Law and Disorder (31 page)

“I need to know if any of these people look familiar, if they might have had a relationship with Roxanne, business or personal, or if they’d ever come to the office.”

She nodded. “Sure. Do you think that one of them caused her to crash her bicycle?”

“I think so. I wasn’t entirely up front with you and Gary the time I came by the office. Let me go through the whole thing for you: Roxanne died just over a month ago, a Judge Cardarelle died a few weeks before that, Rollie Thorsten was murdered several days ago and a police officer was critically injured this week. Someone set fire to another person’s home yesterday. I and one other person received a lawyer joke before each of these deaths. It didn’t sound too serious to us until the next day when a sheet of paper with the name of the victim arrived. I think the victims also received the jokes.”

“You asked about the jokes and I told you Roxanne got one that I knew of.”

“I believe someone is sending a message. Every victim is connected with the legal system in some way, hence the jokes. And the pace is picking up.”

Her hand shot to her throat. “You mean you think someone killed poor Roxanne because of some twisted idea of revenge? That’s too horrible.”

“Yes, it is,” I said.

“The jokes were some kind of message to the person?”

“I believe so.”

“But Roxanne wasn’t upset by that dumb joke. Annoyed maybe, but not upset. She had no idea it meant anything.”

I searched for the right words to reveal what I had concluded during my long stretch of thinking. I took a deep breath. Bev stared at me, her brown eyes huge.

I said, “I wonder if she didn’t learn it at the end.”

“You mean the person would have told her she was going to die and why?”

I shrugged, apologetically. “It makes sense to me.”

“Well, not to me. It’s horrible!”

The man on the balcony reacted to the sound of her raised voice. He stepped toward the door, and she waved him away again. He turned his back to us. Sulking, I thought.

“Your friend doesn’t like me much.”

The grin made it all the way to her eyes. “Don’t worry about it. I don’t think he’s a keeper. Unlike Moxi. Moxi’s here for good.”

I said, “That’s terrific. So, now that you understand where I’m coming from, let’s have a look at these pictures.” I passed her the one of Rollie Thorsten.

She said, “I saw his picture in the paper recently, but I’d never seen him before. And never in person. Next.”

I passed her a shot of Annalisa at her most impassioned, and accompanied it with the grainy image of her heading up to Bunny’s door.

Bev shook her head. “She’s quite memorable. I wouldn’t be able to forget her.”

“This next guy also had a bicycle, so that may be a connection. I produced the photo of Jamie Kilpatrick, small and stick-like next to the strapping Constable Wentzell as they exited the courthouse. P. J. was so besotted that the shot was really of Wentzell with Kilpatrick as an unfortunate addition.

Bev stabbed a French-manicured finger at the photo. The patio door opened, and the non-keeper boyfriend stepped in, cigarette finished, leaving Moxi yipping on the balcony. Bev didn’t give him a glance.

I said to Bev. “Thank you. That’s what I need, a connection between him and Roxanne. Did you see him around here? He said he rides his bike everywhere. Did he used to ride with her?”

“Not him,” she said, firmly, pointing to Wentzell. “I’ve seen her talking to Roxanne. On a bike too.”

FIFTEEN

A bad lawyer can let a case drag out for several years.
A good lawyer can make it last so much longer.

I
had trouble adjusting my mind to this new idea. I wanted to implicate Kilpatrick, since the snivelling little creep had nearly run me down. But what did Wentzell have to do with all this? Was Bev mistaken? Even as I had that thought, I knew it was wishful thinking. No. If Bev said she’d seen her, then Wentzell was definitely involved. But how? What the hell did she have to do with Roxanne Terrio?

“She’s quite a bit younger than Roxanne was. Were they friends?”

“No. I just happened to see them having a conversation about bikes one day. That big blonde girl wasn’t in a police uniform that time though. She was in that stretchy biking gear you see. Roxanne wore that kind of gear too. I got the impression they had just struck up a casual conversation.”

“Was it around the time Roxanne died?”

The amazing eyelashes fluttered. “No. It was a long time ago. Maybe last fall? Before Roxanne put her bike away for the winter.”

I sat there mulling over that. Did it mean anything that Roxanne had met Constable Kristen Wentzell? If so, what?

The boyfriend was getting restless, and on the balcony Moxi was flinging his little body against the glass and yowling like a coyote. I could see that it was time to call it quits. But first, I asked Bev, “Do you think that Roxanne would have been nervous around this woman?”

Bev paused. “No. She looked quite comfortable. Not worried at all.”

“I wonder if that’s what got her killed.”

Of course, I was wide awake with this new information. Beyond wide awake. With all the stuff swirling around in it, my head was quite a bit bigger on the inside than on the outside. I now knew it was likely that Wentzell had some involvement. And she’d first met Roxanne the previous fall. Did that mean that whatever had been planned had been in the works for a long time? Wentzell and Kilpatrick had been in the photo together. Had they known each other aside from Court? Could Wentzell have been the driver of the mustard-yellow Mustang?

I climbed into the car to head home. I tried Mombour-quette’s cellphone number a few more times. It went straight to voice mail. I tried Elaine’s too. I checked the clock. After eleven. Late, but not impossibly so. Would Madame Cardarelle still be awake? I figured it wouldn’t cost anything to check and drop off her copies of the photos. I was more or less halfway to Rockcliffe at that point, give or take. If the lights were on, maybe Coco Bentley would be at home and willing to bounce around some theories. I could also pop by Elaine’s place later on to share this new information with her and her mouseketeer.

Rockcliffe exuded opulence, even in the dark. There was a sense that all was well with the world, although I knew it wasn’t. Madame Cardarelle’s traditional home was in darkness, which was disappointing. However, Coco Bentley’s huge modern house was lit up like a small airport. Was she having a party? I hurried up to the front door, opened it and yelled hello. Coco was thrilled to see me. I suspected she had already had a snootful, an enviable state of being. However, I needed to keep a clear head and drank only what Coco referred to as “mix”. It seemed harmless to ask her to have a look at the photos. Maybe, while lurking snoopily in her garden next to the Cardarelles’, Coco had spotted one of these people. Perhaps even Wentzell.

Coco slooshed her G & T as she sat cross-legged on her vast, and I do mean vast, leather sectional. Most of it was scattered with reading material, but if it had been decluttered, it could easily have seated ten. I took the neighbouring chair.

She tossed aside the photos of people she didn’t know, but stopped at Annalisa Fillmore’s image. “Annalisa. Of course. Such a bitter and annoying woman. The pitch of her voice could give you a migraine. She’s everywhere, it seems. I’ve never seen her on my street, though. If I had, I’d have hidden under the bed. Who’s that horrible looking man?”

“Lloyd Brugel.”

“Oh right, the thug. Never seen him before and I think I’m glad of it.”

“Consider yourself lucky.”

“And this skinny kid? He looks like he’s afraid of his shadow. But there’s something very familiar about him.”

“What about the woman he’s with?”

“What about her?”

I considered removing the G & T from her hand. “Have you ever seen her around here? With or without the uniform?”

She shook her head emphatically. “Not likely to forget an amazon like her, am I?”

“Okay, fine. What about him?”

“Him, yes. I’ve seen him somewhere.”

“Could it have been on a news clip? His senior lawyer was murdered, and I’m sure he was—”

“Nope. I think it was in the neighbourhood.”

“Talking to Judge Cardarelle perhaps? Or Madame?”

“I can’t imagine him having the nerve to talk to his godship. And France is pretty icy herself when you first meet her. It will come to me. Sure you won’t join me in a drink?”

“Gotta go. Let me know and would you mind showing these photos to Madame Cardarelle tomorrow morning? Once your hangover wears off.”

“Very funny. I’d be glad to, though.”

I banged on Elaine’s door for a while, but no one answered. Voicemail would have to do. I could only hope that Mombourquette actually listened to these messages when he finally got around to checking. His looming retirement had definitely eroded his work ethic.

“Leonard,” I said, “I’ve emailed you a copy of a photo of the man who was in the Mustang that tried to run me over. Draw your own conclusions. And by the way, can you find out which police officers were involved in the detention of Jamie Kilpatrick the night of Rollie Thorsten’s murder?”

Excellent.

By now it was midnight. My painkillers were wearing off, and my shoulder was aching like crazy, but never mind, I was following a hunch. The door to 1608 had been repaired and was locked. That was a good sign. The key turned easily. Also good.

I opened the door and stuck my nose in. The hunch paid off. There was nothing but soft breathing sounds from Bunny, Tonya and Destiny, all flaked out on Mrs. Parnell’s bed. As I’d hoped, they’d returned to the one place the police and pursuers thought they’d cleared out of. I chose not to wake them up. They were probably exhausted. I left a package of the photos with a note to have Tonya and Bunny check them out and call me in the morning if they recognized anyone at all.

For some reason, I felt tired. There was not much chance of finding anything else out that night. I drove straight home, took Gussie as far as the closest tree, swallowed two painkillers, and pitched head first into bed. There was no sign of Alvin and the girls. It was just as well that my house didn’t catch fire, because it would have taken way more than that to wake me up.

What is worse? A cold wet nose on your ear? Pungent dog breath too near your mouth to be healthy? Or an incessantly ringing phone?

I reached blindly for the receiver. My hand came up empty.

“Someone answer that stupid thing,” I snarled and slammed the pillow over my head. The stabbing pain in my shoulder woke me up but good. Endless rings later, I heard a short chirp that indicated a message was being recorded.

So no rush.

I had just dozed off again when the next call came. This time Gussie put his paw on my chest to indicate that, as I had to get up to answer the phone anyway, I might as well take him out to attend to pressing business. I squinted blearily at the floor. No receiver there.

I staggered outside with Gussie. The next door neighbour shot me a glance of frosty contempt. Perhaps she’d noticed that my shorts were on backwards and my T-shirt was inside out. But then she’s frosty at the best of times. Not like I cared.