I Is for Innocent

by Sue Grafton

  “What does he care? That’s this case. He’s tied up doing something else. I’ve worked for him six years and I know what he’s like. I can leave a message, but he’ll just ignore it until this trial is over with.”

  “What am I supposed to do till he gets back? I can’t afford to waste time and I hate spinning my wheels.”

  “Do whatever you want. You’re not going to get anything from him until nine o’clock Monday morning.”

  I glanced at my watch. This was still Wednesday. It was 4:05. “I’ve got an appointment near St. Terry’s in half an hour. After that, I think I’ll go home and clean house,” I said.

  “What’s with the cleaning? That doesn’t sound like you.”

  “I spring clean every three months. It’s a ritual I learned from my aunt. Beat all the throw rugs. Line-dry the sheets. . . .”

  She looked at me with disgust. “Why don’t you go on a hike up in Los Padres?”

  “I don’t hang out in nature if I can help it, Ida Ruth. There are ticks up in the mountains as big as water bugs. Get one of those on your ankle, it’d suck all your blood out. Plus, you’d probably be afflicted with a pustular disease.”

  She laughed, gesturing dismissively.

  I dispensed with a few miscellaneous matters on my desk and locked my office in haste. I was curious about David Barney’s ex-wife, but somehow I didn’t imagine she’d enlighten me much. I went downstairs and hoofed it the three and a half blocks to my car. Happily, I didn’t have a ticket sitting on my windshield. Unhappily, I turned the key in the ignition and the car refused to start. I could get it to make lots of those industrious grinding noises, but the engine wouldn’t turn over.

  I got out and went around to the rear, where I opened the hood. I stared at the engine like I knew what I was looking at. The only car part I can identify by name is the fan belt. It looked fine. I could see that some little doodads had come unhooked from the round thing. I said, “Oh.” I stuck ’em back. I was just getting in the front seat when a car pulled halfway into the drive. I tried the engine and it fired up.

  “Can I help?” The guy driving had leaned across the front seat and rolled the window down on the passenger side.

  “No, thanks. I’m fine. Am I blocking your drive?”

  “No trouble. There’s room enough. What was it, your battery? You want me to take a look?”

  What was this? The engine was running. I didn’t need any help. “Thanks, but I’ve already got things under control,” I said. To demonstrate my point, I revved the engine and shifted into neutral, temporarily perplexed about which way to go. I couldn’t pull forward because of the car parked in front of me. I couldn’t back up because his car was blocking my rear.

  He turned his engine off and got out. I left mine rumbling, wondering if I had time to roll up my window without seeming rude. He looked harmless enough, though his face was familiar. He was a nice-looking man, in his late forties with light brown wavy hair graying at the temples. He had a straight nose and a strong chin. Short-sleeved T-shirt, chinos, deck shoes without socks.

  “You live in the neighborhood?” he asked pleasantly.

  I knew this guy. I could feel my smile fade. I said, “You’re David Barney.”

  He braced his arms on the car and leaned toward the window. Subtly, I could feel the man invading my turf, though his manner remained benign. “Look, I know this is inappropriate. I know I’m way out of line here, but if I can just have five minutes, I swear I won’t bother you again.”

  I studied him briefly while I consulted my internal warning system. No bells, no whistles, no warning signs. While the man had annoyed me on the telephone, “up close and personal” he seemed like ordinary folk. It was broad daylight, a pleasant middle-class neighborhood. He didn’t appear to be armed. What was he going to do, gun me down in the streets with his trial a month away? At this point, I had no idea where my investigation was going. Maybe he’d provide some inspiration for a change. I thought about the professional implications of the conversation. According to the State Bar Rules of Court, an attorney is not permitted to communicate directly with the “represented party.” A private investigator isn’t limited by the same stringent code.

  “Five minutes,” I said. “I have to be somewhere after that.” I didn’t tell him the appointment was with his ex-wife. I turned the engine off and remained in my car with the window rolled down halfway.

  He closed his eyes, letting out a big breath. “Thank you,” he said. “I really didn’t think you’d do this. I don’t even know where to begin,” he said. “Let me admit to something right up front. I pulled your distributor caps. It was a sneaky thing to do and I apologize. I just didn’t think you’d agree to talk to me otherwise.”

  “You got that right,” I said.

  He looked off down the street and then he shook his head. “Did you ever lose your credibility? It’s the most amazing phenomenon. You know, you live all your life being an upright citizen, obeying the law, paying taxes, paying your bills on time. Suddenly, none of that counts and anything you say can be held against you. It’s too weird. . . .”

  I tuned him out briefly, reminded of a time, not that long ago, when my own credibility went south and I was suspected of taking bribes by the very company that had trusted me with its business for six years.

  “. . . really thought it was over. I thought I’d come through the worst of it when I was acquitted on the criminal charges. I just got my life back and now I’m being sued for everything I own. I live like a leper. I’m shunned. . . .” He straightened up. “Oh, hell, let’s not even get into that,” he said. “I’m not trying to generate sympathy—”

  “What are you trying to do?”

  “Appeal to your sense of fair play. This guy McIntyre, the informant—”

  “Where’d you get that name?”

  “My attorney took his deposition. I was floored when I heard what he had to say.”

  “I’m not at liberty to discuss this, Mr. Barney. I hope you understand that.”

  “I know that. I’m not asking. I just beg you to consider. Even if he’d actually been in the court house when the verdict came down, why would I say such a thing to him? I’d have to be nuts. Have you met . . . what’s his name, Curtis? I was in a cell with the man less than twenty-four hours. The guy’s a schmuck. He comes up to me on acquittal and I confess to murder? The story’s crazy. He’s an idiot. You can’t believe that.”

  I was feeling oddly protective of Curtis. There was no way I was going to tell Barney the informant had changed his account. Curtis’s testimony might still prove useful if we could ever figure out what the truth was. I didn’t intend to discuss the details of his statement, however shaky it might appear. “This isn’t such a hot idea,” I said.

  Barney went on, “Just think about it, please. Does he strike you as the type I’d confide my darkest secrets to? This is a frame-up. Somebody paid him to say that—”

  “Get to the point. The talk about a frame-up is horseshit. I don’t want to hear it.”

  “Okay, okay. I understand where you’re coming from. That wasn’t my intention anyway,” he said. “When we spoke on the phone, I mentioned the business about this guy Shine. I was thrown by his death. It really shook me, I can tell you. I know you didn’t take me seriously at the time, but I’m telling the truth. I talked to him last week and told him the same stuff I’m telling you. He said he’d check into a couple of matters. I thought maybe the guy was going to give me a break. When I heard he was dead, it scared the hell out of me. I feel like I’m playing chess with an invisible opponent and he just made a move. I’m getting boxed in here and I don’t see a way out.”

  “Wait a minute. Did you think Morley Shine would do something your own attorney couldn’t manage?”

  “Hiring Foss on this one was a big mistake. Civil work doesn’t interest him. Maybe he’s burned out or maybe he’s just tired of representing me. He’s strictly painting by the numbers, doing what’s expected, as fa
r as I can see. He’s got some investigator on it—one of those guys who generates a lot of paper, but doesn’t inspire much confidence.”

  “So why don’t you fire him?”

  “Because they’ll claim all I’m doing is impeding due process. Besides, I’ve got no money left. What little I have goes to pay my attorney, plus the upkeep on the house. I don’t know what Kenneth Voigt thinks he’s going to get out of the deal even if he makes this thing stick.”

  “I’m not going to argue the merits of the case. This is pointless, Mr. Barney. I understand you have problems—”

  “Hey, you’re right. I didn’t mean to get off on that stuff. Here’s the point: This case goes into court, all it’s going to do is make both these attorneys rich. But Voigt’s not going to back off. The guy’s after my blood, so there’s no way he’ll agree to walk off with a handshake and a check for big bucks, even if I had it. But I’ll tell you one thing—and here’s what I do have—I’ve got an alibi.”

  “Really,” I said, my voice flat with disbelief.

  “Yes, really,” he said. “It’s not airtight, but it’s pretty solid.”

  “Why didn’t it come up during the criminal trial? I’ve read the transcripts. I don’t remember any mention of an alibi.”

  “Well, you better go back and read the transcripts again because the testimony’s right there. Guy named Angeloni. He put me miles from the crime scene.”

  “And you never testified on your behalf?”

  He shook his head. “Foss wouldn’t let me. He didn’t want the prosecution to get a crack at me and it turned out he played it smart. He said it’d be ‘counterproductive’ if I took the stand. Hell, maybe he thought I’d alienate the jury if I got up there.”

  “Why tell me about it?”

  “To see if I can put a stop to this before it goes to trial. The meter’s ticking. Time is short. I figure my only chance is to make sure Lonnie Kingman knows the cards he’s got out against him. Maybe he can talk to Voigt and get him to drop his suit.”

  “Have Herb Foss talk to Lonnie! That’s what attorneys are supposed to do.”

  “I’ve asked him to do that. The guy is jerkin’ me around. I finally decided it’s time to circumvent the man.”

  “So you’re tipping me off to your own attorney’s defense?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Are you suicidal?”

  “I told you I’m desperate. I can’t go through this again. You don’t have to take my word for it. Check the facts yourself,” he said. “Now, do you want to hear me out or not?”

  What I wanted was to bang my forehead against the steering wheel till it bled. Maybe the self-inflicted pain would help me clear my thought processes. Actually, I have to confess I was hooked. If nothing else, knowing Herb Foss’s strategy would give Lonnie a big advantage, wouldn’t it? “Jesus, all right. What’s the story?” I said.

  11

  “Look, I know people don’t believe I was out jogging the night Isabelle was killed, but I can tell you where I was. At one-forty, I was at the southbound off-ramp at San Vicente and the One-oh-one, which is probably eight miles from the house. If Iz was killed between one and two, there’s no way I could have done it and still ended up at that intersection when I did. I mean, I’ve been running for years and I’m in pretty fair shape, but I’m not that good.”

  “How can you be so sure of the time?”

  “I was running for time. That’s how I train. And I’ll tell you who else was there: Tippy Parsons, Rhe’s daughter, driving a little pickup, and she was very upset. She came barreling down the off-ramp and turned left on San Vicente.”

  “Did she see you?”

  “She nearly ran me down! I’m not sure she realized it, but she nearly knocked me ass over teakettle coming off the exit. I looked at my watch because I knew my times would be screwed up and it pissed me off.”

  “Did anyone see you?”

  “Sure. Some guy working on a busted water main. They had a crew out there. You probably don’t remember, but we had some heavy rainstorms over Christmas that year. With the ground saturated, the soil was shifting and those old pipes were disintegrating everyplace.”

  “You said the alibi wasn’t airtight. What’s that supposed to mean?”

  He smiled slightly. “If you’re dead or in federal custody, that’s airtight. A hotshot like Kingman can always find a way to twist facts. All I’m saying is, I was miles away and I’ve got a witness. And he’s an honest, hardworking guy, not some piece of shit like what’s-his-face, McIntyre.”

  “What about Tippy? She’s never said a word about this as far as I know. Why didn’t you confront her?”

  “What the hell for? I figured if she’d seen me, she’d have spoken up by now. And even if she spotted me, it’s my word against hers. She was sixteen years old and hysterical about something. She might have just broken up with her boyfriend, or her cat might have died. The bottom line is, I was miles from the house when Isabelle was killed. I didn’t even know what had happened until an hour later when I jogged past the house again. All the cop cars were there, the place was blazing with lights—”

  ‘What about the repair crew? Will they support your claim?”

  “I don’t see why not. The guy took the stand before. Fellow by the name of Angeloni. He’s on the list of witnesses, probably right up at the top. He saw me for sure and I know he saw her truck. She scared me so bad I had to sit on the curb and get my heart back to normal. It took me five or six minutes until I was okay again. By then, I said to hell with it and headed on home.”

  “And you told the cops this?”

  “Go read the report. Cops figured me for the murderer so they didn’t pursue it.”

  I was silent for a moment, wondering what to make of it. Two days ago, his claims would have seemed preposterous. Now I wasn’t sure. “I’ll pass this on to Lonnie when I talk to him. That’s the best I can do.” Jesus, was I going to have to go out and corroborate his alibi?

  He started to say more and then seemed to think better of it. “Fine. You do that. That’s really all I’m asking. I appreciate your time,” he said. His eyes met mine briefly. “I thank you for this.”

  “It’s all right,” I said.

  He returned to his car. I watched him in the rearview mirror while he started the engine and backed out of the drive. He pulled away and I listened to the sound of his transmission as he shifted gears. Curious story. Something rang a bell, but I couldn’t think what it was. Was Tippy Parsons really at the intersection? It seemed as if there must be a way to find out. I remembered reading about the storm coming through about that time.

  I started the VW and pulled away from the curb, heading for the appointment with his ex-wife.

  The Santa Teresa Medical Clinic, where Laura Barney worked, was a small wood-frame structure in the shadow of St. Terry’s Hospital, which was two doors away. The exterior was plain—ever so faintly shabby—the interior pleasant, but leaning toward the low-budget. The chairs in the waiting room had molded blue plastic seats and metal legs linked together in units of six. The walls were yellow, the floors a marbleized vinyl tile, tan with white streaks. There was a wide wooden counter at one end of the room. On the far side, through the wide archway, I could see four desks, straight-backed office chairs, telephones, typewriters . . . nothing high-tech, streamlined, or color-coded. The rear wall was lined with tan metal file cabinets. I gathered, from the scattering of toddlers, pregnant women, and wailing infants, that this was a combination maternity and well-baby facility. It was almost closing time and the patients still waiting had probably been backed up for an hour. Children’s toys and ripped magazines were strewn across the floor.

  I moved to the counter, spotting Laura Barney by her name tag, which read “L. Barney, R.N.” She wore a white pants-suit uniform and white crepe-soled shoes. I judged her to be somewhere in her early forties. She had reached an age where she could still achieve the same fresh good looks she’d enjoyed ten years ea
rlier—it just took a lot more makeup and the effect probably wore off after an hour or two. At this time of day, the layers of foundation and loose powder had become nearly translucent, showing skin underneath that was reddened from cigarette smoke. She looked like a woman who’d been forced to go out into the workplace and wasn’t at all happy with the necessity.

  She was currently in the process of instructing a new employee, probably the same young girl I’d spoken to on the phone. Laura was counting out money like a bank teller, flicking bills through her fingers almost faster than the eye could see, turning each bill so it was right side up. If she came across a denomination that was out of place, she would slide it into the proper sequence. “Every bill should face in the same direction and they should be arranged with the smallest bills in front. Ones, fives, tens, twenties,” she was saying. “That way you’ll never inadvertently make change with a ten-dollar bill when you mean to use a one. Look at this. . . .” She fanned them out like a magician performing a card trick. I almost expected her to say, “Pick a bill, any bill. . . .” Instead, she said, “Are you listening?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” The young woman might have been nineteen, fifteen pounds overweight, with dark curly hair, flushed cheeks, and dark eyes glinting with suppressed tears.

  L. Barney, R.N., opened the cash drawer again and removed an unruly wad of bills, which she held out silently. The young clerk took them. Self-consciously, she began to sort through the handful of bills, turning one upright in an awkward imitation of Laura Barney’s expertise. Several denominations were out of sequence and she held the wad against her chest while she tried to straighten them out, dropping two fives in an attempt to get them in the correct order. She stammered an apology, stooping quickly to retrieve them. Laura Barney watched her with a slight smile, eyes nearly glittering with the urge to snatch the money back and do it for her. She must have itched to demonstrate the smooth, seamless effort with which an experienced cashier could perform so elementary a task. The absorption with which she watched seemed to make the girl more clumsy.