Genuine Lies (69 page)

“He may still. With Haffner’s statement, and the fact that Drake was murdered, the case against you is looking very shaky. It proves that someone else was on the estate, that the alarm system was inoperable. Haffner also corroborates the fact that you went into the garden instead of the house. And that someone, probably Eve, was already inside. Drake wouldn’t have been looking through the window, wouldn’t have been frightened enough to run away if the house had been empty.”

Cautious, she closed her hand lightly over the thread of hope. “If we still have to go to trial, that’s what you’ll use.”

“If we still have to go to trial, yes. It’s more than enough for reasonable doubt, Julia. The D.A. knows it. Now I want you to get some sleep.”

“Thank you.” She rose to walk him to the door, and the phone rang. “I’ll get it,” she said to Paul.

“Let it ring.”

“If it’s a reporter, I’ll have the satisfaction of hanging up. Hello?” Her eyes went quietly blank. “Yes, of course. Just a moment. Lincoln, it’s your son.”

“Garrett?” He’d already taken a step forward when the shame flooded through him. “My, ah, family decided to fly out for a few days. The children have spring break.”

When she didn’t respond, he took the receiver. “Garrett, you made it. Yes, I know the flight was delayed. It’s good to hear your voice.” He laughed, and deliberately turned his back on the room. On Julia. “Well, it’s only just past eleven out here, so you’re not really up that late. Yes, we’re going to see a ball game and Disneyland. Tell your mother and sister I’m heading back to the hotel right now, so wait up. Yes, yes, very soon. Good-bye, Garrett.”

He hung up, cleared his throat. “I’m sorry. I’d left this
number for them. Their flight was delayed in St. Louis, and I was a bit concerned.”

She met his wary eyes levelly. “That’s perfectly all right. You’d better get back.”

“Yes. I’ll be in touch.”

He let himself out, hurriedly, Julia thought. “It’s ironic, isn’t it?” she said when she and Paul were alone. “That boy is only a few short months younger than Brandon. When Lincoln found out I was pregnant, he was so terrified of what would happen that he ran straight to his wife. You could say I saved his marriage, and am in part responsible for Brandon’s half brother’s birth. He sounded like a very bright, well-mannered boy.”

Paul’s cigar broke in half as he crushed it out. “I’d still be more than happy to rub Hathoway’s face against a concrete wall for you. For an hour or two anyway.”

“I stopped being angry. I’m not even sure when. But he’s still running.” She walked over to fold herself into Paul’s lap. “I’m not running anymore, Paul, and I do know when that stopped. It was that night, in London, when we sat up so late, and I told you everything. All the secrets I didn’t think I’d ever tell a man.” She moved in, letting her lips toy with his. “So I don’t think I want you to rub his face against concrete.” With a sigh, she trailed kisses down his throat. “Maybe you could just break his arm.”

“Okay.” His arms tightened so suddenly around her, she gasped. “We’re going to be all right,” he murmured against her hair.

They fell asleep like that, cuddled on the couch, tangled together, and fully dressed. The knock on the door at a little after six had them jerking awake and blinking at each other.

They went into the kitchen. Frank took a seat while Julia put a skillet on the range. “I have some good news and some bad news,” he began. “The bad news is the D.A.’s not ready to drop the charges.”

Julia said nothing, only pulled a carton of eggs out of the refrigerator.

“The good news is the investigation’s been blown wide
open again. Haffner’s statement is working in your favor. We need to check out some points, prove the connection to Kincade. It would have been nice if old Rusty had taken a look in the window himself, since Morrison isn’t going to be telling anyone what he saw that day. But the fact that they were there at all throws a pretty heavy wrench in the works. The biggest factors against you were the timing, and the fact that everyone else inside had an alibi. If we buy Haffner’s story, both those factors are wiped.”

“If,” Julia repeated.

“Listen, the creep would like to recant. He’s pretty pissed that you set him up, but he also knows the score. It’s going to be tougher on him if he isn’t cooperative. Now, the D. A.’d like to blow his statement apart, but it hangs together. Once we establish that he was being square about working for Kincade, about following you, the D.A.’s going to have to swallow the rest. Morrison was on the estate at the time of the murder, he saw something, now he’s dead.” He gave a sigh of appreciation as Paul set a mug of coffee in front of him. “We’re working on getting his phone records. It’d be interesting to see who he talked to since the murder.”

They were talking about murder, Julia thought. And the bacon was sizzling, coffee was steaming. Just outside the window a bird was perched on the deck rail, singing as though its life depended on it.

Three thousand miles away, Brandon was in school, tackling fractions or taking a spelling test. There was a comfort in that, she realized. In knowing that life went on in its steady, unhurried cycle even while hers spun inside the whole on a skewed orbit.

“You’re working awfully hard to help me pull out of this.” Julia set the bacon aside to drain.

“I don’t like working against my gut.” Frank had added just enough milk to his coffee to keep it from scalding his tongue. He sipped and let the hot caffeine slide into his system. “And I’ve got this personal resistance to seeing anybody get away with murder. Your mother was a terrific lady.”

Julia thought of both of them. The dedicated lawyer who
had still found time to bake cookies or fix a hem. The dynamic actress who had grabbed at life with both hands. “Yes, she was. How do you want yours eggs, Lieutenant?”

“Over hard,” he said, smiling back at her. “Hard as a rock. I picked up one of your books. The one on Dorothy Rogers. You had some amazing stuff in there.”

Julia broke eggs into the skillet and watched the whites bubble. “She’d had some amazing experiences.”

“Well, for someone who interrogates people for a living, I’d like to know your trick.”

“There’s no trick, really. When you talk to people they never forget you’re a cop. Most of what I do is just listening, so they get caught up in their own story and forget all about me, and the tape recorder.”

“If you ever marketed those tapes, you’d make a fortune. What do you do with them after you’ve finished?”

She flipped the eggs over, quietly pleased when the yolks held firm. “File them. The tapes aren’t much good without the stories that connect them.”

Paul set his own mug down with a clatter. “Wait a minute.”

Turning, a platter piled with food in her hand, Julia watched him rush out of the kitchen.

“Don’t worry.” Frank rose to take the platter from her. “I’ll eat his share.”

Five minutes later, Paul was calling from the top of the stairs. “Frank, I want you to take a look at this.”

Grumbling, Frank piled more bacon on his plate and took it with him. Julia was right behind, a mug of coffee in each hand.

Paul was in his office, standing in front of the television, watching Eve. “Thanks.” He took a mug from Julia, then nodded at the set. “Jules, I want you to listen carefully to this.”

“… I’ve taken the precaution of making the other tapes …”

He hit freeze, turned to Julia. “What other tapes?” “I don’t know. She never gave me any tapes.” “Exactly.” He kissed her, hard. She could feel his excitement
sing through his fingertips as they pressed into her shoulders. “So where the hell are they? She made them between the time you last saw her and the time she was murdered. She didn’t give them to Greenburg. She didn’t give them to you. But she meant to.”

“She meant to,” Julia repeated, lowering herself into a chair. “And she’d come to the guest house to see me, to wait for me.”

“To give them to you. To erase all the rest of the lies.”

“We went through that place, top to bottom.” Frank set his plate aside. “There weren’t any tapes except the one in the safe.”

“No, because someone had taken them. Someone who knew what was on them.”

“How could anyone have known?” Julia looked back to the set, to the frozen image of Eve. “If she made them that night, or the next morning? She never left the house.”

“Who came in?”

Frank pulled out his notebook, flipped pages. “Flannigan, her agent, DuBarry. She might have told any of them something they didn’t want to hear.”

Julia turned away. She couldn’t face the possibility it could have been Victor. She’d already lost a mother twice. She wasn’t sure she could survive losing another father. “Eve was alive after each of them left. How could they have come back without Joe knowing?”

“The same way Morrison got in,” Frank mused. “Though it’s tough swallowing the idea that someone else came over the wall.”

“Maybe they didn’t.” With his eyes on Eve, Paul ran a hand over Julia’s hair. “Maybe they didn’t have to worry about getting in, or getting out. Because they were always inside. They were with her because they were expected to be with her. Someone she cared enough about to explain what she was doing.”

“You’re reaching for one of the servants,” Frank muttered, and began flipping pages again.

“I’m reaching for someone who lived on the estate. Who
didn’t have to worry about security. Someone who followed her from the main house to the guest house. Someone who could kill Eve in the heat of the moment, and Drake in cold blood.”

“You’ve got your cook, your gardener, your assistant gardener, a couple of maids, the driver, housekeeper, secretary. They’ve all got a pretty snug alibi for the time of the murder.”

Impatience shimmered like heat waves. “Maybe one of them manufactured an alibi. It fits, Frank.”

“This isn’t one of your books. Real murder’s messier, the pieces don’t fit so neat.”

“They always make the same picture. Haffner said she came out of the house, that Morrison changed direction and went straight for the guest house. He didn’t stop by the garage, which though I’d love to nail the little slime, probably eliminates Lyle. And I think we’re looking for someone close to her. Someone who knew Julia’s pattern, so the notes could get through.”

“Haffner might have passed the notes,” Julia mused.

“Why would he bother to deny it? He told us everything else. I want to know who followed you to London—and to Sausalito.”

“I went over the manifests for the London flights, Paul. I already told you I couldn’t find a connection.” “Have you got a list of the names?” “In the file.”

“Be a pal, Frank, have them faxed here.”

“Christ.” Then he looked at Julia’s face, at the television screen that was filled with Eve. “Sure, sure, why not? I’m tired of carrying around a badge anyway.”

It was worse somehow, Julia thought. Waiting. Waiting while Frank made the phone call, while Paul smoked and paced. Waiting for technology to kick in and send them another slim hope. She watched the sheets click out, hundreds of names. There was only one that would matter.

They developed a routine. She would study one sheet, hand it to Paul. He would pore over another, pass it to Frank.
She felt an odd jolt seeing her own name, mixed among so many strangers. And there was Paul’s, on the Concorde. He’d been impatient to get to her, she thought with a small smile. He’d been angry, pushy, demanding. By the time they’d flown back together, he’d been everything.

Rubbing her tired eyes, she took another sheet. In her methodical way she tried to study and absorb each name, put a face, a personality with it.

Alan Breezewater. Middle-aged, balding, a successful broker.

Marjorie Breezewater. His pleasant wife who enjoyed a ripping game of bridge.

Carmine Delinka. A boxing promoter with delusions of grandeur.

Helene Fitzhugh-Pryce. A London divorcee returning from a shopping spree on Rodeo Drive.

Donald Frances. A young, upwardly mobile ad executive.

Susan Frances. Donald’s attractive, British-born wife who’s working her way up in television production.

Matthew John Frances. Their five-year-old son, excited about visiting his grandparents.

Charlene Gray. Julia yawned, shook her brain clear and tried to concentrate. Charlene Gray.

“Oh, God.”

“What is it?” Paul was already at her shoulder, fighting back the urge to snatch the sheet from her hand. “Charlie Gray.”

Scowling, Frank looked up from his own sheet. The whites of his eyes were streaked with red. “I thought he was dead.”

“He is. He committed suicide in the late forties. But he had a child, a baby. Eve told me she didn’t know what had happened to it.”

Paul had already homed in on the name. “Charlene Gray. I think it’s a little late to think of coincidence. How do we find her?”

“Give me a couple of hours.” Frank took the sheet and
two slices of cold bacon with him and headed for the door. “I’ll call you.”

“Charlie Gray,” Julia murmured. “Eve cared very deeply for him, but he cared more. Too much more. She broke his heart when she married Michael Torrent. He gave her rubies, and her first screen test. He was her first lover.” The chill shivered down her arms. “Oh, God, Paul, could his child have killed Eve?”

“If he’d had a daughter, how old would she be now?”

Julia circled her fingers over her temples. “Early to mid-fifties.” Her motion stopped. “Paul, you don’t seriously believe—”

“Do you have a picture of him?”

Her hands were beginning to shake. And it was excitement. “Yes, Eve gave me hundreds of snapshots and studio stills. Lincoln has everything.”

Paul started to pick up the phone, then let out an oath. “Wait.” He turned to the shelf along the wall, running his fingers along the titles of video cassettes.
“Desperate Lives,”
he murmured. “Eve’s first picture—starring Michael Torrent and Charles Gray.” He gave Julia’s hand a quick squeeze. “Let’s watch a movie, baby.”

“Yeah.” She managed to smile. “But hold the popcorn.”

She held her breath as well as he took Eve’s tape out of the machine, slipped in the copy of the old movie. Muttering to himself, he fast-forwarded through the FBI warning, the opening titles.