Obstruction of Justice (27 page)

"Mmm-hmm?"

"I loved my grandfather. I didn’t kill him. I didn’t kill my grandfather. I swear!"

"I believe you," Nina said, and she did.

At the office, Sandy was having her breakfast, a scrambled-egg burrito from across the street. Sandy lived on burritos. "Looks good," Nina said.

"Did you eat yet?"

"They were having doughnuts at the jail. I couldn’t stand it. After I left, I stopped at Winchell’s and had a couple."

"You need protein."

"I need a miracle." She went into her office and began returning the sheaf of phone messages. Sarah de Beers had called twice that morning. Her messages were marked urgent.

Molly answered the phone. "Is your mother home?" Nina asked her. "She’s been trying to reach me."

"She wants to talk to you. She was wondering if you could come out to the house at twelve." Twelve to one was Nina’s only free time left in the day, and she had promised herself a walk along the lake, but she said immediately, "Okay. I’ll be there."

"Did you see Jason this morning? Your secretary said you were at the jail."

"Yes. "

"How is he?" Her voice was tight and anxious.

"His spirits are good," Nina said. She always answered that sort of question that way, and it had its hoped-for effect, seeming to soothe Molly.

The rest of the morning passed in a blur of meetings, so she made little progress toward lowering the tower of files on her desk before she had to leave.

The de Beerses’ house and gardens looked as formal as if a wedding party was planned, all laid out in pastels mixed with white and black. Joe must have been working hard. He had stowed his gardening implements away, and there was no sign of him outside.

Molly came to the door. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and she wore jeans and a short white shirt that showed her navel and small, high breasts. She was so slim that her height didn’t seem excessive. It was only when she walked beside her that Nina realized Molly must be almost six feet tall. She and Jason must stop traffic when they were together. "You look like a skier," Nina said.

"Snowboards," Molly said politely. "Jason and I go a lot in the winter."

"How are you doing?"

"Me? Better than Jason, I imagine. I’m taking the medicine Dr. Lee gave me. I feel better. I’m sorry you saw all that. I didn’t know you were out there."

"You gave us all quite a shock. Especially your mother."

"It was stupid. I won’t let myself get that down again." Molly was looking away. She had the same radiant smile and natural ease as Jason, but she seemed younger and more vulnerable than her brother. "I’m really sorry about trying to kill myself, now. Jason told me afterward that it was the lowest moment of his life. And of course, if I’d died, he wouldn’t have me around now, when he needs me so much."

"Why did you do it, Molly?"

"I just—I didn’t see how I could live through any more.

"Any more what?"

Molly didn’t answer.

They climbed the wide and winding staircase to the second floor and entered a small den with a couple of comfortable sofas and a wide-screen TV.

Sarah stood staring across the landscape at the distant lake through the casement window. She looked much as Nina had first seen her on the mountain, dressed casually, wearing no makeup.

"Thanks for coming," she said, and the two women sat down. Molly leaned against the hallway door. She was there for her mother’s sake, her presence said, but the eyes that followed a flock of birds out the window also told Nina that Molly wanted to maintain her distance from both of them.

"I suppose you want to talk about the subpoena you received. It’s just as well; we can get to this today instead of over the weekend," Nina said.

"What do they want from me?" Sarah asked.

"You gave a statement to the police that included information about the exhumation proceeding," Nina said. "Jason’s motive to kill his grandfather isn’t an essential element that has to be proven, and could even be left out at the preliminary hearing.

"However, in this case the prosecutor evidently wants to give the judge some evidence of motive. Your testimony will make it clear that Jason and his grandfather differed strongly regarding the exhumation proceeding."

"But they can get that from the court papers!"

"Yes, but real live testimony is often preferable to flesh out the paperwork and answer questions that may come up."

"I’m not going to testify against my son! I’m not going to let them drag me into court to hurt Jason. That’s the bottom line."

Nina nodded. She hadn’t thought about the reaction Sarah would naturally have to being subpoenaed. The problem wasn’t legal, it was emotional, and she hadn’t had time to think beyond the legal side. "I see what you’re saying," she said. "Let me tell you three things that may help you. First, they may not call you. In general, the idea is to put on a minimal case, just enough to skate past the probable cause standard. This is a hearing, not a full-scale trial. If the judge seems to get the gist of the prosecution theory from the court papers, they may not bother you."

Sarah listened, frowning.

"Second, you don’t really have a choice."

"I could get sick."

"That might alert them that there is something you’re avoiding saying and draw more attention to you. They can just continue the hearing if a witness is sick. That would work against the strategy I’ve already outlined to you, of catching the prosecution before it is fully prepared."

"Ah," said Sarah.

"And third, I will be cross-examining you. When the prosecutor asks you whether Jason was angry at his grandfather, you have to answer carefully and truthfully. But I can then ask you questions that put your answer in a proper perspective. For instance: Did Jason ever make any threat against his grandfather that you know of?"

"Never. Jason and Quentin liked each other. They had always gotten along. Quentin often intervened between him and Ray."

"As far as you know, did Jason and his grandfather ever engage in any physical altercation of any sort?"

"Of course not."

"Jason suggested to you that this matter might be settled in a court proceeding, didn’t he?"

"Yes. That was his idea."

"He and his grandfather were on speaking terms?"

"Yes, much more than that. Quentin’s birthday was last month, and Jason bought him a present, a new hat."

"You see?" Nina said.

Sarah nodded again. "We can turn this around to help Jason."

"Read over your statement with care, and make very sure you don’t contradict anything you have said previously," Nina said. "Review your calendar and have the events straight in your head, so you don’t get confused. Answer the question directly, and explain your answer if you need to, but don’t say anything unnecessary. Molly, are you listening carefully? You’ve been subpoenaed too, although I think it’s even less likely that you’ll be called."

"What if he says ’Just answer yes or no’?" Molly put in.

"I’ll object," Nina said. "A witness has the right to finish an answer completely. Don’t worry, I’ll be there to make sure."

"I guess I’ll have to handle this then," Sarah said.

Nina liked that statement. She said encouragingly, "You’ll do fine."

"Can they ask me about anything else? I mean, things about Jason that aren’t related to this case?"

"Like what?"

Molly was holding her hand up. "Don’t tell her these things, Mother," she said.

"But honey, if I don’t tell Nina she might be surprised by what comes out—"

"Nothing has to come out, Mom, unless you let it."

"But what if the police do know, Molly? About the fight with his dad—"

"It wasn’t a fight! Dad hit him, and Jason was only trying to defend himself!"

"I’m sorry for bringing it up, Molly. Come here." Sarah held her arms out, but Molly stayed by the door, her face white, her voice trembling.

"No. You listen! Don’t talk about Jason and Dad, because that’s got nothing to do with Grandpa dying and it just makes Jason look bad. Don’t pretend to know what you’re talking about, because you don’t, especially when it comes to Jason and me. You’ve been trying so hard not to know anything. You’ve been busy with your drinking and your boyfriend and your game of making this family look normal. And last of all, don’t try to kiss me and make it all better. Because you can’t! It’s too late!" Molly yelled out the words, and ran out of the room.

Sarah jumped up to follow her, but Nina said, "Wait, Sarah. Just a minute."

"She’s right," Sarah said, slumping in the doorway. "It does seem too late."

"It’s never—"

"I can’t help them. Why didn’t I leave Ray? I feel so guilty."

"Someday they will understand."

"How sad," Sarah said. "I think I was finally growing up myself the past couple of years, getting stronger." She fell silent.

"Sarah, is there something important you haven’t told me?"

"No."

"Do you believe Jason killed his grandfather, Sarah?" It was a risky question, but Nina had to ask it before someone else did.

"Sometimes I think—who else could it be?"

"Do you have any facts I ought to know that would indicate he did?"

"Nothing you don’t know," Sarah said. "If only you can get him off, Nina. We’d start fresh, learn how to be a family. But it’s like fate is against us."

"We can’t lie down and let the situation roll over us. We have to open it up, find the chance. You’ve been trying hard, Sarah. Don’t quit on me."

"I appreciate your coming," Sarah said. "You’ve been a great help to us."

"Not yet, but I’m trying. If you want to help— No offense, but don’t let yourself get down. Stay out of the martini shaker. No more pills. Get your sleep. Stay calm with Molly. You’ll pass through this whether you want to or not and come out the other side. So you might as well quit wasting your energy wishing it were otherwise."

To her surprise, Sarah embraced her. There were tears in her eyes. Nina could feel the bones as she pressed against her.

"You’re my hero," she said. "I’d better go to Molly. You can find the door."

23

NEXT STOP, JOE MARQUEZ. COOL RAIN HAD started in just after noon.

From her car phone, Nina called Paul at Caesars. "Joe probably went home for lunch," she said. "Sandy says you haven’t talked to him yet. I’m tired of pussy-footing around. I want to look him in the eye when he tells me he sent me off into the fire and brimstone up at that cabin by some unplanned fluke."

"Meet you there in ten minutes."

"You know where Joe lives?"

"Oh, yes," Paul said. "In fact, if you don’t mind, I’d like to kill two birds." He told her about the Pontiac Catalina and how it had been registered to Joe at the time of Anna’s death.

"There can’t be a connection," Nina said.

"It could be coincidence," Paul agreed.

Nina slipped to the right of a car turning left off the highway, then moved back into the left lane. "Or it’s synchronicity," she said into the phone.

"What exactly is that? I know the word. Title of a great old song by the Police. Let’s see... ’Many miles away, something crawls through the mud...’ "

"Jung coined the word, I think."

"But what’s it mean? I always just listened to the beat. Great tune too although ’Roxanne’ is still my favorite."

"It means a series of events or objects that aren’t connected in any logical or causal fashion," Nina said into the phone. "But they’re connected."

The car just ahead of her in the left lane suddenly decided to change to the right lane, just as a little pickup, almost invisible in the right lane beside her, suddenly decided to put on a burst of speed. An accident was about to happen. Nina swerved left and the Bronco’s tires jumped the curb of the center divider. The pickup driver slowed to watch her crazy maneuver, just long enough so that the car changing lanes could pull in front without hitting the pickup. The pickup slowed even more and honked angrily, but both vehicles were safe.

Nina bounced back into the street and continued on her way. "Lousy drivers," she muttered.

"Give me an example," Paul was saying. "How can they be connected some other way?"

"I can’t think of anything right now. I’m too busy driving in the rain to think that hard. But the connection isn’t random."

"Then what is the connection?"

"I don’t know! It’s mysterious! The connection is at a level beyond human understanding!"

"Sounds like a cop-out to me. There’s a logical reason, or it’s random. That’s it. Of course, I don’t read Jung right before I go to sleep. I read gun catalogs."

"It’s how the gods do their work. So let’s just put it this way: What’s crawling through the mud? Besides me out here?"

"Joe knows. Drive past and park down the block. I’ll be there."

Twenty minutes later Nina wound her way in semi-darkness down a deserted road in Christmas Valley. The midday mimicked dusk because of thick pine forest that pressed in from the sides of the road, the branches overhanging like tangled black beards. Rain splattered in thick droplets onto the street and over the Bronco. Luckily for her, she was following the only road into the valley, and could not get lost.

She passed the Marquez mailbox and drove on for a few hundred feet. A neighbor’s dachshund set up a howl and managed to keep pace with her on its stumpy legs. Paul’s Dodge Ram van met her and her canine companion from head-on, smooth and silent as a detective vehicle should be, easily avoiding the small brown animal that followed, splashing at her bumper. Paul pulled over. Nina swung around and parked behind him.

"Hop in," Paul said, opening his door. "And tell your admirer there to pipe down. We’re supposed to be sneaking up on our friend." He reached over to unlock the door. "Suitcase first."

"You mean my briefcase."

"You always look ready for a weekend getaway to Napa or somewhere really glam, as if you’re about to jump into a Hertz Rent-a-Car," Paul said, placing her case on the floor behind his seat.

Before she could get her legs tucked safely away, the dog reached her, still barking frantically, its wiry tail upright and alert. She talked calmly to it for a moment, and then reached down to pet it, stroking the wet silky fur behind the ears and accepting a friendly lick before closing the door. "I’d have trouble getting away for a weekend with nothing but paper to wear," Nina said, "and not even tape to hold it on."

"Hmm. As you probably realize, that thought has a certain amount of appeal to a certain type of person."

"Certainly not you, though," said Nina. "Not if the vicious gossip I hear is accurate."

"Oh?" Paul raised a brow. "Which gossip would that be?"

"I can’t repeat gossip."

"Then we’re left with this case," he said, too eager, Nina thought, to let go of the game.

While Paul peered through the murk up the street, she looked at the height and breadth and weight of him, her heart sinking. He was a stranger again. He had another woman.

"What do you think? Anybody home?" Paul asked. A porch light burned dimly through the tree-induced gloom at the Marquez house.

"I went past the house first," Nina said. "I think Joe’s home. Somebody is."

Paul’s favorite tape, John Coltrane’s A Love Supreme, sent soft sax through the cab. The van smelled like fresh coffee, Paul’s aftershave, and damp leather. The wipers flapped, and she saw the reason for the leather smell. His old brown bomber jacket was tossed over the fake fur blanket and the pillows in the fold-down backseat, right next to the locked case he called his toolbox, which she had often wondered about.

Unlike his hotel rooms or even his condo, Paul’s van revealed something intimate about him, his mix of whimsy and masculinity. He rode California’s freeways with the same rousing sense of adventure as a cowboy of old once rode the West’s ranges on his horse.

"Let’s talk a minute before we go in," he said, setting the parking brake. The dachshund, apparently mollified by Nina’s fondling, trotted off toward a doggie door in the side of the house next door and disappeared. "The Meade case and the de Beers case are starting to crash into each other. It’s happening too fast for me to get a handle on it. Joe Marquez owned the car that killed Anna Meade. And Joe Marquez told you to go to Wright’s Lake the night of the fire. You still haven’t told the police that you were the one who went up there and made the 911 call?"

"Not yet."

"You’re taking a major risk. You know that. They could tag you with an obstruction of justice charge. Even if you had a lot of friends in this town who would go easy on you—and you really don’t, but that’s another topic—why take chances? And if you don’t tell them Joe sent you to Wright’s Lake, nobody looks at Joe as a potential bad guy."

"If I give a statement now, any statement, I’m going to have to tell the whole truth, and I’m not prepared to do that quite yet."

"Hey," Paul said, placing his hands on her shoulders and turning her toward him so she had to look him in the eye. "What do you know that you haven’t told me? Don’t you trust me by now?"

"I don’t see why I should get you charged, too, except maybe for the pleasure of your company in the slammer."

He sat on that thought for an instant, then said, "You know something else that could implicate Jason."

"I’m sorry, Paul. Even if I do know something more, I can’t tell you about it. I’m not sure it would be privileged information."

"Which leaves me bumbling around in the dark. Oh, you stubborn, stubborn woman. All right. Tell me this much. Are we the only people who know Joe has some connection, however tenuous, to both crimes?"

"Yes. But I can’t say he knew what was happening at Wright’s Lake, Paul. He said Jason might be up there. That’s all."

"Joe could have dug up the body and set the fire, no matter how Quentin died. The only thing is, I can’t imagine why," Paul said.

"Joe couldn’t have set the fire. I went straight up there after I saw him at Sarah’s house. He couldn’t have beat me there."

"He could have gone up there before you saw him and set a slow-burning fire, couldn’t he? It could have been smoldering for some time before you got there. Have you thought about that?"

"No," Nina said in a small voice. She thought about Joe loading lawn clippings into his truck that night, his slow deliberate movements, his flash of anger....

"I suppose it’s possible. I think I would have noticed something in his demeanor though, Paul. I think at most Joe might know who set the fire."

"What if he does know? What if he tells us it was Jason?" Paul said. "Do we really want to cajole the story out of him? Shouldn’t we let sleeping gardeners lie?"

"I’ll take the chance, Paul. I don’t believe Jason killed his grandfather."

"You’ve been around the block, baby. Admit for once you might be wrong!"

His vehemence shook her confidence, which brought up her defenses. "Don’t call me baby."

"Sorry, b—"

"And don’t call me boss." She reached up, removing his hand from her shoulder.

Paul held his hands up in a gesture of conciliation. "Okay. So what’s the plan of action?" he said.

"Play it by ear?"

"Not exactly a plan, but it’ll have to do. Now, before we go in, I have to tell you about this other woman. Kim Voss."

"The woman who saw the car hit Collier’s wife."

"Right. Well, she admits Quentin was supporting her for the past four years. They had a kinky thing going. That’s what I mean by cases colliding."

Startled, Nina tried to absorb this information.

"She claims she was on good terms with him and lost her income when she lost him. According to Leo Tarrant, de Beers’s will left her a share of the business worth about fifteen grand, but I doubt if she’d kill the old man for that. The fact is, I doubt she did have anything to do with it, or with Anna’s death, but there she is, smack-dab in the middle of both cases, just like Joe Marquez."

"What’s she like?" Nina said.

"A struggling artist. Very dedicated. No other interest in life. Smart and attractive."

Nina did not like the tone of fake disinterest. So Kim Voss was the one Paul was so hot on. An artist. Why did she have to be an artist? A creative type who probably cooked beautifully, with long flowing hair and dangling earrings, smelling of patchouli, her mind lazy and free, able to discuss Picasso, Hockney, and Judy Chicago in the same breath. As someone totally out of Paul’s usual run of acquaintances, she would have special allure.

It was idiotic, but Nina experienced a pang. "Maybe Kim and Joe know each other," Nina said. "Maybe she and Anna and Joe and Quentin all used to play poker at Prize’s on Thursday nights. Kim killed Anna because Anna had a real job and Quentin because he made fun of her art."

Paul looked amused. "As good a theory as any."

"You know, if she’s another connection between the two cases, we should consider her, shouldn’t we?"

"Let’s see how things go before we start blaming Kim for everything, okay?" Paul said, and the double meaning of his comment didn’t escape her, even if it did escape him. "Get ready for our grand entrance." Paul drove boldly into the rutted driveway amid yelps of protest from another dog, this one large and vigilant, who stopped a few feet from the van, its lip curled just like Elvis used to curl his, then charged forward and bounded riotously around the van, spraying water.

"More of your admirers. Dogs have a thing for you. Shall I shoot it?" Paul inquired, but just then a small boy, barefoot, came down the ramshackle porch, jumping nimbly over the puddles to grab the dog’s collar, cuffing it and choking it. The dog subsided, and the boy piped, "Private property."

"Hi, there," Nina said. "We would like to speak to Mr. Marquez."

"He’s working."

"We might have a job for him," Paul said.

The boy, who had black hair and a solemn expression on his face, said, "Wait a minute." He ran into the house, and they waited expectantly for a mom to appear behind him, but he reemerged alone, carrying a beeper. "I called him," he said in his stern little voice. The phone in the house rang. The boy left again to answer, returned and said, "Come in," directing them into the living room.

Though even darker than the overgrown clearing in which it was set, the house was not unpleasant inside. A large TV dominated the threadbare room, glowing orange and green and blue as silent ads flickered swiftly over its face. Pictures of Jesus, Mary, and unidentifiable saints were matted and framed in gold-painted wood. A sofa in worn white chenille faced the TV. "Rex the Wonder Horse," a rocking horse on a metal frame, and an air-resistance exercycle crowded into one corner. Nina took the phone.

"This is Nina Reilly. Mr. Marquez?"

"I recognized you from the description. What do you think you’re doing at my house?"

"I need to talk to you."

"I’m busy. I don’t have time."

"Is this your son? He’s been very polite."

A silence, then Joe said grudgingly, "He’s a good boy. But listen, lady, you shouldn’t be there. That’s my home."

"Is your boy all alone here?"

"Are you going to call Child Welfare or something? He’s out sick, getting over the flu, so don’t bother, okay? Now, what do you want?"

’’Just a few words, Joe. We can wait."

"No you can’t. I don’t let people wait at my home."

"Tell me where I can meet you. Or are you afraid to talk to me?"

"I’m not afraid."

"Then what’s the big deal?"

"Come on over," said Joe finally. "I’ll be here another half hour." He gave an address back in town, which Nina memorized.

"We’ll be there."

"Put my boy on." The boy took the phone. As they left they could still hear Joe’s scolding voice through the receiver and see the child nodding as if his father faced him in person, saying,
"Sí, sí
, Papa," over and over.

They parted on the road. On the way back to town Nina called her office, where Bob was marooned with Sandy. "Bobby?"

"Hi, Mom."

"What are you doing?"

"Wish is teaching me how to fix a radio. He’s got one all taken apart on the conference table. And Sandy brought us tacos."

"I’m sorry, honey, but I’ve been held up. It’ll be another hour or maybe even longer."