Alicia found everything on that Saturday evening hard to believe. It was hard to believe that Joan Hudson Gaines was sitting in the Adult Detention Center charged with her husband’s murder. It was even more mind-boggling that Alicia had put her there, resuscitating her own prosecutorial career by refusing to abandon a murder investigation she believed was seriously offtrack. Judge Dede Frankel was planning action against Kip Penrose with the California Bar Association for impeding the investigation. And Treebeard would soon be a free man.
Not only that, but Milo Pappas had landed in the emergency room for protecting Alicia from Joan Gaines. Alicia found that about as unfathomable as everything else.
Outside Louella’s window Alicia watched a couple stroll past, arm in arm, heads bent against the January wind. They had the look of being on a Saturday date, not their first and certainly not their last. They laughed and chattered and walked quickly, their steps in easy unison.
“I’m going to break up with Jorge,” Alicia said.
Louella arched her brows. “Come again?”
“I should’ve done it before.”
“You mean you should’ve done it before you got those roses.”
Alicia said nothing. She was increasingly convinced she had treated two men unfairly. She might be able to go only part of the way toward making amends, but it was time to do it.
Louella lolled back in her chair and trained her eyes on the ceiling. “Mind if I ask you something?”
“Shoot.”
“Mind if I go after Jorge?”
“You want to? Really?” Alicia laughed, then thought about it. “No, I don’t mind.”
“Mind if I ask you something else? Did you get those roses from Milo Pappas?”
She felt Louella’s laser stare. “Yes.”
Louella said nothing for some time. Then, “You know, I have to say I was impressed watching him jump in front of you like that today. That was pretty heroic stuff.”
That notion bounced off the gray padded walls of Louella’s cubicle. In the chaos of Joan’s attack, Milo’s injury, and Joan’s arrest, Alicia had had no time to talk to Milo. He’d been sped off in an ambulance without even a backward glance to her. Even if he was “heroic,” what am I supposed to do about it? By now I’m sure he wants nothing to do with me.
The early noises from the Board of Sups were that she’d get her job back. Though it was too soon to say for sure, it certainly looked as if she would take Penrose’s place in prosecuting Joan Gaines for Daniel Gaines’ murder, with Rocco Messina at her side. Reporters had already begun to ask if she planned to challenge the badly weakened Kip Penrose for D.A. in November. If he were the target of an official investigation, he might be pretty easy to beat, despite all the fund-raising money he had socked away. She’d have to mount an instant campaign, but for the first time in years she’d have enormous name recognition. Not to mention major momentum, if indeed she were appointed the lead prosecutor in the Gaines case. Her name would be in the news constantly without her having to spend a single ad dollar.
All of a sudden Alicia Maldonado was a hometown hero again. Overnight she’d gone from a miscreant prosecutor to a never-say-die D.A. who protected the little guy from the rich and powerful. It was a second chance in a world that didn’t hand out a lot of those.
She wondered if she’d be pressing her luck to try for a second chance somewhere else, too.
Louella’s phone rang. She answered, said yes twice, then hung up and turned to Alicia. “Libby Hudson’s here, with her lawyer.” She rose from her chair. “They’re waiting in the conference room.”
*
Milo arrived at San Francisco airport three hours early for his red-eye flight home to D.C. He paid the driver who’d ferried him north from Salinas, then paused on the pavement in front of the terminal.
Saturday evening was a strange, in-between time at airports. It was the midpoint for the weekend-travel crowd, so none of them were in evidence. Businesspeople wouldn’t be flying until the following afternoon and evening. Only travelers with odd itineraries were around, like him.
He set his briefcase atop his rolling bag. Wide glass doors slid back to admit him into the cavernous terminal. In a departure from his usual habit, and in deference to his broken ulna, he decided not to carry his bag onto the plane but to check it through.
The redhead working business-class check-in recognized him before he’d handed over his driver’s license. Her eyes widened in obvious surprise at his appearance. “Mr. Pappas, how are you?”
His face was more than a little banged up. “It looks worse than it feels,” he told her. Actually, he felt like hell. Physically and every other way.
“I’ve been hearing on TV about what you did,” she said, then flushed. Milo knew why. News of his abrupt firing from WBS was a widely reported sidebar to the tale of his battering at the hands of his former lover, Joan Gaines. At least he was getting credit for protecting prosecutor Maldonado from the accused husband killer, which burnished to an even higher sheen his reputation as a stud.
He was enough of a cynic to believe that was the reason that WBS executives were spinning his termination the way they were. The network’s official line was that WBS and its star correspondent had “arrived at a mutual decision to part ways.” Milo guessed that WBS brass knew the public would not applaud their firing a reporter who protected women despite harm to himself. He was equally certain that O’Malley was spreading a more insidious explanation of Milo’s termination to anybody who would listen.
“You’re all set,” the ticket agent said a minute later, and handed Milo his ticket with a smile. He thanked her and proceeded to security. This was the last time he’d fly on WBS’s dime, he realized. After how many thousands of flights over his dozen years of employment? Still, the network was dotting every I and crossing every T, returning him to his home base before washing their hands of him.
He emerged at the other side of security at a loss. Now he had two and a half hours till his flight. Where to go, what to do? Always-on-the-go Milo Pappas wasn’t used to such a surfeit of time. Or pleased with it, either. Time was hardly a joy when it felt empty and useless.
For lack of a better alternative, he set himself up in the airline’s red-carpet lounge. A beer and a few handfuls of nuts later he felt better, but not by much.
Would he get another TV job? Certainly. With a network? Possibly. With the prestige of Newsline? No way. Unless he was named a rival network’s main anchor, which was about as likely as O’Malley suddenly morphing into his biggest fan, whatever post next came his way would be a comedown.
Then again, the unlikely had been happening lately. Amazing as it was, Alicia had found enough evidence to charge Joan with Daniel’s murder. She’d bulldozed her way from a gut feeling to an arrest, despite getting fired in the process. It was impressive. She’d get her job back, he knew. Or a better job. He wasn’t worried how Alicia would fare. She was made of strong stuff.
How ironic that Alicia thought he was involved with Joan when he wasn’t. It was the only time he could remember when he’d been wrongly accused of cheating. He was blameless, but guilty by reputation. And it had cost him the first woman in years he cared about losing. It left him feeling hollowed out, as if for a long time to come his life would consist of nothing more than going through the motions.
A waitress came by and Milo ordered a second beer. In a corner of the lounge a television was tuned to MSNBC, which was doing a roundtable on women who committed murder. Joan Gaines would be an enormous story, Milo knew. Her transgressions against Daniel, and against nature—given the tree-felling scheme that had just been exposed—would make her one of the most notorious figures of her day. “Governor’s Daughter Turns Husband and Tree Killer!” The tabloid potential was mind-boggling.
Joan Gaines would be a huge story and Milo Pappas would be sidelined. How ironic, he thought; how sad. How in keeping with everything else in his life at that painful juncture in time.
*
Alicia preceded Louella through the wide-open door of the D.A. office’s main conference room. It was as unprepossessing a space as could be found in any county office building, with turn-your-skin-green fluorescent lighting, grime-streaked windows, and furnishings so timeworn the Salvation Army would refuse to accept them for donation. It looked like the sort of room where people who worked too hard made what they could of bad situations.
At the table’s head sat a woman as unsuited to her surroundings as the queen of England would be to a trailer park. She was a tiny but powerful presence, white-haired and bird-thin, in a severe navy suit softened by the largest, most outrageously perfect pearls Alicia had ever seen. Behind her right shoulder, like a loyal vassal, stood an older man in a conservative suit.
Alicia was mildly irritated that Libby Storrow Hudson had claimed the conference table’s most powerful position, but supposed that a woman of her ilk would do no less. Alicia offered her hand. “I’m Deputy D.A. Maldonado,” she said, earning such a keenly appraising stare she immediately felt compelled neither to blink nor look away.
It took Libby Hudson some time to speak, but when she did her voice was as cold as the wind that lashed her native Massachusetts. “Have you been reinstated as a prosecutor, Ms. Maldonado?”
“Not officially, though I expect to be shortly.”
“And you have that expectation because you’ve arrested my daughter for her husband’s murder.” Libby Hudson’s voice was oddly matter-of-fact, given the enormous emotional underpinning of her statement.
Alicia regarded her for a moment. “Your daughter was arrested for Daniel Gaines’ murder because of very compelling evidence, Mrs. Hudson.”
The older woman arched her brow. “Compelling, is it? Well, we shall see about that.”
So that is why she’s here. Alicia stepped aside to allow Louella to introduce herself, and made the acquaintance of Henry Gossett, who she learned was the Hudson family counsel. Then, in her own strategic positioning, she claimed the opposite head of the conference table.
This visit wasn’t so surprising, really. More than once family members had appealed to her to drop charges against their loved ones. Occasionally they made a persuasive case. In this instance Alicia would refuse to be swayed. For what arguments could Libby Hudson make? The evidence against her daughter might be circumstantial but together the pieces created a perfect mosaic of guilt. All Libby Hudson could do was fall back on the usual bullying tactics of the rich and powerful: subtle though undeniable threats that the Hudson family would make Alicia’s life difficult, derail her career, besmirch her reputation. All of which had already happened, and over all of which Alicia had already triumphed.
No, she wouldn’t budge, though the prospect of tangling with the Hudsons was more than a little fearsome. Get used to it, she told herself. This is practice for the face-off you’ll get in court.
Louella took the seat to Alicia’s left, while Henry Gossett claimed its mirror opposite. The two opposing pairs were perfectly balanced, though empty space yawned between them.
Through the conference room’s dirty windows came the muffled noises of a Salinas Saturday night, the revelry just getting under way. People walked past en route to early dinners at Spado’s a few blocks down Alisal Street. Car horns blared as traffic began to clog the street, and rap music pounded so loudly from a passing radio that Alicia felt the floor shudder beneath her shoes.
Libby Hudson spoke. “You claim the evidence you have against my daughter makes a compelling case for her guilt. Yet this office claimed the same thing against Treebeard just days ago.”
Louella spoke up. “New evidence has come to light that indicates your daughter framed Treebeard for her husband’s murder.”
“Are you referring to the bow found on the property?” Gossett asked. His tone was disdainful.
“In part,” Alicia said. “Joan’s fingerprints are all over it.”
“Of course they are. She was forced to use it to protect herself from Milo Pappas.”
Alicia and Louella glanced at each other. That was quite a twist Joan and her attorney were putting on that episode.
“What other evidence do you have?” Henry Gossett demanded.
Alicia kept her tone measured. “Mr. Gossett, we have no intention of arguing our case before you and your client. It will be presented before a judge and jury and not before.”
“Long before you go to court,” he insisted, “you will be required to share your supposed evidence with defense counsel.”
“And I will do so, as the law requires.”
Again Alicia felt herself under Libby Hudson’s laser stare. Clearly she and her attorney were trying to ascertain just how much Alicia and Louella actually knew versus how much they were bluffing. Alicia didn’t want to tip her hand yet at the same time had no desire to prolong a pointless conversation.
Libby Hudson spoke. “My daughter was in Santa Cruz the night Daniel was murdered. She didn’t return to her home until the following morning.”
Louella answered. “Actually, your daughter did return to her home that night, Mrs. Hudson. We have an eyewitness who places her there, and in addition a credit-card receipt proving she was in the area.”
Alicia stared across the expanse of conference-room table and saw the first chink in the older woman’s armor. Beneath the discreet cover of foundation her skin paled, just a shade, and her mouth revealed the slightest tremor. Gossett was about to speak when Libby Hudson laid a silencing hand on his arm.
“Ms. Maldonado,” she said, “you claim to have means and opportunity for my daughter to have committed this crime. But what motive could you possibly imagine she possessed for murdering her own husband?”
Alicia spoke carefully. “I know that over the course of his marriage to your daughter, Daniel Gaines became a very powerful member of your family. I also know that he did not always exercise that power well, either when it came to your husband’s living trust or to Headwaters. Believe me, Mrs. Hudson, I will be able to convince a jury that your daughter had a motive for murder.”
Alicia fell silent and the two women regarded each other. For a moment Alicia was thrown back to that evening in the Lodge, when she and Kip Penrose had gone to brief Joan Gaines on the investigation into her husband’s murder. On that night Alicia had stared into the imperious eyes of this woman’s daughter. Superficially the eyes of mother and daughter were the same, blue and ice-cold. Alicia sensed, though, that the will they revealed was much more powerful in the older woman than in the younger.
“You are determined to press murder charges against my daughter?” Libby Hudson asked.
“Yes,” Alicia answered.
For a time, no one said a word. Then Libby Hudson looked at her counselor and nodded, as if she were delivering a signal. He dropped his eyes and shook his head, only once, the picture of a man who had argued vigorously but here, now, was forced to accept defeat.
Alicia watched the interaction between attorney and client and something clicked into place in her mind. Wait. Joan wasn’t the only Hudson to have a motive for murdering Daniel Gaines.
Alicia stared across the conference table at Libby Storrow Hudson, so proper, so aristocratic, so strong-willed. She had the same motive for killing Daniel that her daughter did. Arguably an even stronger one. As Web Hudson’s widow she was the other major beneficiary of his living trust. She, too, would have been outraged at how Daniel had abused the trust and stolen the Headwaters stake from the family. She was directly hurt by it, even more than her daughter. And she would feel Daniel’s insult to Web Hudson even more keenly.
Fragments of memory crowded into Alicia’s brain, bits and pieces of legend and lore that people chewed on when they were in the mood to gossip. She spoke into the silent room. “Mrs. Hudson, you competed in the Olympic trials some years back, is that correct?”
The older woman smiled. For the first time, the look she gave Alicia was tinged with respect. “Yes, I did.”
Some
where far away in the D.A.’s office a phone rang. Alicia was far more conscious of the thunder in her own ears. “In what sport?”
Libby Hudson hesitated only briefly. Then, “Archery.”
There it was, the final piece.
“You killed Daniel Gaines, didn’t you?” Alicia asked.
“Yes,” she said, “I did.” The confession was delivered in the same matter-of-fact tone Alicia had heard earlier. No regret, no emotion, just a woman saying what she must.
“He was never worthy of my daughter,” she went on. It was a confident declaration, made by a woman who had a very clear notion where she stood in the world. “He was never worthy of association with the Hudson name. He was a detestable, lowborn man who used my family in whatever vile, scheming ways he could concoct.” She paused, and shuddered visibly. “I killed him because I could not allow him to destroy my daughter’s life, which, as you apparently discovered as well, he was in the process of doing. And now I have the identical motive for telling you the truth. I will not destroy Joan’s life by allowing her to pay for a crime she did not commit.”
Alicia had some difficulty focusing her thoughts, which were batting around in her brain like crazed birds desperate to escape their cage. Could this be another lie? Is this woman saying what she must to protect her daughter? If so, it was the most astonishing display of maternal loyalty Alicia had ever seen. Yet somehow she believed Libby Hudson capable of such a feat of courage. Much more than she could believe her daughter capable of it.
“You see,” Libby Hudson went on, “it doesn’t really matter what happens to me. I will fight to be exonerated, you may be sure. Yet whatever the outcome, I will already have lived a bountiful life. Joan is young and has many years ahead of her. I have protected her inheritance. I have ensured her future.” She turned her piercing blue eyes on Alicia. “A mother knows when a child needs a guiding hand. I know that Joan does, and I have provided it.”
To Catch the Moon Page 36