J Is for Judgment

by Sue Grafton

  Dana appeared at the jail while Brian was being processed through booking. She was dressed to the teeth, a gray rayon-linen-blend power suit, the first time I'd seen her wearing anything other than jeans. It was eleven o'clock at night, and I was standing in the hall with another cup of bad coffee when I heard the snapping of her high heels down the corridor. I took one look at her and knew she was furious, not with Brian or the cops, but with me. I had followed the sheriff's car over to the jail, parking in the lot while they drove into the sally port. I had even put the call through to Dana Jaffe myself, thinking she should be informed about her little boy's arrest. I was not in the mood to take shit from her, but it was clear she intended to spew.

  "You have caused trouble since the moment I laid eyes on you," she spat. Her hair was pulled back in a shiny chignon, not a strand out of place. Snowy blouse, silver earrings, her eyes lined with black.

  "Do you want to hear the story?"

  "No, I don't want to hear the story. I want to tell you one," she snapped. "I have a fucking restraining order on my bank accounts. Every cent I have is inaccessible. I have no money. Do you get that? None! My kid is in trouble, and what the hell can I do? I can't even get through to his lawyer."

  Her linen suit was immaculate, not a wrinkle on it anywhere; tough with linen, I've heard, even in a blend. I stared down at the contents of my cup. The coffee was cold by now, the surface bespeckled with little clots of powdered milk. I was really hoping I wouldn't fling it all in her face. I watched my hand carefully to see if it would move. So far, so good.

  In the meantime, Dana was going on and on, heaping invective at me for God knew what offenses. I pushed the mute button with my internal remote. It was just like watching some silent TV show. Some part of me was listening, though I tried not to let the sound penetrate. I noticed my coffee-flinging inclination was picking up momentum. I used to be a biter in kindergarten, and the impulse was the same. When I was a cop, I'd had to arrest a woman once for flinging a drink in an. other woman's face, which the law regards as assault and battery. California Penal Code 242: "A battery is any willful and unlawful use of force or violence upon the person of another." Battery is a consummated assault and is a necessarily included offense where battery is charged. "The force or violence necessary to constitute a battery need not be great nor need it necessarily cause pain or bodily harm, nor leave a mark," I recited to myself. Except maybe on her suit, I added. Tee hee.

  I heard footsteps approaching in the corridor behind me. I glanced back and spotted Senior Deputy Tiller, with a file folder in his hand. He nodded at me briefly and disappeared through the doorway.

  "Excuse me, Tiller?"

  He stuck his head back out the door. "You call me?" I glanced at Dana. "Sorry to interrupt, but I have to talk to him," I said, and followed him into the office. Her look of annoyance indicated she wasn't nearly done with me yet.

  Chapter 23

  * * *

  Tiller looked up quizzically from the file drawer where he was tucking the folder. "What was that all about?"

  I closed the door, lifting a finger to my lips. I pointed the back. His eyes strayed to the hallway. He closed the file drawer and jerked his head toward the rear. I followed him through a maze of desks. We reached a smaller office, which I took to be his. He closed a second door behind us and motioned me onto a chair. I tossed my empty coffee cup in the trash can and sat , with relief. "Thanks. This is great. I couldn't think how else to get away from her. She must have needed someone to crank on, and I was elected."

  "Well, I'm glad to oblige. You want another cup of free? We got a fresh pot back here. That probably me from the vending machine."

  "Thanks, but I'm coffeed out for the time being. I'd e to sleep at some point. How are you?"

  "Fine. I just came on, working graveyard. I see you got our boy back in the can." He sat down on his swivel chair and leaned back with a creaking sound.

  "Wasn't that hard to do. I figured Wendell had to have him somewhere close, and I did a little legwork. Boring, but not tough. What's the deal on this end? Do they know yet how he got sprung?"

  Tiller shrugged, uncomfortably. "They're looking into it." He changed the subject, apparently reluctant to share the details of the in-house investigation. Under the harsh fluorescent lights, I could see that his sandy hair and his mustache were threaded with silver, his eyes wreathed in creases. The boyish contours of his face had begun to shrink, leaving puckers and wrinkles. He must have been close to Wendell's age without the youth-perpetuating benefits of Wendell's cosmetic surgery. I was staring idly at his hands when I felt a little I question mark appear above my head. "What is that?'

  He caught the look and held out his hand. "What, the class ring?"

  I leaned forward, peering. "Isn't that Cottonwood Academy?"

  "You know the school? Most people never heard of it. Went out of business, I don't know how many years back. These days you don't find many all-male institutions. Sexist, they call it, and they may be right. Mine was the last class to graduate. Only sixteen of us. After that kapoot," he said. His smile was tinged with pride and affection. "What's your connection? You must have a good eye. Most class rings look the same."

  "I just saw one recently from a Cottonwood graduate."

  "Really. Who's that? We're still a real tight bunch."

  "Wendell Jaffe."

  His gaze stuck to mine briefly, and then he looked away. He shifted on his chair. "Yeah, I guess old Wendell did go there," he said, as if it had just occurred to him. "You sure you don't want some more coffee?"

  "It was you, wasn't it?"

  "Me, what?"

  "Brian's jail release," I said.

  Tiller laughed, jolly ho-ho, but it didn't sound sincere. "Hey, sorry. Not me. I wouldn't even know how to go about it. You put me near a computer, my IQ drops about fifteen percentage points."

  "Oh, come on. What's the scoop? I'm not going to tell anyone. What do I care? The kid's back. I swear I won't say a word." I shut my mouth then and let the silence accumulate. Basically he was an honest soul, capable of an occasional unlawful act, but not comfortable about it, unable to deny his culpability when confronted. His fellow cops love guys like him because they're quick with a confession, eager for the relief. He said, "No, really. You're barking up the wrong tree here." He did a neck roll, trying to relieve the tension, but I noticed he hadn't terminated the conversation. I prodded him a bit. "Did you help Brian the first time, when he escaped from juvie?"

  His expression became bland, and his tone shifted into officiousness. "I don't think this line of talk is going to be productive," he said.

  "All right. Let's forget about the first escape and just talk about the second. You must have owed Wendell a big one to risk your job that way."

  "I think that's enough. Let's just say we drop it." This had to be the manslaughter charge that Wendell had pleaded to, a felony conviction that would have barred Tiller from his job in law enforcement. "Tiller, l heard the story about the manslaughter charge. You're safe with me. I promise. I just want to know what happened. Why did Wendell take the fall?"

  "I don't owe you an explanation."

  "I never said you did. I'm asking for myself. It isn't anything official. It's a piece of information."

  He was silent for a long time, staring down at his desktop. Maybe his was one of those fairy-tale families where you have to ask three times before your wish is granted.

  "Tiller, please? I don't want any details. I understand your hesitation. Just the broad strokes," I said.

  He sighed deeply, and when he finally spoke, his voice was so low I had to squint to hear him. "I don't really think I can say why he did it. We were young. Best friends. Twenty-four, twenty-five, something like that. He'd already decided the law was corrupt and he wasn't going to sit for his bar exams. All I ever wanted was to be a cop. The situation came up. The girl died by accident, though it was all my fault. He happened to be there, and he took the blame. He was innocent. He kn
ew it, I knew it. He took the rap, that's all. I thought it was an incredible gesture."

  It sounded weak to me, but who knows why people do what they do? A certain earnest idealism takes hold of us when we're young. That's why so many draftees are eighteen and dead. "But surely he didn't have any real hold over you. The statutes would have run out on a charge like that years ago, and it was his word against yours. So he claims you did something. You claim you didn't. He'd already been convicted. After all this time, I don't understand what the big deal was."

  "No deal. It wasn't like that. He didn't threaten me. I was paying off an obligation."

  "But you didn't have to do what he asked."

  "No sir, I did what I wanted, and I was happy to do it for him."

  "But why take the chance?"

  "You never heard about honor? I owed him. It's the best I could do. And it's not like I baked a file in a cake. Brian's a bad egg. I'll admit that. I don't like the kid, but Wendell told me he'd get him out of the state. He said he'd take full responsibility, so I figured good riddance."

  "I think he had a change of heart on that score. Well, only I've heard mixed reports," I said, correcting myself. "He told both Michael and Brian he was going to turn himself in. He was apparently trying to talk Brian into following suit. But his girlfriend claims he bad no intention of going through with it."

  Tiller rocked on his swivel chair, staring off in the middle distance. He shook his head, mystified. "I just don't see how he's going to pull it off. What's he doing?"

  "You heard about the boat?"

  "Yeah, I heard. Question is, what's he think he's going to do with it? I mean, how far can he get?"

  "I guess we'll just have to wait and see about that," I said. "Anyway, I gotta go. I have a thirty-mile drive ahead of me and it's past my bedtime. Is there another way out of here? I don't want to run into Dana Jaffe again. I've about had it with that bunch."

  "Through the next department. Come on. I'll show you," he said, getting to his feet. He moved around desk and took a left through an interior corridor. I followed. I thought he'd caution me to silence, extracting a promise about the confidentiality of our conversation, but he never said a word about it.

  It was nearly 1:00 A.M. by the time I rolled into Santa Teresa. There was very little traffic and few pedestrians. Streetlights drew a pattern of overlapping pale gray circles on the sidewalk. Businesses were locked, but lighted. Occasionally I spotted one of the homeless seeking out the shelter of some darkened alleyway, but for the most part the streets were deserted. The temperature was finally beginning to drop, and a mild ocean breeze was offsetting the humidity to some extent.

  I was feeling itchy and restless. Nothing was really happening. With Brian in jail and Wendell still missing, what was there to investigate? The hunt for the Captain Stanley Lord was currently in the hands of the Harbor Patrol and the Coast Guard. Even if I could charter I plane and do an aerial search – an expense Gordon Titus was never going to authorize – I wouldn't know one boat from another at altitude. In the meantime, there had to be something I could do.

  Without even meaning to, I made a detour, easing through all the motel parking lots between my place and the marina. I spotted Carl Eckert's sports car at the Beachside Inn: a one-story motel, arranged in a T-shape with the short bar along the front. The parking slots were lined up, one for each room, the numbers marked on the pavement so that no one would poach. Every room on this side of the building was dark.

  I drove through to the alley and circled back to Cabana. I parked on the street, a few doors down from Eckert's motel. I slipped my penlight in my jeans pocket and returned on foot, grateful that my tennies were rubber-soled and silent. The parking area was illuminated for the safety of the occupants, the fixtures aimed so as to cast light away from the windows. I could see my own shadow, like an elongated companion, follow me across the lot. Carl had secured the tonneau cover across the open body of his car. I did a thorough visual scan, taking in the darkened windows and the dimly lighted parking area. There were no signs of movement within range of me. I didn't even see the gray flickering light against the motel drapes that would indicate a television set in use. I took a deep breath and , started popping snaps on the tonneau, loosening the driver's side first. I slid my hand down along the inside, feeling through the map pockets in the door. He kept his interior immaculate, which meant he probably had a system for all the gas slips and detritus. I felt a spiral-bound notebook, a road map, and some kind of paper booklet. I brought everything to the surface like a net full of fish. I paused to check my surroundings, which seemed as benign as before. I flicked the penlight across the spiral notebook. He was keeping track of his gasoline mileage.

  The booklet I found was his business log, noting odometer readings, destinations, purpose of meetings, names and titles of those in attendance. Personal and business expenses were neatly separated into columns. I had to smile to myself. This from a con artist who'd spent months in jail. Maybe prison had some rehabilitative effect. Carl Eckert was behaving like a model citizen. At least he wasn't trying to cheat the IRS, as far as I could tell. Tucked in a slot at the back of the log was his itemized Best Western hotel bill, two gasoline receipts, five credit card vouchers, and – what ho! – the speeding ticket he'd picked up last night on the outskirts of Colgate. According to the time so obligingly noted by the CHP officer who issued the citation, Carl Eckert could easily have sped the remaining distance to Perdido in plenty of time to take potshots at Wendell and me.

  "You want to tell me what the fuck you're doing out here?" I jumped, papers flying, barely managing to suppress a shriek. I put a hand to my chest, heart pounding. It was Carl in his stocking feet, his hair rumpled from sleep. God, I hate sneaks! I leaned over and started picking up papers. "Jesus! Warn a person. You nearly scared me to death. What I'm doing is blowing your alibi for last night."

  "I don't need an alibi for last night. I wasn't doing anything."

  "Well, somebody was. Did I mention the fact that my car engine cut out, leaving Wendell and me stranded on a very dark beach road?"

  "No. You didn't mention that. Go on," he said cautiously.

  "Go on. That's good. Like this is news to you. Somebody was shooting at us. Wendell disappeared shortly afterward."

  "You think I did that?"

  "I think it's possible. Why else would I be out here in the dead of night?"

  He shoved his hands down in his pockets and looked around at the darkened windows, realizing that our voices would carry into every room. "Let's talk about this inside," he said, and padded off toward his room. I trotted along behind him, wondering where all this was going.

  Once inside, he flipped on the bed table lamp and poured himself a tumbler full of Scotch from a bottle on the desk. He held it up, a silent query. I shook my head to decline. He lit a cigarette, this time at least remembering not to bother offering me one. He sat on the edge of the bed, and I sat on the upholstered chair. The room didn't look that different from the one Brian Jaffe had occupied. Like any other liar once confronted, Carl Eckert was probably preparing another set of lies. I settled in like a kid waiting for a bedtime story. He thought for a little while, adopting his sincere look. "Okay, I'll level with you. I did drive down from SLO-town last night, but I didn't go to Perdido. I got back to the hotel after a day of meetings and checked with my service. There was a message from Harris Brown, so I called him back."

  "Well, you've got my attention. I've been wondering how Harris Brown fits into the picture. Fill me in. I'd t love it."

  "Harris Brown is an ex-cop –"

  "I know that part. He was assigned to the case and taken off because he lost his life savings, investing in CSL, blah, blah, blah. What else? How'd he pick up Wendell's trail down in Viento Negro?"

  Carl Eckert smiled slightly, like he thought I was cute. Sometimes I am, but I wasn't sure this was one of those occasions. "Some pal of his called. An insurance agent."

  "Right. That's great. I
know the guy. I wasn't sure, but that was my guess," I said. "Obviously Harris Brown knew Wendell, but did Wendell know him?"

  Eckert shook his head. "I doubt it. I was the one who brought Brown in as an investor back then. They might have dealt with each other by phone, but I'm pretty sure they never met. Why?"

  "Because Brown was in the room right next to his, hanging out in the bar. Wendell didn't seem aware of him, and that puzzled me. What next? Harris Brown calls you last night and you call him back. Then what?"

  "I was supposed to connect up with him this afternoon on the way back from SLO-town, but he was suddenly in a hurry and said he had to see me right away. I got in the car and met him at his house in Colgate."

  I stared at him, uncertain whether to believe him or not. "What's his address?"

  "Why do you ask?"

  "So I can verify what you're saying." Eckert shrugged and looked it up in a small leather address book. I made a careful note. If the man was bluffing, he was good. "Why the rush?" I said.

  "You'd have to ask him that. He had some bug up his butt and insisted I come down last night. I was annoyed and time was short. I had a breakfast meeting at seven, but I didn't want to argue the point. I jumped in my car and came barreling down, which is when the CHP stopped me and gave me the ticket."