Defense for the Devil (11 page)

“Fine,” he said.

He didn’t ask if she would be home early.

10

Barbara realized, driving
to Frank’s house, that the secret file cabinet in her mind had sprung open overnight, and all the things she had tucked away to be considered later had surfaced.

John’s mother hadn’t liked her; his children had been silent and watchful, resentful of her presence. His ex had become a burden, worrying about him; Barbara had filled in details silently. His ex had become the test pilot’s wife, unable to still or conceal her fear. Now Barbara was playing that role.

Well,
she demanded savagely,
what did you expect? That those problems would evaporate, vanish?
Maybe, she thought, and maybe she could have dealt with them a little at a time. Maybe there wasn’t enough time in the space-time continuum to deal with the fact that he hated her work, what she did, probably who she was when she did it.

When she pulled into Frank’s driveway, Bailey’s car was close behind her. Frank opened the door.

She and Frank exchanged good mornings. “Two with one blow,” he commented. “Coffee’s on the table.”

She went past him to the dinette and sat with her back to the glass doors. He had cleared away his breakfast; there were cups and the coffee carafe on the table, and the newspaper folded open to the editorial page.

“Hiya,” Bailey said cheerfully, coming in with Frank. They took chairs, and Bailey began to go through his denim bag. “You get some prints for me?”

“Yes. His hospital birth record, hands and feet.” She pulled the document out of her briefcase and passed it over.

“Good. I’ll start with Wygood. You hit the jackpot with those names, Barbara. Thelma Wygood ordered a car from a broker in New York, to be delivered in Miami. Two guys drove it down, Eddie Grinwald and a guy called Steve Wilford. They were supposed to deliver the car and collect a cashier’s check for forty-two grand and take it back home. They never got back. The police found Grinwald’s body in the motel they used, and the next day they found Wygood’s body. Car, cashier’s check, and Wilford were all missing.”

Bailey pushed a folder toward Barbara. “It’s all in there. Wilford’s clean. Grinwald has a record from twenty years ago, manslaughter. Did four years. Funny coincidence, though. Wilford’s description fits Mitch Arno to a T.”

He pulled out a second folder. “Another coincidence. Happened that a second customer ordered another Lexus coupe, just about like the one headed for Miami. And this time Mitch Arno was supposed to deliver it, drive out from New York to somewhere up in Washington. On Saturday, August third, three A.M., Corvallis police found the Lexus in a ditch. All the goodies were gone—stereo, CD player, like that—but in the glove compartment they found a title transfer with the customer’s name not filled in; the transfer was by the delivery company, R. M. Palmer Company. They get in touch with Palmer, and lo and behold, happens his attorney is on the West Coast, and he’ll handle it. Enter Trassi on Saturday, August third.”

“Story number three,” Barbara commented.

Bailey grinned. “Cops are figuring Mitch picked up hitchhikers, kids who never even saw the title, didn’t realize the car was up for grabs. They drove him around on the coast, he got away within walking distance of Maggie’s place on Friday, and old man Arno found him. They have it all figured out.”

“Let them figure,” she said. “Anything else?”

“Major Works,” he said. “Seems to be common knowledge that Russ Major’s had a nervous breakdown, or is having it. Wygood left just about everything to Major, except for a few bequests for family, friends, like that, and she was buried on his island hideaway with only the family members present. He hasn’t left the island since. Jolin, his security guy, has been everywhere. No one knows where he goes, when he goes, when he gets back. He reports only to Major. Not there now, though.”

She gave him a dark look. Jolin, calling himself Waters, was at Valley River Inn, which he well knew. “She was buried on his island?”

“Seems it was in her will, written years ago, and she never got around to changing it. When you’re her age, you’re not too worried about kicking.”

“Anything new about Mitch’s murder?”

“Not much. They’re digging through history, and they think they have the answers. It’s not a big deal for them. Just another family feud.”

Barbara stood up and went to the door to gaze out at Frank’s immaculate garden and the two golden cats stalking shadows. That summed it up, she thought, shadow dancing, what she was doing.

She returned to her chair and gathered together the various reports Bailey had produced. “Okay,” she said. “Go with the prints. I may want something later, but I can’t think of anything right now.”

And that summed it up, too, she thought bleakly; she couldn’t think, period.

After Frank took Bailey to the door and returned, he asked bluntly, “What are you planning to do?”

“Don’t know. Something’s bugging the bejesus out of me, though. I feel like I’m stuck in the briar patch, and everywhere I look, the thorns are big and sharp.”

“And poisonous. Keep that in mind, too. I’ve got stuff to plant in the garden.” He watched her shove papers inside her briefcase, refill her cup, and walk out slowly to go upstairs.

When they came home from their prenuptial honeymoon, he had seen her walking around so lightly that she wouldn’t have left footprints in snow. And now her feet were shod in lead. “Old man,” he told himself sharply, “butt out. You knew it was going to happen.”

He picked up the seed packets and went outside.

Upstairs, Barbara read through Bailey’s reports, as meticulous as ever, and not helpful.

She picked up a magazine article Bailey had dug up about Major and Wygood. She didn’t read the article, but studied their pictures. In one they had been posed waist deep in computer printouts arranged like waves and hills around them. They were both grinning like idiots and were as stylish as turnips. His hair was longer than hers, and he wore oversized glasses that had slid down his nose. Her hair had been cut with little regard to her plump face. She wore no discernible makeup, no jewelry except a watch. They both had on company T-shirts. The other picture had been taken at a trade show; he had on a business suit and tie, and running shoes; she had on a suit also, the skirt too short for her figure, and flat shoes, and her hair had been pouffed unbecomingly. They were holding hands in that picture. Barbara wondered if either of them had known the other was not pretty, not handsome. When he started dating models, Thelma would have come to know it, she thought sadly.

She began a Web search for Major and Wygood, and found thousands of entries. It was a familiar story, their rise from poverty, developing a program in a bed-sitting room, the new programs, the company. Einstein with two heads, always Major/Wygood, or Wygood/Major, always paired, one as good as the other in their field, until he had become distracted by pretty young things.

So Thelma went to Europe to plot her revenge. Not for the money, but to hit hard where Major was vulnerable, probably the only place he was vulnerable. If she’d been after money, it would have been to her benefit to finish the program, put it on the market, and watch the cash flow in. She had been a full partner, after all. Not for money. In fact, she had spent money—

“Where’s the damn cashier’s check?” Barbara said under her breath.

She found the inventory of things from Mitch’s belongings, then reread Bailey’s account of the police report about the wrecked Lexus. No cashier’s check for forty-two thousand dollars. Mitch might have cashed it; she rejected the idea. Not with all that money in the suitcase.

She started to pace again.

When Frank finished his garden chores, he looked at the two cats, both with muddy feet and bedraggled muddy tails, and shook his head. “You guys can’t come in,” he said. “Clean yourself up.” He went inside the house, fastened the latch on the cat door, and cleaned himself up. He started up the stairs then to see what Barbara wanted for lunch, but halfway up, he stopped. He could hear her pacing, the way she did when she was engrossed in a puzzle. He hoped it was the Folsum dilemma that was making her move, not her own personal dilemma. That problem, he was certain, would not yield to logic and reason, no matter how many gray cells she put into action. Quietly he returned to the kitchen. She would eat whatever he fixed.

She ate salad, but he knew she was not tasting it. “Are you due over at Martin’s at one?”

She blinked, then said, “Oh, God. I forgot.” She looked at her watch. “It won’t take me long. It’s that ‘he said, she said’ business. Wrap that up, and then hand over a check to a couple of kids who got robbed by a car dealership….”

He recognized the signs; he had done exactly this many times, thinking out loud, juggling people, happenings, things.

“Oh,” she said then, still thinking, “are you going out? I’ll pick up stuff upstairs if you are.”

‘’I’m not going anywhere. Leave it.”

“Thanks. I’ve got to run. I won’t be long.”

She had finished her business at Martin’s and was preparing to leave when a couple walked in hesitantly.

They were both in their forties, she guessed; the woman looked it, but he didn’t at first glance. She was about five feet five and a little overweight, with a round face and pale blue eyes. Her hair was light brown, almost frizzy, it was so curly, and she looked terrified. He was over six feet and lean, with black hair and eyes.

“Ms. Holloway?” he said, still hesitant. “Ray Arno, and this is my wife, Lorinne. Can we talk to you?”

“Of course,” she said, trying to hide her dismay. “Please, sit down.”

Ray was anxious, but he looked more puzzled than frightened. He cleared his throat. “We know you’re helping Maggie,” he said, “and we’ve read about you before, the cases you’ve worked on, I mean. And my family keeps telling me to talk to a lawyer.” He glanced at Lorinne. “She said we should at least talk to someone.”

Lorinne nodded vigorously. “They might arrest him! They keep asking questions. You know about his brother Mitch, how he was murdered? They think Ray did it!”

“We had a fight nearly twenty years ago,” Ray said patiently. “They’re just doing their job, asking everyone questions. No one holds a grudge for nearly twenty years. Kids fight, but it doesn’t mean anything when they’re older. They know that’s—”

“They do think it! All those questions! Maggie thinks they’ll arrest him, too! Everyone thinks it except Ray. They think they had another fight and Ray killed him. That’s what they think! You can tell by the way—”

“Honey, take it easy,” Ray said. Almost apologetically he said to Barbara, “If you could just reassure her a little that it’s just a routine investigation, something like that?”

“It isn’t! Tell him it’s more than that!”

There had not been a gap wide enough for Barbara to get in a word yet; now she did. “Mrs. Arno, please, I know how afraid you are, and you have cause, but it’s very important that you keep control. And, Mr. Arno, you have to understand the situation, or you could do yourself damage. Please, both of you, just listen a minute,” she said swiftly when it appeared that both of them were going to start talking again. “Mr. Arno, I can’t act as your attorney, but I can give you some advice—”

“Why can’t you,” Lorinne cried. “We don’t have much money, but the whole family will pitch in.” She was near tears.

“It would represent a grave conflict of interest,” Barbara told her, “because I already agreed to be Maggie’s attorney in another matter. If the two cases came into conflict, I would have to withdraw from both of them. And no one knows when such a conflict might arise, especially when both cases involve a single family.”

“But—”

“It’s the law, Mrs. Arno. There’s nothing I can do about that.”

She looked at Ray then and said soberly, “And you, I’m afraid, have not accepted the seriousness of the situation. They might arrest you and charge you with murder. Statistically, they know that murders are frequently committed by family members. And the fact seems to be that you were the last person who saw your brother alive, other than his killer or killers. You should have your own attorney. I gave some names to Maggie to pass on to you. Has she done that yet?”

He had gone pale with her words. “No.”

Lorinne took his hand and held it, wide-eyed, panic-stricken.

“Call her and get them. My advice is for you to retain an attorney immediately and to refuse to answer any more questions except in your attorney’s presence. Everything you say will be noted, and if there is a contradiction, they will seize upon it and use it in a way that could be damaging to you. People contradict themselves; they misremember; they leave out details. That’s human, but it can look incriminating months later.”

He looked more puzzled than before. “Ms. Holloway, there’s nothing for me to leave out, or misremember. I’ve told them the truth. I don’t have anything to lie about. There’s nothing—”

“He can’t lie! He’s never told a lie in his life! He can’t even fib a little. He’s a good man, Ms. Holloway. A really decent man. He never learned how to lie because he’s never needed to hide anything.”

Studying Ray Arno’s face, Barbara believed every word Lorinne was uttering. She said, “Mr. Arno, I’m on your side, I believe you, but that’s beside the point now. Get a lawyer and take his advice. And please, accept that very good people, innocent people, sometimes get charged, put in jail; sometimes they get convicted of crimes they didn’t commit. It happens, Mr. Arno.”

“We’ve taught our kids that if they tell the truth, no harm will come to them,” he said slowly. “It always seemed a good lesson to pass on.”

“It is a good lesson,” Barbara said. “The best. And you must keep telling the truth, no matter what.”

He stood up and held out his hand to Barbara when she and Lorinne also got to their feet. “Thanks,” he said. “I was deluding myself, wasn’t I?” He grinned and looked boyish for a moment. He put his arm around Lorinne’s shoulders and gave her a squeeze. “Time to march. I’ll get a lawyer, Ms. Holloway. I’m grateful to you. I needed a swift kick, I guess. Thanks.”