A sixty-something woman from the trailer next door watched as we got out of my car, giving us the wary eye, but she seemed less worried once she spotted Fergus with us. While Drake pulled the small leather suitcase from the back, Fergus fumbled in his pocket for keys. I lowered the side windows so Freckles could wait out here. Drake carried the suitcase and I took Fergus’s arm to help him up the steps. It wasn’t an easy journey.
“Well, we might as well get this out,” said Fergus. “I know you’re dying to ask me about Rory. Drake told me that you heard about my boy’s case.”
“I didn’t start out to pry—truly I didn’t,” I said. “Someone mentioned it to me and I found the news items. That’s all.”
“If you have a mind to go telling someone his whereabouts, I’ll tell you here and now, I’ll warn Rory and he’ll be gone before they can get to him.”
“Fergus, honestly, I have no intention of reporting him, but I guess I need to know more of the story. If Rory is innocent why did he run?”
Fergus spun around faster than I would have believed he could. “Because of that bastard Quinto. The man had my kid in his sights for years and then he figured out a way to bring him down.”
“What do you mean, had him in his sights?”
“Miss, have you ever been close to a news story? Those nosy reporters never get nothing right. They don’t get an answer that’ll sell papers, they make something up.”
I actually had been close to several news stories and couldn’t really disagree with him. “So tell me then, what was different? What really happened that was not reported?”
Fergus sighed. “I’m a tired, sick old man but come on—let’s sit down. If y’all want something to drink look in the fridge or grab a glass and turn on the tap. Sorry, I’m just too tired to wait on ya.”
I declined but Drake went and looked in the fridge. He came back with a couple of beers, pulled the top on one, and handed it to Fergus before we all sat down and he pulled the top on the second one for himself. The couch where I sat was actually fairly comfortable and I suspected it had been decent quality furniture. I imagined a time when Fergus was married and his wife took good care of things, including him. But since she had passed and Rory had been away, finances must have dropped off and home maintenance lagged. I looked toward our host to see what he would say next.
He took a long swig of the beer, sighed again, and looked me in the eye. “Well, the first thing I’ll tell ya is, Rory’s innocent.”
I tried not to roll my eyes or give off other signs of disbelief, but really—isn’t that what any parent would say?
“That goddamn trial was a sham. Came down to the prosecutor and that judge being in cahoots all along, and I swear to you if anybody tampered with anyone on that jury it was one of those two.”
“Do you have evidence of that?” I asked.
“There ain’t no evidence. If there was I’d of had my boy out of there right away, but those slimeballs, they turned everything on him. They turned everybody against him, especially the jury. And that judge—the whole verdict was rigged right from the start. I tell you, it was rigged, right from the start.”
He was becoming so agitated that I worried the questions were going to do more harm than good. I turned my tone gentle as I talked to him again. “Can anyone do anything at this point—something we might do to help you, or to help Rory?”
His eyes flared with fire. “Aw, Charlie, it ain’t your problem but I’ll tell ya, now that I know I don’t have much time left, I’m real tempted to go after that prosecutor and the judge myself.”
I fully believed him. At this moment he looked like a man who would do anything for his son. I reached over to where he sat in his recliner chair and placed a hand on his forearm. Even as my mouth opened to speak I had a feeling I might regret what I was about to say.
“How about if Ron and I look into the matter and see if we can come up with some new evidence in Rory’s case? Something might come out that would exonerate him.”
I imagined that I heard a little sputter from Drake’s corner of the room but my eyes were on Fergus to see what his reaction would be. I didn’t have any sense of deception or hidden agenda from him. If anything, the tremble in his lower lip indicated pure relief. Surely if he knew his son to be guilty, the last thing he would want was a private investigation firm digging back into the case.
“Charlie, that would be wonderful. I got a little life insurance policy. It’s yours if you’ll put in the time to get my boy back home.” He coughed deeply. “Trust me, it won’t take long to get you paid from it.”
“Let’s not worry about the money right now,” I said.
I pulled a small notepad from my purse, determined to get some answers. I started by telling Fergus what I had read in the papers and came right out and asked him if he had helped Rory to escape. At first I could tell he wanted to deny it—obviously he had been denying it for years now—but after a moment he merely nodded his head. “Yeah, I helped him.”
“Once Rory had gotten safely away what did you do next?”
“First I tried to talk some sense to his defense attorney but the woman was loaded with cases and told me she had done all she could do for Rory. Personally, I think the embarrassment of losing such a public trial, with all the details in the papers, had humiliated her. She brushed me off, and after a couple of weeks wouldn’t even take my phone calls anymore.”
“What did you do next? Did you try going to the prosecutor’s office? Or higher up in the court system?”
“What would be the point? That was the bunch who turned on Rory in the first place. They weren’t doing nothing to help get him off. Plus I was afraid the more I brought up his name the harder they would start trying to look for him. You gotta understand, I was taking a lot of heat for this myself cause they knew—they suspected—that I’d helped him.”
“So, you tell me Fergus. What can I do to help?
“Start with Herman Quinto and then take a look at Judge Blackman. That man’s crookeder than a snake and dirty all the way through. In fact, if I could, I’d …”
“I have to tell you Fergus, going after Quinto won’t be easy. He’s a state senator now, and with the election for Congress this year he’s got a lot of powerful friends.”
I wished I hadn’t been quite so frank. Fergus drooped in his chair like a balloon I’d let the air out of. I wanted to pose a dozen more inquiries, find out the names of other people I could talk to, perhaps witnesses who had been sympathetic to Rory at the time. But Fergus was clearly wrung out and I couldn’t grill him any further. I would see what Ron and I might dig up, and maybe after a few days’ rest Fergus could help us out again.
I turned to Drake and suggested he help the older man unpack his bag and get into bed; in the meantime I would go next door to see if the neighbor woman was a friendly sort who might lend Fergus a hand.
“I told him going on this long trip was a dumb idea,” said the lady who introduced herself as Betty Wilkerson. She led me into a living room stuffed full of too-large furniture, complete with a variety of crochet-square afghans, throw pillows trimmed in lace, a collection of tiny elephant figurines in a glass-fronted cabinet, and two fluffy cats who glared at me with yellow eyes.
I went into the quick explanation of how we met Fergus and why we happened to be bringing him home, but didn’t indicate that I had any idea why he’d gone to Maine.
“He seems exhausted at the moment,” I told Betty. “I don’t know if a few days’ rest will help …”
“A little—maybe,” she said. “I suppose he told you how sick he is.”
“Not the details. He just said he doesn’t have long to live. So sad—he seems like a kindly man.”
“Yeah, now he does. He can be quite a pistol. Don’t know if he told you, he’s refused all medical treatment. Did a round of chemo a year or so ago and thought he’d got the all-clear, but when this came back he said he’s not going that route again. He humors the doctor just eno
ugh to be sure he gets pain medication. He’s a stubborn old coot and he had a firecracker temper until this illness hit him.” She paused, reflecting. “It’s just so sad about his son. I know Fergus would give anything to have Rory around now, to spend time with him before he … before he goes.”
I wasn’t sure how much to reveal so I hedged. “Yeah, he told us a little …”
A wall phone in Betty’s kitchen rang and she dashed for it. After listening for a few seconds her gaze slid over to me. Her head nodded. “She is?” A full-on frank stare at me. “Okay, if you say so.”
I felt the pressure of her scrutiny—hers, plus the two cats. I hoped a nonchalant pose wouldn’t reveal how unnerving was the spotlight of their stares.
“That was Fergus. He says you’re a private investigator and you’re gonna get Rory off.”
“Uh, well …” I hadn’t exactly promised that outcome.
“I just gotta say … Fergus has been a good neighbor. Before he got sick he helped me out lots of times. Mary Ann was the moon and stars to him and it nearly killed him to lose her, but that Rory—he’s everything that man has left. Fergus would never ask his son to come back to New Mexico and risk going to prison, but I can tell you—it would mean so much for them to have some time together. Please?”
And so, it looked as though I had a new case to work on.
Chapter 10
I didn’t actually need to run it past my brother whether or not we would take Fergus’s case. We’re partners and if I push for it, I can pretty much do what I want. Still, it didn’t bolster my confidence when I met Drake at the Jeep and he gave me one of those looks, the kind that says ‘What have you got yourself into?’ Obviously, he’d heard the other half of the call between Fergus and his neighbor and he was up to speed.
“Hey—you said you wished you could help.” One of his dimples shows more than the other when he’s teasing me.
“Okay, yeah … be careful what I wish for, right?” I drummed my fingers on the steering wheel as we waited for a slow traffic light to change. But, joking aside, I really did feel for the family.
Now I just had to figure out where to start. I’d read the news articles with a focus on what had happened to Rory McNab and how he’d escaped his prison sentence. Those were the basic facts—I assumed they’d got that much right—but what lay beneath it all? If Fergus was right and Herman Quinto had a personal grudge against Rory—why?
Since it was on the way home, we popped by the hospital to check on Elsa. She seemed perkier, especially when Drake teased her, but I had to admit she was still a faded version of her prior self. I suppose the body at that age just doesn’t bounce back from something this serious. Still, the nurse gave a positive report. We coaxed her to eat more of her half-finished dinner before heading out. From the car, Drake phoned ahead to Pedro’s to order our favorite green chile chicken enchiladas to take home. I could tell he was feeling the fatigue of his long flight and we were both eager to settle at home together for the first time in weeks.
A good dinner, a hot shower together, and Drake was ready to tuck under the covers. We cuddled until his breathing became slow and deep, the utter relaxation he needed. I, on the other hand, had a mind whirring with questions and they all revolved around Fergus and Rory McNab. I slid gently out from under Drake’s arm and rolled to the edge of the bed, then made my way silently to the kitchen.
Armed with a cup of good tea, I carried my computer to the couch and nestled against the cushions. I had bookmarked the sites where I’d read the articles on Rory’s trial. A reread didn’t reveal anything new, but I found myself paying more attention to little details. One photo, showing Rory and his defense attorney descending the courthouse steps, caught my attention. Rory appeared to be a cross between pudgy, spoiled rich kid and slick successful lawyer, an image I felt sure he had groomed on purpose. Three other people were walking beside them. Fergus was in the background, noticeable because he wore jeans and a plaid shirt, while the others were in business suits.
A female with dark hair walked two steps behind Rory’s attorney—I recognized her as a legal secretary with the firm where Drake and I had gone to update our wills last year. She had obviously changed jobs at some point in the subsequent years. Her name didn’t immediately come to mind, but I could surely find it.
I went back through the articles, making a list of names. The defense attorney was Helen Bannerly, an attractive blonde with straight posture, pictured wearing a cobalt blue suit. There was Herman Quinto, of course, in another photo. His salt-and-pepper perfectly styled hair marked him as a sure success in politics. He was shown with a satisfied grin as he was quoted saying that justice had been served when the verdict came in. Beside him was an entourage of three others from the prosecutor’s office. I wondered whether they still worked on that side of the courtroom or if they would have moved on to other careers, as Quinto had. One piece listed several of the witnesses and I jotted down their names. It would be a start.
I also planned to go back to the original trial, the one in which Rory had represented a small-time drug dealer and was later accused of tampering with the jury—the case which had led to Rory himself being on trial. At the time, he’d been head of a small firm—just himself and a partner, Christopher Brown. Since Brown was not included in the indictments against Rory, he had obviously distanced himself the minute things began to turn ugly. I would look him up and see where his career stood today.
Among the crowd of reporters surrounding the victorious Quinto I spotted a woman who looked vaguely familiar, but that wasn’t what caught my attention. She was staring at Quinto and the look on her face was one of pure hatred. Now, what was that about?
Suddenly, I had a lot of possibilities, and one lead can always segue into another. I saved the photo images and sent them to myself in an email. It might not hurt to have these with me on my phone when I began talking with the people from the case. One thing I’ve learned from Ron’s investigative repertoire is to start with the easiest clues first. You never know what will come from a simple interview or where it will go. My plan was to begin tomorrow with a quick visit to our lawyer where I would chat up the secretary whose photo I had recognized and see what I might learn from her. In my experience, secretaries often know far more than their self-centered bosses.
With a written list at hand, photos of the central players, and the clock showing nearly midnight, I shut down the computer, rinsed my tea mug, and yawned my way to the bedroom.
Drake was up at daylight, wanting to get to the airport to perform some minor maintenance and clean up the helicopter in time for a job scheduled for tomorrow. I took enough time to toast an English muffin for myself, feed the dog, and go next door to Gram’s to water her neglected houseplants. I could now give a positive report when I stopped by to visit her later in the day.
Freckles gladly hopped up to the back seat of my Jeep and we headed toward the office. In another hour the law offices a block over would be open and I would begin the first of my inquiries on behalf of Rory McNab. I used the time to start the coffee and check messages on the office line, since our part-time receptionist, Sally Bertrand, had left word that she had to take her kids for vaccinations or some such thing and wouldn’t be in until mid-morning. It’s all I can do to keep up with appointments for myself and one dog—thank goodness I never added kids to the mix.
Armed with a steaming mug and accompanied by the brown and white blur who raced up the stairs ahead of me, I settled at my desk to take care of some billing for clients whose cases Ron had worked while I was out of town. Time passed in a happy blur as I watched the Receivables column grow. At some point Ron stuck his head in to say good morning. Sounds downstairs indicated Sally had arrived, and a glance at the time showed it was well after ten. Time flies when you’re making money.
My empty mug in hand, I stepped across the hall and, for once, caught Ron not talking on the phone. I briefed him quickly on my visit with Fergus McNab and the fact that I’d land
ed us a new case.
“This is the one we talked about the other day, right?” he asked. His attention darted between a litter of notes on his desk and his computer screen.
“Right. Rory McNabb, hotshot lawyer accused of jury tampering, Herman Quinto was the prosecutor at the time.”
“Yeah, yeah. So what’s the plan?”
“I’ve got a list of people to interview, mostly the legal teams from both sides during Rory’s trial.”
“Lawyers and politicians. Fun.” He made a smirky little move with his mouth. And this is the guy who thinks nothing of tracking cheating spouses. I didn’t see much difference—a rat is a rat.
“I’m starting with the easiest. A legal secretary in Rory’s defense lawyer’s firm just happens to now work for the firm where Drake and I did our wills. She was friendly then—I’m hoping she’ll be up for having a coffee or something.”
“Good luck. Oh, I stopped by to see Elsa this morning. There’s a good chance they’ll release her to the rehab center by the end of the week.”
“That’s great news!”
“They want a family member to help her settle in, and if she’s released to go home, you do realize you’re the logical person to be there with her.”
Yikes. “Can you …?”
“I’m up to my eyeballs in background checks right now, Charlie. Intel just hired a slew of new developers and they all have to be vetted before the end of the month. I might spare a little research time if there’s some way I can help with the new case, but I just can’t break away for anything more, at least not for a couple weeks.”
I realized the truth of it, not to mention Ron would not be the best at elder-sitting if Elsa was home alone. She needed a woman companion, so it would be me or Victoria unless we came up with some hired help.
Escapes Can Be Murder Page 5