The Witness Series Bundle

by Rebecca Forster

  "Did you ever think that leaving a door partly open may make someone think something was wrong?"

  "Pretty brave of you to come in then. I wouldn't have thought it of you, Mr. Douglas."

  "That's the greatest power of all, Ms. Bates. Being underestimated." He laughed and for some reason the sound of it was unsettling. Her reaction didn't escape his notice and as quickly as the charming man had emerged, he faded away again. "I saw your jeep outside. I thought I'd see what you were doing before I announced myself."

  "Is spying in your job description?"

  Josie tossed her purse on the bed and opened Grace's closet without waiting for an answer. Not that she would have heard one. She was too dazzled by what she saw to pay any further attention to Tim Douglas. Shoes sprouted from floor-to-ceiling custom-made shelves. To the right were day suits, to the left couture gowns. Straight ahead, peignoirs: lacy, bare things.

  It was the last that were most interesting. Either Grace McCreary was the only woman in the world who dressed to please herself or she had a man stashed somewhere—one who wanted to see how all this played out before he came forward. Aware of Tim Douglas's scrutiny, Josie walked into the closet and gathered up a beige suit, a patterned blouse, a pair of bone pumps.

  "I'm getting some clothes for Grace. There's a hearing in an hour," she explained as she tossed the clothes on the bed.

  Tim wandered over and touched the blouse. "She won't like this one."

  "And the reason you know this is?" Josie asked.

  "Because it's my job to pay attention. Grace never wore patterns when there might be a photographer around. She said patterns were distracting." Tim blinked behind his glasses, embarrassed, feeling the need to explain. "I figure photographers might be at the court."

  "So now you're Grace's stylist?" Josie smiled wryly.

  "No. I just think she deserves a fair shot. Grace is very careful with her appearance. I admire that."

  Tim Douglas's point was well taken. Josie exchanged her first choice for a plain blouse, giving him the once-over when she came out. He still looked slightly disheveled despite the good haircut and respectable suit and he was older than she had first imagined. He didn't wear a wedding ring. Married to the candidate and the cause, she supposed.

  "So, what are you doing here?" Josie asked as she opened Grace's dresser drawers, finding what she wanted in the fourth one.

  "I was hoping to find some files Grace and I were working on. Some statistics on the foster children program." Tim talked while Josie looked for fresh lingerie, jewelry, stockings. "It's the cornerstone of Matthew's campaign. He believes you can't make changes in education until there are changes in the way we treat children. You know, expecting too much of them too fast, throwing them out of the system before they're ready, lack of parental supervision, poor foster care education."

  "Really?" Half listening, Josie gathered up Grace's under things and put them with the suit.

  "Did you know that when foster kids are eighteen they're just cut loose from the system? No backup. No money. Nothing."

  Josie opened another drawer, thought for a second and then swung her head toward Tim.

  "Look, it's not that I don't appreciate the political primer but right now I don't care if Matthew wants to put a Mercedes in every garage. I'll just be happy if he shows up in court, okay?"

  "Sure. Understood." Tim nodded, the reprimand accepted. "And he is going to be there."

  "That's good," she muttered, picking an old wooden box out of the drawer. Inside there were a few pins, earrings fashioned out of small diamonds and delicate gold. All very feminine. Very tasteful. A young girl's jewelry that would have suited Grace better than the ostentatious show of wealth she preferred. Josie was about to put the box back when she saw two unframed photographs in the back of the drawer.

  One was very old, the color faded. A woman held a baby; a toddler leaned up against her leg, a man stood tight in with the little group. No one smiled but they all managed to touch one another. This was Matthew and Grace and their long-dead parents. The other one was of a middle-aged man. He was in an office, surprised by the camera, half turned toward it. It was more recent than the first.

  "Hey, Tim? Is Grace seeing anyone?" Josie asked as she replaced the pictures and put the box on top.

  "I don't think so. I doubt she'd have time. She was always working," Tim answered. "But you should ask her."

  "I'll just do that. I've got to go."

  Josie closed the drawer, took Grace's clothes and headed for the door but Tim Douglas stood in her way. His lips were parted, the rosy red apples of his cheeks were even rosier. His eyes were darker than she remembered and his presence somehow more imposing. Josie cocked her head, giving him a minute to say what was on his mind. He didn't take it. Instead, he stepped aside, then followed Josie out the front door.

  "Can you use your key to lock up?"

  "You got it." He turned his back to her.

  They said goodbye on the sidewalk. Josie went on to the courthouse, Tim back to campaign headquarters. But when she stopped at a traffic light Josie found herself bothered by something more than the bail hearing to come. She was thinking about what didn't happen at Grace McCreary's place.

  Tim Douglas hadn't found the files he wanted. He hadn't even looked for them. When they left Grace's house Josie hadn't heard the dead bolt because it wasn't thrown. Tim didn't have a key. He had gone to Grace's because he'd known Josie was there—and that was very interesting.

  CHAPTER 17

  There was one thing Tim hadn't lied about. Matthew was waiting when Josie got to court. The entourage he had lamented the night before had been left behind and he was alone. Josie handed off the clothes to the bailiff so Grace could dress while she explained the proceedings to Matthew. There wasn't much to tell but there were things to sort out before the ball started to roll.

  "Have you talked to them?" Josie raised her chin toward the three reporters in the courtroom. Matthew looked up and then away again when the woman from the AP made eye contact.

  "I told them there was no doubt that Grace's arrest was a mistake and thanked them for their concern," Matthew answered.

  "Good. Keep it at that."

  Josie looked at the audience one more time. If Matthew won the primary and this matter went to trial during the general election, this place would be a zoo. As it stood, two network reporters and the AP journalist were workable. A very well-dressed woman and two young men in suits rounded out the spectators.

  "Easier said than done," Matthew muttered and ran a hand through his hair, shifting his weight, sighing from the heart. "My opponent was on the morning shows bright and early, wondering how I was going to hold up under the pressure of a trial. He talked like Grace was already indicted."

  "I saw one of them. They gave him a minute thirty. The story won't have legs at this stage of the game."

  Josie offered empty assurances because they were better than nothing. If the DA stuck to his guns, a special-circumstance charge would put all of them in the national spotlight and that was the last thing Josie wanted.

  "Refer legal questions to me, keep your comments short. Stick to the campaign rhetoric and politely decline to talk about your personal life with anyone and . . ." Josie's voice trailed off. Matthew looked around to see what had caught her interest.

  Detective Horace Babcock had arrived. He acknowledged them with a polite look as he unbuttoned his jacket, tugged on his trousers and sat down on the aisle seat of the last bench. Josie found his presence curious since he would have no input at a bail hearing. Matthew put his fingers to his eyes and Josie put a hand on his shoulder.

  "There's no way to make any of this good, but I promise we're not leaving without Grace. No judge in his right mind is going to refuse bail on this one. Okay?"

  "Sure." Matthew put his hand over hers and suddenly she understood. Much as he wanted to deny it, Matthew was worried about his sister, and not just for the sake
of his campaign—this was personal. Josie motioned him to his seat and offered a confident smile. The prosecutor was waddling up the aisle with a grin on her moon face and the bailiff was escorting Grace McCreary into the courtroom. It was time to work.

  Josie put her shoulders back and nodded. Grace looked beyond her to Matthew as if he would make everything right. Something passed between them, but before Josie could see what it was, Grace was standing by her side. The judge called his court to order with a "Good morning" and an invitation for them to begin.

  "P.J. Vega for the prosecution. And good morning to you, too, Your Honor." The deputy district attorney greeted the judge cheerily before settling her large self into the small chair.

  "Josie Baylor-Bates for the defense, Your Honor." She took her seat and indicated that Grace should follow suit. There were sounds of settling; the sprinkling of spectators moving, adjusting, the clerk shuffling papers.

  Judge Davenport nodded, looked at the two women and took a moment. What Josie had in height, P.J. had in breadth. Josie looked like she would fight to the death; P.J. would kill with kindness. Josie glanced at her opponent, then looked back to the judge, sure of one thing: P.J. Vega's good humor was that of someone who thought they'd already won.

  "Does the defendant waive the reading of the complaint?" Judge Davenport asked, settling his old sharp eyes on Josie.

  "Yes, Your Honor, we do. We were advised that the prosecution will not seek the death penalty and would request that bond be set at a reasonable amount. Ms. McCreary has voluntarily turned over her passport, she is not a flight risk nor has she any criminal history."

  "Let's hear from the people on this one," the judge atoned and P.J. Vega dutifully got to her feet, her bracelets jangling as she shook back the sleeves of her dress.

  "The people submit, Your Honor."

  "Ms. Vega," he snapped as P.J. took her seat, "are you telling the court the people have no position on this matter after holding the defendant as you did?"

  P.J. was on her feet again, issuing a sigh not of irritation but of exertion.

  "After careful review of the facts upon which this case was brought the district attorney himself believes that excessive bond is neither necessary nor advisable at this time."

  "Well, all right then, but don't go off half-cocked next time," the judge warned. "The defendant may post bond. Two weeks on the preliminary hearing. Acceptable to you, Ms. Bates?"

  "Yes, Your Honor." Josie answered without a hint of surprise or gratitude although she felt a lot of one and a bit of the other. What she really felt was angry that Grace had been incarcerated at all.

  "We're done here. Have a nice one, ladies."

  With that, Grace was set free and, with a brilliant smile, bypassed Josie to express her joy to Matthew. She reached for him and for an instant it seemed as if Matthew recoiled. Before Josie could assess the situation, before congratulations were offered to anyone, P.J. Vega was tapping Josie on the shoulder.

  "Got a minute? Make it worth your while."

  "Sure," Josie answered casually, even though she would have walked over coals to find out what just went down.

  "Bring your client," P.J. suggested and then gave Matthew the once over. "Him, too, if you want."

  Without a second look at any of them P.J. went down the aisle, trailing the scent of decent perfume, good humor and a deal. Josie watched her, only to find her eye caught by a grim Horace Babcock. That told Josie all she needed to know. The cops weren't happy. They weren't in on this.

  "What is it?" Matthew had moved out of the pew and was standing by the bar.

  "It sounds like P.J. wants to negotiate," Josie muttered. "Let's go see what's up before we start celebrating."

  She led the way down the center aisle, wondering if Grace hadn't been right all along. Maybe Matthew McCreary had friends in high places and he wasn't afraid to use them.

  CHAPTER 18

  Kevin O'Connel had missed his calling. He should have been a cop or a PI or, at the very least, a gigolo. He could get women to tell him anything. The lady at the Chamber of Commerce knew Josie Bates worked with Faye Baxter. She gave him the phone number and address of the law office. The receptionist at Faye Baxter's law firm told him that Josie was in court that morning and couldn't be reached.

  I'll catch her in San Pedro.

  No, no. She's in Long Beach today.

  That was a good piece of information. He made one more call and then took a drive to Hermosa Beach to keep his appointment with a real estate agent. That woman was thrilled to show him the house that was for sale on the street he found so charming.

  Now here he was, dressed nice, listening to a middle-aged blonde yak until he thought his head would split. Kevin made her nervous on sight. Telling him she had forgotten the key to the house, the blonde went back into the office and asked a co-worker to ring her in twenty minutes—just in case. Now she was sorry she had jumped to conclusions because this new client was proving much more affable, almost charming, as they toured the house.

  "I'm sorry about that. The office calls for the smallest things," she cooed and pocketed her little phone after assuring her coworker that all was well.

  "I understand. Business is business," Kevin said smoothly.

  "Are you in the business, too?" the agent asked.

  "What business?"

  "Real estate?" she said.

  "Oh, that. No. Shipping. I'm in shipping."

  Kevin wandered into the tiny dining room. He wanted to puke. You could fit this whole house in his backyard. A million two. What a joke. No wonder a hardworking guy like him couldn't get ahead. Still, he touched the drapes and looked out the window and acted like he was impressed.

  "So, how are the neighbors?" Kevin smiled at the blonde.

  "Lovely. Just lovely."

  The young couple to the left? They're both professionals. The older couple straight across are gone now to Palm Springs. What a super retirement. Mostly professional people or retired on this street. It's very quiet. That's what she told him.

  "I thought I saw a teenager the other day. A black girl. She looked to be about my daughter's age."

  "Oh, Hannah Sheraton. She lives with Josie Bates, one of the town's leading attorneys. Hannah's sixteen if I remember right. Maybe seventeen. How old is your girl?"

  "A little younger. She's just going into high school. Maybe the girl down the way could talk to her about the high school. I mean if she goes to the local one," Kevin said easily.

  "Oh, I'm sure Hannah would be pleased to do that since she was just new at Mira Costa last year. It's good for the new kids to have someone to talk to."

  She kept talking as she followed Kevin O'Connel back into the living room. He had everything he needed but he was having a damn good time so he grinned, put his hand out and played it out to the end.

  "So, maybe my wife could come see it tomorrow. Same time?"

  The blonde pumped his hand with great enthusiasm and Kevin had no doubt she was already spending her commission.

  "That would be fine. I'm sure she'll love it. Does she work?" the woman asked as she pulled out another card and handed it to him. Kevin already had three but he took it anyway.

  "No," he said sadly. "She's disabled."

  "How awful for you both," she commiserated

  "She handles it pretty good." Kevin was smooth. The real estate lady had no inkling that he wished his wife was dead. But if Suzy couldn't be that, and Josie Bates couldn't be beat at her own game, then Kevin O'Connel would just have to get his satisfaction in other ways. "Well, thanks for your time. I think the missus will love it."

  "See you tomorrow then, Mr. Johnson." The real estate lady was grinning like an idiot when she headed back to her office to let the listing agent know that she had a live one. Kevin O'Connel went to the end of the street where he turned the corner, checked around, then walked through the gate and into Josie Baylor-Bates's front yard like he owned the place.
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  CHAPTER 19

  P.J. Vega's office was very pretty.

  Actually, the office wasn't pretty, the things in it were: pink pens, pastel posters and pillows with embroidered messages that encouraged her to make the most of the day or believe in herself. P.J. needed no cajoling in that department. She believed in herself just fine, thank you very much. On top of that, most of her colleagues thought she was pretty spectacular, too. Her reputation had preceded her when she joined the Long Beach District Attorney's Office after a stint up north. Many a defense attorney who faced P.J. listened to her wax poetic about her accomplishments and her children, basked under the glow of her smile and figured her for a pushover.

  They couldn't have been more wrong. P.J. was tough as nails.

  She had crossed the San Diego border between Mexico and the United States in utero. Her mother, eight months pregnant, had been smashed into a false bottom of a truck along with six other people by a coyote who had taken their money, then left them along the edge of the 405 freeway when the truck broke down. P.J.'s mother had gone into labor in the sweltering heat. She was close to giving birth when her terrified companions finally broke through the floorboards and fled. P.J. was born bloody and slightly premature but bouncing and healthy. Her mother had not been so lucky. She died in her hiding place and P.J.—a United States citizen given the fact that her birth took place a few miles from the border—was sent through the system.

  One of the lucky ones, she was taken into a middle-class Hispanic family to be raised in a houseful of adopted and foster children. P.J. took the family name Vega because no one knew what her mother's had been. Her foster parents had been written up in the Los Angeles Times on half a dozen occasions. The family had turned out a doctor, two teachers and three lawyers at last count. P.J. was the most tenacious of them, smart and good-humored. She didn't take loss personally. If God had saved her, given her a family who loved her, a chance to make her way in the world in a respected profession then, by golly, she was going to happily do no less than her best to give back.