With effort, I lured the overly confident cop away from the off-key macaw. I wished the office’s bar was still stocked with booze. I needed a good, stiff belt, and maybe a nip would turn Ned’s certainties about Jeff back to mere unsubstantiated suspicions.
Bending his bored ear while we sat in a booth, I disclosed more than I ever had before with this detective. I lavished on him my own inquiries and investigations over the last few days. I let him know I couldn’t buy the too-expedient openness of Bobby Lawrence’s admissions of no alibis. I chose not to spew the same about Millie Franzel. I loathed even the small likelihood that she could have killed anyone and chose not to sic the detective on her further without certainty.
I slipped in a stab at statistics—and how many people, even solely in L.A., had cell phones that could sing similar tunes—not mentioning the uniqueness of Jeff’s.
And Ned’s reaction to my tidy tap dance?
He leaned over the table between us and looked me earnestly in the eye. I tried to ignore the gleam of satisfaction in his oh-so-innocent gaze. “You’re having second thoughts about having handed me this last piece of evidence against Hubbard, aren’t you, Kendra? I understand. You two were really tight for a few months. But you’re a lawyer—an officer of the court, as they say. You should feel damned proud for helping bring a murderer to justice.”
“I do feel proud,” I assented. “And don’t forget I found you two murderers—those who framed me and my tenants. Now I’m hunting whoever’s been framing Jeff, and you should be, too.”
Any pleasantness departed from his demeanor. He stood and shot me the evil eye as he stared down at me. “Stay out of it now, Kendra. I warn you, if you do anything to get in the way of Jeff Hubbard’s conviction—”
“Like find the real killer?” My mood had segued from fear for Jeff to fury with this egotistical cop with the single-track mind. Justice? He was letting retribution for old gripes against Jeff get in the way of good cop sense.
I had no reason to suspect the rest of the L.A.P.D. was as incompetent and vengeful as this nasty Noralles. If I had time, I planned to contact his superior in this investigation, Detective Schwinglan, and lodge a huge complaint.
But right now, I was more concerned with undoing my part in Jeff’s mess.
Fists clenched as if he’d love to flatten me, Ned instead let his big cop’s body tower over me menacingly for an utterly unnerving moment. “Like I said,” Ned spit as his parting shot, “don’t get in the way, Kendra, or you’ll be sorry.”
I waited till he was way out in the entry, with Mignon and other staff around providing safety in numbers before I shot back, “I’ll be sorrier if I don’t help get things right, Ned. See you around.”
BACK IN MY office, I faced a frisky Lexie, who clearly had something on her mind: lovingly chewing out her hopeless owner for being untrainable.
As I consequently walked her, my mind converted itself into a computer. I brought up the screen on which I’d inserted all my possible murder suspects in order of lethal likelihood. I reordered them, then rejected that and reshuffled again. I’d need to refer to the real thing, to ensure that I hadn’t inadvertently omitted any possible people.
I did just that when Lexie led me back to our daytime digs. While she curled up beneath my desk on the Berber rug, I pulled my list up on my genuine electronic computer and edited it much as I had in my mind.
I ensured that Borden and Elaine were down at the bottom. Not that I believed that either was guilty any more now than I had before, but for the moment I elected not to remove anyone from my musings.
Just above them was Jeff. I hated to slip any credence into Ned Noralles’s flimsy rationale and his dogged determination to bring Jeff down for these killings. Still, Jeff’s alleged involvement made slightly more sense than the aforementioned elderly Yurick firm attorneys. He had been heard arguing with Ezra. Ezra had threatened his livelihood, claiming he could cause other attorneys to avoid engaging Jeff’s P.I. and security services. Not that I believed Jeff would find Ezra’s bombastic bullying credible.
As a P.I., Jeff could probably purchase spare handguns without a problem, and could have underground resources so no one would be the wiser. Not so, necessarily, with ordinary, apparently law-abiding attorneys.
Then there was that other annoying little question: Why was Gigi singing Jeff’s ring tone?
Move on, Kendra, I cautioned myself, staring at my fingers now resting on my keyboard. Otherwise, I might bog down right at this spot on my little list—and I was damned if I’d give Detective Noralles the satisfaction.
Okay, then. Back to my tell-all computer screen.
Above Jeff, I kept Millie Franzel. As open and above-board as she was about her gun-toting and lack of alibi, I couldn’t help thinking that she used her honesty as a shield. She’d hated T.O. and therefore its attorney for trying to force her into selling her beautiful pet boutique business. Was that a credible motive for murder? Certainly.
Same went for broker Bobby Lawrence. With him, the motive could also have been monetary. I doubted he’d kill over losing a single sale: Elaine’s aborted offer on a Vancino home. But I’d learned that he’d coveted the representation of T.O. in future property purchases, and Ezra had vetoed that potentially lucrative possibility. Could a broker get his greedy hands on some guns? Why not?
I kept my consideration centered on Ezra instead of Corrie. My mind was mired in the concept that the paralegal’s death was the direct result of something she saw or knew about Ezra. Right? Wrong? I’d keep my befuddled brain open to an alternate scenario.
Beneath my desk, Lexie lifted her head and sighed at me. “You’re right, girl,” I replied. “It’s nearly time for us to go pet-sitting.” That generated a happy tail wag as she stood in anticipation of departure. “Five more minutes,” I bargained. A biscuit would have sealed it, but my office cupboard was bare. Lexie stood on both hind legs and began to dig at my forearm with her front paws. “I promise,” I told her with a pat to the head. She settled back down a little sulkily, I surmised. “Spoiled puppy,” I said in a tone suggesting more praise than insult. I smiled as she wagged once more. Her Cavalier moods never remained glum for more than a moment.
Okay, I said to myself. Back to the list.
I’d done little so far to investigate or eliminate my top three contenders: VORPO president and property owner Flint Daniels, Ezra’s former law partner Jonathon Jetts, and Jetts’s new wife who was formerly Ezra’s lady friend, Bella Quevedo-Jetts.
Daniels was problematic as a person to seek out on my own, since he was representative of an opposition party in ongoing litigation. As a result, I lifted my phone and called VORPO’s counsel, Michael Kleer.
Whose name I incidentally added to my suspect list. He’d been among those who knew and opposed Ezra. To what extent did he despise him?
“Hi, Michael?” I said when I got him on the line. “Could we set up a meeting tomorrow morning—you and Flint Daniels and I? I’d like to discuss the lawsuit and VORPO’s willingness to look at alternate dispute resolution. Yes, I’ll try to bring Brian O’Barlen.”
Brian, too, was available for the meeting.
Brian, too, was a card-carrying, lower-level member of my suspect list.
And then I called to set up a session with Jonathon Jetts for the afternoon. He wasn’t thrilled, but when I told him our confidential topic of discussion was the apparent dissatisfaction of some of his former clients with the Yurick firm, he sounded a heck of a lot happier to oblige.
Hey, cops were allowed to tell lies to suspects to get them to confess. I was simply appropriating one of their sleazier techniques.
“Okay, Lexie,” I finally said. “Time to go. And I know you’ll have more fun tomorrow. You’ll spend the day at Darryl’s doggy resort.”
And me? Would I enjoy tomorrow’s contrived confrontations with some of my most suspicious suspects?
You bet!
Chapter Twenty-six
IN THE OLD
days, I’d leapt into litigation with the greatest of gusto. Law and motion was my meat and potatoes. Courtroom drama was my dessert.
But during the days my law license had been suspended, the pet disputes dropped on my apartment doorstep, mostly by Darryl, had required the most creative of approaches—ones that didn’t smack of practicing law without a license.
As a result, I’d assumed a sort of pet mediation posture, alternate dispute resolution with pizzazz.
That was the attitude I assumed the next morning, while sitting beside Brian O’Barlen across the table from Michael Kleer and VORPO pres, Flint Daniels.
None needed to know my ulterior motive for this meeting.
Because we were on Kleer’s home turf at his offices in Warner Center, I let the baby-faced barrister in the beige shirt and blue striped tie kick off the meeting. He greeted us all grandly, then pontificated for several malicious minutes on how his client VORPO would kick my client’s butt when we stood before a jury of their sympathetic, dead-set-against-development peers.
I didn’t have to look at squirmy and chunky Brian O’Barlen beside me to know how brutally he was biting his tongue, but I anticipated blood flowing down his extra chin if I hazarded a glance. It would contrast with the pink shade his cheeks became when he was irate, but would go stunningly with his flowing silver mane. He had come alone, as requested. I figured that if his sycophants were genuine suspects in the murders, it would be because O’Barlen bade them to commit the crimes. His attitude was what I aimed to learn.
“Very interesting,” I said in a bored tone slightly short of a yawn when Kleer had concluded his tirade. I sat up straighter then in the swivel chair that matched a dozen others around this big firm’s massive conference table. “Now, let’s stop posturing and start solving our mutual problem.” I grinned at Kleer’s perturbed expression as a result of my put-down. “Yes, I know we’ve spoken about the parties’ respective positions before, but now it’s time to get serious—unless both sides are really ready to start hemorrhaging legal fees. The reality T.O. needs to face is that there are a lot of property owners around the key block in Vancino who have concerns about their development.”
Only then did I turn to behold O’Barlen. No blood on his chin, but irritation was obvious in his pink-tinged expression.
I pivoted back to face Kleer and Daniels. I was pleasantly surprised to see that the latter, whom I’d only seen dressed down in the most casual of clothes before, had also donned a button-down shirt and tie—even if both glared in garish hues of green and orange. He didn’t look much older than Kleer, and his gray eyes glowed with surliness mirrored in his straight-lipped scowl.
“And the reality VORPO needs to face,” I said to the two of them, “is that T.O. does own most of the pertinent property. Maybe they can get the rest, and maybe not. But even if they don’t, they’re going to develop the portion they do have, one way or another.” This time, the opposition turned red and irate. “So, the reason I called this meeting was to suggest that it’s way past time for both sides to end the posturing and really propose what’s most important to them, with the hope we can carve out a compromise now to avoid a lengthy and costly court battle that’s otherwise bound to start soon. Unless you’re all thrilled about the idea of ensuring that Mr. Kleer and I grow rich?”
The strength with which Michael Kleer clenched his legal pad suggested he’d like to fly across the table and use his hands to commit mayhem on me. It was a position I’d seen a lot of lately, and it failed to faze me.
“What do you suggest, Ms. Ballantyne?” demanded Daniels.
“As I said, tell me what’s most important to your group, and Mr. O’Barlen will do the same. Nothing will be binding since this is a settlement discussion, but let’s see what you might be willing to give up to achieve what you really want.”
To my delight and surprise, the session turned at least partly productive. Per Daniels, VORPO members detested the idea of high density in a small space, which could lead to terrific increases in traffic and crime. Plus, they liked the quaintness of their cute business center. And per my client O’Barlen, T.O. needed enough density to ensure the development earned oodles of income for its investors. It remained willing, though, to allow limited input in the architectural design—which they had already anticipated would keep the community’s quaintness while allowing a more efficient use of space above street level.
“I suggest we not wait any longer. The next meeting should absolutely include T.O.’s designers and architects, and appropriately knowledgeable VORPO sorts,” I said. “See if they can work out a compromise on building design and concentration of people. Michael and I can make ourselves available, but why not try it without incurring legal fees? If you start squabbling, call us to come in and argue on your respective behalfs at our high hourly rates.”
This elicited a laugh from both the business sorts, and a bitter titter from opposition counsel Kleer.
“So if all goes reasonably well, Flint,” I said, “do you think your company will sell its piece of property to T.O.?”
“Maybe. If all really goes reasonably well,” he reiterated with a resolute nod. “And for the right price.”
This last extracted a snort from O’Barlen, which he covered up with a cough.
“Reasonability is the key,” I reminded everyone. “And what about Millie Franzel, Flint? Can she be convinced to sell?”
He shrugged. “I’m not sure anyone can convince Millie of anything, but if we’re satisfied, we’ll give it a try.”
“That’s the best anyone can do.” And now it was time for my ulterior motive for calling this meeting. “I only wish Ezra Cossner were here to see this,” I said sadly. “He’d have been so pleased that both sides are at least talking.”
The air suddenly grew so still that I anticipated the remainder of the hurricane to swoop down full force.
“That bastard?” rumbled Flint Daniels. “No way would we have made any progress. It’s just as well he’s dead.”
I surreptitiously skimmed the other faces about the table. No one seemed to disagree. All looked equally ambivalent about Ezra’s demise. But no smoking gun suddenly shot out and showed me who’d murdered Ezra and Corrie.
“Do any of you have an idea who might have killed him? I’ve talked to the cops often, and they’re still not sure.” I chose my first target: my own client. “Brian, you were angry with Ezra about his representation at the time. I don’t suppose you decided to do something violent about it.” I’d blown client confidentiality if he really was guilty, but hell, if he’d done it, he’d have to hire a criminal attorney to defend him, and that wasn’t me.
O’Barlen looked as eager to silence me as Kleer had with his clenched fingers earlier. “What the hell kind of question is that, Ballantyne?”
“I just wanted to toss you off balance and see if you’d confess,” I responded with a smile. “How about you, Flint? After the VORPO meeting that night, you were pissed with Cossner. Did you decide to silence the opposition mouthpiece?”
“No!” he shouted, and methought the man didst protest too much—or at least too loudly. But since William Shakespeare wasn’t in the conference room to help dissect this particular tragedy, I couldn’t rely on that as evidence.
“Then what about his paralegal, who was doing all the research about VORPO and its members? Did you decide to deal with Corrie Montez, Flint? And do you have someone who’ll verify your alibi for both nights?”
“I don’t have to take this, do I?” he demanded of his attorney.
My turn to make a demand on that same man. “I don’t suppose you decided to rid yourself of a difficult opposition attorney, did you, Michael? If so, I’ll bet you think it’s a bad decision now. You’re now opposing me instead, and here I am promoting a settlement that’ll take money from your pockets. Where were you that night? Can someone swear to your whereabouts? How about the night Corrie died and someone shot at me?”
“We’re through here,”
Kleer asserted acidly. “You’d better go.” He turned to his client. “After these accusations, are you sure you want to attempt to resolve this matter out of court?”
“What, and have to face me again?” I asked. “I’ll bet all parties would be delighted to settle to avoid ever having to be in my accusatory company.”
“I’ll say,” O’Barlen barked.
“But I really hoped to get a confession,” I said as the men prepared to exit the conference room. “I think you’re the most likely culprit, Michael.” Not true, but I still needed someone to react suspiciously enough for me to grow certain of his guilt.
“Go pound sand, counselor,” Kleer said and trooped out, Daniels behind him.
“What the hell were you doing?” O’Barlen appeared royally peeved. The former rosiness of his complexion was now angry red.
“Just what it looked like,” I answered him. “I don’t suppose you care to confess to the murders.”
“You’re a weirdo, you know, Kendra?” He collected the paraphernalia he’d pulled out for the conference and crammed it haphazardly into his briefcase. “But I have to say you done good today. Maybe we really will get this fiasco settled.” He moved to plant his portly self in front of me, and his glare was anything but pleasant. “As long as you stop with this confession nonsense. Did you really think someone at this meeting killed Cossner? Well, if so, it wasn’t me.”
Well, if not, who was it? I absolutely was not done investigating.
Chapter Twenty-seven
CALL IT A gut feeling, but I couldn’t get excited about either Kleer or Daniels as the two to tango at the top of my suspect list. Not O’Barlen, either, although it wasn’t because of his denial.
Fine-Feathered Death Page 21
