Hollis punched in Cathy’s cell number and got her machine again. “Cathy, you’ve sold me. I want to help. Give me a call at the office.” She also sent a text message.
Where was Cathy? Last night she’d pushed hard for an instant decision.
In George’s ten o’clock meeting, she met Tim Walker, a new associate attorney on their team. Hollis could tell this was his first job. Young and a little gawky, he was rightly embarrassed when Ed, on his way out, pointed to his one navy blue and one black sock. In response, the new associate’s cheeks and rather prominent ears turned beet red. Hollis, concentrating on going through papers, pretended not to hear or see a thing.
George followed her example.
“Hollis, we have a case that came in right after you left. It took a while to ascertain there were no heirs, and now the client’s house is listed for sale. The furniture needs to be inventoried and sold through an auction house. Ordinarily, I’d give it to you, but ….” his voice uncharacteristically drifted.
“I’ll be fine. I’m not traumatized.” She reassured him. She knew George hesitated because the last time she inventoried a client’s assets it resulted in her being left for dead. She had trusted her then-manager emotionally and professionally and he had joined her list of betrayers. But other than random unintentional looking back—she didn’t. She refused to be defined by obstacles.
“Good.” George read from a thin folder. “Margaret Koch was a Triple D client who died and left the firm the executor of her estate. No relatives came forward, and because of the size of her estate, we hired an investigator to make sure there were no heirs.”
“If Hollis is handling Koch, I’ll file the request for the Miller probate hearing,” Tim said, scribbling like a maniac. “Uh, what court are we talking about?”
“Probate Court, Department Seven.” George looked at him with curiosity. “If you need help, let Hollis know. We’re a little behind on this one but it’s not complicated.”
Hollis reached for the file. “Sure, be glad to help.”
Pulling back, Tim fumbled and dropped his papers on the floor then stooped to gather them up. “No, no, it’s okay. I got them. I’ll get these back in order, Department Seven, no problem.”
George and Hollis exchanged doubtful looks.
George nodded. “Okay, Hollis, you conduct the inventory. Let’s try to get everything wrapped up by the end of the week.”
Hollis laid the armful of file folders on her desk and put the envelope that held keys to the Koch house in her purse. Hearing her stomach give a low growl, she decided to stop for a quick bite of lunch then head out to the property. She wanted to get some idea of the task ahead. She had until the end of the week, but she couldn’t stop being compulsive—no, she didn’t want to stop. She liked being compulsive. If she gave it some thought, the trait probably stemmed from her need to control situations; much of her early life had been out of her control.
She tried to reach Cathy again, but still there was no answer. If Hollis didn’t catch up to her by the time she finished at the Koch house, she would go by her place. She just hoped Cathy hadn’t given up on her.
The Koch House had major creaks.
There was another one.
Hollis tilted her head toward the unseen noise. She didn’t frighten easily but the old house, with its dark corners and creaking walls, tested her resolve. After ten minutes, she began to regret not bringing one of the firm’s junior paralegals with her to help take photos of the house’s contents. She pulled back the heavy drapes. The afternoon was dim with heavy clouds, and the sixty-watt bulbs did the minimum to light the rooms. She paused.
Someone was in the house with her. The sound of movement was fleeting, but not random.
“Hello,” she called out.
Footsteps, muffled by carpet, hurried her way.
“Who are you? What are you doing here?” A tall young woman, her sandy blond hair pulled back with a headband, strode into the room.
She looked to be in her twenties, dressed in jeans, a crisp white blouse and a form-fitting tailored black wool jacket. Very Town & Country, Hollis thought, as she brushed off a light film of dust covering her navy blue slacks and tan pullover sweatshirt. She put out her hand. The young woman looked down at it as if deciding whether or not to accept the handshake. She did.
“I’m Hollis Morgan. I work for Dodson, Dodson and Doyle. We represent the estate of the owner, Margaret Koch.”
The stranger had a firm handshake and wore a wedding ring.
“Kelly Schaefer. My mother was close to Mrs. Koch. I didn’t know anyone would be here. I came to see the old place before it was sold.” She turned around and pointed. “We used to celebrate holidays in this room.”
“Are you a relative? We’ve been trying to locate heirs.”
Avoiding eye contact, Kelly walked around the room, running her hand lightly over the artifacts and upholstery.
“No. My mom was friends with Mrs. Koch. My mother died years ago. When I read in the paper that Mrs. Koch died I just wanted to check if some of my mom’s things got left behind.” Kelly put her hands in her pockets.
“Why would Mrs. Koch have anything from your mom after such a long period of time?”
“My dad mentioned that my mom was special to Mrs. Koch. He even brought me by to visit her. Then he died and I was alone.” Kelly gave Hollis a rueful smile and moved toward the door. “I just wanted to see it one last time.”
She’s lying.
Hollis knew when she was being lied to. The instinct was a point of pride and rarely failed her. She only got into trouble when she failed to pay attention.
“Could I have your contact info … in case I find anything?”
“Sure, do you have a piece of paper?”
Hollis handed over a sheet from her pad. Kelly scribbled her name and number and handed it back. Hollis glanced at it briefly and slid it into her pocket. She wouldn’t take odds that the number was any good. She’d first been aware of her knack for sensing lies in childhood. Although it had proved more valuable to her as an adult. Especially in prison, where it had come to her rescue many times.
“Well, I’ve got a few more rooms to do, and I’ve got to get going,” Hollis said pointedly just as a thought came to her. “How did you get in? The locks were changed.”
Kelly looked around the room. “I know. I stumbled on a utility door on the side of the house that opens up to the downstairs. It doesn’t have a lock.”
It will tomorrow.
Hollis frowned. “Is there something in particular you’re trying to find?”
“A box of mementos, nothing to do with anything legal.” Kelly scanned the room. “My mother mentioned a token necklace.”
“I would appreciate it if you let me see anything you take out of the house.” Hollis handed her a business card. “The court has directed us to undertake an accounting of all the assets, even mementos. Things can get kind of crazy if items go missing.”
Kelly smoothed her jacket and stared down at her card.
“Sure, sure, I understand.”
“Thanks.” Hollis looked down at her watch again. “Well, like I said, I’ve got to finish.”
“Oh, don’t worry about me, I’m leaving. Do you mind if I go upstairs to use the bathroom?” Kelly motioned with her head.
“There’re no working bathrooms on the second floor.” Hollis gave Kelly a speculative look.
“Uh, I wasn’t going to use it. I left my scarf in the guest bathroom.”
She’s lying again.
“Sure, okay, not a problem. Let me know before you leave.” Hollis pointed to a cabinet. “I’m still finishing up down here. I’ll be going upstairs next.” She turned back to her camera.
Hollis was still taking photos in the den when she heard the click of the front door. She walked over to the windows in time to catch Kelly Schaefer walking to a late model Nissan, looking over her shoulder back at the house. Hollis took down the plate number.
She could have sworn that Kelly’s stylish jacket showed a bulge that hadn’t been there before.
CHAPTER TWO
The first thing Hollis did when she got back to the office was contact a local locksmith to change the locks on the Koch house. He agreed to get it done no later than the next morning. She was punching Cathy’s number in her iPhone just as Tiffany poked her head in the door.
“Hollis, did you hear? Cathy Briscoe was found dead earlier today. The police think it’s suicide.”
Hollis almost dropped her phone. “Oh my God, no! What happened?”
“I’m not sure. It just came on the news. Everybody is gathering in front of the television in the conference room.” She looked over her shoulder. “I’ve got to go tell the others.”
Hollis shivered. With trembling hands, she tried unsuccessfully to pick up the cup on her desk. Leaving it behind, she walked down the hallway toward the blare of the television and took a seat in the far corner.
“Informed sources say the death of Catherine Rose Briscoe appears to be suicide. Ms. Briscoe was a reporter for the tabloid, Transformation. According to the statement released by the police, co-workers say Ms. Briscoe may have been distraught after facing a libel suit. Let’s hear from the police spokesperson.”
“Suicide,” one of the attorneys murmured.
“Shhhh, here’s the police,” another whispered.
“Thank you, at six-fifteen this morning the department’s nine-one-one operator was called by a neighbor, who claimed to hear the drone of a running motor coming from a closed garage. The EMTs broke into the unit and discovered the body of Catherine Briscoe sitting in her car and the garage full of fumes. They pronounced Briscoe dead at the scene. Oakland detectives interviewed witnesses, who heard arguing early in the evening. At this time suicide is suspected. We’ll know more after an autopsy.”
The station cut to a reporter’s story on a local coffee house groundbreaking.
“I just can’t believe it,” Marion Babbitt, the firm’s office manager, said. “I just talked to her last week about her 401k. She left it with us, and she wanted to know how to convert it to a Roth IRA. I just can’t believe it.”
Steve, one of the firm’s senior partners, shook his head. “She was a damn good lawyer.” He pointed to one of the secretaries. “Find out the particulars of the funeral. Make sure we send a large floral arrangement.”
Ed, who had been perched on the edge of the conference table, rose to his feet. “Good idea. I’ve met her mother. She’s a very pleasant lady.”
Gradually they all dispersed into the hallway. A low hum of conversation drifted out into the lobby.
Frozen in place, Hollis tried to move, but her legs felt as if they were made of stone.
“You okay?” George put a hand on her shoulder. “I only met Cathy once. Actually, it was at her going-away party. She seemed like a nice, smart lady.”
Hollis, unable to get any words to form on her lips, simply nodded.
“Were you friends?”
Again a nod.
“Such a shame.” George looked down at his watch. “Do you think you’ll have that legal brief draft done by five? I don’t want to rush you, but if you’re upset I can get one of the associates to—"
“I’m not upset.” Hollis heard the shaking in her voice. She took a deep breath.
“Hollis, if you’re not all right—”
“I’m sorry. No, really, I’m all right. I need to keep working. I’ve already finished the first cut. You can look it over, make any changes, and I’ll finish up before I go home.”
“Well, good then, as always you’re way ahead of me. You’re—”
Hollis put her hand to her forehead. “George, I … I saw Cathy last night.”
“What?”
“She … she came over to my house.” Hollis swallowed. “She needed … she needed a favor. Maybe I could have saved her.”
He frowned. “You’ve got to tell the police.”
Hollis nodded in agreement. This part she knew by heart.
Not much had changed in the months since Hollis had last visited the Oakland Police Administration Building near Jack London Square, although now it appeared to be sharing the sidewalk with some sort of street-art fair. After carefully slipping her car between colorfully dressed pedestrians into a metered parking spot, she found herself just staring out the front windshield. Intellectually she knew she wasn’t responsible for Cathy’s death, but she couldn’t stop thinking that if she had responded to her that night, things could have been different. But even more than that, Hollis wished she had the chance to tell Cathy she wouldn’t disappoint her. Maybe she missed the chance to tell her in person, but she’d make sure she’d fulfill her friend’s last request.
She stiffened her back and strode into the lobby.
Although she recognized the security guard immediately, she could see him struggle trying to remember who she was. Back then the circumstances had been completely different. She was an ex-felon under suspicion for murder trying to clear her name.
She was glad she’d remembered it was best to call ahead. Drop-in appointments with the Department were too often an experience in waiting with the officer of the day until a detective was free. He checked for her name on a list and waved her past. She went through the metal detector, and retrieved her purse. When the guard started to tell her how to get to her destination, she told him she knew where she was going and walked down the narrow corridor to a small waiting room.
There was a new reception desk manned by a bookish looking officer scribbling notes on a stack of papers.
“Excuse me,” she said. “I have a meeting with Detective Faber.”
“Have a seat.” He looked up briefly. “He’ll be out shortly.”
Hollis nodded and took a seat in one of the white plastic chairs lining the wall.
Faber came out in less than five minutes.
“Ms. Morgan, I can honestly say I was surprised to get your call.” John Faber put out his hand and said in a more subdued voice, “It’s really good to see you.”
Hollis was caught off guard by his tone. The last time she had spoken with him he was sending her on her way after an admonition to stay out of police business. Then she had left, and gladly. It was only during her hearing for a pardon that she realized he had provided a critical recommendation she needed to convince the judge to give her a second chance.
She stood and smiled. “It’s good to see you too, Detective Faber.” She was surprised how much she meant it.
He stood aside and ushered her down a long hallway.
Faber turned to her as they walked. “How is everything going? Judge Mathis told me you received your pardon. Have you gone back to law school?”
“Yes, I graduated last spring. In fact I just finished taking the bar.”
“I wish you luck.” He looked down at her and smiled. “Let’s go in here. Under a mutual courtesy policy we get to share a few visitors’ spaces with OPD. I’ve got about thirty minutes. You were a little mysterious on the phone. How can I help you?” They entered a large Plexiglas-enclosed cubicle.
She sat in one of the only two chairs in front of a metal desk. “First of all, call me Hollis. I was glad you could still meet with me. I’m here about a sui … a death reported on the news this morning—Catherine Briscoe?” She still couldn’t bear to think that Cathy was desperate enough to kill herself.
“I know of the case. It’s not mine, but what do you know about it?”
Hollis smiled to herself as she flashed back to Faber’s interrogation skills.
“I know the victim. I saw her last night. She needed my help.”
Faber raised his hand, reached for the phone on the desk, and tapped in four numbers. “Cavanaugh—Faber, I’ve got someone in Office A. You need to talk to her about the Briscoe case. Yeah, we’ll meet you over there.”
“Let me guess, we’re going to the interview room?” Hollis stood.
“Yep, there’s mor
e space.”
And a two-way mirror with a microphone, thought Hollis.
Cavanaugh was already sitting there when they arrived. Hollis prided herself on being able to size up people fairly quickly. Cavanaugh was intense, with an average build on a paunchy frame. His dark brown eyes pierced through her as he tapped his fingers against the desktop and intermittently ran his hand over an imaginary beard.
His twisted smile seemed to beg her to pick a fight. “I’m Tom Cavanaugh. Thank you for reporting your contact with the victim. Why don’t you start from the beginning and tell us what you know about Catherine Briscoe.”
Hollis shook off his negative vibes. It didn’t take long for her to recount her meeting with Cathy. She noticed Faber checking his watch a couple of times. The thirty minutes must have passed.
Cavanaugh asked, “So, she gave you no indication what form this ‘proof’ took? No real details?”
“No, we were going to talk about it this morning.”
“Where’s the file she left with you?”
Hollis reached in and pulled it out of her tote.
“Ms. Morgan, I have to leave now.” Faber motioned to Cavanaugh. “I’ve got to make a call, and I’m late for an appointment. I’ll check on the burglary follow-up and see you back at your office.”
Cavanaugh nodded as Faber went out the door. He turned to Hollis.
“How did she appear to you?”
Hollis thought back to that point in time. “She was distraught, panicky.”
“Panicky?”
“Yes, like she was running out of time,” she paused and swallowed. “Like she knew something was going to happen.”
“Did she have a portfolio with her?”
“A portfolio?”
Cavanaugh leaned back in his chair. “Yeah, a leather folder with a black cover, a black binding and a royal blue fastener.”
Hollis shook her head. “No, nothing like that. She just had her purse and a briefcase.” She squinted, trying to remember. “She had a folder with her, the one I just gave you.”
Sticks & Stones (A Hollis Morgan Mystery) Page 2