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

by Jonnie Jacobs

  Nonetheless, the words had the intended effect: first shock, and then alarm. I felt goose bumps run across my shoulders and up my neck. For a moment I had trouble breathing.

  Finally I wadded the letter up tight, tossed it into the trash and tried my best to forget I’d ever seen it. Out of sight, out of mind.

  I reached for the stack of phone messages but ended up dialing Sam instead.

  “Have you received any hate mail?” I asked.

  “For which particular sin?”

  I told him about the letter, tried to make light of it and failed miserably.

  “No, nothing like that,” Sam said. “Not recently anyway. I’ve had my fair share of hate mail on previous cases, though, and I’m sure I haven’t seen the end of it.” His tone, like his message, was reassuring.

  “It’s more upsetting than I thought it would be.”

  He mumbled concurrence. “It always is, but I don’t think you should worry about it unless you get others. Judging from what went on in court yesterday, people’s feelings are running pretty high. That’s not unusual in a case like this.”

  With the phone tucked under my chin, I sorted through the stack of mail a second time, just to be safe. The tension across my shoulders eased when I found nothing the least bit suspicious.

  “What did you learn about the Cornell property?” Sam asked.

  “Nothing useful. There’s interest, but there’s been interest for years. Cole gave me a couple of names. Most are people he knows, but one, a guy by the name of Robert Simmons in the 415 area code, might lead to something. I’ll call this afternoon.”

  I removed a flyer for a free blueberry muffin from the stack of otherwise mundane mail. “When all’s said and done it’s really not much of a lead. Even if you wanted the property enough to kill for it, there’s no guarantee you’d be the one to end up with it once Lisa was dead.”

  “Unless you inherited directly.”

  “Yeah, I had thought of that.”

  I read the fine print on the flyer and discovered the muffin was free only with the purchase of a full dozen. I dropped it into the trash. Then I bent over a second time and retrieved the note I’d wadded up earlier.

  “Any idea who that would be?” Sam asked.

  “Probably Lisa’s mother, but maybe her husband.” I repeated what Cole had told me. “If the divorce wasn’t final, the property might arguably go to him.”

  “How about the Friday night phone call? Any luck there?”

  “Nothing. I wasn’t able to find Lisa’s diary either. I have a feeling it could prove to be important. Her parents packed up a couple of boxes of stuff. I thought I’d check with them, see if they have it.”

  “Good thinking,” Sam said. “You ought to be able to get a feel for the mother’s interest in the property, as well. Where do they live?”

  “Los Angeles.”

  “That’s good. You can get down and back in a day. You think you could do it tomorrow?”

  I rocked forward. “Who said anything about a personal visit?”

  “If they’ve got the diary, you’re going to want to look at it, right? So you’ll end up going there anyway. Jake Harding wants us to leave no stone unturned. An expense this minor, it’s nothing. We don’t even need to clear it with him.”

  “It wasn’t the expense I was thinking of.”

  Sam made a sound of disgust. “Planes are safer than cars, Kali. But if you’d rather take a couple of days and drive down ...”

  The thought of spending seven hours on the road, each way, did not have a lot of appeal either. Especially since the drive down 1-5 involved long, tedious stretches of arid flatland. It had to be the most boring route in the world.

  I sighed. “At least I’ll be flying in clear weather.”

  “Take along a good book and you won’t even know you’ve left the ground.”

  “Ha.” I always knew. And it amazed me every time that we not only left the ground but returned to it without mishap.

  Sam must have leaned back in his chair. I heard a creak and then a shuffling sound as he got comfortable again. “I went out to the auto shop this morning, talked with Harlan Bailey. The guy told the same story he did yesterday in court, but I found out that he and Wes are not on the best of terms. Office politics in the service bay, I guess. We ought to be able to use that to impeach his credibility as a witness.”

  “Did he elaborate on yesterday’s testimony?”

  “I got the feeling there wasn’t much to elaborate on. The guy’s taken one little incident and made it into a whole miniseries. Probably with coaching from Willis.”

  “Maybe we can use that, too.”

  “With luck maybe we can find someone who’s heard Wes use the same language on other occasions, with respect to other women. If so, we can show there was nothing personal about the remark.”

  “Great defense,” I said glumly. “People of the jury, our client didn’t have anything against Lisa Cornell personally; he thinks all women are f-ing bitches. That’s not going to win us many points, Sam.”

  “Hopefully,” he said after a short pause, “we’ll be able to do better than that.”

  When I got off the phone with Sam I tried the number Cole had given me for Robert Simmons and got a recording. It was one of those that did nothing but repeat the number you’d reached and advised you to wait for the beep. I left my name and number, then tried Caroline. I hadn’t known about the diary when I’d talked to her last. I was hoping she’d be able to help me locate it.

  Caroline’s line was busy, so I returned phone calls from the stack of messages Myra had left me. I tried Caroline again about fifteen minutes later.

  Still busy.

  Finally I decided to drive over and talk to her in person.

  There was a pickup truck in the driveway, a stroller on the porch. Music, heavy on the bass, was pounding away. Music, heavy on the bass, was pounding away inside the house. When I got to the door I could hear a baby crying, as well. I rang the bell, then knocked loudly.

  Footsteps from inside. After what seemed to be a long time the door opened.

  The figure in the doorway was male. And big. Over six feet, with broad shoulders and the kind of well-developed muscles that come only through diligent effort. His hair was long on top but cropped close on the sides. He was wearing a sleeveless T-shirt and elastic-waist shorts. Rubber- thonged sandals on his feet. One hand held a can of beer, the other gripped the handle of a plastic infant seat. The infant in the seat was howling.

  “Yeah?” he said.

  “Is Caroline around?”

  “She's at work.” He eyed me suspiciously. “Who are you?”

  I decided on the friendly approach. “Kali O’Brien,” I said. “You must by Duane.”

  That suspicious look again.

  “I wanted to talk to her about Lisa Cornell.”

  The look grew wary. “My wife’s got nothing to do with that.”

  I explained my involvement. “Your wife and Lisa were friends. I was hoping she might be able to clear up a few things for me.”

  He bounced the baby, shifted his weight to the other foot. The muscle in his cheek twitched. “I doubt it,” he said brusquely. “They worked together is all. Aside from that, they didn’t have much in common.”

  Jeremy rode down the hallway on a plastic tricycle and rammed against Duane’s leg. “Watch it,” Duane warned. Jeremy giggled and rammed him again, harder.

  Duane hooked the infant seat over his arm, switched the beer to his other hand, and rapped his knuckles once lightly against the boy’s head. “You’re cruisin’ for a bruisin’, tiger.”

  Remembering Caroline’s bruised and swollen lip, I cringed inwardly. But Jeremy seemed unperturbed. Still giggling, he rammed Duane’s leg once more, then pedaled back up the hallway.

  Duane took a swallow of beer.

  “How well did you know Lisa Cornell?” I asked, raising my voice to make myself heard over the baby’s wailing.

  “What
makes you think I knew her at all?”

  I shrugged. “Maybe I’m reading between the lines.” Easy to do given his expression when I’d first mentioned Lisa’s name. Plus the fact that Caroline had told me Duane didn’t like Lisa’s “type.”

  Duane pulled a pacifier out of his pocket, dribbled beer on it and stuck it in the baby’s mouth. “Who did you say you were again?”

  I explained a second time.

  His thumb traced the seam of the can.

  “I get the feeling you weren’t any too fond of Lisa,” I said after a moment.

  “Where’d you get that?”

  “Reading between the lines again.”

  He sighed. “I never wished the lady harm, but you’re right, I didn’t particularly like her. And I didn’t like my wife palling around with her either.”

  “Why’s that?”

  A shrug. His eyes slid away from mine. “I didn’t like her energy.”

  “Her energy?”

  “Vibes. You know, her aura.” He brushed the hair off his forehead with the hand that held the beer. “I just didn’t like her much, okay?”

  “What did she—”

  “I got to finish feeding the kids,” Duane said, cutting me off. “I’ll tell Caroline you came by. But like I said, she won’t be able to help.”

  The door closed before I could hand him my card.

  I didn’t have a whole lot of faith in Duane’s passing on the message. I stopped at the corner gas station and used a pay phone to call the diner.

  Caroline’s voice held an edge of alarm until I identified myself.

  She let out a long breath. “I was afraid something had happened to one of the kids. Hardly anyone calls me here unless it’s an emergency.”

  “They’re both fine,” I said. “I was just out there.”

  The note of alarm surfaced again. “You were? Why?”

  “I wanted to ask you a couple more things about Lisa Cornell.”

  “Geez, you went out to the house?”

  “I thought you’d be there. Don’t you usually work the evening shift?”

  “I had to switch today.”

  “What I need to talk to you about won’t take long. I could come by the diner right now if it’s convenient.”

  “Did you see Duane?” Her tone was guarded.

  “Briefly.”

  “What did he say?”

  “That you and Lisa didn’t have much in common besides working at the diner.” When she didn’t say anything I continued. “He also seemed to think she might have been a bad influence.”

  Caroline snorted. A voice from the background hollered her name. “I gotta go,” she said.

  “What time do you get off? I’ll meet you then.”

  “Don’t bother. I’ve already told you everything I know.”

  “What about her diary. Did Lisa happen to mention where she kept it?”

  “She never mentioned it at all.”

  I made one last attempt. “Lisa got a phone call the Friday night she was killed. From a friend who needed her help. She canceled her dinner date with Philip Stockman on account of it. Was the call from you?”

  Caroline made a sound, a kind of choking laugh. “Lisa would hardly have canceled a date on my account.”

  “Why? Did you have a falling out?”

  “Look, I’ve got to go. Like I told you before, Lisa and I had our own lives.”

  There was something about her tone that gave me pause, but Caroline hung up before I had a chance to inquire further.

  <><><>

  Myra was back at her desk when I returned to the office.

  “Sorry I had to run out like that,” she said, running a hand through the tangle of dark curls. “Marc fell off the jungle gym.”

  “Is he okay?”

  “Yeah. He hit his head. They wanted me to take him to the doctor for an evaluation, but he seems to be fine. Kids are pretty resilient.”

  If they’re lucky, I amended silently, thinking of Amy.

  “That new client called,” she said.”The one who owns the apartment complex. He wants you to send him a bill for the work to date.” She hesitated. “Apparently, he won’t be needing your services in the future.”

  “Did he say why?”

  “No, just that he felt it wasn’t going to work out.”

  I felt my stomach clench. As far as I could tell it was working out just fine — until I’d taken on a controversial case. A case I’d hoped would help me make a name for myself. Instead, it was going to cost me one of the precious few clients I had.

  “Mr. Sturgis called, too. He wanted you to know that the Harding case made the San Francisco Chronicle. His daughter faxed him a copy this morning.”

  “Great. Don’t tell me he’s going to pull out also.”

  “Not at all. In fact, he wanted you to autograph the article when he gets it. His daughter is sending the actual clipping by mail.”

  “Autograph it?” I said, incredulous. “I hope you told him ‘no.’ ”

  “I told him I’d ask.” She raised her chin. “I don’t see the harm in it.”

  “This isn’t some Hollywood soap opera, Myra. Two people are dead and a man’s life is at stake.”

  The chin jutted forward. “You don’t have to get all preachy. I’m not saying you should book yourself on ‘Rinaldo,’ but I don’t see the harm in pleasing a client.”

  “I’ll think about it,” I grumbled. And then I laughed. “Besides, it’s not ‘Rinaldo’; it’s ‘Geraldo.’ ”

  She gave me a smarmy, cheek-sucking look and began rolling a pencil between her palms. “How’s the case coming along?”

  “About as expected. The judge found sufficient cause to hold Wes for trial. Now we’ve got sixty days to put together a winning defense.”

  “Only sixty days?”

  “That’s my feeling too, but Wes insists on exercising his right to a speedy trial.”

  “So what’s the winning strategy going to be?”

  “At this stage we’re still probing, hoping something major will turn up.”

  “Like what?”

  I shrugged. “A witness who saw or heard something inconsistent with Wes’s guilt. A bungled investigation, evidence that’s been compromised. Maybe something in Lisa’s life that points to a different killer. If none of that pans out, we’ll take every opportunity to cast doubt on the prosecution’s case.”

  Myra thought for a moment, frowning. “Lisa might not have been the intended victim, you know.”

  “Mistaken identity, you mean? Like maybe the killer went to the wrong house?” Except in the movies, that sort of blunder was generally limited to cases involving organized crime or drugs.

  “No, that’s not what I meant.” Myra took a breath. “What if it was Amy the killer wanted? What if she was the target and Lisa was just incidental?”

  “Why would anyone want to kill a five-year-old child?” I asked.

  But I knew the question was foolish even before it left my mouth.

  Chapter 16

  It happens,” Myra said, her tone defensive.

  I nodded. Children were killed by their parents sometimes, out of despondency, or anger, or some twisted act of revenge against a spouse. But generally the murder of a child was tied to kidnapping or sexual assault. Death was the ultimate guarantee of silence. Was that the reason Amy had been killed?

  Myra crossed her arms on her desk and leaned forward. “The psychologist who talked to the parents’ group the other day said people who abuse children often threaten them with physical harm or death. A person like that is so terrified of being discovered, he’ll find a way to justify the killing.”

  “You’re suggesting someone might have been molesting Amy?”

  She got defensive again. “It’s just a thought. It came to me because of what the psychologist said.”

  “It’s an interesting possibility.” And one I hadn't considered.

  “Maybe Amy was killed to keep her from telling. Lisa might have come
into the barn while the killer was still there, so he had to kill her too.”

  Only it didn’t make sense that Amy would have been wandering around the barn alone at night. “Maybe,” I added, “Lisa discovered what was going on and tried to stop it. Assuming there’s any truth to this abuse business to begin with.”

  Myra slumped down in her chair. “I wish my friend had never suggested having this program at the school. She thinks it’s important, but like I told you before, she has her own agenda. I guess if you’ve been abused yourself, you become something of a zealot when it comes to sparing others. Myself, I just get depressed by these stories.”

  “What did you think of the psychologist who spoke to the group?”

  “I liked her. She’s very down to earth. Doesn’t use a lot of fancy jargon, and she isn’t afraid to laugh.” Myra sighed. “Maybe it’ll be okay because of her. I don’t think she’ll push the kids beyond what they can handle.”

  <><><>

  Myra’s theory about the murders played through my mind during the flight to Los Angeles. It was enough, almost, to make me forget I was flying.

  A five-year-old child as the primary victim. Her death as the catalyst for both killings. It certainly put a different spin on things. Although, to be honest, it didn’t do much in the way of clearing Wes Harding.

  Wes’s rabbit’s foot near Amy’s body.

  The torn clothing and exposed bodies.

  A little girl and a grown man in a dimly lit barn.

  They weren’t images I wanted to dwell on, but once they appeared I had trouble ignoring them. By the time the plane touched down at the Burbank airport my anxiety about flying wasn’t the only thing scrambling my stomach.

  <><><>

  Lisa’s mother and stepfather lived in San Marino, an enclave of wealth and exclusivity at the foot of the San Gabriel Mountains. The streets were wide and serene. The lawns a lush green, and as manicured as a putting green. There was an air of tranquility that hovered over the community, a stillness that set it apart from the hectic energy of the surrounding areas.

  I found the address with ease. The house was a sprawling white stucco with a red tile roof and recessed windows. A low wall lined the front and sides of the property, but I could see a bed of roses through the gate. The neighboring houses were all of a similar style and construction, probably built around the same time. By most standards they would have been impressive homes, but in the context of San Marino they were undoubtedly modest.