The Fallen Angels Book Club

by R. Franklin James

  One thing was in my favor. Certain ex-felons, like me, may petition the court for a Certificate of Rehabilitation and Pardon, as long as they could show they had stayed out of trouble for at least five years after parole. I qualified. Boone said it was never a no-brainer, but I was a good candidate. If granted, the certificate would clear my record of conviction, allow me to complete law school and take the bar exam to become a lawyer. I had to stop saying “if.” There was nothing I wouldn’t do to get that pardon. Nothing.

  I put the cup to my lips and took a deep drink. The doorbell rang.

  I never had visitors.

  Peering through the peephole, I didn’t recognize the pair of suits standing on my porch.

  I glanced around, taking deep breaths to calm my nerves. Luckily, the living room was always the most together. Typically, things went downhill as one moved through my condo. Grabbing my purse, I put it behind the sofa. The doorbell rang again. I pulled up my sweats. At five-feet-three inches tall, I find it hard to buy pants that don’t drag on the floor. I opened the door.

  “Ms. Morgan? Detectives Faber and Lincoln with the San Lucian Police Department. May we come in?”

  My hand shook. I was afraid to let go of the doorknob. It required an enormous effort to put on my best blank face, smile my sweetest smile and step aside to let them in. “Sure. What’s this about?”

  “Thank you. We shouldn’t be long,” the tall one, Faber, responded. He hadn’t answered my question. Faber looked around the room without seeming to look around. I used the opportunity to observe him. His smooth, olive-toned skin belied his almond-shaped eyes and wavy brown hair. He reminded me of a Heinz 57 pooch. Not that he was a dog, but rather an interesting combination of ethnicities. Not a bad-looking guy.

  I pointed to the overstuffed chairs next to the fireplace and sat down on the sofa arm.

  “We understand you know a Rory Norris,” Faber said.

  I nodded.

  “Last night Mr. Norris was murdered.”

  “Murdered?” I couldn’t catch my breath. I slid down onto a sofa cushion. “What happened?”

  Lincoln ignored my question. “We know you are in a book club together. One of the other members had their name and number in Norris’ car. He gave us the club’s contact list.” He kept rubbing his collar. He was only a few inches taller than me with carrot-red hair and freckles. He looked about twelve. “We understand you were good friends with the deceased.”

  “Good friends? I wouldn’t say we were good friends. I know next to nothing about him.” I shifted in my seat, hoping they wouldn’t hear the half-lie. “Sometimes we went out after a meeting for coffee to keep talking about a book. However, I wouldn’t say we were good friends.”

  “Were you going to New Zealand with him?”

  “New Zealand? No way. I don’t know what you’re talking about. I didn’t even know he was going.” I refrained from adding that the thought of going anywhere with Rory made me nauseous. I’d learned never to volunteer any information.

  Lincoln kept his eyes on me. “We found a travel confirmation on him. Did he say anything about a trip?”

  “Not to me.”

  “When was the last time you saw him?” Faber asked.

  “At our meeting last night.” A bead of sweat slipped down my back. My warning radar engaged.

  “How did he seem to you?”

  I took another deep breath and mentally debated the idea of telling the complete truth. There was no need to lie. “Rory was upset. He could be somewhat rigid. We read World at Midnight. Have you read it?” They both shook their heads. “Well, it’s a deep book. He had his own views on the author’s theme, and some of us disagreed with him.”

  “Some?” It was Faber again.

  “Well, all of us, actually. None of us agreed with him.”

  This time Lincoln spoke. “What happens when you don’t agree at a book club meeting?”

  “Well, Detective, we kill the person.”

  Shut up. Nerves.

  They both glared at me.

  I wanted to kick myself. “Sorry.” I hoped I looked remorseful. “This is still unbelievable to me. Rory was a good guy. He’s been—I mean he was with the group for over a year. We met once a month and Rory rarely missed a meeting. He seemed fine last night. He even told a little joke.”

  “What time did he leave?”

  I knew they must be checking our stories. “We all started to leave around nine o’clock. Rory left before that. Now, can you answer a question for me? What happened?”

  Faber flipped through several sheets of paper in a small pad. I was paranoid enough to think he was buying time—trying to make me crazy with waiting. “A passerby discovered Mr. Norris’ body in a parking lot about five miles from your meeting location. Where did you go after the meeting?”

  “I came home.” My mind flashed back to the last time the police asked me for an alibi. Now, I sat on my hands to hide the shaking. My resolve to turn over a new leaf by never lying was being fully tested.

  “That it?” Faber persisted. “Were you alone?”

  “Yes and yes.”

  He got up and peered through the glass doors of the étagère I inherited from my grandmother, which held her ceramic frog collection. It was my least favorite possession—the solid walnut piece weighed a ton and didn’t fit the rest of my décor—but I didn’t have the heart to give it away. My relationship with Gram made up for the lack of one I had with the rest of the family.

  “It took us a while to ID him,” Faber said. “He was beaten and then run over several times.”

  I stared at the back of his head. A knot of dread grew larger and larger in my stomach as my words tumbled out. “Beaten? With a baseball bat?”

  “Yes.”

  “And his clothing … were all the labels cut out?”

  Detective Lincoln’s look snared me with laser accuracy. “What do you know about how Norris was murdered?”

  I finally got air into my lungs. “I don’t believe it.” I stood and walked over to the windows then back toward the sofa.

  “Ms. Morgan,” Faber said, “I’m sorry, but we’re going to need some better answers from you. So far there don’t appear to be any witnesses, but you seem to know quite a bit. We’re checking with all the book club members, and we didn’t tell anyone details.”

  I waved my hand at them. “No, no. It’s the similarity. It’s—it’s about the crime scene. It’s the way he died.”

  “I don’t understand.” Lincoln frowned. “Enlighten me.”

  I could hardly get the words out. My voice sounded like a whisper to my own ears. “The scene, it’s the same as in the book we reviewed last night.”

  Faber sat up. “What do you mean?”

  I sank into the sofa cushions. This wasn’t going to be easy. “Well, we read World at Midnight, like I said. There’s this murder. The vic is beaten with a baseball bat and then run over by the bad guy. He’s a tailor. Anyway, he’s run over back and forth. The murderer takes the ID and cuts the labels out of the vic’s clothes to stall identification. It gives him time to cover his tracks and get away.”

  Faber nodded. “I see.” He gave me an amused glance. “I notice your use of the term ‘vic.’ Is that something you read about, too?”

  “What? Oh, yeah. I guess I get carried away,” I murmured.

  “Do you have a copy of this book we can borrow?” Lincoln asked.

  I nodded and reached under the coffee table. The book wasn’t there. “I must have left it in the office with my other lunchtime reading.”

  Faber shrugged. “That’s not a problem. We’ll get a copy. Ms. Morgan, you didn’t answer our earlier question. What happened when Rory disagreed with the group about the book?”

  Warning bells went off in my head. I licked my lips. I was uncomfortable with his tone. “There was a lot of loud talk. He got defensive and we all said things that weren’t too cool.”

  My mind drifted. I couldn’t believe it. Rory. He wasn’t
my favorite or anything, but he had a great way of deciphering a book’s characters and often suggested alternative plots. Regrettably, that talent wasn’t enough to offset his compulsive behavior and annoying tendency to let his cynicism get out of control. He was a man of contradictions. He could be aloof as well as charming or witty or depressing as hell.

  We were different people, with different reasons for joining the same book club. We were avid readers who happened to be ex-felons. Three years and one recent addition later, we were going strong, except that we now appeared to be minus one member.

  Lincoln coughed, breaking my reverie.

  “I’m sorry. Could you repeat that? I was trying to remember.”

  “We’re talkin’ about a book, right? What could be so bad?” Detective Lincoln clearly didn’t get it. He picked up our next month’s selection, which rested on top of my coffee table, and weighed it in his hand as if its mass could lead to an answer.

  “You’re so right,” I replied. “It was stupid to argue. We get carried away sometimes. We don’t always agree with each other, but this time …” I remembered Rory’s red face and his finger pointing at each of us around the room.

  “This time what?” Faber asked.

  “Nothing. I was trying to think if there was anything else, but there isn’t. I’m sorry. I just can’t believe he’s gone.” I pasted on a spacey smile. “Can I offer you some tea?” I prayed they would say no.

  “No, thank you.” Lincoln reached into his wallet and handed me a couple of business cards. “Call us if you remember something about Mr. Norris.”

  I put the cards in my pocket. “Not a problem.”

  As soon as the detectives left, I dialed Abby’s cellphone number. She’d be grateful to get a heads up or maybe we could share reactions to the police visits. No answer. I left a message for her to contact me.

  As I picked up my book again, I remembered that the murderer in World at Midnight was a policeman.

  I waited in Clay Boone’s law office lobby, trying to ignore the slight headache targeting my temples as I flipped mindlessly through the pages of a magazine. Rory’s death was still slowly sinking in. My eyes fell on an ad for Hastings Law School, my old alma mater, and I felt a familiar pang. My goal to serve in the courts had been cut short by my felony conviction. So, as a distant second choice, I got my paralegal certification. Free from background checks and fingerprint databases, I was hired by a well-respected Oakland law firm, Dodson, Dodson & Doyle LLP, known by its employees as Triple D. At first I thought it strange that a firm would continue to have the names of dead partners on its masthead, but later I thought it made perfect sense. No one knew who really ran the place.

  Rory had been murdered the same way as in our book club selection.

  I got up and checked in for a second time with the receptionist, who was multitasking—acknowledging me with a nod while murmuring into the phone and typing energetically. Boone’s building was only a few blocks from the one where I worked. Not as upscale as Triple D, his office was located in one of the downtown Victorians in a quiet setting without any real view. After a few moments, Clay came out, extending one beefy hand as he directed me down the hall to his office.

  “Hollis, sorry to keep you waiting. Come on in. How are things going?” He pointed to one of two black leather chairs facing his desk.

  “Things are going well. I’ve started on my pardon statement. I’ve identified all my references and I should be able to have everything to you by the end of May.”

  Boone epitomized self-assurance. Since I’ve known him, he’s made me feel that if anything could be done, he not only could, but would, do it. I know a lot of attorneys. When I went looking for one to help me file and obtain a Certificate of Rehabilitation, his name was first on my list. It’s too bad he didn’t work at Triple D. Legal fees were costing me megabucks, but as far as I was concerned, my privacy was priceless. Research told me Boone had successfully represented many ex-felons. He knew what it took to get the desired court decision. I trusted him. Looking at him now, I could see something was wrong.

  He pursed his thin lips and shook his head. “You’re going to have to move a little faster. Judge Pine announced his retirement at the end of the summer. He’s known to be a strong supporter of the rehabilitation program. However, he’s being replaced by Judge Mathis who is … well, let’s just say he’s not soft on crime.”

  Great.

  My heart beat a little faster. “When do I have to have it all done?”

  “I need your paperwork by the first week in May.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding. That’s only six weeks!”

  “I know it’s a little tight, but it’s important we get the right judge.”

  “Believe me. No one knows that better than I do.”

  He held up his hand. “You can do this. How many references are you missing?”

  “Well, I don’t have any yet. I know who I have to ask, but I wanted to get the notice that I qualified first.”

  The most critical reference would come from my employer. After paralegal school, I didn’t lie on my employment application about my conviction. My current boss, Avery Mitchell, knew my circumstances. He interviewed me through a temp agency. Unlike the several other law firms I interviewed with, he gave me the break I needed.

  Clay sat up. “Well, now you’ve got the notice. It’s time to get moving. We can’t let this window close. If you wait, we have to assume it’ll take one to two months for your petition to make its way through the system again. We don’t want to be given a judge like Mathis midstream. You need to finish your statement as soon as possible. Judge Pine likes to have plenty of time to read a petitioner’s request.”

  “I’ve got it outlined.” I put the events of the last couple of days out of my mind and energized my voice to sound upbeat. “I just need to write it. I can be finished with a draft by the end of next week, along with securing my first reference.”

  “Good, good. Let me see the rough draft as soon as you finish.” He glanced over at the clock. “Is there anything else?”

  It briefly crossed my mind to mention Rory’s murder. Instead, I lied and shook my head.

  CHAPTER THREE

  The next morning was Saturday and I was on a mission. I had a statement to write. Clearing the kitchen table, I opened my laptop and listed the points I needed to cover. I could only imagine what Boone would say about my application if he knew I might be on speaking terms with a murderer. I certainly had been friendly enough with the victim. I shoved all doubts to the back of my mind and started typing. Three hours and six pages later, my eyes started to glaze over.

  Needing a break, I decided to pay a visit to my favorite bookstore, Do Over, on the other side of town. The day was clear but bone-chilling cold. I pulled my coat closer. Once again I thanked the gods for pointing me to San Lucian. Located next to the cities of San Leandro and San Lorenzo, San Lucian was a much-admired San Francisco East Bay Area community. Warm and welcoming, it was more of an oversized neighborhood than a city.

  A yoga class was finishing up. Theo, the owner, nodded in recognition when I came in. He wouldn’t engage me in conversation unless I gave him a high sign and this time I didn’t.

  Taking out my statement draft, I poured myself a cup of the orange cinnamon tea offered at the complimentary station and sat in one of the overstuffed chairs in the reading corner. I took my time sipping tea and looking at the few customers who appeared to be like me—trying to find a temporary refuge from whatever.

  Murdered like the victim in our book club selection.

  Why would a Fallen Angel kill Rory?

  Any way I looked at it, Rory must have said or done something that had seriously aggravated a member, but who? No one ever took him seriously.

  I glanced up at the door when the bell jingled and then turned my head away in disbelief as the tall lean frame of Detective John Faber appeared. Dressed in faded jeans and a maroon V-neck pullover, he wore an Oakland A’s cap and
a speculative look. Our eyes locked. Seemingly as surprised as I, he walked over.

  “Good morning,” he said. “This is my first time here. I didn’t realize it would be on your list of bookstores.” As if sensing my discomfort he stood a couple of feet away.

  I mentally collected myself and came up with a half-smile. “It’s one of my favorite getaways. I didn’t know you were a book lover.”

  “Actually, I read quite a lot.” Faber paused. “Well, considering the circumstances, I think it’s best I leave and return another time.”

  I frowned. “Yes, I guess so. It was nice seeing you, Detective, outside of the ‘circumstances,’ I mean.”

  He gave me an appraising look. “Yeah, it was nice seeing you, too, Ms. Morgan.”

  Then he walked away.

  It took some effort to shake off the encounter. Two cups of tea and four new sentences later I was calmer and ready to settle down and write.

  Back at home, the light on my answering machine blinked with two messages. It didn’t matter. I didn’t want any distractions. I moved to the dining room and glanced blankly at the stack of pages on the table.

  “What the hell.” I turned, went back to the kitchen, and pushed the message button.

  “Hey, Rebecca, it’s me.” I stiffened and slid down the wall to sit on the floor. “I know you must be blown away with my calling. I had a hard time finding you. You changed your name, but I still had Rita’s number. Boy, did I give my ex sister-in-law a shock when she heard my voice on the phone. Look, we need to talk. I know you must hate me, but this is serious. It’s important to both of us. Give me a call. I’m at the Holiday Inn in San Francisco. I’m checking out tomorrow. Call me, please.”

  Anger welled up inside me even as I pushed the button to get the next message. I caught my breath. Anger was replaced by shock.

  “Rebecca, Bill called. I gave him your number. I didn’t tell him where you live or work. He tried hard to find out. He said it was urgent and he had to speak to you. He threatened to bother Mom next, and well … I had to give him your number. Give me a call if you want to talk. I’m sorry. There was nothing I could do.”