by Lois Winston
“Sure, have a seat.” He guided me to a desk and collected an assortment of brochures. “All models are going fast, though. We can hardly keep them in stock. And financing is really good right now so you’ll want to make a decision soon.”
I looked helplessly at the brochures. “If you could spell some of this out for me in writing it would be really helpful. Just the highlights you pointed out to me. I’m a bit overwhelmed.”
Begrudgingly, he pulled out a pad of paper and jotted down what I’d ask for, then handed me the sheet. I quickly glanced at the handwritten page, then looked away, afraid my expression might betray me. Leo Alvarez’s handwriting looked very much like the same angular script as the threatening note Ariel had found in her husband’s jacket pocket.
SIXTEEN
Although I was no handwriting expert, the penmanship struck me a similar enough to merit further investigation. I decided to swing by Ariel’s, pick up the note, and hand it over to ADA Huff along with the BMW summary sheet I’d picked up from Leo Alvarez. But when I slowed to pull into Ariel’s driveway, I saw Steve Abbot heading up the walkway toward her front door. He carried a large pizza box and what looked to be a bottle of wine. I changed my mind about stopping, and drove on.
Sharing pizza and wine with a friend was hardly evidence of romantic entanglement, much less a conspiracy to commit murder, but I had a strange, uneasy feeling about the whole thing. Had I been blind to the possibility that Ariel had, in fact, killed her husband?
The mantra among defense lawyers is that everyone, innocent or guilty, deserves a fair hearing, The legal system only worked when both sides were afforded competent counsel. And I honestly believed all of that was true. But I struggled to reconcile that fundamental tenet of justice with my own feelings and sense of right. I was far more comfortable representing clients I believed in.
When I noticed work trucks were still in front of the house down the street, I pulled in there instead, and cautiously poked my head inside. The radio was blaring and two men were in the living room prepping it for paint.
I called out, “Hello?”
They looked my direction, then turned down the volume. “Is the music too loud? We forgot the windows were open.”
“I’m not here about the music, and I’m sorry to bother you, but I’ve got a couple of questions.” I stepped into the room. “I’m looking into a recent homicide that happened down the street. Were either of you working the night of October sixth?”
“We just got started on this house yesterday,” one of the men replied.
A third man appeared from another room. “Can I help you? I’m the project manager.”
I explained again the reason for my visit.
“I would have been here that night,” he said. “But I don’t recall seeing anything unusual. You think it was a break-in?”
“That’s what we’re trying to determine.” The “we” might have been misleading but it wasn’t factually wrong. Sometimes my sense of “right” gets a little squishy.
“You might contact the owner of this place,” the manager told me. “He has a couple of outside security cameras. I don’t know whether they store data or for how long, but it might be worth checking.”
“Good idea.” I wrote down the owner’s name—Gary Monroe—and his phone number. “One of the neighbors saw a van parked on the street that night. Would that have belonged to one of the men on your crew?”
“Possibly, but I can’t say for sure. I’d have to check to see who all was working that night.”
I thanked him for his help and headed for my car.
My phone sounded with Bryce’s ringtone.
“Where are you?” he asked.
“Glenwood. Why?”
“I thought we were going out for dinner tonight.”
Dinner. How could I have forgotten about our date? I checked the time. “My God. I’m so sorry. I got tied up and didn’t realize it was as late as it is.”
“I was worried when you weren’t here. I came by to pick you up, about got mowed down by an excitable dog, but no sign of you.”
“I am really sorry. I can be home in about thirty minutes. Is that okay or would you rather we skip tonight?”
He chuckled. “You can’t get out of it that easily. Of course I’ll wait. Some things are worth waiting for, Kali.”
SEVENTEEN
I berated myself all the way home. I’ve always considered my time with Bryce special, and something I eagerly looked forward to. I was looking forward to seeing him tonight, too, once I’d been reminded that we had a date. But I hadn’t simply lost track of the time. Until his call, our date tonight hadn’t even crossed my mind.
Nonetheless, we had a lovely dinner, accompanied by easy conversation fueled by a bottle of good Cabernet. Bryce was looking into a ski lease for the upcoming winter, and eagerly painted for me a romantic picture of the evenings we’d spend by the fire after a hard day on the slopes.
“Winter is months away,” I teased. “Let me enjoy the fall while I still have it.”
“I enjoy fall, too. As a matter of fact, I was thinking we should take a trip down the coast and visit some of the wineries in the Saint Ynez Valley.”
It was a trip we’d taken several springs ago, and enjoyed. The wineries are less crowded and commercial than the ones in Napa. “I’d love that. What’s your schedule look like?”
We settled on a couple of possible weekends and Bryce said he’d check hotel availability. That was one of the many things I appreciated about him. Bryce was a get-it-done kind of guy.
Over desert—a decadent and rich flourless chocolate cake—Bryce put his hand on mine, entwining our fingers, and again raised the issue that lurked under the surface of every exchange lately.
“Are you any closer to saying yes?”
“Are you any closer to simply moving in?”
“Too many complications,” he replied.
“Like what?”
“Giving up my condo, for example.”
“So rent it out.”
“You’re missing the point.”
“Being married doesn’t involve complications?” I asked.
“It’s not the same.”
Our discussions went in circles every time. The same circles, sometimes almost word for word. It was marriage or nothing. And Bryce wanted an answer.
After dinner, he drove me home, walked me to the door, and kissed me in a way that sent a lovely tingle across my skin. But he didn’t stay the night.
“I’ve got an early morning,” he said by way of excuse. But he’d had plenty of early mornings where he managed just fine leaving from my house.
I took his early departure as a rebuke, perhaps rightfully deserved. I slept fitfully, tossing and turning with misgivings about Ariel, which were overshadowed by thoughts about Bryce.
I loved him. I loved being with him. I missed him when he was gone. So what was my problem? He’d implied I was worth waiting for, but for how long? I knew from experience his patience had limits.
I lay in bed in the morning trying to come to a decision. I envisioned alternate scenarios. In one, we were married. In the other, Bryce had moved on and I was alone. I sometimes found this approach helpful in deciding what felt right. In this case both options scared me. That’s why I thought we should try living together. But Bryce resisted.
I gave up trying to reach a decision that morning and turned my thoughts to Ariel instead. There, at least, I could actually do something.
Already agitated, I drank my coffee and scanned the morning paper. My mood wasn’t helped when I saw another article about the investigation into Warren’s death. Once again, the focus on Ariel was largely by innuendo and suggestion. And once again the byline was E.J. Masters.
Who was this clown? And what was his fascination with Ariel?
On the way into work, I called ADA Huff to tell him about the note from Leo Alvarez. When he didn’t answer, I left a message. Next, I called Gary Monroe about his security came
ra.
“Does it save and store footage?” I asked after explaining my interest.
“For a while. When was this incident?”
I gave him the date.
“You may be in luck. I usually clear things out after a week, but I’ve been out of town and haven’t gotten around to it yet. I don’t have time to check, but if you want to come by and take a look yourself, feel free. I’ll be in the office this afternoon.”
I called Ariel to tell her I’d be by to pick up the note.
“You’ve decided to give it to the police?” she asked when I arrived.
“The prosecutor. The case is in his hands now.”
She led me to the den. “What made you change your mind?”
“I followed up on the boy you said Warren knew from the park. There’s a Danny Alvarez who hangs out there, and I think that might be who Warren talked to. I’ve obtained a sample of his father’s handwriting. It’s similar to the handwriting on the note. I’m hoping the authorities look into it.
Ariel’s expression brightened. “So I won’t be a suspect anymore?”
“That’s the goal. It depends on whether the father looks like a viable suspect though.”
“Did he say why he didn’t want Warren around his son?” Ariel handed me the note, still in the file folder. Her face registered alarm.
“We didn’t discuss that.”
“I’m certain Warren wouldn’t do anything . . . you know, anything wrong or abusive. What if that’s what the dad thinks? He could accuse Warren of all sorts of horrible stuff.”
“It’s still not a justification for murder.”
“But that would be so unfair to Warren. He’s not here to defend himself.”
“We’ll deal with that if it becomes an issue. Right now, I’m interested in Huff’s focusing on someone besides you.”
“Do you think he will?”
“Depends on what he learns about Danny’s father.” We were walking toward the door when I asked casually, “Have you seen Steve Abbot lately?”
She faced me, arms crossed. “Why do you keep bugging me about him? I told you there’s nothing between us.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
“Of course, I’ve seen him. Why shouldn’t I? I’m going through a terrible time. My husband is dead, the cops think I killed him, and people are spreading rumors about me. Even some of my friends are keeping their distance.”
Despite my own suspicions, I felt bad for her. I understood the appeal of a friendly face in the midst of such emotional upheaval, and Steve was a friendly face.
“You want to be careful how things appear,” I explained. “Especially right now when so many eyes are on you. You should consider how your actions might be portrayed if there’s a trial.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You don’t want to give people reason to suspect you, that’s all.”
“They already do.”
“If people think you’re having an affair it only fuels the fire,” I explained.
“So I’m supposed to lock myself in the house and never talk to anyone?”
I wasn’t going to win that argument. “Speaking of which, have you talked to anyone in the press?”
“No.”
“Not even E.J. Masters?”
“Who’s he?”
“The reporter who wrote the piece about Warren in today’s paper. I assume you’ve seen it? The same person wrote the earlier piece, too.”
“Yeah, I saw it. Totally one-sided, like he’s got something against me. I told you, everyone suspects me.”
“Are you sure you haven’t crossed paths with Masters at some point?”
“I never heard the name until you mentioned it. It’s some reporter named Maria who hounds me all the time. She shows up at my door with a cameraman just to film me refusing to talk to her.”
Ariel stopped at the doorway and took a breath. “Sometimes it hits me all over again, out of nowhere,” she said. “Warren is dead. I won’t ever see him again.”
“I know this is painful for you. And distressing.”
She nodded, blinking back tears. “More than you can imagine.”
~*~
I took the note back to the office, where I made a copy and again called Huff. This time he picked up. Returning my call from that morning had clearly not been a priority for him.
“There’s something I think you should see.” I told him about the note.
“You don’t find it odd, and rather convenient, that your client just now found it?” His skepticism was evident in his tone.
“No, I don’t. She was packing up her deceased husband’s clothing and found it in a jacket pocket.”
Huff ignored me. “Have you had a chance to talk to her about cooperating with us? It would be much easier on her in the long run.”
“She’s not interested in going to prison for something she didn’t do,” I told him. “I’ll drop off the original note and the sample of Leo Alvarez’s handwriting this afternoon. I hope you’ll look into it.”
“And I hope you’ll talk to your client.”
Once I was off the phone, Jared came into my office carrying a notebook. “I’ve got more information on Ariel’s former boyfriend, Kirk Miller.”
“You still pushing for that trip to Florida?”
He laughed. “It wouldn’t do much good. Kirk moved to Santa Cruz about six months ago. He works construction and appears to have stayed clean since his release from prison.”
Santa Cruz, a mere two hours away. It would be an easy drive to the Bay Area.
“Any idea why he moved here to California?” I asked.
“Nope. Should we dig deeper? See if he has it in for Ariel?”
“Let’s hold off a bit. I’m on my way to examine the surveillance tape of the neighborhood the night of Warren’s death. We’ll see what that shows.”
EIGHTEEN
Gary Monroe’s real estate and property management office was in a sprawling business park in Concord. His secretary showed me to a small conference room and informed me that Mr. Monroe would be with me shortly.
The man himself bustled in not long after, hurriedly shook my hand, brushed a hand through his hair and asked, “This is about a murder, you said?”
“A suspicious death.”
He drummed his fingers against his thigh. “That’s going to make selling the house difficult. People get nervous about crime. Is this one of those gruesome things that will be splashed all over the headlines?”
“Probably not.” It seemed easiest to give him the answer he was hoping for.
“What was the date you were interested again?”
“October sixth.”
He turned on the video screen and handed me the control. “Press here to stop and start. This other button is fast forward, and the one below it is reverse. The sixth should be about halfway through. I hope you’ve got lots of time. Even sped up, it’s going to take a couple of hours to go through.”
“Thanks.”
“If you need anything, just ask Gail. Good luck.”
With that, he was gone. It took me a few false tries to figure out the logistics of the machine and fast-forward to October sixth, then I settled in to watch what was, as Monroe had noted, a tedious and slow-moving flow of nothing. At this rate, Bryce would again be waiting for me by the time I got home. I’d invited him for dinner, hoping that tonight I might convince him to stay over.
The surveillance video captured two views, which I was able to watch simultaneously on a split screen. One faced toward the street. The other was a wider-angle perspective that captured the area on either side of the house, although from more of a distance. I could just make out the entrance of the Larson’s home at the corner of the screen.
I found myself wishing I’d brought a knitting project (and that I knew how to knit). Anything to do but sit and watch the grass grow. Finally, I stood, stretched, and did a few lunges simply out of boredom.
Half an hour into it I had to force myself to keep watching. The video was black and white, and grainy. Combined with the low light of night, it was difficult to make out much of anything.
There was little street traffic but now and then a car went by. There was also a bicyclist with flashing red lights in his wheel spokes and a man walking a dog. I did note a van parked on the street but it had been there since the start of the tape, which would have been before Ariel had left for the movie. It most likely belonged to one of the workmen or someone else on the street.
My eyes were glazing over again when I caught the blur of movement in the corner of the wide-angle screen. I hit stop, went back five minutes in time, and watched again. Someone was approaching the Larsons’ house. It was impossible to see any identifying detail but I felt a prick of excitement all the same. I tried zooming in but that only made the resolution even grainier. Still, I stopped the play and studied the form for anything that might give away the person’s identity. I inched forward, frame-by-frame. Closer to the house the figure turned, and my heart sank. The person was almost certainly female. And worse, she appeared to enter the house as though she belonged there, with a key.
I watched for another half hour. Then, feeling shaken and a bit sick, I turned off the system and went out to tell Gail that I was done.
“Did you find what you wanted?” she asked.
“Yes and no.” I now had seen what I’d come to see, but it didn’t make me happy.
It was time to talk to Ariel about Huff’s overture on a plea deal.
I dragged myself back to office.
“You’ve got a message from that ADA, Huff,” Jared said. “He wants you to call him. He has information on Alvarez.”
“That was quick.” Not that it mattered much anymore. Whatever Huff had to say wouldn’t change the fact that the figure I’d seen in the video was clearly not Leo Alvarez.
“I’m following up on that note you gave me,” Huff said without preliminaries. He was even more to the point on the phone than in person.
“It is Alvarez’s handwriting. He’s even acknowledged writing the note.”
I felt a ray of hope. Maybe all was not lost, after all. “Did he say why?”
