Gossip Can Be Murder (14 page)

“I can do that.”

 “And our client doesn’t want to pay out millions of dollars for something that wasn’t their fault.”

“I’m telling what I’ve found.” Drake felt the muscle in his jaw twitch.

“That’s what we’re after, the truth.”

Drake wondered how accurate that statement would be if he’d found the other way, that the engine manufacturer made a faulty part, or one of their assembly workers had made the mistake. But he kept it to himself. Clearly, Rick was on his side. It was the other side that was likely to get hostile. They wanted a big settlement from one of the manufacturers.

Valdez stood up and adjusted his jacket. “Lunch?” I think we’ll have time for a burger at Lucky’s if we go now. We’re expecting the rest of the group by one, and it’s always good to be here ahead of them.”

Drake gathered his paperwork and tucked it under his arm.

“My secretary can hold that while we’re gone,” Valdez suggested.

“As long as it’s secure. Those are my only copies.”

They traversed the long hall again and Drake watched as the woman at the front desk placed his folder in a small safe beside her credenza.

They walked the four blocks to Lucky’s, a dimly lit place where it seemed a lot of Albuquerque’s businessmen gathered. One of those two-martini spots. Drake ordered an iced tea and noticed that Rick seemed to hesitate before doing the same. The lawyer dug into his burger plate with gusto, the moment it arrived, but Drake couldn’t seem to get much beyond the first bite. His throat had a tight feel and his gut still churned. Maybe he should have had the martini after all. He picked at the fries that came with the plate, big thick-cut things that held a lot of ketchup.

By twelve forty-five they were on their way back to the fourth floor office and Rick had located another secretary with the combination to the safe, as the receptionist was now on her lunch break.

Ten minutes later, three suited up lawyers entered, along with a guy in khakis and a stiff-looking button down shirt. Everything about him said mechanic. He looked as uncomfortable as Drake felt. They eyed each other, recognizing that they were part of the same industry but each not knowing what the other was likely to say. Drake was glad that they ended up at opposite ends of the table as everyone took their seats.

Drake thought he would begin by repeating most of what he’d told Valdez earlier, but it didn’t turn out to be quite that simple. The head of the other team pinned him immediately on his qualifications to be giving testimony in the first place.

“You’re a pilot, is that correct, Mr. Langston?”

“Yes.” Valdez had cautioned him to give brief answers.

“Not a mechanic?”

“I’ve got several years experience in both, including mechanical work.”

“But legally you can’t sign off an inspection or a mechanic’s report, can you?”

“No, sir.” He glanced at Valdez and saw nonchalance. Come on, a little support here?

The other lawyer was ready with a barrage of questions, this time about Drake’s years of piloting. Where had he worked, what types of jobs? Had he ever done any low-level work with a long line, as was the case at the time of the accident? Yes. Had he ever had an engine failure? Yes. Weren’t such failures nearly always the fault of the engine or aircraft manufacturer? Not necessarily. Did he have any violations on his record for pilot error? No. Had he ever been involved in an incident or accident? No.

Drake felt his blood pressure rise. None of this had anything to do with the accident they were investigating, nor with the findings in this particular case. Under the jacket his shirt felt damp. He gave the requisite one-word answers. He looked toward Valdez from time to time. Wasn’t the man supposed to object or something? Shouldn’t there be some limits?

At the three o’clock break, he steered Valdez down the hall to a private office and asked.

“It’s just a preliminary, Drake. Calm down. It’s their job to establish your credentials. If they can discredit you, they can have all your findings tossed out, so that’s all they’re trying to accomplish.”

“I don’t like it and I don’t like the games.”

“Nobody does.” Valdez handed him a candy mint from the dish on his desk. “Get a tough skin, buddy. It’s nothing personal.”

“What about those questions about my qualifications as a mechanic? I’m not one, you know. Shouldn’t you have a mechanic in there with me, telling that part of it?”

“We do. Have a mechanic, that is. Bill Townley. He’s being deposed tomorrow. The guy they brought today is here to look for inconsistencies, to help them spot anything they might want to ask later of you or Townley.”

“So you’re just using me, for what? As the appetizer in this little feast? The one they sharpen their teeth on before they gorge themselves in the courtroom.”

“Drake, chill.” Valdez put his hand on Drake’s shoulder, giving little pats. “It’s not personal.”

“So, are they going to get to any questions about this actual crash? About the stuff I spent the last few weeks and nearly all of last night researching?” He worked to keep the anger out of his voice but it wasn’t helping.

By 4:45 they’d asked exactly two questions about the crash and Drake felt like a dishrag that had been dunked in boiling water and wrung out four dozen times. He did manage to insert his findings about the loose nut and the photos which proved it, although one of the three opposing lawyers, a skinny guy with black hair and a lot of attitude, tried like hell to shut him up. They threw a few daggered looks at each other and Drake actually got a tap-tap on the leg from Valdez.

As if the fourth-quarter buzzer had gone off, precisely at five both teams gathered their papers and began to shrug into their jackets. They thanked Drake for being there and told him that they would probably want to talk with him again, after getting the mechanic’s deposition the next day. ‘Talk’ they called it. Drake fumed at the disingenuous wording. He watched the mechanic at the other end of the room as he left, but the guy seemed just happy as Drake to be fleeing.

Chapter 18

I finished my calls and left the room. Crossing the lobby, I noticed Samantha Sweet’s little vehicle parked out front again, the hatchback open. Sure enough, down the corridor that led to the ballroom she was wheeling a cart that almost seemed dwarfed by a four-tier wedding cake. She spotted me and nodded at the closed doors and I hurried toward her.

The maitre ’d arrived at about the same time I did and he quickly pushed open the double doors and secured them in place so Samantha could get through.

“Hey, Charlie,” she said. “Thought you were coming to my rescue again for a second time there.”

“Wow, beautiful cake.” Tiny beads dotted the sides of the creamy layers, and she’d created delicate ribbons of frosting that made the whole thing look like a gift from one’s fairy godmother.

“Thanks. Wedding reception here this afternoon.”

Now that she mentioned it I noticed the trappings. Round tables set up for eight diners each, wait staff doling out place settings and folding napkins, bows being fluffed over draped linen, massive flower arrangements and a bandstand.

A woman in an electric blue suit, wearing a cell phone on the side of her head like some android appendage, and carrying a thick stack of papers on a clipboard emerged from another room just then. The wedding planner, no doubt. “Oh,
there
you are! It’s about time!”

“Catch you later,” Samantha said, straightening her shoulders and facing the jittery woman with a smile.

I left the ballroom disorder behind and walked to the conference center. On this side of the complex the halls were quiet. Shirley sat behind the reception desk, pecking at a computer keyboard, a pair of tiny reading glasses riding low on her nose.

“Everyone’s in meditation right now,” she said. “The session should be ending in about ten minutes. I’ll be starting the nutrition class soon after.”

Did I detect a note of reproof in her voice? Too bad. I didn’t want to deal with criticism over my failure to take the program seriously. I had a few other things to deal with right now. I mumbled something polite and wandered toward the classroom. Maybe I could get a jump on the tea and cookies. Too bad they wouldn’t be some of Samantha’s decadent varieties.

Dr. Light stood by the windows that looked out to the courtyard. I nearly backed out but he’d heard the scuff of my shoes on the carpet and he turned.

“Lovely morning, isn’t it?” he said. His smooth voice held no hint of recognition. Mine was just one in the endless stream of faces who came through this place and he didn’t seem to remember that he’d seen me in town only yesterday and in the dining room after that. “Autumn is supposed to be a sad time,” he continued, “signaling the impending death of the year, the final throes of glory before the winter freeze.”

“Personally, I love the fall,” I said. “The colors are glorious, the oppressive heat of summer is gone.”

“Yes. True.” His voice still contained that drifty, mystical quality. Nothing like the all-business tone he’d used when talking on his cell phone. I found myself wondering whether he rehearsed this whole enlightened persona thing.

“I’m Dr. Light,” he said, extending a hand. It felt limp, as if his wrist had no muscles connecting the hand to the arm.

“Charlie Parker.”

“Are you enjoying your experience and finding the lightness of the soul?” he asked.

“Well, I’ve found a little difficulty in concentrating on that. Rita’s death has been disrupting to all of us. And I didn’t realize you knew her husband David.”

For an instant the mystic veneer vanished and a cold, hard light gleamed in his eyes. His smile froze in place. Then he caught himself and his face smoothed once again and his eyes became veiled and soft.

“No, I don’t think so.” He formed his eyebrows into a questioning little ripple. “My assistant handles employment issues with our various associates. I don’t recall having much contact with the yoga instructor.”

My bullshit meter pegged but I simply adopted a fuzzy smile like his and excused myself.

The ladies room was empty and I set my bag on the vanity and stared into the mirror. What the hell was going on here? Unless I’d lost every fragment of my instinct for human behavior, Light was a con artist of the finest kind. His ability to switch personalities was downright scary unless he had an evil twin out there somewhere, which I highly doubted. That cold, calculating look in his eye just now was no fluke.

I splashed some water on my face and considered the possibilities. Maybe the guy was certifiably crazy. Maybe he’d been institutionalized at one point and had come into contact with Rita in that context.

Voices in the hall alerted me that meditation was over and someone would likely be walking in here any second. I grabbed my phone and auto-dialed Ron’s number.

“I can’t talk but need another background. Celeus Light.” I spelled it for him. “He’s not who he says he is. Find out anything you can, especially if it involves his being in the same facility as Rita Ratwill.”

The restroom door began to swing inward.

“Okay, gotta go,” I added in a chipper tone.

Two women walked in, chatting quietly, their seminar tote bags slung over their shoulders. They entered the two stalls and I heard clothing swishing and zippers unzipping. I dropped the phone back into my purse and washed my hands.

Out in the corridor, people milled, waiting for the start of the day’s nutrition class in fifteen minutes. I spotted Linda and waved to her. I didn’t see Dr. Light anywhere.

“You made it,” Linda said, giving me a hug.

“Yeah, got Ron handling some things in Albuquerque.” We drifted toward the door leading to the courtyard and stepped out into the sun. Most of the others had either hit the restrooms or were heading into various classrooms so we had the courtyard to ourselves.

“So,” Linda said, “I don’t suppose you’re going to leave the police verdict alone are you?” She aimed her dimpled grin at me.

“I’d like to. It would simplify my life a whole lot to just walk out of here, that’s for sure.”

“But . . .”

“But a killer would be walking around free. I just . . .”

“Have you shared your information with the police?”

“Tried to. I really did. Gallegos just wasn’t interested. And what do I really
know
anyway? Rita’s death wasn’t an accident because someone came into my massage session yesterday and threatened me? I can’t make the connection yet, and it’s a sure thing they won’t immediately see it either. Maybe if I can get something more, something concrete.”

“Do you have any ideas?”

“A couple. Ron’s doing some background checks for me.” I caught myself before I told her of my feelings about Celeus Light. She always spoke so glowingly of him; I didn’t want to shake her faith if it turned out my suspicions were groundless.

“Look, I gotta get to the ladies room, then make it to my class,” she said. “Be careful, and I’ll catch you at lunch.”

We walked back inside. As Linda made for the restroom I ambled toward the library. A plan had begun to form and I knew she wouldn’t like it. A plan that could get me into a lot of trouble.

I stepped into the quiet ambience of the library. Soft lamps glowed on two tables and the freshly plumped cushions on the sofa indicated that no one had yet used the room this morning. The lingering scent of sandalwood clung to the oriental carpet and to the upholstery. I strolled to the bookshelves and studied the titles.

An entire shelf contained books by Celeus Light. Idly, I picked up one and flipped to the back cover, noticing for the first time that he had co-authors for all his titles. A younger photo of him smiled back at me with his trademark image as teacher of all things mystical. A week ago I might have bought it.

The blurb describing him as a spiritual leader and world-renowned speaker didn’t tell me anything I didn’t already know. Except, maybe, how many of the words in the book were actually his own. One thing about it: if I ever wanted to become rich and famous I’d like to get the name of his publicist. He or she certainly wrote convincing ad copy.