Motion to Dismiss (A Kali O'Brien Legal Mystery)

by Jacobs, Jonnie

  Grady looked at his watch. “Well, this was fun, boys and girls, but I’ve got to be going. I told Nina I’d be home before dinner.”

  “You’re leaving? I thought we were going to talk about the case.” That was the only reason I’d agreed to come. I was having a hard time fitting into Grady’s schedule.

  “I’ve got a handle on it. We can talk in a couple of days, okay?”

  “Why not now?”

  “Let’s let the dust settle first.”

  I wasn’t sure what dust he was talking about, and I wasn’t sure I’d have any better luck pinning him down in the future. As I watched him leave, I wondered once again how I’d ended up defending Grady Barrett on a rape charge.

  Without asking me, Marc hailed the waitress and ordered another drink for both of us.

  “So, do you think I’m a prick too?”

  “Sometimes.”

  He grinned. “And the other times?”

  If the truth be told, I didn’t know what to make of Marc. And it wasn’t just his behavior tonight. At times I felt myself drawn to him despite our past history. There was a chemistry between us I couldn’t ignore. But other times he made me uneasy. It was almost as though the face Marc presented to the world was artfully contrived to hide the real man beneath the skin.

  I decided to sidestep the question. “Are you always that uptight about the press?”

  Marc shrugged. “I guess I’m nervous about this offering. The talk in the investment community has been favorable so far, but that can change overnight.” He frowned. “Which reminds me. I’ll be in New York for a couple of days talking with investment bankers. You think you can manage the fort without me?”

  I couldn’t tell from his tone whether the question was posed in jest or not. Either way, I didn’t think it warranted much of an answer.

  “I figured as much,” Marc said, reading my look. He gave me a disarming smile. “You seem to have things pretty much under control.”

  “Thanks.”

  “I like that.”

  “What?”

  “A woman with a brain.” He angled closer and spoke softly. “It’s very sexy.”

  “You’re verging on prickhood again.”

  He moved back to his own part of the table and grinned. “I’ll work on fixing that.”

  <><><>

  When I got home, I checked the spiral notepad by the phone, where Bea and Dotty left my messages. There was one from a woman I’d worked with at Goldman and Latham, one from the gardening service, and none at all from the person whose name I most wanted to see there.

  It wasn’t that Tom never called me. He had phoned probably four or five times since I’d come back to Berkeley. Our conversations were always affable, and irritatingly light. Loretta, the springer spaniel I’d inherited from my father, provided safe ground for discourse. She was staying with Tom while I was away, and he recounted her antics for me at length. He filled me in on news of Silver Creek, as well, and the people we knew in common, but he took pains not to mention Lynn unless I asked. And then he’d say something vague, like she’s trying hard to make it work.

  What the hell was that supposed to mean? The reconciliation had been her idea. The more important question, to my mind, was, what was Tom feeling? Unfortunately, feelings were something he didn’t talk about much. Which I suspected was one of the reasons Lynn had moved out in first place.

  <><><>

  I was running late Monday morning, so I didn’t read the paper until I got to the office. Not that I made the connection even then. The article was short, on the inside page of the second section. A woman had fallen to her death from the deck of a home in the Oakland hills. No name or address was listed, and I gave the story only a passing glance, mentally adding it to the growing tally of tragic events that befall people every day.

  It was only when Nina called a little after noon that my stomach curdled.

  “Did you see this morning’s Chronicle?” she asked.

  “What about it?”

  “The story about the woman who fell off her deck.”

  I knew then, before she said the name. “Deirdre Nichols?”

  “One of the other second-grade mothers called me. She was in the office when Deirdre’s sister phoned to say Adrianna wouldn’t be at school.” Nina’s voice was faint, as though she were talking through spun cotton. “Poor Adrianna. To wake up and find her mother gone. She must have been so frightened. And then to find her lying in the dirt, bloody and broken . . .”

  Nina’s voice trailed off. I knew the specter of her own death and what that would mean for Emily weighed on Nina’s mind, but that didn’t fully account for the thin, quivery quality of her words.

  “What happened? Do you know any details?”

  “Only that Adrianna discovered the body. She was smart enough to call 911. God, the things we drill into our babies’ heads.” Nina paused for a breath. “I’m scared, Kali.”

  “Scared? Why?”

  “After I heard, I called the police. Just to make sure.” Another pause. “They’ve listed it as a suspicious death.”

  The sour feeling in my stomach rose to my throat. “Did they say why?”

  “Only that they weren’t ruling out foul play.”

  Chapter 11

  “I’m worried,” Nina said after a moment. I could hear her breathing into the phone.

  I was worried, too. Unless he had a rock-solid alibi, Grady Barrett would find himself the object of intense scrutiny—both from the police and from the public. Not to mention the investment bankers.

  “Was Grady at home Saturday night?” I asked.

  “He’s never home anymore.” Nina’s tone was clipped. It was hard to separate the pique from the worry.

  “Never?”

  “I mean, he comes home, but late. Often after I’m asleep. It’s this stock offering,” she added. “It has him going twenty different ways at once.”

  “How about Saturday? Were you asleep when he got home?”

  “I didn’t hear him come in, if that’s what you mean.”

  “What about Simon and Elsa?”

  “I don’t know. Their rooms are in the guest house in back, so it would be unusual for them to have heard him.”

  She paused. “Grady’s been so, so . . . I don’t know, agitated lately. It worries me.

  “As you mentioned, this offering has been on his mind.”

  There was a beat of silence. “Yeah, that’s probably all it is.”

  “Deirdre Nichols’ death may yet be ruled accidental,” I reminded her. “Suspicious is a catch-all term for anything that needs looking into.”

  She sighed. “I realize that.”

  “Or it may turn out that the police might have another suspect in mind.”

  Nina wasn’t reassured. “I hope to God,” she said with quiet vehemence, “that Grady was meeting with some investor or something that night. Someone who can vouch for him at the time of Deirdre’s death.”

  My thoughts, though less impassioned, were similar.

  After hanging up, I stepped to the front of the office and asked Rose, our all-purpose office hand, if she expected Marc to be calling in that afternoon.

  “Probably not,” she answered. “I talked with him this morning. Why?”

  Deirdre’s death was bound to put another hitch in the stock offering, among other things. I debated calling him, then decided to wait until I knew more. “Nothing important.”

  “He should be home Wednesday evening,” she said without taking her eyes off the computer screen. Rose has never met a task she doesn’t like, and she handles them all with the methodical, stony-faced efficiency of an army nurse.

  Back in my office, which was still adorned with Nina’s family photos and mementos, I sat for a good ten minutes, staring at the wall.

  Grady Barrett was a successful and respected businessman. A soccer dad, a park commission official, and a member, if not regular attendee, of the community church. He might have overstepped the bo
unds of morally decent behavior in his tryst with Deirdre Nichols, but that didn’t make him a murderer. In fact, I reminded myself, murder wasn’t even an issue at the moment.

  Unfortunately, the logic of that argument did little to dispel the chill that had worked its way down my spine.

  Let’s let the dust settle, Grady had said when I’d pressed him about the rape charge. I’ve got a handle on it. I can take care of it.

  Is that what he’d done? Taken care of it?

  I wanted to hear from Grady himself.

  <><><>

  Grady was in his private office when I arrived. He introduced me to the two men seated across the desk from him—detectives Flores and Newman from the Oakland police department. They were a Mutt and Jeff pairing of opposites. Flores was stocky and dark, Newman tall and fair. Neither seemed particularly happy to see me.

  Grady, on the other hand, looked relieved. “I just called you,” he said.

  “And here I am. Must be ESP.”

  “Deirdre Nichols is dead. She fell from the deck of the house where she was staying.” His face, though tanned, seemed paler than usual, and his voice faltered.

  “I heard.” Although the others were seated, I remained standing.

  “Are you representing Mr. Barrett?” asked Newman.

  Before I had a chance to frame a response, Grady nodded. “Yes, she is,” he said emphatically. I left it at that for the moment.

  “No need for an attorney, really.” Flores pulled at an earlobe. “We’re merely checking with people who knew Ms. Nichols, trying to piece together what might have happened the night she died.”

  Sure, and they just happened to start with Grady Barrett.

  “Makes me wonder”—Newman nodded toward Grady— “why you’re so eager to have an attorney present. You got something to be nervous about?”

  Grady managed a stiff laugh. “I’m head of a major company in a competitive and cutthroat market. I’ve learned not to sneeze without an attorney present.”

  “That so?” The cop wasn’t impressed. “An investigation like ours is a little different, see. We like to think we’re all on the same side, just trying to find out what happened. Kind of raises my hackles when a citizen thinks he needs an attorney.”

  I leaned against the bookcase. “Cut the crap, Detective. If you have something to ask my client, go ahead and ask. Otherwise, you’ll have to excuse us. He’s a busy man.”

  “Yeah, I’ve heard he gets around.” This was said with a pointed smirk.

  Flores rocked back in his chair. “Before you arrived, we were asking about Mr. Barrett’s activities Saturday evening. He claims he was here at the office, working late.”

  “Not unusual,” I said.

  “Unfortunately, there seems to be no one who can verify that.”

  I looked at Grady, who nodded imperceptibly. “As far as I know,” he said, “the other offices were empty.”

  “I fail to see what my client’s work habits have to do with your investigation of Ms. Nichols’ death.”

  “Might be no connection at all.” The cop turned his attention back to Grady. “Anyone call you that night?”

  “No.”

  “Maybe you called out?”

  Grady hesitated, thinking. “No, not that I recall.”

  “What kind of car do you drive, Mr. Barrett?”

  No doubt they knew the answer already.

  “I have two,” Grady explained. “A Mercedes and a Suburban.”

  “And which were you driving Saturday night?”

  “The Mercedes.”

  “What color is it?”

  “Silver.”

  A smile pulled the cop’s lips taut. “A convertible?”

  Grady nodded.

  “Ms. Nichols’ little girl saw a silver convertible in the driveway sometime in the middle of the night.”

  Grady shrugged, but he wasn’t quite able to pull off the show of indifference he was after. “My car is hardly unique.”

  “She also saw a man in the driveway.” The detective paused. “ ‘Course, if it wasn’t you, I imagine she’ll be able to tell us that.”

  I’d forgotten Deirdre’s seven-year-old daughter was with her that night. Had she recognized Grady? Were the police withholding that critical piece of information in the hope of tripping him up?

  I pushed the thought aside. If Adrianna had seen her mother fall from the deck, she wouldn’t have waited until morning to call 911.

  Unless she’d been scared, said the voice at the back of my mind. Unless she’d been hiding.

  I rose and stepped between the cops and Grady. “This sounds like much more than a friendly discussion about Ms. Nichols’ accident.”

  “Well, see, that’s one of the things we’re trying to find out. If it was an accident.”

  “Mr. Barrett has told you that he was at work Saturday night. That means he knows nothing that will help with your investigation. I suggest you leave now.”

  Newman stood and leaned forward, resting a hand on Grady’s desk. “You don’t have any plans to leave the area, I hope.”

  Grady shook his head.

  “Good. We just might have a few more questions for you.”

  As soon as the detectives had gone, I crossed my arms and turned toward Grady. “In case you don’t realize it, you’re in big trouble. You’d better get yourself a good attorney. And fast.”

  “I’ve got one.”

  “A criminal attorney. Marc’s sharp, and he knows the business side of things, but we could well be talking a homicide charge here.”

  Grady raised his eyebrows. “I was talking about you, not about Marc.”

  I shook my head.

  “Why not?”

  Because I don’t trust you. “Because I’m not a criminal defense attorney.”

  “What do you mean? You’ve handled criminal cases before, including murder. And you were doing all the work on the rape trial.”

  “This is different.”

  Grady’s eyes narrowed with indignation. “I didn’t kill her.”

  “I’m glad to hear it.”

  “You don’t believe me, do you?”

  “That’s not really an issue.”

  “The hell it isn’t. That’s exactly why you don’t want to be involved.”

  I shifted my weight to my other foot. “I have this awful feeling in the pit of my stomach, Grady. Three nights ago you as much as told me not to worry about the rape charges, that you’d take care of things.”

  “I didn’t mean—”

  “You’re a winner there, you know. The D.A.’s office won’t go forward without the complaining witness.”

  Grady’s face grew flushed. “I didn’t rape her, either.”

  “So you said.”

  He pushed back his chair and stood, leaning forward over his desk. “Goddammit, I didn’t do anything wrong. Hurtful to Nina, yes. Stupid, you bet. But criminally culpable, absolutely not.”

  “Maybe you’ll get lucky and the police will see it that way too.”

  An exasperated sigh. “I don’t have time for this nonsense. First the alleged rape, now these suspicions about Deirdre’s death. The next couple of weeks are crucial if we’re going to raise the kind of capital we need.”

  I crossed my arms and glared at him. “Life is what happens while you’re making other plans.”

  Grady looked uncomfortable. He came around the desk and tentatively touched my shoulder. “Please, Kali.” His voice had a quiet urgency to it, and a sincerity that surprised me. “If it comes to that—if it turns out Deirdre Nichols was murdered—I’d like you to represent me.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you’re conscientious, and you’ve handled this kind of case before.”

  I shook my head. “There are a lot—”

  “But mostly because you care.” He must have read the look on my face, because he was quick to clarify. “Not about me. I know that. You hold me at arm’s length as much as possible. But you do care about Nina.�
��

  “You need an attorney you’re comfortable with.”

  “I’m comfortable with you. Please. For Nina’s sake.”

  I felt the beginnings of a headache. I pressed a palm against my forehead. “Let’s hope it never becomes an issue.”

  There was a glint in his eye. I couldn’t tell whether it reflected genuine need or simply the masterful “I got you” maneuver.

  In either case, he was right about Nina.

  Chapter 12

  The afternoon sun, filtered by high clouds, bathed the hills in pale light. I drove through Montclair and into the wooded canyon where Deirdre had been living for the past month. I wound up and around, through a maze of hairpin turns and roads narrowed by erosion from the winter’s heavy rains.

  The house was shingled. It appeared to be newer than its neighbors, or maybe it had been remodeled more recently. It was set on the downslope, the kind of house that clings to the hill, descending three or four floors as it follows the terrain. I could tell, even from the vantage point of my car, that it would be a long drop from an upper deck to the ground.

  Because of the narrow, winding streets, parking was always a problem in the hills. Deirdre’s house was on a curve, which made it worse. I drove past, up the hill about a hundred yards, and parked in a wide spot near another house, then headed back down the road on foot.

  When I got closer, I saw a strip of yellow police tape tacked diagonally across the front door. A moment later, a female officer in uniform emerged from the walkway to the side of the house. She had a pert nose, short blond hair, and a belt so loaded with weapons and other paraphernalia I didn’t see how she had the strength to stand.

  I nodded toward the tape. “Looks like you folks think her death wasn’t an accident.”

  “There hasn’t been a determination one way or another.”

  “Any idea when they’ll release the scene?”

  She squinted at me. “Are you a friend?”

  For a second I considered going with it, then shook my head. “An attorney.”

  “You figuring there’s a lawsuit in this somewhere?” Her tone was more amused than pointed.