by Thomas Perry
“What about them?”
“She left them on,” he said. “I guess she had no reason to preserve her running shoes.”
“I suppose.”
He opened the refrigerator and looked inside. “So I guess I don’t need a criminal lawyer after all. But thanks for taking care of this. I was really beginning to wonder.”
“Oh, no. You do need one, and I got the one I wanted. His name is Brian Logan, and he’s a very big defense attorney, based in L.A. He’s already on your case.”
“If there is no case, what’s he doing?”
“He’s making inquiries, showing the flag. He’s the one who got the police to tell him you’re not a suspect. He’s very expensive, by the way.”
“Oh?”
“It’s part of the strategy. I’m sorry to tell you this, but you don’t look like a multimillionaire, even by Santa Barbara standards. You buy a pair of shorts from some store on lower State and then wear them practically until your ass shows through. You look like maybe an unemployed construction worker.”
“That’s pretty much what I am.”
“I suppose it is, but that’s not what you want to be when the police are looking for a suspect. So I hired you a lawyer that only a rich guy can afford, with a name they know.”
“That gets me off the hook?”
“No, it prevents you from getting on. If they discover in the next day or two that she had help shooting herself, or find that she’s been raped, you’re the only one who admits having seen her. If they know who you are, they keep looking. And it’s not as unfair as it sounds. You wouldn’t believe how few middle-aged multimillionaires are out there murdering total strangers and then telling the police about it. So we not only make them aware that you’re not going to be easy, but also that you’re highly unlikely to be anything but innocent. He’s on his way here, and we’re meeting with him in my office at four.”
At a quarter to four, Mallon was sitting in Diane’s office, waiting.Brian Logan did not arrive alone. When the door opened he was preceded by a small woman in a business suit and a white shirt that was cut a bit like a man’s but was soft silk. Her eyes were sharp and her movements quick and birdlike. Once she had entered, the next one in was a young man whose function seemed to be to carry a couple of huge leather cases and lean his body against doors so they would stay open for Brian Logan.
Logan entered last. When he stepped through the threshold, Mallon felt as though he had seen him before. After that instant, Mallon wasn’t sure whether he had seen him on television talking into a microphone outside some courthouse, or had seen him as one of the legal experts on some talk show about a big murder, or if he simply looked like the kind of lawyer who was on television. He seemed to be slightly younger than Mallon, and that gave Mallon a few seconds of discomfort, but he reminded himself that a forty-year-old was not a beginner, and the man’s appearance was probably calculated to please juries. He had dark brown hair that was short, but thick and shiny as a dog’s coat, and he wore a charcoal gray suit that looked like the outfits that major politicians wore on international visits, only with a better, more subdued tie. His shave was fresh, his nails were manicured, and the impression he gave was of a cleanliness like some clerics had, which gave him an aura of sanctity. He smiled at Diane, said “Thanks,” and she realized he meant he wanted her to leave. She nodded to Mallon and retreated.
He glanced in the direction of Robert Mallon for only a heartbeat, and then seemed not to need to look more closely. His attention was directed to some papers his female assistant had snatched out of one of the leather cases and handed to him. “Good afternoon,” he said in Mallon’s direction, his eyes still on the papers.
“Pleased to meet you,” Mallon said, and stepped forward to shake Logan’s hand.
Logan endured the ceremony, then said, “Sit down,” and indicated the chair Mallon had just vacated. “You went to the police voluntarily and made this statement?”
“Yes, I went voluntarily.” He craned his neck to see the paper. “I assume that’s the statement I made.”
Logan suddenly focused on him. “Why did you do it?”
“It occurred to me that I was probably the only one in Santa Barbara who knew anything about what had happened, maybe the only one who had even spoken to her.”
“So far, you are,” said Logan, but his statement seemed inattentive, absentminded. He was staring at the paper again. Mallon wasn’t sure whether he was comparing the statement to what Diane had told him or was just reading it for the first time.
“Right,” Logan muttered to himself. It was clear that he had already finished reading the statement. “Is there anything else that you forgot to mention to the police?”
“I don’t think so,” said Mallon. “I was there for quite a while, and I tried to bring back every detail.”
“Good,” Logan said. He had a very warm smile when he used it, but to Mallon the effect was startling, like a bright light being switched on. “Now. The only other thing that might come up is anything from your past that we don’t know.”
He said it so carefully and cautiously that Mallon needed to reassure him. “I understand,” said Mallon. “There’s nothing that I can think of.”
Logan ignored his reassurance. “Ever been arrested?”
“No.”
“Not even a traffic ticket?” He was openly preparing to be triumphant, as though he had surprised clients with this many times.
“I’ve had parking tickets—I think three in my life—but no moving violations.”
“Ever seen a psychiatrist for any reason?”
“No.”
“You’ve been divorced.” Logan said it as though he were vindicated now that his probing had hit something undeniable.
“Yes,” said Mallon. “It was about ten years ago. Her name is Andrea, and she still lives up in San Jose.”
“If the police went to her and asked her about you, would she say good things or bad things?”
Mallon frowned. “As far as I know, nobody gets divorced because they’re brimming with delight about the other person. I assume she wouldn’t be very complimentary, but she wouldn’t say I was a criminal or something.”
“Did you ever hit her?”
“Of course not.”
“Push her or threaten her?”
“No,” said Mallon.
“Is there any chance she might say you had?”
Mallon was overcome with frustration. “It wasn’t that kind of thing at all. We had arguments, but they weren’t physical. They were pretty dull stuff. I worked too much, and she was always lonely and bored, so she spent too much. It was that kind of thing. And we didn’t argue very much—maybe if we had talked more, it would have saved the marriage. As it was, we both wanted the divorce. The biggest arguments were about that. She wanted everything we owned, had built, or inherited converted to cash instantly and split half and half. I knew that was what was ultimately going to happen, but I wanted to do it a lot more gradually: keep my business going and buy her out over time. She got her way, and we haven’t had any contact since the final decree.”
Logan said, “All right. How about other women?”
“You mean now?”
“During the marriage.”
“No.”
“Did she cheat on you?”
“I don’t really know. If she did, I never caught her at it. I think that she wasn’t involved with anyone until after the divorce was final. By then I had left town, and it was none of my business.”
“Were you in the military?”
“Air Force. In the seventies.”
“Honorable discharge?”
“Sure.”
“Were you ever formally disciplined or charged with anything?”
“Never.”
Logan scrutinized Mallon as though he were a particularly difficult witness. “Is there anyone you know of who might come forward or be turned up by the police and might say anything negative about you?”
“How can I possibly answer that?”
“I’m thinking of women, particularly. That you came on too strong, or you made them uneasy, for instance.”
Mallon held up both hands and shrugged his shoulders. “Over the years I’ve dated some women who liked me a lot, and others who didn’t especially warm up to me. I can’t imagine any of them saying I was dangerous.”
“I’m thinking especially of the time since you’ve resided in Santa Barbara,” said Logan. “After all, you are a heterosexual male who—you are exclusively heterosexual?” He watched Mallon nod. “Who has lived here all this time without forming a permanent relationship with a woman. It isn’t illegal, but it might raise questions in people’s minds.”
“I suppose,” said Mallon.
“Then there is no point at all that you’ve been keeping in the back of your mind, hoping it wouldn’t come up because you don’t want to talk about it?”
Mallon sighed. “I don’t like talking about my personal life, if that’s what you mean, but there are no guilty secrets. I went to school, then the Air Force, then worked as a parole officer in San Jose, then a contractor. I haven’t found a woman I wanted to marry yet, but—”
“Wait,” interrupted Logan. “You were a police officer in San Jose?”
“Well, parole officers work for the state Department of Corrections, but I worked out of the office in San Jose. It was only four years, and it was a long time ago, in the seventies.” He noticed the expression on Logan’s face, so he short-circuited the question. “No disciplinary actions, nothing on or off the record. I just decided to quit because four years was enough.”
“Have you told the police that you’d been a sworn peace officer?”
“No. Do you think it would have helped?”
“Probably not. At least not on a homicide. Ex-cops are all trained to shoot people, and once in a while, one of them does. They also have guns. Do you still have yours?”
“No. I turned mine in when I quit, over twenty years ago.”
“No others?”
“No.”
“All right, Mr. Mallon,” said Logan. “I’ll try to find out what the police and the district attorney have in mind. Don’t go anyplace where we can’t reach you quickly. I may want to talk some more.”
Mallon went home to wait. Four hours later his telephone rang. It was Diane Fleming again. “Robert?”
“Hi, Diane.”
“The coroner’s office is going to announce their finding tomorrow morning. They’re going to rule it a suicide.” She paused for a moment, apparently waiting for some expression of relief. “It’s a preliminary finding, but there’s really no doubt. There’s nothing about it that’s out of place or unexplained. Brian Logan and his people have already gone home.” She waited. “Okay?”
“Okay,” he sighed.
“You still sound unsatisfied.”
“I am.”
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
“I still don’t know anything about the girl. I want to know about her.”
“What do you want to know?”
“Everything.”
Diane sounded tired, as though she were determined to humor him but dreading what he might demand. “There are people who do that sort of thing for a living. Do you want me to hire a private detective?”
“No, thanks,” he said. “I know the one I want.”
CHAPTER 5
Mallon punched the numbers on the telephone, listened to the ringing, then heard the connection. A voice came on that he had not heard in years.
“Lightning Quick Bail Bonds, Harry here.” Harry was now probably about sixty, but the voice was still the same. It was hard, even a little challenging. For Mallon it brought back a clear picture of the short, broad-shouldered frame and the prizefighter’s face with the smeared right eyebrow where the hair never grew in right over the scar. Mallon could feel his facial muscles contracting into a smile.
“Harry,” he said. “This is Bob Mallon.”
“Bobby!” came the voice. “How are you doing? I heard you were in Paris. You calling from Paris? You sound like you’re right here.”
“I’m in Santa Barbara.”
“You went all the way from Paris to Santa Barbara and didn’t even stop in to say hello? What the hell’s the matter with you? I practically raised you from a pup.”
“No, you didn’t. I didn’t meet you until I was a full-grown dog. And I’ve never been to Paris, Harry. Santa Barbara is where I live.”
“Good,” said Harry. “Paris is too good for you. What are you calling for? Don’t tell me you need bail? What the hell did you do?”
“I called because I wanted to talk to Lydia. Is she around today?”
“You’re in luck. She just came in,” said Harry. He yelled, “Lydia!” A few seconds later, he said, “She’s going to take it in her office. Nice to talk to you, Bobby.”
“Take care, Harry.”
Lydia Marks came onto the line, her voice still carrying a very faint trace of a southern accent that Mallon had always assumed wasn’t real, the husky smoker’s rasp in her throat maybe a bit deeper than last time. “Hello, Bobby.”
“Hello, Lydia. How’s business?”
“The same,” she said. “You’d think there’d be less competition to lend large sums of money to people accused of stealing.”
“You would. But if you’re complaining, you’re probably doing okay.”
“Nobody in jail wants to stay,” she admitted. “I’m just getting too old to keep tracking the bastards down afterward to keep them from ruining us. You have to remember I’ve been doing this since the days when you and I were parole officers, and I’m still doing it.”
“I suppose most of them get away from you now that I’m gone.”
“None of them do,” she huffed. “I don’t know what I ever needed the likes of you for.”
“It was me that needed you,” he said. “When you quit, I had to leave too.”
“Are we nearly getting around to why you called?” she asked wearily.
“Yes,” he said. “I want to hire you.”
“To do what?” Her voice was suspicious.
“Something like what we used to do together in the old days.”
“Not a chance,” she snapped.
“Whatever you’re remembering wasn’t me,” he said. “I was married at the time, and I know I wasn’t cheating on her.”
“Your mistake. Why do you need a detective?”
“I need to find out what I can about somebody.”
“Gee, I’d love to help you,” she said without enthusiasm, “but I just don’t know. Things around here—”
“I know your time costs more than it used to, and I know you don’t want to go because you have a lot of business and don’t want to be out of town, distracted from it. So I’ll pay you an outrageous amount of money, if you’ll just help me out. Come on, Lydia.”
“Who are we talking about?”
He said, “It’s a young woman who committed suicide here a couple of days ago. The police haven’t even got a name yet. I … met her before she did it. She was on the beach. She tried to drown herself, but I pulled her out.”
Her voice changed. This time there was an unaffected curiosity in it. “You really care about this, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Where do you live these days? What’s the address?”
“It’s 2905 Boca del Rio in Santa Barbara.”
“I’ll be there as soon as I can get a plane.”
“Thanks, Lydia.”
Her voice hardened again, but unconvincingly. “Don’t thank me. You’re going to pay full price for anything you get, you rich bastard.”
It was late afternoon when she arrived in Santa Barbara. Mallon watched her from behind the window blinds as she got out of the back seat of the cab, handed a bill to the driver, and waved him away from her wheeled suitcase. As the cab drove off, she slung her big purse over her shoulder, extend
ed the handle of the suitcase, hung her carry-on bag over it, and pulled it up his driveway.
She did not look as he had expected her to, and he had not been prepared: she did not show the ten years since he had last seen her. Her face seemed nearly the same to him, although he knew he was probably not seeing wrinkles that were there, maybe now appearing at the corners of the big, light brown eyes. He could see that she still had the hourglass figure that, when Mallon had worked with her, used to cause whispered, longing comment among their colleagues in the overwhelmingly male office. The narrow waist curving out to wide hips and shoulders had, even then, been out of fashion with other women, but no man had ever agreed with that assessment. There had been a kind of defiance to her attitude about her appearance: the business suits she favored had seemed tailored to show the curves.
She walked with the same energy and determination that he remembered, her eyes making tiny restless movements to take in everything around her as she came. She did not knock at the door, because she had already seen him studying her through the blinds, merely waited for him to get there to open it.
They hugged wordlessly, and then she stepped in, bumping her suitcase up and over the threshold before he could get around her to reach it.
“Don’t pretend you’re a gentleman at this late date,” she said. “I worked with you when you couldn’t afford an extra pair of socks.”
The voice, with its mock-sarcastic tone, made him begin to sense how much he had missed her. “You’re looking great, Lydia.”
“You’re not. You look ten years older.” She brushed past him and sat on the couch. “On the plane I used my laptop to read the Santa Barbara papers. It wasn’t exactly page-one stuff. Tell me what wasn’t in the papers.”
He recited the story again, telling her everything he had told Detective Fowler. When he had finished, Lydia sighed and stared at the wall, her lips pursed.
“I didn’t expect that you would approve,” he said.
