Witness for the Defense

by Jonnie Jacobs

  I draped a leg over the arm of the chair in a most unladylike fashion. But I was wearing slacks, and I was alone in my office. “He bumped into me, intentionally. Then blocked me in a corner for a few minutes. I wasn't hurt but I was shaken.” Just talking about it caused a tremor of anxiety in my gut.

  “Want me to break his kneecaps for you?”

  I started to laugh, then stopped short. “You don't do that sort of thing. Do you?”

  “So far, only in my fantasies. But I'd like nothing better than putting a guy like Roemer in his place.”

  “There's more.” I told Nick about the Victoria's Secret catalog with bloodied models and my photo.

  “And you think that was Roemer, too?”

  “It sort of fits his level of maturity.”

  “If you're not going to let me go after the guy, Kali, at least be careful.”

  “Believe me, I intend to be. But you called for a reason.”

  “Yeah. Remember when we talked to that hit-and-run cop's widow?”

  “Sure.”

  “There was a business card in the box of things she was keeping. For an auto repair shop. Do you happen to recall the name?”

  “Something with an H, I think. Handel?”

  “How about Henzel?”

  “Yeah, that's it. Why?”

  “Well, I'm sitting here typing up my notes on this case, and suddenly it hits me. That's where Rudd worked before his car went into the ocean.”

  “At Henzel's?” I swung my leg back to the floor and sat up straight. Rudd had worked in an autoshop, so that part fit. But it was an awfully big coincidence that Moran had been holding on to a card for that particular shop. “Do you suppose he was a customer?”

  “I doubt it. Moran drove a Chevy. Same one his wife drives now. Henzel's specialized in foreign makes. Audi, BMW, Porsche, probably Volvo, as well. Here's something else. I did a little research in the newspaper archives. Seems the place burned down a few days before Rudd's car went over the cliff.”

  My pulse jumped. “Was there talk of arson? That might explain Rudd's faked death.”

  “There was speculation to that effect, though nothing was proven. Henzel was mostly retired by then, left the day-to-day operations to his staff, with Rudd in charge. Police apparently questioned everyone who worked there, as well as Henzel himself, but nothing came of it.”

  “If Rudd wasn't a suspect, why would he fake his own death?”

  “Might not be connected at all.”

  It almost had to be, given the timing of the two events. But what was Moran's connection to the shop?

  “Was the fire before or after Moran's death?” I asked.

  “The fire was three days after. Rudd's accident four days after that.”

  “So Moran couldn't have been investigating the fire.”

  “Not unless he was psychic.”

  “Which leaves the possibility that he was investigating something else.”

  “Or someone else, namely Rudd.”

  “He called me this afternoon/' I said.

  “Rudd? What did he want?” Nick's interest was clearly piqued.

  “I don't know. I wasn't in. I'm hoping he'll call back.”

  Hoping, too, that he wasn't about to throw a monkey wrench at our case. Rudd's involvement with Henzel's autoworks didn't worry me nearly as much as his role as witness to Weaver's murder.

  <><><>

  Jared and I were back at work early Saturday morning. Whatever else we might be by the time Monday rolled around, we'd be organized. Thanks to Jared, all crucial case information was at our fingertips, detailed and cross-referenced on the laptop. He'd also made hard copies of key documents and filed them in color-tabbed folders.

  Our expert witnesses were on board and ready to testify; we'd re-interviewed our character and evidentiary witnesses; we were prepared to present Terri's account of her movements throughout the night of Weaver's murder. What we didn't have was another suspect to offer the jury in place of Terri.

  Steven joined us in the afternoon while we fine-tuned the sequence of witnesses and the questions I would ask. By four-thirty I was exhausted.

  “I think we should call it a day.”

  “Fine by me.” Jared reached for his car keys. “If you think of something else, save it for tomorrow, okay? I've got plans for this evening.”

  “Linda?”

  “Linda was last month.”

  “So now you're on to Miss September?”

  He grinned. “She could be, boss. She's something else.”

  Jared took the stairs like a man in a hurry. I could hear the clatter of his boots all the way into the bottom lobby.

  Steven reached into his pocket for a quarter. “Heads or tails?”

  “What are we deciding?”

  “Whether we eat out or I cook.” He flipped the coin into his palm and quickly slapped it against the other arm. “Actually, you can have your choice, but knowing you, you'll say either is fine.”

  “Whoa, back up. I haven't even agreed to have dinner with you.”

  “You will, though, won't you?” He proffered his bad-boy grin. It wasn't totally irresistible, but it was charming. “And don't give me this work stuff. Your brain functions better when you give it a break.”

  “I might have plans.”

  “You could cancel them.” He raised an eyebrow and gave me a long, flirtatious gaze. Then he lowered his arm and stuck the quarter back into his pocket without bothering to look at it.

  “Seriously,” he said. “I'd really like your company this evening. We can go to a movie if you'd like, or a jazz club. We can even play miniature golf.” An allusion to an evening we'd spent together five years earlier. “I'm just agitated and anxious about the trial.”

  Bea and Dotty had left that afternoon for another Tahoe excursion. I'd be alone for the night, and would probably end up working.

  Or bouncing off the walls with worry about Monday.

  “It's my turn,” I told him. “I'll cook.”

  He grinned. “You drive a hard bargain. I'll bring wine and dessert.”

  <><><>

  You'd think people would have better things to do on a lovely Saturday afternoon in early fall than shop for groceries. But the store was packed. Not that it should have surprised me—eating is serious business in the Bay Area.

  I bought salmon, string beans, salad mixings, and ingredients for wine-scalloped potatoes—one of the many recipes my sister Sabrina was forever sending my way in hopes of domesticating me. Hummus and a sourdough baguette for predinner munching, and fresh flowers for the table. I selected a bunch of white daisies, then remembered Steven's comment about the daisies that mysteriously appeared on Caroline's grave each year. I decided on a mixed bouquet instead.

  At home, I spooned teriyaki marinade over the salmon, took Loretta on a quick spin up the road, then grabbed the mail from the box in front on my return. I sorted through it with a sense of trepidation, and was relieved to find nothing more ominous than a bill from the phone company.

  Loretta lapped water from her bowl with the gusto of someone who'd been lost in the desert, then curled up in the comer under the table. I straightened the kitchen and moved the recycle bins out to the porch, then went downstairs to take a shower.

  My bedroom was as I'd left it that morning—my gray sweater draped over the chair, a discarded pair of socks balled on top of the dresser, the current issue of Newsweek on the floor next to the bed. But the corner of the comforter was bunched against the bedside table in a way I was sure it hadn't been when I'd pulled it into place before leaving for work.

  A small thing, yet it gave me pause. I pulled back the comforter, lifted the pillow. Nothing amiss. I went so far as to pull back the sheets. Then I remade the bed, gave the room another visual sweep, and decided my experience with the catalog was making me paranoid.

  If Bea or Dotty had been downstairs when the phone rang, they might have come here to answer it rather than trudging back upstairs, and mussed the
comforter in the process. Or maybe I'd just been distracted that morning and hadn't been as thorough as I usually was. I flashed on a mental picture of Goldilocks, and laughed. What was I imagining anyway, that someone had been sleeping in my bed?

  After my shower and a careful redo of my makeup, I dressed in a short-sleeve black jersey top and raw silk black pants. Then I plumped the bed pillows, and removed the sweater and socks, as well as the panty hose hanging from the bathroom towel rack.

  I recognized what I was doing and I didn't like it. Steven wasn't going to see this part of the house, I reminded myself. But like a good Girl Scout, I wanted to be prepared, just in case.

  CHAPTER 36

  I managed to avoid overcooking the salmon. The potatoes were baked to perfection, and the green beans tender but crisp. Our dinner conversation flowed as easily as the wine. All in all, the meal was a success.

  But I was never able to forget that Monday I would be making a case for Terri's innocence. It was a weight that followed me around like a lead shadow.

  Steven poured the last of the wine into our glasses and looked at me across the table. “You've gone quiet on me. What are you thinking?”

  “That I'm glad you invited yourself for dinner.”

  “Ah, but I didn't, really.”

  “Close enough.”

  The corners of his mouth twitched in a faint grin.

  “And that Terri's case would be a lot more convincing if we could hand the jury an alternate killer.”

  He was silent a moment, thoughtful. “Do you have any players auditioning for the part?”

  “Melissa. But Terri won't hear of it.”

  “They got pretty close during the pregnancy. Almost like Melissa was a younger sister. And Terri is loyal. Fiercely loyal.”

  “So I've discovered.” I took no delight in pointing the finger at Melissa myself. “For a while I thought we might be able to use the Coles, but they've got a pretty tight alibi for the night of the murder. And Nick managed to get his hands on a casing from Suzze Madden's Beretta. No match with the gun that killed Weaver.”

  “What about Weaver's band of friends?”

  “Melissa is the only suspect who might conceivably fit the prosecution's evidence.”

  He gave me a long look. “Could be someone you haven't even considered, you know.”

  It almost had to be, if Terri was actually innocent. When push came to shove, I wasn't convinced that any of the killers we'd considered, Melissa included, were true contenders.

  I wrapped the fingers of both hands around my wineglass. “Do you think Terri could be protecting someone?”

  Steven looked surprised. “Who?”

  “I don't know. At one point I thought it might be Ted.”

  “He was in San Diego.”

  “It's only an hour's flight away.”

  Steven ran a hand through his hair. “He doesn't fit the prosecution's evidence either.”

  “I know. Except for the sheepskin seat covers. And maybe access to the gun.”

  “My brother-in-law is all braggadocio and bluster. I can't see him putting himself on the line for anything, even Hannah.”

  “Braggadocio?” I smiled to cover my ignorance. “Is that Italian?”

  “Means he's a braggart. It was in The New York Times crossword puzzle a couple of weeks ago. I kinda like the sound of it.”

  I mentally filed the word away, knowing I'd be looking for an opportunity to use it myself. Then I took a sip of wine. “Alexander Rudd called yesterday afternoon while I was out. I wish he'd left a number.”

  “About what?”

  “He didn't say. Jared talked to him and said he sounded nervous. I worry he's recognized Terri's picture, that he'll tell me she's the woman he saw the night of the murder.”

  Steven leaned forward. His gaze was intent. “She didn't do it, Kali.”

  “You're her brother. It's hard to be objective.”

  “Anyone who knows Terri well would tell you the same thing. She simply isn't capable of cold-blooded murder.”

  “Well, Rudd hasn't called back in any event. But there is an interesting twist.” I hesitated, reluctant to bring up painful reminders, then decided that Steven lived with the past everyday. “Back before he supposedly drove his car off the cliff, Rudd was head mechanic at a place called Henzel's Autoworks.”

  I paused, but Steven showed no sign of recognition at the name.

  “Did Joseph Moran ever mention it?”

  “Henzel's?”

  “Right.”

  Steven frowned. “Not that I recall. Why would he?”

  “Maybe it's totally unrelated. But Moran had a business card for Henzel's Autoworks among the personal effects his wife packed away. The shop burned down three days after Moran's heart attack and four days before Rudd's supposed death. I know life is strange and all, but still...”

  Steven frowned. “This is more than strange. It's dammed spooky.” He thought for a moment. “What does it mean?”

  “I was hoping you might have some ideas.”

  “Not off the top of my head, for sure.”

  We spent the next ten minutes dissecting and rearranging the facts as we knew them, exploring possibilities and then ultimately discarding them. Finally, we put them aside.

  Steven had brought a pear tart from Grace Baking. After we'd cleared the table, we moved out onto the deck for dessert and brandy. The evening air was cool and scented with wood smoke, a reminder that despite the warm days, fall was fast approaching.

  I'd grabbed a sweater and draped it over my shoulders. Steven seemed comfortable in shirt sleeves.

  “Being back in this house doesn't feel as strange as I thought it would,” he said, breaking a short but comfortable silence. “Those evenings we spent here listening to music, dancing and talking, it's part of another lifetime, and yet it isn't.”

  The evenings he'd told Caroline he was working. And I had blithely gone along with the lies. Well, maybe not so blithely, but certainly with my eyes open.

  “I'm not proud of what we did,” I told him.

  “Nor am I.” He glanced my way. “But that doesn't stop me from remembering the good things that you and I had going.”

  When I didn't say anything, he continued. “My marriage was in trouble long before you came into the picture.”

  He'd never mentioned that. We'd made it a point not to talk about his family, as though we could simply erase them from our world. Though in retrospect it made sense that he wouldn't have been involved with someone else if he'd been happily married.

  What had I thought at the time, I wondered. That I was irresistible?

  “For Rebecca's sake,” Steven added, “Caroline and I both wanted to pretend that everything was fine. But it wasn't, and hadn't been for years. In fact, we were on the verge of splitting when Caroline discovered she was pregnant with Rebecca.”

  Sometimes silence is the best response. It was the only response that came to mind at the moment.

  “I realize now we should have dealt with it directly. But you know the saying about the shoemaker's children.”

  “They have no shoes?”

  “Right. And those of us in the psych field are certainly not immune from delusional behavior.”

  “I'm sorry.” Finally, I found the words. “Maybe if I'd been less willing to—”

  “It's not your fault, Kali. You're not responsible for my problems with Caroline or for the accident. That's what I'm trying to say.”

  Maybe not entirely. Maybe if it hadn't been me, it would have been someone else. But that didn't exonerate me.

  Steven was quiet for several minutes. “I've made my peace with Caroline. We've had those conversations in my head, the ones we should have had while we were married. But Rebecca...”

  His voice choked and he paused for a breath. His expression was unnatural, tight and twisted. “Her spirit. . . it isn't settled. She's searching ...” He paused and looked at me. “I sometimes hear her crying out to me, waiting for me
to help.”

  I felt my skin prickle, whether from the breeze or Steven's mood, I couldn't tell. I recalled his friend, Martin Bloomberg, talking about the black hole that tugged at Steven's soul. I was beginning to understand.

  “Maybe dinner wasn't such a good idea,” I said.

  He smiled at me through the growing darkness. Grounded again, the Steven I knew. “Sorry, don't let me spook you. Dinner was, and is, an excellent idea.”

  We were seated next to each other, our chairs facing west toward the vast expanse of glittering lights below. Steven reached for my hand.

  “I haven't quite figured this out,” he said, lightly rubbing his thumb against my palm. “Why being with you makes it better, but it does. Like somehow Rebecca is nearby.” He turned to look at me. “I'm talking nonsense, aren't I?”

  I shook my head. But it made me uncomfortable to think I was somehow guardian of Rebecca's soul.

  Loretta wandered out onto the deck and settled between us. Steven let go of my hand to rub the top of her head. “When did you get a dog?”

  “She was my father's dog. I inherited her when he died. I wasn't the least interested in having a dog. And I'd built up layers of resentment toward my father because he ignored us for all those years, but now Loretta is, well. . . she's family, I guess. And I feel closer to my father than I ever did while he was alive.” I laughed self-consciously. “Talk about nonsense.”

  “People are funny like that. The shapes and connections in our mind are powerful influences, even if they defy logic.”

  “Or maybe, especially then.”

  Steven nodded, rubbed his hands over his arms.

  “More brandy?” I asked.

  “I don't think so.”

  “Another slice of tart?”

  Steven gave me a sidelong glance. I could see the corners of his mouth turn up slightly. “How about the hot tub instead?”

  I shook my head vigorously. “No way.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because it's not a good idea.” In fact, I was sure it was a very bad idea, but I could already feel the flicker of something pleasant just behind my breastbone.

  “You still keep it heated?”