I offered to pick her up at the airport but she insisted she would need a rental car to get around town anyway. She planned to go directly to the funeral home and then check into her hotel and have a long bath and a quiet evening.
“Will Rory meet with you?” I asked.
“I don’t know and I don’t care.” Her voice sounded tired and the day had only begun. “I’m sure I’ll find out when I get there.”
“Christine …?”
“I know. I’m sorry I don’t sound more sympathetic to my brother, but if he hadn’t drained all Dad’s finances, the medical care could have come quicker and been more effective.”
“I’m sorry.” It was all I could say.
I called the few people who should know about Fergus—Betty Wilkerson and Ron. The neighbor gave the usual condolences; Ron told me to do whatever I needed for Rory and Christine. Since our client—technically, Fergus—was now dead, I wasn’t sure of our standing. Would Rory want me to continue gathering evidence or would he prefer to simply disappear again?
My cell rang just as I was ending the land-line call with Ron. Unknown number. I debated, but picked it up.
“Charlie, it’s Rory. You heard about Dad?”
“Yeah, Christine called. I’m sorry.”
He didn’t say anything and I wondered if he was crying. But his voice sounded firm when he said, “Turn on the TV, Channel 4. There’s a story about the judge.”
“Blackman?” I trotted to the living room and picked up the remote.
“Yeah. Look, I don’t want to stay on the line. I’m gonna go by the funeral home later if you want to come by.”
“I will if you’d like me to.” Across the bottom of the screen ran a banner on which I caught the words ‘sexual harassment’ and ‘Aldo Blackman.’
“I’d like to meet with you,” he said. “There’s more you should know. I’ll be there at eleven.”
I agreed but the connection was already gone. I turned up the television volume.
“… more women. Seven in the past week.” The too-pretty news anchor had a solemn look on her pouty lips.
“Yes, it will be interesting to see how this breaking story plays out,” said her male counterpart. “Meanwhile, Rachel Givens is at the Blackman home with this, just in.”
On camera, an anchor look-alike with long black hair and perfect makeup nodded her head in response to the voice coming into her ear. After a moment she responded to her cue. “Yes, Jake, that’s right. We’re here at the home of Judge Aldo Blackman, the man who was brutally murdered a little over a week ago and is now being named as a sexual predator by an increasing number of women.”
I could see the familiar angles of the modern concrete house in the background. A black limo sat at the edge of the road in front of the massive structure. It appeared someone had cordoned off the street so the reporters couldn’t insert themselves in the yard.
“Our attempts to reach members of the household have met with silence.” The reporter tried to make it sound as if this was not a complete invasion of the widow’s privacy.
Someone behind the camera shouted and the girl reporter turned toward the home. The limo driver, a black-suited man, had stepped out of the car and walked around to the back seat passenger door. The camera operator performed a shaky zoom-in. All it really showed was a lone figure, clad in yellow, dashing for the open car door. The driver quickly closed it, then walked to the home’s front door and accepted two large suitcases from someone inside. He hefted the two bags into the trunk of the limo, got into his seat, and pulled away, being none too careful about the tape across the road or the news vehicles gathered at the other end.
“Jake, it appears that Mrs. Blackman is taking a trip somewhere,” reported Rachel, who apparently couldn’t actually come up with anything intelligent to say.
The anchors in the newsroom seemed a little flummoxed. Obviously, they had allocated a bit more camera time to their girl in the field. Although she delivered a surprise for the camera, there was nothing quotable or conclusive about the report. The two at the desk made up a couple of impromptu comments then cut to a commercial.
Interesting. I half imagined the media vans crowding behind the limo and following it in caravan to the airport where, no doubt, the judge’s wife would catch a plane for one of the coasts or a major hub city. Her destination wouldn’t tell them a thing and I doubted the airline personnel would reveal that she was taking off for somewhere tropical. I felt a wave of smug superiority, knowing I had semi-insider information from Sally’s spy friend at Clarice’s Boutique.
I wondered what the wife was thinking. Her life had probably been stressful, knowing her husband had cheated. Now that it was coming out how many more women there were, and the fact that many of them were unwilling partners, she had to be feeling humiliated and freaked out by the media limelight.
On the other hand, her departure would have been rather clandestine before this morning’s news. She’d purchased a tropical wardrobe last week, before the judge was killed. A thought hit me. What if his own wife was the killer? Could she have prepared the whole thing—maybe to include an anonymous tip about his predator instincts—well in advance?
The thought stopped me in my tracks. Had I been looking in the wrong direction all along?
Chapter 38
Eleven o’clock came quickly. I’d managed to stay busy all morning and with one ear tuned to the TV in case they interrupted with some version of a ‘breaking story’ pertaining to either the harassment victims, the Blackman murder, or Mrs. B’s escape right under their noses. Nothing yet.
Rory’s rented white sedan sat at the far back corner of the Teller Mortuary parking lot. I took a spot nearer to the door and went inside, where I was directed to a small, private room.
“They’re getting him ready. I thought maybe this dark wood for the casket.” He looked at me with red-rimmed eyes.
“Did your father express any preferences?”
“No, and I’m embarrassed to say—” His voice cracked and he turned his back and took a deep breath before he faced me again. “I’m embarrassed to say that I never asked. I guess I thought when he came to my cabin a few weeks ago that he had a lot more time. And then when Chrissy told me to get back here …”
He sighed. “I should have come sooner. Actually, I should have stuck it out and stayed, done my time. At least we would have had visits, Dad and me. I might be getting out soon anyway, and it wouldn’t have taken such a toll on him.”
“Whose idea was the escape plan? Did your father come up with it?”
“No, don’t blame him. We both thought about it. He wanted to help and he loved being a part of it. I should have vetoed the plan and faced the music.”
“But your dad … he said he thought your life was in danger. The charges against you, the trial and verdict that would have imprisoned you … he honestly believed it would amount to a life sentence and that it was all set up.”
“Tell me,” he said, “what was Dad’s take on it? Who did he blame?”
“Surely he told you.”
“Of course. But I’d be interested to know whether he had another theory, something he didn’t want to share with me.”
“He thought it was Quinto’s way of taking you out of the running, politically. If that’s the case, it worked.”
Rory nodded thoughtfully. “Yeah, it’s pretty much what I thought too.”
“I’m still trying to figure out Damian Baca’s role. Why was it so important to get him off those drug charges? Was it enough to bring down a promising young lawyer like yourself?”
Something in his face closed. “There was no role. Damian. He had no part in it.”
“But—”
The door opened just then, admitting a woman dressed in a gray suit with a light blue blouse. She had pale hair, impossible to tell whether it was blonde or white, and was carrying a leather portfolio case, the kind with a tablet on one side and room for other paperwork on the other. Behind her
came Christine.
She stiffened when she saw her brother. I sensed a similar reaction from him, even though I’d turned toward the others and didn’t actually see him.
“Rory.” She advanced a few more steps into the room.
“Chrissy.” His use of the diminutive warmed her and they met in an awkward embrace for less than two seconds before they pulled apart again.
“I came directly from the airport,” she explained. “We need to get the arrangements made.”
From her purse she pulled a few sheets of paper, folded in half.
I turned to face Rory again. “I’ll wait outside. I can take you both to lunch, if you’d like.”
No one jumped on the lunch invite, but I went outside anyway and staked out a spot to wait near Rory’s vehicle. I figured he was the more likely to disappear.
An hour passed. Luckily, the lovely weather had hung around and it wasn’t unpleasant in my Jeep with the windows down. When the two emerged, the chill between them was gone but I couldn’t exactly discern a lot of warmth either.
Christine came directly to my window and leaned over to speak. “I’m going to pass on lunch. I was up half the night so I need to get a room somewhere. And I want to go by Dad’s place and make plans to get his stuff taken care of. The memorial service will be day after tomorrow. Come if you can—please.”
I nodded. “Of course. Thanks for inviting me.”
I got out of my car before she’d driven away, wanting to catch Rory. He was behind the wheel of the white sedan.
“You doing okay?” I asked.
“Peachy. Cremation.”
I’m sure my face registered puzzlement.
“Dad wanted cremation and he never told me. I never asked. Chrissy knew all about it. She had some of his handwritten papers with instructions.”
“She must have discussed it with him when she was in town last week.”
“Anyway, that part of it went smoothly. I guess she told you there’s a little memorial on Wednesday, and his ashes will be buried next to Mom. A few old Hatch friends who live here now will probably be the only ones around. I think Chrissy’s husband and kids are going to drive down. I don’t know them and they don’t know me so I’ll stay out of the way.”
“That seems sad.” I couldn’t help it, it just popped out.
“Well, it’s more about self preservation. Technically, there’s still a warrant out for my arrest, and this time the prison sentence wouldn’t be a lenient one. I’d better look at getting out of the state again. At least I had my chance to see Dad and spend a little time with him.”
“Are you leaving right away then? I … well, I’d hoped we could talk some more. I feel I still owe it to your father to work on clearing your name.”
He gave a weary smile. “Yeah, I guess he still wanted that. Among those papers was information about an insurance policy and a note in Dad’s handwriting saying the money was to cover an investigation into my case and obtaining my release.”
“He had told me that, but you know it’s not really necessary. Beyond a few hundred in expenses so far …”
“We’ll go with his wishes. Stay on the case.”
“Okay, then I need you to help with more information.” I glanced around the mortuary parking lot. “Can we talk about this somewhere else? I’m still good for that lunch.”
“I don’t trust restaurants, especially with Judge Blackman’s story all over the news right now. How about if I follow you to your office?”
“Sounds good.”
Twenty minutes later, we pulled down the long driveway beside the Victorian and parked behind the office, an arrangement that seemed to put Rory at ease. I realized how much of his life he’d spent being wary of his surroundings. It must be driving him crazy to be in a city where he might be recognized, to show up in places where there seemed to be eyes everywhere.
It was like leading an abused puppy indoors for the first time in its life. His eyes darted to every corner of every room. He actually took a step back when he spotted Sally at her desk. I skipped any formal introduction—she knew exactly who he was—and just said we’d be upstairs in my office.
He poked his head into Ron’s empty office and into the bathroom, reassuring himself. In my office, he stood back from the front bay window and scanned the street. It’s a neighborhood of old houses, some are still residences; the places like ours which have been converted to businesses aren’t the type that draw a lot of traffic. Life goes on very quietly.
“At the risk of sounding like a mother hen, I was serious about lunch,” I told him. “You’re looking even thinner than when you got to town. Besides, how often can you get a pizza at that cabin in the woods?”
He uttered the closest thing to a chuckle I’d heard from him yet, and I took it for a yes. I picked up the phone and placed the order, then told Sally over the intercom to buzz me when it arrived.
Swiveling my desk chair to face the room, I waved Rory toward the loveseat near the bookcase.
“Okay, I need your help,” I said. “I feel as if most of the pieces are here, but I’m missing something. I’ve got Damian Baca, Herman Quinto and you from the first trial—the one where Baca was acquitted. Then I’ve got you, Helen Bannerly, and Judge Blackman from the second trial. Do you see how the common denominator here is you?”
He tilted his head.
“Tell me what I’m missing.”
His gaze went to somewhere in the middle of the room but he didn’t answer.
“Are we really looking at three completely separate things? Damian’s acquittal, your conviction, Blackman’s death—are they actually unrelated?” The moment I said it, I knew better. From the start, the Baca trial and Rory’s subsequent charges were inextricably linked.
He gave me a look. “The speculation wasn’t far off. Quinto and I wanted the same state Senate seat. Yes, one of us could have moved to a different part of the state, represented a different district. We might have both been elected. But both of us had business interests and roots here in Albuquerque.”
“Was it all about politics? Did either of you really perceive the other as a threat to your careers?”
“Quinto and the judge go way back—Blackman went through a lot of young law clerks on their way up the ladder. It just turned out in Herman’s case that they added golf and the same social set of friends to the mix.”
Something sparked a memory. “You knew about the judge and his young law clerks. Helen Bannerly was one, and she experienced something …”
“Blackman’s predator nature? The intimidation and overt moves were—”
“Were you one of those, Rory? One of the judge’s conquests? Last time we talked, you said his attentions were not limited only to women.”
“It would have killed my dad if—” He stopped, realizing.
I felt a wave of sympathy and gave him a full minute of silence. A new thought came to me—the morning news and pictures of Mrs. Blackman getting into that limo.
“Rory, do you think the judge was still doing it, still using his power against the new interns and clerks?”
“I … I have no way of knowing that.”
“But it wouldn’t be out of character, would it?” I took a breath. “Do you think it’s possible that his wife finally had enough—that she’d found out about one more woman or, more shameful for her, one more young man—and maybe she snapped? That she’s the one who killed him?”
He shook his head. “No, you’re on the wrong track. Well, I’ve been away for a while and haven’t watched the players, but everything I knew about her, Mrs. B was very much a victim. She coped by drinking a lot and by living her own life. She would take these trips, be gone for weeks.”
“To avoid knowing what was going on?”
“Well, she always seemed to disappear about the time Blackman took up with a new little honey.”
I remembered the judge at the gala with his much-younger companion. Perhaps that’s exactly what the wife was doing now, ta
king a long trip so she could avoid the unpleasantness at home. I thought of the scene in their bedroom, the judge lying naked and dead on the floor, the massive amount of blood, the otherwise perfect house with its magnificent view of the city. What a shame that Phoebe Blackman couldn’t have the perfection part of her life, without the sordidness. Rory could be right about her being a victim—but sometimes victims snap.
Our pizza arrived just then and I went downstairs to get it. Rory was at the window when I came back up, staring down at the departing delivery car.
We put slices on the flimsy paper plates that had come with it, using the corners of my desk as a table. We could have gone downstairs to the kitchen to eat, but I didn’t want to break Rory’s concentration on what we’d been talking about.
“Tell me about Helen Bannerly,” I said after we’d each wolfed down one slice. “As your defense lawyer, did she offer any advice when you went to trial? Any apologies afterward?”
He stared upward for a few seconds. “Advice at the time of my trial … ‘trust me and trust the process’ she said … and there was the old ‘everything will turn out okay.’ Is that what you meant?”
“Pretty weak, huh.”
“Afterward, let’s see. I was standing there in shock when the verdict came in. Of course, I’d been surprised and impatient when she didn’t ask more direct questions of the witnesses. She rested the defense case much too soon and didn’t take any of my suggestions seriously. We argued about it. So, afterward, yeah, let’s just say I was surprised and yet not surprised. The judge announced the verdict, tapped his gavel down and said I would be sentenced in thirty days’ time. Helen turned to me and whispered a simple ‘I’m sorry’ and then she packed up her briefcase and walked out.”
He’d abandoned his plate and tossed a wadded napkin on top of it. “I got swarmed by family—Mom was in tears and Dad was practically shaking with anger. And what did I do? I turned around to comfort them.”
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