Blind Justice (27 page)

AND WHAT A plan it was. I was impressed with her moxie. Lindsay Patino, whatever else she was, was not afraid.

She drove while she explained. “I want to see and hear this place.”

She was talking about the Hazelton Winery, which was exactly where we were heading. I had been planning to go there myself, so when she suggested it, I didn’t argue for one very obvious reason—I no longer had my driver’s license. It had been temporarily suspended, pending a review by the DMV and the outcome of my case.

“Why?” I asked.

“To listen.”

“To what?”

“I think we're dealing with the occult here.”

“You make it sound like some sort of conspiracy.”

“The occult doesn’t have any formal order to it. But it does have a common source.”

“The devil?” I said, almost as if I was starting to believe it. But I did a quick mental shake and said, “But that’s so . . . outlandish.”

“Is it?”

“I mean, I just don’t see it in everyday life.”

“Do you know what the word
occult
means?”

“Dark forces?”

“No. It literally means to hide, to cover up.”

For a minute we drove in silence. I was trying to come to grips with this, trying to figure how much of this I really believed. “But how dangerous is this thing?”

She almost missed the turnoff from the main road but managed to catch the sign that read
Hazelton Winery Left
and made the turn. We were heading upward into the hills on a road with lots of twists.

Lindsay spoke softly. “I had a roommate my first year in college who got into the occult. It started off innocently enough with some dabbling in role playing..”

“Game stuff?”

“She took it more seriously than that. At the end of the second semester, she jumped off a ten-story building.”

When we turned up the road that led to the winery, I felt the immediate creeps. Not because of the look of the place. The vineyard that blanketed the land to the east and the tree-lined road leading up to the winery were all nicely preserved.

In fact, there was no objective reason for the feeling at all. It was just there.

Like most wineries in California, Hazelton had a visitor center, where samples are served and wines and accessories sold. As we pulled in and parked, I saw in the distance a Spanish-style mansion tucked in behind a grove of oak trees. No road led there.

The visitor center was immaculate. Seascape oil paintings decorated the walls, underneath which were finely polished wood racks sprouting seemingly endless bottles of wine. A small tasting bar was in front of a huge bay window, which looked out upon the vineyards and beyond to the mountains. It was idyllic, very California.

“Folks like to try some wine?” A rotund, smiling server was placing two wine glasses on the bar. He looked a little like the skipper from
Gilligan’s Island.

“Maybe later,” I said. “I was wondering, is Captain Hazelton around?”

The smile faded and I got a serious look from the man. “Oh, he only comes in here occasionally. You wanted to meet him?”

“Yes.”

“Any particular reason?”

“Not really. He’s kind of a celebrity, isn’t he?”

“Locally, maybe. He makes a fine wine. Can I pour you a glass?”

“That his house up there?”

“One of them,” the server said. “Can I start you off with a white?”

“I’m not much of a wine drinker,” I said, which was true. Beer and hard stuff were my poison.

“Then you won’t find much of interest here,” he said, “this being a winery and all.”

I got the distinct impression he was asking—no, telling—us to leave. I could feel my lawyer’s blood rising while my head searched for some too-clever response. Then I felt Lindsay’s hand in mine.

“Let’s go look at the gourmet section,” she said, pulling me toward an alcove that led to an adjoining room. Without protest I went with her, casting a quick glance back at the server. He was still looking at me.

The new room was stocked with specialty foods and condiments, sauces and mixes, overpriced crackers and high-end cutlery. There were also several people milling around, which made us a tad less conspicuous.

Lindsay picked up a jar with something yellow in it and held it up. “Mustard?” she said.

I laughed. “Smooth, very smooth. You didn’t like that guy either.”

“He got very nervous when you mentioned Hazelton.”

“Good eye.”

“So let’s buy the mustard, go out to the car, and then take a little stroll.”

“Where?”

“To see Mr. Hazelton, of course.”

It was almost like we were kids again, engaged in a conspiracy of two, sneaking into the forbidden zone of some building construction site or empty warehouse. Lindsay was that mischievous little girl again with the sparkle in her green eyes. I loved it.

We did buy the mustard, and I waved at the server on the way out.

“Come again,” he said in a tone that conveyed the opposite.

Lindsay and I walked to the car, and I deposited the gourmet mustard in the back seat. Then Lindsay said, “This way.”

She led me to the end of the visitor’s lot and around the back of the building. The back wall was windowless, and only a dumpster leaned up against it. The hill dropped off severely into a ravine about a hundred feet down. On the other side it rose again, covered with native brush and high, brown grass. That’s what we would have to climb if we were going to get up to Hazelton’s.

“What if it’s fenced off?” I asked as Lindsay started down the hill.

“We’ll see when we get there. Come on!”

I followed her down, the dirt on the hill kicking up after me. Pain shot through my legs and back. Lindsay was athletic, and it was hard to keep up with her.

We reached the bottom and started up the other side. Scrubby bushes reached out to scratch us, and loose rocks fell underneath our feet. But we climbed, and it was, in an odd way, pure joy.

At one point, winded, I stopped for a moment. Lindsay laughed and came back down to me. “Come on, chum,” she said with a laugh and reached out her hand. I took it, and she pulled me along after her.

At the top of the hill, the land flattened out and held the unmistakable signs of professional landscaping. Fresh green grass and manicured shrubs offset a stark, wrought iron fence jutting up from the ground, black and unfriendly. Through the fence we could see a large swimming pool and one side of the Hazelton mansion.

“Some setup,” Lindsay said as I tried to catch my breath.

“Fence . . .” I said between breaths. “What . . . now?”

“We find the front gate.”

“Just . . . like . . . that?”

“You need some first aid. Maybe we can ask for help.”

“Funny,” I panted. “Very . . . funny.”

I heard a crackle to the side and looked over. A thick man in a dark uniform, mirror sunglasses, and combat boots was holding a serious handgun at his side.

“Don’t move,” he said.

We were marched like prisoners into the huge, Spanish-style mansion, our heels clicking on the tile floor, creating a tiny echo. The security officer had holstered his weapon and was speaking now into a small handset as he took us forward.

Two turns and a huge corridor later we entered a cavernous room. There was a large fireplace on the left, active with a crackling fire. To the right, an oak-paneled wall lined with books—fine, leather-covered volumes—stretched upward to a second story, where more books were evident. A small, winding staircase led up to the second level.

Directly in front of us was a huge desk made of some dark wood, almost black, with ornate, carved designs on the corners. At first glance the room seemed empty. No one sat at the desk. Then I noticed a figure standing by the curtained window, almost blending into the dark scarlet curtain itself. From what I could see, this figure was tall but rather hunched over and almost skeletally thin. He wore some kind of robe. Thin wisps of smoke trailed outward from his left hand.

“That’s all, Simon,” the figure rasped. Our security guard walked quickly from the room, closing the heavy door behind him.

The man at the window took a step toward us. More light was cast on him. His hair was white and unkempt, and the skin on his face sagged.
Cadaver
was the word that popped into my head. “What do you want?” he said in a low, coarse voice. “You’re trespassing.”

Lindsay, I sensed, was watching him very closely. I said, “Captain Hazelton?”

“I asked, what you are doing here?”

Now I saw what the smoke was about. He held a lit pipe in his hand. “Why do you have security guards with guns?” I asked.

“You’re the lawyer, aren’t you?” He opened his thin lips, put his pipe through them, and clamped down with his teeth.

“I’m curious about that guard,” I said. “He licensed to carry?”

“You don’t understand.” A sucking sound came from the pipe, and Hazelton issued a stream of smoke from the corner of his mouth. He removed the pipe with a shaky fist. “I’m a very wealthy man. One never knows who might wish to take advantage.”

“Do I look like a threat?”

He turned his face toward Lindsay. “Who is the woman?”

“A friend,” I said quickly.

Hazelton shuffled around to his desk, moving with what looked like painful steps. He turned his pipe over and tapped it on a brass ashtray a couple of times. “I shall have to press charges.”

“You won’t do that,” I said.

“And why not?” He left his pipe on the desk and faced me squarely. His eyes were sunken, deep and dark under drooping lids.

“Because you don’t want the publicity.” When he didn’t answer immediately, I knew I was right. “You don’t want the publicity because you know that things get messy when you go to court. Things come out. I don’t think you want that.”

An odd smile crept across Hazelton’s mouth. “You’re a smart young man,” he said, almost with admiration. It struck me then that there might be a subtle implication in Hazelton’s reaction, as if he was disappointed in his own son for not being a smart young man.

“I admire intelligence,” he continued. “It’s what makes this”—he motioned around the room with his bony arm—“possible. It builds. But it can also be a nuisance. I don’t think you want to be a nuisance, Mr. Denney.”

So he knew my name. All that pretense of whether I was “that lawyer” or not was just that, a pretense. Clearly Howie Patino and I had made an impression on the Hazelton family.

“I’m just interested in the truth, that’s all,” I said.

“About?”

“What happened to my client’s wife.”

“That was decided in court, was it not?”

“A jury reached a verdict. We all know that doesn’t mean it was right.”

“Unlike you,” he said, “I have faith in our legal system.”

“And in the district attorney?”

He squinted at me. “Benton Tolletson is a friend.”

“Anything else?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Mr. Hazelton, can you account for the whereabouts of your son on the night of March 25?”

For a long moment the only sound in the room was the crackling of the burning logs in the fireplace. They snapped like gunshots. “Am I to understand that you are accusing my son of complicity in this matter?”

“I’m not making accusations,” I said. “I’m just asking questions.”

“You’ll please leave.”

“Can you answer me that?”

“I’ll have you removed if you don’t leave now. And if you ever come back, I’ll have you arrested.”

“Even if I want to buy a good bottle of wine?”

“Not even then.”

I turned to go, thinking Lindsay would come with me. She didn’t, and before I could stop her, she said, “Mr. Hazelton, do you practice magic?”

A jolt of electricity seemed to rip through the room, bouncing off the wall and snapping everyone to attention. I was stunned at Lindsay’s boldness.

So, apparently, was Hazelton. He looked like someone had sprayed cold water on his ashen face. “Young lady,” he said, “my practices are none of your affair. How dare you!”

Lindsay answered with an air of confident assurance that amazed me. Maybe she didn’t know to whom she was talking. Or maybe that didn’t impress her at all. “I thought,” she said, “your beliefs were a matter of public record.”

Hazelton’s face was reddening.

“Do you follow the ways of your grandfather, Solomon Hazelton?”

“Get out, both of you!” Hazelton exploded, which led to an immediate coughing fit. Hazelton doubled over, hacking and holding his sides.

The security guard bolted into the room, saw Hazelton bent over, and rushed to him. Hazelton waved him off, and between coughs, said, “Get . . . them . . . out . . .”

The guard walked to us and didn’t have to tell us what to do. We headed out the door, the guard behind us. I opened the door of the house myself. The guard stayed with us all the way down the path to the winery parking lot. He watched us until we drove out of sight.

“That,” Lindsay said as we got back on the main road, “is one weird place.”

No argument from me. We headed back to L.A.

“There’s got to be some connection,” Lindsay said.

“Maybe, but I don’t know how to find it.”

I think she realized this too. We drove in silence most of the way back.

She dropped me at my office—I didn’t want her to see where I lived. “You going to be okay?” she asked before I got out of her car.

“Like the man falling off the Empire State Building,” I said.

“Huh?”

“At each floor they could hear him say, ‘So far, so good.’”

Lindsay laughed, and it was intoxicating. She said, “Keep reading Pascal.”

“And if I don’t?”

“I’ll come after you.”

“That’s not an entirely bad thought.”