Judge Tooley pressed her manicured fingers together and tapped her chin. “Do you intend to pursue this line of questioning much longer, Ms. O'Brien?”
“With this question, I'm finished.”
“Fine. The objection is overruled. The witness will answer and then we'll move on.”
At Dennison's request, I repeated the question.
“Yes,” he said curtly. “It's possible.”
I could see several of the jurors nodding. I hadn't given them a different killer, but I'd opened the door to the possibility.
I began a new line of inquiry. “You say you first talked with Terri Harper on Sunday afternoon.”
“That's right,” Dennison replied. “We'd been trying to reach her all weekend.”
“Did you question her at her home?”
“We were at the station.”
“You brought her in for questioning?”
“She came down on her own.” Dennison could see where I was going with this and worked to keep his answers as simple as possible.
“Came down voluntarily. On a Sunday afternoon, following a long drive home from Mendocino. Of her own accord, she got into the car when she learned you'd wanted to speak with her, and drove downtown to assist in the investigation. Isn't that so?”
“She came down on her own,” Dennison said. His gaze narrowed. “And then called you, her attorney.”
It always amazes me that calling an attorney is portrayed as a sign of guilt. I was on the verge of moving that Dennison's response be struck, when I decided the jury would only see it as defensive on my part. I nodded instead.
“She came to the station initially without an attorney, in a good faith effort to answer your questions. Wasn't it you who suggested she call an attorney?”
“I wouldn't say I suggested it.”
I tapped my forehead. “Excuse me, you said she had a right to call an attorney, is that it?”
Dennison looked away. “I might have.”
I headed back to the defense table, then turned as though a thought had just occurred to me. “One last question, Inspector Dennison. You are part of the prosecutorial team, are you not?”
“I'm a homicide inspector.”
“But you've gone over your testimony with the prosecutor, and the two of you have had numerous discussions about evidence, witnesses' statements, and the like. Isn't that correct?”
“That's part of my job.”
“Precisely. You and the prosecutor are working together to see that Terri Harper is convicted for this crime.”
His mouth was tight. “That's the way it works.”
“No further questions of this witness.”
<><><>
While Terri ate a boxed lunch alone in the small holding cell behind the courtroom, Steven, Jared, and I hunched over case files in the similarly Spartan quarters available to defense attorneys. But we had the benefit of thickly packed turkey sandwiches and Chinese coleslaw from a nearby deli.
As we were packing up to head back to court for the afternoon session, Steven turned to me with a look that blended hesitation and expectation with a touch of irony. His mouth pulled up ever so slightly at the corners.
“How about dinner?” he asked, shoving his hands into his pockets.
“We just had lunch.”
He grinned. “I meant later, tonight.”
“I don't know that we should go down that road.” I'd been reminded of the perils, as well as the pleasures, unfortunately, when we'd met for drinks at the Claremont the previous week.
“Nothing fancy,” Steven said. “I'll cook up some pasta and make a salad.”
“It wasn't the food that worried me.”
“This isn't a date, Kali. It's just dinner. And pleasant company. I don't particularly feel like being alone after court today.”
In truth, neither did I. And though I was loath to admit it, I did feel a pleasant ripple of anticipation at the idea of being with Steven.
During the afternoon session we heard from the coroner, who described Weaver's wounds in technical terms that may have zipped over the heads of jurors in content but clearly delivered the message Pelle was after—the shot to Weaver's face was calculated, and probably unnecessary. What you'd expect from a killer with a personal vendetta, and not a simple burglary.
We also heard from the crime scene technicians, a gun expert, and the gardener who discovered Weaver's body. The testimony did little but reiterate what Dennison had said earlier.
Through all of it, Terri tried to appear relaxed and attentive, as I'd instructed, but she had trouble pulling it off. I could almost feel the agitation vibrating under her skin.
When the jury had filed from the room, she turned to me. “How long before I get a chance to tell my side?”
“We'll present our case when the prosecution has finished. Another couple of days, I'd say.”
“Will my turn come at the beginning or the end of our case?”
I straightened the papers on the table before me. “I haven't decided yet whether to have you testify at all.”
Putting a defendant on the stand was risky under the best of circumstances, and my faith in Terri fell somewhat short of that.
“I can do it,” she said testily. “I won't say anything stupid. The jurors will wonder about me if I don't testify.”
There was that, too. “Let's see how things play out first.”
<><><>
I stopped by home long enough to change out of my work clothes and take Loretta for a very quick walk. And to brush my teeth, completely redo my makeup, use the blow dryer on a few errant locks of hair, rub my skin with lavender-scented lotion, and try on and discard several outfits. I ended up, finally, settling on a pair of soft-drape black rayon slacks and an emerald green silk-blend tee.
I'd taken the shirt off the hanger and put it back again at least three times before slipping it on. It had been one of Tom's favorites—he liked the way the green accented my eyes and set off the red highlights in my hair—and it seemed somehow wrong to wear it to dinner with Steven.
But Tom was in Silver Creek, no doubt enjoying his own dinner with his wife, so what Tom thought about my eyes or hair didn't really matter, did it?
Steven greeted me with a quick kiss on the cheek. It was the sort of familiar but meaningless gesture Californians often used in lieu of a handshake. I wasn't even sure Steven realized what he'd done. He took the bottle of wine I'd brought and headed for the kitchen, leaving me a moment on my own to reflect on the softness of his lips against my cheek.
“You look terrific,” he said when I joined him in the kitchen. “That green is a great color on you.”
“Thanks.” Take that, Tom.
“Are you any good at chopping mushrooms?” Steven asked.
“Depends if you're talking amateur status or something grander.”
“The meal is most definitely amateur. I consider it an accomplishment that I can even boil pasta.”
Steven pointed to the chopping block by the sink and passed me a bag of mushrooms. “Knife is in the drawer to the left.” Handing me a glass of wine, he added, “It went pretty well in court today, don't you agree?”
That was something I had a hard time gauging. We hadn't been hammered over the head with irrefutable evidence, and we hadn't been ambushed by new revelations or unexpected testimony, but neither had I thrown any harpoons of my own.
“It certainly could have been worse.”
“I have the feeling it will continue to go well,” Steven said optimistically. He was washing leaves of butter lettuce and patting them dry with a towel. “I watched the jury during your cross of Dennison. That Mr. Ortiz we were concerned about kept nodding at everything you said.”
“Maybe he's got a tic.”
“Have faith, Kali.”
“Juries are unpredictable. You know that.”
He frowned. “Guess I'm trying hard to forget it.”
A large gray cat appeared at the kitchen doorway, yawned and st
retched, then idled over to Steven, weaving figure eights around his legs.
I smiled. “Somehow I never figured you for a cat person.”
“I'm not actually. But Felix came with the house.”
“His owners left him here?”
“I don't think he had any owners. He just showed up the day after I moved in and never left. I put up signs around the neighborhood, rang doorbells, but no one claimed him.”
“So you took him in.”
“Actually, I took him to the pound. Got inside the door before I realized I couldn't do it.”
“Sounds familiar. That's sort of how I ended up with Loretta.”
“Rebecca always wanted a kitten,” Steven added, somewhat subdued. He opened the cupboard and stared blankly at the contents.
“Why didn't you get her one?”
“Caroline didn't want pets in the house.”
There was nothing derisive about the words or their delivery, yet I knew intuitively that the remark was the tip of a large iceberg. The first hint he'd given that things hadn't been storybook-perfect between Steven and his late wife.
“I failed her,” he said after a moment. “I was her father, and I failed her.”
I had the feeling we were no longer talking kittens.
Steven reached for the olive oil and vinegar, and poured a little of each into the salad bowl. “I was supposed to pick her up that night. She'd gone home from school with a friend. I was going to stop by on my way home. Instead, I called Caroline and told her I had to work late. Then I went to your place.”
I felt the punch of Rebecca's death anew. “I didn't realize that.”
He busied himself with tearing lettuce leaves. “Do you know much about reincarnation?”
I shook my head.
“I don't either, but I've done some reading. An innocent child like that. Such a waste of a beautiful soul. That can't be the end of it.”
“I guess not.” Though I'd always wondered about the math. How could souls be recycled when there were so many more people alive now than in the past? Maybe God recruited from other planets.
“I'm sure it's not.”
It wasn't what he said so much as the dark, pained timbre he gave the words. I wondered if I was seeing the edge of the black hole Martin Bloomberg had spoken of.
Before I could think how to respond, Steven shook himself free from whatever demon had hold of him. “The news is coming on. Shall we see if they've covered the trial?”
“Let me have more wine first. I think I'll need it.”
He turned on the set but kept the volume low during coverage of an apartment fire, an attempted bank robbery, and ongoing conflicts between bicyclists and motorists throughout the city.
He peeled an avocado and began slicing it into the salad. “Are you going to build a defense that incorporates a different suspect?”
“Who would I point to? The vague, random-gunman theory isn't usually a winner.” And my list of potential standins was just that—a list. Unless I wanted to hazard to pick a name, toss it to the jury, and see if it stuck, I didn't have much to offer.
“What about the three musketeers?” Steven asked.
“The who?”
“Weaver's friends—Roemer, Billings, and Lomax. They certainly act like they're up to something.”
“There's nothing that ties them to the murder, though. All three claim to have alibis, and none of them drives a car with sheepskin seat covers.”
“Maybe we haven't pushed hard enough.”
“Hit the volume,” I said, jabbing a finger in the direction of the TV. “It's the trial.”
The coverage began with footage from the courthouse steps. I caught a glimpse of myself striding past the camera as I headed to court that morning. I came across as more confident and sophisticated than I'd felt, but could see that I badly needed a haircut.
The anchorwoman outlined the basics of the case, then switched to a reporter in the field who held a mike for Ted while he delivered what amounted to a pep talk for the defense. He managed to look attractively weary while still flashing plenty of white teeth.
The reporter then summarized the day in court—the prosecution's methodical presentation of evidence and the defense's uneventful attempts to chip away at the state's case. There were, she concluded, no surprises from either side.
The screen shifted to an impromptu interview with Len Roemer in the hallway outside the courtroom. “I want to see justice done. I want my friend's killer held accountable.” Roemer was close to a rant. The knife edge of hostility didn't make a lot of sense in light of the rather bland day in court. Then he got to the heart of the matter.
“A woman judge,” he continued, “a woman defense attorney, and a jury that's over half women. Against those odds, justice doesn't stand a chance. Terri Harper is going to get away with murder because women stick together. Our whole country is a conspiracy of women, and if we don't stand up and fight—”
The camera swung back to the reporter in the field, who wrapped it up with a smile and a “Back to you, Susan.”
“What's Roemer talking about?” I grumbled. “The judge hardly played favorites. As for the jury, women are harder on other women than men are.”
“He's nuts.” Steven flicked off the television set. “All three of them are. Like I said earlier, I also think they're up to something.”
“Such as?”
“I don't know. But we do know that Roemer and Billings had a falling out with Weaver.” Steven drained the pasta into a colander. “You want to toss the salad?”
“I finally spoke with Alexander Rudd,” I told him. I hated to spoil our evening, but if Steven was going to dissect defense strategy, he needed to know the whole picture.
“How'd you find him?” Steven asked.
“I had Jared keeping an eye on his mother's room at the hospital. I figured he'd show up at some point.”
Steven drizzled pesto sauce over the pasta and topped it with sautéed mushrooms. His earlier balloon of enthusiasm deflated. “I guess if he'd seen a different killer, you'd have said so by now.”
I swallowed against a mouth that was suddenly quite dry. “He says he saw a woman leaving the vicinity of the crime.”
Steven stood still, sauté pan held midair. Like a marble tribute to the joy of cooking.
“A woman?”
I nodded.
“Can he identify her?”
“No. He says he didn't see her face at all.”
The pan landed back on the stove. The marble became flesh.
“But he said she was blond,” I added. “And that she wore a large diamond on her left ring finger.”
“That describes a hell of a lot of women,” Steven grunted, giving the pepper shaker a heavy twist over the pasta.
“But taken with everything else—”
“Don't even go there.” His tone was sharp. “Terri would never kill anyone. And she most certainly didn't kill Weaver.”
“I'm not saying we should give up and roll over.”
He looked at me with skepticism. “What are you saying then, exactly?”
Good question. That Terri might be guilty? It was the thought I was dancing around. But I didn't want to give voice to doubt. Not as a friend of Steven's, and certainly not as Terri's attorney.
I shrugged. “I'm not sure I'm saying anything, really. Just passing on what Rudd told me.”
Steven nodded. “Fine. Just as long as you realize it doesn't mean much.”
Steven had set the table before I arrived. Black and white check tablecloth, striated pillar candles, and a small arrangement of sweet peas and zinnias from the garden. Now he lit the candles, put a Mozart concerto on, and dimmed the lights. Simple and informal as the dinner might be, the ambiance was anything but.
“I know very little about your life these last five years,” Steven said. “Except that you moved home to Silver Creek when Goldman & Latham broke apart, and now you're back.”
“That's about it.”
/> He laughed. “That's like saying Ulysses took a trip and returned again.”
“My years away were nothing like his, believe me.”
“I'm glad to hear it.” Steven's eyes met mine and held my gaze, bringing a tingle to my skin.
I began to talk, simply in order to break the spell. I told him about my father's death, the event that had taken me home to Silver Creek in the first place, and the family secrets I'd discovered quite by accident. I talked about the cases I'd tried, the practice I was building, and even, briefly, about Tom.
Steven said very little about himself.
After dinner I helped him clear the table. “Leave the dishes,” he said, “I'll get them later. You want some coffee?”
I shook my head. “Actually, I should be getting home.”
“It's early still.”
“I'm in the middle of a trial, remember?”
He put a hand on my waist and drew me close, brushing his lips against my hair. “Stay just a bit longer, why don't you.”
My forehead rested on his shoulder. “I wish I could.”
What was interesting, I noted with almost clinical detachment, was that my reluctance had almost nothing to do with Caroline and Rebecca but with the work awaiting me. I wondered whether that was progress or not.
“Maybe another time,” I said, reluctantly pulling away.
He kissed me on the forehead. “I can wait.”
CHAPTER 32
Mrs. Lucille Campe, the witness who claimed to have seen a dark color Explorer with a license number similar to Terri's, took the stand amid a tinkle of bells and bangles. She was a large woman dressed in a flowing batik caftan and a collection of beads, baubles, and bracelets reminiscent of the sixties.
“Mrs. Campe,” Pelle began, “can you tell the court what you were doing the evening of July 10 at a little before midnight?”
“I was taking my Penny out for her late-night constitutional.”
“Penny is—”
“AWelsh corgie.”
A few of the jurors smiled. Perhaps amused, as I was, that she'd overlooked the more generic response dog.
“Did you notice a car parked in front of your house that evening?” Pelle asked.
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