“The Axminster Gallery. There’s a champagne reception Friday evening at seven. Stop by and see it if you can.”
“I’ll do that.”
“And thanks for the ride. If you think of any other questions, you can let me know.”
Henry’s house was dark by the time I got home. There were no messages on my machine. As a way of unwinding, I tidied up the living room and scrubbed the downstairs bath. Cleaning house is therapeutic—all those right-brain activities, dusting and vacuuming, washing dishes, changing sheets. I’ve come up with many a personal insight with a toilet brush in hand, watching the Comet swirl around in the bowl. Tomorrow night I’d dust my way up the spiral staircase, then tackle the loft and the upstairs bathroom.
I slept well, got up at 6:00 A.M., and did my usual run, whizzing through my morning routine on automatic pilot. On my way into the office, I stopped off at the bakery and bought a huge Styrofoam container of caffé latte with a lid. I had to park my car two blocks away, and by the time I got to my desk the coffee was the perfect drinking temperature. While I sipped, I sat and stared at the file folders strewn across every available surface. I was going to have to straighten things up just to figure out what was what. I drained half the coffee and set the cup aside.
I pushed my sleeves up and went to work, getting organized. I emptied both boxes, plus the brown grocery bag full of files I’d picked up at Morley’s house, adding in the few additional files from the office. I rearranged the piles alphabetically and then painstakingly reconstructed the sequence of reports, using Morley’s invoices as a master index. In some instances (Rhe Parsons being a case in point), I had a name itemized on his bill without a file to match. For “Francesca V.,” whom I took to be the current Mrs. Voigt, I found a file folder neatly labeled, but there was no report in it. The same was also true of a Laura Barney, who I assumed was David’s ex-wife. Had Morley talked to them or not? The former Mrs. Barney apparently worked at the Santa Teresa Medical Clinic in some capacity. Morley’d noted a telephone number, but there was no way to tell if he’d gotten through to her. He’d been paid for sixty hours’ worth of interviews, in some cases with accompanying travel receipts, but the corresponding paperwork didn’t add up to much. I made a penciled notation of any name without attendant notes or a written report.
By 10:30, I had a list of seventeen names. Just as a spot check, I tried two. First, I placed a call to Francesca, who answered after one ring, sounding cool and distant.
I identified myself and verified, first of all, that she was married to Kenneth Voigt. “I’m reorganizing some files and I wondered if you remember what date you talked to Morley Shine.”
“I never talked to him.”
“Not at all?”
“I’m afraid not. He called and left a message about three weeks ago. I returned his call and we agreed to meet, but then he canceled for some reason. As a matter of fact, I asked Kenneth about it just last night. It seemed odd somehow. Since I testified at the first trial, I assumed I’d be called the second time around.”
I glanced down at Morley’s memo, which seemed to indicate they’d had a meeting. “We better set up an appointment as soon as possible.”
“Hang on a minute and I’ll get my book.” She put the phone down on her end and I heard the tap of heels across hardwood. She returned to the telephone with a rustle of paper. “I’m busy this afternoon. What’s this evening look like for you?”
“That sounds fine to me. What time?”
“Could we make it seven? Kenneth usually doesn’t get home until nine, but I’m assuming you don’t need him to sit in.”
“Actually, I’d prefer to have the time alone.”
“Good. Then I’ll see you at seven.”
I tried the clinic next and found myself connected with what I guessed was the reception desk. The person who answered was female and sounded young.
“Santa Teresa Medical Clinic, this is Ursa. May I help you?”
I said, “Can you tell me if you have a Laura Barney working at the clinic?”
“Mrs. Barney? Sure. Hang on and I’ll get her.”
I was placed on hold briefly. “This is Mrs. Barney.”
I introduced myself, explaining, as I had with Francesca, who I was and why I was calling. “Can you tell me if you talked to Morley Shine in the last couple of weeks?”
“As a matter of fact, I had an appointment with him last Saturday, but he never showed up. I was very annoyed because I’d canceled some plans in order to make time for him.”
“Did he give you any indication what he meant to ask?”
“Not really, but I assumed it was in conjunction with this lawsuit coming up. I was married to the man acquitted of the criminal charges.”
“David Barney.”
“That’s right. We were married for three years.”
“I’d like to talk to you. Can we set up a time this week?” In the background, I could hear another line begin to ring insistently.
“I’m usually here until five. If you stop by tomorrow I can probably make some time.”
“Four-thirty or five?”
“Either one is fine.”
“Good. I’ll stop by as close to four-thirty as I can make it. I’ll let you pick up your other call.”
She said thanks and clicked off.
I went back to my list and called nine other names at random. Not one of them had ever heard from Morley Shine. This was not looking good. I buzzed Ida Ruth in the outer office. “Is Lonnie still in court?”
“As far as I know.”
“What time’s he get back?”
“Lunchtime, he said, but he sometimes skips lunch and heads for the law library instead. Why, what’s up? You want to get a message to him?”
A low-level dread had begun to churn in my chest. “I better go over there and have a chat with him myself. Which courtroom, did he say?”
“Judge Whitty, Department Five. What’s going on, Kinsey? You sound very strange.”
“I’ll tell you later. I don’t want to commit myself quite yet.”
I walked over to the courthouse, which was only two blocks away. The day was sunny and clear, with a mild breeze ruffling the grass on the courthouse lawn. The architecture of the building itself is Mediterranean, complete with towers, turrets, sandstone arches, and open-air galleries. The exterior landscaping is a bright mix of magenta bougainvillea, red bottlebrush, junipers, and imported palms. A low-growing fringe of ground cover along the sidewalk threw out a heady perfume.
I went up the wide concrete steps, through ornate wooden doors. The corridor was empty. The floor was paved with glossy irregular stone tiles the color of old blood. The lofty ceilings were hand-stenciled and crisscrossed with dark beams. The lighting fixtures were wrought-iron replicas of Spanish lanterns, the windows secured by sturdy grillwork. The place might have been a monastery once; all cold surfaces, stripped of ornaments. As I passed, the door to the jury assembly room opened and prospective jurors poured out into the hallway, filling the air with the tap-tapping of footsteps and the murmur of voices. Soon I could hear the incessant squeaking of stall doors in the rest rooms across the hall. Department 5 was located another two doors down the hall on the right, the lighted sign above the door indicating that court was still in session. I eased the door open and slipped into a seat in the rear.
Lonnie and opposing counsel were involved in a case management conference, their voices droning on the warm air like big fat bumblebees. The judge was in the process of referring the case to judicial arbitration, setting the dates for both the completion of the arbitration and a future case management conference. As usual, I wondered how individual fates could be decided through a process that sounded, on the face of it, so dull. When the judge broke for lunch, I waited by the door, catching Lonnie’s eye as he turned and headed through the little swinging gate that separated the spectators’ “pews” from the court. He took one look at my face and said, “What’s the matter?”
&nbs
p; “Let’s go outside where it’s private. You’re not going to like this.”
We walked side by side without a word, footsteps clattering, down the corridor, down the concrete steps, out the front entrance to the sidewalk. We struck off across the grass just far enough to ensure that we wouldn’t be overheard. He turned and looked at me and I plunged in.
“I don’t know a nice way to say this so I’ll get right to the point. It turns out Morley’s files are more than disorganized. Half the reports are missing and what he’s got there is suspect.”
“Meaning what?”
I took a deep breath. “I think he was billing you for work he never did.”
Lonnie’s face went blank as the news sank in. “You’re shittin’ me.”
“Lonnie, he had a heart condition and his wife is very sick. From what I gather, he was hard up for money, but he didn’t have the time or the energy to do much.”
“How’d he think he could get away with that? I got a court date in less than a month. Did he think I wouldn’t notice?” he asked. “Hell, what’s the matter with me? I didn’t notice, did I?”
I shrugged. “In the past, from what I’ve heard, his work was always great.” Small comfort to an attorney who could end up in court with nothing in his hand but his dick.
Lonnie seemed to pale, apparently conjuring up the same image of himself. “Jesus, what was he thinking of?”
“Who knows what he was thinking? Maybe he was hoping he could get caught up.”
“How bad is it?”
“Well, you still have the witnesses from the criminal trial. It looks like most of them have been subpoenaed, so you’re cool on that score. I’m guessing maybe half the witnesses on the new list never heard from him. I could be wrong. All I did was a spot check. I’m really judging by the number of reports I can’t find.”
Lonnie closed his eyes and wiped his face with one hand. “I don’t want to hear this. . . .”
“Look, we still have some time. I can go back and fill in, but if we run into a snag, we’re up shit creek. Some of these people may not even be available.”
“Jesus, this is my fault. I’ve been tied up with this other matter and it never occurred to me to question his paperwork. What I saw looked okay. I knew he was backlogged, but what he gave me seemed fine.”
“Yeah, what’s there is fine. It’s what’s not there that worries me.”
“How long will it take?”
“Two weeks at the very least. I just wanted you to be aware of what you’re up against. With the holidays coming up, a lot of people are going to be tied up or out of town.”
“Do what you can. At two, I’m taking off for Santa Maria for a two-day trial. I get back late on Friday, but I won’t come into the office until Monday morning. We can talk about it then.”
“Will you be staying up there?”
“Probably. I could come home at night if I had to, but I hate losing the hour drive time each way. After a full day in court, I just want to grab a quick bite somewhere and then hit the sack. Ida Ruth will have the motel number if there’s an emergency. In the meantime, do what you can, okay?”
“Sure.”
I went back to the office. As I passed Lonnie’s office door I spotted Ida Ruth talking on the telephone. She caught sight of me and waved frantically, motioning me back. She put the party on hold and then put her hand across the receiver, as if to further muffle her side of the conversation in progress. “I don’t know who this guy is, but he’s asking for you.”
“What’s he want?”
“He just read Morley’s obituary. He says it’s urgent he talk to whoever’s taking over for him.”
“Let me get back to my desk and I’ll pick it up in there. Maybe he’s got some information for us. What line’s he on?”
She held up two fingers.
I trotted down the hall, closed the office door behind me, dumped my handbag, and reached across my desk, punching line two, which was blinking steadily. “This is Kinsey Millhone. Is there something I can help you with?”
“I read in the paper Morley Shine died. What happened?” The voice was well modulated, the tone cautious.
“He had a heart attack. Who is this?”
There was a pause. “I’m not sure that’s relevant.”
“It is if you want to talk to me,” I said.
Another pause. “My name is David Barney.”
My heart did one of those sudden hard bangs. “Excuse me. I’m the wrong person to ask about Morley Shine—”
He cut in, saying, “Listen to me. Now, just listen. There’s something screwy going on. I talked to him last Wednesday—”
“Morley called you?”
“No, ma’am. I called him. I heard some ex-con named Curtis McIntyre is set to testify against me. He claims I told him that I killed my wife, but that’s bullshit and I can prove it.”
“I think we should stop this conversation right here.”
“But I’m telling you—”
“Tell it to your attorney. You have no business calling me.”
“I’ve told my attorney. I told Morley Shine, too, and look how he ended up.”
I was silent for half a second. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Maybe the guy was getting too close to the truth.”
I rolled my eyes. “Are you implying he was murdered?”
“It’s possible.”
“So is life on Mars, but it’s not likely. Why would anybody want to murder Morley Shine?”
“Maybe he’d found something that exonerated me.”
“Oh, yeah, really. Such as what?”
“McIntyre claims he talked to me outside the courtroom the day I was acquitted, right?”
I said nothing.
“Right?” he asked again. I hate guys who insist on a line-by-line response.
“Make your point,” I said.
“The fucker was in jail then. It was May twenty-first. Check his rap sheet for that year. You’ll see it plain as day. I told Morley Shine the same thing Wednesday morning and he said he’d look into it.”
“Mr. Barney, I don’t think it’s a good idea for us to talk like this. I work for the opposition. I’m the enemy, you got that?”
“All I want to do is tell you my side of it.”
I held the phone out and squinted at the receiver in disbelief. “Does your attorney know you’re doing this?”
“To hell with that. To hell with him. I’ve had it up to here with attorneys, my own included. We could have settled this years ago if anybody’d had the decency to listen.” This from a man who shot his wife in the eye.
“Hey, you have the legal system if you want someone to listen. That’s what it’s all about. You say one thing. Kenneth Voigt says something else. The judge will hear both sides and so will the jury.”
“But you won’t.”
“No, I won’t listen because it’s not my place,” I said irritably.
“Even if I’m telling the truth?”
“That’s for the court to decide. That isn’t my job. My job is to gather information. Lonnie Kingman’s job is to put the facts before the court. What good is it going to do to tell me anything? This is stupid.”
“Jesus Christ! Someone has to help me.” His voice broke with emotion. I could hear mine getting colder.
“Talk to your attorney. He got you off a murder rap . . . so far, at any rate. I wouldn’t mess with success if I were you.”
“Could you meet with me . . . just briefly?”
“No, I can’t meet with you!”
“Lady, I’m begging you. Five minutes is all I ask.”
“I’m going to hang up, Mr. Barney. This is inappropriate.”
“I need help.”
“Then hire some. My services are taken.”
I put the phone down and jerked my hand back. Was the man nuts? I’d never heard of a defendant trying to enlist the sympathies of the opposition. Suppose, in desperation, the guy came after me? I snatche
d up the phone again and buzzed Ida Ruth.
“Yessum?”
“The guy who just called. Did you give him my name?”
“Of course not. I’d never do such a thing,” she said.
“Oh, shit. I just remembered. I gave it to him myself.”
9
I picked up the phone again and placed a call to Sergeant Cordero in Homicide. She was out, but Lieutenant Becker picked up. “Hi, this is Kinsey. I need some information and I was hoping Sheri could help.”
“She won’t be back until after three, but maybe I can help. What’s the scoop?”
“I was going to ask her to call the county jail and have someone check the jail release forms for a fellow named Curtis McIntyre.”
“Wait a minute. Let me grab a pencil. That was McIntyre?”
“Right. He’s an informant set to testify on a case for Lonnie Kingman. I need to know if he was incarcerated on May twenty-first, five years ago, which is when he claimed he talked to the defendant. I can get the information by subpoena, but it’s probably just a wild-goose chase and I hate to go to all the trouble.”
“Shouldn’t be hard to check. I’ll call you back when I’ve got it, but it may take a while. I hope you’re not in any crashing hurry.”
“The sooner the better.”
“Ain’t that always the way?” Lieutenant Becker said.
Once I hung up the phone, I sat and thought about the situation, wondering if there was a quicker means of verifying the information. I could certainly wait until mid-afternoon, but it would prey on my mind. David Barney’s call had left me feeling restless and out of sorts. I was reluctant to waste time checking out what was probably pure fabrication on his part. On the other hand, Lonnie was counting on Curtis McIntyre’s testimony. If Curtis McIntyre was lying, we were sunk, especially with Morley’s investigation coming unraveled at the same time. This was my first job for Lonnie. I could hardly afford to get fired again.
In my head, I reran the conversation I’d had with Curtis at the jail. In his account, he’d intercepted David Barney in the corridor just outside the courtroom on the day he was acquitted. I didn’t think I could count on Barney’s attorney, Herb Foss, to corroborate Curtis’s claim, but could there have been another witness to their encounter? Just the countless reporters with their Minicams and mikes.