Privileged Witness

by Rebecca Forster

  ''No.'' Josie shook her head.

  ''I never had the pleasure, either.'' Babcock's gaze was drawn to the window again as if he could just make Michelle McCreary out behind the curtain of wispy clouds. ''I saw her, though. Michelle McCreary was a beautiful young woman with everything to live for and, yet, she left nothing to indicate why she killed herself. Not a note. Not a message scrawled on the wall. Most suicides want people to know what kind of pain they were in or they want to point a finger at someone or apologize for something they did. Most of them have histories of self-destructive behavior. Drug use. Severe mental problems. So far, I've found nothing to tell me why she might have jumped.''

  ''And some suicides leave everyone guessing,'' Josie countered.

  ''Not this one. If she had a reason, I would have found it. And, I haven't found it so, perhaps, she didn't jump.'' Babcock was decisive and passionate but Josie diluted his speculation with common sense.

  ''You haven't found a reason for her suicide because Michelle McCreary that jump was a thing of the moment. She might have fallen. She couldn't have left anything behind because she wasn't planning on dying. Either way, there was no crime.''

  ''She was too short to fall from the balcony unless she was standing on one of the chairs around the table and lost her balance.''

  Babcock smiled tightly and she saw that those eyes of his had something strange preserved in them. Conscience, maybe? A soul? Then again, perhaps it was as simple as the reflection of intelligence and integrity. Whatever it was seemed to have made this investigation a crusade and Josie didn't like evangelical cops.

  ''Maybe that's what happened.'' Josie muttered, giving her watch a quick check as much to break their connection as to note the time. She had another fifteen minutes. Babcock, however, seemed to have all the time in the world.

  ''The chairs were around the table. Two were pushed out slightly as if they had been used and not put back properly. Unfortunately, they weren't close enough to the edge of the balcony that Mrs. McCreary could have fallen even if she was standing on one of them.'' He came back smoothly and continued to think aloud. ''Even if I accept the premise that she might have fallen, I'd have to ask myself, what would she be doing standing on a chair in her lingerie?''

  ''There's an evening dress on the floor in her bedroom. She had been out. People have a few drinks. They get silly,'' Josie assured him. ''They get careless.''

  ''But she hadn't been out and, from what I understand, Mrs. McCreary wasn't careless. Just the opposite. She was very organized and methodical.'' Babcock smiled gently. ''But of course I've only spoken with a few of the people who were close to her. I am extrapolating given how she ran her household. But most people run their household quite like their lives, don't you think?''

  Josie thought of her own home, a work in progress, an extension of her life. He was dead on right but still she wouldn't budge.

  ''How she arranges her kitchen isn't important. The people close to her are satisfied that this was suicide, the coroner is satisfied. Look, there could be a million reasons why she jumped and all women don't keep diaries. I don't write anything down that I don't want to show up in a court of law. Give me a break, detective, you don't have a thing.''

  ''But I'd like to have something, Ms. Bates.'' The angle of his head, the expression on his face made Babcock look like a priest trying to hold onto his faith despite his experience with the ways of the world. ''Mrs. McCreary was in the prime of her life. She was smart, quietly personable. By all accounts, beyond the expected pressure of a public life, her marriage showed no signs of strain. She visited a psychiatrist and took medication to stabilize a normal depression that could be explained by a chemical imbalance. A million people do that everyday and they don't walk off a balcony. So why did she? Why did she?''

  Josie no longer seemed to be part of the conversation. Babcock wandered outside again. The Matrix Stunts truck had moved on. The plaza was empty. Traffic on Ocean was moving at a good clip and Detective Babcock had another thought. He also remembered Josie. He turned to her. She lingered in the doorway.

  ''You know, Ms. Bates, Mrs. McCreary might not have wanted her husband to find her note too early. Then he might have stopped her. Perhaps she sent something to his office or his campaign headquarters where it would be lost in the daily deluge of correspondence. Perhaps there's something in their home up north that hasn't been found. It wouldn't take long to check it all - with Mr. McCreary's permission, naturally. Then I think I could close this. Once I was satisfied that there was absolutely nothing to find.''

  Josie's lips twitched. She reached up and pulled her fingers through the long bangs that swept across her forehead. There was sweat at her hairline. It was an excruciatingly hot day but this little meeting had just cooled off. She smiled at her new friend. She loved a smart man.

  ''You are so good, Babcock. I almost bought your choir boy act about being concerned for the victim.''

  Josie ambled out and joined him at the balcony wall. She put her hands on it and leaned back loving the smell of the sea and the bite of a breeze at this height. It was a beautiful view. The sea was defined by the peaks of the whitecaps and brushed horizon, the sky by the brush of the clouds. Oil islands sat just offshore looking like little lands of Oz, palm trees disguising the derricks. Josie pulled her chin up a bit.

  ''You don't have a thing on Matthew McCreary, do you?''

  ''No, I actually don't have anything on the gentleman,'' Babcock confirmed.

  ''How have you been getting in here?''

  ''Mr. McCreary told the manager that we could have anything we needed.''

  ''And exactly when did he make that offer?'' Josie faced him full on, her hip against the wall that kept her from the same fate as Matthew's wife.

  ''I believe it was the night Mrs. McCreary died,'' Babcock answered honestly.

  ''A man in shock makes a simple statement just before he has to arrange for his suicidal wife's funeral and you take that as carte blanche?'' Josie laughed incredulously but Babcock was not embarrassed.

  ''He wanted to help.''

  ''Well, let me make a suggestion. Ask Mr. McCreary one more time if you can have access to his home or his office or his campaign headquarters. Only this time tell him you're investigating a homicide, not a suicide. See what he says then.''

  ''And if Mr. McCreary is reluctant to assist us that would certainly pique my curiosity.''

  ''As uncomfortable as it is for a man's curiosity to be piqued, I can't sympathize. This has been interesting, Detective,'' Josie said, amused that he had tried to intimidate her. ''Get a warrant or close up shop. And I mean before the end of business today.''

  Josie stood tall, shifted her shoulder bag and said her goodbyes. Babcock politely responded and they parted without another word. Josie headed to her car, noting that she had lost most of the day. The detour from the San Pedro Courthouse to Long Beach hadn't taken long but add in her time with Grace and the commute back to Hermosa and she would be cutting it close to get to Hannah's exhibit before the festivities began. It would be a long, hot drive across the Vincent Thomas Bridge and the one lane wind through the horse properties of Rolling Hills. Hopefully, Pacific Coast Highway through Torrance and Redondo wouldn't be backed up. This was Hannah's night and Josie wasn't going to screw it up for anyone – not even Matthew McCreary.

  CHAPTER 6

  Horace Babcock watched Josie Baylor-Bates leave. It was a pleasure he indulged in without prurient interest. While he could appreciate her handsomeness, his tastes ran to a more lady-like woman: the kind who preferred dresses, whose hair was long and soft, who understood that making a cup of tea could border on art. It was hard to find that kind of woman in Southern California but Horace never gave up trying. Meanwhile, he honed his powers of observation by appreciating women in much the same way he appreciated wandering room to room at the Getty Museum. Art, after all, was art; beauty came in many guises.

  As impressions went, Josie Bates's attractiveness was particular
ly heady. One seldom saw an extraordinarily tall woman who carried herself well and confidently: shoulders back, head held high. Very proud. Very self-assured. She walked from the hips, taking long strides, wearing heels that added more to her already impressive height. Very comfortable. Her body was honed like an athlete. Her voice had a resonance that added weight to her words but her ability to articulate what she wanted made an impact.

  She had money.

  Evidence: her well cut clothes, the fine leather of her purse and shoes, the fact that she was unimpressed with this place.

  She was practical.

  Evidence: her nails were short; her hair shorter.

  Josie Bates didn't care about the money she had nor did she share it with anyone.

  Evidence: no jewelry, no tan line from a wedding ring, no frantic sense that she should have one.

  There was one thing that Babcock noted with great interest, though. While Josie Baylor-Bates was an interesting lady to spend forty-five minutes with and, while she would be a formidable adversary, she also had a flaw. She walked without looking around, focused only on the thing that held her attention: the door, him, the opening that would close an argument, the argument that would close an investigation. She stopped when she assumed she'd won instead of when the fight was actually over. That was a notable observation for Horace Babcock. He never stopped until he made sure the fight was over.

  Standing on the balcony, waiting until she crossed the plaza, Babcock smiled as he saw her get into a black Jeep. The top was down. The interior was black. When the Jeep nosed out onto Ocean Boulevard, made a daring and illegal U-turn and took off like a jack rabbit for the Bridge, Babcock walked through the McCreary home one last time.

  Despite the grandeur, it seemed shabby and lonely. It was as if Michelle McCreary had left a vacuum that sucked the life out of this place when she jumped. Yet Babcock could still detect that part of her was left behind: the lingering scent of a perfume, a sadness that he could feel as clearly as if it were a mist on a California winter morning. He knew those things belonged to Michelle McCreary. She was the kind of woman he would have liked to have known.

  With quick steps he crossed the living room and let himself out. In the hall, Detective Horace Babcock locked the door. He would not be coming back again. He dialed his cell phone. On the other end a cheery girl welcomed him to the campaign headquarters for Matthew McCreary, the next Democratic candidate for the U.S. Senate. Mr. McCreary was not in. Babcock spoke to Tim Douglas who was happy to relay the message that Mr. McCreary could return to the penthouse. Babcock did not mention Josie Bates's visit.

  The traffic outside had thinned and the wide boulevard that ribboned the coast was pleasantly quiet. The windows of the high-rises glinted in the bright afternoon light. Babcock knew it was terribly hot but heat didn't bother him. His parents said his tolerance was genetic, passed down from his great-grandfather, an Irishman who spent many years in India.

  The real estate in this area was made up of office buildings and high-rise condominiums that couldn't be built fast enough to satisfy the demand to live near the water. Many had big pots on the balconies that sprouted trees or bubbled with flowers. Afternoon shadows cut building facades into fanciful fractions of light and dark serrations. Babcock glanced up to Michelle McCreary's balcony, wondering again what her last thought had been when she took that fateful step. There were no units beside hers so there was no neighbor to see or hear her last moments. The people on the tenth floor had been questioned. They heard nothing. Mr. Jorgensen had been on the ground and privy only to the sounds and surprise of impact. This was Long Beach, not New York, so there was no guard to log in visitors, no doorman to take note of Mrs. McCreary's demeanor in the days leading up to her death. The security cameras on the main floor were not functioning that day.

  According to her husband, they had only disagreed about his schedule. Indeed, he had been away from home much of the time. Mrs. McCreary had kept to her normal appointments: hair, nails, fittings. She spoke to some friends but, in the final days before her death, her calendar had been free, her phone log minimal and the security cameras had not recorded her leaving her home. According to friends, she often removed herself from social activities and indulged in extreme privacy.

  Babcock's eyes panned across the small street that intersected Ocean Boulevard and dead-ended at the beach. He looked up at the first building that came into his line of sight. The second. The third was his destination. He had been going to that building since the day of the incident in an attempt to talk to one of the people who had called emergency services. Nine-one-one received three calls within seconds of one another. Two of those callers had been checked out and had nothing of interest to say. The third person proved elusive and that was curious. That person was the first to call for help and the last who wanted to talk to a human being. She lived in the building where the balconies were angled on the side of the building like wings and the view was expansive. The phone was registered to a woman who lived on the eleventh floor directly across from the McCreary penthouse.

  Babcock knew there was probably nothing to be learned from that caller since they would have already shared their information is they had it. Still, it was a loose end and loose ends made him uneasy. He crossed the street and opened the door of the building. He held it open for an elderly couple. The woman was brisk; the man a bit slower. The man tipped his baseball cap and murmured his thanks. Babcock waited with them at the elevator, rode up to the fifth floor where they exited and then watched as the digital numbers counted off the next six floors.

  Babcock walked down the hall to the corner unit, knocked on the door and waited. Nothing. Babcock rang. This time his ears pricked. There was someone on the other side of the door. He knocked once more, louder still, until, finally, the door opened a crack. The eyes peering out at him were angry and suspicious. There were two chains across the door, neither strong enough to keep him out if he wanted in.

  ''I'm Detective Horace Babcock with the Long Beach Police Department. I was wondering if I might have a minute of your time.''

  ''I don't have to say anything. You can't make me. I've talked to my lawyer,'' the woman behind the door warned.

  Babcock smiled sweetly.

  ''I'm here. I'm here.''

  Josie called out to Hannah before she even had the key out of the lock. Max-the-Dog struggled to his feet, his tail wagging, happy as a puppy to see her. Josie bent down and ruffled his jowls and got a lick back for her efforts.

  ''Good boy. Is she mad?'' Josie muttered and then cooed once more. ''Good boy.''

  ''No, she is not mad and she wouldn't have been a lunatic if you didn't make it home in time.''

  Hannah Sheraton, Josie's charge, stood framed in the doorway of her bedroom – the room that used to be Josie's office. Dark skinned, green eyed, black hair spiraling down her back and spilling over her shoulders, Hannah was as beautiful as the first time Josie had seen her in prison incarcerated for a murder she didn't commit. And, like the first time, Hannah's demons made themselves known as she tapped out a tune Josie had come to know well.

  Twenty notes on the door jamb or anything else within reach. Her obsession with checking her boundaries wasn't as frantic as it once had been; the compulsion to touch was not as tortuous. Still Hannah's fear of being left alone, forgotten or thrown away by adults stuck in her mind like the residue of a nightmare. Yet the touching and worrying were small burdens compared to the way Hannah used to cut herself, slicing her skin to let the terror of abandonment and abuse flow from her along with her own blood. Thankfully, the cutting had stopped – or so Josie hoped.

  ''I had a little unexpected business.'' Matter-of-factly Josie peeled off her jacket and tossed it on a chair as she went to Hannah, took the girl's hands in her own. Josie looked directly into those green eyes the way the psychiatrist said she should. ''I never forgot about your opening. Give me some credit for a fast learning curve, okay?''

  ''Okay.'' Hannah laughed once
while still trying to remain aloof. The teenager nodded once. . .twice. . .five times. ''I wasn't worried.''

  Josie dropped Hannah's hand though the doctor had said it would be better to weather the entire episode in contact with her. But Josie was wary of such intimacy and unused to Hannah's constant vigilance. She was not a mother, just a better alternative than the mother Hannah had drawn or a system of child services that wouldn't give Hannah the time of day.

  ''So, I'm a little nervous about your opening, too. I bet this is the way the mother of the prom queen feels.'' Josie retrieved her jacket and talked over her shoulder on her way to her bedroom. Hannah followed, giving Josie some distance but not too much.

  ''Except you're not my mother, and I'm not the prom queen.'' Hannah raised her voice as Josie disappeared into her room.

  ''Thank God for small favors, huh?'' Josie stuck her head through the doorway. ''I'll settle for being the guardian of Hermosa Beach's best new artist. Almost seventeen and you're having your own showing at Gallery C. Not bad.''

  ''It's not like The Met or anything,'' Hannah nitpicked, uncomfortable with the praise, proud of her accomplishment but fearful of drawing down bad karma if she rejoiced aloud.

  ''Archer didn't call, did he?'' Josie hollered.

  ''Nope. I'll take Max out while you get ready. We have to leave like instantly, you know.''

  Hannah raised her voice. She picked up the frayed neon pink leash Max-the-Dog had been wearing when Josie found him cold, lost and hungry under the pier. It was the only leash he would ever have if Josie had her way. Like the decorative hula girl plates hanging in the dining room that were Josie's link to her mother, that leash was the only link to Max's past.

  ''Five minutes. I promise.''

  Josie changed fast. The brown suit she had worn to court was tossed aside in favor of black drawstring pants, flat sandals, a white cotton crop top, the sleeves banded by fabric salvaged from an antique kimono. She splashed water on her hair, gelled it back. It had been a winning day. Kevin O'Connel brought to justice and a few lucrative billable hours to Grace McCreary who was delighted to hear that all was well. Hannah couldn't miss tonight.