Move to Strike by Sydney Bauer

eight-sixteen,’ continued Sara. ‘A neighbour saw you turn into your drive.’
    â€˜Well, it might have been . . .’
    â€˜But Stephanie was shot at eight-twenty,’ said David. ‘Which means that you must have gotten out of your car, taken your briefcase to the study, run upstairs to the bedroom, retrieved the cabinet key, run downstairs to the hallway, taken out the gun, gone to the garage, looked for the cleaning rags, found none, walked back to the other end of the house to the kitchen and accidentally shot your wife – all in the space of no more than four minutes.’
    â€˜Then I suppose I am . . . a fast walker,’ said Logan.
    â€˜Did you re-lock the cabinet?’ asked David, this new question stopping their client dead.
    Logan looked at them then, his foot frozen mid tap, his brow contorted in a knot of confusion, his head shaking rapidly as if trying to clear the fog.
    â€˜I’m sorry?’ he managed.
    â€˜Did you re-lock the cabinet – in the hallway, where the gun was kept?’
    â€˜Ah . . . no. There was no need, I was going to put the gun back so . . .’
    â€˜Then why did the police find it locked?’ asked Sara. ‘And why was the key found back upstairs in the bedroom drawer?’
    â€˜I must have . . .’
    â€˜Walked, quickly, we know,’ finished David, not meaning to be harsh but determined to show his client just how unbelievable his story was.
    Logan looked at him then, and David could have sworn that in that second his lips had clenched in anger. But then they quivered, and David realised that he had misread the doctor’s sorrow for resentment – sorrow at his own predicament and the predicament of his son.
    â€˜The thing is, Doctor,’ said Sara, ‘the gun, the cabinet, the timing of the whole thing – the fact that there was no blood on your clothing, no residue on your hands . . . ? We don’t mean to be unsympathetic, but we needed you to see just how implausible this whole thing is. We understand your motives are selfless, but your story . . . it is so full of holes, so desperate in its irrationality, that in many ways it only goes to consolidate your teenage son’s guilt.’
    So, she had said it – plain and clear.
    Logan lifted his head, his eyes burning with what could be fear, frustration, perhaps even irritation at Sara speaking of it before he had the chance to utter it himself.
    â€˜Please,’ he began, his voice much softer than the expression on his face. ‘You must understand that this is the
only
solution, for if you don’t, all is lost. Not one life, but two – my wife’s and that of my son. What happens to me is now inconsequential. I had my chance in life – at a family, at parenthood, and somewhere along the line I forgot what matters the most. So now I have a chance to make amends – a sick and twisted opportunity that I must hold on to, no matter what the cost.’
    â€˜This isn’t going to work,’ said David at last.
    â€˜Probably not,’ said Logan. ‘But if I do not try, I will
never
forgive myself.’
    David nodded before glancing at Sara. ‘Okay, Jeffrey. Let’s see if we can’t get you indicted.’

7
    S he was up on a chair when they entered her office, wearing her ‘weekend’ clothes – snug-fitting tailored pants and a polo top, her hair out and parted to one side, the bulk of it fixed behind her diamond-studded ears.
    â€˜Detective, Lieutenant,’ she said as they moved into the room.
    Joe and Frank had originally gone to her office down the hall but, upon finding it not only empty but stripped of books, paperwork and personal belongings, they had wandered back to the Acting District Attorney, Roger ‘The Kat’ Katz’s office – the bigger one next to the DA’s.
    â€˜You moving in?’ asked Joe, noticing