The Fallen Angels Book Club

by R. Franklin James

  “Please try and focus. Where does she live now?”

  “The last address I could find was in Berkeley.”

  I scrambled to take down the information. There was only one other person I wanted information on. “Now, tell me about Rory.”

  He nodded, digging into his bag of chips. “Well, after the murder, I did a little investigating of my own. Once I had his alias from the police, and Miller told us about his extortion conviction, I had enough to look him up in our archives. He’d been arrested twice before but had only one conviction. If he was ever married, it must have been over long ago.”

  He took a long swallow of his water.

  “Anything else? What brand of jeans did he wear?”

  “Don’t be cute. The guy did have expensive habits. He owned a loft in San Francisco with a three-hundred-sixty-degree view. His job—and I use that term loosely—was real estate broker. He specialized in the very rich. I don’t think his specialty was selling houses as much as it was gleaning information from them. Trust me. You’d never want him to have an open house to show your home.”

  Why would a guy like that want to be in our little book club? I wanted to get back home and go over everything to see if I could connect the dots. I was tired, but I had to pull a couple of loose strings to see what might unravel.

  I cleared my throat. “Gene, who is Reverend Campbell?”

  Gene’s eyes became slits. Thank goodness looks couldn’t kill.

  “Who in the hell have you been talking to?”

  His anger flicked at me like a high flame. I cringed.

  “I … I did some research, and I—”

  “He’s none of your business.” His face turned red. “Very smart. You pumped me for information before you attacked. You’re in over your head, Hollis. Be a good little girl and—”

  That did it. I lowered my voice. “Look, you drone, don’t speak to me like I’m an imbecile. I’ve got a lot to lose here and I’m not going to stop looking for the killer, so you be—”

  “Excuse me.” One of the servers appeared at our side.

  “What?” we said in unison.

  He shifted on his feet. “Look, could you keep it down? Or you’re going to have to leave. It’s not fair to everyone else here.”

  I looked into the curious, but clearly annoyed, stares of the couple at the next table and an elderly man sitting at the table beyond them.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize.”

  “Yeah, we were rude.” Gene turned to the couple and mouthed, “Sorry.” Then he turned back to me and said in a low voice, “Where did you hear about David?”

  I wasn’t ready to reveal my source, but I needed to know more.

  “I told you, I did some research. Is he important to you?”

  He started to pull at his eyebrows. “Yeah, he’s important. I’m going to get more coffee.”

  He didn’t ask if I wanted anything.

  When he returned, we sat in silence for a few moments.

  “Gene, I’m not trying to out you or get you in trouble. I’m not going back to prison. While I find it hard to believe you could kill anyone, if someone had told me you had a flash temper, I would have found that hard to believe, too, until just now.”

  He took a long sip of coffee. “It’s doesn’t just involve me. David’s a minister. His church would frown on our … our relationship. I’ll do anything to protect him.”

  “I’m sorry.” I chose my next words carefully. “Was Rory blackmailing you?”

  “No.” Gene caught his protest when the server looked over at us. “No. I wasn’t being blackmailed.”

  “You can see you’d have an excellent motive. I mean … I mean if Rory found out about the two of you.”

  Gene glared at me. “That’s it. I’m out of here.”

  I returned to my lukewarm tea.

  Methinks he doth protest too much.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  At five a.m., the office was as silent as a sleeping child, except for the faraway hum of a vacuum on the floor above. The cleaning crew would be leaving soon. In Mark’s office I booted up his computer, called up Inquiry First and keyed in his password. I would make sure that Mark never knew I was here. I glanced at the new files Avery had placed in his inbox. A few simple probate cases; nothing I couldn’t handle in a few hours.

  I tried Rena’s name first—or Marilyn, as I now knew her. I entered all the information Gene had given me. After a few seconds, I hit confirm to verify my request and download the report. My screen scrolled with lines of text, but it took fifteen minutes for the report to download and be sent to my printer. I looked up at the clock. At this rate, it would take me an hour to get printouts for Miller and Rory. By then I could be at risk of running into Ed, who usually came in early. I decided to use the central printer in the workroom at the same time.

  Rena done, I submitted Miller’s data and waited for the computer to respond. I looked over my notes from Gene. If I had only one shot at this, I wanted Abby’s information as well. There might be some connection to Rory. From talking with Abby, it was clear, at first, that she didn’t know who blackmailed her or who killed Rory. It was also clear Rory’s murderer thought she did. That was enough to get her killed.

  Thirty minutes.

  I downloaded Rory’s information. Then I ran down the hallway to get Miller’s from the high speed central printer. Back in Mark’s office, I was tempted to read the screen. Downloading was taking too much time. Likely another Inquiry First beta version flaw. I glanced up at the clock. It was already going on six thirty. I quickly entered Abby’s name for a download and sent her data to the central printer. I had time for one last name: Richard.

  I gathered up the sizable stack of printouts and stuffed it all into a huge manila envelope I shoved under my desk. I had maybe ten minutes before Ed showed up and I didn’t want the printouts out in the open where he might see them. The software output clock showed twelve minutes to complete Richard’s download. I’d send his printout to my desk.

  Making another dash to the central printer, I grabbed Abby’s printout and crossed into the lobby, where I turned on the main office lights. I was just heading back to my office when I heard the lock click on the entry door.

  “Hollis, what are you doing here so early?” Avery asked.

  I forgot he had a hearing in Los Angeles. “I couldn’t sleep. I knew you’d have some work for me. So I followed my hunch and came in early.”

  We walked back toward my office. I made the printout into what I hoped looked like an innocent roll of paper.

  He eyed me with curiosity. “How long have you been here?”

  “Not long.” Relatively speaking.

  He paused in my doorway. Richard’s download had completed. The bright orange ready flash on the computer screen shone like a beacon. I slipped past Avery to stand in front of my computer and grabbed the top file folder from my inbox.

  If he noticed any strangeness in my moves, or the flashing light, he said nothing.

  “My goodness, this is impressive.” Ed came to the door. “I couldn’t believe it when I saw the lights. Both of you here … Avery, I thought you’d be on your way to the airport.”

  “I’m headed there now. I just stopped by to pick up some additional worksheets Mark and Hollis prepared.” Avery moved back out into the hallway to give Ed a friendly pat on the back.

  “That’s right. You’ve got the Landry matter. I’m glad I caught you before you left. I need to speak to you about Mrs. Ignacio’s trust. It will only take a couple of minutes. Let me put my briefcase down and I’ll come see you.” Ed turned to look at me. “Good morning, Hollis.”

  “Good morning, Ed.”

  After their voices faded down the hallway, I hit the print key.

  By the time the rest of the office had arrived, I was well into my first assignment. I was grateful that the morning passed without surprise. The protruding envelope at my feet made me anxious. At lunchtime, I moved it to my car. After ha
ving my prison cell tossed by a fellow inmate, I learned to consider paranoia a friend.

  With Avery out of the office, I had few interruptions. Only Mark popped in a couple of times with questions and simple requests. By the afternoon, I was counting down the hours to the end of the day. Finishing up with a few client calls, I left a half hour early. After all, I had come in early.

  At home, I put on a pot of hot water and sat down at the kitchen table to work. I tackled the thinnest run: Rena. It only took me a few minutes to figure out how Inquiry First sorted information with the oldest records first. Gene was right. It was amazing how much of our lives were captured under “public information.” Rena was born in southern California to Barbara and Lloyd Clarkson. She attended Cal State University Los Angeles and received a degree in fashion design. There was a notation she was one of the youngest people to receive an award nomination from the Council of American Fashion Designers for women’s wear. At twenty-two, she married Devon Reynolds. Seven months later, a son, Christopher, was born. Her credit report covered the next three pages. At least Inquiry First didn’t give out her social security number.

  I chuckled. Why was I always so worried about identity theft? The joke would be on the person who thought they wanted to be me.

  I flipped through her financials. She had a lot of credit cards for someone so young. Judging from the notations, she struggled under the load, and many of her debts ended up with collection agencies. She filed for bankruptcy. I returned to the narrative section of the report. Despite the bankruptcy, she petitioned and received permission from the court to be the trustee of her mother’s estate. Except for a police action three-and-a-half years ago for fraudulent check writing, her record was clean. It surprised me to see how fast the court had acted to take her off the street. Rena must have pleaded “No Contest.” If so, that would give us something in common—we’d both had bad advice. I went back to look at the personal section. Her husband filed for divorce three days after her arrest. Great guy. Custody of Christopher was given to Rena’s mother. Rena served her time at the California Institution for Women. Released from parole a little over a year ago, she lived with her mother in El Cerrito, California.

  I took a sip of pinot noir. She had chosen to do her five hundred hours of community service at a library. No wonder Richard and Jeffrey thought she might fit in. Other than her current employer being Neiman Marcus, a store I could only afford to walk past, I found little else out of the ordinary.

  I picked up the next printout: Miller Thornton, aka Marshall Sloane.

  Miller was from Illinois. He joined the Marines out of high school and served in the National Guard. My interest was piqued when I read he received a medal for rescuing his squad leader. Miller? I wondered if they had that backwards. He went on to get a degree in education and was briefly employed as a high school teacher. He later returned for a master’s degree in finance. Odd combination, but if Illinois’ teachers’ salaries were on par with those of California’s, I could understand his thinking. I skimmed through the file. He got his stock exchange license when he was thirty and married Gloria Mori around the same time. She must have taught him origami. They lived in Marin County—Sausalito—and then moved to Cliffside Shores. His wife must have the money. Miller had been sentenced to three years for bond embezzlement, followed by three years on parole. There was no mention of the brother with a cocaine habit and no indication of what secret Rory might have had on him.

  The file on Rory was twice the size of Miller’s. Born Michael Rollins in Hayward, California, Rory attended Cal State University there. No degree was listed. Maybe he never earned one. He was forty-one when he died, the day before his forty-second birthday. His first arrest had been fifteen years earlier, for computer hacking, but he was released without a conviction. Three years later he was arrested a second time, for extortion. Once again, no conviction. He received a real estate broker’s license about ten years ago. Not too long after, he was finally convicted of computer fraud and extortion. He went to Kern Prison and served his full sentence. I found that a bit odd. Knowing our crowded jail system, he should have been out a lot earlier. Under California’s early release program, they let out bank robbers sooner than that. I went to his personal data section. Divorced. His little girl lived with her mother.

  The thickness of Rory’s file had little to do with actual information. There were at least eight pages of address changes. A blackmailer probably had to stay on the move. His last address was here in Oakland. The file hadn’t been updated with his death notice.

  I needed a break. Closing my eyes, I leaned back in my chair. It was only days since Abby had been killed and almost a week since Rory’s death. Abby was the closest I’d had to a friend. I wanted to find her killer for her sake and mine. One thing I was willing to bet on: whoever killed Abby also killed Rory.

  I called and made an appointment with Lily’s doctor, Wade Walker. At first the receptionist was reluctant to give me a time slot, but when I dropped the name of the law firm, she graciously put me down for fifteen minutes the next day. I was glad I’d have time to think of what to say.

  “Dr. Walker will be fitting you in, so please don’t be late.”

  Unfortunately, when I slipped away from work and arrived the next day, it was Dr. Walker who was late. He rushed in the waiting room with his arm outstretched. We shook hands.

  “Miss Morgan, how can I help you?” He led me to a large office with a wall of windows facing the bay, where we sat in comfortable overstuffed chairs around a small coffee table.

  “I’m actually here about one of your patients and our client, Lily Wilson.”

  Dr. Walker’s face flashed an emotion I initially read as annoyance; then he quickly shifted to seeming indifference.

  “Lily Wilson, yes, of course. She’s a wonderful woman. In relatively good health, considering her age.”

  “Uh, can you tell me if she has cataracts?”

  “I’m sorry. You’re an attorney for Mrs. Wilson?”

  I was afraid of this. “No, I work for the law firm that represents Mrs. Wilson’s estate.”

  “I see. Then you know I can’t reveal any medical information.”

  I was treading on thin ice, but all I could think of was the worry on Marla’s face.

  “Doctor, we have reason to believe Lily Wilson may be receiving the wrong medication. Before I go any further down this trail, it would be very helpful if you could verify she’s receiving the proper medicine.”

  “Are you making an accusation against me?”

  I sat up in the chair. “Oh, no. Not at all. It’s just some of the residents have seen a recent change for the worse in her behavior and maybe health. There’s some question as to whether her medication has been adjusted.”

  “Has anyone spoken with the director?”

  “I can’t answer that. I don’t know.”

  He went over to his desk and tapped on his keyboard. He evidently found what he was looking for and read the screen.

  After a moment he turned to me. “As I said, there’s nothing I can say to you about Mrs. Wilson. However, I’m scheduled to give her a regular examination in a few days. I’ll review her chart and dosage.”

  On my way home, I remembered my mother once told me, “If you were a dog, you’d be a rottweiler.” Once I got something in my head, I wouldn’t let go. At first I thought she meant this as a put-down, but now I considered it a compliment. Until I hit a wall I couldn’t see my way around, I’d go forward with finding Abby’s killer. I wouldn’t let that person get away with Abby’s death or kill my chance for a pardon. There was this thing with Lily, too. I really hoped Marla was overreacting.

  It was ten p.m., and I realized I hadn’t gone through my mail. On top of the stack was a tan envelope from the Department of Corrections & Rehabilitation. I opened it with growing trepidation. There was just one sheet of paper. I could hardly bear to read it. The words were few. The notice indicated the date, location and time of my hearing.r />
  I consulted my watch and did the calculations—six weeks, eight days, ten hours and forty-seven minutes to freedom. If nothing screwed it up.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  The next morning I went to Mark’s office to put several date holds on his calendar. We needed to prep our cases together. Avery would be back late in the afternoon and it was a chance for Mark, with me pushing him, to shine. He wasn’t there so I left him a note. I caught myself. Except for the seniors, I hadn’t helped anyone in a long time. I’d almost forgotten how it felt to help someone.

  It was a slow workday, so I used the rest of the morning to lay out potential killer interview questions on a legal pad. I went through my Inquiry First pages. It was clear the only way I’d get tough questions answered would be with direct confrontation.

  “What are you concentrating so hard on?”

  My head snapped up. Mark stood in my doorway eating an apple.

  I rolled my chair to the left of my desk, hoping to block any view he might have of my monitor. “I’m working on getting the Landry matter ready for Avery. Did you get my note?”

  “That’s why I’m here. Avery indicated Mrs. Landry left no heirs and no will, but I remembered something in the paper about her having a strong participation in her church. Mrs. Landry wasn’t stupid. She worked hard for her money. I checked with the pastor at the church where she was buried and, sure enough, she had a will, or what we’d call a poor excuse for a will.”

  “Bravo, Mark. Good work. So, let me guess, the will was handwritten on the back of an envelope?”

  “Just about. It was on the back of a paper church fan, but it still had two witnessed signatures.”

  “Why hadn’t the pastor come forward?”

  “He was going to. He didn’t think things would move so quickly and he had several church issues that were taking up his time.”

  “Well, I guess that means I can move on to getting the estate documents ready for probate. Did you get the fan?”