Fine-Feathered Death (8 page)

“Everything’s as fine as it can be for the moment,” I assured Corrie. “We were just talking about Ezra, of course.”

“Of course,” Corrie repeated with a raw sigh. “I only wish . . .”

“What?” I encouraged.

“Well, I think Elaine really knew him.” She aimed a brave smile at the older woman, whose tears now tumbled down her cheeks. “But most people didn’t. He was a good guy, deep down. He really was.” Her stark stare at me both dared me to deny it and pleaded with me to believe it.

“I didn’t get to spend much time with him,” I told her tactfully, “and he seemed under a lot of pressure about the T.O.-Vancino matter, so he didn’t get a chance to show me much of his softer side. But I saw he really cared about Gigi. And I got a hint of his sense of humor.”

That sent both of Ezra’s former friends into sheer sobbery. And I have to admit it was contagious.

A shriek startled us out of our sobs. No more singsong chorus from Gigi. I opened the door to look in at her and found her flapping her wings—as much as she could within the confines of her cage. She screamed three times more, and I didn’t stop my hands from enveloping my aching ears. And then she started shouting out, “Ezra, Ezra, Ezra,” in her own squawking voice.

It didn’t provide any clue as to who killed him, but it sure got all three of us girls gooey again.

 

ELAINE LEFT BEFORE I did, but Corrie remained, though she’d soon apologized her way out of the kitchen and back to her own office, near Ezra’s. She’d mentioned that many of Ezra’s files were confiscated by the cops as possible evidence in his murder—at least those boxed in his office at the time. I wouldn’t know, since his door was still sealed shut by yellow crime-scene tape—the only room still off-limits in this small building.

Fortunately for the firm, Corrie had some of her own files, and a lot of her own knowledge, about clients Ezra had carried from their old firm. She was, at Borden’s phoned request, making as reliable a reiteration as she could, logging clients and their concerns so this firm could step in and take over for Ezra.

Assuming the clients stayed with us.

I managed a few minutes alone with Gigi. Amazingly, she’d quieted down somewhat. “Anything to tell me, girl?” I asked. “What did you see last night?”

“Ezra, Ezra, Gigi, gorgeous girl,” she squawked in reply. “Bottles of beer.” And then she started additional screaming and flapping around her cage, as if she wanted to get out and fly off. I couldn’t get her to stop. Corrie couldn’t get her to stop.

In desperation, I resumed an encore chorus of “Ninety-Nine Bottles of Beer,” but it only made her screech all the more. I finally gave up. So did Corrie. We turned out the kitchen lights with Gigi still flailing and vocalizing.

“I hope she doesn’t hurt herself,” I said.

“Me, too,” Corrie agreed. “I’ll be here a little longer, so I’ll check on her.”

I was glad Corrie hadn’t stayed so long last night, or maybe Ezra would have had company in extinction. Unless Corrie . . . Nah, why would she have killed her boss? Because he’d brought her to the Yurick firm?

Or—

My cell phone rang. I’d just climbed into the Beamer beside an excited Lexie. I noted the number on caller ID: Jeff’s.

“Hi,” I said. We hadn’t spoken much that day, although I’d called first thing to inform him about Ezra.

“Hi,” he repeated. If I could read his mood behind that one quiet word, I’d have said he sounded exhausted. He soon confirmed my calculated guess—and the reason behind it. “It’s been a hell of a day, Kendra. I’ve spent most of it in the new building at one of my old haunts—the West Valley Station.” Jeff had been an L.A.P.D. cop before he became a P.I. Long story, but it had involved a game of one-upsmanship with his former friend and current foe—who just happened to be on my list of least favorite people, too: Detective Ned Noralles. Jeff had won the game but his victory had resulted in his resignation from the force and commencement of his successful career as a private investigator.

“Why were you there?” I asked, shivering a smidgen as I anticipated his answer.

“Being interrogated by the lead detective on the case, Candace Schwinglan, a pleasure I owe to her temporary volunteer assistant from a fellow Valley Bureau station, Ned Noralles.” His tone suggested he’d ingested something extremely distasteful—like crow. “He heard about my argument with Ezra—and he made it clear to Schwinglan that I’m number one on his suspect list.”

Chapter Seven

OKAY, SO I’M a big softy. Or perhaps my sex drive was stuck in overdrive. Regardless of the rationale, Lexie and I spent the night at Jeff’s. And not in his guest room. His bed is much cozier. So are his arms. And the rest of his body? Well, he certainly knows how to use each and every erogenous part.

And I tactfully kept to myself my interminable testiness about his ex-wife Amanda’s intrusions into his life.

Not that Jeff and I indulged only in fun and games. The next morning, after our habitual hound walk with Lexie and Odin, we dissected all we knew about Ezra’s murder over our usual breakfast of eggs and toast.

“I’ve already started my list of suspects,” I said as we sat at the round wooden table in his small, functional kitchen. Jeff knew my penchant for producing lists. I hand-wrote a copy for him, and he vowed to have his chief computer geek Althea check out each person in his P.I. firm’s boundless databases. I’d included Jonathon Jetts, the vocal people at the VORPO meeting the night Ezra was snuffed, and even Elaine Aames and Corrie Montez, who’d known him prior to working for Borden.

“What about Borden himself?” Jeff asked. When Lexie and I showed up at his doorstep last night, he had looked as spent as he’d sounded, his blue eyes bleary, his six-foot-tall body bent a bit in dejection. This morning, though he’d not gotten a lot of sleep, he appeared more optimistic. Hopefully, I had something to do with that.

“Include Borden if you want,” I said, “but we know a lot of what Althea’s likely to find on him anyway. He’s a prior partner at my old firm Marden, Sergement & Yurick. His supposed mental breakdown was manufactured by unforgiving former partners to explain his defection from what they considered the perfect law firm. But if she can find anything about prior connections between Borden and Ezra, she might as well try. Although Borden’s enough of a sweetie that I can’t imagine him offing Ezra. Especially when the guy was in some ways saving our overstaffed firm, or at least some of the staff”—mostly me—“by boosting the client base. There’s no guarantee the new clients will hang around now that Ezra’s gone.”

“Any other ideas?” Jeff asked.

“If I had any, they’d be on my list. But it’s absolutely expandable, and I intend to keep eyes and ears open.” And to ask lots of questions of anyone likely to have answers. And as a litigator, I was one hell of an interrogator.

One thing I’d resolved not to reveal to Jeff was Darryl’s theory that the macaw might hold a clue to the murder. Although his suggestion might work well in fiction, it was implausible in real life. Of course, if Gigi happened to drop a clue, along with whatever else she dropped in her portable cage . . .

I glanced at my watch. “Time for me to go.” I stood, and so did Lexie. “I have pet clients waiting.” Not to mention people clients who’d need my legal skills later at the law office.

“Will you be back tonight?” Jeff asked. For a big, strong guy who was almost always supremely self-assured, he sounded a smidgen plaintive. Poor P.I. Being a murder suspect did awful things to the ego. As I well knew.

“That depends,” I said, not committing to another delightful night despite my hormones hounding me to shout, “Hell, yes!”

“On what?” he asked.

“On Lexie.” I looked at the Cavalier in question. “Want to hang around to keep Odin company?” Her response was to wag her tail and wriggle in glee. Of course it was a loaded question. My enthusiastic Lexie acted equally excited about each iota of attention I administered to her.

Still, using my beloved Cavalier as a convenient excuse to come by later didn’t necessarily mean we’d stay the night.

I bent and hugged the pups adieu, then turned and gave Jeff a hug, too, followed by a heck of a kiss to remember me by for the rest of the day.

Then I left to start pet-sitting rounds.

 

THE YURICK & ASSOCIATES offices were as hushed as a ghostly graveyard when I arrived a while later—a too-apt analogy, I thought with a sigh. When Mignon whispered a greeting as I entered, I realized the silence was so noticeable because our resident macaw was uncharacteristically quiet.

“Is Gigi okay?” I said softly to the young receptionist. Elaine had alleged that no one in Ezra’s family wanted anything to do with him alive, but I suddenly wondered if an heir had appeared and absconded with his pet.

“Kind of,” Mignon said, “but she’s gnawing on her cage and snapping at everyone who enters the kitchen for coffee.”

I ventured that direction for my own caffeine fix—also an excuse to check on the mad macaw. Gigi was indeed silent, but I was graced with the sight of her attempting to spring herself from her cage by breaking it apart with her beak.

“If you stay calm,” I told her, “I’ll see how soon we can put you on your perch in Ezra’s office, okay?”

She stopped only long enough to stare at me for an instant before returning to her thankless task.

As I passed Ezra’s office, I noticed that the yellow crime-scene tape was gone. “Are the cops already done in here?” I inquired of Corrie, who, file-laden as usual, edged into the office door.

“Yes, they said it was okay to start cleaning the room. They even recommended a crime-scene cleaning company. Of course, they haven’t given back any files they confiscated. Borden said he’s going to talk to you about getting a court order to get them returned, on grounds of attorney-client privilege.”

“Can I get you to research the issue?”

“Absolutely,” she agreed.

I went to see Borden after putting my purse into a desk drawer in my office. “It’s going to be a hell of a day, Kendra,” he said after greeting me. He looked tired as he peered blearily over his bifocals. “Not as bad as yesterday, of course. But we need to get the client files the cops took returned as fast as possible.”

I assured him I’d spoken with Corrie about it and that she’d start the research.

“Then there’s that whole T.O. fiasco. I need for you to speak with Brian O’Barlen and find out his schedule. Then contact that attorney for VORPO—what was his name?”

“Michael Kleer,” I said. “Both those calls are on top of my to-do list for today. I’ll set up a meeting to learn what VORPO really wants. We’ll see if there’s any common ground around that Vancino property to avoid litigation over T.O.’s proposed development.”

“I knew I could count on you, Kendra,” Borden said with an optimistic smile almost lighting up his sad, skinny face.

I only hoped his tune wouldn’t degenerate into a critical dirge as the day wore on.

 

MY PHONE WAS ringing as I reached my office. “This is Kendra Ballantyne,” I answered in my formal lawyerly voice.

“Michael Kleer,” responded the male voice at the other end. Ah! VORPO’s attorney. This would save me from making the topmost call on my to-do list.

“First, let me extend my condolences and those of my client on the passing of Mr. Cossner,” Kleer continued somberly. “That said”—his tone shed its sympathy—“we want to discuss the issues raised at last night’s VORPO meeting as soon as possible. Since you were present, can I assume you’ll take the lead as T.O’s legal counsel regarding its proposed development in Vancino?” He emphasized the word “proposed,” verifying—as if he needed to—that VORPO was dead set against it.

Hmmm . . . another exceedingly appropriate phrase. Was someone in VORPO so dead set against the development that he or she had been willing to render Ezra dead in an attempt to preclude it? If so, it might have been better to eliminate O’Barlen—not that I wished such a miserable fate on the man.

“I’ll need to verify with our client that my handling of the matter is acceptable,” I replied to Kleer in my stilted professional tone, crafting my customary notes on a yellow legal pad as I spoke. “As far as this firm is concerned, though, my involvement has been confirmed.”

“Good.” Was Kleer merely being polite, or was he pleased I was involved? The only reason for one lawyer to welcome the opposition of another is because he assumes a successful conclusion for his client, as opposed to his opponent’s. If that was Kleer’s cogitation, there’d be one monster of a massive surprise looming in his future . . .

Hey!
I grinned. Was my once well-deserved litigator self-confidence finally returning after its utter retreat during my prior troubles? Hallelujah!

“I know this is short notice, Ms. Ballantyne,” Kleer continued, “and perhaps not appropriate considering your firm’s recent loss, but if at all possible, my client has requested a meeting this afternoon with a representative of T.O.”

“I’ll check with my client and get back to you.” I jotted down the particulars: his name, phone number, e-mail address, and a doodle I hadn’t done in ages: a snide smiley face with a sweetly evil grin.

After we hung up, I quickly called Brian O’Barlen and recounted Kleer’s call. “I know this is short notice, Mr. O’Barlen, and realize you might want to hold off for a few days after losing your trusted lawyer, Ezra. My suggestion, though, is that you meet with the VORPO crowd sooner rather than later. Learn what they want you to know about their opposition to your project. That way, we can leap right in to research what they’re not saying. If they think they can extort a fortune from T.O. in exchange for not contesting your development, we’ll put a strategy in place to make them weep for the privilege of letting you do exactly what you want. And if they assume they’ll be able to abridge your rights in the property you’ve already acquired, we’ll take care of that, too.”