Desperate Measures (11 page)

Across town, in the south end on a quiet residential street lined with great maple trees and chestnut trees, Hilde Franz replaced the phone. It could wait until the next day. She hadn't realized how late it was when she dialed, and she hoped she had not disturbed Frank at this hour. She was ready for bed, but the past few nights had been hard; she had slept little and felt light-headed from fatigue. Tonight she would take a sleeping pill, she decided. She knew she had to be careful with all medications, especially depressants like sleeping pills, but she had to sleep. For a diabetic, any stress was a problem, and to add sleep deprivation was inviting real trouble. She opted for the lesser of two evils and took the pill.

She sat in her living room waiting for drowsiness to set in, gazing at a new amber bowl, now filled with irises and baby's breath. It was very pretty. She loved her little house. Just right for one person, and it had been quite inexpensive years ago when she bought it. Her game plan had been to save every penny she could spare, invest her savings, and retire while she was still young enough and healthy enough to enjoy life. She smiled slightly; of course, plans could change, but it was good to know she was independent. When the flowers on a table across the room started to blur, she got up and went to bed.

She roused much later and thought distantly that she was in a mine shaft, dark and cold, with something heavy holding her there. She couldn't move her hands, her feet. Then she couldn't breathe, and the something holding her down was pressing harder, harder, harder….

9

That morning when
Frank wandered into his office at ten-thirty, Patsy gave him a few minutes to settle into his chair at his desk, then tapped and entered, bringing the morning mail, most of it already attended to. Usually she put the letters and responses down, then withdrew until he summoned her back. That morning she hovered. She was short and round, and perhaps the only woman in America who still wore a corset. He was certain that she did because no human figure could conform to such cylindrical lines as hers without help. Her hair was jet black, short and straight, and never once in thirty years had he glimpsed a gray or white root. Patsy was meticulous in all matters. And now she was hovering.

He looked through the mail for the cause, and there it was: a letter from the university press that would publish his book on cross-examination in the coming fall. Patsy had slit the envelope open, but he was certain she had not read the letter. She never read mail that might be personal; besides, if she had read it, she would be summarizing it for him instead of waiting patiently.

He read the letter twice, then looked up at Patsy. “They want to know if we're sure we want to tackle the index ourselves. Usually they hire a professional indexer, it seems.”

She made a humphing noise. “I'll either do that, or take up needlepoint or something,” she said. “Of course I can do the index.”

He ignored her dig about having no work to do. “They also say there are a couple of computer programs that help a lot. You want to shop around for something like that?”

“Sometimes those programs are more trouble than they're worth, but I'll have a look.”

“Right. Okay, fire off a letter. We're confident we can manage the index here. Et cetera.”

Half an hour later, he left.

He had walked only a few blocks when a car pulled to a stop even with him and someone called his name. He saw Milton Hoggarth waving to him, motioning him over. Milt was a lieutenant in the homicide division of the city police. Frank had known him for twenty years or longer, and he considered Milt to be one of the better detectives, but suffering from tunnel vision, as he was convinced they all did. Once they had their sights on a suspect, all else vanished.

“Morning, Milt,” he said, approaching the car.

“I was on my way to your place,” Milt said. “Called your office two minutes ago, and your secretary said you were heading home. Give you a lift.” In his fifties, he was ruddy-faced, balding, with a fringe of curly coppery hair. His eyes were sky blue.

Invitation? Order? Frank opened the passenger-side door and slid in. “What's up?”

“Probably nothing much. It'll keep until we get to the house. How've you been, Frank? Don't see you around much these days.”

“Keeping busy. How about you?”

They chatted, and neither said a thing, Frank thought, amused. Like two junkyard dogs, not ready to attack, but always on guard. Milt pulled into his driveway, and they got out of the car.

“This sure is a pretty place,” Milt said. “Nice street. Practically downtown and feels like it's out in the boonies somewhere.”

It was one of the oldest neighborhoods in Eugene, established when the city stretched little more than ten blocks this way, ten that. The houses were big, most of them two- or even three-storied, individual, with many architectural styles represented, and they were carefully maintained. Landscaping, like the houses, was mature—big trees, fifty-year-old shrubs, heritage roses. This time of year the rhododendrons and azaleas were magnificent.

They entered the house, and both cats strolled out to greet them; they wrapped themselves around Frank's legs, then sniffed the newcomer carefully.

“God almighty,” Milt said. “You keep mountain lions?”

“Coon cats,” Frank said. “Now, Milt, give me a hint. If this is a social call, we light in the living room. If it's business, then my study.”

“Business,” Milt said.

Frank led the way to his study, where he sat behind his old desk, the first desk he had ever had, and Milt settled down into the best chair in the house, older even than the desk, and somewhat frayed. It was where Frank sat for serious reading or serious thinking.

Milt gazed out the window at the backyard, which was at its peak. Riotous colors in flower borders, a meticulous vegetable garden, curving paths, a weeping cherry tree…

“The emergency unit got a call this morning. Woman found dead. Apparently she died in her sleep during the night. Nothing too mysterious, but they'll do an autopsy as a matter of routine. Also as a matter of routine, they checked her telephone for the last number dialed. Your number came up and we got curious.”

Frank had once said to Barbara, “There's a place where your insides go to curl up and hide sometimes. People say their stomach dropped, and that's close enough, I guess, to describe it, but it's not just the stomach. It's the heart, the lungs, liver, everything. Gone. You're left empty, hollow, and ice fills the void.”

An iceman, he rasped, “Who?” Not Barbara. He knew not Barbara. They wouldn't tell him this way.

Milt looked startled and said swiftly, “God almighty, Frank! It's not your daughter! Jesus Christ, that never occurred to me, that you might think— She was Hilde Franz.” He averted his eyes again, gazed out the window, as if to give Frank time to replace the ice with blood.

Still looking out, he said, “She was diabetic, and they say it happens like that sometimes. They just go. We'll know more after the autopsy. But having your name pop up made us wonder. She did call you last night, didn't she?” With the question, he turned to face Frank again.

“Someone called,” Frank said. “A little after eleven. When I picked up, no one was there. It could have been Hilde.”

He punched the button on the answering machine. “You have three new calls…..”

They listened to them, and then the ring, the outgoing message, and nothing.

“That was it,” Frank said.

“She was your client?”

“Yes.”

“Any idea what she might have had on her mind at that hour?”

“Not a clue.” Then he said harshly, “Fill it in, Milt. What happened to her?”

Milt shrugged. “The school secretary got spooked when Franz didn't show up at eight-thirty. She knew about the diabetes. She waited until about nine and called her home number, no answer. At nine-thirty she called a friend and asked her to go around to see if Franz was all right. The friend saw the car in the driveway, couldn't get an answer to the doorbell, and called 911. They called us. Doc Steiner got out there pretty fast. She'd been dead for six to eight hours. No sign of a forced entry. No mess anywhere. House locked up tight. We found her diabetes medicine and sleeping pills, nothing else. Then your name popped up.”

He stood up. “You mind if I take that tape along with me?”

Frank shook his head. One of the reasons he liked dealing with Milton Hoggarth was that Milt knew when to stop. An underling would have pestered Frank about why Hilde had consulted a criminal lawyer, but Milt knew better. And now, although Milt had asked for the tape politely enough, Frank knew he did not intend to leave without it, and that was okay. Doing his job. He removed the tape from the machine and handed it over. Milt put it in a plastic bag, labeled it, and stowed it away in his pocket.

The cats escorted them to the door; looking at them, Milt shook his head. “I still say their mama got led astray by a mountain lion. Thanks, Frank. We'll be in touch.”

Frank wandered aimlessly through his house, then out to the back porch, where he sat facing the garden, seeing Hilde in his mind, hearing again her words spoken so lightly: “It's not a tragedy. It could take ten or fifteen years off your life, but maybe not. You just learn to live with it, the way people with pacemakers learn to keep away from microwave ovens. I am careful with medications….”

If only he had reached the telephone a few seconds sooner. What had been on her mind? She could have decided to tell him the name of her lover. Or remembered something she had overlooked before. Or maybe she just wanted to say he was fired.

But her words kept intruding on his thoughts. She was careful with medications. He was still sitting on the porch when Bailey came around the house.

“Hi. Thought I might find you back here.” He drew nearer, then said, “What's wrong? Are you sick?”

Frank shook his head. “Hilde Franz is dead.”

Bailey stopped moving for a moment, then wordlessly walked onto the porch and sat down.

Frank told him what he knew about it; afterward they were silent for a time.

Finally Bailey said, “What now?”

“Nothing,” Frank said. “If it was an accidental death brought on by her diabetes, that's it. We wait for the autopsy report.”

After a long pause Bailey said tentatively, “You said ‘if.'”

“If it was anything else, anything else at all, I intend to nail the son of a bitch who was responsible.”

Bailey nodded. “Nothing yet on Barbara's client. And I have a list of Hilde Franz's out-of-state trips for the past two years. Atlanta, Philadelphia, Detroit, L.A. Any follow-up on them?”

Frank shook his head. “Leave it on the kitchen table. Case closed for now. Then go away.”

Barbara was in the corridor outside Courtroom B talking to her most recent client and his mother, who had tears streaming down her face and was holding Barbara's hand in both of hers. “Thank you. God bless you! Thank you. What can I say?”

Barbara didn't know if Miguel Sanchez had robbed a convenience store, but the problem was that the police didn't know, either. He had been handy, and his name was Sanchez. She patted his mother's shoulder and said to the son, “You're free, but watch your step. They'll be keeping an eye on you.” He was handsome, young, arrogant, and although badly frightened earlier, now he was cocky. He grinned in a way that suggested he would do what he would do and didn't need any advice.

Then she spotted Bailey in the corridor motioning to her and disengaged herself. “Excuse me,” she said, and headed for Bailey, who was looking worried. Bailey looking worried was a terrifying sight.

“What's wrong?” she asked.

“Maybe nothing. Hilde Franz is dead and your dad's in a state. Maybe you should drop in or something. Don't say I told you. He'd be pissed.”

She stared at him. “Dead? How? When?”

He told her what he knew, then shrugged. “No more until the autopsy's in.”

“Was there a suicide note, anything like that?”

“Barbara, give me a break. I just know what your old man told me, and he didn't say anything about a note. I've gotta go. Don't tell him I told you,” he said again.

“Right. Thanks, Bailey. Owe you one.” She walked downstairs, out through the tunnel to the parking lot across Seventh, and to her car, worrying about her father.

She parked in Frank's driveway, got out, and walked around the house, hoping to see Frank in his grunge clothes doing whatever it was he always had to do in the garden, but instead found him on the porch, still in his nice summer-weight suit.

She joined him. “Hi, Dad. I just heard about Hilde Franz's death. I'm terribly sorry.”

Barely glancing at her, he nodded.

He looked grim and hard, distant and unapproachable, and to her dismay, he looked ancient.

“Have you eaten anything?” she asked in a low voice. “I could make you a sandwich or a salad.”

He shook his head, not looking at her. “You don't have to tell me who your client is,” he said in a harsh tone. “It won't be a secret much longer anyway and, Barbara, I'm warning you ahead of time, if it turns out that your client had anything to do with her death, if there's even a whiff of suspicion about it, I'll move heaven and hell to get him for it.”

“What are you talking about?” Barbara demanded, shocked. “She died in her sleep. She was ill. If she overdosed accidentally or even on purpose, no one else has to be implicated.”

His expression became even grimmer, his mouth a tight, nearly lipless line. “She lived with diabetes for many years. She knew how to manage it. And she was not a suicide. Now leave me alone.”

“Dad—” She stopped when he turned to look at her; it was like having a stranger face her.

“She saw something that day,” he said harshly. “She called to tell me what it was, but it was late at night and she hung up. If it turns out that she saw your client going to Marchand's house, I'll get him, Barbara.”