CHAPTER 26
Archer was up and dressed and having his coffee on his deck. It was three in the morning and the world was tinged with that promise-of-sunrise color: not quite blue, almost gray, washed with something akin to a blush. The ocean was black-to-blue, frothing magically white just before it touched the shore. The perpetually hard-packed sand sucked up the sparkles like champagne bubbles popping. The streetlights were off. Lover or drunk could find the way home without them. Archer looked toward the pier and saw someone moving under it, just this side of the new lifeguard headquarters. Not Billy Zuni. He would have slept on Josie's sofa, true to his promise to stay with Hannah until Josie returned. Josie had gotten home late, that much Archer knew.
Archer took a drink. The coffee was hot and bitter and necessary—the same as his sleep had been after his marathon drive from Mexico to Hermosa. He had been deep in rest when Josie came to his bed and pulled herself close. She touched him, insisting he wake. Without a word Josie made love to him as if needing to be reassured that he was alive and well and loving her back. Archer obliged. It was eleven o'clock when they finished. She didn't stay but she left something behind.
It had sloughed off and left Archer itching like he needed to wash it off, or sweep it away. But it proved as elusive as dust mites on a hard wood floor. The more he tried to collect it, examine it, toss it aside, the worse the feeling of disquiet. He could guess what it was. Josie had been at McCreary's place. Alone. Archer didn't want to go there, so he showered, dressed and had his coffee. Now that it was time to leave, he felt better. If Josie wanted to tell him what went down she would. If she didn't bring it up, he would forget it—or pretend he did.
Archer drained the coffee mug and left the patio door open when he went back inside to wash out his cup. The keys to the Hummer were on the bookshelf where he always kept them. He touched the rosary that shared the space. Finally he opened a drawer, palmed his pistol, then lifted his shirt and holstered the weapon in the harness under his arm.
He was ready to work.
CHAPTER 27
Archer got to the port by four fifteen and found the berth where Kevin O'Connel was due to off-load toys from China from a ship of Turkish registry owned by a Swiss consortium. If O'Connel was around it seemed Archer had missed him or scared him off. So Archer nosed around, upfront about who he was: a PI looking at Kevin for something. Everybody knew that something was the money he owed his wife, so there wasn't much chitchat to be had. Best Archer got was one guy—casual labor—who grumbled that O'Connel had been working overtime hours that belonged to him.
Archer listened patiently, took note of the days the other man ticked off and then did a quick calculation. If the information was right, and Kevin O'Connel kept it up, he was still full-time, easily pulling down a hundred grand a year. Funny that O'Connel told the court he was handling max three days a week, unable to work because of the mental stress of his wife's vindictiveness. Archer had the union psychologist's paperwork filed with the court to prove Kevin was in a weakened state. Now he had some guy's gripe that O'Connel was hale, hearty and greedy. That could mean only one thing: the man was off the books, hiding the cash and screwing his wife out of her settlement.
All in all, a decent day's work before six in the morning. Archer grabbed a second cup of coffee and sat down, wishing he had his camera. The play of changing light on the spirals of rope—thick as a man's trunk—was one of the most beautiful things Archer had ever seen. The hoists, tall enough, strong enough, to lift sixty thousand tons of goods with a throw of a gear, the turn of a knob, looked like a stand of exotic birds, their beaks dipping toward the decks to pick at their prey. The harbor was as complex as the goods it moved in and out. Ships arrived from faraway lands, government regulations were met or ignored as needed. The constant threat of terror was outweighed by demand for the things packed in those containers. Yet this world was simple, too, and stark, and suddenly it was one that Archer wasn't too enamored with.
The punch came fast from behind and Archer didn't take it well. The Styrofoam cup flew out of his hands as he was thrown forward. Damn if his face wasn't in the way as the hot coffee jumped up to scald him before splashing on the ground beneath him. But the stinging along the side of his face was the least of his worries; the three guys blocking out the early-morning rays were top of mind.
The one with the big square head and goatee had him by the shirt collar. He was leaning real close so that Archer could see he had dark little hairs in his nose and a piercing through his right ear. No earring. Just another hole in his head.
"You looking for Kevin?" he growled.
Archer swallowed hard. Whoever punched his kidney had done a damn good job of hitting his mark. It was taking a minute to find his voice so he nodded.
"Kevin don't know you." This time he yanked Archer up just high enough that his gut crumpled and Archer found himself wishing there was a John real close by. "Kevin don't know you, right?"
"Right," Archer rasped.
Not only did he have to pee real bad, the guy with the ham hands had twisted his shirt at the throat. Not the best interrogation technique but Archer didn't think it was something he should point out.
"Okay. So, don't think we're all such dumb shits. Tell Suzy she's going to get what's coming to her, and she don't need to send down nobody to see she gets it. Understand?"
Square Head pulled Archer up just an inch higher, and then threw him away like a piece of garbage. The man got high marks for drama because his audience was well pleased. Grunts and muttering and peacock threats were heaped on Archer, who knew enough to stay exactly where he was. When the men sauntered away, not even bothering to run, Archer decided two things: first, Josie was going to have her work cut out for her getting the money out of Kevin O'Connel and, second, Archer was thankful that he was lying in a pool of coffee when it could just as easily have been blood.
***
Josie didn't bother with breakfast. She didn't bother with coffee. She was just bothered. The night had been long, unsatisfying and guilt-ridden. She lay awake knowing she had done nothing to warrant Matthew's attack but feeling shame the moment she saw Grace's face. Josie took Grace aside and explained the situation wasn't what it seemed.
"A breakdown ... I found him . . . He's grieving . . ." she said.
"I understand," Grace answered.
"A reaction . . . Anger at his loss . . . Didn't want me . . ." Josie explained.
"Of course," Grace agreed.
"Didn't encourage ... He remembered the old days ... It just happened . . ." Josie went on.
Grace nodded, agreeing with everything, that ring of hers whirly gigging as she listened but looking at Josie as if she didn't need an explanation. Grace knew what had happened. It was desire. Lust. Seduction. Matthew was free. It was an opportunity and Josie took advantage. There was no doubt.
Josie stopped talking and waited for Grace to say something, ask a question, make a judgment or accusation. But Grace lit a cigarette and looked across the balcony. Her head fell back, her free hand lay against her long, pale neck. When she faced Josie once more, Grace didn't look into a lawyer's eyes but into those of the other woman. Josie was sure that's what she was thinking. Dropping her unfinished cigarette onto the tile she said:
"I'm glad you were here for him, then."
Grace smiled distantly then went to the bedroom, where her brother had taken refuge. Tim muttered a goodbye, apologizing for panicking and calling Grace. If he had known exactly what was going on he would never have brought her.
"Known what?" Josie snapped. He didn't offer an explanation.
She went to Archer to work out her guilt, but stayed silent as they lay side by side in his bed, leaving when she found no comfort. She replayed every second of her encounter with Matthew as she lay shivering in her own bed, ashamed that she had used Archer and somehow failed Matthew and Grace.
Too tired to garage the Jeep, Josie had left it parked on the stre
et and she paid the price. Kevin O'Connel had carved up the ebony paint with a key, sliced the ragtop with a knife. The man never gave up and he never slept and Josie was getting tired of his juvenile tricks. All in all, Josie felt about as bad as she ever had but she was due in Department 9 of the Long Beach court. She drove the Jeep and knew it looked as wounded as she felt.
Clutching her briefcase in her left hand, Josie pulled the door open with her right. As expected, they were all there: Grace sitting straight-backed at the defense table, Matthew behind her, Tim beside him. P.J. Vega looked busy at the prosecutor's table. The clerk was at her desk. The bailiff hovered by the bench, and Josie Bates felt an overwhelming sense of failure grip her.
Undone by everything, Josie let the door close and leaned against the wall. Kevin O'Connel was playing games with her head and scaring Hannah. Hannah was hovering. Susan O'Connel needed constant reassurance. Archer asked no questions and that added to her burden. But what weighed most heavily on Josie was the realization that she was not the lawyer Grace deserved. In all these weeks—since the minute Grace had uttered her brother's name—it had been Matthew Josie was trying to understand and his marriage she was attempting to unravel. She wanted to prove something to him and Grace had suffered.
Standing tall, Josie opened the door again, walked down the center aisle and took her seat beside Grace McCreary. Diamonds the size of peas sparkled on Grace's ears. Her suit was exquisite. The emerald ring was on her finger. They would never find a jury of her peers so Josie's job was to make sure the charges were dismissed before they had to seat one. The clerk called the court to order. Judge Michael Belote took the bench with the look of a man who commanded everything he surveyed. He moved with precision, spoke with authority and had left a lucrative private practice to serve the people. Seven years on the bench were long enough for him to be close to omnipotent. He liked to run a tight court. P.J. Vega respected that and called Horace Babcock as her first witness.
It took twenty minutes for P.J. to establish the scene, determine that Babcock had taken the proper precautions to preserve evidence and appropriately track down a witness who had seen Grace on the balcony with Michelle McCreary. This was only a preliminary hearing so P.J. needed to do little more than that.
Josie stood up and took her turn with Babcock.
"Detective, on the night of the incident did you discover any evidence that would lead you to believe that Mrs. McCreary had been murdered?"
"No."
"Had anyone in the building heard screams for help?"
"No."
"Did anyone report hearing a suspicious pounding on the floor?"
"No, the building is soundproof," he answered.
"Move to strike. Nonresponsive."
Judge Belote waved away half of Babcock's testimony with the same interest he would dismiss a sommelier who brought a poor wine to the table.
"Did anyone observe my client coming into the building?" Josie asked.
"Yes, we have the defendant on a surveillance tape in the garage: once at eight forty-seven as she entered the building and again at nine twelve when she got in her car and left."
"And can you tell me how she appeared at eight forty-seven?"
"She appeared calm," the detective answered.
"What did you observe when she left?"
"She was hurried. There were tire marks on the floor of the parking garage. She was driving erratically."
"Did she appear disheveled?"
"No," Babcock admitted.
"Would you find that to be unusual behavior considering she had just seen her sister-in-law go over a balcony?"
"I would consider it unusual behavior for her to leave the scene."
"Is that a crime? To leave the scene of a suicide?" Josie asked.
"Not to my knowledge."
"Mine either," Josie said and took her seat.
CHAPTER 28
Mrs. G. Stephen Wilford had been alone in her eleventh floor apartment on Ocean Boulevard for the twelve years since her husband died. Her children insisted she sell the family home in Brentwood because it was too big to care for and too far for them to help her out. She missed her home, and her children didn't see her as often as they had promised.
The witness's clothes were unimaginative, her haircut was sensible, her makeup out of date. There was little joy in Mrs. Wilford's life and less sorrow. She saw the world in black and white and didn't want the good or the bad to cross her threshold. Now that it had, she was reluctantly appearing in front of the court.
When asked what Mrs. Wilford knew about the McCrearys, the witness testified that on more than one occasion she had seen Matthew McCreary and his wife having heated disagreements, which seemed odd given that he wasn't home all that much anymore. She was thinking of not voting for Matthew should he win the primary because she was concerned that his family life was not stable enough to—
Judge Belote cut off the editorial and P.J. brought her witness back in line, redirecting her to her observations of Grace and Michelle McCreary in the weeks leading up to the incident.
The two women were another matter. Usually very chummy. Very close. Until two weeks before the incident. Mrs. Wilford testified that she had not seen Grace McCreary at all and had, indeed, been more than curious when she arrived on the night in question.
Did Mrs. Wilford know Grace was Michelle McCreary's sister-in-law?
"No," she answered.
So Mrs. Wilford could not speculate why Grace McCreary might have a motive to kill the other woman?
"No, I just saw that she did it," Mrs. Wilford testified, then turned those beady, bitter eyes on Josie when P.J. bowed out.
Josie approached the witness knowing she was credible. Her job would be to show that the woman was simply mistaken. Josie greeted Mrs. Wilford with a smile and then leaned against the defense table so the witness would be forced to look at Grace as she condemned her.
"What were you doing the night Mrs. McCreary jumped off—"
"Objection, Your Honor," P.J. Vega was on her feet faster than Josie would have thought possible.
"Rephrase, Ms. Bates," the judge directed.
"What were you doing the evening Mrs. McCreary died?" Josie asked.
"I had just started a new puzzle. I had the hind end of a horse finished."
Josie heard someone laugh. The judge looked up sharply. It was enough to quiet the courtroom.
"So you were looking down and concentrating," Josie suggested.
"Yes and no. My puzzle table is next to the sliding glass doors. My chair faces the window. I watch the buildings and I do puzzles. I concentrated on the puzzle when I did that, and I concentrated on looking out the window when I did that."
"But Mrs. McCreary's balcony was interesting that evening, correct?"
"That night it was. I thought she was naked. She wasn't, of course, but I thought she was. That was curious."
"Was that the only reason you found her interesting?"
"No. I thought she was in some sort of distress. Her arms were moving fast. She was leaning forward, and then turning around like she was talking to someone, and then turning around again and not looking at them but still talking."
"So she was just talking to someone?"
"She was upset," the witness answered firmly. "I had children. I know what upset looks like."
"And you saw all this from a distance of more than fifty yards, balcony to balcony as you were inside your apartment?'
"My apartment was dark. I had only a small desk lamp by which to see my puzzle. The McCreary apartment was lit enough so that it was like watching a stage. I could see inside their place."
Josie moved now. She circled around her prey like a curious shark looking for lunch in a calm ocean.
"What could you see inside?"
"I could see the defendant standing inside the front door."
"How can you be so sure it was Grace McCreary?" Josie was closing in. Mr
s. Wilford looked her up and down, clearly unimpressed.
"I've seen her many times with Mrs. McCreary. Always very chummy before that night. I mean, very chummy." Mrs. Wilford nodded knowingly. "It was her, all right."
God knew what Mrs. Wilford was alluding to regarding the relationship between Michelle and Grace but Josie never asked a question she didn't know the answer to. She let the testimony stand. As the witness was talking, Josie had circled back to the table and slipped a gel on the light box of the overhead projector. She switched it on and directed Mrs. Wilford to the image on the screen that had been set up to the side of the empty jury box.
"Mrs. Wilford, this is a schematic drawn to scale of the McCrearys' living room. I wonder, what else did you see inside that room?"
"I don't understand the question," the woman grumbled.
"I mean, could you describe what you could see through the French doors that lead to the McCrearys' balcony—or were those doors closed?"
"They were . . ." Mrs. Wilford hesitated. She looked for help from P.J. or the judge. There was none. "I don't remember if she closed both of them behind her when she ran out. Everything went very quickly."
"Not a problem, Mrs. Wilford," Josie said. "Just tell us what else you saw inside the house."
"I saw a desk. There was a computer on it. There were bookcases. There was a large dark shape way in the back. I think it's a piano but I wouldn't want to say for sure. And there was a couch. I could see the couch."
"What color is the couch?"
"Blue. There seems to be a pattern in it."
"What kind of couch is it?" Josie asked.
"I couldn't tell you for sure," Mrs. Wilford said. "I mean, it looks long. I don't see it from the front but from the side. It appears very long."
"And what is behind the sofa?" Josie pressed. Now she had a pen that hovered, ready to draw in whatever the witness told her.
"I don't know. I can't see behind the sofa. In fact, I can really only see the very front of it."
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