Through the door I heard Greta Locke regaling her guests, followed by another peal of general laughter. “Let’s cut to the chase.” Locke closed the book. “When my son hired your brother, I made a number of inquiries. I came to understand that your brother is one of the dirtiest lawyers in this town, about as dirty as it’s possible to be in San Francisco. I have a feeling Keith knew his reputation. I can guess what you told Greta, and I won’t have you repeat it to me. Neither Keith nor his case had anything to do with what happened to your brother, and I won’t have you coming into my home and making insinuations that amount to blackmail. With one call I could have you arrested for extortion.”
“Maybe, but the police would release me on ten thousand dollars bond, the case would never come to trial, and you would end up standing there holding your hat.” I set my glass on a shelf of first editions. If he was too good to drink with me, I wasn’t about to wet my lips. “I’m not after your money. Whether you like it or not, there’s a strong possibility that someone tried to kill my brother to send a message to your son, to intimidate him into not talking to the DA. The police ought to be looking into that possibility, but I can’t approach them until I have Keith’s permission to disclose what I know.”
“You don’t understand. You see, my son is a—a moral coward. Among other things.” A sheen of sweat had appeared on Gerald’s face. He seized his Scotch glass and drank from it.
“Is that why you cut him off?”
“He cut us off, the way I see it. Not that it makes any difference. This latest charge—the dead professor in the sex club—well, I never imagined it would come to something like this. But I can’t say I’m surprised, either. If Keith thinks that talking might get him killed, he won’t talk. It’s that simple.”
“Then they’ll probably charge him with something once they catch up with him. In that case he’ll need a lawyer.”
“You, I suppose.” He went around the desk for a refill and looked me up and down with distaste. “Are you as—as effective as your brother?”
“If Teddy was crooked, I didn’t know it, and I haven’t seen any evidence of it. He won trials, and he made police officers look bad, and in the process he didn’t make any friends in the district attorney’s office. In other words, he did his job. He was very, very good at finding witnesses and evidence that other lawyers might not have found. Depending on your point of view that’s just good old-fashioned investigation, or it’s too good to be true. But whatever Teddy was, I’m straight. And I intend to take over his practice until he’s well enough to come back to work. For as many of his old clients as will have me, anyway.”
“The hell you’re straight. You’re all crooks. They ought to charge you as accomplices after the fact.” He eyed me over his glass. “You’re taking on all his clients?”
“You don’t think your son should have a lawyer? Or mount a defense? You’d like him just to plead guilty to whatever the DA charges him with, maybe first-degree murder, and take the maximum?”
“You want my honest opinion?”
I didn’t answer. It’s better not to, when people ask stupid questions.
“I would sleep better at night if I knew my son was in prison for the rest of his life. It’s almost certainly where he belongs.” He drank again and set the glass on the desk.
From the room beyond the door came more volleys of moneyed laughter.
“Is there any special reason you wanted to see me, Dr. Locke?”
He struck the desk lightly with the bottom of his fist. “Whatever my wife offered you to track down Keith, I’ll double it, and all you have to do is stay home, do some light reading, watch the boob tube, sit on your ass.”
Chloe must play both sides, if he knew about Greta’s offer. “You don’t want him found?”
“He’ll turn up, don’t you worry. But I don’t want some defense lawyer finding him first, drumming it into his head that he can wriggle off the hook one more time. And I don’t want him found anytime soon.”
“What makes you think I’ll take your money if I wouldn’t take your wife’s?” I drank my drink in one swallow as a prelude to walking out.
Dr. Locke gave a little nod. He cleared his throat. “I feel I should inform you that my son may be a murderer. He may have killed before, and I don’t think he would hesitate to do it again if you were standing in the way of something he wanted.”
I turned and looked at Dr. Locke. He was pale. His hand trembled on the edge of the desk.
“I tell you this for your own safety. You ought to know what you’re getting into. He was seventeen. His roommate at boarding school. The official cause of death was strangulation. One loop of the rope was around the boy’s neck; the other was around his penis. Autoerotic strangulation, they ruled it. He had marks all over his body, but in the end the police decided there was no other person involved, that he’d caused all those injuries to himself. It was hushed up because the family didn’t want publicity. And I don’t think I can ever forgive myself.”
“How can you be so sure Keith did it?”
“All the holes in his story. He claimed he didn’t know about the roommate’s habits, but how could a roommate not know something like that? He was scared, and he was lying. Just call it a feeling on my part. My son is not put together like normal people. There’s something crucial missing. His mother doesn’t want to see it, and for years I didn’t, either.” His eyes glowed with the heat of obsession. “But there comes a time when you have to face the truth.”
I stood there looking at him, taking in his sickened expression. “So you think Keith tortured and killed that professor.”
For a moment it seemed like he didn’t mean to say anything more. Then he looked up, and the heat was gone from his face. In its place was resignation. “I think you should consider the possibility that my son lied to your brother about what happened that night, either with or without your brother’s encouragement. I think you should ask yourself whether you want to get mixed up in helping my son evade the punishment he most likely deserves and possibly getting somebody else sent to prison in his place. You don’t seem bereft of honor. I think you should ask yourself whether this is the kind of situation you really want to be involved with.”
Now I understood what he was asking of me: that I put off looking for Keith until the time for his deal with the DA had passed. “I’m not working for you, and we’ve never discussed my working for you. None of what you’ve told me is covered by privilege,” I warned him. I should have warned him sooner, but I’d been too stunned by the things he was telling me.
“Let the chips fall where they may. I’m done covering for my children.”
“I don’t want your money,” I emphasized.
“Then don’t take it.” He turned his back, pretending to study the books on his shelf.
I set my glass on his desk. “How come you don’t have any pictures of your daughter in here?” I asked, taking a step toward the door and stopping. “I can see why you wouldn’t have pictures of Keith, but a girl like that, so accomplished, you must be very proud.”
His eyes flashed in my direction. “You can see yourself out.” He poured himself another drink and went back out to the party. The noise from the other room swelled, then receded. As the door opened I caught a glimpse of curious faces and wandering eyes frozen midturn, midsmile. Then the door swung closed and I was alone.
I took the opportunity to pour myself another drink and slug it down. Who knew when I might have the chance to taste Scotch that old again?
When I walked out into the hall I found Chloe waiting. “Interesting family,” I told her. “I can see how working here might drive a person to law school.”
She didn’t respond except to pilot me back through the dining room toward the foyer.
“You sure no one else wants to see me?” I asked when we reached the front
door. “The dog?”
“He might like to see you, but not for the reason you think. He hates young men. He’d love nothing better than to chew off your balls.” I thought her mouth twitched but I couldn’t be certain.
“It’s been a while since I’ve had a good ball licking, but I’ll pass.” I turned the knob of the front door and stepped out into the chilly evening. I’d been right to pay off the cabdriver. I felt like I could use the walk.
Chapter 13
I couldn’t get out of that neighborhood fast enough. When I passed through the gateposts at Arguello I let out a breath I hadn’t even realized I was holding. I turned downhill toward the park, the prongs of Sutro Tower and the wooded hills of UCSF before me. A mass of fog billowed around the base of the tower, the solid-seeming vapor tinted orange by the setting sun.
As I walked, I thought about what Dr. Locke had said. Did I really want to get mixed up with the monster of a son he described? Did I really want people like Keith Locke as my clients?
My route brought me up Turk and past USF, where my brother had earned his degrees. It irked me that Gerald had lumped me in with Teddy. There had to be some truth in the accusations about him, but it wasn’t the whole truth. Just because I’d chosen the same career as my brother didn’t mean I was like him. I shared neither his anarchist politics nor his grim obsession with work. I wanted to enjoy my life, and I wanted to find someone to enjoy it with.
The lights of downtown were just becoming visible against the darkening sky. There were ethical, honorable ways to defend a man like Keith Locke, who might well have killed already and gotten away with it, who might seek my help in getting away with murder again. Despite Dr. Locke’s warning and my own misgivings, I intended to find Keith and convince him to hire me as his lawyer. Then I would find a way to navigate a path between the temptations that had tripped up my brother.
~ ~ ~
I caught a cab back to my apartment and changed into jeans and my hooded sweatshirt. I kicked myself now for having left Teddy’s car at his house in Canyon last night. I could take the train down to Stanford, but I didn’t know how long it would take me to find Christine Locke, and I didn’t want to risk getting stranded in Palo Alto after the last train. I’d been running on adrenaline, and I could feel exhaustion looming. I could sleep tomorrow in a chair at Teddy’s bedside. For now, I needed to learn what Christine Locke had been doing in Teddy’s room.
I decided to head back over to the East Bay on the BART, get a cab to Teddy’s house, pick up his car, and drive down to Stanford. I was walking to the BART when my phone rang in my pocket.
“Mr. Maxwell, this is Detective Anderson calling.” His voice was cordial, professional, as if I were merely the family member of a victim of a violent crime he was investigating.
“I’ve been hearing from my brother’s clients that you’ve been pulling them in, Detective. I hope you’re prepared to defend the legality of those arrests in court.”
“To my dying day. I’m calling as a courtesy, because I thought you’d be pleased to hear that the district attorney’s office is on the verge of filing an indictment in your brother’s case. I’m pretty confident that we’ve got the guy.”
My heart skipped. “Already? Who?”
The satisfaction in his voice was audible. “Ricky Santorez.”
I laughed sadly. I couldn’t help feeling I should have seen this one coming. “Ricky Santorez is in San Quentin.”
“Yeah, but his homeboys aren’t. After Ricky got off, Teddy handled cases for that whole crew. Handled a lot of things for them, actually, according to our informant. Seems Santorez and his friends gave your brother a lot of money for safekeeping. Around a hundred thousand cash. At some point your brother started dipping into it. About a month ago one of Santorez’s friends came around to make a withdrawal, and Teddy didn’t have anything left to give him. I don’t know what your brother was thinking. Sounds like he got greedy, and it got him capped.”
“Your wildest dreams come true. You get Santorez and my brother with one bullet, all for the low price of one desperate snitch telling you what you want to hear.”
“Desperate, I don’t know. This guy’s serving life. And we confirmed the details with the bank. Santorez’s client trust-fund account was emptied in a series of transactions starting about six months ago. Our guy may be a snitch, but he’s legit. Seems Santorez can’t do anything without blabbing his mouth.”
“You’re being taken for a ride.” But, in fact, I was uncertain. He probably wouldn’t lie to me about something so verifiable as a bank account balance. “What kind of deal is this lowlife asking for?”
“He wants a shot at parole. There are no guarantees with the parole board, of course, but a letter from the DA’s office should carry a certain amount of weight. In exchange for Santorez, the DA will write one.”
“Sounds like you’ve got the case on ice. Except for the shooter and the getaway driver. But I guess from your point of view those are minor details.”
“Santorez will give them to us. Or someone will roll over. Just give it time, Counselor.”
He sounded very satisfied with himself, and very confident, but there was something else. Otherwise he would already have hung up. I thought of mentioning Keith Locke, just to see if he was on the detective’s radar screen, but I didn’t want to start going down that road until I’d talked to Keith myself. And now that Anderson had Santorez, I doubted he would be interested in alternate theories unless they were backed with incontrovertible proof.
“You got a name on this snitch?” I asked, though I was sure there was no way he would give up such sensitive information.
It turned out to be the question he’d been waiting for. “Sure,” he said. “One desperate lowlife by the name of Lawrence Maxwell. We’re taking him before the grand jury first thing Monday morning, and we should have an indictment shortly thereafter. Have a great weekend.”
He hung up.
I stood on the piss-smelling stairs down to the Civic Center BART with the taste of stomach acid in my throat. I’d heard my father’s name, and the word parole, but for a few long minutes that was all I could process of what the detective had said.
It dawned on me that here was my chance to walk away. I could make a clean break and let the courts sort out whether Santorez was behind the shooting.
I remembered the letter my brother had left to be mailed to my father. Could it have reached him by now?
A voice interrupted my reverie, accompanied by a blast of ammonia and alcohol. “Hey, man, you got some change?” It was a homeless guy with a cardboard sign under his arm, probably on his way to the freeway ramp.
I emptied my pocket into his palm and went down into the station. I might as well go down to Stanford and hear Christine Locke’s explanation.
Chapter 14
The BART got me to Orinda in an hour and fifteen minutes. There were no cabs at the station, so I had to call for one, a twenty-minute wait. Then the driver didn’t want to take me up the steep gravel road into Teddy’s development. I told him he wasn’t getting paid until he got me to the door. Turning the cab around, he began heading back the way we’d come, muttering about dropping me off at the police station. So I paid him and hiked the half mile to the turnoff, then another half mile up the hill. A second after he sped off without his tip it occurred to me that the police might have impounded the Rabbit as evidence.
It was a dark, moonless night. As I walked the starlight allowed me to make out the road shimmering faintly beneath its strip of sky. There was none of the city’s noises, just crickets and the trickle of San Leandro Creek. An engine revved somewhere in the distance, then died. The rains hadn’t started yet, but redwoods make their own moisture, and the green fragrance of a flowering plant tinged the air.
It was 9 pm by the time I reached the house. The loose p
lastic sheeting still flapped in the slight breeze, each unfurling making a loud crackle. I don’t know how my brother managed to sleep here, with that eerie racket, why he didn’t bother to fix it, or why he didn’t just finish the construction once and for all, sell the house, and move on with his life.
The Rabbit stood where I’d left it. I patted its dusty hood, then went up to the house. As long as I was here, I might as well make sure the detectives had locked up.
A Contra Costa sheriff’s notice was stapled to the door, indicating that the premises had been entered and searched. The handle was locked but the deadbolt wasn’t. I used Teddy’s keys and went in.
The police had taken his computer, along with the client files and other documents. It looked as if they’d swept everything into a box to haul it away; the desk was bare now except for a bent paperclip and a scattering of the paper disks left by a hole puncher. I felt a spark of anger: Anderson had no business with those files, even if he’d come across them in the house, not the office. They’d taken the answering machine as well.
I went into the bedroom. The gun was gone from the beside table. No matter. It wasn’t like I wanted it.
I called the number Mrs. Locke had given me. She picked right up. “What do you want, Mr. Maxwell?”
“Could you reach your daughter tonight?”
“I could, but I wouldn’t, not without a compelling reason.”
“I need to ask her some questions, and they’re the kind that have to be answered tonight, in person. I’m leaving the East Bay now for Stanford. I’ll be there in an hour. I’d appreciate it if you’d call her and let her know that I’m coming. I’m happy to meet her wherever is convenient. Maybe the student union?”
“No, Mr. Maxwell, I won’t have you disturbing my daughter. Why, you won’t even be getting to Stanford until after ten.”
Bear is Broken Page 13
