Sticks & Stones (A Hollis Morgan Mystery)

by R. Franklin James

  Summer’s face drained of color.

  Hollis leaned forward. “You didn’t know Briscoe worked for Transformation?”

  Summer shook her head. “I think you should go.”

  “Mrs. Mueller, I’m just trying to retrace Cathy’s steps. Can you just tell me if you had any contact with one of Fields’ nonprofits—”

  “I’m not going to answer any more of your questions and I’m going to have to ask you to leave.” She walked over and stood at the front door.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you.” Hollis picked up her purse and followed her to the entry.

  “Somehow I don’t believe you. Goodbye.”

  At a dead stop in five o’clock traffic, Hollis saved a little time by using hands-free to call Mark with an update.

  “So Mueller kicked you out?” he said.

  “As soon as she heard that I was working with Transformation, I was persona non grata.” Hollis slowly eased into the far right lane, taking the off ramp. She would take the side streets over the crowded highway. “Actually I don’t blame her; I’d do the same. But the more interesting point was the Mueller connection to Fields.”

  “Yeah, but there’re probably a lot of rich people who know Dorian Fields.”

  “But we’ve got a link between Cathy, Fields, and the Muellers. There could be something there.”

  “Sounds thin to me, but I guess we can’t be choosy.”

  By the time Hollis returned to the office, it was too late to do much else other than pack up and go home. There was a message from Kelly stating that something had come up with her job, and she wouldn’t be able to get away to see her grandfather this week. She would call Hollis back to make an arrangement for next week.

  Hollis deleted the call in frustration.

  The next morning, with Cathy’s depositions behind her and the discovery of a possible Mueller/Fields connection, Hollis was feeling more confident. She didn’t plan to be in the office so early but with the meeting with Ferris being put off for a week, she had time to catch her breath and work through some of the other case files George had left for her. Hollis spent the next two hours emptying her in-basket. By mid-morning she was completely caught up.

  George came by and nodded approval when he saw the filings ready for his signature.

  “I was a little worried that the Briscoe case was taking up too much of your time.” He adjusted his glasses on his nose.

  “It’s nothing I can’t handle.” Hollis handed him the stack of large folders.

  She gave him a slight wave as he left.

  Closing the door to her office, she reached for Cathy’s thin file containing the phone message slip. The yellow slip gave no indication who the message was for, just a time—2:35—a date, and the name and number for a Joe Morton. Hollis picked up her phone and tapped in the number.

  “Morton’s Photography, Amber speaking, can I help you?”

  “I was trying to reach Joe Morton. Is he there?”

  “Nah, he’s out doing a shoot. Can I have him call you back?”

  “When do you expect him to return?”

  “He’ll be back before lunch.” The girl on the other end popped a wad of gum. “He’s got an appointment.”

  “Okay, thanks. I’ll come by before then.” Hollis clicked off the phone. Why would Cathy take on a photographer for work assignments when Transformation’s extensive freelance camera pros were some of the best paid in the industry?

  Interesting.

  Morton Photography was a store front business located in a strip mall on the outskirts of downtown Oakland. Hollis parked in front of the bakery next door. A little bell tinkled as she pushed open the glass door. The room was split in half by a long, chest-high white counter. Poster-sized photos of brides and infants in a myriad of poses lined the walls. She caught a movement from behind the counter, and her eyes came to rest on a young girl—likely Amber—reading a paperback.

  “Excuse me. I called earlier. I’m here to see Mr. Morton?”

  “You’re his appointment? You’re early.”

  “No, I’m the one who called. You told me he would be back before lunch.”

  “Oh, well he’s not—”

  The door opened and a tall man with bright red hair, a beard, and freckles entered carrying a tripod and a large camera bag on his back. If Santa had red hair he would look like Joe Morton.

  “Hello, you’re early.” He walked over with his free hand extended and shook Hollis’. “Just give me a few minutes to set up and we can get started. Did you bring your suit?” He put his gear down on a table in the rear of the studio.

  While Hollis was tempted to take the conversation further and see what kind of photography Joe Morton produced, this was not the time.

  “I’m not your appointment, Mr. Morton. My name is Hollis Morgan. I work for a law firm representing Catherine Briscoe’s employer. I hoped I could just talk to you for a few minutes.”

  While Hollis had always thought a book on how to keep a poker face could really sell out to a niche audience, it was clear even if such a book existed, Joe Morton would never be able to play cards. His face turned beet red, and his hands clenched and unclenched. Even Amber looked up at his silence.

  “Shit.” He looked past her, letting a long moment pass. “Shit. I couldn’t believe it when I read about her death in the paper.”

  He moved quickly behind the counter and put his gear on a rear table.

  “If I could just—”

  “I can’t talk to you now. I have a sitting.” His voice was strained as he moved hastily to organize the shoot.

  Hollis ventured, “Can I see you later, at a time that works for you?”

  “I’m not talkin’ to no lawyers. I told Cathy I would only speak with her. She made me promise that no one else would know.” He shook his head. “She trusted me.”

  “Cathy was also my friend. We’re trying to defend her work. I found your name among her things.”

  He ran his hand over his beard.

  Morton peered over an appointment book on the counter and ran his fingers down the page. “Amber, go take an early lunch. I’ve got the studio covered.”

  Amber scrambled to get her purse. She smiled as she headed for the door.

  Morton motioned for Hollis to follow him to a back room. The windowless room was painted a soft taupe. It was tastefully decorated with a long sofa and love seat, low lamp light and framed oversized landscape photography.

  “I got somebody comin’ in, so we don’t have a lot of time.” He directed her to a chair across from a large rosewood desk. “Talk.”

  Hollis quickly described the arrangements with Transformation and the attempts she and Mark were making to validate Cathy’s research.

  She finished, “I know you have an appointment soon. Perhaps we could meet later today? I’ve given you a lot to think about, and I’d like to hear how you fit into all of this.”

  The front door bell tinkled.

  Morton, who had been silent the whole time, finally nodded. “All right, come back at closing. We’ll talk then.”

  When Hollis got back to her office, she noticed a middle-aged woman sitting in the firm’s lobby. Dressed in a faded red overcoat, she clutched a purse in her lap as if fearful of a pending snatch.

  Tiffany nodded at Hollis to come over to the reception desk. “She’s one of yours.”

  Hollis raised her eyebrows and walked over to the woman. “Hello, I understand you’re waiting for me. Did we have an appointment?”

  “No, no, I just hoped I could catch you. My name is Amy Hyde. Joy told me about you.” Hollis must have looked uncertain. “You spoke to her at Heaven’s Praises.”

  She smiled. “Of course, yes, Ms. Hyde, why don’t we go back to a conference room, where we can talk in private?”

  Hollis walked her to a small meeting room.

  “I don’t want to take up much of your time. Joy told me not to bother you. Everybody knows you’ve been going around trying to
find out if we’re doing our jobs. But I got to tell you: I don’t think you realize what these places mean.”

  Hollis shook her head, “I’m not checking up—”

  “I know you have to say that, but hear me out. I was an alcoholic for twenty-two years. There was nothing I wouldn’t do for a drink. Nothin’. My family, they’re all alcoholics, too. I was in and out of rehab more times than I can count. No one could tell me anything.” She swallowed. “Then one night I went to Heaven’s Praises. It was cold and rainy, the shelters were full, and me and my bottle planned to stay the night in the rear doorway. It was protected, and I could move the garbage bin over to keep me dry.”

  Hollis tried to keep the surprise from showing on her face.

  Amy Hyde continued, “Anyway, I had all my setup done for the night when this man came around the side and moved the bin back. He was dressed in jeans and a slicker. He looked down at me with eyes I had only seen before in church when I was a child, and he held out his hand.”

  Hollis found herself hanging on the woman’s words.

  “He said, ‘I’ve been where you are. Leave your bottle and come with me.’ And even though I was drunk as a skunk, I had one moment of clear thinking. I went with him. We walked through that moment with me holding his hand.”

  Amy pulled her sweater close. “That was twelve years ago, and that man was Dorian Fields, and I’ve never had another drop since.”

  Hollis struggled to find the words. “Ms. Hyde, you don’t understand. I’m not trying to—”

  “No, you don’t understand.” Amy pointed her finger. “There are people who talk about doing good things, and there are people who do good things. Mr. Fields is the most honorable man I know. We may not always get the work right at the centers—I know you probably heard that Richard had all the linens stolen at Fresh Start, but they wasn’t stole they was miscounted. And we know when Marian—”

  “Whoa, Ms. Hyde, there’s no need to explain anything to me.” Hollis leaned over. “I do understand what you are trying to tell me. The centers mean everything to people who have nothing.” She reached over and touched her shoulder. “Thank you for sharing your story with me.”

  “It’s not just a story, Miss Morgan,” she snapped. “It’s the truth.”

  From the window she watched Amy standing next to the bus stop. She refused to let Hollis pay for a cab. As much as Hollis wanted to dismiss her, she couldn’t. At first she suspected that Bartlett or maybe Fields had sent her.

  But deep inside, she knew the woman was telling the truth.

  “Come on in the back,” Joe said.

  Hollis followed. The studio atmosphere, like its owner, seemed still and subdued. She sat in the same seat she had this morning.

  “I still can’t believe Cathy is dead.” He squinted at his hands, folded on top of the desk. “We almost didn’t work together, but we ended up being friends.”

  Hollis reminded herself to keep her impatience in check. “Mr. Morton, how did you know Cathy?”

  “Call me Joe. I met Cathy about six months ago. She was doing some research on a story. I’d done some photos for a customer, and she found me through one of them.”

  “Why do you say you two didn’t start out well?”

  He ran his fingers through his hair. “When she first came to the studio, she wanted to know if I doctored pictures. She had one and she wanted to know if I could doctor it.” He shook his head. “I didn’t like the way that sounded, so I told her to leave and take her picture to somebody who didn’t know better.”

  “What did she say?”

  “She laughed.” He looked into Hollis’ eyes. “She said that I was the man for her.”

  Hollis wondered if Morton had had a crush on Cathy.

  “Ah, it was a test.”

  Misery washed over his freckled face. He appeared crestfallen; then he sighed and went on. “I really liked her, she was a nice woman and ….”

  His voice drifted and Hollis looked away.

  “Mr. Morton—”

  “Joe, please.”

  “Joe.” She smiled and lowered her voice. “Cathy and I went to law school together. We were good friends. I’m representing her employer in a matter that involves determining the validity of her research for an article. I found your name among her things and I was hoping you could help me.”

  He straightened in his seat and took a deep breath. “She needed me to blow up some old pictures. Seven of them. She gave them to me on a thumb drive, so all I had to do was digitally enhance them.”

  “Copies of copies?”

  He nodded.

  “Do you happen to remember what was on them?”

  He closed one eye and focused on the past. “Four were of a group of men on the steps at a conference, or maybe it was a reception. One of a woman at an airport—I think she was waving goodbye. And there was one of a document. Looked like some kind of business letter or memo.”

  “What about the last one?”

  He pursed his lips in a tight line. “Sorry, I can’t remember.”

  “What about the logo on the letterhead? Can you remember what it was?”

  He squinted again, “I don’t know, maybe an anchor or a shield? I’m sorry.”

  Hollis shrugged. “You were very helpful. I really appreciate your talking with me.” She stood.

  He slapped his head. “Wait, there was one other thing, I almost forgot. About three weeks ago she called me again and asked me if I had done work taking photos of dead people.”

  “Dead people?”

  “Yeah, you know, like in the morgue.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  The next morning Mark passed a file across his desk to Hollis.

  She marked it off a list and placed it in her briefcase. “We’re done here. I’ve got to get back to the office and finish up a couple of cases on my desk, but I want to brief you on my visit to the photography studio yesterday evening.”

  “Did Morton know anything?”

  Hollis quickly ran through the conversation.

  “Morgue?” He shook his head. “We’ve got our settlement hearing coming up fast. Do you think there’s anything to these photos?”

  Pressing her lips into a thin line, Hollis said, “I honestly don’t know. Morton seemed legitimate, but he didn’t appear to know anything about Fields. It may be that Cathy was using him for work on a future article. I just don’t have enough information to know if the photos are relevant to our work.”

  “Why would she want a picture of a dead person?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t know. This is what drove me crazy about her. She was so secretive. She called me paranoid, but she was my mentor.” Hollis played with her pen. “Suppose Cathy found out that Fields was laundering money from the nonprofits into his own accounts. From what I could gather from her notes, she wanted to roll out his story over three issues, and had only turned in her first installment to Transformation. The nonprofits themselves might be genuinely innocent, because they had nothing to do with their own account books.”

  “And where do the dead people fit in?”

  Hollis dragged her fingers through her hair, “Awrrrrh.”

  “I’m with you on that,” Mark said. “We don’t have much time to speculate. Let’s leave the dead for now and focus on Open Wings. It’s the center with the most unanswered questions.”

  “All right. I’ll delve into Open Wings’ operations. If we can find more holes in their story, we’ll know where to start looking in the others.” Hollis picked up her purse.

  Mark frowned. “Don’t be getting too far out there. It might be time to let the police know.”

  “Know what? That’s just it. We don’t know anything.” Hollis put away the last of her pens and markers in her purse. “The interviews, the depositions, the random notes all say something, but what? We’re overlooking it.”

  He nodded. “Yeah, other than uncovering some questionable business practices, we’ve been dancing around. Still, you seem
to be ruffling a few feathers. You let me know if things are getting too … well, dangerous.”

  Hollis patted his hand. “Now, don’t I always let you know—eventually?”

  “Where are you headed now?”

  “I’ve got to go back to the beginning, one more time through all the events, pieces of paper, and interview notes. I’ve got to find the missing connection.”

  Hollis closed the door to her office. Leaning back in her chair with eyes closed, she rocked back and forth. Instead of having no clues, she had too many. It was clear the non-profits were indeed running off “track”—in fact, it was too easy to see. It didn’t take an investigative reporter to find the glaring discrepancies.

  In the same vein, Gail Baylor’s murder following close after Cathy’s left the impression that the murderer was desperate, and whatever he or she faced was worth killing for … twice. If she followed that premise, her own break-in was a red flag, and she could be next on the victims list.

  She picked up the receipt she had gotten from Cathy’s apartment. It was orange, five by six inches, a standard form, much like any generic receipt you could get from Staples or any office supplies store. It had even less information than the phone message; at least the phone message had a number she could call. The receipt listed just the amount—seven-hundred and thirty dollars for consultant services.

  “You look deep in thought, what’s on your mind?” George plopped himself in her chair. “Worried about the exam? Scores still come out in November?”

  “Some things never change.” Hollis grimaced. “You know the California Bar; they make us suffer until the brink of a breakdown.”

  “Well, you appear to be holding up fine. Except, what has you so frustrated?”

  Hollis shrugged. “Mark and I have pulled together as much as we can on Cathy’s case, but the dots aren’t connecting like we need them to.”

  She picked up the receipt. “For instance, Cathy left this behind in a research folder. It has some importance because she felt she had to hide it, but it tells me nothing.”