by MJ Rodgers
“Yes, Your Honor. I know.”
“Are you personally acquainted with any of the beneficiaries mentioned in Patrice Feldon’s will?” Commissioner
Snowe asked.
“No, Your Honor.”
“Have you ever held such an appointment before?”
“No, Your Honor.”
“Have you been an executor personal representative or administrator personal representative in a probate action?”
“No, Your Honor.”
“Have you ever represented an interested party in a probate case?”
“No, Your Honor.”
“Ms. West, you’re asking me to let you cut your baby teeth on this whale bone of an estate.”
“I’m a quick and thorough researcher. And a very hard worker. I can do it.”
Once again Whitney felt Commissioner Snowe’s eyes on her. This time, though, they seemed to be dwelling unnecessarily long on Whitney’s far from new suit. Whitney kept her carriage straight and hoped that the woman sitting across from her wasn’t going to be so shallow as to shoot her down for not wearing expensive threads like Adam’s.
“Since Mr. Justice will be sworn to uphold the will and the deceased’s wishes, you and he would be working closely together. You may also end up in adversarial positions.”
“Yes, I know, Your Honor.”
“He is an experienced litigator in these matters. Do you think it fair to the blood heirs to be represented by a neophyte?”
“My job will be to locate the blood heirs, Your Honor. Once I do, if those heirs are not convinced I can represent them competently, they can certainly seek other counsel. However, if they recognize that experience can’t hold a candle to hard work and enthusiasm, I think they might choose me to be their advocate.”
A very slight smile lifted Commissioner Snowe’s pale lips. In the next instant it was gone, and her sober countenance was back. “If you make a mistake, Ms. West, I will not be forgiving.”
“Does that mean I have the appointment, Your Honor?”
Commissioner Snowe turned her eyes to Adam. “Do you have any reservations about Ms. West becoming guardian ad litem for the unnamed heirs, Mr. Justice?”
There was a small—but to Whitney, significant—pause between Commissioner Snowe’s question and Adam’s answer.
“No,” he said simply.
“All right, Ms. West, you have the appointment. But remember. An estate this size is bound to catch the attention of the news media. If you do err, you will not be able to bury your mistakes in obscurity. They will be out there for all to see.”
“Yes, Your Honor. Thank you, Your Honor.”
“And the same goes for you, Mr. Justice. Don’t let your previous experience make you complacent. I’ve seen veteran litigators wearing egg on their faces because they forgot every estate is different and did not bone up on their statutes.”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
“May I begin placing advertisements for the heirs in the newspapers?” Whitney asked.
“You won’t have to advertise,” Snowe said. “Once this story breaks, both blood heirs—if there are any—and bogus heirs—and they’ll be plenty of them—will be beating down your door. Before I put the preliminary hearing for this case on the calendar, I want Mr. Justice’s investigator to fill in the gaps on Patrice Feldon’s background and find out how she obtained these stocks. The last thing we need is for the press to speculate in these areas. Let’s keep this case out of their hands until then.”
“That will delay my locating the heirs,” Whitney said.
“You’ll have plenty of time to perform your G.A.L. function, Ms. West. If the news media is not approached prematurely, you’ll also have far fewer bogus claims to wade through. May I count on your cooperation on this?”
“Yes, Your Honor,” Adam and Whitney said in unison.
“Good. Keep me completely informed of your progress. I want to know everything as soon as you do. Please leave your phone numbers with my clerk. Good afternoon.”
As soon as they were outside the court commissioner’s chambers, Whitney turned to Adam. “I appreciate the fact that you didn’t give voice to your objections back there when Commissioner Snowe asked you about my appointment.”
“Whatever reservations I have about your lack of experience in these matters, Whitney, it would be unprofessional of me to allow them to interfere with your earning the fees attendant to the assignment.”
“Thank you, but I didn’t apply for the G.A.L. position because of the fees.”
“Are you after the publicity, Ms. West?”
Whitney chuckled. “Have you noticed that you only resort to calling me ‘Ms. West’ now when you want to be emphatically formal?”
“I asked you a question.”
He certainly had. What was it about that oh-so-deadlyserious tone of his voice that sometimes sent a chill up her spine?
“No, Adam. I didn’t ask for the position because I want publicity.”
“Then why did you ask for it?”
Whitney waited until they had exited the room full of people and had gained the relatively deserted hallway before stopping and turning to answer Adam. “When Patrice put that envelope in my hands more than seven years ago, she made me a party to this mystery. I want to see it through to the end. And that means learning who she was and where she got this stock. Being on the inside will help me to get those answers. Just like being on the inside will help you to get those answers. That’s why you’re agreeing to be her executor, right?”
“Why didn’t you tell me you were going to ask for that G.A.L. appointment?”
“Because I didn’t know myself until I met Commissioner Snowe. It’s the kind of lucrative assignment outsiders like me never get. But she didn’t seem to be someone who played favorites, so I thought I’d take a chance. Now, why don’t you answer my question?”
Adam looked at his wrist. “What question would that be?”
“Just about any one of the last dozen would do.”
“The answer is no, Whitney. I do not part seas.”
She chuckled. “But apparently you do listen, Adam. And that I find a miracle in itself. You’re looking at your watch again. Are you late for something?”
“I have an appointment on the other side of town in thirty-five minutes. It will take five to return the original copy of Patrice’s will to the clerk of the court on the sixth floor. It will take at least thirty minutes to get you back to your car. I must call to cancel my appointment.”
“Blonde, brunette or redhead?” Whitney asked irreverently.
“Bald,” Adam said with no hesitation.
Whitney stifled a smile. “She probably pulled out all her hair because you’ve already canceled on her too often. You don’t have to waste your time driving me back to my car. I can catch a cab.”
“I have no doubt you can. However, I promised to return you to your car.”
“Adam, it’s really not necessary to—”
“I will return you to your car,” he said.
There was no arguing with that commanding, emphatic tone. Whitney was rather fascinated and more than a little surprised to find that she suddenly had absolutely no desire to argue with it, either.
“DAMN!” Ryson exclaimed loudly as he read the faxed message the clerk had just placed in his in-basket.
Ferkel lifted his hefty bulk out of his chair and leaned over their facing desks, bringing with him the odor of onions. “What is it, Sarge?”
Ryson leaned back as his nose twitched. “Can you believe this? Justice’s now saying the woman wasn’t even his wife! And she’s left a fortune he claims he never knew about, too!”
“Let me see.”
Ryson flipped the sheet in Ferkel’s direction. The hefty detective caught it in midair. Ryson watched Ferkel digest the fax as he licked the grease off his fingers from a just-finished street-stand hot dog. Halfway through he burped loudly.
Ryson winced. He couldn’t stand Ferkel’s
personal habits—precisely the reason why the lieutenant had saddled him with Ferkel. The lieutenant had it in for Ryson ever since he’d heard Ryson joking about the school picture of the lieutenant’s fourteen-year-old daughter looking like a shot of Andy Rooney on a bad day. Some guys just didn’t have a sense of humor.
“You believe he didn’t know this, Sarge?” Ferkel asked as soon as he dropped the now-greasy sheet to his desktop.
“Yeah, like I believe in the tooth fairy. Of course Justice knew. I just don’t know whether he knew all the time they were putting on this charade of a marriage, or whether it was something he found out just before he killed her.”
“The prosecuting attorney is going to love this, Sarge. Justice had enough reasons to kill this woman seven times over. Damn shame forensics came up with zilch from the wreck.”
“Well, just because everything was too rusted and corroded for them to analyze, doesn’t mean Justice is going to get away with murder. I got approval to send the wreck to the FBI lab for analysis. With all the Feds’ fancy computer stuff, those guys will come through. It will take a little time, but they’ll figure out what Justice did to that car.”
“My money says he drove up beside them, slammed into them and whacked them off that road,” Ferkel said gesturing with his hands and ending in a slap of his palms.
Ryson shook his head. “Naw, too risky. That’s not Justice’s style. He’d play it safe and smart. I can just see him fixing Danner’s car so it would smash up. Then he followed them and waited until it happened. When they went off that mountain road, Justice got out of his car and made his way down to the wreck to be sure they were dead. He’s the type that would be that thorough.”
“Except he screwed up. He didn’t know he left his calling card in Danner’s car.”
Ryson smiled. “I can’t wait until he finds out. I’m going to be the one to tell him, too—you just wait and see. It’ll be right around the time I’m putting the handcuffs on and reading him his rights.”
Chapter Five
“You’re finally back,” Jack Novak said as Whitney swung open the squeaky-hinged door and entered the modest office suite of Novak and West. “It’s been hours.”
Jack was standing by their secretary’s desk, a brief from the files in his hands, an expectant look on his face.
“Where’s Isabel?” Whitney asked as she slipped into the side chair next to the secretary’s desk.
“She’s down the hall at Checkmate fixing their secondhand copier,” Jack said as he dropped the brief in the secretary’s in-basket and plopped down on the checkered sofa in the small reception area. “You know our Isabel. If it’s broken, she has to get that little screwdriver kit out of her purse and try to fix it.”
“Have you warned them over at Checkmate that the score so far is machines twenty and Isabel zilch?” Whitney asked.
“Naw. They’re P.I.’s. Let them exercise their surveillanceand-observation techniques. Besides, why spoil Isabel’s fun?”
“Jack…”
“Oh, don’t worry. I called our local repair shop. Mr. Guru Fix-it will be arriving just about the time Isabel’s last screwdriver bites the dust. Happy?”
Whitney smiled. “You’re a good guy, Jack.”
“Yeah, that’s what all the women tell me. It’s one of my favorite accolades, ranking right up there with ‘I think of you just like a brother.’ Now, stop stalling and tell me how it went with Adam Justice.”
Whitney chuckled. Jack really possessed a down-to-earth niceness that matched so well with his unruly mop of sandy hair and his smile so full of boyish charm.
“Adam Justice is everything they say about him, Jack. Darkly handsome, erudite, ultraclassy, the epitome of suave sophistication.”
“I didn’t mean Justice personally,” Jack said impatiently. “I meant the papers his wife left for him—the ones we’ve been madly speculating about for the last week. Come on, give. Her will was in the envelope, right?”
“And a couple of other surprises.”
“I recognize that sparkle in your eyes, Whitney West. If you don’t start talking soon, I’m strangling you.”
Whitney laughed, then quickly related what had happened, enjoying Jack’s rapidly changing and readable expressions. What a difference it was being with a man who wasn’t afraid to show what was going on inside him.
Jack was really likable. She’d often thought it was a shame there were no sparks between them. The last man who had gotten her passion to pounding had been Skip. And dear old Skip had skipped out three years before.
It always struck her as ironic that Skip—who possessed so much in the way of physical passion—had so totally lacked passion for all the really important things in life.
In the end she was glad to see him go. A man who didn’t care about what really needed to be cared about was a waste of a woman’s time.
Besides, not even Skip had been able to give her the exciting rush she felt in front of a jury, standing up for the rights of her client, knowing what she was doing was important. As long as she had that, she could do without the inferior, transitory physical passion that a man could provide.
“Unbelievable,” Jack said, slumping against the back of the couch when Whitney had finished relating the day’s events. “You didn’t have any idea about this business before Justice opened that envelope?”
“Not an inkling. Like I told you, Patrice never mentioned she had married Justice under a false name. And the ‘little something’ she said she wanted to go to the right people was at that time, worth around eleven thousand—more in line with the ‘little something’ description.”
“And now it’s worth more than thirty million dollars. Wow. What a media circus this probate is going to be.”
“And as G.A.L., I’m going to be in on it all the way.”
Jack frowned as he rested a knee on the edge of the reception area’s checkered couch. “Whitney, this isn’t our kind of case, and these aren’t our kind of clients.”
“What if I find Patrice has a blood heir somewhere, and the guy’s a blue-collar worker who’s just lost his job, or a single mom just barely making ends meet? Those are our clients, Jack.”
“You’re reaching, Whitney, and you know it. Besides, there may even be some rule prohibiting you from taking this G.A.L. appointment.”
“Like what?”
“Like the fact that you knew Patrice personally.”
“Be careful not to say that where it could be overheard.”
Jack came forward on the couch. “You’re not serious. You can’t keep something like that a secret on a case this big.”
“Why not? It doesn’t matter that I knew Patrice personally. At least not legally. I can still represent her unnamed heirs—as long as I’m not one of them.”
Jack looked at her straight and hard. “What’s going on? I’ve never known you to lie in your life.”
“I haven’t lied. No one asked me whether I knew Patrice before she came to me with that envelope for Adam Justice. If they had asked, I would have admitted I did.”
“Then why aren’t you volunteering the information?”
“Because I want a chance at this case. I won’t get it if Adam Justice or Commissioner Snowe learns of my prior relationship to Patrice. They’re both so staid and cautious. I told you, Snowe almost didn’t allow Adam to be executor, and Patrice appointed him herself.”
“Why is it so important for you to be on the case?”
Whitney got up and walked over to the window. She gazed out at the busy, narrow Seattle street outside. The storefronts of a cornucopia of small shops and struggling businesses were crowded into old, worn buildings. It was a respectable area, but lacking the expensive crispness of the big-business section of the city.
Cars whizzed by, horns honked and brakes squealed as people jockeyed for the few available parking spaces. It was a typical scene that passed before her eyes every day. She wasn’t really seeing it.
What she was really seei
ng was the face of a beautiful woman with large violet eyes and long golden hair—still vivid in her memory after all these years.
“Patrice entered my life at a crucial time, Jack. Knowing her changed its direction completely.”
“You’ve told me about it, Whitney. I understand.”
“Still, I’ve never understood why she did what she did.”
“Is it important that you do, Whitney?”
“Yes, Jack, it is. I need to understand. I had a chance to find out once before, and I let it slip by. I’ve regretted it ever since. Now I’ve been given another chance. I’m taking it.”
FED DYKSTRA was not happy. The deadline on his gossip spot for the seven-o’clock news was late. He’d turned off his cell phone so his producer couldn’t bug him. He frowned as he sipped the bitter courthouse-cafeteria coffee.
This summer had really marked a dry spell in terms of human-interest stories. The most exciting thing he had reported in months had been one of the judges going nude beneath her robes because the air-conditioning vent had gotten clogged, and her courtroom had turned into an oven. And even that juicy little tidbit didn’t hold much in the way of a titillation factor, considering the judge in question was sixty-two.
Where was a good adulterer when you needed one?
Fred looked up to see Dwight Errent. He knew him as a senior clerk in room W285, the place where a hodgepodge of minor legal issues was resolved—civil dissolution, namechange orders, probate, guardian, adoption, minor settlement and receivership orders. It was the most boring place in the entire King County Courthouse. Fred avoided it.
But lately he was finding that Dwight wasn’t so boring. The clerk was standing at the edge of the cafeteria with a full luncheon tray, surveying the tables, just as he had done every day this past week. Fred saw the clerk’s eyes come to a dead halt when they spied Tiffany Kurrey, the new court reporter.
She was sitting alone at the table next to Fred’s: early twenties, five-six, shaggy hair, extrashort skirt, extralong fingernails. Her lips were large and painted with that new lipstick that stayed intact like shellac, even after a full lunch. She was sipping a diet Coke through a straw.
