“You can do that?”
“We can help a guy do it for himself.”
“Doesn’t it hurt you to hear it?”
“Sure. I’m no machine. I’m human, so it hurts.” His eyes were fierce again. “But avoiding it is phony. And I’ve had it with phoniness, sister. I’ve seen Death’s face and Death’s backside, and I survived. And I’m going to make my survival mean something. This group is my way of wrestling one little bit of Disney World into something worthy of my dead. Something authentic.”
Something authentic.
She’d written it in her book. She blacked it out with careful strokes of her pen.
“Anyway,” Mitch added more gently, “while a guy is figuring himself out he’s damn fragile. No way am I going to expose him to the cops until he thinks he’s ready.”
The cops. That’s you, Schreiner. Get the information. She asked, “No matter what he’s done?”
A bitter grin. He jerked a thumb at his own chest. “I’ve done worse, sister. I personally have done worse. And Disney World tried to give me medals for it.”
That TV image of the hurled medals bubbled to the top of Holly’s mind. “Yeah. I understand.” She cleared her throat again. “But what if he can help us find why some other guy died? Make sense of it for his family?”
Mitch looked uneasy. “I hear you,” he said. “About making sense. But I can’t break a confidence.”
“Yeah.”
They both ground out their cigarettes.
“Look, I’ll tell you what I can do,” Mitch suggested. “I’ll give the guy your phone number. But it’s totally up to him and I’ll tell him that too.”
“Yeah. Okay.” She was touched by his protectiveness. She scribbled her name and phone number on a page, tore it out for him, and asked timidly, “Are there women in the rap group?”
Mitch laughed. “God, no! What would a woman know about it?”
She swallowed and said, “Well, I was a nurse. I saw a lot of deaths.”
He looked interested but shook his head as though trying to be kind. “Ain’t the same, sister. I mean, nurses prevent deaths. Our guys were pulling the trigger. Even if we did it to survive, even if our fucking country told us to, we’ve got to deal with guilt. Depression. Rage.”
“Yeah. I understand.”
“No! I’m saying you can’t understand!”
Holly blinked down at her notes. Even Mitch thought she shouldn’t feel the way she did. She must be crazy. Schreiner the crazy broad. The scum of the scum.
She put on her impassive cop look, closed her notebook, stood up. “Thanks for passing on the message, Mitch. I’ll wait for his call.”
“If he calls—you’ll remember what I said?”
Holly paused at the door, bleakly. “Oh, yeah. I’ll remember.”
She went out into the rain.
13
Olivia sat stiffly in a living room in Westwood Heights, amidst carved teak, an immensely thick blue-on-ivory Chinese rug, a photo of Frank Resler gazing from a carved wood frame, raw-silk walls. The dumpy woman across from her was in silk too, black mourning silk that should have minimized her stoutness but instead sliced across her body at the wrong places so that her thick neck and thick legs glowed in pale contrast. She should have been wearing a comfy housedress, but clearly she felt an obligation to blend into her elegant surroundings.
Her handkerchief, at least, was a plain white cotton workaday model, slightly damp.
“My husband was devoted to his clients,” Doris Resler told Olivia. “I know Mr. Colby and that other reporter thought someone might have been dissatisfied but I don’t see how that could be! Why, Frank worked so hard for each and every one of them. And Mr. Edgerton agreed with me.”
No wonder she’d looked so satisfied as she left Edgy’s office yesterday. Olivia put down her coffee cup on the ceramic Chinese table. The air-conditioning here was set a notch higher than most and the hot drink had brought a film of moisture to her face. “What kind of clients did he have?”
“Why, all kinds,” said Doris Resler. “They were accused of muggings, robberies, murders, negligence, pollution—”
Pollution? “Some of his clients were corporations?” Olivia asked. Made sense. It would take a lot of fees from muggers to buy that rug.
“Well, some, yes. Took up a dreadful amount of Frank’s time. Frank always said he preferred to work with ordinary people. Help them out, help them remake their lives. Like Bob Bates.” Doris wiggled forward to the edge of her chair. “Have you met Bob Bates?”
“No, not yet.” He’d blown up an armored truck, Nate had said.
“Oh, well, let me call him. I think you’ll understand why I want my husband’s work to go on.” Doris Resler hopped up and scurried to the French doors, fat calves and small feet twitching along below the black silk. To Olivia’s surprise, she opened the door and called out, “Bob? Bob, come in and meet someone!” She returned to her chair with a satisfied smile at Olivia. “He’s coming. I’ve given him the spare room over the garage, so he can help out. You know, I think if I could have introduced Bob to Mr. Colby he would have understood better. But Mr. Colby wouldn’t come. He was getting to be like that first reporter, that Jewish fellow, so sure that someone might have had a grudge against Frank.” She looked back at the man who was entering through the French window.
Bob Bates was middle-aged and middle-sized, lean and tanned. He carried himself humbly, though the quick eyes under handsome brows seemed shrewd enough. His brown hair was silvering at the temples, which added a touch of distinction. In fact, if it hadn’t been for a purple snake tattooed on his forearm, he might have been mistaken for a banker. Or a lawyer, like Resler? Olivia stole a peek at the photograph framed in ornate carved wood that sat centered on a Chinese chest like a little shrine. No real resemblance, but the same air, the same type. Except that Frank Resler, in the photo, looked definitely haughty rather than humble.
Doris Resler was saying, “Bob, I was just telling Olivia about you. She works at the same paper as poor Mr. Colby who was killed.”
“Killed?” The handsome eyebrows climbed Bates’ forehead. “You mean hit by a car or what?”
“No,” Olivia explained. “He was murdered at his home. We know he was working on the story about the plane crash last January, so we thought we’d ask you if you remembered his general line of questioning recently.”
“I see,” said Bob Bates slowly. His voice was educated enough. With a pinstripe suit he could probably walk up to any bank in the country. Could even get some employee to lead him to their armored truck. As long as that snake was hidden. Bob asked, “So you’re thinking that something he was investigating may have caused the trouble?”
“Well, I’ve got to look into the possibility. The reason for the plane crash is still unknown.” At Olivia’s words, Doris Resler gave a sniffle and brandished her big cotton handkerchief. Olivia went on, “I mean, if Dale had learned something about who caused the tragedy, the guilty party wouldn’t want it published, right?”
“Are there other possible reasons for Colby’s death?” Bob wanted to know.
“Sure. But this story is a definite possibility too,” said Olivia tartly.
Bob Bates smiled. Good teeth too. What on earth had possessed him to get that tattoo? He said, “Well, I’ll be glad to tell you whatever I can to help. Though I’m afraid it won’t be much.”
“Can you tell me where you were yesterday afternoon?” Olivia asked boldly.
“I was right here, working in the garden,” said Bates glibly. “The garden suffered terribly in the heat wave.”
“Oh, yes, it did,” agreed Doris Resler.
“And what time did you get back, Mrs. Resler?”
“Back?” The widow looked puzzled.
“You were at the Sun-Dispatch office around noon.”
“She arrived here before one,” said Bates. “And we worked on foundation business all afternoon.”
“Now, Bob, let me tell you w
hy I asked you to come in,” Doris Resler said pettishly, as though she didn’t understand the relevance of Olivia’s question or Bob Bates’s answer. “You see, Miss Kerr was just asking about Mr. Colby’s idea that one of Frank’s clients might have been angry at him. I just wanted you to explain how good Frank was.”
“He was a hell of a guy,” Bob Bates confirmed. “I’m the first to admit I had a serious drinking problem. Blacked out for days sometimes. Couldn’t keep a job. I ended up resorting to some very unscrupulous things.” He was clenching and unclenching his hands in tension or distress at the recollection. The play of muscles in his forearm made the purple snake writhe in an oddly voluptuous way. Bob’s eyes flicked up, catching Olivia staring at it. She could have sworn there was an edge of mockery in his voice as he concluded, “I was arrested.”
“I see,” said Olivia heartily, hoping that her warm cheeks just meant the room was hot.
“Luckily I was working for a firm that was concerned about its own possible liability, and they went to the top. To Frank Resler.”
He bowed his head toward Doris, who smiled a tearful proud smile. “And Frank not only got me a lighter sentence than I deserved, he turned around my life.”
“How?” asked Olivia.
“Advice plus concrete help,” Bob Bates explained. “He encouraged me to join AA. And when I got out of prison, he helped me financially while I took a couple of business courses. Really showed he had faith in me.”
“And now you have a job?”
Doris started to say something but Bates said quickly, “Yes. I’m working for a hardware wholesaler. Mosby Hardware.”
“And the firm you were working for before?”
The snake rippled on his arm. Why hadn’t Nate mentioned it? Of course Nate had spoken to him back in January, and had been pulled off the story soon afterward. Bates said wryly, “Well, of course they didn’t want me back. I’d blown up their truck, after all.”
“No. I meant, were they held liable?”
“No. Frank got them off scot-free.”
Hah. Olivia had been sure that the picture Doris Resler had presented, of a lawyer devoted to kind treatment of reformed criminals and only grudgingly spending time working for corporations, was oversimplified. Bob Bates’s story made it clear that he, at least, would not have enjoyed Resler’s services if he’d had to depend on his own resources. And he’d served time while the corporation he worked for hadn’t even paid a fine.
Bates was watching her closely. “I was guilty, you see.” That hint of mockery was in his voice again. “They’d put me in a position of trust but Frank proved I was the one who’d tricked them. No, I’ve faced up to it now. I was guilty. Now I must move beyond that.”
“You’ve paid your debt to society, you mean,” Olivia said ironically.
But his eyes moved to Doris Resler and he responded seriously. “No. Time in jail is punishment, all right. But it doesn’t help society, or help the victims.”
Doris had been quiet as long as she could stand it. “That’s what Frank always said! And he tried to instill in his clients the desire to do better, to improve the world.”
“Was he successful with many clients?”
“Quite a few, yes,” Doris replied. “I know you reporters are very cynical people. But Bob here, and Mrs. London, and William Schultz—oh, there are quite a few. And Frank used to tell me he wished he could set up an organization to aid offenders, help them find their talents.”
“Aren’t there other groups that do that already?” Olivia had personally written a feature on one of them.
“You mean the literacy programs and church counselors?” Bob Bates managed to sound contemptuous even while maintaining his air of humble courtesy. “Yes, those people mean well, and of course they help some. But they don’t really get a man back into society.”
“Yes, Frank’s idea was much more ambitious,” Doris explained. “It would work like AA partly, but it would have funding for necessary support mechanisms.”
“Support mechanisms?’’
Doris Resler looked as uncertain about the term as Olivia was. “To, well, support the people after they’ve served their time. And so that’s what I’m doing, as a memorial to Frank. It’s my duty and joy to carry on his work!”
“I see.” Olivia looked from plump triumphant Doris to smooth, humble, tattooed Bob. She was afraid she understood. “You said like AA,” she ventured cautiously. “So there’s a role for people like Mr. Bates?”
“I’ll do what I can,” said Bob Bates.
“He’s an enormous help!” Doris explained. “Of course that nice woman in Representative Knox’s office helps some, and Frank’s law partners with the legal stuff. But Bob is the one who’s crucial. Because he really knows.” She beamed at her husband’s protégé.
Olivia tried one last time. “But there must still be a few clients who served time and didn’t understand that your husband did his best. Because they still went to jail, or something.”
“Ungrateful, you mean.” Bob Bates shrugged.
“Yes. Or opponents, maybe, who might think Mr. Resler freed someone who deserved punishment.”
“If so, they didn’t bother Mr. Resler. They’d be more likely to go after the person they thought was guilty. That was certainly who I was mad at.”
“You never heard him talk about ungrateful clients, Mrs. Resler?” Olivia asked.
“No. He was a very positive person, you see. He was more interested in success. Well, every now and then he would complain that someone wouldn’t help him defend themselves. But they all thanked him in the end. They knew he did his best.”
“He explained things to us,” Bob Bates added. “We knew what was possible.”
“I see,” said Olivia.
Bob Bates said humbly, “It’s important to have a memorial to such a fine lawyer and human being.”
“Frank Resler will never die!” declared Doris through her damp handkerchief.
Enough, Olivia decided. She stood up abruptly. “I’m glad I met you, Mr. Bates. And thank you very much for your help, Mrs. Resler. I’ll be back if I hear of any developments.”
“Yes, thank you.” Doris Resler was on her feet now, smiling anxiously. “You do understand now, don’t you? Now that you’ve talked to Bob?”
“Oh, yes.” Olivia let them walk her to the door. “I understand.” Her last view of them as she turned from the walk into the driveway was of Doris Resler closing her expensive paneled door while Bob Bates stood protectively beside her, murmuring comfort into her ear.
Olivia looked at her watch. She still had an hour and a half before she had to meet Nate and Edgy. She decided to stop by her own house.
Nick and Maggie were in the living room finishing a plate of sandwiches. The three children were in the dining room, Josie staring out the bay window at the yard, Tina and little Sarah inventing an adventure for the Barbie dolls. Olivia couldn’t hear them because John Denver was singing on the stereo. “Hi,” she said to Nick and Maggie, grabbing a sandwich. Tuna. “Where’s Donna?”
“At the funeral director’s,” said Nick. “One of the teachers at her school came by. The one called Linda that she called last night. She wanted to know what she could do to help. So I said I’d watch the kids if she’d take Donna to arrange the funeral. I thought maybe a few minutes away from the kids and us strangers might be good for her.”
“Good idea. Poor Donna.” Olivia shed her shoulder bag onto a chair and dropped into another near them to eat her sandwich. “She’s such a traditional woman, isn’t she? Mother, wife, schoolteacher. Perfect house, perfect kids.”
“Coping with Parkinson’s isn’t my idea of perfection,” Maggie mumbled around a mouthful of tuna sandwich.
“God, I didn’t mean it was a picnic!” Olivia exclaimed. “I know it’s damn tough. Hell, coping with a reporter is tough even without Parkinson’s. Just ask Jerry.”
“Right.” Maggie grinned.
“But that’s really anot
her example of what I meant,” Olivia explained, munching a pickle. “Perfect nurse. All those traditional roles she did so well. And now this happens. It must be especially hard for someone whose life revolves totally around someone else. I mean, she wouldn’t have the resources she’d have with more of a life of her own.”
Nick was shaking his head sadly. “The resources you think you have don’t save you,” he said gently.
Belatedly, Olivia remembered that his first wife had died. He’d experienced Donna’s tragedy firsthand.
Maggie said, “It’s tempting to turn our backs, to say Donna’s different and we’d never get hurt like that, because we’ve arranged our lives better. But Nick’s right. We’re all vulnerable.”
“Yeah,” Olivia admitted awkwardly. Then, in a burst of honesty, “God, I hate thinking I could be devastated like that! It’s almost easier to think of dying myself.”
Maggie reached for her hand and squeezed it. “Yeah.” After a moment she asked gently, “So what’s the news, newswoman?”
Olivia returned to the puzzle. “Just saw Mrs. Resler. Weird situation there.”
“Weird? How?”
“Okay. Rich widow, right? As soon as they finish investigating the plane crash, she’ll be even richer. Apparently her husband was interested in helping his clients after they got out of prison. So she’s setting up a foundation to help such people. Self-help groups plus money and education, I gather. Frank Resler’s name will never die.”
“Well, that sounds a normal enough goal,” said Nick.
“Yeah, but what worries me is the self-help expert. Ex-con named Bob Bates. Near as I can see, he’s the guiding force behind the foundation. I wouldn’t be surprised if he arranges things so he can skip with the Resler Foundation money one of these days.”
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