“Call me when you find them,” I said.
“Better yet, I’ll bring them to the Blue Fin,” he said nonchalantly. “At six.”
____
I TEXTED JESSICA and asked her to meet me at the Blue Fin at 5:30. She was late. We ordered apple martinis. I barely had time to fill her in before Benny arrived. The hostess led him right to our table. He immediately looked at the drink menu.
“Well, I’ll be,” he said. “They start at fifteen dollars.” He ordered a thirty-dollar imported beer from Bavaria, brewed by monks, and then set out a photocopy of two DMV licenses. Maria Raposa. Arlene Raposa. “Maria never changed her name on her license.” He tapped the papers. “Take a look at the address.”
Both of them lived at 314 Carroll Street, apartment B, one door down from apartment A, where my dad had been bonked on his head.
The waitress set down Benny’s beer. I tossed a hundred on the table. “We have to go,” I told her.
“But he just got his beer,” she said.
“We’ll be back later.”
____
WE FLAGGED DOWN a surly taxi driver who cursed when we said we needed to go to Brooklyn. But Benny had his butt in the backseat and he couldn’t speed away. Traffic on the Manhattan Bridge was a nightmare. It took over an hour to get to the 87th.
Benny, Jessica, and I walked in. Paco was off duty, but talking story out in front with his buddies.
“Hey, Paco,” I said. I waved the two DMV printouts at him. “Want a promotion?”
____
THE DEAL WAS, I wanted to be the one to knock on the door and confront Maria. I wanted to know why, so I could tell Dad.
“You think she’s going to tell you why?” Paco said. “Ha.”
Paco and his crew broke the crime scene seal on Fratelli’s apartment A and hid inside. “Two minutes,” he said, motioning down the hall, which smelled of burned empanadas.
I knocked on B. A younger, shorter version of Maria opened the door. “Yes?”
“Hello, Arlene,” I said. “Maria here?”
“She’s in the bathroom,” Arlene said.
I pushed past her. Suitcases were open on the couch, half-full of Yerba Maté bags.
Maria came out of the bathroom in her towel, saw me, and bolted for the door.
“Why? Why?” I yelled, following her out into the hallway, where Paco stepped out of A and grabbed her arm.
“Hey, Maria,” he said. “What say we put on some clothes?”
____
THE 87TH WAS hopping. Paco was the hero of the day, two collars for the Fratelli murder, plus springing the old guy.
Wrinkled Suit saw me and started yelling. “You have some explaining to do!” he said. “Plus there was a picture of a corpse in that file.” He pulled out his handcuffs.
Jessica stepped in front of me. “Touch her and I’ll sue your sorry ass for sexual assault.”
____
PACO BROUGHT DAD out into the lobby. He was still in his orange jumpsuit.
“Dad,” I said, “I’m getting you out of here.”
“I’m not going,” he said. “I’m innocent.”
“Yes,” I said. “We know.”
He demanded the return of his Hawaiian shorts. They refused, citing them as evidence.
“Then I’ll have to leave naked,” he said. He started to unzip his jumpsuit.
“Keep the jumpsuit overnight,” Paco said.
“You can change at home,” I said.
“Home?” Benny snorted. “Oh no. We’re all going to the Blue Fin.”
“The Blue Fin, huh?” Paco’s face lit up. “I heard their beers are fifteen bucks a pop.”
“No, they start at fifteen bucks and go up,” Benny, the world-wise sophisticate, said. “Two pages of them. You’re going to flip a switch.”
“I got Maria’s paperwork to do,” Paco said.
“We’ll be there awhile,” Benny said.
Just then, Dad saw Maria being led from the fingerprint room. She was wearing an orange jumpsuit.
Dad called to her: “Maria? Maria?”
She refused to look at him or answer before she disappeared through the doors that led to the holding cells.
____
WE ALL SAT around a table at the Blue Fin. Dad, Benny, and Paco were working a flight of exotic beer, Jessica and I were nursing apple martinis. The waitress popped by, and Benny ordered one each of their thirty-dollar appetizers.
“I’m not hungry,” Dad said.
“You’ve got to eat something,” I said. He shook his head. I turned to the waitress. “Bring him two orders of your seared ahi, stuffed with caviar.” I turned to Jessica. “I’m paying,” I said, thinking of my clerk’s salary. I’d put it on Visa. Paco arrived, and Benny ordered.
Jessica saw my face. She also saw Benny order another flight, plus three bottles of assorted German imports. “Not a chance,” she said. “I have an expense account.”
“And an order of fries,” Paco said.
“I may have to go across the street for those.” The waitress looked out the window at McDonald’s.
Dad looked at the golden arches, frowned, and started to open his mouth. I shook my head. “Speaking of disputes,” I said, “what’s with Dixon’s?”
“I was helping Ed Dixon with his dispute against Visa.”
“Oh,” I said, wondering how I was going to tell Dad about all his files I’d tossed.
____
WAITING FOR OUR food, Paco spilled the beans, so to speak.
“Maria spilled her guts,” he said. Fratelli was abusive. A jerk. A lowlife. Violent, probably a murderer, a dog who deserved to die. Fresh out of jail, he’d moved into the apartment down the hall from Maria and Arlene, whom he beat if she didn’t spend the night with him and beat if she did.
The last straw was when she took a plate of empanadas to his apartment, as requested, empanadas she had accidentally scorched on account of she was looking up the address of a women’s shelter in the Brooklyn yellow pages and forgot about them on the stove.
Maria knew about Dad’s Mega dispute and cooked up a quick plan. Arlene called Dad and got him to come over. Maria posted the yellow sticky note on the buzzer box to make it easy for him to come straight to the apartment door. Arlene opened it while Maria popped him gently on the head with a rubber baton from the stash of weapons under Fratelli’s bed, then left to phone in the tip from the corner booth.
“Why?” Dad said.
I tried to be gentle. “She was getting tired of your disputes,” I said.
“Aw shucks,” Dad said. “Aw shucks.”
Paco downed a whole bottle in one breath. Wiped his mouth. Continued. “She came to your apartment looking for the Mega file to see if there was anything in there that could tie Fratelli to Arlene,” Paco said. “She found you there and hung around, trying to get information. When you cut her out of the loop, she thought you knew she was involved, so she planted the Mega file in your suitcase and called in another tip, figuring it would keep you tied up for a few days while she and Arlene split.”
“I didn’t offer to put up bail,” Benny said.
“They’ll get a deal,” Jessica said. “Domestic defenses are guaranteed acquittals these days.”
“Especially when we ID that corpse picture that Fratelli had,” Paco said.
The waitress brought food. I wrapped up one order of seared ahi, with caviar, in a napkin.
“I thought we were in love,” Dad said. “Now I’ve lost my appetite.” I wrapped his ahi in another napkin and put both bundles in my purse.
“You may have been in love, old man,” Paco said. “But Maria’s a piece of work, and in her case, family trumps love.”
His words gave me an idea. I would invite Dad to visit me. Introduce him to the judge, a novice dispute collector. Then I’d treat them to dinner at an overpriced restaurant that had bad service, dishonest waiters, thieving coatroom attendants, slovenly kitchen help, and a menu known as Salmonella Special. I knew ab
out it because my co-clerk’s boyfriend took her there to propose and she became deathly ill after consuming the shrimp bisque.
It was a dispute made in heaven.
“Gotta go,” I said. “I’m dead, and I gotta be on the first flight out. Oral arguments. Come on, Dad.”
____
DAD NOTICED HIS missing file cabinet the minute he walked in the door. He opened his mouth. I held up my hand.
“Say nothing,” I said. “This is a new beginning.”
He was silent for a full thirty seconds. I could see him reviewing his files with his steel trap of a mind. Perfect memory. It was only a matter of days before he was back in the saddle.
“Kitty, kitty.” I unwrapped the bundles of ahi and caviar and put them in Jaws’s dish. Jaws came running. Dad saw him, and his whole face lit up. He rummaged in a desk drawer for a well-worn flashlight, switched it on, and started twirling the beam.
Jaws hesitated. Fish or flashlight?
He snatched a mouthful of caviar and then dove into the game, speeding in an incredibly fast circle. Dad, the flashlight king, really knew how to get him going. Jaws had been mine until I went away to law school, whereupon Dad had spent three years ruining him with the flashlight.
Jaws staggered. “I’m leaving Jaws with you,” I said. “He’ll keep you company.”
Jaws barfed. Caviar. Tough to clean up with Dad’s environmental crap cleaning products.
“You can’t leave him here,” Dad said, ignoring the barf. He changed directions. Jaws fell over. “You won’t have anyone to play the flashlight game with.”
I looked long and hard at Dad, the flash-card lawyer. “I’ll always have someone to play the flashlight game with.”
“Who’s that?” Dad said.
“You, Dad. You.”
And I went into the kitchen to get a roll of recycled paper towels.
MOM IS MY CO-COUNSEL
BY PAUL LEVINE
Ladies and gentlemen, the state will prove that Dr. Philip Macklin intentionally drove his Mercedes sedan into the Santa Ynez canal. Why? To kill his wife and make a premeditated murder look like an accident.”
Scott Gardner pasted on his solemn face and paused. Keeping quiet was the trial lawyer’s most difficult task, but he wanted his words to sink in.
Premeditated murder.
“A homicide both heinous and cruel,” he continued. “Dr. Macklin swims to safety as his wife gasps for air, black water engulfing her like a shroud of death.”
A tad melodramatic, but Nancy Grace will love the sound bite, and the jurors will be moved by my passion.
Tomorrow.
Tonight, Scott Gardner, duly elected District Attorney of Santa Barbara County, spun his tale for the empty chairs of his conference room. A dry run.
“Earlier that fateful evening,” he continued, “Dr. Philip Macklin, the man sitting right here…”
J’accuse! Pointing his index finger like a rapier at the monster.
“… placed the drug Seconal in his wife’s drink. You will hear evidence that alcohol and barbiturates were found in Mrs. Macklin’s blood, and that both substances were present in a cocktail glass in the family living room. Not only that…”
Softly but gravely. Make them lean forward, thirsting for every word.
“… Dr. Macklin’s fingerprints were found on that glass, along with those of his wife. Hemixed her drink, and when she passed out, he carried her to the car, a scrap of her blue satin blouse catching on the Spanish bayonet bush in the driveway. Hedrove at a high rate of speed down Santa Ynez Road, veered through a guardrail, over the embankment, and into the canal. Just as he had planned.”
“You have a motive for all this?”
Scott wheeled around. “Jesus! Mom, I didn’t hear you come in.”
“Your father used to say I treaded softly as an angel.”
“I think he was going deaf there at the end.” She didn’t laugh at his joke. She never laughed at his jokes. “Say, how’d you get past security?”
She smiled and gave a little shrug. “Aren’t you going to get your hair trimmed before trial?”
Reflexively, Scott ran a hand through his shaggy mop. Next, he expected his mother to straighten his tie, tuck in his shirttail, and remind him to eat his veggies.
“No time, Mom. We pick a jury in the morning.”
She sighed her disapproval. For a moment Scott stared at his mother, marveling at her elegance. A gold silk embroidered jacket with a matching skirt falling just below the knees. Armani or Gucci, he figured. Gray hair stylishly cut, glacial blue eyes, and a still-firm chin.
“So what’s up, Mom? I’m a little busy.”
“I’m here to help. It’s not like you’re in court every day. Not like your father. Now, there was a lawyer.”
As opposed to me?
“And there was a man,” she added wistfully.
Ditto, he thought.
“So, what’s the motive, Scottie?” his mother said.
Scottie.
Jeez, how many times had he asked her not to call him that?
He turned to his imaginary jury. “And just why did Dr. Macklin kill his wife? Because he was deeply in debt, his psychology practice foundering. Because Mrs. Macklin planned to divorce him, and she was his cash cow.”
“Cash cow? Dear God, what a vulgarity. Why not call her his femme de miel?”
“If I get any Parisians on the jury, I will.”
His mother lowered herself into one of the conference chairs. She gracefully crossed her legs and reached into her handbag, some Italian number made of supple blond leather the color of hay and soft as butter. She tapped a cigarette out of a blue Gauloises Blondes box and said, “Sometimes, Scottie, I wonder if you’re cut out for criminal law.”
“The voters of Santa Barbara County think I am.”
“Oh, come, dear. They didn’t know they were voting for Scott Gardner, Junior.”
That again. In any contest with his father, he would always come in second. Scott Gardner, Sr., had been DA for a dozen years before going back into private practice with his wife. Gardner & Gardner, LLP. For all those messy problems of the moneyed folk with big houses in the hills of Montecito and on the cliffs above the beach.
So, sure, Scott knew that a lot of voters mistakenly thought his old man was making a comeback, even though he’d been residing in a cemetery overlooking the Pacific for the past three years.
“God, how I miss your father,” she said, lighting a cigarette in violation of state, county, and city laws.
“Me too, Mom.”
“I should never have gotten remarried.”
“After what you and Dad had, you were bound to be disappointed.”
Scott once told his mother that her marriage was a lot like the Reagans’. Husband and wife adoring each other and basically ignoring their children.
She didn’t deny the charge, saying simply that little tadpoles need to swim on their own, or something to that effect.
She tilted her head toward the ceiling and exhaled a puff of smoke. “So what’s your proof this wasn’t an accident?”
“Seventeen minutes. The car’s clock stopped at ten eighteen p.m. Macklin called nine-one-one at ten thirty-five. What was he doing for seventeen minutes?”
“Maybe he was in shock.”
“Paramedics say he was fine.” Scott smiled, letting her know he’d covered that base, just like good old Dad would have done. “Say, have you eaten? Kristin’s stopping by with cheeseburgers.”
“Cheeseburgers?” Making the word sound like “herpes sores.”
“And fries.”
“Kristin never did learn to cook, did she?”
“Don’t start, Mom.”
“I’m amazed she’s kept her figure. Must have been all that exotic dancing.”
“Mom, she was a Laker Girl.”
“So she was. A regular Isadora Duncan.”
“If you want a burger, tell me now, and I’ll catch Kristin at the In-N-Out.”
/>
“I’d rather eat glass.” She tapped cigarette ash into an empty coffee cup. “What makes you think Macklin didn’t dive into the water and pound on the car windows for seventeen minutes?”
“He never claimed he did. Not a word to the cops at the scene or in the hospital. What does that tell you?”
“His silence is inadmissible.”
“I’m just saying, would an innocent man keep quiet?”
“Maybe. If he had to think things through.”
“Why? To plan his lies for trial?”
“To tell a painful truth that would nonetheless prove his innocence.”
“What are you talking about?”
“The holes in your case.”
“Hey, Mom. It’s one thing to play devil’s advocate, but I’ve been over this a hundred times. There are no holes.”
“Do you remember the night of the crash?”
“Hard to forget. The sheriff called me at home. I was at the scene in fifteen minutes.”
His mother exhaled a perfect smoke ring. She’d learned the trick from his father. “Did the lovely Kristin go with you?”
He thought a second. “No. She wasn’t home.”
“Ten thirty at night. Where was she, donating blood at the Red Cross?”
“It was a Thursday. Girls’ night out. Racquetball.”
“Was she there when you got back?”
“Of course. I didn’t get home until nearly dawn. Kristin was asleep.”
“How was she in the morning?”
“I don’t understand the question, Counselor.”
“Yes, you do. I always told your father you were brighter than you appear.”
“Gee, thanks, Mom.”
“Was Kristin stiff or sore? Was she visibly injured in any way?”
“What’s that got to do with—”
“The witness shall answer the question.”
Fine, he’d play along. “I wouldn’t call it an injury. She had a bruised cheekbone from getting hit with a racquetball.”
“Easily covered, I suppose, by all that Estée Lauder foundation she trowels on.”
The intercom rasped with a woman’s voice. “Honey, can you buzz me in?”
“Only if you’re bringing food.” Scott hit a button and heard the lock double-click open.
Mystery Writers of America Presents the Prosecution Rests Page 20
