by Ted Clifton
“That I can do. Give me a little time, but one way or another, I’ll find you a good criminal lawyer.” Vincent called Tucker.
“Well, shit. I don’t see how I can represent him. I know Ilse’s case is a civil matter, not a criminal one, but their interests are still at odds. Even if no literal conflict exists, the perception of it sure as hell does. If I ignore that, it could cause problems down the road, and Clive sure doesn’t need that kind of complication if he’s facing a murder charge. And that applies to the rest of my firm, too. In the old days, the rules were looser. We could have used one of our other lawyers and just put up a Chinese wall. But things have been tightened up, and that won’t fly, these days. I’ve got a better idea, though. You know that group I started that’s focusing on criminal justice reform? I met someone through that who might be perfect.”
Tucker sounded pissed. Vincent guessed that he wanted nothing more than to jump into the Clive’s case with both feet. “Okay, what’s his name?”
“Her name. Carol Moore. She’s middle-aged, got her degree late in life, but definitely has a passion for justice. If I was charged with murder, I’d want someone like me, but if I couldn’t get that, then I’d want someone like her. I’ll give her a call. Any glitches and I’ll call you back.”
Vincent headed to Saint Anthony’s hospital, the largest in the city, and the most likely destination for Francis. After that, he’d go to the county jail. The call from Clive was a surprise, but Vincent seldom turned down a genuine plea for help.
Francis had been placed in a semiprivate room. Vincent lied to the nurse on duty, saying he was a co-worker, and wondering how his friend was. She said he’d been involved in something with the police and apparently had an emotional breakdown. She shouldn’t have given him the information with such ease, but Vincent had a kind face, or maybe she was just inexperienced. It was the kind of boundary Vincent had learned to push, long ago. Sometimes you’d get lucky, and if you didn’t care what people thought of you, there wasn’t really a downside. Francis had been given medication to calm him, and didn’t seem to be in any immediate danger, the nurse said. He’d have a psychological evaluation the next day, and then, depending on the results, he could be released. Vincent took a quick look inside the room. Francis was obviously sedated and sleeping peacefully.
The county jail was a depressing place, and the officers manning the information windows seemed to have been chosen based on surliness. But after he mentioned by name everyone he knew with any authority, he was shown into a small room with a tiny table and four chairs. After an annoyingly long wait, Clive was brought in. He looked horrible. There was no reason to ask him how he was. It was obvious.
“Your lawyer will be here shortly. Her name’s Carol Moore. She’s going to tell you not to talk to anyone, including me. You should follow her advice. Peter Tucker recommended her because he has potential conflict of interest since he represents Ilse De Vries.” He waited for a response, but none came, so he went on. “I went by Saint Anthony’s, and saw Francis. He’s been medicated and he was resting. He’s going to have a psych evaluation tomorrow, and then he might be released.”
“The way things are going, I’m sure they’ll decide he’s crazy and try to lock him up, too. Why the fuck do they think I killed her?”
“I don’t know, Clive. Most likely they have some evidence that places you at the scene of the crime—maybe video, maybe forensics. Maybe even an eyewitness. More than likely, the police know about Anna’s health problems and may have a copy of the will, which leaves the gallery to Francis. I want to emphasize, though—I don’t know why. I’m just guessing. But I bet it’s something circumstantial based on motive, which is the prospect of inheriting the gallery, and opportunity, which is evidence putting you at or near the crime scene. Why they moved forward right now, I have no idea.”
“You know, it’s funny. There were many times I wanted to kill her, but do you want to know why I didn’t?”
“Sure.”
“Aside from not being someone who goes around killing people, even though I may have said on a few occasions I hated her, truth is, I kinda liked her. We disagreed about almost everything when it came to art, but she wasn’t a bad person. The whole fucked-up mess with her dad humiliating her for years, and then the fiasco about the forged paintings—it seemed like everything always turned against her. I liked her, and I felt sorry for her. But still, at times, I hated her. If I hadn’t cared about her, Francis and I would have left a long time ago. Hell, I can make plenty of money in the art world. She needed me a lot more than I needed her. I was trying to help her, for god’s sake, so why would I kill her?” His anger turned to tears—being charged with such a serious crime, and being in jail, had devastated him.
“We’ll do everything we can to get you out of jail.”
“Please, oh, please.”
Vincent left the consultation room after the guards took Clive back to his cell. He was walking down the hallway to leave when he heard a woman’s voice.
“What the hell are you doing talking to my client? Tucker said you’d help me, but instead, you’re interfering. If you still had your fuckin’ license, I’d do everything I could to get you disbarred.”
She reminded Vincent of his second-grade teacher, whom he’d feared, just like every other kid in her class—big, loud, and scary. “Who the fuck are you?”
“Carol Moore, and Mister Walton is my client. These stupid jail people should never have let you talk to him.”
Vincent stared at the woman, not quite sure what to say. “Look, I had no idea how long it would take for someone to see Clive. He called me for help. I was just assuring him that something was happening, and that hopefully he’d be out of jail soon.”
“You had no right to do that. Do you understand that, mister?”
Vincent paused, looking at her blankly, letting her see that her bluster didn’t bother him. “You jump down my throat again and, woman or not, I’ll bust your fuckin’ nose.”
Carol Moore flinched like she’d been slapped. “No wonder you’re not a lawyer anymore.” She turned in a huff and headed back to the front desk.
It looked like Vincent wouldn’t be playing for the Moore team. He went outside and left Tucker a voice-mail message. “Just had an encounter with Carol Moore. It was ugly. She seemed pretty upset that I’d managed to get a meeting with Clive. Nobody jumps on my ass like that—man, woman, or dog—without me hitting back, so it looks like I won’t be able to work with her. Sorry if that upsets your plans.”
He disconnected. Now he was in a shitty mood. Everything seemed to be going in the wrong direction. Clive being charged with Anna’s murder wasn’t exactly a surprise. He’d shown real anger toward Anna. All that stuff about really liking her might have some truth to it, but people murdered people they loved all the time, let alone people they only liked. Clive’s temper made him a prime suspect. And Anna probably knew what buttons to push to get him fired up. If they’d had any kind of confrontation that night, it could easily have escalated out of control. Still, seeing him jailed was unsettling. Vincent’s phone vibrated. “Malone.”
“She says you’re the biggest fuckin’ asshole she has ever met. Not sure what happened to get you both so excited, but you need to get over it. She was wrong to say what she did, and you were wrong to threaten her. My god, children, can we please just work together for a little while to help the cause of justice?”
Vincent chuckled. “Look, Tucker, I can work with almost anyone, but I’m not sure about this one. She didn’t even introduce herself, just immediately starting yelling at me like I’m some kind of kid. Does she even know what she’s doing?”
Long pause. “Okay, she probably overreacted because maybe she doesn’t know what she’s doing. Maybe I made a mistake.” More dead air. “I was trying to set up something where I could direct her and keep control over this case, and I shouldn’t have. The problem now is I’m not sure how to undo it.”
“I thought you
said she was good.”
“Well, I guess I should have said I think she’ll be good. She really knows her stuff, but she hasn’t actually practiced for very long.”
“So, let me see. You want to control this case on both sides, which is dead wrong. To do that, you recommended someone you figured you could control to represent a man charged with murder. The person you recommended has no real experience, although she made good grades in school. Are you out of your fuckin’ mind? And I’m the one she wants disbarred. My god, Tucker.”
“Yeah. I screwed up. Where are you?”
“In front of the jail.”
“Stay there just a minute, okay?” He disconnected.
Vincent stared at his phone, shaking his head. He sat down on the steps, wondering if his friend had actually lost his mind. Carol Moore came out through the main jail doors and approached him. He didn’t move.
“Sorry. I guess I, uh—I screwed up. Not sure why I yelled at you. I don’t normally act like that, and I don’t even know you. It’s just that I was really nervous already, and the guard on duty was treating me like I was an idiot. Then he said that the guy’s attorney was already meeting with him, and something snapped. But I was wrong. I’m really sorry. Plus, I don’t want my nose busted. I’m going to call Tucker back and tell him I can’t do this.” She started to walk away.
“Hey, wait a minute. It’s okay. You don’t have to be nice to me. A large segment of the population isn’t, so why should you be different? Plus, for the most part, I don’t give a shit what people say about me or to me, and that includes you. And I shouldn’t have threatened to bust your nose. I was on edge, too. Why don’t we put it to one side and start over? My name’s Vincent Malone.” He extended his hand. She had to reach up, but she took it. “I thought you were coming from Albuquerque,” he said, “and probably wouldn’t be here until tomorrow. So, I wanted to settle him down and let him know someone would be here. Sorry I stepped on your toes. I should have called Tucker first to make sure that wouldn’t be getting in the way.”
Moore nodded and seemed to be thinking. “Tucker said you’re an asshole—but a smart, brave asshole. And he should have told you I was with him, driving up for your meeting with Curtis Howard. So, this was my fault, your fault, and definitely also Tucker’s fault. The bottom line is, I need your help. I know the law, but I don’t know all the practical, real-world stuff, like how to deal with a jail clerk. Can you help me?”
Vincent smiled. “Yeah, I can help a little.” Tucker owed him one for this, and he wasn’t going to let the man forget it.
Curtis Howard came into the small conference room. Vincent and Tucker had been waiting longer than they’d expected to.
“Sorry about that. I called the police chief earlier, and just when you guys showed up, he called me back. Sure didn’t mean for you to wait this long. But I did get some news.”
“Yeah, well, we’re getting used to waiting.” There was an edge in Tucker’s voice—he really was not a man accustomed to cooling his heels.
“The chief told me they found Anna Marks’s will during their search of her house. I think the Albuquerque paper got an anonymous tip about it, and filed something in court to force the release of the document. Chief said they decided not to fight it, and it’s going to be given to the paper later today—he called me as a courtesy. Anyway, apparently it does say that she leaves the business to Francis. The police think that gives Clive and Francis a motive to kill Anna.”
“Did he say if they’re going to charge Francis?” Tucker asked.
“He didn’t say, but I’d bet they won’t. This is just me reading between the lines, but I think the prosecutor is more comfortable with Clive as some kind of criminal mastermind manipulating poor Francis, while Francis didn’t really know what was happening.”
Vincent found the whole idea absurd. “Clive, a criminal mastermind? That’s really what they’re going with?”
Tucker jumped in. “I know Clive’s defense and Francis’s health have to be the priority issues, but we can’t let this stalemate over the gallery and the paintings keep going. If we can get a copy of the will, then we can stipulate that Francis has authority to conduct the business. But we’re still concerned about his ability to complete the contract, especially with Clive in jail. Might be in everyone’s interest to divide what profits there are now, return the unsold paintings, and make a deal to wait six months to see what happens.”
“Not sure about that, Tucker. Francis would be best served by completing the agreement that’s in place. But we’re concerned about Clive not being available, too. He’s the one with the buyer contacts, and I have a feeling Francis wouldn’t be very eager to move forward without his involvement. So, maybe there’s a way we can go to our mutual corners and wait and see what happens. Let me talk to Francis, and then I’ll get back to you.”
Vincent was driving to the free clinic to see if Santa Claus was still working when he suddenly broke out laughing. Observed from afar, you might think he’d lost his mind, but he was actually just remembering the look on Moore’s face when he said he would bust her nose. He couldn’t stop laughing. I really am a bad man.
“Hey, Butch. Workin’ a little late, aren’t you?”
“Yeah. Couple of my bad kids got into a fight. Had to call the cops. I hate that, but I can’t just let people kill each other. Shit, everybody will be mad at me for a few days because I called the cops. I don’t know—there are days I really wonder if I’m doing any good or not.”
“Well, you are, man. I don’t know how you deal with this crap every day and then come back the next day and do it all over again. These assholes won’t tell you thanks, but they know, and I know, and Nancy knows, and the damn police chief knows—a lot more people than you think, know.”
“Thanks, Vincent. Hell, I never did this for the glory—it was always the money.” Butch smiled, but still looked sad. “Hey, got some news for you. A semi-regular came in a few hours ago and said he saw someone get out of that car by the church. I know this guy, and when he’s at least a little sober, he’s reliable. Anyway, he said he saw this guy, and thought it was weird where he parked the car, and also where he went afterward. The guy headed down toward Canyon Road, and there’s nothing open down that way that time of night.”
“Could he describe the guy?”
“Said it was the drunk who slept on the cot the other night in the back room. The guy you brought in.”
Trent Taylor! Gotcha!
“How ’bout a beer?” Nancy gave Vincent a broad smile as he came in, obviously exhausted.
“That’d be wonderful. Sorry I’m so late. Lots going on today.”
“I heard some of it on the news. They said the police found Anna’s will, and that she left the art business to Francis Mitchell. He was her accountant, right? And they said Clive Walton has been arrested for Anna’s murder. Does that mean the artist is in the clear now?”
“Probably. But arresting Clive is the easy part. Proving he did it will be hard, especially since I don’t believe he killed her.”
“Do you know who did?”
“Yep, think so.”
One of the frustrations in practicing law, as well as in being an investigator, is that you can know something, but still find it damned difficult to prove. You may be sure in your gut, and every instinct you’ve got backs up that gut feeling, and even your experience joins in the chorus, but you still may not be able prove the thing you’re so sure of—not beyond a reasonable doubt in court. That can be hard to live with.
Francis was discharged from the hospital. The news that he had inherited the gallery seemed to have a positive effect on his mental state, along with being released back into the world. He went home, put on his dressing gown—without his enormous weapon this time, because the police had taken it away—and had a good cry. Clive was in jail, and it scared Francis to think what might be happening to him. He knew he had to do something, but the thought frightened him. He had a good idea who h
ad killed Anna and why, and it was time he told someone. It was an odd choice, but in the end, the call he made was to the monster—Malone.
Vincent was taken aback to get a call from Francis inviting him to talk. Not only did he think the man was certifiably crazy, he was pretty sure Francis hated him. Still, he responded. Once more at the large wooden gate of the adobe house, he rang the bell. The outer door clicked, right away this time. As he entered the courtyard, he thought he could feel sadness shrouding the place—even the flowers looked forlorn. Of course, it was probably his imagination—maybe they just needed some watering. He was almost at the red front door when it opened, abruptly.
“Maybe we should just sit out here,” Francis said. He looked very fragile, and Vincent wondered if he was still on some kind of medication. Francis waved them toward a pair of white Adirondack chairs in a shaded corner of the garden.
“How you doin’?” Vincent still wasn’t sure why Francis had asked him to come. It was obvious the man was still not quite stable, but at least he wasn’t brandishing his extremely large gun, this time.
“I’ve got to tell someone what I know. Clive didn’t kill Anna, and they should release him from jail immediately. I know he’s scared. Can you get him out?”
“He has a lawyer, and I’m sure she’s working on that right now. What is it you know, Francis? Is this about Anna’s death?”
“Yes, it’s about Anna. I caused her death.” He placed his head in his hands, gently swaying as he sobbed quietly.
Whatever Vincent had expected, it wasn’t this. “You killed Anna?”
“No, no, of course not. I didn’t kill her. But I should have stopped her once I found out what she was doing. Then she’d still be alive. I should never have agreed to keep quiet. But I wanted the business—not for me, but for Clive. I regretted it the minute I said I’d keep quiet. But I thought somehow it would all work out and nobody would be hurt.” He moaned, and his gaze wandered off into the distance.