The Witness Series Bundle

by Rebecca Forster

  The officer talked in a voice that reminded Josie of the low, constant idle of their old car. Emily's dress was splashed with yellow daisies; her flat white sandals had jewels on the straps. She stood eye to eye with the man. Her shoulders were back. Her hair was pinned up carelessly. She looked beautiful, but that was all she looked. Emily didn't smile when the officer talked, nor did she frown. Emily didn't answer him back and seemed to be only half listening. When he was finished talking, the man left.

  Emily went after him, stopping at the screen door, watching until she was satisfied that he was gone. She put her fingers on the screen as if gauging the strength of it. Josie inched into the living room, sticking close to the wall, watching her mother. Finally, Emily closed the front windows and drew the shades. When she was finished, she walked to her bedroom, seemingly oblivious to Josie's presence. Yet, when she passed, her hand slipped over her daughter's silky hair and she murmured:

  "Don't ever let them know you're surprised, baby."

  The words were like liquid and Josie let them wash over her. By the time she looked up Emily was already locked behind the closed door of her bedroom.

  Lickety-split, Josie ran into her room, put her ear against the wall, and pulled her blanket up to her chest. Just when she thought her mother had fallen asleep, Josie heard her crying. She put her ear tighter to the wall and listened until all she heard was silence. It was a day, and a lesson, Josie would never forget. That's why she kept her gaze steadily on Grace. Because nothing could surprise her more than Matthew McCreary being suspected of murder.

  "If what you say is true, then I should be talking to Matthew."

  "No, no." Grace whispered even though the place was deserted. "He doesn't even know I'm here. He doesn't think anything's wrong at all. Matthew is so trusting. He doesn't understand that people might use Michelle's death to cast aspersions on him. People can be cruel—even the ones closest to you." Grace's voice dropped to intimacy. "But, of course, you know that, don't you? I mean, your mother leaving. That was cruel."

  Josie ignored the personal reference. Matthew had been wrong to share something so intimate.

  "Your brother is in an important race for the nomination, but I can't believe that there's a conspiracy to take him out of the primary on the back of his dead wife. Besides, the death was investigated. It was suicide."

  "Then why are the police still at the penthouse? Why have they interviewed us so often? Me and Tim Douglas, Matthew's campaign manager." Grace was so involved with her suspicions that she didn't wait for an answer. "I can tell you why. It's because the police want to find something wrong. Someone is manipulating them."

  "Or the police are being thorough," Josie countered, but Grace McCreary's paranoia could not be stopped by logic.

  "Or the detective in charge—his name is Babcock"—Grace nudged the envelope another inch—"maybe he wants to make a name for himself. It happens all the time. People can be so petty and selfish. Loyalty is the exception. Please," she begged. "I just need you to look into this. If they have nothing, then stop this harassment. If there is a problem, then tell me so I can get our own lawyers involved."

  "Why wait? Matthew must have a small army of attorneys who can handle this with a phone call."

  "They all have agendas." Grace overrode the obvious. "Look, Matthew is poised to win the Republican nomination and everything points to him securing a Senate seat in the general election. That would make history in California. He has such vision. There is so much he can accomplish. But if people thought he was actually involved in Michelle's death, if it was even suggested . . ." Grace shook her head soulfully as if to say he might as well be as dead as his wife. "Please, just look at what I've brought you. Please."

  She took a few sheets of paper from the envelope and laid them out like the dealer's hand: an unofficial police report, a clean copy of the coroner's statement, Matthew's campaign schedules.

  Grace McCreary looked up to gauge Josie's interest and she was pleased with what she saw. Curiosity had gotten the better of the very tall woman with the very short hair. She was curious about the man she had once loved, about this resurrected sister, about Matthew's dead wife.

  But Josie was interested for all the wrong reasons and that kind of curiosity was like throwing a boulder into the quiet pond of her life. The ripples could rock every boat she had floating and Josie wasn't sure she wanted to take a chance on capsizing even one.

  "I don't think I can help you." She shied away gracefully, wary of this setup. "I'm a sole practitioner. My backup is a small firm in Hermosa Beach. My investigator isn't even in the country at the moment. There's a lot at stake here and you need a lawyer with the resources to deal with it."

  "You're wrong. I need someone who will have Matthew's best interests at heart. I'm just asking for a couple of hours, a short conversation with Detective Babcock."

  Josie drummed her fingers on the table. Her eyes swept over the papers. She glanced at Grace and had to admit the other woman had a point. This was a no-sweat deal. More billable hours could be created out of nothing than normal folk might imagine. Still, there was one hitch.

  "Look, it's not the work or the time I'm worried about. The problem is you can't hire me on Matthew's behalf. I'm sorry."

  Josie swung her legs out from under the table. She was ready to go but Grace McCreary took her hand like a little girl and looked up at Josie with those worldly eyes of hers. Those eyes were bright with an almost frantic neediness, the same neediness that Josie had seen in Hannah's not all that long ago.

  "Please, don't go. Help me. I really love Matthew. I thought you still did, too."

  Josie was transfixed by the other woman's voice, her jewels, the quickness of a mind that seemed to be in perpetual motion, the constant changing of her tactics. Grace dropped Josie's hand as if she suddenly realized Josie's aversion to such a liberty. The two women looked at one another for a split second longer. It was Grace who broke the spell. She picked up her cigarettes, a diversion to hide the embarrassment of begging and being passed by.

  "I'm sorry. That was uncalled for. And you're right. This is business." She had a cigarette between the fingers of one hand; her lighter was in the other. She offered a solution. "I would like to hire you on behalf of the Committee to Elect Matthew McCreary to the United States Senate. The committee would like you to determine if there is some pending police action that might harm our ability to function on my brother's behalf."

  With that, Grace McCreary dipped her head toward the lighter's flame and, as she did so, it illuminated her face. In the glow her lashes slashed deep, spidery shadows over her cheeks, her nose seemed to narrow and lengthen, her cheeks hollowed so that she looked as hard as stone. When Grace raised her head again she held the cigarette away, snapped the lighter shut and looked up at the ceiling. Smoke curled upward as she spoke.

  "Besides, you're interested. If you weren't, you would have left long ago." Grace lowered her chin, raised her eyes and said, "Admit it. You were never really going to walk away, were you?"

  CHAPTER 5

  "You're not going to give up, are you? Well, are you going to let that bitch get away with this?"

  "Sit down, Kevin. Please, just sit down."

  In his heart of hearts, Larry Morgan, attorney-at-law, defender of Kevin O'Connel, was not happy. His client was a cretin and Larry resented having to deal with him. But, on the outside Larry Morgan sat in his tall chair, behind his wide desk and listened calmly as if this crazy man was in his right mind.

  "I'm not going to sit down," Kevin hollered and paced as if that proved he was in control of this meeting. "A million bucks. Might as well be ten. What does she think I'm made of—gold?"

  He threw his hands up, threw his arms out. He clenched his fist and brought it hard into the open palm of his other hand. The attorney, a dear man by his wife's account, cringed as he imagined he heard the crunch of bone. He had seen the pictures of Susan O'Connel in the hospital and af
ter she was released. Larry almost preferred the hospital pictures. Looking at those he could at least imagine a recovery. Now, after all these long months, the only thing Larry Morgan could imagine was getting rid of Kevin O'Connel. The man tested his belief in the premise that everyone deserved a defense.

  "I said sit down. Now," Larry barked. It was a sound so new to Kevin O'Connel that he shut up. Larry pointed to a chair. "Now."

  Reluctantly, Kevin lumbered toward it. He was a powerful mass of muscle and most of it was between his ears. He sat down. He slumped in the chair. He glowered at Larry, who had enough presence of mind not to show that he was just a little afraid of the man.

  "So what are you going to do?" Kevin grumbled.

  "I'm going to tell you the truth. Josie Bates is good but her case was better than good. You're damn lucky you didn't kill Susan." Larry shook his silver-haired head and closed his eyes to cut off the man's objections. "Don't even try to deny it. I know you did it. You know you did it. I wish we could have argued insanity but you're not insane. You're just a mean, miserable man."

  "Hey, I thought you were supposed to be on my side," Kevin wailed.

  "And that's why I'm giving you my best advice," Larry said as sincerely as he could. "Cut your losses. It could have been worse. We'll quietly appeal the settlement and see if we can't get the damages cut down based on your projected lifetime earnings. You've already transferred most of your assets, so Bates can't touch them. I'm not even mentioning my fee, which, by the way, is in arrears big time. I'll look over my records and I'll do what I can to make this easier, but my best advice is to suck it up and move on."

  For a minute the two men looked at one another. Larry Morgan was not unaware that Kevin O'Connel was ready to explode. He had seen clients like this but usually they were in jail, not sitting in his office when he had only a receptionist for protection. So Larry drew himself up, cleared his throat and finished up.

  "Furthermore, I would suggest that doing anything that might be construed as threatening an officer of the court—which would be me—would not be your smartest move."

  Kevin started. He blinked. He pushed himself out of the chair and looked at his lawyer with eyes that were as glossy and one dimensional as an oil slick.

  "Yeah, well, thanks for that little bit of advice, counselor," he sputtered. "You're just worth every damn penny I paid you."

  "Oh, I think you've got more than your money's worth," Larry answered but sadly the irony was lost on Kevin O'Connel. The lawyer stood up. He didn't put out his hand. "I'll file the appeal, Kevin. Go back to work. Lay low. Do the things you're supposed to do."

  "I'm not going to pay her," Kevin insisted. "You just better know that. I'm not going to pay her."

  Kevin O'Connel was muttering to himself on the way out the door but the lawyer had one more piece of advice to impart. After that, he was taking himself out for a beer.

  "Kevin," Larry called, "if I were you, I wouldn't date for a while."

  "And then he said, 'If I were you I wouldn't date for a while.' "

  "I think that's kind of funny, Kevin." As if to prove it, the man lounging in the recliner chuckled as he chewed a toothpick. His attention span was short, his interest in Kevin O'Connel's woman troubles shallow. Still, Kevin was his friend, a guy who got things done. It was good to know him on the job, so Pete cut him some slack when they were off it.

  "Well, I don't see anything funny about any of this," Kevin complained.

  He yanked at his tie. He pulled hard and still the knot didn't slide down the way it did in the movies when some broad was so hot that she couldn't wait for you to untie it the right way. He'd never had a woman that hot, not even the ones he paid for. Damn sluts, all of them. They didn't recognize a real man when he was right in front of them.

  "Damn! Damn!"

  Using both hands, he ripped the tie from around his neck and threw it in the corner of his bedroom. His shirt followed. He almost fell getting out of his good pants and with that Kevin O'Connel let out another flow of curses that surprised even the man in the recliner. The floor was littered with clothes and empty beer cans and food wrappers. For a minute Kevin missed Susan, then he got mad thinking her name and kicked the clothes around until he found a pair of jeans and a T-shirt. Hey, look, Kev, I gotta go. Cheryl wants me to pick up some milk and shit for dinner." Pete, the big man with no neck, snapped the footrest down and planted his feet on the ground. He seemed to think about getting up before he did it. "You gonna be okay?"

  "No, I'm not okay. Everything's wrong. God, I hate that bitch."

  "Suzy?" Pete asked.

  "Yeah, her," Kevin grumbled. "But I hate her lawyer worse. That bitch thinks she's better than me. Thinks she can get away with stuff just because she's a lawyer."

  "She probably can, man," Pete said thoughtfully before he brightened. There were better things to discuss. "So, I'll see you tonight, right? We'll get some brews. Things will look better."

  "Okay."

  Kevin waved him away. The door slammed. He stood in the middle of the mess he'd made of his house and thought about what his buddy had said. He thought about it long and hard and then decided two things. One, a couple of drinks did sound good. Two, Pete was wrong. Josie Bates couldn't get away with what she'd done to him.

  CHAPTER 6

  Josie stood on the sidewalk beside an old woman in a flowered dress who held a polka-dot umbrella against a blazing fall sun. Together they watched a third woman hurtle through the air. The old lady let out a little squeal when the body hit. She jerked around as if she expected Josie to gather her up, realized what she was doing and recoiled with another little squeak before they made contact. Josie smiled. Disconcerted, the old lady hurried on as fast as her legs could take her.

  Sliding off her Ray-Bans, Josie went in the opposite direction, chuckling all the way into the building. The display had been remarkable—just about as impressive as the lobby of this building overlooking Long Beach's pristine shoreline. The entrance was chiseled out of white marble and warm woods, and then iced over with metal. The elevator was roomy and quick. At the top floor the doors slid back to reveal a private entrance hall that led to the open door of Matthew McCreary's home.

  Josie was no stranger to the trappings of wealth. Money had been her constant companion until she walked away from the kind of clients that made lawyers rich. After defending Kristin Davis—a woman who had casually killed her husband and followed up by killing her children after Josie successfully defended her for the first murder—Josie Baylor-Bates knew she was not an advocate who could be bought. Still, she had a great appreciation for the things money could buy and the things Matthew McCreary's money bought were exquisite: a spacious penthouse with canary-colored walls, white moldings, floral sofas, Louis XIV chairs covered in plaid silk washed with the colors of a summer sea. Oriental rugs. Real art. Big bucks. So different from the way he and Josie had lived.

  They had traveled light with their money when they were together: large spaces, minimal furniture, maximum indulgences. Sex, friends, food—they had so much of everything. They were successful and sought after. They were brilliantly suited because of their age, their intelligence, and their accomplishments. They were hungry for everything, so they gleefully cut a swath through their respective industries: Matthew turning his father's tech business into an empire and Josie topping the list of go-to criminal attorneys when you were bad, wealthy and wanted to win. That was a long time ago, a time she thought she had forgotten. But now, standing in this place where Matthew had lived with his wife, Josie was amazed to find there was still hurt and regret to be had.

  Matthew had not only chosen a life diametrically opposed to the one he shared with her, he had chosen a woman who was the antithesis of Josie. Michelle McCreary's portrait hung above the fireplace. She smiled graciously down on Josie as if she understood it was hard to lose. The lady of the house had been as petite as Josie was tall, as refined as Josie was self-reliant, as styl
ish as Josie was careless of the rules of fashion. Funny, Josie had always imagined Matthew with a woman who reminded him of her.

  Josie crossed the cavernous living room and the huge balcony, pulled up beside the man she was looking for, parked her arms on the balcony wall and leaned over to watch the activity below.

  The woman who had fallen through the air minutes earlier still lay unmoving on the huge inflatable mattress that had been precisely positioned below. A Matrix Stunts truck was parked on the plaza. Two uniformed cops kept looky-loos at bay. It was quite a production and Josie gave Grace McCreary credit. It wasn't paranoia after all. The Long Beach Police Department was spending a pretty penny investigating Michelle McCreary's suicide.

  "This is a crime scene. Invitation only." The redheaded detective next to Josie didn't look at her while he spoke.

  "That's funny. Since the coroner released the body and allowed a burial, I assume I'm standing at the scene of a tragic suicide. That would mean you're the one trespassing."

  Josie swiveled her head. The detective did the same. They were still hunched over the balcony as Josie smiled. Behind his long red-blond lashes, the detective's hazel eyes registered a blip of amusement. His poker face was admirable and tough to pull off for a guy like him: porcelain skin that wouldn't last more than a minute at the beach, red hair shot with bronze, freckles. Josie couldn't quite pinpoint what made the difference between him looking like an escapee from Mayberry and a man a woman would like to know better. Whatever it was, it was potent.

  "Josie Baylor-Bates. Attorney." She gave him a nod.

  "Babcock. Detective, Long Beach Police Department." He graced her with a courteous smile.

  "What are you doing?" she asked.

  He straightened but kept his eyes on the ground below and his hand on the stucco balustrade.

  "Testing the trajectory of Mrs. McCreary's fall," he told her. Before Josie could ask why he would be doing that, someone else joined the conversation.