The Devil's Interval (28 page)

I grinned. “You bet I am,” I confessed. “I mean, everyone at work is always giving me such grief because I'm not a ‘real reporter.' I didn't come up through newspapers or anything serious, so it's pretty cool when I feel as if I really can get people to talk to me.” I swigged. “Like a real reporter.”

“You are so transparent,” said Michael, “and just a little full of it. You mean, ‘like a real detective,' don't you?”

“Oh, maybe. Doesn't really matter how the information gets uncovered, does it? After all, it was a journalism class at Northwestern that broke that death row story, and proved that guy innocent. Detective, journalist, we're all after the truth.”

“And let's not forget justice and the American Way,” said Michael.

“Come on, Michael, cut me a break,” I protested. “If this turns out to be useful to the case, if there is something here that helps Isabella with Travis's case, this really is important.”

He turned the flame down under the pan, picked up his beer, and folded himself into the chair next to me. “I know,
cara
,” he said. “I don't mean to belittle this. In fact, you may have turned up something useful—or maybe not. We don't know enough yet, and probably won't until the police look into this. I'm afraid,” he
hesitated, “this could turn into something pretty sticky for Carol Ann.”

“Really?” I asked. “She didn't do anything wrong.”

“Technically she did. She had information, she had been in a conversation with the police, and she made a decision not to share everything she knew.”

“Damn,” I said. “She's such a good egg, and she's had such a tough time in life, I don't want this to get ugly for her. Plus, her husband is the one who discouraged her from reporting what she saw.”

“Doesn't bode well for him, either. Especially not for a guy in law school,” said Michael.

I looked at the wall phone. “Don't even think about it, Maggie,” said Michael. “You're at least playing by some semblance of the rules now. Isabella's got the info, she's talking to—what's his name? The trial attorney?”

“Joe Kotter,” I said, tearing my eyes away from the phone.

“Okay, you're right.” I stood up, collected my shoes, and headed for the stairs. “I'm going to wash up, change, and come help. Where's Anya?”

“Out,” said Michael. “With Dr. Bollywood. That's the good news.” Off and on, between her not-so-smart romantic choices, Anya had gone back to dating Dr. Reza Singh, the young Indian doctor who'd treated me at the ER the night my last detecting adventure turned dangerous. It had been love—or lust—at first sight, and despite Anya's spectacularly checkered romantic past, the infatuation was turning into a real relationship. And we more than approved—charming, well-educated, and so achingly movie-star dishy that the staff at the ER, women and men alike, referred to him as Dr. Bollywood. Plus when he came to dinner, he brought an endless supply of delicious chutneys his aunts made for him. And such a relief from her track record of bounders, slackers, and deliberately underemployed beaux.

In fact, the phone rang less than usual that night—the disingenuous little strumpets for Josh, with their alleged requests
for homework clarification; a hockey buddy wanting to carpool to Saturday practice with Michael; and Michael's mother, wondering if we were going to show up for some distant cousin's first communion Sunday after next. Michael caught my eye, and I made a beseeching face in response, “Ma, we'll have to get back to you on that. Maggie's got to check her schedule.”

He settled next to me on the couch, and hit play, bringing the 400th showing of
Rudy
to life on our screen. The boys sprawled on cushions on the floor, prepared to repeat every line of dialogue by heart.

“And yet,” I whispered into his ear, “another reason we should have had a daughter.”

“What's that?”

“Chick flicks, occasionally, instead of
Rudy
or
Hoosiers
for family movie night, and the only cool things about being Catholic are those white dresses little girls get to wear for first communion. I'd have loved to have shopped for one of those.”

“Still time,” Michael whispered back to me.

I looked over the den, littered with boy clutter. “I don't think so,” I said.

“Well, don't worry,” said Michael. “You're going to have more than enough girls around the joint pretty soon. Every time I pick up Josh, there's some little cupcake with a bare midriff hanging around, talking to him.”

“Oh, goody,” I said. “I can hardly wait.”

“Hey,” shouted Zach, “you guys are making too much noise. We can't hear the movie.”

I
needn't have worried about Isabella letting grass grow under those red-hot heels of hers. By the time I emerged from the BART station the next morning, Gertie intercepted me on my cell phone. “Big doings, huh?” she said.

“What, Gertie?” I asked, juggling phone and wallet, as I tried to dig out three bucks and change for my overpriced double-double latte.

“You'll see,” she said cryptically. “You've already got quite the dynamic duo waiting for you in the office.”

And that was fair warning. The elevator opened directly in the waiting room, and I saw Isabella and Joe Kotter perched on the edge of our reception chairs. Both looked highly caffeinated and ready to pounce.

“Maggie,” Isabella called, leaping to her feet. “I called home, but you'd already left, so we decided to meet you here instead.”

“I see that,” I said, taking a sip of my latte. “Hi, Joe,” I said, nodding at him. He, too, was on his feet and about to start pacing, I could tell.

“Come on in. Let me get out of my coat and check in with Gertie and I'll be right with you.” I waved at the visitor chairs in my office, hung up my coat and headed back out into the hallway. Isabella followed me, her quick breath and faint clouds of Arpege warm on my neck.

“Maggie, I'm sorry to descend on you,” she said, “but we've
got to get a little strategy shaped up, and I wanted to hear your report first.”

“And why's Joe here?” I asked.

“We've got to decide how we're going to handle how and why this info you pried out of the little mother-to-be didn't come out before. Who screwed up? The cops? The DA? Joe?”

“Does it matter?” I asked.

Isabella gave me an incredulous look. “Are you sure you're married to an attorney,
chica
?” she asked. “Of course it matters. It's all about who screwed up and who we can saddle with the blame. That's our vehicle to getting things reopened.”

We had reached Gertie's office, and she stood to greet us. “Oh, good,” she said with an innocent smile, “I see you found your visitors.”

“Uh-huh,” I said. “Anything I need to deal with right away on my day job?”

Gertie shook her head. “Heavens no, nothing that can't wait. This seems awfully important.”

“Thanks,” I said, “I'm sure we won't be long.”

“Oh, just one thing,” called Gertie. I turned. She waved a little pink message slip at me, “An old friend called this morning. John Moon. Lt. John Moon. From Homicide.”

I winced, “Any message?”

“I'll read it to you,” said Gertie. “Ask Mrs. Fiori what in the hell is going on over there?”

I walked back to Gertie, snatched the pink message slip from her fingers, and led Isabella back to the office.

“John Moon?” she asked. “I didn't know you two knew each other.”

“Oh, we know each other,” I said tartly. “He and Michael play ice hockey on the same team.”

“Isn't that handy?” said Isabella. “One of his guys investigated this case.”

Back in my office, silence fell as I complied with Isabella's request to recount the conversation with Carol Ann, as completely
as I could.

“Syllable by syllable,” she said. “Don't leave anything out.”

“That's it?” demanded Kotter, when I was finished.

“That's it,” I said.

“And she was pretty sure it was 10 o'clock or so?” asked Kotter

“Pretty sure,” I said. Which confirms Mrs. Lomax's story about seeing two cars.”

“And gives plenty of time for whoever the mystery people were to take Grace somewhere, murder her, and then stash her body in Travis's limo,” said Kotter.

“But we still don't know anything about who or why though,” I pointed out.

“Not as critical right now,” said Isabella. “This demonstrates that someone else was with Grace just before she was murdered. Maggie, you haven't had any further conversations with Carol Ann?”

I shook my head. “Nothing. Although, I'm worried about her. I think she just didn't realize that her information was important, and then…”

“Her husband discouraged her,” Kotter completed my sentence.

“So, what happens now?” I asked.

“This is definitely extra-transcript information,” said Kotter. “But until we learn more, we don't know how important it is. Although, the fact that there may have been another person involved, the mystery guy or broad in the backseat, opens up still more interesting possibilities.”

“And why's Lt. John Moon, SFPD, Homicide calling?” I asked.

“I put in a call to the DA and the police last night,” said Isabella. “That's our obligation.”

“And now,” said Kotter, “let the games begin.”

Kotter and Isabella spent a few more minutes talking about next steps, filing documents to get the case reopened immediately, speeding up the habeas appeal process, ordering me not to talk to Carol Ann again, and doubled-timed it out the door.

Gertie was hovering in the hallway, clutching another batch of pink message slips.

“Well, Ollie, it's a fine mess you've gotten us into, isn't it?” she said.

I sighed. “I hope not. I hope there's something here that's a way out of this fine mess.”

“Here's the good news,” said Gertie. “That handsome Lt. Moon wants to take you to lunch.”

I groaned. “Not today,” I said.

“Oh, I don't think it was an invitation,” said Gertie. “I think it was a command performance.”

A
t precisely high noon, John Moon and I were seated at the Burger Bistro. He perused the menu, while I jiggled my knee. He closed the menu, reached under the table, and put his hand on my knee.

“Why, Lt. Moon,” I said. “I never!”

He removed his hand. “Calm down and stop jiggling, Maggie,” he said. “You're going to overturn the table. This is lunch, not an interrogation room.”

The waitress came by—messy, avocado and grilled onion-bedecked classic patty for me, rare; veggie burger for John, on a whole wheat roll. “No fries,” he said.

“I'll eat yours,” I said.

He nodded at the waitress.

“Don't you ever do anything wicked?” I teased.

“If I did, I certainly wouldn't tell you,” he said.

“Okay, so what's this lunch about?” I countered. “Get to it.”

“No,” he said, “that's my line. Why don't you get to it? Tell me what you've been up to. Michael mentioned…” he paused, “at practice the other day, that he was helping you with a story. Like a fool, I thought, ‘How nice.' Michael seemed pretty pleased with himself, and all I could think was that it's good to know you two got past that bump in the road.”

“We did,” I volunteered. “We're seeing some weird, color-nut therapist in Berkeley, and Michael really seems to like her.”

“Dr. McQuist?” he asked.

“You, too?”

Lunch arrived. John carefully righted the lettuce and tomato on his wholesome choice. I splashed mustard and pickle relish on my burger, and squished the avocado into an even layer on the bun.

“Don't wrinkle your nose at me, John,” I said. “Isn't it nice in this era of eating disorders to watch a girl dive right into her lunch?”

“Very nice,” he agreed promptly, “though you might want to swipe at the corner of your mouth, because all that yellow mustard dripping down is making you look a little jaundiced. And, in answer to your question, no, my wife and I are not seeing McQuist, but I know lots of people who are. Or have. She's supposed to be very effective.”

“Yeah, well, she may be like sex on the beach,” I grumped. “Highly overrated.”

“Sex on the beach, the drink? Or actual sex on the beach?” he inquired mildly. “Come on, Maggie, just tell me what's going on. Two young hotshots from the DA's office were crawling all over the Homicide bureau today, looking at interview transcripts.”

“And why do you think I'm involved?”