Motion to Dismiss (8 page)

Grady snorted in disgust. "That's bullshit. There's
always
nervousness about an initial offering, especially in a volatile business like ours. This goddamn rape charge spells nothing but trouble. It's going to send the price into the toilet."

"If it's any help," I offered, "I think we stand a good chance of beating it at trial."

"It will be too late by then. Besides,
good chance
is far from a certainty."

I nodded. "True. But remember, the prelim was different. There, it wasn't a matter of assessing credibility or weighing the evidence. The judge was only looking to see if there was any basis for taking the case to trial. It's a fairly low standard."

"You can say that again." Grady made no attempt to disguise the bitterness in his voice.

I ignored it. "The big issue is going to be what defense we go with. I think consent is by far our best bet."

Grady shook his head. "I told you, that's not an option."

"Nina might understand -- "

"It's ... not ... an ... option." He gave each word equal emphasis.

"You think the jury's going to believe that you simply gave Deirdre Nichols a ride home and that she made the rest of it up out of thin air?"

Grady leaned back in his chair and made a dismissive gesture with his hand. "Let's not get bogged down in technicalities just yet."

I was about to point out that defense strategy was hardly a technicality, but before I got the words out, I was momentarily blinded by the flash of a strobe. I blinked, and saw only green and blue.

Marc was on his feet in an instant. "What the hell..." He yanked the photographer's collar and brought his face close. "What the hell do you think you're doing, buddy?"

The young man was shorter than Marc and had to stand on tiptoe to keep his balance. A strand of straight blond hair fell across his forehead. He tried to brush it aside, but Marc batted his hand away.

"Hey, calm down," the young man said. He was probably in his late twenties, but there was a bright-eyed boyishness about him that made him appear younger. "I didn't mean to startle you."

Marc was breathing fast and hard, his eyes glazed with anger.

"I'm a reporter," the man said with a remarkably good-natured smile. "I've been researching a piece on the ComTech offering. When I saw you all sitting here, I thought I'd get a couple of informal shots."

"Well, you thought wrong."

"Marc, what's the problem?" It had taken me a minute to sort out what had happened.

Marc ignored me. He grabbed the camera with his free hand, releasing the young man, who looked startled and increasingly nervous.

"That's an expensive camera," he said warily.

"You think I give a shit?" Marc's eyes were cold, his expression hard. It was a look I'd not seen before.

Grady put a calming hand on Marc's shoulder, but Marc had already popped the back of the camera and unwound the roll of film, exposing it to light.

"What are you doing?" Fury strained the man's voice. "I've got practically a whole roll of pictures on there. A week's worth of work."

Marc handed the camera back, shoving it into the man's midsection. "Next time, ask first."

"This is a public place, you know. It's not like I was taking shots through your bedroom window. And I would have asked if you'd given me the chance."

"Yeah, sure."

"Marc -- " I tried again, but he paid no attention.

The man rubbed his neck where a large red welt was taking shape. "I sell my stuff to respectable papers. We're not talking
National Enquirer
or anything."

"You ought to consider it," Marc said, straightening the sleeves of his jacket. "You'd fit right in."

The young man's face darkened with indignation. "You're a real prick, you know that? The kind of guy who gives lawyers a bad name."

The bartender stepped between them, his sheer bulk providing a buffer. "What's the trouble here?"

"It's taken care of," Marc said affably.

The bartender looked to the young man for confirmation.

"I guess it's okay," he said after a moment. He turned and handed Grady his business card. "Maybe we could talk sometime -- without the shark. You could probably use a little positive publicity." With a glare at Marc, he left.

"Jeez," I said when the man was gone. "Don't you think you overreacted a bit?"

Marc grinned, not quite sheepishly but close. "Maybe a little."

Grady drained what was left of his martini. "What got into you? You're supposed to keep me out of trouble, not create it."

"I kept your photo out of the paper, didn't I?"

"A lousy photo," I said. "They must have plenty of others in the archives."

"Publicity photos. There's a difference."

"What's so damaging about Grady's having a drink with his lawyers? This offering isn't based on the claim that Grady's a teetotaler, is it?"

Marc sucked his cheek, looking more amused than chastised. "I'll apologize, how's that?" He took the card from Grady's grasp. "Byron Spencer. God, with a name like that, the guy should have been a poet. Maybe journalist is the closest he could get."

"The sooner you apologize, the better," I said. "And try to sound sincere."

"Am I ever anything but?"

Grady looked at his watch. "Well, this was fun, boys and girls, but I've got to be going. I told Nina I'd be home before dinner."

"You're leaving? I thought we were going to talk about the case." That was the only reason I'd agreed to come. I was having a hard time fitting into Grady's schedule.

"I've got a handle on it. We can talk in a couple of days, okay?"

"Why not now?"

"Let's let the dust settle first."

I wasn't sure what dust he was talking about, and I wasn't sure I'd have any better luck pinning him down in the future. As I watched him leave, I wondered once again how I'd ended up defending Grady Barrett on a rape charge.

Without asking me, Marc hailed the waitress and ordered another drink for both of us.

"So, do you think I'm a prick too?"

"Sometimes."

He grinned. "And the other times?"

If the truth be told, I didn't know what to make of Marc. And it wasn't just his behavior tonight. At times I felt myself drawn to him despite our past history. There was a chemistry between us I couldn't ignore. But other times he made me slightly uneasy. It was almost as though the face Marc presented to the world were artfully contrived to hide the real man beneath the skin.

I decided to sidestep the question. "Are you always that uptight about the press?"

Marc shrugged. "I guess I'm nervous about this offering. The talk in the investment community has been favorable so far, but that can change overnight." He frowned. "Which reminds me. I'll be in New York for a couple of days talking with investment bankers. You think you can manage the fort without me?"

I couldn't tell from his tone whether the question was posed in jest or not. Either way, I didn't think it warranted much of an answer.

"I figured as much," Marc said, reading my look. He gave me a disarming smile. "You seem to have things pretty much under control."

"Thanks."

"I like that."

"What?"

"A woman with a brain." He angled closer and spoke softly. "It's very sexy."

"You're verging on prickhood again."

He moved back to his own part of the table and grinned. "I'll work on fixing that."

When I got home, I checked the spiral notepad by the phone, where Bea and Dotty left my messages. There was one from a woman I'd worked with at Goldman and Latham, one from the gardening service, and none at all from the person whose name I most wanted to see there.

It wasn't that Tom never called me. He had phoned probably four or five times since I'd come back to Berkeley. Our conversations were always affable, and irritatingly light. Loretta, the springer spaniel I'd inherited from my father, provided safe ground for discourse. She was staying with Tom while I was away, and he recounted her antics for me at length. He filled me in on news of Silver Creek as well, and the people we knew in common, but he took pains not to mention Lynn unless I asked. And then he'd say something vague, like
she's trying hard to make it work
.

What the hell was that supposed to mean? The reconciliation had been her idea. The more important question, to my mind, was, what was Tom feeling? Unfortunately, feelings were something he didn't talk about much. Which I suspected was one of the reasons Lynn had moved out in first place.

I was running late Monday morning, so I didn't read the paper until I got to the office. Not that I made the connection even then. The article was short, on the inside page of the second section. A woman had fallen to her death from the deck of a home in the Oakland hills. No name or address was listed, and I gave the story only a passing glance, mentally adding it to the growing tally of tragic events that befall people every day.

It was only when Nina called a little after noon that my stomach curdled.

"Did you see this morning's
Chronicle
?" she asked.

"What about it?"

"The story about the woman who fell off her deck."

I knew then, before she said the name. "Deirdre Nichols?"

"One of the other second-grade mothers called me. She was in the office when Deirdre's sister phoned to say Adrianna wouldn't be at school." Nina's voice was faint, as though she were talking through spun cotton. "Poor Adrianna. To wake up and find her mother gone. She must have been so frightened. And then to find her lying in the dirt, bloody and broken..."

Nina's voice trailed off. I knew the specter of her own death and what that would mean for Emily weighed on Nina's mind, but that didn't fully account for the thin, quavery quality of her words.

"What happened? Do you know any of the details?"

"Only that Adrianna discovered the body. She was smart enough to call 911. God, the things we drill into our babies' heads." Nina paused for a breath. "I'm scared, Kali."

"Scared? Why?"

"After I heard, I called the police. Just to make sure." Another pause. "They've listed it as a suspicious death."

The sour feeling in my stomach rose to my throat. "Did they say why?"

"Only that they weren't ruling out foul play."

"I'm worried," Nina said after a moment. I could hear her breathing into the phone.

I was worried too. Unless he had a rock-solid alibi, Grady Barrett would find himself the object of intense scrutiny -- both from the police and from the public. Not to mention the investment bankers.

"Was Grady at home Saturday night?" I asked.

"He's never home anymore." Nina's tone was clipped. It was hard to separate the pique from the worry.

"Never?"

"I mean, he comes home, but late. Often after I'm asleep. It's this stock offering," she added. "It has him going twenty different ways at once."

"How about Saturday? Were you asleep when he got home?"

"I didn't hear him come in, if that's what you mean."

"What about Simon and Elsa?"

"I don't know. Their rooms are in the guest house in back, so it would be unusual for them to have heard him." She paused. "Grady's been so, so ... I don't know, agitated lately. It worries me."

"As you mentioned, this offering has been on his mind."

There was a beat of silence. "Yeah, that's probably all it is."

"Deirdre Nichols' death may yet be ruled accidental," I reminded her. "
Suspicious
is a catch-all term for anything that needs looking into."

She sighed. "I realize that."

"Or it may turn out that the police might have another suspect in mind."

Nina wasn't reassured. "I hope to God," she said with quiet vehemence, "that Grady was meeting with someone that night. Someone who can vouch for him at the time of Deirdre's death."

My thoughts, though less impassioned, were similar.

After hanging up, I stepped to the front of the office and asked Rose, our all-purpose office hand, if she expected Marc to be calling in that afternoon.

"Probably not," she answered. "I talked with him this morning. Why?"

Deirdre's death was bound to put another hitch in the stock offering, among other things. I debated calling him, then decided to wait until I knew more. "Nothing important."

"He should be home Wednesday evening," she said without taking her eyes off the computer screen. Rose has never met a task she doesn't like, and she handles them all with the methodical, stony-faced efficiency of an army nurse.

Back in my office, which was still adorned with Nina's family photos and mementos, I sat for a good ten minutes, staring at the wall.

Grady Barrett was a successful and respected businessman. A soccer dad, a park commission official, and a member, if not regular attendee, of the community church. He might have overstepped the bounds of morally decent behavior in his tryst with Deirdre Nichols, but that didn't make him a murderer. In fact, I reminded myself, murder wasn't even an issue at the moment.

Unfortunately, the logic of that argument did little to dispel the chill that had worked its way down my spine.

Let's let the dust settle, Grady had said when I'd pressed him about the rape charge. I've got a handle on it. I can take care of it
.

Is that what he'd done?
Taken care of it?

I wanted to hear from Grady himself.

Grady was in his private office when I arrived. He introduced me to the two men seated across the desk from him -- detectives Flores and Newman from the Oakland police department. They were a Mutt and Jeff pairing of opposites. Flores was stocky and dark, Newman tall and fair. Neither seemed particularly happy to see me.

Grady, on the other hand, looked relieved. "I just called you," he said.

"And here I am. Must be ESP."

"Deirdre Nichols is dead. She fell from the deck of the house where she was staying." His face, though tanned, seemed paler than usual, and his voice faltered.

"I heard." Although the others were seated, I remained standing.

"Are you representing Mr. Barrett?" asked Newman.