“They parked about a hundred feet away and started walking back toward the car. It was dark and rainy, and their faces were wet. A live power line had come down and was hanging six and a half feet above the street, practically invisible. Gary walked into it with his wet forehead and was electrocuted. Six weeks before his 21st birthday.”
There was a long silence as Gordon absorbed the story.
“That’s the stuff of legend,” he finally said.
“Sure is. The funny thing — well, not funny, really, but you know what I mean — is that the other player was walking ahead of Gary to that car. But he was only six-three and went under that live wire without even knowing it was there. It kind of makes you wonder whether there’s any rhyme or reason to things.”
“That it does,” Gordon said quietly.
Jack drained the last of his Coke and crushed the can in his powerful right hand.
“You up for one more?”
Gordon shook his head. “I’ve seen enough. Thanks for the game, and good luck to you and the team this year.”
They stood up and shook hands. The kid started back up Union Street toward the courthouse, dribbling his basketball as he went, switching from left hand to right and back again. As he watched him go, Gordon was thinking.
Thinking about Gary Bowman, the kid who never lived long enough to be anything but a basketball player. Who didn’t have the chance to make a life for himself after the playing days were over, in the way Gordon had done — or tried to. Who died helping someone in trouble because it was the right thing to do — so instinctive you didn’t even think about it. Charlotte London had asked Gordon for help, had trusted him with something she felt was important, and hadn’t lived a day after doing so. Whatever she’d given him, he had an obligation to follow through on it. That was the right thing to do.
He looked at his watch. It was 4:15, and the courthouse would be open another three quarters of an hour. He walked back to the car, put the long-sleeved shirt back on, changed out of his shorts, and started the engine.
GOING BACK INTO THE COURTHOUSE, Gordon remembered immediately that the judges’ chambers were down the hall to the right. When he reached them, he was pleased to see that Louis T. Fletcher was still Superior Court Judge.
“Gordon, my boy, what a pleasure and surprise,” the judge said in his booming and high-pitched voice, emerging from his office after being told who wanted to see him. They shook hands.
“The pleasure’s mine, your honor. Glad to see you’re still working.”
“The voters haven’t gotten wise to me yet,” he said with a wink. “Do come in. We have a lot to catch up on.”
Gordon followed him into chambers. There was a medium-sized window on the outside wall, looking out over the lawn behind the courthouse, and the connecting door to the courtroom was on the left as they entered, only a few steps from the judge’s desk. The desk itself held several freestanding photos of Judge Fletcher’s family, and about it were scattered two piles of file folders containing case information, a yellow writing pad, several pens sitting where they had last been set down, and in the center, a stack of white paper, filled with words seeking justice (or at least vindication) for a client, painstakingly written at a three-figure hourly rate. It looked like the desk of someone who was working and concentrating on the work. The room itself was dark, with dark wood walls and a deep burgundy carpet. Hung on the walls were the judge’s law degree (Stanford ’55) and a number of prints of outdoor scenes and drawings of plants native to the area. Gordon recalled that when Judge Fletcher had taken him fishing 15 years ago, he was always stopping to point out and discourse upon some plant or other.
The judge slapped the pile of legal papers on his desk and motioned Gordon to a chair opposite the desk.
“An indigestible legal brief,” he said. “You’ve done a public service by taking me away from reading it.”
“But isn’t justice delayed justice denied?”
“Generally, yes. But not in this case. This property line dispute,” he lifted the brief and dropped it with a thud on the desk, “has been dragging on for three-and-a-half years. It threatens to become Forest County’s version of Jarndyce v. Jarndyce. One day more could hardly matter.”
Gordon smiled. The judge’s appearance had changed in 15 years. His hair, salt-and-pepper back then, was all white now, and Gordon had noticed a slight stoop when following him into chambers. But he still looked a fit five-nine and his sharp mind was clearly in evidence.
“So how have you been? No — first tell me how Judge Gordon is doing.”
“The judge is fine. I had breakfast with him on Sunday and he shows no sign of letting up.”
“He struck me as being one of the ones who would keep working to the end and die with his boots on. Let’s hope that’s not for a long time. And you? You must be married and a father by now.”
“I’m afraid that’s still a ‘yet’ for me.”
“Haven’t found the right girl? Well, don’t wait too long. A man’s not complete without a family.” He picked up a photo on the desk, looked at it affectionately, and set it down. “Now the last time you were here, things were up in the air, as I recall. Your father wanted you to go to law school, but you had other ideas.”
“It didn’t seem right, and I had an offer to go to work for an old-line brokerage in San Francisco. I thought I’d give it a try.”
“Maybe for the best,” the judge said after a pause. “Your father cast a long shadow in the legal profession. Some of the cases he litigated before becoming a judge are still talked about. I could see his son wanting to take a different path. I trust it worked out.”
“Pretty well, actually. It turned out I had a flair for reading the stock market and seeing where things might go.”
“You’re still with the brokerage, then?”
“Not anymore. I made enough money on my own investments that I don’t have to work, so I left the brokerage at the end of ’93.”
“You have me a bit worried now. No job and no family. So what are you doing?”
“This and that. Actually, I have a little project going locally right now. You must have known Charlotte London?”
“Good heavens, yes. Everyone did. A real tragedy what happened to her. She did so much for the young people in this town. My son, Joe, said that what he learned from her about how to write — how to think, actually — got him top grades in law school. And my daughter, Maggie, went on to become a teacher because of Miss London’s influence.” He picked up another photograph from the desk. “Though her career is temporarily on hold because of the two lovely granddaughters she’s given us. But how do you know Miss London?”
“Do you have a few minutes, and can I count on your complete discretion?” When Judge Fletcher nodded, Gordon told him about the meeting with Miss London Monday morning, the break-in at his room at Stanhope House, and the sheriff’s tepid response to his information. Knowing the judge’s legal mind, he tried to make the presentation as precise, succinct and thorough as possible. But then, Gordon was used to arguing with his father.
“It doesn’t make sense,” Gordon concluded. “She was highly respected, and she could have gone to almost anybody in town for help, yet she came up to me, a total stranger, in a coffee shop and gave me a floppy disk that turned into fairy dust when the sheriff put it in his computer. She didn’t show it at the time, but she had to be afraid of something.”
The judge had been sitting back in his chair and listening with an air of seeming distraction, cultivated during years on the bench. He sat up now and leaned forward slightly.
“Based on the evidence, I’d have to agree with you. And I must say I’m disappointed, though not surprised, by our sheriff’s reaction. Gene Ballou is a politician and a bureaucrat. Don’t get me wrong — he knows his business more or less. But he’s too concerned with appearances and terrified of looking bad or failing. Someone once said Ballou wouldn’t investigate a murder unless there were already five witnesse
s who saw a suspect standing over the body with a smoking gun in his hand. And being in a runoff for his job this fall probably hasn’t done much for his courage.”
“I take it he won’t be getting your vote?”
Judge Fletcher frowned. “His opponent’s worse. What can I say? In a county this small, the pool of political talent isn’t always as deep as the discriminating voter would like. But some people probably say that about me. Can you keep a secret, Gordon? My term ends in two years, and I’ve decided to finish it out but not run for re-election. That means my replacement will be elected by the people, the way I was 22 years ago, and not appointed by the governor like most judges. It’ll be a crowded election. I expect at least 15 people to run.”
“Fifteen? That must be half the attorneys in the county.”
“Pretty close. But you see, the job pays over a hundred thousand a year. That may not be much in San Francisco, but it’s a kingly salary around here. I dare say there are few attorneys in this county who make a hundred thousand in the best year of their career. Not to mention the pension. As a student of human nature, I look forward to seeing what they’ll do to get it.”
Gordon had nothing to say and simply shook his head.
“But back to your problem. If I were the sheriff, I’d be more suspicious simply because of the burglary in your room where nothing was taken. I’m not the sheriff, however, and I have no way of making him do anything. As for Miss London coming to you, I can only hazard a guess.”
“Which is?”
“How can I put this? We’re a small community, and everybody knows everybody else. A lot of families have been here for generations. In a situation like that, you get to know people pretty well, or at least think you do. She was writing a family history, was she not? Well, sometimes when you dig into the past, you find out something discreditable that someone else thought was buried and forgotten. If you had that knowledge about another person and were afraid of the consequences, to whom could you turn? Miss London had Gene Ballou as a student early in her career, so I doubt she had any illusions on that score. Anyone else in town would probably know the person you’re worried about and might be inclined to give him or her the benefit of the doubt if anything happened. That’s when someone like Charlotte London, who’s a good judge of people, might be inclined to take a leap of faith and trust a stranger — especially one with an honest and trustworthy face like yours.”
“Channeling my inner Boy Scout again,” Gordon murmured.
There was a tap on the door, and it swung open to reveal the legal clerk who had greeted Gordon at the counter.
“Excuse me, judge,” she said. “It’s five o’clock. Do you need anything before we leave?”
He waved his hand. “I’m fine, Carla. Have a nice evening.”
The door closed, and they were alone again. The lawn outside the window was deeper in shade than it had been earlier, and the room seemed slightly darker.
“I really don’t know what to tell you, Gordon. It’s a tough situation. If I knew a secret that someone in town would kill to keep quiet, I’m not sure who I’d trust”
Gordon thought that over.
“Still,” he finally said, “this helps me some. You’ve validated my idea that I’m onto something and have to be careful. That’s a start.” He looked at his watch. “I hadn’t realized it was so late, and my friend’s probably wondering where I am. I should probably be going.”
“Friend? Male or female?”
“Just a fishing buddy. Nothing to get excited about.”
He stood, and so did the judge.
“Sorry I couldn’t be more help, but maybe something will come to me. Check in again if you get the chance. And thank you for keeping me from reading this brief. I’ll be a few minutes more, but you can let yourself out. Just push the door all the way shut behind you, and it’ll lock automatically.”
“It’s been good seeing you again.”
He walked to the chamber door and opened it. As he began to step through, the judge called his name, and he backed into the chamber again.
“I just thought of something. I don’t know if it’s the answer, but we have a lively little weekly newspaper here, and the editor’s fairly new to town. Only been here 20 years, and sort of an aging hippie, but not afraid to ruffle a few feathers. It’s a possibility, anyway.”
Gordon nodded. “That doesn’t seem right yet, but it’s something I’ll think about if things heat up. And I’ll definitely be back in touch.”
On the way out, he double-checked to make sure the office door was locked after he closed it.
FIVE MILES SOUTH OF ARTHUR, the state highway veers away from the lake to skirt a heavily forested area known as Año Nuevo Pines. A single, discreetly marked road leads from the highway into the woods, which, out of sight of the main road, turn out to hold about 200 homes (the majority second homes and vacation rentals) and a resort, also known as Año Nuevo Pines, consisting of two dozen cabins, 40 campsites, a general store, a laundromat and a lakeside restaurant. Gordon and Peter arrived just in time to snag one of the few remaining tables on the outdoor deck.
It was just past six o’clock, and the west side of the lake (including the restaurant’s deck) was in shadow. The temperature had dropped just below 80, and from time to time a gentle breeze tried to pick up, then died again as quickly as it had started. It was the beginning of an evening of enchantment and promise, and the vacationers (they were mostly vacationers at the restaurant) were trying to enjoy it to the utmost.
Not Gordon. The conversations with Judge Fletcher and Sheriff Ballou had left him unsettled and on edge. He was growing increasingly worried about the possibility of losing what Charlotte London had given him before its secret could be divined, and therefore unwilling to risk leaving it in his car. He had put her envelope into his messenger bag, brought it to the restaurant with him, and set it down on an empty chair at their table for four. Only then was he able to relax enough to tell Peter about the afternoon.
Refreshed from his nap, Peter listened attentively and asked good questions, but they were questions, not answers. They were both inclined to conclude that Judge Fletcher was correct in his surmise that Miss London had come across something damaging to someone in the community — something she could trust only to an outsider despite the leap of faith involved in doing that. But that left them in the dark on such critical issues as what they were dealing with and whom they should be worried about.
The food arrived, and they fell to eating in silence. Gordon had ordered the trout — breaded, pan-fried, and served with lemon sauce and capers. He rarely ate the fish he caught anymore but held fond memories of trout cooked over a campfire on family vacations when he was young. The restaurant’s version was more subtle and complex, but the flaky white meat of the fish was more than enough to bring back those memories. Peter had chicken kebabs over rice, with steamed vegetables. They were more than halfway through the meal when the conversation resumed.
“It seems to me,” Peter said, “that job one is to clean up that garbage on the floppy disk and see what’s really there. I assume we’re agreed that there is something there if we can only get to it.”
Gordon nodded and swallowed. “From our brief meeting with her, and from everything else I’ve heard afterward, there has to be. It would have been out of character for her to forget to load the disk or to be playing a practical joke.”
“I was thinking just now. I know the guy who manages the computers at Presbyterian Hospital. I should be able to pick his brain tomorrow by phone, but I’d have to be able to describe what we’re seeing on the screen.”
“I’m impressed. I didn’t realize surgeons fraternized with the computer techs at the hospital.”
“Actually, he was a patient, too.” Peter took a sip of iced tea. “Emergency appendectomy. He owes me one.”
They continued eating in silence and cleaned their plates. Mindful of his performance on the basketball court that afternoon, Gordon had pla
nned on skipping dessert that night, but Peter ordered the cherry pie, and it sounded too good to pass on. In for a dime, in for a dollar, Gordon let the waitress talk him into adding a scoop of vanilla ice cream to it. He was on vacation, after all.
Most of the lake was in shadow by now, though the mountains behind the eastern shore were still topped with sunlight. The temperature had dropped to the mid-70s. Fish were rising far out on the lake, and several swallows had gone into business, swooping around the water and gobbling insects. It was a perfect evening. Even the small children on the deck were well behaved. Gordon wished he could enjoy it more, but his entire body was tense, and every few seconds he put his hand on the computer case to make sure it was still there.
Peter broke the silence. “They have a computer and printer at Stanhope House, don’t they?”
Gordon nodded. “There’s a little alcove on one end of the Fireside Room with a computer, printer and fax. They call it the Business Center — though I’m not sure how many people come there to do business.”
“Then let’s check it out as soon as we get back. Wait a minute. Did you bring your laptop on this trip?”
“Gordon nodded.
“Where is it?”
“Right here.” He tapped the messenger bag.
“Take it out, and let’s look now, while we’re waiting for dessert.”
Gordon set the case on the table and unzipped it, removing a Macintosh PowerBook computer he had bought in January.
“I’ve been thinking of getting one of those myself,” Peter said, “but I’m not sure I’d really use it that much, and it’s a lot of money.”
Gordon opened the top of the device and pressed the power button.
“Go ahead and buy it,” he said. “You’ll be surprised how much you use it. “
Peter couldn’t take his eyes off it. “How much hard drive does this baby have?”
“A hundred twenty eight megabytes.”
Peter shook his head. “More than you’ll ever need.”
Not Death, But Love (Quill Gordon Mystery Book 3) Page 5
