Follow the Money

by Fingers Murphy

  “No, no, I’m sorry. I just got out of that meeting and I was rushing around trying to get some things wrapped up. You know how it is.”

  “Yeah.” She knew how it was. And because she knew, she couldn’t be too upset, at least not with me. “Well, are you going to be able to get out of there in time to come with me?”

  I debated. I thought it over for half a second. I felt terrible, physically and emotionally. “What time’s the thing at?”

  “Starts at seven, goes till whenever. We don’t have to be there at seven and we don’t have to stay that long. I just hate going to those kinds of things by myself.”

  “Yeah, I hear you.” Guilty. I was a guilty bastard. If I left right then I could sleep for a couple of hours and then go. I’d feel better. I’d feel better about a lot of things. She wouldn’t hate me. “Where and when?”

  “Pick me up at the office.” Her voice sounded much happier than it had only seconds before. “You know where it is.” I knew. I also knew she rode the bus to work. Another bit of moral high ground she occupied.

  I mumbled, “See you soon.”

  “Bye.”

  She was gone, and so was I.

  12

  When I got home, the lights were on in my apartment. It was still daylight out, but the lights were on. I stood in the doorway, trying to recall the details of my morning. Had I turned them on without realizing it? Reached for the switch out of habit? Given my hangover, anything was possible.

  But the threat from the day before came back to me for the first time since I was standing at the bar waiting for Morgan to show. Maybe it hadn’t been a friend of Matt’s from prison. Maybe it had been someone on the outside, someone who had found me. It didn’t seem rational. It only seemed possible. It could have happened, but it was unlikely. The most reasonable explanation was that I’d left the damned thing on myself in the midst of my drunken stupor.

  In any event, I was too exhausted to dwell on it for too long. I was too exhausted to dwell on anything at all. Instead, I set my alarm and collapsed from exhaustion and illness. But my sleep was fitful. I was besieged by images of Morgan and Liz and tormented by my own sense of irresponsibility. I found myself walking among ghosts, each with their movements controlled by long strings extending upward and disappearing into a sky as gray as concrete. They came along the bank of a river, and then floated across it. But I could not float. Instead, I found myself submerged, drowning, choking and gasping. I could not seem to swim no matter how I struggled. My clothes grew wet and heavy and drug me slowly into the abyss as my arms flailed upward grasping for the ghosts that floated by above me, grasping for their strings, the air, or sky.

  When I awoke to the screech of the alarm, my body felt more rested but my brain did not. I showered for a long time. I rolled my head back on my neck and recalled the feeling in the dream of being submerged, sucked into the deep, helpless to do anything but drift along hoping for salvation. But once out of the shower, I felt human again. I felt some space between the present and the night before.

  I picked up Liz at the dilapidated building in West LA where she worked. It was more like a donation center than a law office, and in fact it served as both. She was waiting out front, leaning against the big metal collection bin. I asked her what people put in it when she got in the car.

  “Clothes, mostly. But really anything that will fit through the door in the side. We found a crate of oranges in there once.”

  “If you come across an extra soul, set it aside for me,” I said. She laughed, a genuine laugh.

  We took Veteran up to Sunset Boulevard and headed west, through Brentwood, to where Sunset begins to wind its way into the Pacific Palisades, cutting its final serpentine path toward the ocean. The Palisades is nothing but multimillion dollar homes, and we drove all the way through them, down to the Pacific Coast Highway, and then turned north.

  The party was in a trailer park overlooking the ocean. Unlike most trailer parks, a doublewide in this one would cost more than a decent house in most parts of the country. But it was still a trailer park.

  There was a chorus of voices above the techno music when we walked in. People lounged on couches and roamed around throughout the trailer, coming and going through the sliding glass door that led out to a deck. It had the feel of a strange college party, but everyone was forty or fifty and drinking good wine.

  Liz introduced me to a dozen people, one of whom was walking through the room with a baking sheet full of chicken wings he’d just taken out of the oven. Everyone was a nonprofit lawyer, busy each day making the world a better place. I looked for the bags under the eyes, the premature gray hair, the surly, cynical expressions of most of the lawyers I worked with, but found none. Everyone seemed healthy, well-adjusted, almost happy. It was disturbing. I’d forgotten such people existed.

  “Liz, darling, so glad you could make it.” A man spoke from behind us. I turned to see a thin, gray haired man with his arms open, ready to hug whatever came in his path. He was immaculately dressed and groomed. Liz hugged him. “And who is this?” the man said, looking at me.

  “This is Oliver Olson.”

  The man stuck his hand out. “Oliver, I’d hug you too, but then they’d get me for sexual harassment!” The man laughed. Liz laughed, so I laughed too.

  Liz turned to me and said, “This is Randy Scheffer. I’ve been doing a lot of work for him this summer.”

  “We’ve been threatening these fucking credit reporting agencies with a massive lawsuit all summer. It’s great. I’d love nothing better than to drive them under.” Randy laughed again, looking at me. “Forgive my French, I’ve probably had too much wine already.” He winked at us and smiled. A man walked by and handed Randy a full glass on his way past.

  “So what do you do, my young Oliver?” Randy asked.

  “Liz and I go to school together.”

  “Oh God!” Randy exclaimed, never losing his wide smile. “You poor straight bastard. And you looked like you had so much more sense than that.” He shook his head and bowed it slightly. “Tragic. Just tragic.”

  “Ollie’s spending the summer at Kohlberg & Crowley,” Liz interjected.

  “Oh, that’s unfortunate.” Randy smiled and slapped my shoulder. “You must really like to torture yourself.”

  “Oh, hey,” Liz exclaimed, “Randy is the guy I was telling you who went to school with that one lawyer who defended your guy.” I shrugged my shoulders and shook my head.

  “You know. The guy who defended your client. What was his name?”

  “Oh!” I finally made the connection. “Oh yeah, Garrett Andersen.”

  “Oooh, Garrett Andersen.” Randy smiled. “Yeah, I know him. Not well, I mean I went to school with him. I see him around, too. If you know what I mean.” Randy raised his eyebrows and stared at both of us. We did not know what he meant. “Have you met him?”

  “No,” I said, “I’ve never even seen him.”

  “Well, I saw him at a fundraiser just a few weeks ago. That man is as hot as ever. It’s too bad he’s such an arrogant prick.” Randy leaned in a little closer. “Still, he’s a hottie. I only wish I’d had gone out with him in law school when I had the chance.”

  I must have had a strange look on my face because Randy smiled. “You didn’t know he was gay?”

  “No.”

  “Well, let me tell you, he may come off straight, but that man is as queer as a Mormon at Mardi Gras.” Randy patted me on the shoulder again, nodded at Liz, and said, as he walked away, “I’m only eating seven more of those chicken wings and then I’m cutting myself off.”

  “Wow,” I looked at Liz, “the wings aren’t so great, but the gossip’s top notch.”

  “That’s so funny.”

  “I know.” I watched Randy from across the room. “I wonder what else he knows.” I put another wing in my mouth and went to find out.

  An hour later, when I finally managed to corner Randy and ask him, all I got was, “He loves anagrams” and “H
e’s smart as hell. Supreme Court clerk, you know. But beyond that, he really is an outstanding lawyer.” Join the fucking chorus, I thought.

  We lingered outside on the deck where a fire burned in a small adobe kiln, casting more light than heat and serving mostly to add atmosphere. There were lemons and oranges hanging from the trees. I stared up into the night. The sky was dark and clear but starless, the rest of the universe obscured by the smoke and dust and lights of Los Angeles. Liz leaned against me. There, beneath the night sky, on a bluff above the Pacific Ocean, I could feel her breathing. A soft breeze came in off the water and I imagined for a second that there were ghosts tied to strings walking among us.

  13

  I was weeks into the summer and both the case and my life were adrift. Sliding sideways, if not backward. I had to focus. I had to shake the tree a little harder, to borrow one of Jendrek’s lines, and I figured the best place to start was with the biggest tree of all. So I got up early and drove to the prison.

  The mere fact that I’d come to see him again seemed to encourage Steele. He took a seat across from me at the same drab metal table we’d sat at before and grinned. He seemed hopeful, and his desire for good news really made me wish I had some.

  “I’ve got to be honest with you,” I began. “I’ve spoken to just about everyone, and we don’t have much to go on.”

  He didn’t seem surprised, but his hope was not diminished. “You’ve spoken to Matt’s mother? His sister?”

  “It was the same old story. Nothing new.” I flipped through my notepad. I suddenly regretted coming. The room remained damp and cold and Steele still had no chance of ever getting out. “I even met with the detective who was the first one to get to your house that night. There’s nothing new there either.”

  But Steele was undeterred. “That guy had me pegged as the killer the second he got there. I could see it in his eyes. The way he looked at me after he found Sharon. I knew I was done for.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Just a feeling I had. As soon as the cops got there, I knew I was going to jail. I knew no one would believe me.”

  “Well, the detective’s attitude hasn’t changed much.”

  Steele shook his head. “He’s just like all the others though. All these people are always going to say the same thing. They’ve been saying it for years. They can’t change now.”

  “We’re hitting a wall here.” I shuffled the papers in my file, as if to emphasize the fact that I’d done everything I could. But it was more to justify my defeat to myself than to Steele. Finally, I smiled and said, “Not that it means much, but I did get a threatening call from one of Matt’s friends.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah.” I laughed. “Some guy said he was watching me and not to step out of line. I’m pretty sure it was just some guy Matt’s in prison with, you know, making the call just to help him out.” I heard myself talking. Something in my voice resonated with doubt. The note under my door was real and proved that someone out there knew who I was and what I was doing. But they weren’t the same people. I thought about mentioning the note and then let it go. It didn’t prove anything. It was just weird.

  Steele thought about the threat for a second and said, “The fact that he had someone call you, to me that says he’s worried. I know there’s got to be something else out there.” Steele shrugged, as if the facts were plain as day. “Matt was in the house that night. Someone, somewhere, has to know something. Someone had to see something.”

  “The only name I’ve come across is an old friend of Matt’s named Danny Kelly. Does that name mean anything to you?”

  “Not to me. Maybe Becky would remember it. I don’t know. Like I said before, I didn’t really know Matt. I sure as hell didn’t know any of his friends.”

  “You don’t have any idea who Danny Kelly is?”

  Steele shook his head.

  “Matt’s mom and sister both knew the name. In fact, I got it from his mother. I’ve been trying to track him down. There’s no mention of him anywhere in the file. I’d just like to ask him if Matt ever talked about that night. If he ever mentioned anything that might be useful.” I grinned and shook my head. “I’ve got to tell you though, we may not find him.”

  “Just keep trying.” Steele scratched behind his ear and added, “You’ll find him.” He spoke with a prophetic certainty that made him sound omniscient or insane. I couldn’t decide which. All I could do was smile. His optimism was disheartening. The more assured he was, the worse his disappointment would be.

  I returned to my notes. I had no real agenda for the meeting. I had only come to grope in the dark, hoping something useful might come of it. Steele watched me flip through the papers.

  “What about Ray Gee? Ring any bells?”

  “No.”

  “His name has come up a few times. I guess he’s been around, asking people questions. The detective said he thought he was a reporter. Matt’s sister claimed he offered her money to change her story. I’m more inclined to believe the detective, if I have to believe any of them. Whoever he is, he seems to have a strange interest in you.”

  Steele’s eyebrows went up and he leaned back. “That’s a little odd, don’t you think?”

  “Sure, if any of it’s true. But it’s impossible to say. The detective seems credible, the Bishops don’t. I don’t know what to think.”

  “Is there any way to get in touch with this guy?”

  “I doubt it, unless he contacts us. The detective dismissed him as a nut, and the Bishops are convinced we’re all in some kind of conspiracy with the guy. They’re not the most stable people. They seem to think the whole world’s out to get them.”

  Steele looked around at the walls and said, “I know the feeling.”

  I watched the subtle movements of his small body. I listened to the resonance of his voice. I was out of questions. Again I wondered why I’d come. But this time I knew the answer. It wasn’t to shake the tree, but to test it, to inspect it. I leaned into him and hesitated.

  “Jim, I’ve got one more question I need to ask you.”

  He said nothing. I folded my hands together and rested my weight on my elbows, the question practically leapt out of me. “Did you kill your wife?”

  It was the one question you never asked. Even I knew that. But there it was, hanging in the air between us.

  Steele barely moved, other than to let a smile come over him. He clasped his hands together said, “In a dozen years, no one has ever asked me that question.” Then he reached out and set his hand on my arm. Its warmth only magnified the cold of the room.

  He leaned in closer and whispered, “No.”

  ***

  It was a two-hour drive back to the office and I thought about Steele’s denial the whole way. He looked me right in the eyes when he said it. No wavering, no hesitation. Even if it wasn’t the truth, the guy definitely believed what he was saying. There was no questioning that.

  I wondered whether a dozen years in prison could cause a man to so completely rearrange the past in his own mind that his memory was effectively changed. In movies, they always talked about repressed memories, but what about completely fabricated ones? Was the drive to escape guilt so strong that Steele could have consciously revised his memories and then forgotten his revisionist efforts?

  I figured anything was possible, but that innocence was more likely. The more I thought about the steadiness of his voice and eyes, the more I began to believe that Steele really was innocent, despite the evidence against him. What had gone wrong in the first investigation? How had no one managed to find anything to support his story? There had to be something.

  I was still thinking it through when I got back downtown. I was so lost in thought that I only half noticed the two guys lingering by the entrance to the parking garage. I saw them, but I didn’t really look at them. One was a wiry little guy with an earring and a face like a ferret. The other was big, bearded, and dressed in leather, as though the ninety-deg
ree weather meant nothing.

  I parked the car and started working my way across the large garage when I saw the big guy walking my direction. Somehow I saw it right away. I sensed it. He was coming for me. He looked right at me and I looked away, moving for the entrance to the building where the elevator banks were. I glanced up and down the rows of cars. I was in the parking garage of one of the largest buildings in one of the largest cities in the world and there were no people except for me and this guy coming toward me. I wondered for just a second — where was the little guy? — until the bearded one called out.

  “Olson.” The words echoed through the garage, ricocheting off the concrete walls and ceiling.

  I looked at him like I was still confused about who he was talking to when I felt someone push me from behind. It was the little guy. I’d been flanked. He grabbed one of my arms, twisted it up behind my back, and ran me between two parked cars and up against the garage wall.

  The Ferret said, “Don’t fuck around, smart guy.” His breath in my face was like a cloud of rotten fish. He held me against the wall, face first, until the big guy got there.

  I felt the big guy’s oversized hand on my shoulder and he spun me around like I was a rag doll, put his hand against my chest, and held me there, his weight nearly suffocating me. The hairs in the guy’s moustache were like black wires, sticking out in all directions like they’d sprung from a dark and tightly wound inner core.

  He said, “Here’s a little kiss from Matt Bishop.” Then he hit me so hard in the stomach that I nearly lost consciousness. I was crouched and bent over, one hand against my aching guts and the other out against the floor, holding me up like a football player waiting for the snap. But I wasn’t going anywhere, at least not until I started breathing again.

  The big guy bent down and talked quietly in my ear. “You’re gonna stop this bullshit and you’re gonna mind your own business. Keep asking questions and someone’s likely to get hurt. And that someone is you.” Then he leaned in even closer until I could feel the hairs of his beard drag lightly along the back of my neck. He spoke quietly the second time. It was almost a whisper. “Matt’s got nothing to hide, so quit looking.”