“Tell me about it.” Delphi took a healthy sip of her wine.
“And now for the coincidence of the day.” Isobel paused for effect. “Sarah Hollister represented Candy Harrison in the divorce.”
“Really?”
“No way!”
Isobel flushed. “Um…I can’t say any more than that. I signed a confidentiality agreement.”
“Come on! It’s just us,” Delphi insisted. “Who are we going to tell?”
Isobel bit her lip. “I really shouldn’t.”
“By that logic, you shouldn’t have told us that Sarah is her lawyer,” Percival pointed out.
Isobel hesitated. “You guys have to promise.”
Percival dipped his index finger in his puttanesca and gestured to Delphi to do the same. Then he pressed their fingers together.
“Never underestimate a pact signed in tomato sauce,” he said solemnly.
Isobel sighed. “Okay, but this can’t go beyond us. He was cheating, and she found out. She walked away with half of his sixteen million dollars, a beach house, and a five-year annuity that just ended.”
Delphi’s eyes widened. “What kind of judge is worth sixteen million dollars?”
“A judge with a lucrative sideline.” Percival wound some spaghetti around his fork. “Either that or a judge with a good broker. But considering someone just killed him, I’m going with sideline.”
“Like what?” Isobel asked.
Percival chewed thoughtfully. “Selective acceptance of claims, denial of evidence, general misapplication of the law, bribery from law enforcement. Then, of course, there’s the usual stuff: drugs, kiddie porn, that sort of thing.”
“Always helpful to have a teenager on hand when you need insight into breaking the law,” Delphi remarked.
Percival wiped his mouth with his napkin and pushed his bowl away. “What kind of judge was he?”
Isobel drummed her fingers on the table. “I don’t know.”
“Start there. Find out what kind of folks he put behind bars. That’ll tell you a lot.” He picked up his wineglass and swirled what was left. “Because I know you’re not going to let this drop.”
“Of course she is,” Delphi said firmly.
“Oh, I doubt it. She’s going to investigate this thing until she hits an official roadblock.” Percival downed the rest of his wine in one gulp and set the glass on the table. He flashed an indulgent smile at his sister. “That’s one thing I know for certain, whether she chooses to tell me or not.”
SEVEN
When Isobel arrived at work the next morning, Sarah’s door was closed, which meant yesterday’s hearing had not gone well. When Sarah won in court, which was more often than not, she was voluble, sharing the details of her triumph with enough flair for Isobel to suggest more than once that she consider auditioning for commercials. When a court date didn’t go Sarah’s way, she was not to be bothered until she opened her door, signifying that she had reached the end of her allotted wallowing time and was ready to move on.
Isobel knew better than to knock, so she settled herself at her computer and pulled up her email. Scrolling absently through old messages, she found the one from Peter giving his cast the murder mystery details. She was about to delete it, when she remembered she hadn’t done anything about the paychecks beyond giving Delphi hers. She shot out three emails, and Tony responded almost immediately. If she didn’t mind, could she swing by his apartment after work that evening? He lived only ten blocks from her, so she replied promptly in the affirmative. That was one down. She spent a few more minutes hitting “send and receive,” hoping that Jemma and Andrew would be equally responsive—not that she had any real expectation of the latter—before she gave up and did an internet search on Judge Harrison. She located his bio on a judicial database and scanned it with interest.
The Honorable Willard Harrison had started in small-claims court, moving shortly thereafter to criminal court, and then surrogate’s court, before settling in family court. What had Percival suggested? Denial of evidence, misapplication of the law, bribery… As far as she knew, Harrison could have had the opportunity to commit any of those crimes in any of those courts. She wondered if it was normal for judges to move around so much. She randomly clicked on another entry for comparison’s sake. Judge Alyce Krumholz appeared to have spent her whole career in surrogate’s court. Then again, she’d only been on the bench for five years.
Isobel tried a few more bios, but there didn’t seem to be a standard. Some judges moved around, some didn’t, so there was no hidden meaning to be found in Harrison’s comparatively diversified career, just a more varied list of people who might have had an axe to grind—or a bullet to load. She drew a circle on her yellow legal pad. There had been eight people seated at the judge’s table. She penciled in names around the circle, starting with herself. Candy was to her right, with Gordon Lang on Candy’s other side. Next to him was the drab little man whose name she hadn’t registered, so she put a question mark. Maggie was next to him, then Bethany, who was next to the judge. On the other side of him was the seat originally assigned to Isobel, which had remained empty. Another question mark.
Whose seat had she taken? For once, her native inquisitiveness had failed her, and she berated herself for not bothering to look at the name card at the place she had usurped. Who hadn’t shown up? And why? Unlike the others, that person, by virtue of being absent from the table—but not necessarily from the building—might have fired the shot. Isobel moved her pencil point to the first question mark. She couldn’t say with absolute certainty that the mystery man had been seated during her scene with Delphi. She could vouch for the others, but his was such a recessive presence, he could easily have left the table without her noticing.
She wondered how she could learn the identity of the two question marks. She collected her empty latte cup and took it into the communal kitchen, where she dutifully deposited it in the recycling bin. She tried to recall what the mystery man had looked like, but aside from a dim recollection of a navy blue suit, she couldn’t visualize a face. She’d just have to find out as much as she could about those whose identities she did know and hope they might lead her to the other two.
Sarah’s door was open by the time Isobel returned to her desk. Feeling somewhat restored herself, she poked her head in.
“Need anything?” Isobel asked.
Sarah smiled ruefully. “Other than a case I can win? Nah, I’m fine.”
“Sorry.”
Sarah took her glasses off and rubbed her face. “It’s par for the course, but it just pisses me off. Especially since this guy is a complete shit, and he’s shafting my client. Plus, there are kids involved, which makes it a thousand times worse.”
Isobel plopped down on the visitor’s chair, which miraculously had remained clutter-free. “Did the Harrisons have kids?”
“He had two sons from his first marriage, but none with Candy.”
“So they inherit, I guess.”
Sarah squinted and put her glasses back on. “Not a given. I believe they were estranged. One of them had a few run-ins with the law.”
“How old are they now?”
Sarah looked up at the ceiling and calculated in her head. “Mid-twenties, at least.”
“What did the miscreant son do?”
Sarah gave a wry smile. “I love a temp with a good vocabulary. The miscreant was, I believe, helping himself to items from the local RadioShack.”
“That’s fairly minor in the scheme of things.”
“Not when your father is a family court judge.”
“What happened?”
Sarah frowned. “I’m not entirely certain, but it must have escalated from there. All I can tell you is that by the time he and Candy divorced, both kids were more or less out of the picture.”
“And you think Harrison disinherited them?”
Sarah stood up and navigated the path to her filing cabinet. “As I say, I don’t really know. But given their storm
y past, I’d say it’s possible the judge left the bulk, if not all, of his estate to someone other than his kids.”
“What if the judge was planning to cut them out but hadn’t done it yet? Maybe one of the sons got wind of it and killed him before he had a chance to change his will,” Isobel suggested.
Sarah slapped a manila folder against her palm and elbowed the file drawer shut. “By the same token, if the judge did leave his estate to somebody else, that person might have seized an opportunity to hasten his or her inheritance.”
“If only we knew who benefited financially from Harrison’s death,” Isobel mused.
Sarah smiled wryly. “You’re a curious cat, aren’t you?”
“Well, I was there when it happened,” Isobel said defensively. “And Delphi almost got nailed for it.”
Sarah wagged a finger. “I’m onto you. That’s not why.”
“It’s partly why,” Isobel admitted.
“When I hired you, your temp agent…what’s his name?”
“James Cooke.”
“Right. Mr. Cooke told me you’d helped the police on two separate occasions. He said he thought I’d particularly appreciate your inquisitive nature, and that I might find myself using you as more than an assistant.” She returned to her desk and flipped open the folder. “In fact, he waxed poetical about your powers of ratiocination.”
Isobel’s stomach gave a guilty flip. Not only had James secured a cushy job for her, he had sung her praises. She tugged her ponytail. “Well, to be honest, the second time I almost got myself killed. And even though I did work it out the first time, I could have been quicker on the uptake. It was really just dumb luck, to be honest.”
Sarah folded her arms. “But you’ve caught the bug, and now you want to figure out who shot Harrison.”
“The answer to this riddle was in the room that night, and so was I,” Isobel said.
“So were the police.”
“After the fact.”
Sarah’s lip twitched with amusement. “You know, if the detective thing doesn’t work out, you might consider becoming a lawyer.”
A self-conscious laugh burst from Isobel’s throat. “I’m not a detective. I’m an actress!”
“All the more reason to let the real detectives do their thing,” Sarah said, scoring her point. “I’m sure they’ll get to the bottom of it.”
“The other two times I came up with information they wouldn’t have had otherwise,” Isobel said. “Even if I didn’t work out every detail, I led them to the killer. Both times.”
“Curious and tenacious,” Sarah remarked. “Obviously nothing I say is going to stop you asking questions.”
“Exactly.” Isobel spread her arms wide. “So. Are you for me or agin me?”
“There are ramifications for me if I help you access information you wouldn’t otherwise be able to get.” Sarah tapped her desk blotter with her pen. “Let’s do this: I’ll evaluate your requests on a case-by-case basis. If I can justify helping you within my own sphere of work, I will. Sound fair?”
“Thank you.” Isobel bounced slightly in her chair. “Request number one: can you find out who inherits the judge’s estate?”
“I can’t.”
Isobel wilted. “Well, thanks, anyway.”
Sarah leaned back in her chair and smiled owlishly. “But I know someone who can.”
EIGHT
Sarah’s colleague was tied up in court, but for once, Isobel didn’t mind waiting. Finally, she was working for someone who was willing to support her investigations. James had always come around in the end, however reluctantly, but Isobel suspected that Sarah was just as eager as she was to find out who killed her client’s ex. That was certainly a fortunate coincidence. Because of Sarah, Isobel already knew more about Judge Willard Harrison and his private life than she would have otherwise. Life, like show business, was all about being in the right place at the right time.
On her way home from work, Isobel buzzed Tony Callahan’s apartment in Hell’s Kitchen. After a few moments, Tony let her up and welcomed her into an apartment that was only slightly warmer than a meat freezer. Even with the air conditioner running full blast, Tony’s face was still shiny with perspiration, although his shirt, at least, was dry. Isobel wondered if the delay letting her in was because he was frantically donning a fresh one.
“Have a seat for a sec,” he said, gesturing to a lumpy couch. “Want a drink?”
Isobel was happy to chance discomfort for the implied offer to chat. “I’d take a glass of water, thanks.”
While Tony was in the kitchen, she pulled the checks from her bag and flipped through the envelopes until she found his. He exchanged the water for the check and, after opening the envelope and giving a satisfied nod, stuffed it in his shirt pocket.
“It’s not much, but at least it’s the right amount. With Peter, he either forgets to pay you in full or forgets to pay you at all.”
“And here I was giving him the benefit of the doubt because of all the chaos with the judge,” Isobel said.
“Oh, Peter’s always got some excuse.” Tony pulled over a cushioned chair that had seen better days, and not recently. “Once he got some ‘important’ phone call right as a gig was ending, and he took off. Usually, I’m the one who goes tracking down the checks.”
“Happy to give you a break,” Isobel said. “I didn’t realize you’d worked with him before.”
“I’ve done a bunch of gigs with him. There’s another guy he uses, same physical type as me. We alternate.”
Isobel took a sip of water and set her glass down on top of a cardboard coaster with a drawing of a 1950s ocean liner on it. “What about the others? Have you ever worked with them?”
“I did a gig once with Jemma. Not the brightest Crayola in the box, is she?”
“No,” Isobel agreed. “I never had much use for Jemma Red.”
He chuckled. “Andrew’s new. I think Jack recommended him.”
“Who’s Jack?”
“The sax player in the jazz combo. He and Peter team up a lot. They’re good, right? Steve is the bass player and Chad is the drummer.”
“Speaking of Andrew…” Isobel gave him a conspiratorial look.
Tony shifted uncomfortably and examined his pudgy hands. “Yeah. What the hell happened to him?”
“He took off. I followed him into the dining room that looked like Marie Antoinette’s boudoir, but I’m pretty sure he ran into the park through a side door.”
“You don’t think he…you know…shot the guy?”
Isobel shrugged. “Neither of us went hightailing it out of there like a guilty thing surprised.”
Tony tapped his knee with a coaster, and a telltale stain spread into view under his armpit. “Andrew was definitely acting weird all evening. I just figured he was stoned.”
Isobel eyed him curiously. “How do you know he was acting weird if you’ve never worked with him before?”
Tony rose and paced over to a wall of bookshelves. Isobel saw that the back of his shirt was soaked.
“Actors don’t show up at rehearsal and then mentally check out.” He turned to look at her. “You know what I mean. I saw you practicing with your props, going over your lines. Andrew didn’t seem to give a shit. But he also didn’t strike me as the kind of guy who would shoot a stranger in a room full of people.”
“If he had some reason to shoot the judge, they probably weren’t strangers.” Isobel pulled her jacket tighter and rubbed her hands up and down her arms.
“Do you want me to turn the air down?” Tony asked.
“Just a little, if you don’t mind,” Isobel said. “I think Peter’s behavior is every bit as weird as Andrew’s, don’t you?”
Tony paused by the air conditioner. “What do you mean?” He brightened. “Oh, you mean, forgetting about the checks?”
“No, I mean forgetting about Andrew. Peter never said anything to the police about him. As far as they know, Andrew doesn’t exist.”
“Why didn’t you say something if you saw him run off?”
“I did. I told Peter.”
Tony scratched his neck. “But not the police?”
“I figured he’d tell them,” Isobel said. “I was so focused on Delphi that I didn’t realize until later that he hadn’t.”
“You think Peter was covering for him?” Tony asked, surprised.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Well, that’s the question isn’t it?” Isobel realized her right butt cheek had fallen asleep. She shifted onto the couch’s middle pillow, which looked like it might offer more support.
It didn’t.
Tony shook his head, and Isobel did her best not to flinch as drops of sweat sprayed toward her. “It doesn’t make sense. He didn’t know Andrew. He knew Jack,” Tony repeated. “Besides, you can’t predict how you’re going to respond in a situation like that. I’m telling you, Peter forgot about him.”
Isobel smiled. “You’re probably right. You know what they say. Never attribute to Machiavellian manipulation what can be explained by sheer animal stupidity.”
“Right. Wait...what?”
“Human error. Simple as that.” Isobel hauled herself off the couch with some effort and handed Tony her empty glass. “I have to get going. Thanks for the water.”
“Thanks for the check.”
“Andrew didn’t answer my email about his. Do you think Jack might know how to reach him?”
“Yeah, maybe. I get the sense they’re pretty good friends. I might have an email somewhere for Jack. If I find it, I’ll send it to you.”
“That would be great, thanks,” Isobel said, heading for the door. If she stayed any longer, she was liable to start sneezing from the cold. “If I can get the check to Jack, that’s one step closer to getting it to Andrew.”
And, perhaps, she thought, one step closer to finding out why he’d bolted.
NINE
“How do I look?” Isobel asked as she emerged from the bathroom the next morning.
And Justice for Some Page 5
