He seemed to pick up her look. “Know any good lawyers? Can you help me out, Coll? The cops said they called the public defender but that sounds dicey.”
Didn’t it? Overworked and unlikely to give Steve their full attention. Especially for a murder and possible kidnap.
Who? Christian Newell, Alex’s wimpy lawyer? Who had done a lackluster job helping Colleen fend off a frisky parole officer? No way, Jose.
“Let me look into it.” She gave him another telepathic look. “Sit tight. I’ll make some calls.”
“Thanks, Coll. Thanks a lot.”
“I found her once, Steve. I’ll find her again.”
“I’m counting on you.”
“I’ll be in touch. Tomorrow morning.”
“Got any smokes?”
She cracked a smile. “Virginia Slims?”
He returned a smile. “Beggars can’t be choosers.”
She turned to the guard who was hanging on her every word. “I got a pack of cigarettes in my jacket. Can I get them out, and can you see that he gets them?”
Guard shook his head no. “Time for you to wrap this up.”
Damn. She turned back to Steve. “Sorry, compadre.”
“No worries, love. Virginia Slims might get me beaten up in here anyway.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
“You heard what Steve said,” Colleen said to Owens, back at the Formica table in the interrogation room. She was beginning to feel an uneasy sensation of being in jail herself. After all the years she’d spent behind bars, being close to law enforcement and its trappings for too long put her on edge.
Owens tapped his pencil, gave her a cool look. “I heard what he said, but I’m not sure I heard the same thing you did.” Owens had been listening in.
She felt her face warm. Owens still didn’t believe Steve. “Do you really think he’d keep the gun if he shot his ex?”
Owens gave a smirk. “Seems to me you might be a little soft for your client.”
“He’s my client.”
“Who lied to you about going over to Lynda’s.”
“He came clean when I pushed.”
“Because he knew you had him.” Owens grimaced, looked at his notes. “My recommendation is still going to be that we hold him, book him in the morning.” He looked up at Colleen.
“You’ll have to wait until he gets legal counsel. I’ll get to work on a lawyer, but it will take time.”
“The judge might wave legal counsel in our favor,” Owens said.
“And he might not,” she said. “And Steve’s daughter has been kidnapped. The longer he sits in here, the worse it gets for her.”
“Maybe his daughter has been kidnapped,” Owens said. “Maybe he’s got something elaborate going on.”
“No. It doesn’t make any sense.”
“Well, charging him and holding him is one way to find out if he’s up to something. And besides, your client has got ‘flight risk’ written all over him.”
As much as she hated to admit it, she understood where Owens was coming from. He wasn’t sure about Steve, who had a dead woman in his past, and a bad habit of fleeing the country. Charging him and holding him was a way to sit tight and apply pressure at the same time.
“We can always drop the charges later,” Owens said.
“And you can always not drop them, too,” she said.
“This is the way I’m going to play it. But, if it makes any difference, I don’t think he meant to kill her.”
Small mercies. She stood up. It wouldn’t do any good to keep arguing. “I’ll find him a lawyer.”
“And you better not be actively working on this anymore.” He raised his eyebrows. “Right?”
Sometimes it did not pay to tell the truth. “Right.”
“I’ll have someone run you home,” he said.
“Don’t bother.”
“It’s raining.”
“I’ll grab a cab.” She’d had enough police for one day. The thought of riding home in a cruiser would only prolong it.
The next morning, the DA charged Steve Cook with second-degree murder, per Inspector Owens’ recommendation, along with Child Endangerment. The DA wasn’t going to charge Steve with a kidnapping he couldn’t prove. Not yet.
Colleen’s heart sank.
If nothing else, it made her side more with Steve.
Outside, rain cascaded down her windows. Melanie Cook was still gone, and it weighed on Colleen. She willed herself to stay strong.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Colleen checked her answering service early the next morning, the rain pattering against the windows of her flat. She put in a call to a lawyer named Gus Pedersen, who had a reputation for getting people off of some tough charges. He lived in Stinson Beach, where he surfed and took the odd case.
She reviewed what paperwork she had, in particular Lynda Cook’s phone bills.
There were numerous calls to Rex Williamson, Lynda’s father, in Los Angeles.
She didn’t buy that Lynda’s father would kill his own daughter, kidnap his own granddaughter, but she hadn’t met him. Stranger things had happened. Talking to Rex was next on her to-do list.
She called her travel agent. People’s Express was running a ten-dollar flight from SFO to LAX. A little more than the cost of a cab to the airport.
A couple of hours later, dressed in a smart dark blue skirt suit with a white blouse and black pumps, hoisting her shoulder bag, she got off the plane in LAX. At a pay phone in the terminal she called Rex Williamson’s house, and when he answered, she hung up. He was home. All she needed to know. She stepped out into the warm Los Angeles sunshine and flagged a Yellow cab. Rex Williamson lived in Manhattan Beach, not too far from the airport, so there was no need to rent a car.
By lunchtime she was standing in front of a sleek ’60s modern two-story gray cement building not far from the beach on Highland Avenue, the Pacific Ocean twinkling beyond. The house had big windows and terraces.
She over-tipped the cabbie, a Vietnamese refugee in a crisp white shirt who spoke halting English, handing him a twenty-dollar bill and asking him to wait for her just up the street. She didn’t think she’d be that long and would need a ride back to LAX. He accepted, returning a polite bow.
Rex Williamson had a wrought-iron fence, also gray, around his manicured yard. She rang the buzzer, the eye of the Vericon security camera over the gate watching her. Not too many people had these systems. It said something about Rex Williamson.
The gate buzzed open. That was easy enough, she thought, readying one of her business cards.
The front door opened as she walked up the flagstone path. A tall, lean man in beige slacks, red loafers, no socks, and a red cardigan over a beige shirt with a Nehru collar watched her guardedly. He had thick white movie star hair and wore light-blue sunglasses. His face was craggy and over-tanned. He was well preserved for a man in his sixties.
He raised his eyebrows questioningly.
“Colleen Hayes,” she said as she reached the door. She saw no need for subterfuge at this point.
“Ah,” he said.
She didn’t see a great deal of surprise in his face. He shut the door, walked inside the house ahead of her. Colleen followed.
The lower level of the house was open floor plan, all whites and grays, giving out to the Pacific beyond a swimming pool that shimmered with midday sun. A color-coordinated modern art painting of nothing in particular hung over a black leather sofa. The house was immaculately neat.
Rex Williamson didn’t ask Colleen to sit down.
Instead he walked into the sleek open kitchen that looked like it had never been cooked in, opened a drawer, picked something out of it, came out into the living room.
He stood, a small pistol by his side. He put his other hand in his pocket, rattling keys or change.
Her heart jumped. “There’s no need for that,” she said.
“I’m not sure I agree.” He came up to her in measured steps, took her bag, tossed it
on a black leather chair. He motioned for her to turn around.
“I’m not carrying a gun,” she said.
“And I should just take your word for it.” He patted her down with one hand, then, satisfied, picked up the bag, dumped the contents onto the chair with a clatter. Cigarettes, Bic lighter, lipstick, coin purse, hairbrush. Loose bills. But no gun.
He strode to the picture window, turned around, the gun lazily by his side. His face was completely devoid of a smile.
“What do you want?” he said tersely.
“To talk about your daughter. And your granddaughter. I can’t imagine this is an easy time for you.”
“Oh, that’s good—considering you’re one of the reasons Lynda’s dead.”
“You’re saying Lynda would still be alive if I let you two get away with your scam? Pretending to kidnap your granddaughter? Putting Steve through hell so you could wrangle song rights out of him?”
“I’m not admitting to any of that.”
“You don’t have to. It’ll come out.”
“Perhaps you’d like to think.”
“You orchestrated the so-called kidnapping with Lynda, in order to make your ex-son-in-law beholden to you. But you didn’t really want the $20,000 he had to go in hock for. You wanted him to ‘borrow’ the money from you in exchange for the rights to his catalog. Question is, why? Or, more to the point, why now? Why not two years ago? Five?”
He nodded impatiently. “If you’ve got some proof of any of this, feel free to give it to the police. LAPD’s been here all morning and they’d like to hear it. Oddly enough, they were more concerned about the fact that my granddaughter’s missing.”
Colleen cocked her head to one side. “I don’t have any proof that implicates you—yet. Beyond the fact that you were eager to loan Steve the ransom money.”
Rex Williamson gave a faux nod of confusion. “And where did you hear that?”
“I was there when Steve dealt with your lawyer.”
“Oh, right—the man who’s in jail for murdering my daughter.” Rex gave a plastic grin, which immediately faded.
“Variety featured a piece that a director is looking at ‘Shades of Summer’ for an upcoming RomCom. That would be right down your alley, wouldn’t it? Being an independent movie producer.”
He gave a mean smirk. “Ah, yes. Variety, that veritable fountain of rumor and misinformation.” He shook his head. “If you don’t have anything beyond hearsay, I suggest you keep your theories to yourself. Otherwise, you will be hearing from my lawyers.”
“Lawyers,” she repeated, accentuating the plural. “You’ve got more than one. I suspect you’ll need them.”
His chiseled mouth folded into a grimace. “I’ve got plenty of people when I need them.” He raised his eyebrows. “You might want to remember that.”
For all the vitriol, she could tell he didn’t kill his daughter. But, rather than grieving, he was hiding behind anger. Anger and fear. He had a hand in this. Somehow.
“I didn’t really come down here to accuse you of murder,” she said. “Steve is in a lot of trouble. Why not help him out? He is the father of your granddaughter.”
Rex Williamson gave another one of his light-switch smiles. “I’ll get right on it.”
“You know he didn’t kill Lynda.”
“Don’t assume you know what I’m thinking.”
“Steve is on the hook for $27,000—the twenty he borrowed to pay off the ‘kidnappers,’ plus another seven K interest. Thanks to you and Lynda. The people who lent him the money aren’t going to want to hear excuses. So I can take it with me now, or you can get it to me soon, and Steve can pay off the loan sharks.”
“Cojones, lady. You’ve certainly got ’em.”
“You don’t have the money? Then who does?”
“We’re done here.” He waved the gun lazily. “No sudden moves on your way out.”
“Well, I tried.” She went over to the chair, gathered her overturned bag, replaced the contents, slung the bag over her shoulder. She gave Rex Williamson one last look. “If you work with me, I can help get your granddaughter back. But I’m going to need the twenty-seven K to get Steve out of trouble. Someone you know has it.”
He stood there for a moment and she almost wondered whether he was going to capitulate. Then he said, “Now she’s trying to shake me down for ransom money for my granddaughter. I wonder what the police will think of that.”
Colleen sighed. “If you have any info on who took Melanie, now would be a good time to tell me.”
He shook his head, held the gun on her. “I’ve got nothing further to say to you.”
“Okay, Rex,” she said. “Have it your way.”
Rex didn’t know Melanie’s whereabouts. And he was too scared to find out. Someone had gotten to him.
She headed to the door, walked down the flagstone path in the warm Los Angeles sun, let herself off the property. Out of the edge of the curb, she peered up the street, saw her Yellow cab waiting. She gave a wave and the car set into motion. She could hear the gulls in the distance circling over the beach.
Back home in San Francisco, a few hours later, it was still raining. She called 850 Bryant. Steve was still being held, hadn’t been transferred. Visiting hours were over for the day. Gus Pedersen, the surfer lawyer from Stinson Beach, had returned her call. She called him back. They made arrangements to meet the next day.
Colleen sat down in her office and went through her case file. If only she had one more rummage through Lynda’s place. She found the Polaroid of the note to Lynda from Sir Ian Ellis, President of Delco records, taken the first time she “visited” Lynda’s.
Lynda-
Simply lovely to see you again. But then, you are so easy to look at. Next time I’m in town, I’d love you to show me around.
Best, Ian
P.S. I think we’ve made some headway on SOS.
The P.S. gave Colleen pause for thought. She hadn’t made a connection the first time she read it. She got up, went into the living room, picked up the copy of that album, read the liner notes.
“When I first saw The Lost Chords play The Marquee, I knew right off I had to sign the band, right then and there. Signed them on the spot. I just knew. They’ve had their ups and downs—that’s the nature of the pop music business—but The Lost Chords are the real deal. A gas, as their fans say. And I can say without a doubt that I’m bloody proud I signed them first. Like a proud father.” … Ian Ellis, manager for The Lost Chords.
Made some headway on SOS.
SOS.
She looked at the track listing.
Side two, track one: “Shades of Summer.”
SOS.
Colleen checked her watch. Good old SF Public Library on Van Ness was still open. She pulled on a raincoat this time, an SF Giants cap to go with it, and bounced down the back stairs to her car.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Colleen met Gus Pedersen early the next morning in the Rain Café on Haight Street. Appropriately enough it was raining. The café was steamy with moisture and half full of patrons. The radio played Linda Ronstadt, “Blue Bayou.” It was rumored Linda was dating Governor Jerry Brown, who drove a beat-up Plymouth Satellite and was fondly called Moonbeam. Only in California.
When he pushed open the door, Gus Pedersen looked nothing like Colleen’s previous lawyer, a nattily dressed young man with Ken-doll hair so neat it seemed to be painted on. Gus was football-player big, with a long unruly brown mane kept in place by a well-worn black cowboy hat decorated with an Indian beaded headband. His wide-set eyes were shielded behind tinted aviator glasses. He wore a long bushy mustache and sideburns. A fringed suede jacket was peppered with dark raindrops. Faded jeans and snakeskin cowboy boots completed the look. Gus looked more like he might be selling some of the products his clients got busted for out on Haight Street. Despite that, his manner was professional as he handed Colleen a business card.
“Thanks for driving down from Stinson Beach at such sho
rt notice in the rain,” Colleen said. She wore a dark-red tracksuit with her Pony Topstars. She had dressed comfortably for the long trip ahead. Her passport was in her pocket. Fortunately, where she was going didn’t restrict her based on her prison record.
“You said you were leaving the country?” Gus said, sitting down on the other side of her table. He had a baritone voice.
“London,” she said, getting her file folder out. “Today.”
“Vacation?”
“No,” she said. “It’s actually for this case.”
Gus ordered jasmine tea.
They went over the case so far.
“Does Steve Cook know I’m his attorney yet?” Gus said, elbows on the table.
“Not yet,” Colleen said. “But I did let him know I’d line one up.”
Gus checked his wristwatch, a Rolex Submariner with a black face. “I’ll head over to the Hall of Justice after this, introduce myself. But it’s going to be tough getting him bail, with his history of running from the law.”
“He doesn’t have any bail money anyway.”
“Want a ride to the airport?” Gus said.
“No thanks,” she said. “You focus on Steve. Try to find any weakness you can in SFPD’s case.”
“Wonder if they had a valid search warrant. A gun found under the floorboards is not in a location considered accessible by a normal, legal search, unless detailed in the warrant.”
Colleen hadn’t considered that. Gus was already promising more than her previous lawyer.
Gus eyed her from behind his sunglasses for a moment, as if weighing his words.
“Your client is innocent, correct?” he asked.
Colleen found herself mulling that over a little bit too long.
“Of course,” she said. She stood up. So did Gus. They shook hands.
“I’ll call you from London,” she said. “It’ll probably be collect.”
“It all goes on the bill,” he said, tapping his paper notes together, folding them, along with a check she’d given him. Colleen had paid Steve’s retainer. It was a good thing she’d received an unexpected bonus on her last gig. She was plowing through it at a steady rate. But there was an eleven-year-old girl who was missing.
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