Shake the Trees

by Rod Helmers

  Elizabeth had never seen him this upset. She was once again convinced that he cared far more about Dr. Bob than he did his own son. His own flesh and blood. Maybe more than he did for her. She had tried to console him, but he pulled away from her touch. He didn’t want the consolation of the person that cared for him more than she cared for herself.

  Elizabeth was asking herself the same questions that James was asking the walls. Unlike James, her reaction to the death of Dr. Bob was not rooted in grief, though it was a consequence of loss. She was convinced that Dr. Bob had been killed for the money. Her money. And the most likely suspect was Marc. Even though he had basically been under lock and key for the past six weeks, she knew that somehow this had to be his fault.

  James had again retreated to the bedroom. Elizabeth put her hands to her pounding temples. The twin tentacles of stress and caffeine deprivation had reached out from the base of her spine and gripped her brain. She knocked tentatively on the bedroom door, but James didn’t respond.

  “I’m sorry, James. I’m so very sorry. I wish there was something I could do. I wish I could fix this.”

  Again James did not reply.

  “Are you going to be okay?”

  Nothing.

  “I’m going to give you some time alone, baby. I’m going to take a walk. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

  Again nothing. Elizabeth hung her head in recognition of her failure. Of a failure she did not understand or know how to correct. But she knew she had failed him. She felt it in her soul. She was unworthy of his love. Somehow this was all her fault. Just like her father’s death had somehow been her fault.

  Despite the emotional turmoil of the morning, or maybe because of it, her body screamed for caffeine. For coffee. James no longer drank the stuff; his urologist had put it off limits. Elizabeth promised to never brew the beloved elixir in his presence again. She didn’t want to leave James alone, but she needed to think. And to think she needed coffee, so Elizabeth found her purse and quietly pulled the condo door shut behind her.

  It was nearly 10:00 a.m. and Sally had to pee again. Decaf may have helped with the other side effects, but drinking it still made you pee. She had taken pictures of several attractive blue-eyed girls in the last four and a half hours, and now her camera phone was nearly full. She pulled a cable out of her bag and connected the cell phone to her laptop. In a few moments she had downloaded all of the pictures, and cleared the memory of her phone.

  The entire morning had felt like a huge waste if time. And coffee. The young male manager of the Blue Moon was looking at her again. She gave him her most friendly smile and hoped he remembered the nearly ten dollars she had made a show of stuffing in his tip jar.

  Sally stood up and put her laptop and other possessions in her backpack and threw one of the straps over her left shoulder. Then grabbed her camera phone and turned to make her way to the bathroom. It was at that very moment that she walked in. Sally immediately knew there was something wrong about this girl. It wasn’t only the blue eyes. The bluest eyes she had ever seen. It wasn’t only that.

  Sally awkwardly flipped her phone open with one hand and took a couple of pictures at a very odd angle. She had tried to be discreet, but circumstance had worked against her. The blue-eyed girl looked her in the eyes and held her gaze. Then continued on to the counter. After she passed, Sally shivered at the steely stare she had just endured and dropped back into her chair.

  As the blue-eyed girl placed her order, Sally rummaged through her backpack until she came up with a small spiral notebook, and then quickly thumbed through the pages. Sally looked up at the back of the blue-eyed girl, and then down at the number on the small notebook that lay open on the table in front of her. The number of the disposable cell that had called the gumbo-limbo BlackBerry.

  Sally recalled Tillis’ admonition that she shouldn’t call the number. No matter what. Then she punched the numbers into her cell phone and held her index finger over the send button. She chewed her lower lip for several seconds. Until she nearly drew blood. And impulsively stabbed the button.

  In the next moment, the disposable cell phone in the bag of the blue-eyed girl began to ring. She spun around. Sally’s index finger was still poised over her cell phone and their eyes met again. Both knew the consequences of the gamble Sally had just taken and won. Yet the moment hung in still air, with neither woman able to fully accept her fortune and misfortune. And then the swirling wind of time passed between them.

  In one swift and fluid movement, the blue-eyed girl twisted the top off of her cup and flung its black steaming contents at Sally’s face. Sally instinctively turned to the side, and most off the hot coffee streamed off of her thick black hair. As she turned back, the blue-eyed girl had already slammed into the front door, pushing it open with the force of someone twice her size.

  Sally dropped her bag and was also out the door while it still hung open. After less than three blocks, Sally came to a gasping realization that the race had been lost before it ever really began. Sally had run track in high school and stayed in shape, but the blue-eyed girl was a rocket. As she came to a stop, bent over with hands on knees, inhaling huge gulps of air and the fumes of the coffee still dripping from her hair, only one thing was on her mind. She still really needed to pee.

  Sally made her way back to the Blue Moon and found a Miami Dade cruiser parked out front. She entered with her FDLE badge and ID leading the way.

  “Keep your pants on. Gotta pee.”

  The uniformed officer and the store manager could only manage a stare as she pushed open the bathroom door. Sally looked back and saw that her backpack had been placed on the counter next to the cash register and her laptop had been removed.

  “And don’t screw around with my laptop. That’s government property. I’ll be right back.”

  In a few moments Sally returned. Although she could now tell that her scalp and some spots on her face had been mildly burned by the hot coffee, she felt much better.

  “Cummings. FDLE Special Agent. I’m on assignment.” Sally laid her badge and ID on the counter and retrieved her laptop and backpack.

  “Cool,” the young male manager offered as he smiled and then appraised the wet and coffee stained t-shirt that clung to her breasts.

  Sally opened her cell phone and brought up the best picture she had taken of the blue-eyed girl. The shot was taken at an upward angle and prominently featured her chin. She handed the cell phone to the officer.

  “Can you keep your eyes open for this chick? We’ll get something out to everybody, but it may take a while. Grab her if you can. Call me either way. Here’s my card.”

  “What’s the charge?” The cop asked in a bored tone.

  Sally thought for a moment. “Battery on a law enforcement officer.”

  “Actually, it was Hawaiian Kona,” the manager added with a broad smile.

  Although Sally did her best to keep a straight face, the corners of her mouth tugged upwards into a Mona Lisa smile. “Smartass.”

  The overweight officer, who appeared near retirement age, was not impressed by the repartee. “Hey, pal, how about that coffee and crumb cake. I gotta go. On the house, right?”

  “No problem,” the manager replied, stuffing a bag full of pastries and handing it and a large American to the officer. “Enjoy.”

  The officer turned to leave. “Yeah, right.”

  Now Sally handed her camera phone to the manager. “Does she come here often?”

  The manager looked down at the phone and back at Sally. “My name is Matt.”

  “Hi, Matt. Have you seen her before?” Sally asked impatiently.

  Matt handed the cell phone back to Sally and studied her card, which the uniformed officer had left lying on the counter. “Almost every day, Sally. But I have a feeling that you may have run off one of my best customers. I guess you could make it up to me by letting me buy you dinner.”

  “Slow down, coffee boy. Does this chick have a name?”

&nbs
p; “Elizabeth. As in ‘large bold for Elizabeth.’ She doesn’t usually dress like that though. You know. In running clothes. At least not on a weekday. She usually dresses nice. Like a businesswoman or something.”

  “You have anything else for me?”

  Matt broke into another full-fledged grin.

  “About the girl, coffee boy.”

  “That’s all I know. Sorry.”

  “How’d she pay?”

  “Cash. Always cash. She hangs here on the weekends sometimes. With her laptop. We give good wi-fi here. You ought to try it sometime.” Matt again flashed his mildly charming post-adolescent smile.

  “What about the cup. Or the cover. Did she drop them after she threw her coffee on me?”

  “Nah. I would’ve picked them up. She must have taken them with her.” The young man stared at Sally thoughtfully. “Fingerprints, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Cool.”

  “Okay. You have my card. You call me on my cell if you think of anything else. Or if you see this girl around.” Sally slung her backpack over her shoulder and turned to leave.

  “Sally?”

  Sally looked back over her shoulder. “Sorry, Matt, all my dinner plans are on hold until I solve this case.”

  “Okay, sure, but there’s one more thing.”

  “What’s that?” Sally asked brusquely.

  “Well, can I keep the twenty?”

  “Huh?”

  “She ran outta here before I could make change. Can I keep the twenty?”

  “You have the bill she paid with?” Sally asked with mild surprise.

  “Yeah. It’s right here. I never put it in the drawer.”

  Sally walked back over to the counter and looked down at the bill lying next to the cash register. The bill looked relatively new and fresh. “What are these stains?”

  “Oh. I sorta overfilled her cup. I usually wipe it off before I hand it to the customer, but I was looking at you.”

  Matt again produced a wholesome grin and his cheeks pinked as Sally looked into his eyes. “You mean your hands were wet when she handed you the bill?”

  “No. Hers were.”

  Sally reached across the counter and grabbed Matt’s face with one hand and pressed his cheeks together until his lips began to protrude. Then leaned over and kissed him. When she let go of his face, he broke into yet another broad grin. “Fingerprints, right?”

  Elizabeth had followed a circuitous route through alleys and side streets before making her way back to the condo. She called James name as she entered, but there was no answer. The bedroom door hung open and the apartment felt deserted. She sighed with relief and picked up an antique glass bowl that sat on a walnut console near the door. After turning it upside down and allowing keys and pocket change to fall to the floor, she studied the beautiful object for a moment. Then flung it across the living room with all of the force she could muster. The bowl disintegrated into a thousand pieces and left a fist-sized dent in the drywall.

  “Fucking cell phone! How could I have been so stupid!” Elizabeth screamed the words as her face turned a scarlet red. Then James walked around the corner and every bit of color drained away.

  “I think it’s time you told me what you’ve done, Elizabeth. What the hell have you done?”

  CHAPTER 28

  Bartholomew Citron was an 82 year old never married man. He still carried a full head of white hair, and wore a closely cropped white beard and mustache. His suits and shirts were custom tailored in Hong Kong, and their European cut accented his slim and diminutive physique. A delicate Baume et Mercier wrapped around his left wrist and his right pinkie finger displayed a small gold ring which held a black onyx surrounded by tiny diamond chips. The silk bow ties he wore contributed to the overall fussiness of his appearance.

  The Citron name was well known in New Mexico, and the family had figured prominently in its territorial history. It was a family of big men with big egos that dominated a sometimes violent and turbulent time and place. That the line had produced Bartholomew Citron had caused more than one New Mexican to shake his head. No one had ever thought to refer to him as Bart Citron, the name by which his father and grandfather were known.

  Although Bartholomew Citron was small in stature, he was a giant in the field of water law. He had literally written the book on the subject, and was often referred to as the Dean of Water Law by experts in the field. Sandi knew the man, and the family, by reputation only, and was shocked when he politely introduced himself with carefully pronounced words uttered in soothing yet strangely high-pitched tones. His hand felt soft and fragile in hers, and she consciously relaxed the firmness of her grip out of concern for his well-being.

  “Please sit, Mr. Rimes and Ms. Johnson.”

  “Rodger and Sandi, please,” Rodger Rimes responded as he sat.

  “Very well. I have had a chance to review this matter, and to speak with The Department of Natural Resources. First of all, you should know that the paperwork documenting the water rights appurtenant to the Rimes Ranch claims a draw upon the San Luis River. That was obviously a mistake, inasmuch as the Rimes Ranch does not border upon and is upland from the San Luis River. The draw was and is, however, upon the San Luis Basin, which was probably the origin of the error. Such mistakes were not uncommon during the early part of the last century. Clearly, the claim should have been recorded as a draw upon Canones Creek, and the error can be corrected with retroactive application. This aspect of the matter should not prove difficult or involve undue expense.”

  “I think the other shoe is about to drop,” Rodger Rimes glumly commented.

  “You are very perceptive, Rodger. Perceptive and, unfortunately, correct. The reservoir on the Circle M was fully permitted, and the documents submitted in application for the permits were quite thorough and in good order. And inasmuch as there were no recorded draws upon Canones Creek, other than the draw appurtenant to the Circle M, the permits were properly issued. Albeit very expeditiously.”

  “New Mexican bureaucracy operates at many different speeds, depending on exactly what fuel has been put in the tank,” Rodger added.

  Citron nodded in agreement. “Well put.”

  Sandi was getting frustrated, and felt the discussion was getting off track. She pointed at Citron. “You just said that there was a mistake. It was a mistake that our draw - the Rimes Ranch draw on Canones Creek - wasn’t recorded right. And you said you could fix that.” Sandi was straining to avoid directing her anger at the attorney whose help she desperately needed.

  Citron nodded. “Everything you’ve just said is correct, Sandi. But the construction of the reservoir adds a layer of legal complexity. The Circle M is entitled to rely upon the recorded filings, and if the owner or owners of the Circle M have materially altered their position in reliance upon those filings, it becomes very difficult to undo what has already been done.”

  “In other words, we can fix this thing for the future. So nothing like this ever happens again. But the reservoir stays.” Rodger Rimes stated without emotion.

  “I couldn’t have put it any more succinctly myself,” Citron replied. “The matter is not entirely without hope, however. Litigation almost always engenders compromise, unless one or more of the parties are not governed by the laws of fiscal responsibility.”

  “Compromise?” Sandi asked.

  “Yes. We would obviously seek some agreement as to released flows to the downstream owner - being Rimes Ranch - during the driest months.” Citron responded.

  “And hopefully the new owners of the Circle M would agree so as to avoid the costs of continued litigation. Unless, of course, they have more money than God, and don’t give a damn.” Rodger explained to Sandi.

  “Yes. Yes. Quite succinctly stated, Rodger. Of course, the matters of time and money would weigh upon your decision in this regard.”

  “How long?” Rodger asked.

  “I would think we shouldn’t expect a resolution any sooner than two years
from the date litigation is commenced.”

  “Two years!” Sandi nearly shouted.

  “I’m sorry, Sandi, but litigation is a very time consuming and expensive endeavor.” Citron stated evenly.

  “How expensive?” Rodger asked.

  “I wouldn’t budget for anything less than $100,000.”

  “Oh my god.” Sandi whispered each word distinctly as she looked to her father.

  “This is something we’ll need to discuss before we make a decision,” Rodger stated as he looked Citron in the eye and ignored Sandi’s stare.

  “Dad, we don’t have a choice. We have to do this.” Sandi added in a plaintive tone.

  “We’ll discuss it, honey.”

  “Should you decide against pursuing the matter, there will be no charge for our consultation this afternoon.” Citron offered.

  “No, sir,” Rodger firmly replied. “I’ve never taken charity before, and I don’t expect I’ll be starting now.”

  “Sir, one of our nation’s great jurists, Oliver Wendell Holmes, once said that the law is an ass. Please don’t consider my failure to submit a bill as charity, but rather as an apology on behalf of an unrepentant ass. An unrepentant ass that has been very good to me. And as a small token of appreciation for your service. In recognition of your service.”

  A look of confusion crossed Sandi’s face. Rodger stood. “You know, I met your father once. At a cattlemen’s convention many years ago. He was a fine man as well.”

  Citron stood also. “Yes, well, like you, he was a man’s man. I’ve often thought it ironic that I’ve sometimes been described with the same words.” A wry smile spread across his face as he reached out to shake Rodger’s hand.

  Rodger guffawed. Sandi was momentarily shocked by the exchange, and then realized that the meeting was coming to an end and she hadn’t asked about Sam.

  “Mr. Citron, I hate to bother you with anything else, but I have a very close friend who is in a great deal of trouble in Florida. I was hoping you could provide a referral to a good attorney. A criminal attorney. I mean a criminal defense attorney.”