Disorderly Conduct

by Mary Feliz

  I bit my lip and thought for a moment. I fought against my urge to answer immediately. Jason was asking me questions in his role as chief of police, not as my friend. It was important I get it right.

  “There are no wrong answers, Maggie. No one is going to jail based on what you tell me.”

  “But what I say could help get Tess out of jail, right?”

  “It could...” Jason was using that technique you hear about in police procedurals, where he let the silence linger as if hoping it would prompt me to talk, filling the empty spaces in the conversation. It worked.

  “I liked Katherine. She was direct and no-nonsense. Funny. When I met her on Tuesday, it was a few days after she’d taken a fall and injured her leg. She was on crutches and moved gingerly, like she was in pain.” I paused for a moment, remembering what Robert had said about the scars on her arms.

  “What is it?”

  “It’s just... She said that she’d slipped or tripped at home on her hardwood floor and that’s how she broke her ankle. That’s where she said she was on Saturday, the night Patrick died—at the emergency room with her sister-in-law. But why wouldn’t her husband go with her if she’d been hurt like that?”

  Jason nodded. “You’re right. If Stephen needed emergency medical care, I’d drop everything to take him.”

  “Robert—Robert Wu who worked with Tess—said that Katherine had designs on Patrick. I don’t believe for a moment that Patrick was having an affair with her, though there may have been some flirtation and joking—they seemed like good pals. They worked together and ran together.” I realized I was getting off track and forced myself to refocus. Jason scribbled with his stubby pencil in his notepad.

  “Katherine’s arms. Robert said she had scars and thought they could have been self-inflicted.”

  “What kinds of scars? Where?”

  I shook my head. “I didn’t see them. When I met her for lunch, she was wearing long sleeves and a jacket. It was chilly, and that was probably why, but what if she was concealing bruises? What if her husband was violent? What if that’s what landed her in the hospital, not a fall, and Sean didn’t go with her because she didn’t want him there?”

  Jason stopped scribbling and looked up. “I’ll see if we can get a warrant for her hospital records—see if there is a pattern of suspicious injuries. We can also check to see if Sean has a history of violence or abuse.”

  “He’s certainly got a bad temper. He was livid when I visited them asking questions.”

  “Did he hurt you? Were you afraid he might?”

  I shook my head. “It never occurred to me that I was in danger. I don’t like being barked at. Who does? But at the time I thought he was just having a bad day or in pain. In retrospect, the events look quite different.”

  “We’ll see if the sister’s alibi holds up and whether anyone else can confirm she was with Katherine the whole time she was in the ER. We’ll make sure that Katherine’s injury is real too.” Jason tapped his pencil on the table. Paolo vowed that one day he’d get his boss to switch to a tablet for recording case notes, but I wasn’t so sure. Jason’s pencil and pad were an essential part of my portrait of the man.

  “You met the brother and sister-in-law when you were with Katherine,” Jason said. “What can you tell me about them?”

  “Sean is disabled. He has a handicapped placard. But I don’t know how mobile he is. Katherine didn’t want to be late. She checked her watch with increasing frequency as the meeting time drew near. She could have been looking forward to seeing her husband, I guess. Maybe she was eager to get back to work or needed some more medication for her injuries. But she seemed anxious to me, edging toward fearful. Or maybe it was because she was in a work environment...”

  “What?”

  “Her body language was all wrong, now that I think about it. There was no warmth there. She stood back from the van. I think I was closer to it than she was. And she was slumped down, making herself small. But again, it could have been her injuries and the crutches that made her posture seem off. But she didn’t kiss Sean or touch him or smile while they were talking. Not that I remember, anyway.”

  Jason nodded and made more notes. “What did you think of him?”

  “The kids called him Mr. Claus. He’s got the white hair and beard of a mall Santa. Rosy cheeks. A little plump. I liked Katherine, so I was predisposed to like him. But I didn’t. And at his house, he put me off too.”

  “How so?”

  I stared at the ceiling, struggling to remember the details. “He came into the living room from the back of the house, where he said he’d been working out. He was in a one of those racing wheelchairs made of titanium or carbon fiber for marathons. Super-light and high-tech. His gear looked brand new, like it was the latest, newest, trendiest model of whatever it was. And”—I stopped as I searched for the right words to explain my discomfort. I took a deep breath—“okay, I don’t know if this makes sense. Let’s say he strutted into the room on two legs, all sweaty with a towel around his shoulders, talking about his workout. The next thing I’d expect a guy like that to do would be to stand too close and accidentally bump into me.”

  Jason looked uncomfortable. Like Max and most other men, he respected women and had trouble stomaching the behavior of men who demeaned them.

  I rattled off the rest of my words quickly, wanting to get it over with and stop reliving the experience. “He’d touch my butt or my breasts in a way that would make me feel super uncomfortable. But if I called him on it, he’d have laughed it off. Sean was in a wheelchair, but the whole time he was in the room, I felt like that. It was gross. As soon as I got home, I took a shower.”

  “Just because he’s in a wheelchair doesn’t mean he’s not a jerk.”

  “Exactly. And it was almost like he played on that. Felt like he could get away with stuff and dared me to call him on it.” I shuddered.

  “What did his sister do?”

  “She acted a little embarrassed. But it was weird. If that scene had played out in my house, and one of my brothers had made a guest that uncomfortable, I’d have apologized. But she made a point of not apologizing. The whole time I was there, I felt tension beneath the surface. A power struggle or a turf war in which I’d become an unwitting pawn.”

  I stopped and thought for a moment, trying to remember more about what had happened. “Oh, I asked them about alibis. Fiona said Sean’s workout machines recorded his exercises, so they could prove when he’d been working out. But he’s computer savvy and so is Katherine, so they could probably fiddle with that information. Do you have people who can detect that stuff?”

  Jason scoffed. “People? We’ve got Paolo. There’s no one better. Tell me more about the sister.”

  “Fiona? She really did look like Mrs. Claus. She was dressed in red and white stripes like an elf and was headed to a ballroom dancing class.” I took a moment to reflect on my initial impression of Fiona. “I’d met her earlier when she and Sean came to Katherine’s work. They were going to use Katherine’s employee discount to get something from the company store—some kind of tech device. They didn’t say what. Could that be a clue?” Jason made a note on his pad and underlined it. “I—” I stopped and felt my face grow warm. “Jason, everything I’m telling you sounds super-judgmental. Promise me that you won’t repeat any of this unless it’s unavoidable. I sound like a hypercritical gossip.”

  “That’s exactly the type of split-second opinion I need,” said Jason. He put down his pad and pencil. “The details of everyone’s whereabouts are easy to nail down. We can record and transcribe their answers to our questions. But then there’s this other aspect to investigations. And that’s what experienced cops call a hunch.”

  “Seriously? But I don’t have much experience and zero training. How is my information or intuition going to help?”

  “It’s more than intuition, and mor
e analytical and scientific than it sounds. Our brains are amazing instruments. All the tech people in the world can’t begin to duplicate what the human brain can do, nor the speed with which it analyzes certain kinds of information.” Jason stopped for a minute, and his face reddened. “Sorry. I just took a class in this and the topic sucked me in.”

  He looked past my shoulder and I turned. Elaine stood in the doorway.

  “I didn’t mean to eavesdrop,” she said. “We’re done in the kitchen. I’m as fascinated by this information as you are. Teachers rely on hunches all the time. You say there’s scientific evidence to support what we’ve known all along?”

  Jason’s face lit up with enthusiasm. “For years we’ve been teaching recruits not to make snap judgments based on appearances and to avoid stereotypes and prejudice. That’s a good thing, don’t get me wrong. But this new study is telling us that sometimes human instinct can work for us.”

  Elaine and Jason’s enthusiasm was engaging me. “What do you mean?” I asked. “You can’t be suggesting that racial profiling is a good idea.” I rubbed the back of my neck, which was growing sore from peering up at Elaine standing behind me. “If you’re going to listen in, come sit down. As it is, you’re literally a pain in the neck.”

  Jason shook his head. It took me a minute to realize he wasn’t refusing to let Elaine join us. He was responding to my question about racial profiling. “Absolutely not. And we’re not sure yet how to incorporate this information into our training in a way that prevents some of the problems law enforcement gets into when it relies too much on preconceived opinions. I probably shouldn’t have said anything about this at all.”

  Elaine pulled up a chair and sat down. “We’re not going to repeat this or hold you to it, but it’s fascinating. The value of experience has diminished in recent years. In lots of professions.”

  “But it’s not all experience,” Jason said. “Instinct plays into it too. It’s what made David see a shape on the trail and jump out of the way before his conscious mind had time to identify it as a snake. His brain sent a ‘danger’ signal, and he moved.”

  “Cops must rely on those split-second warnings all the time,” I said.

  Jason leaned forward. “Everyone does. We’re walking down a dark street at night, we get a prickle on the backs of our necks, and it makes us duck in somewhere and call for a cab. Someone invites us to a concert or a party, and we decline without a rational reason. Later it turns out that we were needed at home or violence erupted at the event. Some people call that instinct, fate, or divine intervention, but in my mind, it’s our powerful brains making judgmental, prejudicial, critical, and sometimes lifesaving decisions based on experience.”

  Jason pushed his chair back and stretched. “I didn’t mean to get all professorial on you. But that’s why I wanted to hear more about your impressions of some of our suspects.”

  “But my impressions could be completely wrong,” I protested.

  “Absolutely. And none of your suspicions would hold up in court unless we found a boatload of additional evidence to back them up. But as an investigatory tool, they could be invaluable.”

  Elaine brushed some stray crumbs from the table. “Like any tool, instinct can be used for good or evil. Just because a piano wire is sometimes used to strangle people doesn’t mean we should stop using it to make music, right? Or if Tess’s garden tool was used to kill Patrick, should we stop breaking up dirt clods?”

  I shuddered. “I’d forgotten about that pickax. What kinds of hardware do those cartel farmers use? Did you check it for fingerprints? Could Martín have used it?”

  “We’re still waiting for those results. But instinct tells me that Martín has had a terrible life, full of violence. And somehow, he’s survived with his humanity intact. I don’t think he’d kill anyone unless he had no other choice. I’m sure he’s had many opportunities to kill those goons who held him captive. He had access to deadly poisons, fertilizers to make bombs, and an assault rifle. But his enemies are all still alive, and several of them are now in the Santa Clara County Jail.”

  I tried to relax and thought back to that first meeting with Sean and Fiona. “When I met the Philipses, I disliked them. I didn’t care for the fact that Katherine had to limp to them on her crutches when she was hurting, and that she seemed so nervous. Then, when we reached the van, she used perfect manners in introducing me, but she slumped her shoulders and hung back, away from the vehicle. And Sean had this insincere nicey-nice behavior going on, like he was performing for my benefit and Katherine’s.”

  “And Fiona?”

  “She was in shadow, in the passenger seat. I didn’t get much of an impression of her.” I dropped my head, stretching my neck, trying to stave off an impending tension headache. “Except...”

  The scratching sound of Jason’s pencil on the cheap notepad stopped.

  “Except that she seemed like a neutral party. There was a sub-current of tension between Sean and Katherine, as if he was testing her or taunting her and she feared she might fail the exam. Fiona seemed a step removed from that. Same thing at the house. She wasn’t going to help me implicate her brother, but she wouldn’t stop me, either. She didn’t apologize for Sean’s brutish behavior, but she rushed me out the door, getting me away from him. But then she didn’t hurry me off or tell me to leave, either.”

  “I’ll get your notes and your impressions to Sergeant Nguyen and the lead detectives in my department. It will help. And we’ll get those alibis checked too.” Jason opened a small tablet computer and typed furiously without looking up.

  I’d been dismissed, but I took heart from the fact that he seemed eager, upbeat, and focused, as though the investigation into Patrick’s death might finally be coming together.

  Chapter 32

  Instinct counts. So does experience. Trust the feelings that warn you about possible dangers. Get to safety. If you’ve overreacted, no problem. Regroup and make a new plan.

  From the Notebook of Maggie McDonald

  Simplicity Itself Organizing Services

  Thursday, August 10, Near noon

  In the kitchen, the dogs panted, sprawled on the cool tile floor next to their water dishes, their snouts dripping. They’d been run hard and were exhausted. Max crested the top of the stairs with a load of sleeping bags to cart back up to the attic. “Should we air these out before we put them away?” he asked.

  “Let’s wait a few days. There’s still so much soot out there. Look at the dogs.” The puddles Belle, Munchkin, and Mozart had made on the tiles sported a ring of black around the edges—particulates that still hung in the air from the fire. Our world no longer smelled of smoke, and my eyes no longer stung, but the remains of the burning vegetation persisted.

  “After the smoke clears, we should be able to spread them out on the front porch. Leave the bags on one of the window seats near the door for now. The air mattresses can go up to the attic.”

  Earlier, Max had helped David upstairs and got him into bed moments before he fell asleep under the combined impact of the painkillers and exhaustion. Brian and Teddy were watching a movie in the upstairs den, lounging on the floor. Max reported he’d be willing to bet they were both asleep before he made it downstairs, yawning himself.

  “Do we need to switch to decaf?” he asked upon his return, taking up his position at the coffeemaker. “Half caf it is,” he said when no one answered him. “But we’ve got tea and soft drinks too. Water and lemon for the more health conscious.”

  Typically, a late August afternoon was a great time to settle into comfortable rockers on our back porch in the shade. But that side of the house faced the burned hillside, the prevailing winds, and the trail on which Patrick had died. Ash covered every surface, and none of us had the energy to hose it down. Not when we’d need to do the same thing again in a few days.

  We regrouped to our trio of comfy denim sofas in
the living room. Max opened the windows facing away from the ridge, and a gentle breeze wafted through. I yawned and sighed, and for the first time in a week realized I felt almost relaxed. Our diminished band—Max and me, Paolo, Martín, Elaine, Jason, and Stephen—seemed to have run out of both conversation and the energy to accomplish much of anything. And maybe that was okay. But Tess. Before I could say anything to move Tess’s rescue forward, Paolo’s phone rang.

  “Hang on,” he said, and moved into the dining room. The boy had manners, that was for sure. Perhaps deliberately, or possibly by accident, we were still able to hear everything he said. “Seriously? Exactly like the Olmos garage? Did you take photos? Secure the evidence? What about preliminary tests?”

  Normally, manners would require that we pretend we weren’t eavesdropping. None of us bothered. I strained to isolate words in the sounds coming through the phone from whoever had called Paolo, but I’d have to wait. I turned slightly so I could peer over the back of the sofa and watch the reactions on Paolo’s face. He tapped his foot on the floor and his fingers on the side of his phone as he pulled his tablet out of his backpack. He then sat at the table with his back to us. Hunched over the phone, taking notes, his end of the conversation became muffled.

  “Who’s he talking to?” I whispered to Jason.

  “The team searching Sean, Katherine, and Fiona’s house, I suspect.”

  “Sounds like they found something. Something that might clear Tess.” I raised my eyebrows in question, silently begging Jason to confirm my hope.

  He patted my arm, took a sip of coffee, and whispered, “Wait. We’ll hear soon enough.”

  Martín, who’d perched on one of the window seats, stood, walked to the archway separating the dining area from the living room, and stood with one hand on the wall, leaning forward until he was almost on tiptoes.

  Paolo ended the call, typed silently on his tablet for a few seconds, then turned. “They found something in Sean’s van.” He stood and clapped Martín on the back. “A pickax, wrapped in an old towel under the back seat. Covered with blood. Human blood, if the prelims are accurate. Their garage has a pegboard tool wall identical to the one at the Olmos house, with an empty spot that matches the pickax. They found Patrick’s wallet in the van, wrapped up in a bundle with the tool.”