Designer Crimes

by Lia Matera

  Especially since I would soon be going to the police in San Francisco, the homicide detectives in charge of Kinsley’s case. I would tell them who I thought had pulled the trigger. My conclusion wasn’t based on Rommel’s confidences, so it was outside the scope of the privilege.

  But I didn’t want to tell him that. We were just down the hall from armed jail guards, but we were alone. And he’d tried twice to kill me.

  “My point is, I have a duty to you in the Piatti case in spite of my belief that you murdered her—that you got angry and jealous that she was fed up with small-town life and was going to leave you.”

  “You never used to think I killed her.” His eyes searched my face. He sank lower into his shoulders.

  “If you weren’t guilty, Gold wouldn’t have enough of a hold on you. She wouldn’t have a real favor to trade. And she wouldn’t trust you enough if, number one, she wasn’t positive you’d killed before, and number two, she didn’t have the leverage that fact provided.” I wanted to cry. I’d known him so long. “You must have killed Piatti. Gold couldn’t have made this deal with you if you hadn’t.”

  Rommel rose, looming over me like some ruddy, wild-haired Viking.

  “You tried to shoot me to buy your freedom, Brad. And you accidentally shot a sweet young lawyer with walls full of angel paintings.”

  I stared up at him, wondering if it still seemed like a good deal to him. I might have gotten him acquitted, guilty or not. I’d done it for other clients.

  “I’ll have to withdraw as your lawyer. I’ll say it’s because of my arrest, that you wanted someone who didn’t have this hanging over her. I won’t tell anyone what I suppose about Piatti: that you did kill her, that you buried her somewhere and then dug her up, that you dragged her dead body to the mall and busted up gas lines so she’d burn. So her remains would eventually give the DA a basis for dropping the charges against you.”

  I assumed that was how it was supposed to work. That it would eventually look as if Rommel had been framed. Piatti found dead at the mall, after supposedly phoning him. A plane—not his—obviously rigged to inculpate him. Someone trying to run down his lawyer during their meeting. As the case against Rommel became more confused and convoluted, the DA could credibly drop the charges.

  “There was a growing list of things suggesting you didn’t kill Piatti.” The blood on my uncle’s lawn was another. “And I was set to get martial on your behalf. Present the list to Gold, to the sheriff. Demand they drop charges if they couldn’t offer an explanation.”

  Brad continued hovering. “If you were going to get me out, supposedly, why would I want to shoot you? Why would I have to?” He seemed suddenly pleased, as if he’d found a way to deny it.

  “Because another lawyer would have done the same thing. And because a deal’s a deal.”

  “But if—”

  “Don’t say anything, Brad.” It was a struggle for me to act as his attorney now. He didn’t realize the volcano I suppressed. He hadn’t watched Jocelyn Kinsley die. “Let’s just leave it at this: I’m withdrawing as your counsel because of my arrest. What happens to you in regard to the Piatti case after this meeting, it won’t depend on any confidences between us up to this point.”

  He clenched and unclenched his fists. His eyes were almost closed, his jaw slack. He looked as if he were practicing some meditative art.

  I could see him reviewing what I’d said, trying to work out where it left him. I hoped I’d been careful enough that he wouldn’t get it for a while, wouldn’t get it until I was gone.

  Because I had every intention of turning him in for shooting Jocelyn Kinsley. I couldn’t inculpate him in the Piatti case, couldn’t offer my belief that he’d lied about her phone call, that he’d torched the mall to mask her body’s decomposition. But once I accused Connie Gold of making a deal with him, any decent cop would understand the quid pro quo.

  “You’re saying,” his voice was hushed, “that you’re through as my lawyer, but you won’t say anything about why.”

  “I won’t give the real reason why I’m withdrawing. I’ll blame my arrest. I won’t break any confidences that could prejudice your chances. You’ll start fresh with new counsel.”

  He exhaled loudly, seemingly with relief. I was relieved, too: that he hadn’t understood how little I’d promised, how much harm of a different type I intended to do him.

  He could dwell on that when I was out of reach.

  “I used to think you were like a princess when we were in school.” Moisture glinted in his eyes. His voice was low with feeling. “You were perfect—beautiful, smart. But you never got caught up in that rich-man’s-daughter kind of clique, never fell so in love with your own clothes and money that you wouldn’t spend time talking or going on rides. I thought you were the greatest. I always wondered what you saw in that slick show-off Gleason.”

  A princess. He’d tried to kill me. To hunt me down like some inconvenient possum in the garbage.

  As if in reply, he added, “I had to stay out of jail. You know? I’m a fisher, an outdoor hermit—can’t even handle being in a city. You can imagine how jail is, for me.”

  His glance caught what we had in common: a horror of restriction, of squirming under someone’s thumb. It had linked us in high school, too.

  “I was just in jail. So yes, I can imagine.” I bit my tongue, willing myself to say no more. I’d have all the time I needed for my anger—more time than I wanted. To vent now, while we were alone, would be merely stupid, certainly not satisfying. But silence was a struggle. Jocelyn Kinsley’s last moments were burned into my nightmares. Her law partner’s desolation haunted me.

  I stood, staring at him.

  I refused to empathize, I refused to take pity, I refused to defend. But I would remain adequate counsel to Brad Rommel until my withdrawal.

  “I’m going downstairs now to file the necessary petition.” I pulled a document from my briefcase. “It’ll be granted as a matter of routine, given my arrest. Would you please sign where I’ve indicated?”

  He scowled down at the legal sheet.

  My fingers fumbled in my bag, encountering innumerable small objects before finding a pen. I handed it to him.

  When he took it, he looked at me, his face creased with confusion.

  “I can’t continue representing you,” I insisted. “You need to sign this.”

  Still he hesitated.

  “The lawyer-client privilege will cease, but it will cover everything we’ve discussed until now.”

  But only what we’d discussed, nothing more. None of the incriminating things I’d learned on my own, learned at great cost.

  Brad seemed to be replaying my statement in his head. It seemed to assuage him. He bent and signed the paper.

  I called for the guard.

  He arrived by the time I gathered up the petition and pen, closed my briefcase.

  I threaded quickly past him and through the open door.

  “Laura?” Brad called.

  I didn’t wait for his parting comment. I couldn’t spend another second in his company. I couldn’t smother my rage another instant.

  For the favor he’d done me in my teens, I’d more than repaid him. For the great harm he’d tried to do me, I had yet to begin settling the score.

  40

  Within fifteen minutes, I was presenting my petition for withdrawal. The judge, a twittery woman in her sixties, seemed agog to find “the famous Miss Di Palma” in her courtroom. She told me more than once that perhaps I should wait and bring this up with the judge assigned to the Rommel case. But he didn’t handle the newly-created Saturday morning calendar. He wasn’t available on weekends, and she had jurisdiction in his absence, as she well knew. I pointed out that Rommel needed a new lawyer immediately. I implied that my arrest crippled my ability to represent him. She finally granted my motion, seeming more confu
sed than persuaded by my argument.

  I left the redwood-walled chamber feeling almost giddy with relief. This part was over. And luckily, the courtroom had been nearly empty, no spectators except other lawyers with urgent weekend motions. No reporters, no deputy DAs, no further explanation required.

  But even before the heavy wood door swung shut, my relief gave way to trepidation. So many people to contact now, with so convoluted and incredible a story. Maryanne More’s face floated painfully into my awareness. I hoped she would forgive my accidental role in her partner’s death.

  I stepped into the ladies’ room. Splashing water on my face, I wondered vaguely why Kinsley had spoken the words “designer crimes.” She’d been killed accidentally when Brad tried to shoot me as part of his deal with Gold. But she hadn’t known that. She’d meant to convey her suspicion. Maybe Sandy and Osmil would figure out who was behind all that—if anyone. I wasn’t sure I cared.

  I’d left Sandy at home asleep this morning. I’d considered sleeping in myself, but my need to sever ties with Rommel had been paramount. I’d wanted my interview with him to be over, my court appearance to be done. I’d wanted to be free of Gold’s manipulation and Rommel’s hypocrisy.

  I tossed my paper towel into the trash, leaving quickly. I needed to get out of the County Building. I was tired of its gray walls and postcard oil paintings. I was tired of its washed carpet and old air conditioner smell. I was tired of feeling like prey in here, shot at in its corridors, sequestered in its jail, hassled by its cops.

  I hit the elevator button obsessively. I felt like a chained rocket, could barely stand still. I hit the button a few more times. How long could it take an elevator in a four-story building? How busy could it be on a Saturday morning?

  A couple of grumpy minutes later, I abandoned the elevator, heading toward the stairway exit. I wished I’d gone that way first. I’d be outside already, away from this monument to slipshod law enforcement and small-town egos.

  I entered the cavernous gray stairwell. I started down the uncarpeted concrete steps when I heard someone coming up. A jolt of fear crackled through me. I stopped.

  Why hadn’t the elevator worked?

  I could hear the person climbing, getting closer, but I couldn’t see him yet. My disquiet might be nothing but the legacy of being hunted and hassled. But why hadn’t the elevator worked?

  I wheeled around, starting back up. The footsteps were faster and louder behind me now. When I reached the cement landing, my mind took a snapshot of damp gray aggregate with a dim sheen of fluorescence.

  Elevators were quick in underpopulated Hillsdale. Stairs were chilly and drab. I couldn’t count on incidental passersby here. I’d have to reach the corridor to find safety in numbers.

  An image seized my memory as I approached the door: a car careening out of nowhere to snap the hinges of my Mercedes. Brad had been with me. He hadn’t been driving the hit-and-run car. And I’d never checked to see if Connie Gold had been in Hillsdale then. What if she had been? What if someone else was behind the wheel of the car that night, someone working with her and Rommel?

  Gold was probably at home today, nursing her slight wound. And establishing an alibi?

  My fingers closed on the cold metal handle of the stairwell door. If there was a third person involved, he might still be stalking me.

  I began to yank the door. Too late.

  A hand chopped at the back of my neck. An arm circled my waist, pulling me backward.

  I tried to scream, but a sudden jerk on my diaphragm knocked the wind out of me. I staggered against my assailant’s body, twirling away from the exit door. We did a clumsy backward dance that almost tipped us down the stairs. Struggling not to fall, I backed us into a wall. If I’d had the foresight, I’d have put some muscle into it.

  As it was, I used the moment to regain my equilibrium. I stepped forward, hoping to body slam us back against the concrete wall. But a foot was looped in front of mine, tripping me. I fell heavily onto the concrete landing, knocking my forehead against the edge of the stair, pulling my attacker on top of me.

  Face down on the rough cement, I squirmed frantically, beginning to slide down the stairs. I was astonished how easy it was to squirm, how light my load was.

  I noticed the thinness of the arm gripping me. I saw that the sleeve was pale gray cotton—jail garb. But there was lumpiness beneath it, another outfit. Someone wore prison clothing over street clothes. It had to be a woman: the men’s overalls were coarser. And she was so light—light enough that I could keep going despite her weight on me. I could scrape along the landing as if crawling her to safety.

  I tried to buck then, realizing I might be the stronger. My surprise and fear had been her real weapons. So far.

  I was trying to overturn us, put myself on top, when another weapon intruded.

  A gun was pressed stock and barrel against my face. I stopped moving. The gun barrel was cold, almost felt wet. It turned painfully, digging into my flesh until the opening was braced against my cheek bone.

  The body on top of me heaved as if to catch its breath. Heaved like a panting bird, bony and small, smelling faintly of shampoo and antiseptic.

  She wore a prison shift to protect her business suit from blowback or dirt from an unlooked-for scuffle.

  Connie Gold was a real mensch, I guess, to return to work three days after she’d been shot, to come in on the weekend. And then I suppose she’d gotten a phone call: as soon as I withdrew as Rommel’s counsel, the twittering judge had turned to Gold for reassurance that she’d done the right thing.

  Gold must have realized what it meant. I’d been to see Rommel. He’d signed the affidavit allowing me to withdraw. I’d used my arrest as a pretext, but Gold and I both knew she had no evidence against me, that the charges would be dropped. I hadn’t withdrawn for Brad’s benefit, I’d renounced my obligation to serve his interests. I’d figured out the truth.

  My next step would be to contact the San Francisco police and tell them what I knew about Gold and Rommel’s bargain. I’d lulled Rommel with vague talk about the lawyer-client privilege, but Gold knew its limits. Gold knew how little protection it offered them.

  Gold knew that it was now or never. If she didn’t kill me, I’d open the whole can of worms. The sheriff here might dismiss me as hysterical, but he knew nothing of the deal I was on my way to San Francisco to describe. In the city, I’d be taken seriously.

  Gold had to stop me. Here, where no one believed I’d seen her in the woods.

  She had to stop me now. Stop me, and get back to her office with no sign of tussle or blowback on her clothing, with her prison shift stuffed down some laundry chute they’d never check.

  The authorities might conclude I’d been right about being the target of earlier shootings. But they’d have no reason to suspect Gold, busy at work today but for a brief break no one noticed. She’d get away with everything if she could kill me now. And she’d get away with killing me if she was fast enough. If she could jam the elevator and run upstairs to meet me in this untrafficked place.

  Earlier, she’d been cautious, making a pact with someone else to do the work—her own “designer crime.” But she no longer had that luxury. To save herself, she had to kill me immediately and quickly.

  I lay motionless beneath her, fighting every impulse to rear back and become a hydra of outraged fists and profanities. I lay motionless because her finger was on the trigger of a gun. With not even a millimeter between me and the cold barrel, the least disturbance could mean instant death.

  But so could lying here doing nothing. Gold had already proved she wouldn’t be drawn into chatter. She brought a cold professionalism to her vengeance. She might be driven by her passions, but she didn’t let them taint her behavior, she didn’t let them make her stupid.

  I squirmed beneath my hopeless choices. She would shoot me if I moved, shoot me if I
didn’t, shoot me if I tried to stall by talking.

  She would shoot me. I tried to push away the thought, tried to cope with the gun against my cheek. I could sense that Gold, catching her breath astride me, waited only for equilibrium before pulling the trigger.

  I considered gambits: pretend I didn’t know her and offer my wallet, offer to protect her for Rommel’s sake, feign sympathy and ask her to explain, try to barter, plead. They might work on someone else. Ironically, begrudgingly, I respected Gold’s intelligence too much to bother with them.

  Seconds ticked away. Gold was more comfortably positioned now. She was ready. I had only one real choice: to die struggling or to take a bullet with dignity.

  I bucked as extravagantly as I could. I let the stifled anger explode out of me. I jerked and twisted and screamed out my rage.

  A shot echoed in the cement cavern of the stairwell. I heard it at the very instant I threw Gold off, shucking her like a ratty cape. I rose to my knees with a feral roar, wheeling toward her.

  I’d heard the shot, but my body didn’t care. Consumed by fury, choking on acrid smoke, not even a bullet could slow me down.

  Vision blurred and rage wakening every primal part of my (dying?) body, I faced Gold. She lay as if tossed, partly propped against the wall. She looked like a rag doll in gray prison garb, a red stain spreading across her chest. Only her eyes burned through my wrath: she stared at me with a hollowness, a nothingness that made no sense to me.

  I raised both arms to pummel her, to save myself, though it might be too late, though I might already be shot. But her eyes were wet and empty, sightlessly fixed on some spot behind me.

  I let my arms fall to my sides. Her face was devoid of intelligence, empty of feeling. The stain on her prison shift spread slowly, very slowly.

  A voice behind me said, “I just needed you to put a little space between you, that’s all. Get a little distance, so I could take a shot.”

  I turned to see Jay Bartoli a half dozen steps below me, his gun still poised. He was as pale as ice, with the same clammy sheen. He stared round-eyed at Connie Gold, at the gun still in her delicate hand.