon against the gun we had because the suspect was dead, the case was closed, and ballistics was six weeks fucked on active cases already.”
“But you compared the bullet you recovered from this new body.”
“Oh yeah. We definitely had two guns at Solomon Gold’s murder. Funny you didn’t mention that.”
“I guess I didn’t notice.”
“Michael Liu comes at you with a gun in each fist like in a goddamn John Woo