by Paul Bishop
Chapter 24
Things were going from bad to worse.
Fey was sitting in the comfortable living room of Mrs. Kathleen Bridges, having another piece of evidence against Isaac Cordell blown out the window.
After finishing her late lunch with Annie, Fey knew she had to go back to the foundations of the investigation, rebuild the case from scratch. She felt sure there had to be some kind of trace evidence to tie Cordell to the crime scene.
His connection to the victim was logical, motive abounding, but far more was needed for successful prosecution. Getting twelve straights on a jury to agree on anything beyond a reasonable doubt was always tricky. When the charge was murder, you needed to hit them over the head repeatedly with the evidence to win a conviction. You had to remember, you were dealing with twelve people too stupid to get out of jury duty.
Reviewing the evidence, the motive had originally been provided by Card MacGregor via the prior case in San Francisco. Then Cordell was placed at the scene, identified by the witness who lived across the street. When Monk Lawson came back with the positive ID, everyone was convinced Cordell was responsible. The only thing needed was to get him in custody.
Wrong.
Their solid evidence turned porous.
Eyewitness identifications were notoriously unreliable. Driving back from Parker Center, Fey determined to pay her own visit to Mrs. Kathleen Bridges—the woman who had so conveniently dumped Cordell in the crap. Even though she was prepared for the worst, Fey was still surprises by Kathleen Bridges.
A stern-looking woman answered the door to Fey's knock. She managed to appear confused and intrigued when Fey identified herself.
“Are you Kathleen Bridges?” Fey asked, slipping her badge back in her purse.
“Yes.” The woman’s voice held a suppressed south Texas drawl. “Is this about the murder?”
Through the partially open door, Fey could see the woman was in her early sixties with the wrinkled face of a lifetime smoker. Judging by her expensive designer sweats, the condition of her nails, and her stylish hairdo, she had money to pamper herself. A single strand of pearls hung over the crew neck of her black velvet sweat top.
“I'm sorry to bother you again,” Fey said. “I have a few more questions.”
The woman looked confused, but opened the door to admit her guest. The inside of the townhome was tastefully furnished, but it was clear most of the pictures and antiques used as decorating highlights had been in place for a long time. It was definitely a home where the woman was comfortable with her memories. Fey instinctively felt the woman was a widow. When she stopped to admire a particularly riveting painting, her judgment was confirmed.
“Musashi,” the woman said, referring to the Japanese samurai depicted in stunning detail on the canvas. “My late husband was fascinated by the samurai code of Bushido. Musashi is the most famous of the Japanese swordsmen. My husband found the painting on a business trip. Personally, I find it a little terrifying, but now Edgar is gone, I can’t take it down.”
“Musashi wrote the Book of Five Rings,” Fey said. She was friends with a retired policeman who was heavily into samurai philosophy. He’d given her the book as a gift.
“You’re familiar with the work?” The woman looked impressed.
“Slightly.”
Fey was ushered to a nondescript couch.
“I want to talk to you about the identification you made yesterday.” Fey said, thinking about how much had happened since.
The woman looked confused again. “I don't understand,” she said. “What identification?”
“The man you saw on the night of the murder.”
The woman shook her head. “I’m sorry…”
Fey paused. “You are Mrs. Kathleen Bridges?”
“Yes.”
“You talked to a detective yesterday who showed you some photographs.” Fey held up the photo lineup Monk had used for the identification.
“No. I didn’t.”
It was Fey's turn to look confused. The woman appeared normal, but you could never tell.
“I'm sorry, Mrs. Bridges. I was told Detective Monk talked with you yesterday.”
The woman looked amused. “I would have remembered if he had. The murder is the talk of the neighborhood. A visit from a detective would have made a good piece of gossip.”
Fey didn't know what to do or say next. She was floundering for words when she was saved by a sharp voice from the second level of the residence.
“Kathy! Kathy! Who's here?”
Kathleen Bridges shifted her gaze to an open hallway running across the second floor of the townhouse. “It's a detective, Mother Bridges.” The woman's eyes came back to meet Fey's, then rolled in exasperation. “My mother-in-law,” she said in explanation.
There was a series of noises from the second floor. Kathleen Bridges jumped to her feet. “It's all right, Mother Bridges,” she said, moving toward the stairway. “You don't have to come downstairs.” She turned her head back to Fey. “She's a dear, but it takes forever to get her back up the stairs.”
Fey wondered why the woman didn’t have a bedroom on the ground floor. As if reading her thoughts, Kathleen Bridges gave her an answer. “We tried giving her a room downstairs, but she was always underfoot. Before he died, Edgar and I could never get a minute to ourselves. Even now he's gone, it's best to keep her out of the way.”
“Hello,” said the older woman as her daughter-in-law failed to stop her determined descent. “How nice it is to have visitors.”
The woman was slight and stooped, fifteen to twenty years older than her daughter-in-law. Her eyes still sparkled, giving her the appearance of a retired fairy godmother. She took small steps in a pair of fuzzy mules and a cotton housecoat. She held out a liver-spotted hand. Fey shook it, feeling the frail bones beneath the parchment-dry skin.
“You're a police detective?” she asked Fey.
Fey smiled. “I am.”
“How exciting for a woman to be doing your job.” The eyes twinkled. “In my day, we had police matrons. They took care of the children and the woman prisoners. Now look.”
Kathleen Bridges put her hands gently on the woman's shoulders and guided her to a seat. The woman went willingly, sitting down while staring at Fey.
“I'm sorry,” Kathleen Bridges said.
“It's fine,” Fey told her. “It’ a pleasure to meet your mother.”
“Mother-in-law,” Kathleen Bridges said.
Fey held up the photo lineup. “Are you sure you've never seen these photos before?”
“Positive,” Kathleen Bridges said.
Fey sighed.
“I've seen them,” Mother Bridges said from her chair.
Fey looked at her sharply.
“Don't be ridiculous, Mother Bridges.” Kathleen Bridges moved to her mother-in-law's side and patted her on the shoulder.
“I've seen them. It was like on TV.”
“What are you talking about?” Kathleen Bridges' voice was rapidly filling with impatience.
Fey leaned forward in her chair. “What is your mother-in-law's first name?”
The woman stopped her patting movements in mid-action. “Its Kathleen, the same as mine...Oh, my...I never thought...I always call her Mother Bridges. Edgar and I laughed about the coincidence when we were first married.” She shifted her look from Fey to her mother-in-law.
“Do you ever leave Mother Bridges home alone?”
“Sometimes. She's okay if she doesn't have to make any meals.”
“Did you leave her alone yesterday?”
The woman thought. “I ran errands in the morning. I was gone for maybe an hour. She doesn't answer the door when I'm gone, so I'm sure she didn't talk to anyone.”
Fey stood up and walked over to crouch in front of the older woman. “Can I call you Mother Bridges?” she asked.
“Of course, my dear.”
“Did you answer the door while your daughter-in-law was out yesterday?”
“I did,” the old woman said smugly.
“Mother,” Kathleen Bridges said, with a heavy dose of exasperation.
“Stop fussing,” the older woman said. “I was bored, and he was very handsome.”
“Was he a black man? A detective?” Fey asked.
“Yes. Polite and nicely dressed.”
“Did he ask about seeing somebody enter the house across the street the night the woman was murdered?”
“Yes. I told him what I saw from my bedroom upstairs. So exciting talking to a real detective—like on TV.”
“Did the detective show you some photographs?”
“Yes.”
“These photographs?” Fey asked. She handed Mother Bridges the photo lineup.
Mother Bridges took the lineup and squinted at it. “I picked this one,” she said, pointing to the picture of Cordell. “Your detective was very excited. I was glad I picked the right one. I didn't want to disappoint him. He was so nice.”
“Is this your signature?” Fey pointed to the name scrawled under the picture.
“Yes.”
Thank goodness, Fey thought. Mother Bridges seemed pretty sharp. Her identification of Cordell would probably hold up. Her sparkling eyes alone would convince a jury.
“Mother Bridges,” her daughter-in-law broke in. “How could you possibly see anyone across the street? You can hardly see across the room even with your glasses.” Kathleen Bridges turned her head to speak to Fey. “Her eyesight is so bad, she can't read anymore. I bring her books on tape from the library. We also put drops in her eyes since her cataract operation. The drops make her vision blurry.”
Fey looked closely at the old woman's eyes. What she had taken to be a sparkle was light reflecting off the medicine drops.
“Mother Bridges.” Fey took the old woman's hand. “This is important. Can you honestly identify this man?”
The old woman looked stubborn for a moment and then shrugged. “I didn't want to disappoint your detective. I didn't see anyone across the street. I only wanted company and he was so nice.”
I bet he was, thought Fey. Monk believed he'd found a witness who could break the case. What detective wouldn't be nice?
“When he showed me the pictures,” Mother Bridges continued, “I picked one. I didn't like the looks of this character.” She pointed again to Cordell's picture. “Your detective was so pleased. He said he'd come back, but now I guess he won't.” Mother Bridges sounded disappointed. “Am I going to be in trouble?” Her lower lip trembled.
With an effort, Fey patted the old woman's hand and struggled to reassure her. “Thank you for being honest, Mother Bridges.” She forced a smile. “You're not in trouble.”
But I am, thought Fey. Right along with this case.
Chapter 25
Fey and Monk were alone in Mike Cahill's office, sitting across from each other at the round conference table.
“I’m sorry, boss. I had no idea.”
Fey waved her hand and sighed.
“I expected more from a veteran detective. Hell, I would have expected more from Colby.”
Monk hung his head.
Fey felt bad. She was trying to keep the butt-chewing low key, but Monk had earned it. He'd shown the original lineup to Mother Bridges. Everyone took his word the identification was righteous.
“I know you thought you had this nailed down,” she said, in a softer voice. “The old lady could have fooled a lot of people. Sometimes we get caught up in what we want to hear—not what is really being said. However, you know how easily identifications can fall apart.”
“I still can't believe it.” Monk shook his head in amazement. “She was so freaking convincing.”
Fey fought a chuckle. Mother Bridges had almost sucked her in.
“Those twinkling eyes,” Monk said. The chagrin in his voice was so genuine, Fey couldn't hold in her laugher.
Monk's eyes flashed, but realized she held no malice. He let his own deep chuckle leak out.
The two detectives got a grip, then looked at each other and started laughing again until they had tears in their eyes. The laughter was cathartic, releasing the stress of the situation as well as the pent-up anticipation Fey had been carrying since hearing Cordell's phone message.
When they calmed down, Fey wiped her eyes and tried to get back on track. “The case against Cordell is collapsing. We need to find a hammer and nail the bastard down.”
“You still believe Cordell is the best suspect?”
“At the moment. The murder weapon was recovered in his crib.”
“What about a framed-up?”
Fey’s interest sharpened “Talk to me.”
Monk shrugged. He didn't want to look foolish again.
“Out with it,” Fey encouraged.
“What's his lawyer’s stake in this? The guy was bankrupt when he went to prison. HeH, didn't get rich on the inside. So why is Ryder working so hard?”
“You don't believe in altruism?”
“No. And I don't believe she's on a quest to right a judicial wrong.”
“Maybe she has a movie deal?”
“Anything is possible, but I don't think so.”
“Me either,” said Fey.
“There's other points bothering me.”
“Like what?”
“How did Cordell get paroled in San Francisco an immediately move into a half-way house within a mile of his supposedly dead wife?”
“Coincidence?” Fey said, lightly.
“Not in this line of work.”
Fey nodded. “You want to do some digging?”
“Absolutely.” Monk was eager to repair the damage to his reputation.
“We're also need to backtrack the victim. This change of identity stuff is nonsense. I want to know who she really is, what her story is, and who else might have wanted her dead.”
“I’m on it,” Monk said.
Through the window of Cahill's office, Fey saw Hatch holding up a phone and pointing toward her.
“I'm being paged,” Fey said, standing up.
“Boss,” Monk said, stopping Fey at the door. “I'm sorry I let you down.”
Fey smiled. “I know. It’s what makes you a valuable friend. She jerked a thumb toward the squad room. “Others would be sorry for screwing up, but not care how it affected me. I appreciate you.” The two detectives nodded at each other.
Fey went to handle the next crisis.
“What do you have?” she asked, approaching Hatch.
“I’m screening press calls, but this might be different. The guy has called three times. He insists on talking directly to you.”
“Is he a flake?”
Hatch shrugged. Fey sometimes wondered if it was a habit he'd picked up from Monk or the other way around.
“I don't think so,” Hatch said. “He's a straight, but he sounds squared away.”
Fey walked to her desk. “What line?”
“Eighty-four-ten.”
She pulled a clip earring off her left ear and picked up the phone. “Detective Croaker,” she said into the mouthpiece.
“My name is Longley, Myron Longley,” said an assured male voice. “I manage the Wilshire Boulevard branch of Beverly Hills Savings Bank.”
“What can I do for you?”
There was a slight hesitation, then Longley asked, “You are in charge of the Miranda Goodwinter murder investigation?”
“I am.”
Seemingly reassured, Longley continued. “I saw the picture of Miriam Cordell in the paper yesterday. Also the photo of the police taking her body out of the house after she'd been murdered. The news reports indicate Miriam Cordell and Miranda Goodwinter might be the same person...” Longley's voice trailed off.
“Yes,” said Fey, rapidly losing patience.
“I think I recognized the photo of Miriam Cordell as a customer who recently closed out her accounts with a large withdrawal. The problem is, I knew the customer as a Mrs. Monica Blake...”
Bingo, th
ought Fey. “Don't move, Mr. Longley. I'll be right there.”
Fey checked her watch as she and Colby approached the front doors of the Beverly Hills Savings Bank. It was after six o'clock. Fey realized the bank was closed to customers.
The front door was locked. Fey tapped on it, displaying her badge to a uniformed guard on the other side of the glass. The guard nodded, made a wait a moment gesture, and walked away. He returned in a few seconds trailed by a dapper-looking man brandishing a key.
The man was short with slicked-back hair almost as shiny as his patent leather brogans. Through myopic lenses in fashionable black frames, the man scrutinized Fey's badge and identification before unlocking the door.
“Mr. Longley?” Fey asked as soon as verbal communication was possible.
“Yes.”
The man hustled the two detectives inside before rapidly re-locking the door. His actions were of a fastidious man expecting bank robbers any second.
There were several tellers in the bank closing out their cash drawers. Longley gave a set of keys to a nicely dressed woman, whom Fey took to be the assistant manager. Longley told her to secure the vault and deal with the tellers. She nodded solemnly, entrusted with a great responsibility, then went to do the manager's bidding.
Approaching a large black desk, Longley ushered Fey and Colby into chairs set on a Chinese carpet. He then took his rightful position behind the desk. He even smoothed his pants over his backside before planting himself down. He adjusted the precise position of his desk blotter. Fey realized Longley was having trouble parting with bank secrets.
“We appreciate you contacting us, Mr. Longley,” she said, broaching the awkwardness. “It isn't often we have a financial institution offer us information without demanding court orders.”
Longley smiled. It transformed his face from banker's blank to naughty little boy. “Banks want everyone to believe they treat their customers' confidences as sacrosanct. In reality, it is only a manager's petty power.”
“A refreshing point of view,” Fey said, not sure what Longley was driving toward.
“My attitude results from having a brother and a son in law enforcement.”