I sighed, kicked off my pumps, and padded into the bathroom. A jar of Lancôme moisturizer was open, the costly creme churned up by a grubby finger, and the toothpaste was squeezed out into a turquoise squiggle. The door to the medicine cabinet was ajar; the aspirin and other pills had been uncapped and presumably gone through. I plopped onto the closed toilet seat and slipped the papers out of my jacket pocket; a search warrant, a list of what had been seized, and an affidavit of probable cause. I remembered affidavits as long as these from the old days. Now my name was on the caption.
Bear settled onto the cool tile floor and looked up questioningly, so I read aloud: “‘Letters and correspondence, personal computer and diskettes, office supplies, files of household bills and the like, articles of clothing.’” I assumed this referred to the outfit I was wearing the day Mark was murdered, for fiber samples. Also all the clothes in the hamper, since police like that for evidentiary as well as shock value. Going through your dirty laundry, literally.
The list continued. “‘Shoes and sneakers, overcoats and topcoats, and certain jewelry items as follows,’” and they catalogued every piece of jewelry I had, most of which was my mother’s. They even took her engagement ring, a diamond chip from a man who didn’t stick around for the wedding.
“Goddamn it,” I said, and threw the paper on the bathroom floor, where it landed next to a large black smudge.
More fingerprint soot. I followed the smudge trail to the bathtub, where the cops had taken more fingerprints and probably samples of my head and pubic hair. Wonderful. At this point the police knew more about my reproductive system than I did. I rested my chin on my hand. The Thinker, on the potty.
Bear meandered over, turned around, and plopped her heavy tush onto my toe. Then she threw her head backwards and smiled at me, almost upside down. Someday she would figure out it was easier to see someone if you faced them. I scratched the spray of butterscotch fur behind her ears, and she eased sleepily back to the floor, nestling her head between her paws and flattening her body like a bathmat. Only her eyes stayed on me, brown marbles asking, “So, you gonna clean up or you gonna feel sorry for yourself?”
“I’m gonna clean up, okay?”
Satisfied, Bear closed her eyes.
I got off the seat, found the CD player, cranked up Bruce Springsteen’s greatest hits, and went to work. In no time I was caterwauling along with Bruce, lost in my task, but then I reached a song that made me stop singing. A song that forced me down on the floor, to deal with what was going on.
“Murder, Incorporated.”
Mark was dead. Someone had killed him. Deep inside was anguish, but out there was his murderer. Someone who drew breath while Mark didn’t. It was unjust. Obscene. I knew what I had to do.
I had to find Mark’s killer.
13
I stopped by my mother’s apartment early the next morning and stood at the door, briefcase in hand, as if it were a typical day and I still had a law firm to run. Hattie was rinsing the coffeepot at the sink, dressed but still in her rollers. Later she would press her hair with an old curling iron, and the acrid smell would fill the apartment, upsetting my mother and costing me two boxes of Kleenex. I always teased her about it, but I wouldn’t this morning.
“Hattie, I’ve been thinking about what you said. I decided you’re right about Mom. You want me to call the doctor?”
“No, I’ll call him.” She was rinsing out the pot again and again, her back to me. Her shirt said I’M A WINNER! and red dice were sequined on her scapula. “I got the time.”
“No, that’s all right.”
“You’re the one who’s busy. You got your apartment to fix up.”
“I cleaned up last night.”
“All of it? I heard the music, but I fell asleep.”
“It’s all taken care of.”
“I’ll call about your momma. I want to do it.”
“You sure now?”
“I’m sure.”
We weren’t talking about the call, we were making up. Or at least trying to, as easy as that was without saying the words or even meeting each other’s eye. “If the appointments are early morning, how will you do it? You’ll have to get up early.”
“I’m up anyway. Makes no never mind.”
“I’ll help you get her up.”
“I can do that, too. I did it for the hospital, I can do it for the electroshock,” she said, finally twisting off the water and placing the glass pot in the coffeemaker. Her back was still to me, and I wanted to go before she turned around. I didn’t want to face her, because I was choking now, finding I couldn’t say what needed to be said. But she turned suddenly, her eyes dark and sorrowful, and said to me, “You have a good day, now.”
Thank you for smacking me last night, Hattie. I’ve never been smacked before. No one noticed how stupid I can be, or how careless my words.
“You too, Hattie,” I said, and left.
I started the day at Groan & Waste, so early that the receptionist on Sam’s floor wasn’t in yet. I powered past the secretaries’ empty workstations, ignoring the associates who were in at daybreak and walking around conspicuously enough to get credit for it. I never would’ve made it at Grun. When I get in early, I like to work. So does Sam, who was going full steam ahead when I walked into his office, his custom English suit bent over financial printouts.
“Bennie! Where have you been? How are you?” He leapt up when he saw me and came around to give me a hug.
“Sam,” I said, embracing him. His hug was a comfort, even though he was so fashionably thin.
“I didn’t sleep all night,” he said softly, giving me a final squeeze. Close up, his eyes were red-rimmed and his skin pale. He looked distraught, unhealthy. “Can you believe that Mark is dead?”
“Not really.”
“Why didn’t you call me back? I was so worried. I stayed in, waiting.”
“I’m sorry, I had to clean.”
“What? You? Siddown and tell me what’s going on.” He pressed me into the sling chair across from his desk, taking the one next to it himself. “You want me to get you some coffee?” He waved at a Sylvester the Cat mug.
“No, thanks.” Grun coffee was even worse than mine.
“I can’t believe it.” Sam kept shaking his neat head. “Mark murdered, and you a suspect. But don’t worry, I have it all planned. I’m going to stop work at noon today, then take off for a few days. I canceled all my appointments, everything. I want to help.”
“Thanks.” Sam would be there for me, he always had been. Sometimes I thought we were all we had, a friendship of outsiders.
“Don’t thank me. Now, listen, I already talked to somebody about representing you.”
“I have a lawyer, Sam. I’m gonna use Grady Wells.”
He blinked. “Do I know that name?”
“He’s one of our associates. The Supreme Court clerk.”
“The blonde on TV with you? He’s cute, but is he a good criminal lawyer?”
“Yes, and forget about how cute he is. He has a girlfriend, at least he used to.”
“Figures. All the good ones are either married or straight.”
“Behave yourself.” I smiled despite my mood, and he smiled, too.
“What can I do? Can I help with your caseload? I can still write a brief, I think.” He raked his feathery haircut with a small hand, but there wasn’t enough hair to mess up.
“There is no caseload. My clients don’t want a murderer for a lawyer, they’re so conventional. I’m out of business.”
“What?” Sam looked appalled. “No R & B?”
“You got it.”
He shook his head, disbelieving. “And what about Mark’s funeral? What’s happening with it?”
“I don’t think I can do much, given my position. You may have to plan it, if Eve hasn’t already. I thought about it last night.”
“I’ll do it, don’t worry. A nice memorial service. Believe me, I can plan a memorial service.” He sm
iled sadly, his shoulders slumping. “Have you thought about who … did it?”
“I’m starting to.” I remembered my purpose in coming here. “The cops think it’s me because of Mark’s will. Why didn’t you tell me he had a will, Sam?”
“I’m sorry, I couldn’t. It was privileged.” He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple moving visibly in a slender neck. “Besides, I thought Mark would tell you. It was his place.”
“Why did you draft Mark’s will?”
“He asked me to.” Sam edged back onto his chair. “When R & B grew, Mark started to think ahead. Right after his parents died, he said he needed a will. He told me the size of the estate and asked me if I knew any good estates lawyers at Grun. I told him I could do it for him.”
“I didn’t know you did estates work, especially for such big estates.”
“Sure I do. Estates, some tax, even some corporate. I like to keep my billings up, and estates that big don’t come along everyday. I wasn’t about to refer it. What am I, stupid?”
I remembered Grady’s suspicions. “But did you really need the business, Sam? I thought you had plenty of clients.”
“I do, but I could always use more. I’ve developed my own practice group. A firm-within-the-firm, a small business practice. Take them from incorporation to bankruptcy—cradle to grave—and do estates work for the principals.”
“Is it profitable?”
“Sure as shootin’. ‘I’m the roughest, toughest, he-manest hombre as ever crossed the Rio Grande—and I ain’t no namby pamby.’ ‘Bugs Bunny Rides Again,’ 1948.”
“Did you know Mark would make you executor?”
His smile faded. “Tarnation, Bennie. We’re friends, so I’m going to keep my temper and ask you what you’re suggesting. Are we hunting wabbits or what?”
“I’m not suggesting anything. I’m just asking.”
“Are you accusing me of murder, despite the fact that we’ve been buds for God knows how long?”
I felt a stab of guilt. “Of course I’m not accusing you, Sam. But I have to talk to you about it.”
“Me? Why?”
“Grady suspects you. He was going to call, but I wanted to be the one to do it.”
Sam’s face reddened and his mouth twisted bitterly. “Grady thinks I killed one of my dearest, oldest friends? What, are they taking anybody on that Court now? Who the fuck did he clerk for? Clarence Thomas?”
“He’s smart, Sam, and he’s trying to help.”
“He’s not that smart. Why would I kill Mark, for God’s sake?”
“For the executor’s fee? The billings?” I felt like a jerk for even explaining, Sam looked so nonplussed.
“Come on, girlfriend! I need billings as much as the next lawyer, but I wouldn’t kill Mark for them. I wouldn’t kill anybody for them.”
“Grady says there’s a trustee’s fee, too. It adds up to a million dollars.”
“So what? Are you asking me for real?” His eyes narrowed, but I told myself to stay the course.
“Let’s just get it over with, Sam. If we’re friends, we can talk about anything.”
“We’re friends, so you can insult me? Bennie, listen, I don’t need the money, I have plenty of money. ‘I’m rich! I’m wealthy! I’m comfortably well off,’ as Daffy would say. I don’t need to kill my friend for a fee.”
“I thought so,” I said, backing off, but he leaned toward me, angered.
“You want details, I’ll give you details. I own my condo at the Manchester. My firstborn, the Porsche Carrera, is one year old next week and I bought him with cash. I take only one vacation a year, to South Beach, and I don’t have any dependents except for that Cuban waiter at The Harvest. I was with him on the night in question, by the way. If you want to check it, I’ll give you his number.”
“No, I don’t mean to get personal—”
“As for my assets, which Ramon tells me is my best feature, I’m taking almost four hundred thousand this year, not including the bonus from the First Federal bankruptcy. It’s in eleven mutual funds and some very frisky tech stocks.”
“Okay, Sam. I get the picture.”
“However, I do have a confession to make.” He held up a palm. “I confess, I’m too heavily into Microsoft, but I want Bill Gates so much I can taste him. Can you blame me?”
“Sam—”
“Except for that hair. If he washed it from time to time, I’d be in Redmond in a heartbeat.”
“Look, I’m sorry. I really am. Enough already. Sue me. Shoot me.”
“Apology accepted,” he said curtly. He slouched back into his chair, but he didn’t look like himself. Or maybe he wasn’t looking at me the way he always did.
I wondered if he ever would again.
14
Grady had me barricaded in my office with an amazingly good cup of coffee and the large wipe-off chart we use for jury exhibits. The chart rested on an easel and contained the names of all of R & B’s associates, with a grease-pencil grid to the left. I took one look at it and saw what Grady had learned, but he wanted to explain it to me anyway.
“Are you listening, Bennie?” he asked. Wielding a long, rubber-tipped pointer, in his violet-covered necktie and fresh white shirt, Grady looked more kindergarten teacher than lawyer.
“Of course I’m listening,” I said, but I wasn’t, because I already had a chart of my own in my head. I needed him for the legal end, not for this. I was the one who had to find Mark’s killer.
“You don’t look like you’re listening.”
“No, I am. I’ll be a good defendant, I promise.” I smiled in a way I hoped was convincing and took another sip of coffee. I felt stronger since I had eliminated Sam as a murder suspect, and the coffee was tasting better and better. “Who made this? It’s good.”
“I did, I cross-examined each of them on the phone. I finished the last phone call, with Renee Butler, at one thirty. Except for Wingate, I went over and talked to him. He’s real upset.”
“Why? He didn’t even like Mark. I meant the coffee, though. Who made it?”
“I did. Look at this.” He pointed to Jennifer Rowland’s name. “Jenny says she was working at home the night Mark was killed, editing a section of the brief in the Latorno matter. She said it was for you and it was due next week. Is it?”
“Yes. Did you use the Maxwell House?”
“Whatever was there.” He made a neat check with a grease marker in the blank marked ALIBI. “I want to see Jenny’s time records, though she could have lied on them, too.”
“She wouldn’t be the first lawyer to write fiction.” I wanted to ask him how much water he put in, but it would be futile. The coffeemaker at work was a Bunn, the one at home was a Krups; it would never translate, English to German. At least not when I spoke the language.
“Amy here,” he said, pointing to the line that said AMY FLETCHER, “was with Jeff Jacobs that night. It checks out from both sides. They’re seeing each other, did you know that?”
“Yes.”
He made purposeful checks by FLETCHER and JACOBS. “They could both be lying to me, but I don’t think so. Wingate says he was online in the Grateful Dead chat room. Do you know he goes in the teen rooms and tells them he’s Jon Bon Jovi?”
“Perfect. And I pay this kid?”
“He said he logged off at two in the morning the night Mark was killed. I’d like to check the AOL records, but Wingate has two housemates and they could have logged off for him.” He made a question mark in the WINGATE box, next to a “WW” in Renee Butler’s box.
“What’s WW mean, in Renee’s?”
“Weight Watchers. She didn’t want to tell me at first. She took Eve with her, to get her out of the house. Eve’s taking Mark’s death pretty hard, you know. She’s convinced you did it.”
I ignored the twinge and gulped my brew. “What kind of filters do you use, Grady?”
He sighed, his gaze running up and down the chart. “That’s everybody. They all have some sort of alibi, but I
have to double-check Wingate’s.”
“Except for the secretaries and Marshall. Did you call Marshall?”
“Marshall? You suspect Marshall?” He looked surprised behind his glasses.
“No, I don’t suspect any of them yet. I go slow before I point a finger, especially now. Tell me which filters. I bet you used the brown ones.”
His eyes widened in frustration. “Lord, you are the strangest woman! I couldn’t find the filters, so I used a paper towel, all right?”
“A paper towel? Is that even possible?”
He dropped his pointer, so I shut up about the coffee and let him go on, repeating everything and pointing with his pointer. When he ran out of lecture, he went to see if Marshall was in yet. And I went to the heart of the matter.
The computer.
Sitting right in front of me, next to my traumatized jade plant. The police would probably take the computers when they came back today, if last night’s seizure at my apartment told me anything. I didn’t have much time.
I stopped, fingers poised over the whitish keyboard. As I saw it, I had to know what Mark had been doing lately to understand why anybody would want to kill him. I thought I knew, but evidently I didn’t, since I was completely blindsided by his desire to break up R & B. But the computer knew.
I hit LIST FILES. R & B’s files—time records, correspondence, memos, briefs, client information, and our personal files—popped onto the screen. The police had taken hard copies of R & B’s client and time records, and I could reprint them if I needed to, but I didn’t need to. Mark kept his own cyber-daybook in a hidden file and generated a cleaned-up version of his time records from that. It was secreted under his password: Mook. What his father always called him. Thank God for pillow talk.
I typed it in and revealed the hidden files: CALENDAR, DAYBOOK, CHECKBOOK. The same directories as always, he hadn’t changed them yet. I had Mark’s most intimate information at my fingertips and I didn’t have to leave my coffee. Our old firm investigator used to say anybody who thinks sleuthing starts with a magnifying glass is behind the times. It happens in front of microscopes and computers, in labs and test tubes. You could get cellulite from detective work nowadays.