"Want to do it again?"
Josie looked over her shoulder. Framed in the doorway was a small woman with horrid hair and high color in her cheeks. Babcock patted the balcony rail.
"If you wouldn't mind, Honey."
Josie cocked her head. The detective caught her look as the woman squeezed between them. She seemed bored as she balanced on the wall and Babcock positioned her. Then she noticed Josie's expression.
"Lighten up, lady. Honey's my name," she drawled. "Whenever you're ready Babcock."
With one hand on the woman's shoulder Babcock winked at Honey and pushed. She fell silently, calm and serene until she hit the blow-up mattress. Babcock's team scurried around to take measurements and outline the angle of her landing one more time.
"Amazing what some people do to make a living," Josie clucked.
"It's better than the dummy they used investigating that incident in the Valley. That testimony was useless when they got to court. Dead weight doesn't fall the same as a live person."
"Sounds like you're planning to go to court," Josie noted.
"I'm not planning anything." He smiled a lovely, old-world smile that didn't impress Josie one bit. Sweeping a hand in front of him, he ushered her back inside.
"Then you won't mind cooperating," Josie said as she walked ahead of him.
"I wasn't aware I was being uncooperative. Mr. McCreary said he was anxious to find out exactly what happened to his wife, and I'm doing my best to discover that."
"Really? And when, exactly, did Mr. McCreary say that?"
Babcock turned left into the master bedroom. Josie paused in the doorway. A silk suit lay crumpled on the floor; on the bed was a lavender satin negligee. Both untouched since the night Mrs. McCreary died. Both were so feminine, so sexy and would have been worn for Matthew. That was a man Josie didn't know. Her Matthew liked things simple. Straightforward. Bare. That was how Josie had gone to their bed. She cleared her throat. Babcock looked up. She had almost forgotten why she was there.
"You're out of line here, Detective. My client indicated that Mr. McCreary was never asked for permission to search the premises."
"We're reenacting, not searching." His shoulders rotated, his fingers flicked in the general direction of the balcony.
"You've dusted," Josie countered. "I can see the residue. I imagine you've looked in a few places that were off limits without a warrant."
"That's what we do when we're called to a scene where there is a high-profile, violent death. We still might be examining a crime scene."
"You're the only one who seems to think so. You've kept Mr. McCreary from his home without any explanation of why you think an investigation is necessary."
"It's my responsibility to investigate. I was told Mr. McCreary would be going to San Francisco for a while. Mr. Douglas gave me his schedule but didn't ask that I vacate the premises. That indicates to me that Mr. McCreary and his staff are anxious to assist us."
Babcock ticked off his reasons as he circled the bedroom and then, to Josie's relief, exited to the living room.
"Come on, Babcock. Whatever you're looking for it isn't here if you haven't found it by now. Clear the premises or you'll be the one with the problem. Matthew McCreary had nothing to do with his wife's death."
"Did I indicate he was a person of interest?" Babcock raised a brow with the look of a tolerant man who had heard everything and knew he was doomed to hear it again.
"Actions speak louder than words," she reminded him. "You've got a production going on outside that looks like a DA's dream exhibit. Since when does the LBPD pick up a tab like that for a suicide?"
"Are you a criminal lawyer, Ms. Bates?" Babcock buttoned his navy blazer. He smoothed his tie. His khakis were knife pleated. His white shirt was heavily starched. An American flag pin was on his lapel.
"Do you read the newspapers, Detective?" she responded, though she knew that the matter of Timothy Wren, and Hannah's trial for murder before that, were now only media memories. Other trials, other horrible crimes, more flamboyant attorneys had been in the public eye of late while Josie kept to the everyday matters of everyday people in Hermosa.
"I try not to," Babcock said easily. "But it just strikes me as odd that you're concerned about my investigation. Why would Mr. McCreary feel the need to hire a criminal lawyer when all he had to do was pick up a phone and ask me?"
"If Matthew McCreary had hired me I suppose I would wonder, too. But he didn't. I work for the Committee to Elect Mr. McCreary because they understand that perception is everything in politics. The perception of the committee is that you are dragging your feet trying to make something out of nothing. You've got the deceased's fingerprints, her husband's, his sister's and his campaign manager's all over this place. You've got a few unidentified partials that will probably match the cleaning lady and some friends of the McCrearys. Those people had reason to be here and are proof of nothing."
"Anything else?" Babcock was only mildly curious.
"The coroner indicated Michelle McCreary had wounds on parts of her body that were inconsistent with the impact," Josie said, obliging him. "So what? You get some expert to testify that they were made by an assailant and I get ten experts to say they were the result of a clumsy jump, or an attempt to save herself because she changed her mind at the last minute. It's all smoke and mirrors."
"So this committee would prefer me to pack up my toys and go home because you like your interpretation of the facts better than you like my questions?" Babcock asked.
"Come on." Josie rolled her eyes. "You have better things to do than this. Either someone is pulling your strings to make political hay or your department is worried because this was a high-profile suicide and nobody in Long Beach knows how to handle the attention so you're covering your ass."
"Are those my only two options?" Babcock asked.
"I would say so. Look, unless you get the DA to issue a search warrant or an arrest warrant, this looks like harassment. I can make an awful stink about politics and the police. Your chief won't like what I have to say, the DA won't like it and, I promise, you won't like it." Josie shrugged as if to say she was willing to give Babcock a break if he came to his senses.
"I don't even like thinking about it." Babcock answered amiably. "But I also don't care to be threatened. Nor do I like leaving a job unfinished. Mrs. McCreary was from a very old and wealthy family whose landholdings on her mother's side go back to the time when this area was nothing but rancheros. Nobody in Long Beach is going to like the messenger who brings bad news about her or her husband."
"So all this is about covering your bases?"
"It's about a dead woman. If I have questions about how or why Michelle McCreary died, I will ask them. If this was your mother or sister wouldn't you want to know the truth about her death?"
"Some truths are subjective."
Babcock's little dart had pricked her. If that had been Emily Bates, Josie would have left no stone unturned to find the truth. But Michelle McCreary wasn't Josie's mother and her job was simple. She needed to get Babcock back on track. He was gazing thoughtfully at the forest of high-rises that had changed the profile of Ocean Boulevard, the sapphire ocean that sparkled under a clear sky and naked sun, the Queen Mary that had been moored for more years than it had sailed.
"Don't try to figure out which way the wind blows, Babcock. Let Michelle McCreary rest in peace and let her husband get on with business. What you're doing now is cruel," Josie said, sure that compromise was near. It wasn't.
"Did you know her?" he asked.
Josie shook her head.
"I never had the pleasure either," Babcock admitted. "I saw her, though. Mrs. McCreary was a beautiful young woman with everything to live for, yet she left nothing to indicate why she killed herself. Not a note. Not a message scrawled on the wall. Most suicides want people to know what kind of pain they're in, or they want to point a finger at someone or apologize for something they
did. Most of them have histories of self-destructive behavior. Drug use. Severe mental problems. So far, I've found nothing to tell me why she might have jumped."
"And some suicides leave everyone guessing," Josie countered.
"Not this one. If she had a reason, I would have found it. And I haven't found it so, perhaps she didn't jump." Babcock was decisive and passionate but Josie diluted his speculation with common sense.
"You haven't found a reason for her suicide because Michelle McCreary's jump was spontaneous, or she fell. Either way she wasn't planning on dying so nothing was left behind and there was no crime."
Babcock smiled tightly, looking her way with eyes that had something strange preserved in them. Conscience maybe? A soul? Then again, perhaps it was as simple as the reflection of integrity. Whatever it was seemed to have made this investigation a crusade and Josie didn't trust evangelical cops.
"She was too short to fall from the balcony unless she was standing on one of the chairs around the table and lost her balance," he explained.
"Maybe that's what happened," Josie muttered, giving her watch a quick check as much to break their connection as to note the time. She had another fifteen minutes. Babcock, however, seemed to have all the time in the world.
"The chairs were around the table, two were pushed out slightly as if they had been used and not put back properly. Unfortunately, they weren't close enough to the edge of the balcony that Mrs. McCreary could have fallen even if she was standing on one of them. Even then, I'd have to ask myself, what would she be doing standing on a chair in her lingerie?"
"There's a suit on the floor in her bedroom. She had been out. People have a few drinks. They get silly," Josie assured him. "They get careless."
"But she hadn't been out and, from what I understand, Mrs. McCreary wasn't careless. Just the opposite. She was very organized and methodical." Babcock smiled gently. "I've seen how she ran her household. Most people run their household quite like their lives, don't you think?"
Josie thought of her own home, a work in progress, an extension of her life. He was dead on right but still she wouldn't budge.
"How she arranges her kitchen isn't important. The people close to her are satisfied that this was suicide; the coroner is satisfied. Look, there could be a million reasons why she jumped and not all women keep diaries. I don't write anything down that could show up in a court of law. Give me a break, detective, you don't have a thing."
"But I'd like to have something, Ms. Bates. Mrs. McCreary was in the prime of her life and, by all accounts, beyond the expected pressure of a public life, her marriage showed no signs of strain. She visited a psychiatrist and took medication to stabilize a normal depression that could be explained by a chemical imbalance. A million people do that every day and they don't walk off a balcony."
"And ten in a million do, Babcock," Josie reminded him. "Before you start looking under rocks, why don't you talk to her shrink and find out exactly how depressed she was?"
"I have."
Babcock answered with the patience of a priest trying to hold on to his faith. And, like a priest, he kept his own counsel about his chat with Michelle McCreary's psychiatrist. He wandered outside again. The Matrix Stunts truck had moved on. The plaza was empty. Traffic on Ocean Boulevard was moving at a good clip and Detective Babcock had another thought. He shared it with Josie, who lingered in the doorway.
"You know, Ms. Bates, Mrs. McCreary might not have wanted her husband to find her note too early. Then he might have stopped her. Perhaps she sent something to his office or his campaign headquarters where it would be lost in the daily deluge of correspondence. Perhaps there's something in their home up north that hasn't been found. It wouldn't take long to check it all—with Mr. McCreary's permission, naturally. Then I think I could close this. Once I was satisfied that there was absolutely nothing to find."
Josie's lips twitched. She reached up and pulled her fingers through the long bangs that swept across her forehead. There was sweat at her hairline. It was an excruciatingly hot day but this little meeting had just cooled off.
"You are so good, Babcock. I almost bought your choirboy act about being concerned for the victim."
Josie ambled out and joined him at the balcony wall. She put her hands on it and leaned back, loving the smell of the sea and the bit of a breeze at this height. It was a beautiful view. The sea was defined by the peaks of the whitecaps, the sky by the brush of the clouds. Oil islands sat just offshore looking like little lands of Oz, palm trees and Potemkin structures disguised the derricks. Josie pulled her chin up and smiled.
"You really do have less than nothing on Matthew McCreary."
"Truthfully, I don't have anything on the gentleman," Babcock confirmed.
"How have you been getting in here?"
"Mr. McCreary told the manager that we could have anything we needed."
"And exactly when did he make that offer?" Josie faced him full on, her hip against the wall that kept her from the same fate as Matthew's wife.
"I believe it was the night Mrs. McCreary died," Babcock answered honestly.
"A man in shock makes a simple statement just before he has to arrange for his suicidal wife's funeral and you take that as carte blanche?" Josie laughed incredulously but Babcock was not embarrassed.
"He wanted to help."
"Well, let me make a suggestion. Ask Mr. McCreary one more time if you can have access to his home or his office or his campaign headquarters. Only this time tell him you're investigating a homicide, not a suicide. See what he says then."
"And if Mr. McCreary is reluctant to assist us that certainly would pique my curiosity."
"As uncomfortable as it is for a man's curiosity to be piqued, I can't sympathize. This has been interesting, Detective," Josie said. "Now get a warrant or close up shop—and I mean before the end of business today."
Josie stood tall, shifted her shoulder bag and said her goodbyes. The detour from the San Pedro courthouse to Long Beach hadn't taken long, but add in her time with Grace and the commute back to Hermosa and she was cutting it close. It would be a long, hot drive across the Vincent Thomas Bridge and the one-lane winding through the horse properties of Rolling Hills. Hopefully, Pacific Coast Highway through Torrance and Redondo wouldn't be backed up. This was Hannah's night and Josie wasn't going to screw it up for anyone—not even Matthew McCreary.
CHAPTER 7
Horace Babcock watched Josie Baylor-Bates leave. It was a pleasure he indulged in without prurient interest. While he could appreciate her handsomeness, his tastes ran to a more ladylike woman: the kind who found dresses attractive, whose hair was long and soft, who understood that making a cup of tea could border on an art. It was hard to find that kind of woman in Southern California but Horace never gave up trying. Meanwhile, he honed his powers of observation by appreciating women in much the same way he appreciated wandering room to room at the Getty Museum. Art, after all, was art; beauty came in many guises.
As impressions went, Josie Bates's attractiveness was particularly heady. One seldom saw an extraordinarily tall woman who carried herself well: shoulders back, head held high. Very proud. Very confident. She walked from the hips, taking long strides, wearing heels that added more to her already noticeable height. Very comfortable. Her body was honed like that of an athlete. Her voice had a resonance that added weight to her words, but it was her ability to articulate what she wanted that made an impact.
She had money.
Evidence: her well-cut clothes, the fine leather of her purse and shoes, the fact that she was unimpressed with this place.
She was practical.
Evidence: her nails were short, her hair shorter.
Josie Bates didn't care about the money she had nor did she share it with anyone.
Evidence: no jewelry, no tan line from a wedding ring and no frantic sense that she should have one.
There was one thing that Babcock noted with great in
terest, though. While Josie Baylor-Bates was an interesting lady to spend forty-five minutes with, and while she would be a formidable adversary, she also had a flaw. She walked without looking around, and focused on the thing that held her attention: the door, him, the opening that would close an argument, the argument that held a clue. She stopped when she assumed she had won instead of when the fight was actually over.
Standing on the balcony, waiting until she crossed the plaza, Babcock smiled as he saw her get into a black Jeep, top down. When the Jeep nosed out onto Ocean Boulevard, made a daring and illegal U-turn and took off like a jackrabbit for the bridge, Babcock walked through the McCreary home one last time.
Despite the grandeur, it seemed shabby, as if Michelle McCreary had left a vacuum that sucked all the fine things out of this place when she jumped. But Babcock also detected that part of her was left behind: the lingering scent of a perfume, a sadness that he could feel as clearly as if it were a mist on a California winter morning. He knew those things belonged to Michelle McCreary. She was the kind of woman he would have liked to know.
With quick steps he crossed the living room and let himself out. In the hall, Detective Horace Babcock locked the door. He would not be coming back again. He dialed his cell phone. On the other end a cheery girl welcomed him to the campaign headquarters for Matthew McCreary, the next Republican candidate for the U.S. Senate. Mr. McCreary was not in. Babcock spoke to Tim Douglas, who was happy to relay the message to Mr. McCreary that Babcock would not return to the penthouse. Babcock did not mention Josie Bates's visit.
The traffic outside had thinned and the wide boulevard that ribboned the coast was pleasantly quiet. The windows of the high-rises glinted in the bright afternoon light. Babcock knew it was terribly hot but heat didn't bother him. His parents said his tolerance was genetic, passed down from his great-grandfather, an Englishman who spent many years in India.
The real estate in this area was made up of office buildings and high-rise condominiums that couldn't be built fast enough to satisfy the demand to live near the water. Many had big pots on the balconies that sprouted trees or bubbled with flowers. Afternoon shadows cut building facades into fanciful fractions of light and dark serrations. Babcock glanced up to Michelle McCreary's balcony and wondered again what was the last thing she thought, the last thing she felt, the last thing that beautiful woman saw as she took that fateful step. There were no units beside hers, so there was no neighbor to see or hear her final moments. The people on the tenth floor had been questioned. They heard nothing. Mr. Jorgensen had been on the ground and privy only to the sounds and surprise of impact. This was Long Beach, not New York, so there was no guard to log in visitors, no doorman to take note of Mrs. McCreary's demeanor in the days leading up to her death.
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