by Sue Grafton
"We're trying again. A different angle this time. We may nail him if we're lucky."
Tippy's expression seemed to darken. "I never liked him. What a creep."
"What do you remember?"
She made a face... reluctance, resistance, a touch of regret perhaps. "Nothing much, except we all cried a bunch. Like for weeks. It was awful. I was sixteen when she died. She wasn't my real aunt, but we were really close."
Rhe emerged from the classroom with her key ring in her hand. "Hi, baby. I thought that was you out here. I see you met Miss Millhone."
Tippy gave her mother's cheek a kiss. "We were just waiting for you. Yon look tired."
"I'm okay. How was work?"
"Work was fine. Corey says I might get a raise, but it's only like three percent."
"Don't knock it. Way to go," Rhe said. "What time are you picking Karen up?"
"Fifteen minutes ago. I'm already late."
Tippy and I watched while Rhe slipped the car key from the ring and then pointed toward the parking lot. "It's in the third row, to the left. I want the car back by midnight."
"We're not even out until quarter of!" Tippy yelped in protest.
"As soon as possible after that. And don't run me out of gas the way you did last time."
"It was empty when you gave it to me!"
"Would you just do what I say?"
"Why, you have a date?" Tippy asked impishly.
"Tippy..."
"I'm just teasing," she said. She plucked the key from her mother's hand and started off across the parking lot, bootheels clacking.
" 'Gee, Mom, I hope this isn't inconvenient,' " Rhe called toward her departing form. "'Thank you, darling mother.' "
"You're welcome," Tippy called back.
Rhe shook her head with the kind of mock disgust that only a totally smitten parent indulges in. "Twenty years they're totally self-involved, then they turn around and get married."
"I know people must say this to you all the time, but you really don't look old enough to be her mother."
Rhe smiled. "I was sixteen when she was born."
"She seems like a neat kid."
"Well, she is, thanks to AA, which she joined when she was sixteen."
"Alcoholics Anonymous? Are you serious?"
"The drinking started when she was ten. I was working to support us and the baby-sitter was a lush. Tip would go there after school and guzzle beer every chance she got. I never had a clue! Here I am thinking it's neat because my child is so docile and obedient. She never once complained. She never whined if I was late or had to leave her overnight. I had other friends who were single moms like me. They had a bitch of a time. Their kids ran away, or caused trouble. Not my little Tippy. She was so easy to get along with. She didn't do well in school and she had the 'flu' a lot, but otherwise she seemed fine. I guess I was in denial, because I know now she was drunk or hung over half the time."
"You're lucky she straightened out."
"Part of that was Izzy's death. It did us in. It made us closer. We lost the best friend we ever had, but at least it brought us back together."
"How'd you find out about her drinking?"
"She reached a point where she was drinking so much I couldn't miss it. By the time she reached high school, she was really out of control. Popping pills. She smoked dope. She'd had her driver's license six months and she'd already had two wrecks. Plus, she stole anything that wasn't nailed down. This was actually the autumn before Isabelle's murder at Christmastime. She'd started her junior year, cutting classes, flunking tests. I couldn't handle it. I kicked her out, so she went to live with her father. When Iz died, she came back." She stopped to light another cigarette. "Jesus. Why'm I telling you this stuff? Look, I gotta get back to class. Do you mind hanging out? I really do need a ride home if you can do me that."
"Sure. I'd be happy to."
Chapter 8
* * *
I drove her home at 10:30 after class had ended. Most of the students were gone by five after ten, cars spilling out of the darkened parking lot with the sweep of headlights, engines thrumming. I offered to help her tidy up, but she said it'd be quicker if she did it herself. I wandered around the room, doing an idle survey while she emptied the coffee urn and rinsed it out, put away the drawing supplies, and then flipped out the lights. She locked the doors behind us and we headed for my VW, which was the only car left in the parking lot.
As we drove through the gated driveway, she said, "I live in Montebello. I hope that's not too far out of your way."
"Don't worry about it. I'm on Albanil, near the beach. I can come back along Cabana and it's no big deal."
I turned right onto Bay, and then right again on Missile, picking up the freeway about two blocks down. She gave me directions to her place and for two miles we chatted idly, while I tried to decide what I could learn from her. "How'd you first hear about Isabelle's death?"
"The cops called about two-thirty and told me what had happened. They asked if I'd come over there and just sit with Simone. I threw some clothes on, hopped in the car, and barreled over there right away. I was just in shock. The whole time I was driving, I kept talking to myself like some kind of nut. I didn't cry till I got there and saw the look on Simone's face. The Seegers were a mess. They kept telling the same story over and over again. I don't know which of us was in worse shape. Actually, I think I was. Simone was numb and out of it until David showed up. Then she lost it completely. She really came unglued."
"Oh, that's right. He claimed he was jogging in the middle of the night. Did you believe him?"
"God, I don't know. I did and I didn't. He'd been doing night runs for years. He said he liked it because it was quiet and he didn't have to worry about all the traffic and exhaust fumes. I guess he suffered from insomnia and roamed the house at all hours."
"So he used the jogging to wind down when he couldn't sleep?"
"Well, yeah, but on the other hand, the night of the murder, it seemed awfully contrived." She twisted a finger in an imaginary dimple in her cheek like a ditzy blonde. "'What a coincidence. I was just passing by on my two a.m. run.'"
"Simone tells me he was living down the road at that point."
She made a face. "In that awful house. He told the cops he was just getting back from a run when he saw the lights up at Isabelle's and stopped to see what was going on."
"Did he seem upset?"
"Well, I wouldn't say that, but then nothing seemed to move him. It was one of her big complaints. He was an emotional robot."
"You mentioned Simone going nuts. What'd you mean by that?"
"She got hysterical when he showed up, convinced he'd killed Isabelle. She always maintained the story about the stolen gun was pure bullshit. We'd all been in the house on countless other occasions. Why would any one of us suddenly sneak upstairs and steal David's thirty-eight, for God's sake? She figured it was part of a setup. I guess I'd have to agree."
"So, you were at the dinner party Labor Day weekend when the gun disappeared?"
"Sure, I was there and so was everybody else. Peter and Yolanda Weidmann, the Seegers, the Voigts."
"Kenneth was there? Her ex-husband and his wife?"
"Hey, current etiquette. One big happy family, except of course for Francesca. That's Kenneth's wife, the long-suffering. What a martyr she was. Sometimes I think Isabelle just invited them to bug her. All Francesca had to do was refuse to go."
"What was her problem?"
"She knew Ken was still hung up on Isabelle. After all, Iz was the one who gave Kenneth the boot. He married Francesca on the rebound."
"Sounds like a soap opera."
"It gets worse," Rhe said. "Francesca's beautiful. Have you met her?" I shook my head and she went on. "She's like a model, perfect features and a body to die for, but she's insecure, always choosing men who withhold. You know what I mean? Ken was ideal because she knew she'd never really have his full attention."
I said, "Let me ask you this
. I heard his version last night and he claims Isabelle was the one who was insecure. Is that true?"
"Not from my point of view, but she may have shown a different side of herself to men," she said. She pointed to a series of driveways coming up on the left. "It's this first one," she said.
We were in the section of Montebello known as the slums, where the houses only cost $280,000 each. I pulled up in front of a small stucco cottage painted white. She opened the car door on her side, getting out. "I'd ask you in for some wine, but I really do have to get to work. I'll be up half the night."
"Don't worry about it. That's fine. I'm bushed. I appreciate your time," I said. "By the way, where's the show?"
"The Axminster Gallery. There's a champagne reception Friday evening at seven. Stop by and see it if you can."
"I'll do that."
"And thanks for the ride. If you think of any other questions, you can let me know."
Henry's house was dark by the time I got home. There were no messages on my machine. As a way of unwinding, I tidied up the living room and scrubbed the downstairs bath. Cleaning house is therapeutic – all those right-brain activities, dusting and vacuuming, washing dishes, changing sheets. I've come up with many a personal insight with a toilet brush in hand, watching the Comet swirl around in the bowl. Tomorrow night I'd dust my way up the spiral staircase, then tackle the loft and the upstairs bathroom.
I slept well, got up at 6:00 a.m., and did my usual run, whizzing through my morning routine on automatic pilot. On my way into the office, I stopped off at the bakery and bought a huge Styrofoam container of caffé latte with a lid. I had to park my car two blocks away, and by the time I got to my desk the coffee was the perfect drinking temperature. While I sipped, I sat and stared at the file folders strewn across every available surface. I was going to have to straighten things up just to figure out what was what. I drained half the coffee and set the cup aside.
I pushed my sleeves up and went to work, getting organized. I emptied both boxes, plus the brown grocery bag full of files I'd picked up at Morley's house, adding in the few additional files from his office. I rearranged the piles alphabetically and then painstakingly reconstructed the sequence of reports, using Morley's invoices as a master index. In some instances (Rhe Parsons being a case in point), I had a name itemized on his bill without a file to match. For "Francesca V.," whom I took to be the current Mrs. Voigt, I found a file folder neatly labeled, but there was no report in it. The same was also true of a Laura Barney, who I assumed was David's ex-wife. Had Morley talked to them or not? The former Mrs. Barney apparently worked at the Santa Teresa Medical Clinic in some capacity. Morley'd noted a telephone number, but there was no way to tell if he'd gotten through to her. He'd been paid for sixty hours' worth of interviews, in some cases with accompanying travel receipts, but the corresponding paperwork didn't add up to much. I made a penciled notation of any name without attendant notes or a written report.
By 10:30, I had a list of seventeen names. Just as a spot check, I tried two. First, I placed a call to Francesca, who answered after one ring, sounding cool and distant.
I identified myself and verified, first of all, that she was married to Kenneth Voigt. "I'm reorganizing some files and I wondered if you remember what date you talked to Morley Shine."
"I never talked to him."
"Not at all?"
"I'm afraid not. He called and left a message about three weeks ago. I returned his call and we agreed to meet, but then he canceled for some reason. As a matter of fact, I asked Kenneth about it just last night. It seemed odd somehow. Since I testified at the first trial, I assumed I'd be called the second time around."
I glanced down at Morley's memo, which seemed to indicate they'd had a meeting. "We better set up an appointment as soon as possible."
"Hang on a minute and I'll get my book." She put the phone down on her end and I heard the tap of heels across hardwood. She returned to the telephone with a rustle of paper. "I'm busy this afternoon. What's this evening look like for you?"
"That sounds fine to me. What time?"
"Could we make it seven? Kenneth usually doesn't get home until nine, but I'm assuming you don't need him to sit in."
"Actually, I'd prefer to have the time alone."
"Good. Then I'll see you at seven."
I tried the clinic next and found myself connected with what I guessed was the reception desk. The person who answered was female and sounded young.
"Santa Teresa Medical Clinic, this is Ursa. May I help you?"
I said, "Can you tell me if you have a Laura Barney working at the clinic?"
"Mrs. Barney? Sure. Hang on and I'll get her."
I was placed on hold briefly.
"This is Mrs. Barney."
I introduced myself, explaining, as I had with Francesca, who I was and why I was calling. "Can you tell me if you talked to Morley Shine in the last couple of weeks?"
"As a matter of fact, I had an appointment with him last Saturday, but he never showed up. I was very annoyed because I'd canceled some plans in order to make time for him."
"Did he give you any indication what he meant to ask?"
"Not really, but I assumed it was in conjunction with this lawsuit coming up. I was married to the man acquitted of the criminal charges."
"David Barney."
"That's right. We were married for three years."
"I'd like to talk to you. Can we set up a time this week?" In the background, I could hear another line begin to ring insistently.
"I'm usually here until five. If you stop by tomorrow I can probably make some time."
"Four-thirty or five?"
"Either one is fine."
"Good. I'll stop by as close to four-thirty as I can make it. I'll let you pick up your other call."
She said thanks and clicked off.
I went back to my list and called nine other names at random. Not one of them had ever heard from Morley Shine. This was not looking good. I buzzed Ida Ruth in the outer office. "Is Lonnie still in court?"
"As far as I know."
"What time's he get back?"
"Lunchtime, he said, but he sometimes skips lunch and heads for the law library instead. Why, what's up? You want to get a message to him?"
A low-level dread had begun to churn in my chest. "I better go over there and have a chat with him myself. Which courtroom, did he say?"
"Judge Whitty, Department Five. What's going on, Kinsey? You sound very strange."
"I'll tell you later. I don't want to commit myself quite yet."
I walked over to the courthouse, which was only two blocks away. The day was sunny and clear, with a mild breeze ruffling the grass on the courthouse lawn. The architecture of the building itself is Mediterranean, complete with towers, turrets, sandstone arches, and open-air galleries. The exterior landscaping is a bright mix of magenta bougainvillea, red bottlebrush, junipers, and imported palms. A low growing fringe of ground cover along the sidewalk threw out a heady perfume.
I went up the wide concrete steps, through ornate wooden doors. The corridor was empty. The floor was paved with glossy irregular stone tiles the color of old blood. The lofty ceilings were hand-stenciled and crisscrossed with dark beams. The lighting fixtures were wrought-iron replicas of Spanish lanterns, the windows secured by sturdy grillwork. The place might have been a monastery once; all cold surfaces, stripped of ornament. As I passed, the door to the jury assembly room opened and prospective jurors poured out into the hallway, filling the air with the tap-tapping of footsteps and the murmur of voices. Soon I could hear the incessant squeaking of stall doors in the rest rooms across the hall. Department 5 was located another two doors down the hall on the right, the lighted sign above the door indicating that court was still in session. I eased the door open and slipped into a seat in the rear.
Lonnie and opposing counsel were involved in a case management conference, their voices droning on the warm air like big fat bumblebees. The judge w
as in the process of referring the case to judicial arbitration, setting the dates for both the completion of the arbitration and a future case management conference. As usual, I wondered how individual fates could be decided through a process that sounded, on the face of it, so dull. When the judge broke for lunch, I waited by the door, catching Lonnie's eye as he turned and headed through the little swinging gate that separated the spectators' 'pews' from the court. He took one look at my face and said, "What's the matter?"
"Let's go outside where it's private. You're not going to like this."
We walked side by side without a word, footsteps clattering, down the corridor, down the concrete steps, out the front entrance to the sidewalk. We struck off across the grass just far enough to ensure that we wouldn't be overheard. He turned and looked at me and I plunged in.
"I don't know a nice way to say this so I'll get right to the point. It turns out Morley's files are more than disorganized. Half the reports are missing and what he's got there is suspect."
"Meaning what?"
I took a deep breath. "I think he was billing you for work he never did."
Lonnie's face went blank as the news sank in. "You're shittin' me."
"Lonnie, he had a heart condition and his wife is very sick. From what I gather, he was hard up for money, but he didn't have the time or the energy to do much."
"How'd he think he could get away with that? I got a court date in less than a month. Did he think I wouldn't notice?" he asked. "Hell, what's the matter with me? I didn't notice, did I?"
I shrugged. "In the past, from what I've heard, his work was always great." Small comfort to an attorney who could end up in court with nothing in his hand but his dick.
Lonnie seemed to pale, apparently conjuring up the same image of himself. "Jesus, what was he thinking of?"
"Who knows what he was thinking? Maybe he was hoping he could get caught up."
"How bad is it?"
"Well, you still have the witnesses from the criminal trial. It looks like most of them have been subpoenaed, so you're cool on that score. I'm guessing maybe half the witnesses on the new list never heard from him. I could be wrong. All I did was a spot check. I'm really judging by the number of reports I can't find."
