Obstruction of Justice

by Perri O'shaughnessy

  She had never married Bob’s father, Kurt Scott, and the relationship had ended before Bob’s birth. Bob was just getting to know Kurt, who lived in Germany but had been in the States for a long visit. Kurt had asked her to let him take Bob to San Francisco before he went back to Wiesbaden, and Nina had let Bob go with him, but she had been more lonely than she expected without Bob.

  "How are you, honey?" she said when she heard Bob’s voice.

  "Great!" said Bob. "Yesterday we went to the Exploratorium. They have this exhibit there, where you stand in front of a blank wall, only you don’t stand, you pose or something. So I jumped, and this light goes off, and guess what, Mom?"

  "What?"

  "Your shadow stays behind, frozen in a jump! Cool, huh?"

  Frozen in a jump. Kind of how she felt, at the moment—suspended, transient, needing to land somewhere ... "How’s it going with your dad?"

  "Does he have to go, Mom? Why can’t he stay?"

  "You’ll have to talk to him about that, honey." She felt the familiar stab of guilt. Bob wasn’t fated to have a pair of parents around the house. She just couldn’t seem to get it right, unlike Andrea.

  She went to see Mr. Muntz in his office a few blocks from her own. "What would be your financing options? " the dapper silver-haired realtor said twice before she heard him. Startled, she closed the multiple listing book with its pictures of homes all over Tahoe.

  He handed her a long form full of financial minutiae. "Why don’t you go ahead and fill this in?" he said. "It’ll help me pick out some good properties for us to look at."

  "I’d prefer to look first. Then, if I get interested in a house, we’ll talk about that," Nina said.

  Mr. Muntz remained outwardly cheerful, although she could sense that he had revised his initial good impression of her. At her request they went out to his car, a yellow Cadillac, a few years old, its waxed finish satiny. He said he would take her for a tour of the town, the "grand tour," he called it. She felt as if she were cruising on an ocean liner as she sat in the front seat flipping through the listings, fascinated as Mr. Muntz Berlitzed her through a whole new language. Where else would she learn that AEK meant "all-electric kitchen" or that charm was real-estate lingo for minuscule? Or that fixer was short for run for your life and secure stood for rotten, crime-ridden neighborhood?

  They started down near the lake, in a neighborhood of crowded cottages, all alike in a rustic simplicity, and yet obviously put together by a hundred different people with a hundred different ideas about what constituted a home.

  "This is the Bijou," he said. "A lot of rentals in this neighborhood." He turned his head slightly to observe her reaction. She didn’t say anything, so he went on: "The prices are good, though. It’s an excellent entry-level neighborhood, close to the casinos, if that’s your style." Again he swung an eye her way.

  "Small lots," she commented.

  "You’re looking for something large?" Almost imperceptibly, the edges of his mouth tipped up.

  "Is there such a thing as property bordering on national forest or something? So that you have some privacy, but don’t have to buy acres and acres of land?"

  "Occasionally. Naturally, that adds to the price." The words rolled familiarly off his tongue. He navigated the big car around a corner, his tie flapping in the wind from the open window. The only thing lacking was a yachting cap.

  "What I’d really love is lakefront," Nina went on.

  "Wouldn’t we all?"

  "I don’t suppose there are any fixer-uppers with their own little beach?"

  "People who own lakefront property usually maintain it. But, of course, there’s the Tahoe Keys," he said. "Most of the houses there have private docks. You’re not on a beach, but it’s water. Hop in your motorboat and let ’er rip."

  He drove slowly through the Keys, which looked like a suburban neighborhood anywhere, with orderly dead-end streets lined with stucco-sided ranch houses on small lots with double garages. Grass huddled in scanty clumps as if waiting for the snow to come. Behind the houses, narrow man-made canals flowed out to the lake. The view toward the surrounding mountains was unobstructed.

  The canals and view would be nice, but she would feel exposed out here, in the lake practically. She wanted sun, but filtered through tall trees. "Something more woodsy?" she said.

  "Ah. Woodsy it is."

  They drove through another neighborhood, close to the city offices and court buildings, and past rustic cabins in an area called Tahoe Paradise, continuing from there along Pioneer Trail, stopping at a few vacant properties. Nina thought she liked Tahoe Paradise best, a heavily wooded area of A-frames and chalets, not too highfalutin. There were places nearby to walk and hike and the neighborhood was close enough to Matt’s house that Bobby could ride his bike there....

  "Your price range?" Mr. Muntz was saying delicately but insistently, determined if possible to reduce her murmurs of approval to paperwork.

  "I don’t know much about real estate up here. It’s hard to say."

  That made him clutch his hands together tightly on the leather-wrapped wheel, the better to avoid rubbing them together with glee.

  As they turned right on Highway 89 to head back up to the Y, Nina said, "Mr. Muntz, do you ... did you know Ray de Beers?"

  "De Beers Construction. They build houses. Oh, yes, I knew Ray. Why do you ask about him? You thinking about buying a lot and building yourself? That’s one thing they do, build spec houses."

  "No. But I recently ... met Mr. de Beers. Right before his death."

  "He stood up there on that mountain and he said one too many times ’May God strike me dead if I’m lying,’ and God took him up on it," Mr. Muntz said with a malicious chuckle. "You heard he got killed by a lightning bolt?"

  "I take it you didn’t like him."

  "You take it right, honey. I used to sell Ray’s houses. His father, Quentin, had spent years building the business, but about ten years ago Ray moved in and started building the houses. And the houses were trashy junk. Ray worked his miracles with one-coat paint. I wouldn’t even show you one of his places, everybody’s so lawsuit-happy these days."

  "Have you met his family?"

  "His wife, once. Case in point: Ray took her out to one of his projects one fine day a few years back, and the damn thing fell down. Not really, just one of the joists came down because he wasn’t using the right-size nails. Broke both her legs. Poetic justice.’’

  "Poetic justice would be if it broke both his legs, wouldn’t you say?" Nina said. Once again she was back on the mountain, hearing Ray say, Making sure I don’t get to forget it even for one lousy minute. So that was what he had meant.

  They drove past the Y on 89, then turned left onto a wooded hill. "This is Gardner Mountain," Mr. Muntz said. "Some cozy places up here I think you might like. You say three bedrooms would do you. How big is your family?"

  Looking out the window at the quiet neighborhood they were driving through, Nina said, "There are two of us, me and my son Bob. He’s eleven."

  "No one else?"

  "I’m divorced." Don’t be so prickly, Nina, she told herself. Half the world’s divorced—maybe not as recently as you, but—

  "You’re one of those working mothers, then?"

  "My office is just a few blocks down Highway Fifty, in the Starlake Building. You’ve probably seen my sign. I’m an attorney."

  "Ah, yes," Mr. Muntz said, but he looked alarmed instead of reassured. Nina thought, He hates lawyers, just my luck.

  "I remember seeing some articles about you in the paper. The Patterson trial and the Scott thing. You do criminal defense work, right?"

  "I’m a general practitioner. Wills, contracts, family law ... and criminal law."

  "You haven’t been in town long?"

  Who has, she thought. "Almost two years now."

  "And ... you’re self-employed?"

  "I can handle a reasonable down payment," Nina said. She had inherited a small cottage in Pacific Grove, wh
ich she rented out, and had a nest egg from her divorce settlement. "I can make the payments."

  "I see." Mr. Muntz sounded disappointed. Dollar signs no longer shone in his eyes. The Caddy shimmied a little, as if preparing to eject her. "You haven’t talked to your bank. Firmed up the, ah, loan situation?"

  "You don’t think I could get a mortgage? I’m making good money. I’ve been a lawyer for six years. My credit cards are paid up. What’s the problem, Mr. Muntz?"

  The realtor had all the sensitivity of a signpost. He piloted around another turn, the sun highlighting his carefully moussed hair and the lines in his infuriatingly smug face. "A single mother. Not long in the area. No employer."

  "But I’m a lawyer!"

  "This may surprise you, but being a lawyer isn’t an advantage anymore. It’s not a gentleman’s profession since ..." He paused delicately. "Plenty of ’em come up for the gambling or the skiing, like it, and rent a hole-in-the-wall office for a few months, after which they’re gone and forgotten except for their bum accounts payable. Please don’t take offense. It’s the harsh reality of the business world. Those damn bankers, obsessed with stability, you know?" He looked at his watch. "I’m so sorry, I’ve got an appointment. Clients." Actual clients, his expression said, nuclear families headed by husbands with steady jobs.

  "Clients, eh? You can’t have too many of those," Nina said. "Not with your attitude."

  "Now see here, honey—"

  "I’m not your honey. And you just aced yourself out of a commission, pal."

  "Well. Perhaps we should head back."

  "You’ve got that right."

  Head high, Nina jumped out of the Caddy and into her own dusty Ford Bronco at the realty office. An impromptu flea market had sprung up near the Y. Dusty cars and pickups clogged the factory outlet parking lots, turning Highway 50 into a ten-mile crawl toward the casinos. She opened the windows and resigned herself. High clouds drifted overhead, and the air felt mellow and warm. She was regretting her rudeness in spite of Mr. Muntz’s provocations. Half the town would soon hear his version of their run-in. She lectured herself again about discretion, prudence, all those virtuous qualities she would probably never acquire.

  Finally wending her way across the state line into Nevada, she parked in the lot behind Prize’s and entered the casino, hoping to shake off the losses of the day.

  Weekenders and locals alike smoked and drank and gambled and flirted on the blackjack stools and around the craps tables, their up-front greed for money looking like good clean fun after Mr. Muntz’s tawdry business. As mindful of movement as hungry buzzards, black-suited pit bosses swiveled their eyes from table to table. Around the rooms that stretched from one perennial neon-lit night to another, bells rang and lights flashed, and the unlucky gathered to watch the lucky gather up their winnings. Over at the Tonga Bar, the alcoholics were getting an early start.

  Why did she like it here so much? Was it the total acceptance (for as long as she had a quarter left to drop in the slots)? Shrugging, she gave a change person a twenty and started feeding quarters into the maw of a video poker machine.

  After twenty minutes, three dollars up from her initial investment, she was getting carpal tunnel syndrome in her right index finger from punching the play and hit and deal buttons. Carrying her white plastic bucket with its scanty load of quarters, she got up and wandered over to the high-stakes room, where real gamblers playing stud poker sat at tables for eight headed by attentive dealers in green aprons.

  Sometimes she caught a glimpse of Hollywood people or foreign dignitaries through the doorway. A bouncer trying not to look like one waited to toss out cash-poor curiosity-seekers like herself if they took it in mind to cross the threshold. Stepping out of his line of sight, Nina saw someone she recognized, a woman with sunglasses pushed up over curly black hair.

  Although it was early afternoon, the woman was wearing a black cocktail dress, her long slim legs crossed at the ankles, tapping her lacquered fingernails on the side of her martini glass. She pushed a stack of chips to the middle of the table from several stockpiled neatly in front of her. While Nina considered whether she ought to say hello, the woman folded a dud hand, watching her hundred-dollar chips being raked away, her expression blank.

  She wore black out of respect for her husband, of course, black to show her grief. It was Sarah de Beers, and next to her, not touching her but staying close by, sat Leo Tarrant.

  She saw Nina watching and got up quickly, walking toward her. Brushing past the bouncer, she took Nina by the arm. "Why are you following me?"

  "Mrs. de Beers, I’m here to have some fun on a Saturday afternoon, just like you. That’s all."

  "I don’t believe it. It’s Quentin, isn’t it? What is he up to now? Are you going to photograph me having a moment of freedom? What does he want?"

  "I don’t know what you’re talking about," said Nina. "Now, I can see you’re upset, but I need my arm back."

  She let go of Nina’s arm and pulled a loose strap up over her own bare shoulder, staggering a little. "I’m sorry. It’s Ray’s father. He’s going to take Ray’s place, running my life, telling me and the kids what to do and how to do it. Criticizing everything. What’s wrong with coming here to have a little fun? What’s wrong with wanting to forget everything for a few hours?"

  Leo appeared, naked adoration sandblasting the rough edges from his face as he looked at her. "Everything okay?" he asked her, his eyes turning on Nina with an entirely different expression.

  "I want to go home, Leo. Let’s go."

  "Wait. Mrs. de Beers," said Nina quickly, "since you’re here, there’s something I’ve been meaning to ask."

  "What?"

  "Did our decision to continue on up to the summit have anything at all to do with the rest of you trying to reach the top?"

  "You feel guilty about that, don’t you? You could tell Ray didn’t like seeing you go ahead of us."

  "I wondered."

  "He’s dead; that’s the only thing that matters. Just like all of us, you had everything and nothing to do with it. I’m sorry ... about what I said." She leaned a little on Leo as they walked away. Nina looked around. At the craps table nearby, the clamoring reached a crescendo as an elderly man blew on the dice, mumbled a prayer or something like it, and tossed the dice against the back wall of the table. Then there was jubilation from the winners, but now she registered, too, the moaning of the losers.

  The fever had broken. She cashed in and went home.

  6

  PAUL LEFT BEFORE DAWN ON MONDAY MORNING and made it up to Tahoe from Carmel in four hours and thirty-seven minutes, arriving before ten, a personal best.

  He checked into Caesars with one airline bag, one laptop Macintosh Powerbook, his cell phone, and his spanking-new Czech semiautomatic, purchased at a Cow Palace gun show just a few weeks before. Opening the bag on the bed, he laid out his swim suit, tennis racket, a pair of Dockers, and some polo shirts.

  The leather toiletry bag he tossed into the bathroom, and the thick manila folder he laid on the table by the window, where he had already arranged the Powerbook and the phone. The gun went on the nightstand beside the bed, still in its holster.

  Room service arrived with breakfast just as he finished unpacking, and he ate while he booted up the Powerbook. He was calling his investigation of Anna Meade’s death the Windshield Case in his ClarisWorks file. He had already entered the notes he had made over the weekend from Hallowell’s files. He had ideas and he had a list of people he wanted to meet.

  Somebody in this town would know the name of the driver of the hit-and-run car. Even a tourist left a paper trail in this day and age. Hansel and Gretel wouldn’t have needed to rely on bread crumbs to find their way out of the forest if they had lived at the end of the twentieth century; any number of things would have been tracking them, from satellites on down.

  He clicked his mouse and looked at the accident-reconstruction expert’s report.

  No skid marks. Possibly
the driver just didn’t see her. Even if she was hit accidentally, the driver might not stop. Panic always headed the reasons, but the panicked innocent often showed up at the police station later to blab a weeping, guilt-stricken confession. The less innocent could choose from a thousand reasons not to come forward, ranging from trouble with the law to irresponsibility, immaturity, or sociopathy. Half the world had one of those problems, and the other half probably had them too.

  For the purposes of his investigation, Paul decided to start with the idea that Anna Meade was killed deliberately. She had been happily married, if he believed Hallowell, which he did, so most likely he wouldn’t have to look at any hanky-panky, although there was always the possibility of a psycho somewhere obsessed with her. He sighed. A world full of bad boys. If I can’t have her, nobody can! How many times had he seen the bloody outcome of that kind of primitive emotion when he was a cop?

  There was also the possibility of a revenge killing by one of the bad boys her husband the prosecutor had helped into jail. This, Paul found unlikely. Most criminals lacked subtlety. Collier would have been the one left to drain on the asphalt, not his wife, and Collier had not mentioned any intimidation or blackmail attempts.

  Then there was the most likely possibility, that one of her clients had come after her. The cops had painstakingly checked and double-checked alibis on all sixty-two of the parolees and probationers assigned to her, but there was still the chance.

  In her position, if she was good, she would have learned all the dirty family secrets. She would know what her parolees wanted and dreamed about at night, their weaknesses and strengths, who might stay out this time and who would be going down again. Had something she’d known about one of her clients gotten her killed?

  According to the statement in the file by Marvin Gates, her supervisor, Anna was top-notch, one of those caring professional types who burn out after ten or fifteen years and move on to something less stressful. If she had lived, she and Collier would probably have had children. She might have changed to a part-time job or quit for a while to raise them, and Collier wouldn’t have that achy-breaky look of a man who goes through the motions of life without enjoying its fruits.