The Last Innocent Man

“Before I blacked out. I know the man’s face.”

“Where are you? I’ll be right over.”

“No. Let me handle this. You get a DA and have a judge on standby to issue a search warrant. I want to be sure.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Follow him. If it’s the car, I’ll know. Then we can search for the clothes. But I want it all legal. I don’t want this one to slip away.”

“PRICE, WINWARD, LEXINGTONand Rice,” the receptionist said in a pleasing singsong.

“I’d like to speak to Larry Stafford.”

“Who shall I say is calling?”

“Stan Reynolds. I was referred to Mr. Stafford by an old friend.”

“Please hold and I’ll see if Mr. Stafford is in.”

There was a click and the line went dead. Ortiz held the receiver to his ear and waited. Thirty seconds later there was another click.

“This is Larry Stafford, Mr. Reynolds. Can I help you?”

“I hope so. I’m in a kind of a bind and I was told you’re the man to see. I run a small construction company. Spec housing. I’m doin’ pretty good now financially, but I’m beginnin’ to have some hassles with my partner, and I need some advice fast.”

“Well…” Stafford said, and Ortiz could hear paper rattling, “I’ve got a spot open tomorrow at…Let’s see. How about three o’clock?”

Ortiz was taking in the voice and trying to size up the man. The voice had strong, confident qualities, but there was a slick gloss to the tones, as if the timbre and pitch were learned, not natural.

“Gee, I was hopin’ I could see you today.”

“I’m afraid I have a pretty full schedule for the rest of the afternoon.”

“I see,” Ortiz said. He paused, as if thinking, then asked, “How late will you be at your office?”

“My last appointment should be over at seven.”

Ortiz paused again.

“Well, I guess I can wait until tomorrow.”

“Good. I’ll see you then.”

They hung up and Ortiz stepped out of the booth. He was across the street from the Standard Plaza. The light changed and he crossed the street. It took him ten minutes to find the beige Mercedes in the underground garage. It was near the fire door toward the rear of the second parking level. He checked the license number against the number Crosby had given him; then he left the building. All he had to do now was wait for seven o’clock.

ABNERROSENTHAL WASa small, dapper man with a large legal reputation. He had made a fortune as a corporate lawyer, then taken an enormous cut in salary to become a circuit-court judge. It was common knowledge that he had passed up several opportunities to be appointed to the state supreme court because he enjoyed being a trial judge. Rosenthal especially liked criminal cases, and he had developed an expertise in the area of search-and-seizure law. The police usually sought him out when they needed a search warrant in a particularly sensitive case.

The doorbell rang just as the judge was finishing dinner. His teenage son started to stand, but Rosenthal waved him down. Monica Powers had called him earlier to alert him that there was a breakthrough in the Darlene Hersch case.

“Sorry to bother you, Judge,” Monica said when the door opened. “Do you know Ron Crosby and Bert Ortiz?”

“I’ve met Detective Crosby before,” the judge said as he led them into his den. “I don’t believe I know Officer Ortiz.”

As soon as they were seated, Monica handed the judge the search warrant and the affidavit Ortiz had sworn to in support of it. The affidavit set out all the information that Ortiz felt supported his belief that Lawrence Dean Stafford had murdered Darlene Hersch and that evidence of that crime could be found in Stafford’s house. The judge looked grim when he finished reading it. He looked at Ortiz long enough to make the policeman feel uncomfortable.

“Are you aware that Larry Stafford was in my courtroom this very day, Officer Ortiz?”

“Yes, sir.”

Rosenthal reread a section of the affidavit.

“I’ve read this, but I want you to tell me. Are you positive that Larry Stafford is the man you saw at the motel?”

Ortiz’s mouth felt dry. Was he positive? Could he have made a mistake? No. He had waited outside Stafford’s office at seven. He had seen Stafford leave the office. He had seen the face of Darlene’s killer.

“Larry Stafford killed Darlene Hersch,” Ortiz answered, but there was a slight quiver in his voice.

“And you, Miss Powers?”

“I don’t like this any more than you do, Judge, but I’ve worked with Officer Ortiz before, and I trust his judgment.”

The judge took a pen out of his pocket.

“I’m going to sign this warrant, but you’d better keep a tight lid on this if you don’t make an arrest. This case is going to be sensational. If you’re wrong,” he said, looking directly at Ortiz, “the publicity alone will be enough to destroy Larry Stafford’s career at a firm like Price, Winward. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, sir,” Ortiz said.

No one spoke when Rosenthal signed the warrant. Monica picked up the documents and they left, Monica for home and Ortiz, Crosby, and a second carload of men for Larry Stafford’s house.