Fine-Feathered Death

by Linda O. Johnston

  Talk about precedents and ingenious endeavors, they were prodigious in the L.A. area, especially these days when environmentalists, pseudo and real, were eager to slam lids down durably on developers’ dreams to change still-existing open space into private homes and commercial areas.

  One constructive component of the Vancino situation was that the bitterly disputed block was already built out into commercial structures. T.O. intended to increase the density of the use—like, they would sardine scads of prosperous people into upscale high-rise apartments, while adding offices and chic stores as well. But no additional endangered species would be forced to flee their habitats—unless one included obsolescent, antiprogress property owners like Millie Franzel.

  Also during the weekend, I spent more time rooting Rachel in the ins and outs I’d learned about pet-tending. I even had an unanticipated opportunity to take her to meet one of my favorite charges, Pythagoras the ball python, who welcomed us with open coils … after his owner, Milt Abadim, called and mentioned he’d be traveling to see his mother again soon, and he’d love for me to keep an eye on Py.

  I enjoyed the company, during those days, not only of Rachel, but also her dad. Russ’s trip had been delayed yet again, until early next week. All of us strolled with Lexie and Beggar. I came to feel included in their incomplete family.

  And I definitely sensed that Russ was interested in me as more than his daughter’s quasi-employer and substitute big sis.

  And me? I made a damned fine effort to keep Jeff Hubbard as far from my frazzled mind as the moon was from the earth. Only I realized that analogy was apt in too many ways, for the earth’s gravity didn’t let the moon sail off into space …

  He didn’t call me. I didn’t call him.

  But I amazed myself by calling Detective Ned Noralles. I wasn’t surprised, and felt a smattering of relief, when he wasn’t accessible. And no wonder. It was Sunday. Only, I assumed that L.A.P.D. detectives’ days on duty could occur anytime. I left a message suggesting that he and I speak soon. What would I tell him? I wasn’t sure. I wanted more from him than I intended to relate. But if he insisted, I’d give him the benefit of my so-far unsuccessful investigative work. Most of it.

  I’d keep Gigi’s song to myself. After all, it was unlikely to have any significance.

  Monday finally meandered around, and I heard back from attorney Gina Udovich. She hadn’t a moment to spare until Wednesday, which was when we scheduled the all-hands meeting regarding the case that, if I had to file a complaint, would be known as Etherton v. Shorbel et al. I was pleasantly surprised when Gina agreed we could confer on my turf instead of hers, giving me a kind of home court advantage. Or was that only to patronize me and put me off guard so she could swoop in and clobber me in front of her clients?

  Oh, yes, all the old slimy litigator tricks were still simmering in the back of my brain. They might have slipped there to curl up into a cold little unused ball while my law license was lifted, but now they were unfurling, stretching, warming up, and making sure I grew reacquainted with every one of them.

  Which turned out to be a good thing, since it became clear by the grand finale of our settlement conference that this case was going forward.

  WE CONVENED AT one o’clock in the Yurick firm’s handy-dandy bar-slash-conference room. Gina Udovich appeared to be vying for the title of superchic attorney of the year, clad in a short leather skirt over black stockings, and boots with amazingly high, skinny heels. My feet ached just observing them. On top, she wore a black vest over a silky peach blouse. In all, it was a good thing that the only guys around this office were old enough to be her grandpa. Not that William Fortier and Borden Yurick didn’t ogle her as if they were forty years younger.

  In the beauty department, she was upstaged by her pretty client Myra Shorbel. Myra wore a vest, too—a knit one—over her ordinary blue blouse. Her makeup was lighter than her lawyer’s. Her slacks were black denim and she’d donned sports shoes that nearly matched her brother Moe’s.

  Moe hadn’t worn clothes that might concede he had come to a business meeting. His grungy T-shirt had torn-off sleeves, which I noticed immediately as he took off his equally dirty denim jacket. His bony knees knobbed their way through the holes in his jeans.

  Irma, about the age of most of my firm’s attorneys, had donned a dress for the occasion. Her hands fluttered nervously when we all took seats at the conference table, but she wisely shoved them into her lap to keep them still. The bouffant style of her dyed black hair had deflated a bit, but on the whole she appeared prepared for the impending ordeal.

  And me? Well, I’d dressed in a regulation pantsuit that I could wear equally well had we headed for court. I’d checked in the mirror before meeting up with everyone here, and my shoulder-length, still ordinary brown hair hung neat and professional. My makeup was neither overnor underdone. Most important, I was psyched.

  “Okay,” I said after I’d ensured that everyone who wanted any had gotten coffee from the carafe on the bar. “Listen up. We have a situation here, and before Irma files an action against the Shorbels regarding Walter Shorbel’s estate, we wanted to see if there’s any possibility of compromising on the issues.” I wasn’t about to blurt right out that Irma had already determined to forgo the funds if she got custody of Ditch. Let them stew a bit, then make it appear that Irma was making a colossal concession. Which she was.

  Gina Udovich stretched her arm out over the table and idly drummed long red nails that looked anything but lovely on the wood. “We’re here because my clients aren’t interested in being sucked into a frivolous lawsuit. Their father was quite obviously in his dotage when he made such an absurd will. His dog can’t inherit his estate. Even if the court attempts to impose a different interpretation, we have a diminished capacity argument. The will must be disregarded, and Mr. Shorbel will be deemed to have died intestate.” Exactly the arguments I’d have asserted had I been in her uncomfortable boots.

  Calmly, I said, “Interesting theory, counselor. I’ve got some of my own that I won’t share with you just yet. We’ll wait for the trial, if it comes to that. But we have a proposition for you, plus some teeth to back it up.”

  Gina’s grin displayed her teeth, which were so white that I figured she bleached them nightly. “Ah, yes. I’ve done my homework, Kendra. I’m sure you’re bringing up teeth because you take on cases about dog bites.”

  “And get them settled, too, since I find creative ways to make the plaintiff grovel. Did that show up in your research?”

  Ah, yes, it was back—my litigator sting! Always presented with a smile, of course.

  “Well, there won’t be any groveling here. But go ahead and try to convince us to settle.”

  Her clients observed her with apparent adoration. I’d fix that fast by turning the talk back to them.

  “Fine,” I said. “Now, as Mr. Shorbel’s alleged heirs, they have taken custody of his dog, Glenfiddich, who was the intended beneficiary, correct?”

  “Purportedly.” Gina pushed herself back and studied me with her snide crocodile smile.

  “Our first action, if we must go to court, will be for a TRO”—a temporary restraining order—“to stop your clients from mistreating that poor dog. We ourselves observed his quarters—locked away in a storeroom. We also have an eyewitness who’ll testify as to how the animal is abandoned outside in foul weather, left on an unenclosed patio all night.”

  “It’s just a dog,” shouted Moe Shorbel, his pale brown eyes clamped on me in an evil glare.

  “You mentioned dog bites before,” interjected Myra Shorbel in a much more modulated voice. “I’ve been worried that Ditch will bite my young daughter Ellie. I can’t just let him run loose in the house.”

  “He doesn’t bite!” Irma raced into the fray before I could restrain her. “There’s no reason to treat the poor thing like that. Shame on you. Your father was right, leaving everything to the dog instead of horrible children like you.”

  I could hea
r an imaginary judge in my mind if an outburst like that occurred at trial. “Control your client, counselor.”

  I didn’t wait for Gina Udovich to suggest the same. “You’re right, of course, Irma. But let’s try to resolve this amicably.” I returned my litigator’s unperturbed attention to Gina. “Ms. Etherton is prepared to make a most generous offer of settlement. First, she wants immediate, permanent custody of Glenfiddich. If that’s agreed, she will reduce her claim on the estate on behalf of the dog to two hundred thousand dollars. The estate amounts to a million or more, and the remainder may be retained by your clients Mr. and Ms. Shorbel.”

  I half anticipated an onslaught of objections by the sour siblings surrounding us. Instead, I noted a sly smile insinuate itself onto Moe Shorbel’s face as his sister hazarded a glance at him that suggested admiration. What was going on?

  “We discussed this possibility in advance, Ms. Ballantyne,” Gina Udovich purred. “My clients are willing to convey custody of the dog to your client as long as she makes no claim at all on the rest of the estate.”

  “I’ll need to discuss with my client whether she is willing to lower her settlement amount to a hundred thousand dollars,” I said, “but she clearly is entitled to some compensation on behalf of Glenfiddich. She will need money to care for him—food, veterinary bills, and so forth, for the rest of his life. He is now six years old and can live another six years or more.”

  “Nothing,” Moe Shorbel stated. “She can have the mutt but no money. And if she doesn’t agree, we’ll keep the dog, too. And if you think he’s been mistreated till now—”

  “Enough,” Gina said in an attempt to shut up her client.

  But Irma had extracted from that exactly what I had. “Did you start abusing that poor animal so I’d agree to take him quickly, without claiming any of the money dear Walt didn’t want you to have?”

  This time, Moe stayed discreetly silent. But his slimy smile said it all.

  “Forget settlement!” Irma stormed. “Kendra, I want Ditch out of that house now, so get that restraining order first thing. Then I want to sue them for the entire amount of the estate on behalf of Ditch. I won’t care if they spend every cent of it on attorneys’ fees, as long as they don’t get any use of it.”

  Gina didn’t appear upset in the least about that idea. “Moe, Myra, I think this settlement conference is over.”

  “No,” Myra said with a sigh as she stood. Her pretty face appeared pained. “The dog shouldn’t get the money, of course, and I’m willing to fight in court about that. But I don’t want Ditch around and neither does Moe. Forget about that restraining order stuff. You can have custody of Ditch right away, Irma, as long as it’s understood that we still don’t agree that the damned dog should inherit our dad’s estate.”

  Irma beamed. “I’ll come right over for him.”

  “And I’ll draw up the necessary document to ensure there’s no modification of the resolution of this issue,” I added. “And now, please excuse me a moment while I confer with my client.” I motioned for Irma to follow me out the door.

  I scooted her into the nearest empty office and whispered, “You got what you wanted—the dog. Do you want to continue this fight over the money?”

  “Yes, damn it,” the sixty-year-old hissed. “Those miserable children purposely mistreated the dog their dad loved to get me to cave and let them keep the money. I meant it. I’ll fight them forever over it, since it’s what Walt would have wanted.”

  Maybe, if the handwritten codicil was the key. “I have to warn you that they have a good shot at winning. And then you’ll not only fail to get the million, you’ll be out all the money you pay to me.”

  Irma’s smile was wry. “Honey, I don’t need Walt’s mere million dollars. And my own heirs are well provided for even if I spend a million to keep those kids from getting Walt’s. I started my own brand of canned soups about forty years ago and sold my secret recipes for a fortune five years back to one of the majors. It’s a matter of principle, though. I loved Walt, and he loved me, and now his damned ungrateful offspring are going to pay.”

  Which meant this formerly suspended litigator was finally returning to her favorite surroundings very soon. Hello, court. Here I come!

  Chapter Twenty-five

  I USHERED THE Sorbels and their not-so-smug attorney out the door, then said farewell to Irma. “I’ll get the settlement document about Ditch done right away,” I assured her, “then prepare a complaint to file in court to claim the money.”

  As Irma strolled down the Yurick offices’ sidewalk toward the street, I was slightly surprised to see Detective Noralles approach. I’d planned to pop in on him at his office at the North Hollywood Station. My intent hadn’t been for him to insinuate himself here.

  Well, I was the one who’d maneuvered this meeting, so why not make it convenient? I’d need to be careful, though, about what he heard. “Hi, Ned,” I said. “Come in. We’ll talk in the conference room. There’s coffee there from my last meeting.”

  “Sounds good.” The good-looking African-American cop was clad in one of his characteristic suits, this one tweed with tones matching shades in his multicolor tie. “I’d like to use your washroom first.”

  “Fine.”

  He greeted Mignon, and I directed him toward the men’s room. Unnecessary, I realized, for me to tell him where to go—at least in this sense. After the multiple murder investigations he’d been here to conduct, he probably knew the location of every nook and cranny a lot better than I did.

  While Ned was otherwise occupied, I stuck my face into Borden’s office as a courtesy, to inform him the police were present. Same with Elaine, since as a former lady friend of Ezra’s, she doubtless still teetered near the top of the cops’ suspect list.

  “Thanks, Kendra,” Elaine replied after I told her. She sat at her desk, and Gigi perched on her pole.

  “Bottles of beer,” Gigi countered, lifting her beautiful blue wings in a quasi-shrug and causing me to laugh.

  “What’s so funny?” asked Ned from behind me.

  Uh-oh. I’d loitered too long. Before I could turn and usher him in a different direction, he’d pulled open the door and edged in around me.

  “I’m just happy that Gigi’s doing so well,” I responded rapidly. “Come to the conference room. We’ll talk.”

  “Sure,” he said to me, but instead of accompanying me, he sauntered toward Elaine’s desk. “I don’t suppose you’ve recalled exactly when you first met Corrie Montez, have you, Ms. Aames?”

  Elaine appeared unperturbed as she dug in at her desk chair and folded her arms. She’d removed her suit jacket, and today she wore a pearly gray shirt that complemented her short silver hair. “Trying to catch me in a fib, are we, Detective Noralles? I told you already that I can’t recall, but even though we only recently became close, I knew Ezra for ages, from a law firm where we both worked long ago. I visited him occasionally at Jambison & Jetts. I could have run into Corrie there sometime, though I don’t remember meeting her till recently, when Ezra and I both started discussing coming to work here. He mentioned he might invite a young paralegal named Corrie to join us and introduced us then.”

  “So you still maintain you’d have no reason to harm either Mr. Cossner or Ms. Montez?” Despite the obvious insinuation in his words, Ned’s voice remained as deadpan as his face.

  “As I said, stop trying to rile or confuse me. You have my statement. That’s all I’m saying.” Elaine didn’t sound confused, but Noralles had unmistakably sparked the riling part. Her voice was raised, and so was her body as she stood and shot him an angry glare.

  The tension in the room must have gotten to Gigi, too. She started to squawk in her familiar rhythmic chant effectively designed to drive humans nuts.

  Startled at first, I turned toward her and raised my hands in a placating pose. “It’s okay, gorgeous girl. Everything’s fine.” I intended my tone to sound soothing. At least she hadn’t issued an uncanny shriek. But there we
re other sounds she might make that Ned Noralles shouldn’t hear. “We’ve upset her,” I said. “Why don’t we leave, Ned. I want to tell you—”

  And then, there it was. Jeff’s cell phone song, sung in Gigi’s inimitably hoarse rasp.

  “Gorgeous girl,” I prompted more loudly.

  “Hang on,” Ned said.

  I wished I could hang on. To Gigi’s large black, menacingly barbed beak, to shut her up. Or to Ned’s arm, to arrange for him to exit this office with me, pronto.

  “Isn’t that—hell, yes!” He looked at me, a gleam of excitement emanating from his dark brown eyes. “That sounds like part of Hubbard’s ring tone.”

  I knew Noralles had heard that cell phone sound at least once, right here in the Yurick offices when he’d regrettably run into Jeff here. Even so, I said, “I don’t think so. I suppose you could read a resemblance into it if you stretch your imagination, but the notes and rhythm are really different. Besides, Gigi hasn’t the ability of an African Grey when it comes to aping sounds. Macaws have lots of talents, but—”

  “I’ve done some reading about birds in the parrot family,” Ned said, his gaze pinning me motionless like a stuck butterfly.

  I hazarded a helpless glance toward Elaine, but this time the confusion she had avoided before seemed pasted all over her scrunched-up face.

  “You’re right, Kendra,” Ned said. “Some birds are better than others at repeating things they hear under emotional duress. But how often is Hubbard around here?”

  “Not often,” I said. “And to teach macaws to say things or sing songs, repetition is the key.”

  “Twice could do it. Say, two visits with a lot of duress each time? With the same cell phone ringing in the background.”

  “Who would call in the middle of a murder?” I demanded.

  “Someone who didn’t know what was happening,” he replied, so smug I could slug him. “Maybe even you. And then when you realized what had happened, you felt stuck. You cared for the guy—note the past tense. In our interrogations of him, he’s seemed pretty bummed out about your relationship. Maybe you are, too. And that’s why you happened to invite me here today and lead me to the macaw, so I could hear her sing Hubbard’s song—allowing you to add another nail into his post-lethal-injection coffin. Assuming, of course, that we get a murder conviction. Thanks to you, we’ve another bit of evidence to add to his bloody jacket.”