Evidence of Guilt (A Kali O'Brien legal mystery)

by Jonnie Jacobs

  “That’s steady income.”

  “And a steady headache.”

  Double commission time, I thought, rather nastily. “We’ll have to get court approval,” I told her. “They oversee sales of real property.”

  “The court oversees everything,” she said, exasperated. “I’m the one who does all the work while they sit there and create new hoops for me to jump through.”

  She had a point. Being a conservator was, for the most part, a royal pain in the behind. You took it on out of love or a sense of duty, and not because of any inherent rewards. “Have you talked to your mother about this?”

  “Mother doesn’t know day from night half the time.” Sheri sighed. “I’m going to have to sell the house; there’s no way around it. But I don’t see the point in upsetting Mother by bringing it up just yet.”

  Much as I hated to admit it, Sheri was probably right. “I’ll get going with the preliminaries. We can talk about the details next week when we meet.”

  “That’s fine.” She paused for a moment. “I hear you’re involved with the Lisa Cornell case.”

  “Right.”

  “You don’t happen to know what’s going on with the house, do you? I’ve got a client who might be interested.”

  The woman didn't miss an opportunity. "That’s not my area of involvement.”

  “Well, if you hear anything, let me know. It’s an unusual piece of property. Runs all the way past the creek, then fans out so there’s access from the old highway where Foster’s Freeze used to be. There’s a lot of potential there.”

  When someone, particularly a real estate someone, starts talking about potential, it’s a sure sign there’s an unspoken agenda. But I figured Sheri wasn’t going to tell me anything more on her own, and I didn’t have the energy to push it. My only hope was that whatever potential finally won out, it didn’t involve subdividing the property into postage-stamp lots. There was enough of that going on around town already.

  I made one last phone call, to Sam, to tell him about the lab results on Wes’s bloodstained jeans. He wasn’t in and I decided against leaving a message, although I was certain I found the news more troublesome than he would. Sam’s a great believer in keeping the world on an even keel. “It’s not a good development,” he’d say when I told him about the blood-typing, “but it’s not the end of the world either.”

  Maybe not, but I thought it pointed the way pretty clearly.

  I was pulling out my notes on Irma Pearl’s conservatorship when Sabrina called.

  “I’ve got a new lawyer joke for you,” she said. In the background I could hear the clink of ice against glass. Vodka tonic. After five o’clock there was never any doubt.

  “I don’t like lawyer jokes,” I told her.

  “You’ll like this one. See, this man breaks into a bunker in Iraq and finds Saddam Hussein, Muamar Gaddafi and a lawyer. The guy has only two bullets in his gun. What does he do?” She waited.

  “I give up.”

  “He shoots the lawyer twice.”

  “This is supposed to make me laugh?”

  Sabrina sighed. “I thought it might. What’s the matter, you didn’t used to be so testy.”

  “Sorry. Bad day.”

  “Did you call the attorney I told you about at Golden Gate Savings?”

  I hadn’t even written down his number. “I’m not interested in working for a bank, Sabrina.”

  “It’s this Wes Harding thing, isn’t it? That’s what’s got you so riled up.”

  “I’m not riled up, I’m tired.” But she was right, Wes Harding was on my mind.

  By the time I’d finished talking with Sabrina I was in no mood for work. I took Loretta and Barney out for their evening romp, then poured myself a hefty shot of brandy and settled in with a “Star Trek” rerun. If Tom had been there with me it would have been a nearly perfect Friday night.

  <><><>

  Summer mornings in Silver Creek are magical niches in time that make me happy to be alive. In the Bay Area I’d grown accustomed to waking under habitually gray skies and rarely seeing the sun until noon. But here in the foothills the sun slides easily over the horizon, spreading fingers of pink and purple across the vast expanse of open sky. The morning breeze is cool enough that it prickles the skin, but the air underneath is awash with the promise of warmth. I made myself a cup of coffee and took it out back with the file of news clippings on Lisa Cornell’s death.

  I moved my chair to a spot in the sun, propped my feet on a section of fallen pine and started going through the articles chronologically. Early pieces focused on the grisly nature of the crime scene itself and expressions of disbelief from neighbors. There was some speculation about the deaths being the work of a serial killer, but this was discounted almost immediately by a police spokesperson, who noted there was nothing about the crime to support the premise. Also squelched at the outset was one man’s theory about a federally sanctioned invasion of alien body snatchers.

  The press had been thorough, talking to friends and neighbors in addition to official police sources. One article made note of a taxi cab that had been seen that Friday night stopped beside an empty lot near the Cornell place. Another alluded to sightings of a van and a pickup truck, both of which had struck their respective viewers as “suspicious.” There was, interestingly enough, no mention of a motorcycle.

  After Wes was arrested, the stories shifted focus. One account, based on interviews with his buddies, covered his activities on the evening in question. It added nothing to the information I’d gleaned from the police report. A second piece delivered a spattering of background information on Wes. He had dropped out of school during his senior year, then earned a high school diploma by taking the GED exam. He’d spent two years in the army, a month in detox, and a couple of weekends in jail. His employment record was spotty, but he’d earned good marks from his boss at the auto shop where he’d been working since his return to Silver Creek three years ago.

  In addition, there was the son-of-the-prominent- physician angle, which appeared in one form or another in every article. Jake Harding’s capsule bio was given almost as much attention as Wes’s, although the papers were careful to note that the relationship was that of stepfather and son rather than a biological one.

  There’d been little coverage in the papers recently, but I knew all that would change once we got closer to trial. Too bad I didn’t share Curt’s enthusiasm for finding myself front-page news.

  I slipped the last of the clippings back into the file, then shut my eyes for a moment to enjoy the caress of golden warmth on my back. Eventually I took my empty coffee cup and dragged myself into the house. I wasn’t eager to tilt at windmills, especially on what was shaping up to be a spectacular Saturday. But in the interest of thoroughness I thought I should talk to Lisa’s neighbors myself. And while I was at it, with Wes Harding’s. There was a small chance one of them had seen something that never made it into the official report — or the newspapers.

  <><><>

  Wes lived in a narrow, two-story house that reminded me of those San Francisco Victorians that had yet to be gentrified. The neighborhood was in the older section of town, a pleasant if somewhat time-worn stretch up the hill from the public square. I tried the houses to either side of him and across the street. No one had seen Wes come or go the Friday night of the murders. The gentleman who’d reported hearing a motorcycle around midnight was Vic Lorrey. He lived four houses to the south of Wes, near the intersection.

  “That damn thing drives me crazy,” Lorrey said, tapping his cane on the ground for emphasis. “Roars past at all hours of the day and night, loud as a jet engine. Half the time I think that young punk guns it just to annoy me.” Lorrey had once been a big man; you could see it in his features. His body had shriveled with age, but his voice was still deep and strong. “It’s been a whole lot quieter since they locked him up,” he added tersely.

  “What time was it you heard the motorcycle?”

  “
Late. It woke me from my sleep.”

  “And you’re sure it was Friday night you heard it?”

  “Of course I’m sure. That’s what I told the police.” Lorrey hadn’t opened the screen door. I felt like I was talking through a wall.

  “What time do you normally go to bed?” I asked.

  “It varies.”

  “What time did you go to bed Friday night?”

  He hesitated. “I’m not sure.”

  “So you don’t really have any idea what time you heard the motorcycle?”

  “It was late, like I told you.”

  “Midnight?”

  “Maybe.”

  “What makes you sure it was Wes Harding you heard?”

  “Who else would it be?” Lorrey snapped. “He’s back and forth all day long, all night long. A goddamn neighborhood nuisance.”

  “Wes works during the day,” I pointed out.

  Lorrey’s mouth puckered. “Don’t think you can dissuade me, young lady. The racket goes on day and night. I know what I hear. It’s that damn motorcycle.”

  Score one for our side, I thought. As a witness Vic Lorrey would not stand up well under cross-examination. It brought me up short to realize I felt a little like a gunslinger looking to add another notch to her pistol.

  I didn’t fare as well in Lisa’s neighborhood. I trudged from house to house like an encyclopedia salesman, while the sun got higher and brighter and hotter. No one had seen anything unusual that night. No one could speculate on any reason why Lisa and Amy had been killed. I talked to the woman who’d seen the suspicious truck, but she couldn’t tell me any more about it than that.

  “It was a truck,” she said.

  “Old? New? Color? Insignia?”

  “A truck,” she repeated. And no, it hadn’t been parked at the Cornell place; it had merely driven up the road slowly.

  I was about ready to give up when I chanced onto Mrs. Arabagucci. She was a substantially built older woman, with broad shoulders, wide hips, and heavy legs. Her hair was thick, more gray than black, and pulled into a knot at the back of her head. She looked about as friendly as a bulldog, but looks can be deceiving. As it turned out, Mrs. Arabagucci was not only willing to talk to me, she’d clearly been talking to just about everyone in the neighborhood. Moreover, it was Mrs. Arabagucci who’d told the police about the taxi.

  “Turns out it was nothing,” she said, leaning on the hoe she’d been wielding when I interrupted.”That new couple about half a mile up the road called a cab to take them to the airport. The police verified it, though it’s still about the stupidest thing I’ve come across. Can you imagine the expense of taking a cab to the airport?”

  I’d come across things a whole lot stupider, but I murmured something that sounded sympathetic anyway. “I understand there were other neighbors who spotted suspicious vehicles that night.”

  “That’s right. The woman up the road a piece saw a pickup truck drive past, and Sally Baund saw a light- colored van. Neither one amounted to anything.”

  “Where’s Sally Baund live?” None of the neighbors I’d talked to so far had mentioned the van.

  She gave me the address and pointed up the hill. “You won’t be able to talk to her, though. She’s in Boston visiting her daughter. This murder business upset her something terrible. Her doctor thought it would be best if she got away for a bit.”

  The Baund house was one of several I’d tried where no one was home. I made a note of the name and address for follow-up at a later date.

  “Did you happen to see a motorcycle that night?” I asked.

  “Didn’t see one; didn’t hear one. I usually hear them when they go by. This is the first straight stretch in quite a while and the bikers use it to full advantage. There seem to be a number of folks who have nothing better to do than charge through the hills at high speed. Though not so often at night.”

  Interesting. Not one neighbor had heard a motorcycle that night. We’d be sure to make a point of it at trial. Of course, it was unlikely that anyone approaching the property with criminal intent would have roared up the road with tires squealing and engines gunned.

  “Did you know Lisa Cornell?” I asked.

  “Of course I knew her. We’re all pretty friendly up here. Not close, mind you, but friendly.”

  “Can you think of any reason she might have been killed?”

  Mrs. Arabagucci shook her head. “She was as nice as they come. A quiet thing, just like her aunt, but without the same standoffish air. A couple of months ago I took up babysitting for her on Wednesday evenings. Told Lisa I didn’t want to be paid, that Amy was a joy to be around, but she wouldn’t hear of it. Not only paid me, but fixed me something special to eat every time.”

  “What was Lisa doing Wednesday evenings?”

  “I didn’t ask her,” Mrs. Arabagucci said pointedly. “It was only for a couple of hours. I’d get there at 5:30 and Lisa was usually home by 7:30 or 8:00.”

  “Maybe dinner with her fiancé,” I mused, thinking out loud.

  Mrs. Arabagucci frowned. “Possibly.”

  “You sound doubtful.”

  She hesitated. “I raised four daughters, and I learned early on to recognize the signs of a young woman off to meet her beau. Lisa wasn’t like that. It wasn’t really my business where she went, you understand, but she never seemed particularly eager to go.”

  Of course, a woman who was feeling ambivalent about her impending marriage might not glow at the prospect of seeing her intended.

  “Besides,” Mrs. Arabagucci continued, “I got the distinct impression this was a short-term arrangement. Lisa thought she was imposing on me and made a point of letting me know it wouldn’t be much longer. She didn’t say it like a woman about to be married either.”

  I left my card in case Mrs. Arabagucci thought of anything further, then made a note to myself to look into Lisa’s Wednesday evenings. Sam wanted dirt. I doubted that an unpleasant evening’s activity qualified, but it was likely to be the closest we came.

  I spent another half hour talking with the remaining neighbors. All to no avail.

  Chapter 8

  When I finished, it was a little after one. I didn’t have to meet Sam at the Hardings until six. Since the day was about shot in terms of anything but work, I decided I might as well go for broke and pay a visit to Emmett Langley, known to his friends as Bongo. I was tempted to see if I could make my way through the woods, the way the boys did, but my last case of poison oak had been unpleasant enough to convince me the car was a wiser choice.

  I’d checked the address before leaving home that morning. 57 Ferndale. I couldn’t identify the house, but I knew the road well. My junior year in high school I’d had a crush on a boy who lived on the same street. I blushed to think how many times I’d driven that route in the hopes of catching a glimpse of him.

  It turned out that Bongo’s family lived a couple of miles from the stretch of road where I’d wasted so many hours. Theirs was a small house in need of a large amount of work. Much the same could be said for the woman who opened the door.

  “Mrs. Langley?”

  She nodded.

  I introduced myself and explained why I was there.

  She scowled at me through a screen door with enough gaping holes to make you wonder what she thought having a screen door accomplished. “I don’t want him talkin’ about it anymore,” she said. “Poor boy’s been through it all ’nough times as is. He’s a delicate child. This thing’s about tore him up.”

  I nodded sympathetically. “I understand how difficult it must be, for both of you. I won’t need to get into the graphic details, and I promise not to ask anything more than is necessary.”

  “Doesn’t matter. Whatever you ask, it’ll set his mind to it again. I won’t have it.” She started to shut the door in my face.

  “I can get a subpoena,” I said. “Or I can have him come down to my office and answer my questions there. I just thought it might be more comfortable for him if w
e talked here.”

  She crossed her arms. “What is it you want to know?”

  “I just want to hear his account of what happened.” Mrs. Langley glared at me for another minute, then thrust the screen door open with her elbow. No wonder it had so many holes. “Just remember, he’s only thirteen.” She led me through the house, past the flickering light of the television, to the backyard. A boy was sitting on an old wooden bench, his back to the house.

  “Emmett, honey,” Mrs. Langley called to the boy from the porch steps.” This lady needs to ask you some more questions about those murders.”

  I’d thought she might stick around for a little metaphorical hand-holding if nothing else. But once she’d delivered her meager introduction and given me another stern look, she darted back inside, letting the door thump shut behind her.

  The boy was listening to some dissonant rap song and whittling a piece of wood. He didn’t bother to look up until I stood directly in front of him.

  I reintroduced myself and sat down on the other end of the bench. I don’t know much about children, but the kid didn’t strike me as delicate. If anything, he was overweight, with a shadow of dark fuzz on his upper lip and the blight of adolescent acne around his nose and chin. But I suppose frailty is as much a state of mind as body.

  “Do you prefer Emmett or Bongo?” I asked.

  He ignored me.

  “I just need to ask you a few questions,” I said. “Mostly it will be a repeat of what you’ve already told the police.”

  “Why don’t you just get it from them?”

  “I’ve read their report. That’s why we don’t have to go into a lot of detail. But I’d like to hear what happened for myself.”

  He continued whittling, his expression flat.

  “What are you making?” I asked.

  “Don’t know yet.”

  “It takes effort to work a piece of wood into the proper shape, doesn’t it?”

  “Depends.”

  From the pile of shavings at Bongo’s feet, it was obvious he’d been at it awhile. Maybe the important thing was the process rather than the product.