Unlucky in Law (25 page)

Wanda glanced at the audience, at Nina, and finally, at Stefan, then shook her head, sighing. What could a mother do with such a beetle-headed son?

Klaus did a little better on the cross-examination this time. Nina couldn't decide if he was aware of how badly he had done with Erin or not, but with Wanda, the old-gentleman game worked. He had her relieved and nearly smiling by the time she stepped down. She had told the jury what a basically good boy Stefan had been, and she had shown she loved her son in spite of any doubts she might harbor about his judgment. The defense, at this point in the prosecution's case, with all the evidence in the world showing her son was guilty, could hope for no better.

21

Saturday 9/27

“I
NEED YOU TO MAKE PHONE CALLS AND DO SOME COMPUTER WORK
from the office,” Nina told Paul on Saturday morning. He didn't like Nina telling him to do things he didn't want to do, but he inferred from the inflexibility of her tone that he wasn't going to be set free to go find the Russian.

He sat across from her desk in the tiny office in the Pohlmann building. For once the day had dawned clear and brilliant, so the light could pour down on her brown hair, which seemed to have come straight from bed to the office without a stop at the brush station. She was wearing tight jeans and a black sweater, and with her pale skin and red lips she looked like some elfin beatnik from the fifties.

“The defense case starts on Monday and we have to get as much of the grunt work in as we can at this point. Dean Trumbo didn't do the job, so . . .”

“Klaus didn't do the job,” Paul said. “Look, honey, Sergey Krilov is important. He's probably the killer. He's a pro.”

“And he's back in Moscow or someplace right now, thinking he's got the last pieces of poor Constantin Zhukovsky,” Nina said. “Lucky for us, Ginger has the samples she took just before the assault.”

“I talked to her. She shouldn't have taken the guy on.”

“She came out of it better than Father Giorgi.”

Paul thought about his wasted trip to the hospital the night before. The priest's face, as he argued with a nurse about how much medication he needed, had a kabuki pallor. The nurse said his injuries were superficial. He had a broken finger, some slight cuts to his chest, and a shallow neck wound that would heal nicely. He was doing fine. Paul supposed medical people had a looser definition of “fine” than he did.

After thanking Paul for saving his life, Giorgi had begged off any further conversation. Paul spent the long drive back home from the city hashing over each not-too-bright move he had made. Giorgi had been subjected to two-bit torture, all in two minutes. Every time he thought about the way the Russian had efficiently slit the man's throat, just so Paul would have to stop and he could get away, he burned. He would never forgive the attack on Ginger. How gratifying it would be to find the guy and . . . “The Russian chose not to kill him, or else Giorgi would be dead. He knows his knives.”

“Yeah,” Nina said.

“It's my fault. I need to find Krilov.”

“Prepare the defense now, take revenge later,” Nina said. “It's an excellent working philosophy.”

“But he's the killer!”

“Just a minute ago we were thinking the killer was Christina's brother, Alex,” she reminded him.

“Look. We start poking around in the dirt in this case and we turn up a pit viper. We can't just let Krilov crawl away.”

“He's already gone, and we only have a few days left,” Nina said. “We have to figure out why he wanted the bones, I agree, but Paul, we won't find out by finding him. We'll find out from working the people and facts that are sitting right here.”

“Well, what does Ginger say?”

“She has no idea. We were kicking around some ideas. Maybe Constantin wasn't really Christina's father. Ginger's going to check for paternity.”

“So what if he wasn't?”

“There's a money aspect. He left a million bucks to each of his children,” Nina said. She showed Paul a probate file. “I got this from the county clerk's office at the Monterey courthouse right after court.” Paul flipped through the old man's will. He had given the contents of his stock accounts at Charles Schwab to his children Christina and Alex. He had also left a trust fund in the amount of three hundred thousand dollars to his housekeeper of many years, Wanda Wyatt.

“Wait a minute!” Paul said. “Wait just a doggone minute! Wanda Wyatt? Stefan Wyatt's mother? She was Constantin's housekeeper?”

“Fresh off the presses.”

“Incredible!”

“How to use it to help Stefan is the problem,” Nina said. “It makes Wanda a liar. She said she didn't know the Zhukovsky family. Well, she did. By the way, Alan handled the Zhukovsky probate. He also handled the transfer of an annuity to Wanda Wyatt. He knows both families. He could have helped me link some of this up.”

“Alan Turk? Anal Alan? Have you talked to him?”

“I called his house at eight this morning. He sang the usual song. It's all lawyer-client privileged information.”

“But this firm represents Stefan Wyatt!”

“So we have to avoid the appearance of impropriety and not share information. Alan wouldn't talk to a lawyer from another firm about this probate, and so he can't talk to me.”

Paul tapped his fingers on his thigh. He couldn't get any of it straight. “Okay. A will. Big money to Christina and Alex. Right?”

“That part is public record,” Nina said.

“You're thinking Christina was killed for her money?”

“Not directly. I'm trying to link up the money with the theft of Constantin's bones. Let's say Constantin wasn't Christina's father. Then she would not be entitled to the money, conceivably. Alex would get her million. So Alex has a motive to dig up the bones and have a paternity test done, Christina tries to stop him, there's a struggle, and it adds up to acquittal for our client.”

Paul nodded. “I like it. It's the first thing I've heard that ties up the bones and the murder. But the father died in 1978!”

“I know. I know. Why would Alex wait? I haven't got that worked out.”

“Maybe he just got suspicious all these years later. Somebody told him something.”

“Maybe,” Nina said. She shrugged. “The other problem is that the estate was settled years ago. Ordinarily after the acceptance of the executor's final report and distribution of the property, no one can come back and complain. But there's one common exception.”

“Which is?”

“In a case of external fraud.”

“So Christina knew, but didn't tell?”

“I don't know,” Nina said. “Anyway, we'll find out soon. Ginger's calling about paternity as soon as she gets any results.”

“What a passel of information to get hit with in the middle of a trial,” Paul said. “Good thing you're brainy and can figure all this out. I want a beer, and it's nine in the morning.”

“I'm doing legal research today,” Nina said. “I need to see if I can break the confidentiality privilege with Alan. He must know something about this situation. Also, Wish says he got the death certificate on Constantin, but I've looked and we don't have it. I think he forgot to drop it by, so get that. The other important thing is Wanda.”

“Wanda the housekeeper,” Paul said, nodding. “He left her a whale of a lot of money. She never mentioned it when I interviewed her. She acted like she'd never heard of the old man.”

“Maybe she was afraid if that news came out it would connect Stefan with the Zhukovskys. The prosecution would sure like to know this, Paul. I didn't bother calling Wanda yesterday when I realized she hadn't told you, I just went over to the jail and talked to Stefan. He says his mother used to do housework for people before she got married, but he doesn't remember the name Zhukovsky ever coming up. He swears she never mentioned that name to him.”

“You believe that?”

“It's a hell of a coincidence, but then again, this isn't a huge metropolitan area, Paul.”

“Zhukovsky left Wanda money, then Stefan went to dig up his bones and found Christina's body,” he said slowly. “I can't get my mind around it.”

“We-e-ell,” Nina said, “you mentioned before it was a lot of money to leave a housekeeper, no matter how good she was at vacuuming up dust bunnies.” She gave him a wicked smile.

“They were lovers?”

“Maybe. Though where that thought leads I do not know.”

“I'll talk to Wanda today.”

“First do your paperwork, big boy. Not here. It's too distracting having you around.” She handed him a list of items.

“So you feel something, too? A certain—urgency?”

Nina laughed. “Let's just get the work done.”

“But tonight, tonight the champagne will be waiting on my coffee table. We'll take a walk with Hitchcock and I'll make you supper.”

“That'd be great, but sorry, Paul. I just can't. I'm cooking for Bob, and I'm going to be getting up early on Sunday and it's just too much.”

“Too much?” Paul said. “Okay, change of plan. I'll provide take-out, Bob can come, and I will give you a massage and make sure you're asleep by ten. In my bed, of course.”

“And Bob will be where?”

“He's fourteen years old, for chrissake! I'll drive him home while you lounge on the couch.”

“Bob has issues,” Nina said. “I have to spend some time with him. I'm really sorry.”

“I have issues, too,” Paul said, rather loudly. “What the hell did you move down here for? To practice law and live with your kid in a new place? You're doing the same thing to me you did up at Tahoe! Doesn't that ring on your finger,” he grabbed her hand roughly, “mean a thing to you?”

“Come on, Paul. Don't be that way. I didn't know Bob would come back from Sweden so early. He hasn't adjusted to all this. He needs time, too.” She extricated her hand gently, but her firm jaw pushed out and her eyes got steely. She might as well have said it quite clearly,
Bob comes first, buddy,
and Paul suddenly felt sick of it, all of it, and he blurted, “I'm not going to be third best to your kid and your work any more, hanging around for when you have a minute.” He felt terror at what he had said. It sounded like an ultimatum.

Then he felt good. It
was
an ultimatum.

Nina's thumb went to her mouth. She tore the nail to the nub. He waited for more from her and didn't get it. Finally she hugged him. “We'll talk later,” she said. It wasn't enough, not at all, and she must know it, but she didn't seem to have the spirit to go any further with it.

Paul left her in the office, where she was already picking up the phone, having stuck him into that compartment in the back of her mind where she put inconvenient, time-consuming things.

Although he wanted to, he didn't call her all day. She didn't call him, either. She was busy. She could have given him a quick call, but no, he was last on the list. She didn't want a man, she wanted an on-demand escort service.

He hit some gold, too, on the computer, but, perversely, he decided to wait for Sunday to report it.

At six, Paul packed it in and went down to the beach for a run. On this cool bright September afternoon, with surf massing like storm clouds and kelp floating in enormous beds just offshore, most of the remaining tourists had found other places to visit. The beach by Thirteenth Avenue was almost deserted. Taking his shoes off, Paul rolled up his pants legs and ran up and back down the mile-long beach, then flopped down to catch his breath and the last shoots of golden sunshine.

A fog wall on the horizon awaited night. The sand felt cold, and he shivered. He said good night to the old yellow lady who was heading off to bed, and watched the half-moon creep above the fog, ready to party with the stars. Clouds flowed in from the east. Fall had arrived in Northern California. It was a time to take stock, a time for new beginnings.

Saturday night, and me and Sam Cooke ain't got nobody, he thought, depressed. He drove home and showered. Almost out of booze, in the back of the fridge he found a couple of Stella Artois beers, which he downed in five minutes. An unopened bottle of slivovitz his uncle had given him years before called from the freezer. He opened it, downing a couple of shots of Slavic white lightning. Then he turned on ESPN and went over to the phone to call for pizza.

The message light blinked.

She had changed her mind. He still felt angry, though, and wasn't sure at this point he even wanted to see her.

“Paul?” Another woman's voice spoke, furry, uncertain. “I just called to say—I've been wondering how you're doing. If you're free, I'm home tonight. Give me a call. Bye.”

Susan. Rubbing his lips, Paul blinked a few times. He hadn't seen Susan for ages. He was in love with somebody else, yeah, that was right, had to save himself for the Loved One, had to be lonely for the rest of his life and give up this hot woman who was thinking of him, missing him, and had taken the time to call him and tell him so.

He went out onto the deck and leaned on the railing. A coyote cry sounded in the hills. He couldn't see the stars through the clouds gathering up there. The neighbor next door, Mr. Mitts, had company tonight and Paul could smell teriyaki. Tight-lipped Mitts with his cat and his knitting had a friend visiting.

Meantime I'm saving myself like a virgin in a medieval romance, he said to himself. He felt unmanned thinking about Nina, and then there was Sergey, who he couldn't do anything about right now. He would like to break the Russian's skull. He would like to teach him about justice in America's wild wild West, if only he could find him.

He went back to the phone and pressed the callback button.

“This is Susan.”

“Hey. Remember me?”

“Do I ever,” Susan said in a voice rich with pleasure.

“It so happens that I am home tonight.”

“What a coincidence. I also am home. Alone.”

“Two such fine citizens should combine forces.”

“That would be—fine.”

“Would you possibly be in the mood to drive over here? I've had a couple and I can't come to you.”

Susan didn't ask any questions. She was free at the moment; he was free; they didn't plan things. That was how it had been with them in the brief time they had hung out together. She just said, “How about an hour?”

“Chinese sound good?”

“Sure.”

He had the best local take-out Szechuan waiting on the kitchen table when Susan arrived. She threw her jacket on the couch and took the shot glass of slivovitz he offered. The red tube top over jeans left her shoulders bare and undefended-looking.

“Up yours,” she said, smiling up at him from under the black bangs, and drank it down, then sputtered. “What the heck is that?”

“Something my uncle cooked up,” Paul said. “Hungry?”

“Always.” They sat down at the kitchen table and started talking as if a lot of time and a lot of events hadn't passed. Susan said, her mouth full of noodles, “I met Nina.”