by Paul Bishop
“Do you know about Alan's wife?” Arthur asked, choosing to ignore Fey's tone.
Fey looked startled. “I didn't know he was married.”
“Widowed,” Arthur Colby clarified. “She committed suicide a year after their marriage when she discovered she couldn't conceive.”
Fey felt shell-shocked. “Another form of perceived abandonment,” she said.
Arthur Colby nodded. “Alan was able to blame yet another woman for the disappointments in his life.”
Fey wasn't sure she wanted this inside scoop on Colby's background. She might begin feeling sorry for him.
There was a short silence as Fey assimilated the information. Colby needed some couch sessions with a competent shrink. Fey believed blaming others for your own misfortunes was an easy cop-out.
Her brother, Tommy, had taught her a lot about the terrors of misplaced blame. Even if blame was appropriate, it never did any good. She could blame her father for the rotten things in her life, but she could only blame herself if she couldn't get beyond them. Laying blame served no purpose except to provoke the inner devils of anger and hate.
Arthur Colby moved closer to Fey. “Alan tells me you are bound and determined to catch the person who murdered the Goodwinter woman.” The change of subject was abrupt.
Fey was surprised. “I'll catch him.”
“One way or the other?” Arthur Colby reached out casually and touched the square-headed carousel horses on the shelf, making them turn again.
“One way or the other,” Fey agreed. “I can't afford to lose this one.”
“You sound determined.”
Fey sensed something in Arthur Colby's voice. “Do you mean I sound determined for a girl?” she asked.
Arthur Colby's eyes widened. “No. I mean you sound determined for a detective. I am my son's father, not his keeper.”
“The apple doesn't usually fall far from the tree.”
“Even the seed from a sweet tree can bear bitter fruit.”
A voice suddenly intruded from the workshop entry. “Isn't this cozy?”
Fey and Arthur turned to see Alan Colby leaning against the doorframe with a sardonic grin slapped across his face.
Chapter 31
When Jake Travers entered the Santa Monica district attorney's offices in the morning, he also sensed something was wrong.
“Good morning, Mr. Travers,” the receptionist said. “Mr. Vanderwald is waiting in your office. He wanted to see you immediately.”
The last thing Jake needed was a formal confrontation with his boss. The two men had never been politically aligned, but their relationship had become more strained since Jake became a threat to replace Vanderwald in the next election. It was rare for Vanderwald to appear at the outlying Santa Monica prosecutor's office. If the two men needed contact, it was accomplished through terse phone conversations, or by Jake traveling to Vanderwald's downtown power base.
“Thanks, Doris,” Jake told the receptionist. He reversed his field and moved back toward the entrance. “I'll be right there.” He needed a few moments to figure out what Vanderwald's presence foreboded.
“But, Mr. Travers.” Doris tried to stop him from leaving. “Mr. Vanderwald said he wants to see you immediately.”
“Then let's make out I haven't walked in yet.”
“Let's not,” said a deep male voice from the hallway leading to Jake's office. Simon Vanderwald stepped into sight, a black frown thundering across his forehead. His unsmiling face was round-cheeked from too much rich food and too many lunchtime martinis. Below his face the stocky body had once earned him honors as a Notre Dame lineman. Now, it was pear-shaped and soft. He was dressed in a dark gray suit, a starched white shirt, red power tie, and highly polished slip-ons with tassels. “What time is this to be getting into the office?” he demanded.
Jake glanced at his watch. It was five minutes before his usual eight-o'clock start time, but he realized there was no acceptable answer to give to the aggressive question. It didn't matter Jake rarely left the office before six or seven at night. Vanderwald was never in his downtown office before ten, took a two-hour lunch, often went home early, and played golf every Friday. But nothing was going to satisfy Vanderwald in his current mood.
“Get in here,” Vanderwald said, turning on his heel and disappearing down the hallway again.
Jake looked over at the receptionist. She was discreetly shuffling papers. Steeling himself for the ordeal ahead, Jake followed in the direction of Vanderwald's echoing footsteps.
As he entered his office, Jake saw Vanderwald had taken center stage by sitting in the black leather chair behind Jake's large rosewood desk. Knowing Vanderwald, Jake had anticipated this move and was determined not to be put off by its pettiness. It was the person sitting in one of the two comfortable visitors' chairs who threw Jake off his stride. Janice Ryder was the last person he had expected to see this morning.
Jake set his briefcase in the middle of his desktop then walked behind where Vanderwald was sitting. He turned and rested his butt on a low bookshelf below the window, which dominated the main wall of the office. The move was calculated to not only usurp Vanderwald, but also to force him to swivel around to face Jake. It also served to gain extra distance from Janice Ryder—whom Jake considered the biggest threat in the room.
“What's this about?” he asked aggressively, dispensing with any pleasantries. There were no points to be won through politeness.
“I'll cut to the point,” Vanderwald said, swiveling in the high-backed leather chair to face his subordinate. He was playing with a letter opener he had picked up from the top of the desk. He smirked when he saw the way Jake had positioned himself with the light behind him.
“Good of you, Simon,” Jake said. Two could play at the condescending first-name-usage game.
Vanderwald gave him a dirty look. “Ms. Ryder contacted me on behalf of her client Isaac Cordell.”
Jake looked at Janice. “Is he ready to turn himself in?”
“And take a chance on a justice system which has already wrongfully deprived him of ten years of his life, Mr. Travers?” Janice raised a perfectly plucked eyebrow. “I don't think so.” She wore a sleeveless, umber-colored blouse, which set off the creamy texture of her skin. Below the blouse was a subdued yellow suede skirt short enough to make the best of her trim legs, and yellow high heels. Pearls at neck, wrist, and ears were the only accents to her outfit.
A viper in disguise, Jake thought. He knew an ax was about to fall.
“This meeting isn't directly related to Mr. Cordell's status as a fugitive,” Vanderwald stated flatly, trying to regain the upper hand in the situation. “This is about unethical behavior on the part of this office—more specifically on your part—possibly leading to the dismissal of this case and opening this office to civil prosecution.”
“Explain,” Jake said, rising to the bait and partially losing his temper.
“Ms. Ryder has presented me with a writ from a San Francisco judge—with jurisdiction over the original false conviction of Mr. Cordell—clearing his parole status.”
“Wait…” Jake said.
“We’re done waiting, Mr. Travers,” Janice Ryder interrupted. She stood up and walked to the front of the rosewood desk. She spread her hands along the front edge and leaned forward. Out of the corner of his eye, Jake saw Vanderwald lean forward unobtrusively to look down the front scoop of the umber blouse.
“My client is obviously not guilty of the initial charge of murder from ten years ago. He should never have been sent to prison. Whether you agree or not, he should never have been on parole in the first place. Therefore, the parole search was invalid. The weapon seized during the illegal search is inadmissible in court.”
“The judge will make a ruling at the prelim.”
“No, he won’t,” said Vanderwald, cutting in sharply. “The question should have been evaluated by this office before charges were formally filed.”
Jake jumped to defend his positi
on. “We have an eyewitness who places Cordell at the scene and we've got more than enough motive.”
Fey had broken the bad news about Kathleen Bridges’ identification, but he was looking for any port in a storm. It turned out to be a hazardous harbor.
“You are aware, counselor, your eyewitness isn't worth pig swill,” Janice Ryder said. “If you put a feeble old lady on the stand, I'll rip her to pieces. Motive by itself counts for less than nothing.”
Jake shifted his gaze from Janice to Vanderwald. If he hoped to find backing, he was disappointed.
Vanderwald gave him an ice-cold stare. “This is poor showing, Jake. If you hope to win the next election, you'll need to exercise better case judgment.”
There it was, Jake thought sadly. Out in the open. Jake hadn’t even declared as a candidate yet, but Vanderwald was already moving to shut him down. It was clear how Vanderwald survived in office term after term. This scenario had nothing to do with the case against Cordell being good or bad. It was about declaring political war.
Vanderwald didn't care about Cordell's guilt or innocence. With its constitutional arguments concerning double jeopardy, the case was far from an out-and-out winner. It was a bad risk. The press would have a feeding frenzy, making Jake’s position like sitting on a straight razor—either way he slid, he'd bleed.
The case wasn't worth diddly to Vanderwald except for use as political ammunition—giving Jake, as the deputy DA who filed the case, a big fat black eye.
To milk the political advantage, Vanderwald could hold a press conference to stroke every liberal bleeding heart in the city. At the same time making Jake look unprofessional and vindictive.
Jake felt the weight of the process on his shoulders. Welcome to the grand old American game of political infighting and mudslinging. He'd played his share of office politics to gain his appointment as the head filing DA under Vanderwald, but the experience was nothing compared to what was to come.
“Are you telling me you're going to overturn my filing on this case?” Jake asked Vanderwald.
Vanderwald threw out an arm expansively. “There is no case. Come up with admissible evidence against Cordell and you can file any charges you want. Until then, this office must remain impartial. You can't allow yourself to become personally involved. Your whole career at the bar could be in jeopardy.”
“How am I going to be disbarred over filing a borderline case?”
Vanderwald looked smug. “The filing alone won’t get you disbarred.”
“What then?” Jake glanced at Janice Ryder. In a flash of insight, he saw what was coming before the words fell from Vanderwald's mouth.
“If it became public knowledge you were screwing the investigating officer in this case—showing your interest in filing and prosecuting Cordell is a personal vendetta—you would find yourself dismissed from this office, and perhaps even disbarred if someone pushed the point.”
“Personal vendetta,” Jake exploded. “You're talking a bunch of unmitigated crap.”
“I know it and you know it,” Vanderwald agreed. “But the press would love it, and they would tear you apart.”
Jake pushed himself up from the bookcase and looked angrily across the desk at Janice Ryder. “Was it you who made up this stuff about me sleeping with the investigating detective?”
“Don't waste breath denying the allegation. I have in my possession a list of police officers, detectives, and DAs who are apparently aware of your relationship with Detective Croaker. I hope you won't make it necessary for me to take depositions from all of them.”
Jake felt the bile in his stomach churn. “All right,” he said. “I’ll play along for a minute. But tell me why Fey and I would involve ourselves in a conspiracy to frame Isaac Cordell?”
“Because he's convenient.”
“What?” Jake shook his head in bafflement.
“There are other dynamics occurring you are unaware of, counselor,” Janice told him.
“Enlighten me.”
Janice paused a beat before speaking. “Your lover may be directly involved in this case.”
“Of course, she is,” Jake said, not bothering any longer to deny his relationship with Fey. “She's the investigating officer.”
“I'm not talking about her involvement as a detective. I'm talking about her involvement as a suspect.”
Jake felt as if his legs were going to go out from under him. He leaned back against the bookcase again.
Janice Ryder placed a photo facedown next to Jake's briefcase. It was a copy of the one in the envelope delivered to her earlier in the morning. She continued to stare at Jake, but she spoke to Vanderwald. “Can I assume the warrant for my client's arrest will be withdrawn?”
“Immediately,” Vanderwald replied with a smooth smile.
Jake reached forward and picked up the photograph. “What about the escape charges and the assault against Fey?” he asked before turning the photo over.
“Look at the photograph. I think you'll agree those charges are moot,” Vanderwald told him.
Jake turned the photo over. He had trouble focusing, but the images were clear.
Janice Ryder picked up her briefcase and turned to leave the office. “Thank you for your cooperation, Mr. Vanderwald. I hope you will keep me abreast of developments.”
“Certainly.”
“Good-bye, counselor. I'm sorry I had to be the bearer of bad news.”
Jake didn't reply. Janice opened the door to the office and exited gracefully, a soft scent remaining in her wake.
Vanderwald stood up and placed the letter opener on the desk. Jake hadn't moved. He was still staring at the photo.
“I'd dump the bimbo quick if I were you,” Vanderwald said. “I don't understand what you see in her anyway. I know some men prefer women who are built for comfort instead of speed, but a couple more years and her body will be beyond even the comfort zone.”
Jake clenched his jaws, useless anger threatening to explode from his interior.
Vanderwald walked to the open door and turned back to face Jake. “By the way, there's a five-hundred-dollar-a-plate dinner coming up next week to benefit my campaign fund. I'll expect to see you there.”
He closed the door gently as he left.
Chapter 32
The morning had been busy for Fey. The overnight reports were unusually heavy, and there were two bodies in custody. Hatch was up for handling the arrestees and took off for the city attorney's office to get quick filings. When Colby arrived at his desk, he found three ADW reports and an attempted kidnapping case waiting. Fey had been dragged into a dispute involving rival Gypsy palm readers trying to kill each other because—according to unwritten Gypsy law—their businesses had been set up too close together.
Over the years, Fey had become the unofficial Gypsy detective in West L.A. It wasn't a role she cherished, but since she knew more about the strange characters—who run their lives by a set of rules far outside those of normal society—than anyone else in the division, it was a role with which she was increasingly tasked.
Handling Gypsy disputes successfully was a matter of respect. Fey knew if she tried to impose traditional law enforcement remedies on the situation, things would only get worse. However, she made a couple of discreet phone calls to private numbers, and within an hour she was meeting with the rival palm-reading families and the matriarch of the local Gypsy clan.
After explaining the situation to the matriarch, Fey left the Gypsies alone behind the closed door of Mike Cahill's office with the blinds drawn. Cahill couldn't stand Gypsies and would have gone crazy had he known Fey was leaving a half dozen of them alone in his office. But as Cahill was out of the station at a department bureau meeting, Fey figured what he didn't know wouldn't hurt him.
Fifteen minutes later, the Gypsy matriarch quietly led everyone out of the office. With much smiling and gesturing, all charges and countercharges were dropped, and everyone went happily about their business. Everyone except for Mike Cahill, who,
returning to his office later in the morning, couldn't figure out what happened to the antique letter opener he kept on his desk.
Fey knew the situation had only been resolved as far as the police were concerned. The actual dispute would be settled later under Gypsy law in more private surroundings. Fey's hope was if it ended in a blood feud, the carnage would be kept off her patch.
Before lunch, Monk Lawson bounded into the office and approached Fey. She had let him escape the dint of daily reports because she wanted him to chase down any information he could find on Janice Ryder. Over coffee, they sat down together to go over what he'd gathered.
“There wasn't a whole lot I could come up with in a hurry,” Monk told her. “But I was able to come up with some basics.”
“Always a good place to start,” said Fey. “If anything clicks, we can follow up further.”
Monk produced a stack of index cards filled with neat, precise handwriting.
“Since Ryder is a lawyer, I started looking for information via the law library. I checked in Martindale Hubble—”
“Martindale who?”
Monk looked up from his notes, distracted for a second.
“It’s the law profession's version of Who's Who.”
“Okay,” Fey said, satisfied.
Monk looked back at his notes. “Ryder’s listing showed she entered law school through Berkeley's Boal Hall in nineteen-eighty-two.”
“Ended up at the top of her class, I expect,” Fey put in semi sarcastically.
“How did you guess?” Monk asked in the same tone. “She was editor of the law review from eighty-three to eighty-four and graduated with the Order of the COIF in late eighty-four.”
“COIF is a fancy way of saying summa cum laude?”
“Yeah. She was real smart. Took the bar in eighty-five and passed the first time.”
“What year was Cordell originally convicted for murdering his wife?” Fey asked.
Monk shuffled through the papers on his desk before pulling one out and consulting it. “The latter part of nineteen-eighty-two.”