I is for Innocent (16 page)

I folded my arms, leaning on my elbows, to discourage any further contact. “Curtis, we have to talk.”

“I got time. You want a beer? Come on and let me buy you one.”

Without waiting for assent, he signaled the bartender by holding up his beer bottle and two fingers. “You want some lunch, too? Have some lunch,” he said.

“I just ate.”

“Well, have some fries. Help yourself. How'd you know I was out? Last time you seen me I'se in jail. You look great.”

“Thanks. So do you. That was yesterday,” I pointed out.

Curtis popped up and crossed to the bar to get the beers. While he was gone, I ate a couple of his french fries. They were wedge cut, with the skins on, and perfectly cooked. He returned to the booth with the beers and I saw him make a move as if to slide in on my side.

“No way,” I said. He was acting like I was his date and I could see the guys at the bar begin to eye us with speculation.

I refused to give him room and he was forced to sit down again where he'd been. He handed me a beer and grinned at me happily. Curtis seemed to think that along
with all the beer, cigarettes, and saturated fats, he might just get lucky and get laid this afternoon. He put his chin in his fist and tried his soulful, puppy-dog gaze on me. “You're not gonna be mean to me, now, are you, hon?”

“Finish your lunch, Curtis, and don't give me any more of that hangdog look. It just makes me want to hit you with a rolled-up newspaper.”

“Damn, you're cute,” he said. Love had apparently diminished his appetite. He pushed aside his plate and lit a cigarette, offering me a drag, like we were postcoital.

“I'm not cute at all. I'm a very cranky person. Now could we get down to business? I'm having a little problem with the story you told me.”

He frowned to show he was serious. “How come?”

“You said you sat in on David Barney's trial—”

“Not the whole thing. I told you that. Crime might be exciting, but the law's a bore, right?”

“You said you talked to David Barney as he left court just after he'd been acquitted.”

“I said that?”

“Yes, you did.”

“Don't remember that part. What's the problem?”

“The problem is you were in jail at the time, waiting to be arraigned on a burglary charge.”

“Nooo,” he said with disbelief. “
I
was?”

“Yes, you were.”

“Well, I'm burnt. You got me there. I forgot all about that. I guess I got my dates wrong, but the rest of it is gospel.” He held his hand up as if he were taking an oath. “Swear to God.”

“Cut the horseshit, Curtis, and tell me what's going on
here. You didn't talk to him. You're lying through your teeth.”

“Now wait. Just wait. I did talk to him. It just wasn't where I said.”

“Where then?”

“At his house.”

“You went to his
house
? That's baloney. When was this?”

“I don't know. Couple weeks after his trial, I guess.”

“I thought you were still in jail.”

“Naw, I'se out by then with time served and all that. My attorney cut a deal. I, like, copped to the lesser plea.”

“Forget the jargon and tell me how you ended up at David Barney's house. Did you call him or did he call you?”

“I don't remember.”

“You don't
remember
?” I said in a scathing tone of skepticism. I was being rude, but Curtis didn't seem to notice. He was probably accustomed to being addressed that way by all the hard-nosed prosecuting attorneys he'd faced in his short, illustrious career.

“I called him.”

“How'd you get his telephone number?”

“Called Information.”

“What made you think to get in touch with him?”

“It seemed like to me he wouldn't have many friends. I been there myself. Get in trouble with the law, a lot of people won't fool with you much after that. It's like they don't want to hang out with a jailbird.”

“So you thought he needed a best friend and you were going to be it. What's the rest of it?”

His response was sheepish and he had the good grace to squirm. “Well, now, I knew where he lived—out in Horton Ravine—so I figured he was good for a meal or a couple drinks. We'd been cellmates and all and I thought he'd at least be polite.”

“You went to borrow money,” I said.

“You might put it that way.”

So far, it was the only thing he'd said that rang true.

“I'd just got out. I didn't have no funds to speak of and this guy had lots. He's loaded—”

“Skip that. I believe you. Describe the house.”

“He's living in the dead wife's house by then—up a hill, Spanish, with this courtyard and a terrace with this big black-bottom swimming pool—”

“Got it. Go on.”

“I knock on the door. He's there and I say I was in the area and stopped by to congratulate him on gettin' off a murder rap. So he asks me in and we have a couple drinks—”

“What'd you drink?”

“He had some kind of pussy drink, vodka tonic with a twist. I had bourbon straight up with a water back. It was classy bourbon, too.”

“So you're having drinks . . .”

“That's right. We're having these drinks and he's got this little old gal in the kitchen making up a tray of snacks. That green stuff. Guacamole and salsa and these triangle-shape chips that're gray. I said, ‘What the hell are them?' and he said, ‘They're blue corn tortilla chips.' Looked gray if you asked me. We set there and drank and carried on until almost midnight.”

“What about dinner?”

“Wasn't any dinner. Just snacks is all, which is how we got so loaded.”

“And then what?”

“And that's when he said what he said, about he done her.”

“What'd he say exactly?”

“Said he knocked on the door. She come downstairs and flipped on the porch light. He waited until he seen her eye block the light in the little peephole? Then he fired away. Boom!”

“Why didn't you tell me this story to begin with?”

“It didn't look right,” he said righ teously. “I mean, I went up there to ask if he'd lend me some money. I didn't want it to seem like I was mad he turned me down. Nobody'd believe me if I told the story that way. Besides, he was nice about it and I didn't want to look like a dick. Pardon my French.”

“Why would he admit he killed her?”

“Why not? Once he's acquitted, he can't be retried.”

“Not in criminal court.”

“Shoot. He's not going to worry about a damn civil suit.”

“And you're prepared to go into court with this?”

“I don't mind.”

“You will testify under oath,” I said, trying to make sure he understood what this was about.

“Sure. Only . . . you know.”

“Only you know what?”

“I'd like a little something back,” he said.

“As in what?”

“Well, fair is fair.”

“Nobody's going to pay you money.”

“I know that. I never said money.”

“Then what?”

“I'd like to see a little time off my parole, something like that.”

“Curtis, nobody's going to make a deal with you. I have no authority whatsoever to do that.”

“I never said make a deal, but I could use some consideration.”

I looked at him long and earnestly. Why didn't I believe what he was telling me? Because he looked like a man who wouldn't know the truth if it jumped up and bit him. I don't know what made me blurt out the next question. “Curtis, have you ever been convicted of perjury?”

“Perjury?”

“Goddamn it! You know what perjury is. Just answer the question and let's get on with this.”

He scratched at his chin, his gaze not quite meeting mine. “I never been
convicted
.”

“Oh, hell,” I said.

I got up out of the booth and walked away from him, heading for the rear of the restaurant. Behind me, I could hear him spring to his feet. I glanced back in time to see him fling some bills on the table as he hurried after me. I stepped out into the parking lot, nearly recoiling from the harsh sunlight on the white gravel.

“Hey! Now, wait up! I'm telling you the truth.”

He grabbed at me and I pulled my arm out of reach.
“You're going to look like crap on the stand,” I said, without breaking stride. “You've got a record a mile long, including charges of perjury—”

“Not ‘charges.' Just the one. Well, two, if you count that other business.”

“I don't want to hear it. You've already changed your story once. You'll change it again the next time somebody asks. Barney's attorney is going to tear you apart.”

“Well, I don't see why you have to take that attitude,” he said. “Just because I told one lie doesn't mean I can't tell the truth.”

“You don't even know the
difference
, Curtis. That's what worries me.”

“I do know.”

I unlocked my car door and opened it, rolling down the window to break the air lock when I shut it. I got in the front seat and slammed the door smartly, nearly catching his hand on the doorpost where he was resting it. I reached over and flipped open the glove compartment. I got out one of my business cards and thrust it through the window at him. “Give me a call when you decide to tell the truth.”

I started the car and pulled away from him, flinging up dust and gravel in my wake.

I drove back to the office with the radio blasting. It was 3:35 and, of course, parking was at a premium. It didn't occur to me that with Lonnie driving up to Santa Maria, his space would be free. I circled the area, increasing one block with each round, trying to snag a spot within reasonable walking distance of the office. Finally, I found a semiquestionable slot, with my rear bumper hanging out into somebody's driveway. It was an invitation for a parking
ticket, but maybe all the meter maids had gone home by then.

I spent the rest of the afternoon doing busywork. My appointment with Laura Barney was coming up within the hour, but in truth, I was marking time until I had a chance to talk to Lonnie, who Ida Ruth kept assuring me was temporarily out of service. I found myself loitering in the vicinity of her desk, hoping I'd be nearby if he should happen to call in. “He never calls when he's working,” she said patiently.

“Don't you ever call him?”

“Not if I'm smart. He gets annoyed when I do.”

“Don't you think he'd want to hear about it if his prime witness turned sour?”

“What does he care? That's this case. He's tied up doing something else. I've worked for him six years and I know what he's like. I can leave a message, but he'll just ignore it until this trial is over with.”

“What am I supposed to do till he gets back? I can't afford to waste time and I hate spinning my wheels.”

“Do whatever you want. You're not going to get anything from him until nine o'clock Monday morning.”

I glanced at my watch. This was still Wednesday. It was 4:05. “I've got an appointment near St. Terry's in half an hour. After that, I think I'll go home and clean house,” I said.

“What's with the cleaning? That doesn't sound like you.”

“I spring clean every three months. It's a ritual I learned from my aunt. Beat all the throw rugs. Line-dry the sheets. . . .”

She looked at me with disgust. “Why don't you go on a hike up in Los Padres?”

“I don't hang out in nature if I can help it, Ida Ruth. There are ticks up in the mountains as big as water bugs. Get one of those on your ankle, it'd suck all your blood out. Plus, you'd probably be afflicted with a pustular disease.”

She laughed, gesturing dismissively.

I dispensed with a few miscellaneous matters on my desk and locked my office in haste. I was curious about David Barney's ex-wife, but somehow I didn't imagine she'd enlighten me much. I went downstairs and hoofed it the three and a half blocks to my car. Happily, I didn't have a ticket sitting on my windshield. Unhappily, I turned the key in the ignition and the car refused to start. I could get it to make lots of those industrious grinding noises, but the engine wouldn't turn over.

I got out and went around to the rear, where I opened the hood. I stared at the engine like I knew what I was looking at. The only car part I can identify by name is the fan belt. It looked fine. I could see that some little doodads had come unhooked from the round thing. I said, “Oh.” I stuck 'em back. I was just getting in the front seat when a car pulled halfway into the drive. I tried the engine and it fired up.

“Can I help?” The guy driving had leaned across the front seat and rolled the window down on the passenger side.

“No, thanks. I'm fine. Am I blocking your drive?”

“No trouble. There's room enough. What was it, your battery? You want me to take a look?”

What was this? The engine was running. I didn't need any help. “Thanks, but I've already got things under control,” I said. To demonstrate my point, I revved the engine and shifted into neutral, temporarily perplexed about which way to go. I couldn't pull forward because of the car parked in front of me. I couldn't back up because his car was blocking my rear.

He turned his engine off and got out. I left mine rumbling, wondering if I had time to roll up my window without seeming rude. He looked harmless enough, though his face was familiar. He was a nice-looking man, in his late forties with light brown wavy hair graying at the temples. He had a straight nose and a strong chin. Short-sleeved T-shirt, chinos, deck shoes without socks.

“You live in the neighborhood?” he asked pleasantly.

I knew this guy. I could feel my smile fade. I said, “You're David Barney.”