Exactly. Finally. Yes.
Progress! Progress.
“I can’t,” Alan said. “Be open, Lila. With you. I’ve tried. It’s not working.”
Wait. What?
“I will get back in touch if I begin to feel differently.” He stood.
I stood. “Our time isn’t up,” I said.
“It is,” Alan Gregory said.
39
ALAN
KIRSTEN PHONED ME LATER. She said, “I thought I’d get a reply to my last text.”
“Sam came over. I got distracted. Sorry.” I left out the part about the time I had used up quitting psychotherapy. I didn’t think Kirsten would be a fan of that decision.
Adrienne or Diane, I thought. Oh how I missed them. I would have loved to talk with either of them about quitting therapy. Diane would have given me shit. Adrienne would have applauded.
Kirsten was silent for a moment, as though she was allowing me time to reminisce and to mourn. I did realize it was far more likely that she was deciding whether or not to believe my distraction excuse.
She asked, “Alan, are you seeing patients Monday morning?”
The odds were that I wasn’t but I did a mental review of the empty spaces in my calendar. “I might have one. I will need to check, get back to you.”
“In the interim I will take that as a no.”
“Safe enough bet. My referrals have dried up. I am kind of unemployed.”
“Can you be at your office at ten? We need to talk.”
“I can come to your office, Kirsten. You don’t have to—”
“Humor me, please. Your office Monday at ten.”
“You don’t trust me to be at your office? I promise, Kirsten. I’ll be there.”
“Monday. Ten. Your office. We’ll talk. “
I asked, “Is this about the email from Elliot?” She hung up.
WINTER CONTINUED to be a stone skipping on water. It came, it went, it came back, mostly mocking the calendar. That first weekend of March was bitter cold, straight from the January playbook. But Monday morning arrived with a sneak preview of the May that was on the horizon. To me that meant a bike ride.
I rode downtown for my appointment with Kirsten. The day was not merely comfortable, it was truly warm; I hoped a little sweat wouldn’t offend her. After our meeting I planned to do a real ride: to climb Flagstaff up to Gross Reservoir. From there I would detour down Coal Creek Canyon to return to Spanish Hills.
My thighs and my lungs hated the ride up Flagstaff, but my spirit loved the ride along the high peaks, through the backcountry below Miramonte and Mirabelle, and then the steep downhill along Coal Creek to 93. I hadn’t quite decided to do the trip, though I wasn’t ambivalent about the ride or the route. I was concerned whether what I needed to carry with me would make the trip impractical.
The face-to-face meeting with Kirsten would allow me to show her the papers I’d found on Lauren’s desk—the “Personal, Work” file and the “Pending Resolution” envelope that were full of material that Lauren had brought home from the DA’s office. Kirsten was an ex-prosecutor from New Orleans. She would recognize the importance of the documents that Lauren, another prosecutor, had collected. Kirsten would be able to identify their genus, and she would have an opinion about what I should do with them.
The problem was that to get them downtown on my bicycle I would need to stuff them in a messenger bag and wear the thing on my back as I rode, not a problem for a commute, but not an ideal thing for a mountain climb. I finally decided that I could lock the bag in my office after I met with Kirsten. That would free me to make the grueling part of the ride unencumbered by the extra weight and aerodynamic inefficiency.
I ARRIVED DOWNTOWN an hour early. I pulled my bike into my office. I allowed the extra time so I could take a stab at draining the fountain in the waiting room. The acquisition of the ornate thing had been a unilateral decision of Diane’s during a renovation project. Maintenance had been her responsibility. But without the benefit of Diane’s preventive ministrations the water in the fountain was developing the unwelcome aroma of a neglected aquarium. My plan was to drain the installation and mothball it. The draining part went well; the artist on the llama ranch in Niwot who had designed and built the thing for Diane had installed a plug in the bottom of the reservoir.
Stench abatement was going to require the application of some bleach. I hesitated with the bleach because the fountain had a series of phallic copper tubes that transported gushing water in choppy cascades toward the bottom pool. I had no idea whether chlorine and copper got along. I would need to check Google. Or the Bing.
I heard a knock—too vociferous I thought—a couple of minutes before ten. I realized I had neglected to unlock the door to the waiting room for Kirsten. The animation in the pounding suggested that she was not pleased at my oversight.
The me that greeted Kirsten was wearing riding Lycra, bright yellow rubber gloves, and Diane’s take-care-of-the-fountain apron, a less-than-flattering thing that attempted the onerous task of relating the entire history of the teapot on a small expanse of fabric embellished with scalloped edges and a completely unnecessary touch of lace.
I hadn’t checked a mirror but I doubted that the ensemble worked. As ridiculous as I appeared I thought Kirsten’s expression carried way too much alarm. I said, “I’m dealing with some mold in the fountain. Chlorine? The apron is Diane’s. I apologize about the locked door. Time got away from me. Sorry.”
“You don’t know?”
Since the Dome Fire my adrenals were recalibrated to a hair trigger. Any natural gradation in hormonal release that was designed into the human body’s alert system was absent from mine. When my adrenals received a neural order to engage, the adrenaline release that followed was ejaculatory, not measured.
Kirsten’s “You don’t know?” triggered the neural order. My adrenals erupted like a sliced artery, my bloodstream instantly flush with liquefied fight-or-flight impulses. Out of the gate, fight had a good three or four bike-length lead on flight.
My dukes, such as they were, were ready for my enemies. Unfortunately I hadn’t identified my enemies. “I don’t know what?” I said as alarm seeped into every cell in my body, including my larynx. The words exited my mouth in an unflattering squeak.
She said, “The search? The cops outside?”
“What search? What cops?” I was nearing panic.
“No one gave you a warrant.” It was a statement, not a question.
“No one gave me anything. What cops?”
She took my hand and yanked me out the front door onto the porch. The first person I spotted was Detective Amal Sengupta, the Boulder police detective who had investigated Lauren’s shooting. He was standing in profile out near the Walnut Street sidewalk, checking some papers on an old-fashioned clipboard. Sengupta had a gently protruding, rounded belly. Although he was a slender man, his gut silhouette was that of an early second-trimester pregnancy. I had not noticed that before.
Sengupta had interviewed me the day after the shooting. He was serene, composed, and respectful that morning. I had answered his questions under my previous attorney’s guidance. The questions I had feared from him—the ones about Frederick and about the child’s drawing that Lauren had given me—were never asked. I had assumed that meant that Sengupta didn’t know that history. At the time I had also assumed that Elliot’s office didn’t know that history.
Until recently I had lived with the luxury that all that law enforcement ignorance was a good thing for me. But in the moment, in the teapot apron, I was rethinking all those assumptions.
I had seen Sengupta only once since that first interview. He had attended Lauren’s interment. I had no illusions about his presence that day. He wasn’t there as a mourner; he was there as an investigator. He wanted to see who showed up for the service.
He had been present to watch my daughter dance at her mother’s open grave.
Kirsten released my arm and marched to within
two feet of Sengupta. She was in a feisty mood with him, kind of mother-bearish in her intensity. I had never seen her in advocate action before. It was revelatory.
She said, “Detective?” When Sengupta didn’t look up from his papers, she moved even closer. She was inches from his clipboard. “Hey. I’m talking to you.”
Sengupta placed a finger on the spot he was reading. He lifted his head slowly, as though he was wary about allowing it to achieve any momentum. He said, “I assumed that. Addressing me as ‘detective’ was my clue. The ‘hey’ was unnecessary. Counselor.” His tone was modulated; he might have used the same voice to remind his young child about recapping the toothpaste tube.
Kirsten’s irritation level was aggravated by Sengupta’s composure, which may have been the detective’s intent. In any good cop/bad cop duo, Sengupta was the natural good cop. She said, “You told me that no one was inside.”
“Actually, Ms. Lord, I said no one responded to my knock. A difference. The knock was a courtesy. Courtesy, I find, goes a long way for us. So much of what we do in criminal justice is contentious. Don’t you think? Courtesy is like a salve.”
Kirsten returned to my side. She whispered, “Did you hear a knock?”
I whispered back, “I was in the back looking for bleach. I wouldn’t have heard a knock. What’s going on?” I was trying to remove the apron but I had managed to knot it behind me.
Kirsten said, “I’m not sure. I haven’t seen the warrant.”
I didn’t know what to make of the fact that one of the cops on the driveway was carrying a device that looked like a metal detector.
“What kind of warrant?” I said. I tried to think of warrants other than those that indicated probable cause for a search. I wasn’t wearing handcuffs, so it wasn’t an arrest warrant.
Sengupta meandered up the walk toward us. Ambled was probably a better word than meandered. The detective didn’t have a lot of hurry in him. However this situation developed in the next few minutes, we were not going to see Sengupta sweat.
Kirsten said, “I am Dr. Gregory’s attorney. May I see the warrant, Detective?”
His expression became one of disappointment, as though he’d recognized that his opponent wasn’t as skilled a chess player as he had hoped.
Kirsten had no patience for Sengupta’s process. Her reservoir of courtesy exhausted, she said, “Please?” in an impolite way. Her hand was out, palm up.
Absent any attitude Sengupta said, “There is no warrant. Nor is one necessary.” He faced me. “Dr. Gregory, the co-owner of your property provided permission for a search of the building and the grounds. One owner’s permission is sufficient. Today’s search is limited to the exterior of the property.”
Kirsten said, “Speak to me please, not to my client.”
“What co-owner? Dr. Estevez?” I asked. I didn’t care a tittle who spoke to whom.
Sengupta was delighted to defy Kirsten. He said, “No. Dr. Estevez’s husband.”
I said, “He is not an owner of the property. Check the deed.”
Sengupta pulled a solitary page from the papers in his hand. I could see the sheet was notarized. “Mr. Raoul Estevez is Dr. Diane Estevez’s attorney-in-fact. He authorized the search in her stead.”
I mouthed, Fuck me. “Raoul’s idea? Or yours?” I asked.
Kirsten said, “Shut up, Alan.” She stepped in front of me.
Even without the teapot apron I realized I wasn’t being an ideal client. Over my attorney’s shoulder I demanded, “Tell me, Detective.”
Kirsten glared at me. To Sengupta she said, “You contend that you have permission to search what exactly? And to look for what exactly?”
“Since no warrant was needed, no probable cause is required. I have no obligation to share any details with Dr. Gregory, or with his designated legal representative, Ms. Lord.” He smiled a flat smile at her. He was thrilled that he didn’t need to tell her, well, shit.
“Investigation of what?” Kirsten asked.
Sengupta looked at me. “I don’t see your personal vehicle on the driveway or on the street, Dr. Gregory. Where is your car parked?”
Kirsten whispered, “Don’t reply.” To Sengupta, she said, “Direct your questions to me. Why is that important, Detective? Neither Raoul nor Diane Estevez co-owns his vehicles.”
Sengupta pulled a folded document from the clipboard. “Judge Bunuelos has determined we have probable cause for a vehicle search. Actually, two vehicle searches.” He handed the papers to Kirsten. She examined them for mere seconds. She was not happy with what she read.
I said, “Bunuelos and Lauren had a history. Problems.”
She whispered in my ear. “Old news. Nobody cares. Where is your car?”
“Home. I rode my bike here.” I was thinking that the fact that I was wearing Lycra clothing should have been a clue to everybody. She rolled her eyes at my Lycra.
Sengupta’s assertion that Diane had granted Raoul power of attorney didn’t feel kosher. I put my lips to within an inch of my lawyer’s ear. “Can you challenge the POA? Diane may lack competence. Her concussion? The brain lesion? She’s being treated for an astrocytoma. Maybe surgery or radiation. She also has serious PTSD.” I had convinced myself. “Competent to sign a power of attorney? I don’t think so.”
“Good arguments,” she said. “But it won’t help. Not here, with Sengupta.”
She stepped away to join the detective. She was no longer posturing with him. She made the case about Diane’s lack of competence. Sengupta was attentive but I could tell he was being polite. Open-minded? No. A judge would sort out legal issues related to Diane’s competence later. Sengupta’s job was to collect the evidence he was tasked with collecting. The judge would determine what to do with the evidence.
The search of the property proceeded. My phone beeped. A text. Amy.
Got gr8 rushes! That moon! I have 2 days rnr in Aspen. Is the Jerome good? Come up? Deets to follow.
God. The phone rang before I had a chance to put it away. I checked the screen again, expecting it was Amy with the promised deets. I was wrong. It was the home landline. That meant the kids.
“I have to take this,” I said aloud to no one. I turned my back. Into the phone, I said, “It’s me. What’s up?”
40
I COULD NEVER DECIDE WHICH KID slept more soundly in the mornings.
That morning it was Jonas, apparently. Gracie was the child on the phone. Her voice was packed with drama, but Gracie went through life with Peter and the Wolf issues; her voice was often packed with drama. She said, “Daddy, Daddy! The police are here! At the door. They want you!”
Gracie was not a child who lied to get my attention. She sounded more exhilarated than frightened. But that was my daughter.
I felt a bolus of fresh adrenaline roar into my bloodstream. Gracie had said “police.” I immediately translated that to mean sheriff. We lived in rural Boulder County, not Boulder proper. Uniformed officers pounding on my door were likely to be sheriff’s deputies, not police. Or maybe officers accompanied by deputies.
“What do they want?” I asked.
“The police want you, Daddy. Now!”
I said, “Shit.” Because of all the friggin’ adrenaline in my friggin’ bloodstream I had transitioned from a silent damn to an aloud shit.
Gracie said, “That’s a buck in the cuss bucket. Come home, hurry! I have to pee. They’re at the door. They have a paper. I have to pee.”
A paper? A warrant? “Wake your brother before you pee, Grace.”
“Do I have to?” I could hear her growl as though she were standing in front of me.
“Yes, you have to. Tell him I’m coming right home. And, Gracie, are the dogs around?” If the dogs were home, one or both of them would be nearby her, or in her face. Most likely Fiji. Emily would be at the door, threatening to consume flesh from the officer with the warrant. Emily’s instincts were to protect the castle and its occupants.
“Um, no,” she said. She had jus
t recognized she was dogless.
“Have you seen Clare? Is she out walking the dogs?”
“I don’t see her. I guess she is.”
Clare was babysitting. An underemployed recent graduate of CU—her primary gig was at the counter of the new Snarfburger on Arapahoe—Clare was my crutch since Sofie returned to Holland. Jonas didn’t require a sitter, but Grace did. Clare’s presence meant that the dogs were cared for and that Jonas wasn’t tied down. Clare gave me peace of mind. I hoped she also gave Jonas, adolescent in most ways, a bit of a fantasy life.
“When she gets back, tell her I’m on my way and to be careful with Emily. Emily isn’t always nice to strangers. Stay on the line while you wake your brother.”
Sengupta and Kirsten continued their tête-à-tête. I ran down the stairs of the porch and forced myself between them. My tone was neither cordial nor respectful. I said, “You’re searching my home, Detective? Simultaneously?” The question came out of my mouth as an accusation. I blamed it on the adrenaline overdose.
Kirsten grabbed my arm. She said, “Alan, please, let me—”
“Answer me,” I barked at the serene detective. I didn’t yell, but I came close.
Sengupta hesitated. That convinced me that my worst fear was true. Authorities—I didn’t yet know which ones—were mounting simultaneous searches on my home, my office, and my vehicles.
Kirsten pulled me aside so forcefully I found myself surprised at her strength. I told her what Grace had told me. I asked if there was any way to stop the police from searching my home until I could be with the kids. To protect the kids from more trauma. I must have said, “They are too vulnerable for this,” three different times.
She thought for a few seconds before she said, “Maybe I can slow things down here. At your house? If they have a warrant? No. Your vehicles, no. I’m sorry, Alan. I am so sorry. This is escalating, I’m afraid. We feared this.”
“They woke my daughter. The cops woke my daughter. My son is still asleep. They’ve been through so much already. This can’t happen to them. Not like this. Please. Do something. Get them to wait. Just until I get home. Please.”
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