“This lawyer is.”
“What are you afraid of, Mr. Hardy?” She looked directly at him, her deep eyes a shade too dark. “You look pretty much able to take care of yourself.”
“Right at this moment, I’m fighting a cold. I feel like an eight-year-old could take me down without too much trouble.”
She looked another question at him. Had she been coming on? Had he just turned her down? Whatever, it didn’t seem to bother her. She seemed to think it was interesting. It was such a different league here. There must be different rules and maybe he didn’t know them.
“So where were we?” she asked.
“How I knew Jody. I don’t.”
For a moment her eyes registered something. Fear? Annoyance? “You’re not a policeman, are you?”
“Why? Is Jody in trouble with the police?”
“There’s no reason he should be. And you didn’t answer me.”
“I told you. I’m a lawyer. I’m not a cop.”
She sat back and crossed her arms under her halter. Her face remained impassive. “What do you people think he did? You ought to leave him alone.”
Hardy nodded. “Yes. That’s what Mr. Kelso told Inspector Restoffer. But I’m on my own. I’m not with him and I’m trying to save my client’s life.” He gave her Jennifer’s story in a nutshell. By the time he finished, she had uncrossed her arms. She took a long drink of lemonade.
“But Jody didn’t call Frank—Mr. Kelso. I did. Jody knew nothing about it, probably still doesn’t.”
“Why did you call him?”
“Because, Mr. Hardy”—she leaned forward again—“because Jody doesn’t need this. He’s very sensitive and he hasn’t done anything wrong. And then suddenly out of nowhere this Restoffer person starts questioning him as if he were a criminal. These accusations were tearing him apart and it was ridiculous. Do you know who Jody is?”
“I know he’s your fiancé. That’s about it.”
“He’s a one-in-a-million person—that’s who he is. He spends half his life helping people. He came from nowhere and now he’s moving into the city’s elite. He raises money for twenty causes—that’s where he is now, at a charity golf function. He’s a partner at his firm and he makes a good living. He’s engaged to me, so as you can see money will not be an issue. He doesn’t need to do anything criminal. Money just doesn’t drive him.”
If Jody were so wonderful, Hardy wanted to ask her, why did she give the impression she would have taken him to bed, maybe still would. It could be that all his goodness didn’t satisfy her, which, of course, didn’t mean it wasn’t there.
It could also be that one-in-a-million Jody didn’t love her, didn’t find her desirable, had arranged for himself a convenient marriage that would give him still more money, more power. But maybe, in this strata of society, marriages more resembled strategic alliances than love affairs. Connections and loyalty might count for more than sexual attraction. He just didn’t know. He was out of his league.
And he was almost out of steam. “Did Jody tell you that Restoffer had accused him of anything?”
“Not specifically, but it became obvious that he thought Jody might have had something to do with Simpson Crane’s death, which is simply absurd. Simpson Crane was like his father. He cried when Simpson was killed—I was with him and I saw it. That’s not something you fake, Mr. Hardy.”
It’s been known to happen, Hardy thought.
“Besides,” she continued, “everybody knows who killed Simpson. It was the damn union. He was, I guess everybody knows, a union buster. He believed unions were ruining the country—and by the way he was right—so he went after them. He was just too good at it. And one of them killed him, or had him killed. That’s just the kind of people they are.”
Hardy wanted to ask her if she had ever had a meaningful conversation with a working person but thought he’d save his breath. That wasn’t his fight, he wasn’t about to become a life influence on Ms. Morency.
Suddenly she pushed herself up from her chair and crossed the flagstones. At the gazebo she grabbed a towel and draped it over her shoulders, covering the halter. It hadn’t gotten any cooler—the implied invitation, if that’s what it had been, was withdrawn.
Hardy stood up. “I appreciate you seeing me.”
She came up to him and laid a hand on his arm. “I really wish you would leave Jody alone,” she said. “He doesn’t need this.”
“Thanks for your time,” he said. “I’ll find my way out.”
The phone was ringing. It was six-thirty on the clock next to the bed, and at first Hardy didn’t know where he was, then whether it was morning or night. The last time he had fallen asleep during daylight he’d slept through the dark, and for a moment there he wondered if he’d done it again.
He picked up the telephone. It was Jody Bachman, personable Jody Bachman. “Margaret said you came by. I’m sorry I missed you. Also, listen, the other thing—never calling you back. What can I say? I got busy again. It’s been really crazy. So I got your message at the office checking in, but I was late for this event. You know how it is. You want to get together?”
“Tonight’s out. I’m fighting a cold here.”
“Okay, how about tomorrow? You still in town? If you’re free for lunch I’ve got a table at the City Club. Great food. Better view. Noon okay?”
“Noon’s fine,” Hardy answered.
“Noon then. You know where it is?”
Hardy said he’d find it. Bachman said he’d see him there.
He collapsed back down on the bed. When he closed his eyes he had a sensation of motion, of the room spinning around him. He forced himself up to a sitting position.
He was forgetting something. It seemed important, maybe crucial, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. And the effort at thought was so tiring. Minutes passed. He started to doze sitting up. The telephone rang again.
“Are you still sick?”
“I’m still sick.”
Frannie’s earlier anger had given way to concern. “Why don’t you come home, Dismas? You ought to see a doctor.”
He told her about his scheduled meeting the next day with Bachman. One way or the other, that would be the end of it. He had to stay until then.
She stopped pushing. Okay, if that was what he was going to do. The kids, she said, were fine. Rebecca was really missing him—that wasn’t a guilt trip, just a fact. She, Frannie—his wife, remember?—missed him, too. Would he please try to take care of himself, be careful?
He told her he would. He didn’t have much choice. He wasn’t going anywhere feeling like he did. Hermetically sealed in his hotel room, he was going to sleep right now for the night. He’d see her tomorrow.
In the bathroom he took some more aspirin, drank two glasses of water. His face in the mirror was drawn and sallow. Everything ached. He crossed to the window to pull the shade closed. A purple dusk lay on the city streets. Farther off, Mount Wilson, up on the crest of the San Gabriels, glowed vermilion, diamond glints of the gasping sunlight sparkling out of the rocky brush. He put an arm up against the window and leaned heavily against it.
Below him in the parking lot a lone man got out of his car, closed the door and went to his trunk. He took out a small carrying case, looked around the lot, closed the trunk, then quickly, without wasted motion, bypassed the lobby entrance and walked directly underneath into Hardy’s wing of the building.
It was just the way he had felt at home. Paranoid. Stupid.
But knowing that didn’t help. Suddenly he knew he had to get out of here. He had given Jody Bachman his room number, told him he’d be staying in all night.
Jody Bachman, who by Hardy’s scenario had hired someone to kill Simpson Crane, Crane’s wife, Larry and Matthew Witt. And now Hardy was the only one standing between him and his seven million dollars . . .
There wasn’t much to pack. He gathered his old clothes, still wearing his new ones. There was no one in the hallway when he stepped into it.
/>
The elevator opened and he was facing a thin, dark, well-dressed man. The man carried the small carrying case he’d seen earlier, or one very much like it. Hardy stepped by him into the elevator as the man got out. He was looking for room numbers as the door closed.
52
Jody Bachman was twenty minutes late, and if he was surprised to see Hardy sitting alive at the table he had reserved, he showed no sign.
The fever had broken after another twelve hours of heavy sleep in a motel just outside of Glendale. Hardy, in new loafers, slacks, an indigo sports coat and regimental tie, still hurt. His muscles still ached.
He had given himself a couple of minutes of feeling like an idiot when he woke up. But, after all, he had woken up and that was some consolation, maybe even justification. It had probably been fatigue and fever. Absolutely nothing to it. But it was done. He had changed hotels. In all likelihood it had been foolish and unnecessary. He could live with that. Had, in fact.
He knew who Bachman was before he got to the table. Entering the room as though he owned it, he was one of those southern California ex-surfers whose aging process didn’t seem to run on the same battery pack as that of mere mortals. He had to be thirty-five or so if he was a partner at Crane, but he looked ten years younger—chiseled cheeks, a cleft in his chin, not a worry line anywhere. The hair, which would have been peroxide blond fifteen years before, was now a light chestnut and fell forward in a Kennedy lock. He either used a tanning salon or spent a lot of time at Margaret Morency’s pool.
There was no question—it was a power room. Bachman’s first stop was where the mayor of Los Angeles sat at a table for six, at least one of whom Hardy recognized as a prominent and much photographed state legislator.
As Bachman worked the room, winding his way back to the window seat, Hardy sipped his club soda. There was no smog. Los Angeles south of downtown sprawled over some warehouses, then expanded to a horizon of oil derricks, rail yards, power lines, freeways, gypsum quarries. It was a view for those who favored expanse over anything pleasant to look at—there were no bridges, islands, bodies of water, distinctive buildings, hills or green patches. Maybe Bachman didn’t yet rate the better window tables, where the mayor and the congressman and whomever they ate with could glimpse the ocean, the glittering and verdant west side, the San Gabriels.
“Sorry I’m late. Jody Bachman.” Bachman mouthed another greeting to someone he had missed on his first pass through the room, then—finally—sat. “I can’t seem to catch up.” He laughed. “It never ends. You having a drink?”
Hardy tipped the glass. “Club soda.”
“Me, too. How guys have a martini or even a beer in the middle of the day . . .” He shook his head. “It wipes me out. I might as well take a sleeping pill. So what can I do for you?”
“I’m trying to get to the end of something myself. My client got sentenced to death on Friday.”
Bachman, sipping his water, stopped it halfway to his mouth. “Jesus,” he said, putting the glass down, “that’s a different breed of law.”
“It’s not exactly boardrooms and bylaws.”
“Death, huh? Witt’s wife, right?”
“That’s right. Jennifer.”
Bachman whistled soundlessly. The waiter arrived. He wore a tuxedo and placed a glass of what looked like cranberry juice on the table. “Just the special, Klaus, for me. Whatever it is.” He included Hardy.
“Sounds fine.” When Klaus was gone, he said, “I’m trying to get the judge to lower it to life.”
“I thought you appealed. Forever.”
“Eventually,” Hardy said. “If it comes to that.” He didn’t intend to explain the protocol. “Jennifer says she’s innocent and”—Hardy allowed a bemused grin for Bachman’s benefit—“I’m still tempted to believe her. So what I’ve got to do is give the judge some doubt. Doesn’t have to be much . . .”
“And you think Witt’s call to me . . .”
“I don’t know, Mr. Bachman. It’s the only unturned stone at this point.”
Another power broker passed the table, giving Bachman a friendly shake of the shoulder. He nodded absently, then sat back in his chair, reaching for his juice. “If this is your best bet . . .” He took in the view for a minute. “After we talked, I tried to check the logs last night but I couldn’t get into the computer until this morning.”
Hardy waited.
Bachman reached into his coat pocket and extracted two pages, stapled and folded. He opened them, handing them across to Hardy. “I went ahead and copied my original timesheet on the back—sometimes they get my writing wrong.”
The first page was a section of typed summary of Bachman’s billable time. On December 23, beginning at 6:10 P.M., he had billed .20 to YBMG. Under desc./svs. was typed: “Tcon w/Witt. ???.”
Bachman translated. “It was just a call to answer some questions. I guess I got about ten or so and Witt was one of them.”
“Do you remember what his question was?”
“Not a clue. I billed it to the Group, so it must have been something to do with the offering, but it’s gone. Sorry.”
Hardy looked again at the bill. “But the call lasted twenty minutes? Isn’t that a long time to have no memory of at all?”
For the first time Bachman showed an edge of pique—the pleasant smile faded for an instant. He pursed his lips, then drank some juice. By the time he put the glass down he had recovered. “You’ve got it wrong. .20 isn’t twenty minutes. In its wisdom, the firm’s billing is done in tenths of an hour. Two tenths is twelve minutes.” He leaned forward, confiding in Hardy. “And even one second more than six minutes counts as twelve—we round off. The call itself might easily have been less than five minutes . . .” His smile held no warmth now. “But I really don’t remember. What more can I say?”
Hardy flipped to the original timesheet on the back. Whatever had been written after “Tcon w/Witt”—about two lines’ worth—had been scratched out.
“I know.” Bachman, seeing Hardy on that page, answered before Hardy could put the question. “And the answer is I don’t know. Maybe my pen ran, maybe I just wrote an unnecessarily long description. They ask us to keep it simple. You should meet my secretary—she flays me if I get redundant or wordy.”
Hardy stared at the scratching for another useless moment. He’d love to get his hands on the original, see if some expert could get something to come up. But even then, what? Whatever Bachman had originally written, it couldn’t have been so incriminating that, by itself, it would help Jennifer now.
He looked up. Bachman was studying him. “You know, I’m happy to help you if I can, and I think I’ve been pretty forthcoming. But I have to wonder when this YBMG inquisition is going to stop. It gets old. I mean, is this what happens when you close a deal? Everybody wants a piece of it.”
“I don’t want a piece of it.”
“Well, I know, that’s not what I meant. But all these questions . . .”
“I’ve got a young woman who’s got a good chance of getting executed unless I can prove somebody else killed her husband. To me, I’m sorry, but that’s worth a couple of questions.”
Klaus returned with lunch—an avocado stuffed with baby shrimp, three pieces of high-end lettuce, a wedge of pumpernickel bread.
Bachman pushed the lettuce around. “That’s understandable,” he said. “But what does Dr. Witt’s phone call to me have to do with his death? You’re not suggesting that somebody with YBMG killed him, are you?”
“I didn’t know. It was a question that wasn’t answered. I knew that Witt had called you, and his lawyer in San Francisco told me he was upset about the circular. I wondered if he threatened you somehow—”
“And then I killed him? For what? You just can’t be serious.”
“Hypothetically, if you’re interested, I can explain it.” The shrimp, all two ounces of them, were sweet.
Hardy thought it would be instructive to watch Bachman’s reaction. He ran it all down to hi
m—from the phone call to Simpson Crane to Restoffer getting called off.
When he had finished, Bachman nodded, his smile a distant memory. “A lot of lawyers are writing novels these days, Mr. Hardy. Maybe you ought to try your hand at it.”
Hardy spread his palms. “This is nonfiction.”
“Yes, and so is the fact that nobody is hiding anything here. Everything is completely out in the open.”
“Simpson Crane let you trade out your hours for stock?”
This stopped him, momentarily. “Sure.”
“Your firm does that often? Takes that kind of risk?”
This had moved nicely from the hypothetical. Bachman rubbed a hand over his upper lip. Maybe he was starting to sweat. “Hey, in these times you take whatever business you can get. It’s a buyer’s market out there.”
“And Simpson had no problem with that?”
Thinking fast, Bachman said, “Of course not. Simpson and I were friends. I wouldn’t have done anything to hurt Simpson.” Hardy realized he had never directly accused him of that. “We talked about it, of course. At length. We figured there was a more than reasonable chance of downstream recovery. Which, I might add, has materialized. The firm has made two million dollars on my time. It took a risk, sure, but I’d say it was worth it. Wouldn’t you?”
Bachman’s hand seemed unsteady as he picked up his water glass.
Hardy nodded. “What about the other five million?”
He stopped the glass midway to his mouth, then drank, nearly slamming it back down. “There is no other five million.”
Finally, Hardy felt he had forced Bachman into an outright lie. Time to call him on it. “Clarence Stone said the Group paid you fifty thousand shares. That’s seven million dollars. If two went to your firm, where’s the other five?”
Bachman swallowed. “That was a personal bonus,” he said.
“You just said there wasn’t any other five million.”
The 13th Juror Page 50
