“Something like what?” Whitney asked.
“Obstruction of justice if they can prove you lied to them. Accessory after the fact, maybe murder one.”
We walked for a time. I’d laid it on pretty thick, but thought she needed to hear it. “If they arrested me, would they let Brian go?” she asked finally.
“Not likely.”
“There’s no chance they’re going to electrocute him or anything. Is there?”
“No. They haven’t charged him with capital murder.” Also, the default method of execution in Virginia was lethal injection. If you wanted the chair, you had to ask for it.
“That’s something, at least,” she said meekly.
“What police did you talk to last night? Did they come by your apartment?”
“Yes. A white man with a biker moustache…”
“…and a broad shouldered Hispanic man,” I finished. “I know them.”
“They seemed very nice. They’d found my fingerprints at Macy’s house and wanted to give me an opportunity to explain.”
“That wasn’t nice, that was tricky. How did the police come to have your prints for comparison?”
“They took them yesterday when they were searching Carytown Joe. They had this big white card…”
I knew about the white card they rolled your fingerprints on. “You didn’t mention them fingerprinting you when I saw you yesterday.”
“They made it seem very routine. I didn’t think it was important.”
“When your boyfriend’s locked up on a murder charge, everything’s important.” I managed another sip of my coffee, this time without breaking stride.
“What should I do now?”
“Nothing now. If you’re charged with anything, you should get another lawyer.”
“You won’t represent me?”
“It’s not that. Another lawyer might be able to get you off by throwing Brian under the bus. I couldn’t do that. Conflict of interest.”
“I wouldn’t want to get off, if it meant Brian…”
“I know.”
“And I don’t think he…I’d like you to represent me if you’re willing.”
“We’ll talk about it.”
“I’m scared.”
I stopped and turned to face her. “What’s done is done, and there’s no point in worrying about it.”
She searched my face.
“We’ll fight the good fight,” I said. “It will turn out all right.”
“How can you be so sure?”
I wasn’t, but I said, “All things work together for good.”
“Is that from the Bible?”
I didn’t know. “It might be,” I said.
“It might be,” she repeated as we turned to retrace our steps to Carytown Joe. “I’ll try to take comfort in an assurance that might or might not come from the Bible.”
“I know you want to help Brian, but the best way to do that is not to talk about this case to anyone, not until all this is over. Can you do that?”
“Yes.”
“Good. If the questioning is official, say you want your lawyer, that you’re not going to say anything except in my presence.”
“Then once you’re there...”
“I can make sure you still don’t say anything.” My coffee had ceased to be hot. I bent to pour it on some weeds growing between the sidewalk and the curb. It occurred to me that Whitney might be offended at my pouring out her gourmet coffee. “It gets cold fast out here,” I said by way of explanation.
She nodded.
As we approached the coffee shop, I slowed. The Ford Explorer parked against the curb looked chillingly familiar. The door opened, and James Jordan got out.
“Uh oh,” I said.
“I’m afraid so,” Jordan said. He reached into the car, and Ray Hernandez, sitting behind the wheel, handed him some papers. Jordan gave them to me.
I glanced at them. On top was an arrest warrant commanding any authorized law enforcement officer to bring Whitney Elizabeth Foster before a Virginia magistrate without delay. Like Brian Marshall, she’d been indicted for the murder of Macy Buck.
“What is it?” Whitney said.
“They’re arresting you for murder.” I handed the warrant to Whitney so she could read it. “Listen to me, Whitney. You’re going to be tempted to explain things—explain away evidence against you, maybe try to straighten out apparent inconsistencies in your prior statements. Don’t do it. You’re charged with first-degree murder. There’s going to be a trial, and nothing you say can make that trial go better. It can only make things worse. Do you understand?”
She nodded, dumbly. Jordan reached out and took the arrest warrant before it fluttered from her nerveless fingers.
“I’ll go in the shop and tell Jennifer what’s happened,” I said. “See if she can’t arrange for someone to come in to help her as needed.”
Hernandez was out of the car now, flanking Whitney and me. He said, “We’re willing to take her without handcuffs, because we’re a couple of male chauvinist pigs who don’t take women seriously. That okay with you?”
I nodded. “Thank you. Where are you taking her?”
“Courthouse. We’ll get her processed, then take her before a magistrate.”
Processing meant strip search, fingerprinting, mug shot, then waiting alone in a cell to be taken before a magistrate.
“I’ll be fifteen minutes behind you,” I told Whitney through Jordan’s open door. “Try not to think. The mechanics of the arrest process aren’t so bad if you don’t think about them.”
She didn’t respond. I wasn’t sure she’d heard me.
“Try not to think?” Jordan asked me.
“‘There is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so,’ ” I said.
“Is that some kind of new-age crap?”
“Hamlet.”
“Ah. Old World crap,” Jordan said.
“Hamlet’s talking about how the world’s a prison with many confines, wards, and dungeons. It seemed appropriate under the circumstances.”
Jordan shook his head. “I don’t know sometimes whether you’re a genius or a nut job.”
“I can’t be both?”
“Maybe you can, Starling. Maybe you can.” He got in the Explorer and pulled the door shut. I stood watching until it had crossed the Boulevard and disappeared in the direction of downtown.
I sighed and went into Carytown Joe to talk to Jennifer about what we needed to do to keep the business operating until such time as Whitney and Brian could return to it.
Chapter 15
Brooke Marshall’s door was open. I went in and sat down. She typed another thirty seconds or so, finishing her thought, then swiveled her chair to face me. “What?” she said.
“Whitney’s been arrested. She tried to give your brother an alibi, and it backfired. I was just at the courthouse for her presentation before a magistrate. Bail’s been set at 750,000 dollars, same as Brian.”
“Things aren’t getting better, are they?”
“It’s only been four days.”
“It feels like it’s been going on forever.”
“How are your parents taking it?” Her parents lived in Virginia Beach, about ninety minutes away, but I hadn’t seen them since Brian’s arrest.
“They don’t know about it. This would age them overnight.”
I was silent.
“You think I’m doing wrong not to tell them?”
“Their son’s future is at stake. Don’t you think they have the right to know?”
“It would be better if they found out when all of it was over. You know, an amusing dinnertime story about what’s been going on in our lives.”
I didn’t say anything to that either.
“You are going to win this,” she said.
“We can’t know that.”
“You’ve never lost a murder case yet.”
I rolled my eyes. I’d had three. “That’s kind of like saying I haven’t die
d yet, so I must be immortal.”
“Well, maybe you are. The facts haven’t proved you’re not.”
It seemed unproductive to argue the point. “I still think your parents ought to know.”
After a moment’s reflection, she said, “It means driving to Virginia Beach. I can’t do it on the phone.” She sighed. “Ah well. It’s not like I have a friggin’ life.”
“You do, too. You have a very friggin’ life.”
“Easy for you to say. You’ve got the world’s best dog and a boyfriend who worships you.”
“You’ve got family.”
“Brother in jail, parents who are going to collapse when they hear about it,” she said.
“You’ve got your work.”
“That’s the best you can do? ‘You’ve got your work’?”
“Friends,” I said.
She put a hand on mine. “You are a good friend, you and Paul both, but I’m a third wheel, and we all know it.”
“Third wheels are good,” I said. “Where would a tricycle be without one? It would just fall over.”
“It wouldn’t either. It would be a bicycle.”
“What would be a bicycle?” It was Paul, standing in the doorway.
“You and I would be, if Brooke weren’t around to keep us company.” I looked at my watch. “Isn’t it early for lunch?”
“I’m at Xenith Bank this week, just a block down on Cary. The examiner-in-charge let us go early, and I don’t have to be back until two.”
“Who’s the examiner-in-charge this week?”
“That would be me. So, where should we go to lunch?”
“You two go,” Brooke said. “I’ll get some work done.”
“What gives?” Paul said. “You haven’t been to lunch with us in a week.”
“Brooke thinks she’s a third wheel and she makes us a tricycle,” I said.
“The third wheel on a tricycle is the lead wheel,” Paul said. “It’s important.”
“You know what I mean,” Brooke said.
“So get yourself a man, and we can be a four-wheeler.”
“Easier said than done.”
Paul tossed his jacket on the worktable. “You sell yourself short. Name a man you want, any man. How about Mike? You seemed to get along all right with him last night. I know he likes you. ‘Peaches and cream, and just a hint of spice’? Just work a few of your feminine wiles on him, and he’s yours.”
“What feminine wiles?”
“Do I have to draw you a picture?”
“Maybe.”
Paul stepped toward her and turned her chair toward her computer screen. “Okay. Lean forward slightly, looking at the screen. Tell me, ‘Look at this.’ ”
“Look at this,” Brooke said.
Paul leaned over her shoulder, his own eyes on the screen, his cheek almost touching hers. He cut his eyes toward her. “See?”
“You’ve got your man-boobs resting on my shoulder. Is that what you mean?”
He straightened. “No need to get ugly. I was just trying to help.”
“I know. I’m sorry.” She kissed his cheek as she stood. “Here, you sit. Let’s see if I’ve got it.”
“Okay.” He took her chair, and she stood behind him.
“Give me my cue,” she said.
“Look at this,” Paul said, gesturing at the monitor and lowering a hand to the desk.
She leaned forward. “Wow,” she said softly. Her breath seemed to touch him just behind his left ear. She leaned further forward to bring their cheeks together. “I think I see what you mean.”
There were goose bumps on Paul’s forearm.
“Would you take your woman-boobs off my boyfriend’s shoulder?” I said irritably.
She turned her face toward Paul. “You’re so wonderful,” she breathed, her nose brushing his cheek.
“Cut that out,” I said.
She straightened, trailing her hand along Paul’s arm. His eyes rose to her face, and she gave him a smile.
He swallowed. “See?” he said hoarsely. He cleared his throat. “A casual touch here, a quick smile there. A flash of a little too much leg. You don’t need me to teach you feminine wiles.”
She fluttered her eyelashes at him, something I’ve never been able to come closer to than a rapid blink. It was a demure look that somehow gave the impression of her looking up at him, though he was sitting down and she was not. “I hit my knee on something last night, and I’m afraid it left a bruise. Do you see anything?” She put one foot forward and slid her skirt up her leg to mid-thigh as Paul’s eyes widened.
When I saw his tongue appear between his lips, I stood. “Okay, that’s enough. Reset.”
I tugged at his chair, rolling it backwards. “Let’s move you back from the desk about six inches.” I went around him to sit on the desk directly in front of him. Paul’s eyes cut to my legs before returning to my face, an automatic reaction that usually irritated me, but in this case was the reaction I had counted on.
I said, “Unconsciously you realize that by shifting your position just slightly you could look up my dress.”
He smiled uncertainly and kept his eyes firmly on my face. “It’s not that unconscious,” he said, flushing.
“But of course I can’t actually let you look up my dress. That would be low class and overtly sexual.” As his eyes cut down again, I pushed off the desk and walked around his chair. “I have to be innocent and disingenuous. That’s the way it works, isn’t it?”
I leaned over his shoulder. “Wow,” I murmured, almost in his ear. “Look at that.” I put my cheek against his.
He cleared his throat again, and I glanced at his face. His eyes were closed.
“Maybe you’re the one who should be more careful with her woman-boobs,” Brooke said. “I think he’s going into shock.”
I nipped Paul’s earlobe and straightened. Paul didn’t move.
“I think we’ve been unkind,” Brooke said. “He loves you, you know.”
Looking down at Paul, I felt suddenly uncomfortable. “I know.”
Still with his eyes closed, Paul said, “I’m still here, you know. I can hear you.”
“We thought you’d gone into a coma,” I said.
“I was just concentrating.”
“Ah.”
Brooke said, “So you think this kind of thing would work on Mike?”
“I can only envy him what’s coming,” Paul said, opening his eyes.
“I think I pity him,” I said.
“There’s a problem with your plan,” Brooke said. “I hardly ever see Mike. It’s not like he’s ever asked me out.”
“Easily resolved. Just one more exercise of feminine wiles. How come I’m the only one here who knows how to use them?”
“Think back to the first time we met,” I said.
“But that was...” He stopped. “You are good.”
“Still, I guess you’re going to have to help us here. How does Brooke use her wiles on a man who isn’t there to use them on?”
“I happen to know Mike’s out of the office this afternoon.” He looked at Brooke. “Call him at his office and leave a message. Just tell him it’s Brooke Marshall and leave your number.”
“And when he calls back?”
“When he calls back tell him you were going to see if he wanted to meet you for lunch tomorrow, but that something came up and you can’t.”
“And then what?”
“Then stop talking and wait.”
“Wait for what?”
“Wait for him to say something.”
“Suppose he doesn’t?”
“A man can only be silent for so long. You wait. He’ll talk.”
“What will he say?” I asked.
“If I know him at all, he’ll return the lunch invitation, and he might even make it dinner. Either way, he’s putting himself in your hands.”
After lunch, I worked in my office, which, I’m sorry to say, felt weird. It’s a bad sign when disposing of bloo
d-smeared jeans and climbing through windows seems like the normal part of the job. A little after two o’clock, a tap on my open door made me look up. It was Jordan.
“I’m almost surprised to find you here,” he said, which as I’ve said was pretty much the way I felt about it myself. He came in and dropped into one of my client chairs, leaned back and crossed an ankle over one knee. “I just heard about your antics out at Jack Packard’s place yesterday.” He rocked back on the back two legs of the chair, evidently in no hurry to get to his point.
I settled back in my own chair, determined to wait him out.
“Nothing to say in your defense?” he said finally.
“I didn’t know I needed a defense.”
“That was blood on his kitchen floor and going down the steps to his basement.”
“Human blood?”
“Now that’s an interesting question.”
I waited.
“Yes, it was human blood. Type O-positive. You don’t know whose it was?
“Type O-positive belongs to about forty percent of the population. I think I need a little more to go on.”
“We know you didn’t go through the front door,” Jordan said.
“I haven’t been able to get hold of Mr. Packard. I’m worried about him.”
“You know what my first thought was when I heard about all this? I thought, I wonder if it has any connection to the death of Macy Buck.”
“I might fool you some time and work on more than one case at a time.”
“Not this time. It turns out that Jack Packard was an acquaintance of Robert Walsh.”
“He read scripture at the funeral,” I admitted.
“And of course Macy Buck was Walsh’s therapist. Walsh may or may not have been murdered; the pathology results are inconclusive. Jack Packard is missing, and he may or may not have been the victim of violence. He may be off somewhere for reasons of his own, completely oblivious to the comings and goings of lawyers and police officers at his home.”
“Does Packard have O-positive blood?” I asked.
“Are you saying you don’t know whose blood is in his house?” Jordan countered.
“That’s what I’m saying. I’d like to know.”
Laughing Heirs (A Robin Starling Courtroom Mystery) Page 15