Night work (4 page)

Carla Lomax stepped into the next office, sat behind her desk, and
waved Kate at a chair across from her. Again Kate remained on her feet.
Two could play games in the world of legal give-and-take.

"I thought we might have a word before I bring Emily
in," Lomax told her. "Just so we're in agreement
here."

"What is there to agree about?" Kate asked, half turned
away from Lomax to study an attractive arrangement of framed
photographs of the City at night, gaudy North Beach, Chinatown
shimmering in the rain.

"Emily Larsen has just lost her husband. She does not need to be harassed."

Kate took a step over to the next display of photos, an assortment
of scenes from foreign countries: a woman in a market, brilliant colors
in her shawl and a bowler hat on her head; three thin but laughing
children playing in a street with a bicycle rickshaw behind them; a
woman seated at a backstrap loom, a weaving of vibrant oranges, pinks,
and greens emerging from the threads.

"These are nice," Kate commented. "Where are they from?"

"Bolivia, India, and Guatemala."

"Did you take them?"

"Yes," the lawyer said. "Inspector Martinelli--"

"Ms. Lomax, how much criminal law have you done since you passed your exams?"

"Not a lot."

"Mostly family law, right?"

"I know my law," Lomax said, offended.

"I'm sure you do. But please, rest assured that so do I,
and I don't go around screwing with family members; it
jeopardizes both my job and my cases. Let's just bring Mrs.
Larsen in and let me talk with her, and then I'll let you both
be."

As Kate had suspected, Carla Lomax was more at home with the
intricacies of divorce, child custody, and restraining orders than she
was with Miranda rights and criminal investigations. The lawyer
hesitated, but in the end she stood up and went to fetch Emily Larsen.

Kate continued to wander around the room, moving from the photos to
a display of ethnic dolls and trucks on a low shelf (the better to
distract the children of clients?), an impressive bookshelf of legal
and psychological tomes, and finally a glass case containing female
figures from all over--a grimacing Aztec goddess giving birth to
the sun, a multiple-breasted female who looked vaguely Mediterranean
next to a woman in wide skirts holding a pair of snakes, the Polish
Black Virgin, and the Mexican Virgin of Guadalupe. Prominently
displayed in front was a crude dark-skinned figure six inches tall,
with many arms, bare breasts, and a protruding tongue: wild-eyed and
wild-haired, the figure wore a necklace of grinning skulls and held a
decapitated head in one of her hands. Kate, nonplussed, could only
wonder what Carla Lomax's troubled clients made of their
lawyer's art collection.

The door opened and Carla came in with Emily Larsen, and Kate shook
her hand and introduced herself, sitting down with the two women in a
group of chairs and making remarks about the weather and traffic to put
Emily at ease.

In fact, though, Kate was always uncomfortable around victims of
chronic spousal abuse, those walking reminders of the vulnerability of
women--particularly those weighed down with children.
Intellectually, professionally, she fully understood that a
person's willingness to put up with abuse had its roots deep in
childhood, when a groundwork of self-contempt and a deep sense of
worthlessness was laid down, feelings that made it nearly impossible to
stand up to bullying. As a person, however, as a woman, Kate felt
primarily frustration and impatience, and even a tinge of completely
unfounded revulsion, at their weakness, their willingness to crawl back
like beaten dogs to lick the hand of their tormentor. When confronted
by a woman who persisted in an abusive relationship, Kate inevitably
found herself stifling the question, Why hadn't the woman just
hauled off and brained her husband with a skillet?

But then again, maybe this one had.

Everything about the recent widow in front of Kate was apologetic
and unassuming, from her limp handshake to her slumped shoulders. The
heavy frames of her cheap glasses nearly hid the washed-out brown of
her eyes, her face was a pale contrast to the flat black of hair that
showed gray at the roots, and the drab cotton dress that hung over her
dumpy figure had been washed to the point of colorlessness. Kate began
by expressing her sympathies over the loss of her husband; Emily Larsen
responded by wincing, her eyes filling. Kate sighed quietly to herself.

"Ms. Larsen... Emily. I believe that Ms. Lomax has told
you that your husband was killed, on Monday night or Tuesday morning?
That he was murdered?"

Kate waited for a response from the woman before she went on,
expecting either a meek nod or silent tears. What she saw instead made
her sit back sharply, the usual string of questions cut short. A small
grimace had puckered up Emily Larsen's mouth--brief, but
clear. Why on earth would the woman react to Kate's words with
disapproval?
But what else looked like that? Could it have been an objection to the
tasteless word "murder"? Kate wondered. She wished Al were
here. With all her instincts set to quivering by that involuntary moue
across the woman's face, she would have to proceed very carefully.

"Were you and James separated, Mrs. Larsen?"

"A trial separation," Emily admitted in a small voice.

"Your husband had a history of abusing you. Was that the main reason?"

"I was...yes."

"You were afraid of him, I do understand. He hit you, didn't he?"

Emily glanced at Carla, mouth open as if to protest, but she subsided and only nodded.

"Did he hit your kids as well?"

The woman looked up quickly. "Never. He wouldn't.
Jimmy's-- Jimmy was a good man. He loved us, he really did.
He just... lost control sometimes."

"When he was drinking."

Another nod.

"Did you ever get the feeling that your husband was involved with someone outside the home?"

"Involved? You mean, like with another woman?" The very
idea was enough to shake Emily Larsen in a way nothing else had.

Kate hastened to reassure her that her loving husband hadn't been taking it elsewhere, so far as she knew.

"Not necessarily a woman. Gambling, maybe, going to the races,
perhaps something mildly illegal that he wouldn't have wanted you
to find out about?"

"I really don't know. There's nothing I can think
of, and Jimmy never went away much except to work and bowling and
stuff. And someone having... you know, an affair, they always say
they're working overtime, don't they?"

"Did your husband ever have money that wasn't explained by his salary?"

"No," Emily replied, reassured that Kate wasn't
about to spring a rival on her, but obviously bewildered by the
questions. Kate let it go. A baggage handler behind the scenes at a
busy airport might have opportunity for crime, but if Larsen had
indulged in smuggling or rifling bags, he had kept it from his wife.
Kate would try another tack.

"Mrs. Larsen, did your husband come up to San Francisco a lot?"

"No. He never did."

"Never?"

"Except for the airport, of course, and to Candlestick or
whatever they're calling it now. He mostly liked football, but
he'd go to baseball games if he could get cheap tickets. And if
he was going to Oakland, he'd go through the City even if he came
back around the Bay. To save on the bridge fare, you know? Jimmy hated
to pay the fare." Toll on the Bay's various bridges was
collected only one way, although as far as Kate knew, it was cheaper to
pay it than to drive clear around the Bay. James Larsen may have been
one who resented the fare enough to spend the gas money, and an hour
longer on the road, to avoid paying it.

"So you have no idea what he was doing in the Presidio on Monday night?"

Emily shook her head, as much in wonder as to indicate a negative. "It seems a strange place for Jimmy to go."

"Was he a golfer?" Kate asked desperately, thinking of
the Presidio golf course--although Larsen had not been dressed for
golf any more than he had been for jogging. Emily looked as if Kate had
suggested nude sunbathing or jai alai, and told her no.

No drugs on the body, no unexplained cash, no extramarital
entertainment on the side. Larsen's death was proving more and
more enigmatic. "Mrs. Larsen," Kate said finally, "do
you have any idea why someone would have wanted to kill your
husband?" she asked, and for the second time Emily Larsen's
answer gave Kate a jolt. This time the woman looked directly into
Kate's face, her eyes theatrically wide.

"No. Of course not," she said. "Who would want to kill Jimmy?"

She had all the guile of a child, her lie so blatant Kate
couldn't help glancing at the lawyer. Carla Lomax was sitting
motionless in her chair, working hard at not reacting to her
client's words, but Kate had the distinct impression that the
lawyer was as dismayed by Emily's response as Kate was.

At that juncture Kate had two choices. She could press Emily Larsen
until the woman came clean or broke down--or, more likely, until
Lomax put a halt to it. If Kate knew what was going on, if she even had
a clear suspicion of what lay behind Emily's odd evasiveness, she
would not hesitate to push, but there were times when it was better to
pull away and go do some research, and all Kate's instincts were
telling her this was one of them. Find out who Emily Larsen was and
what pushed her levers, and with that weapon in hand, come back and pin
her to the wall.

Kate arranged an expression of openness on her face, and nodded as
if in acceptance of the answer. "When was the last time you
talked to Jimmy?"

"About, oh, a week ago?" She looked at Carla Lomax, who
knew better than to give her an answer. "It was--oh right,
it was last Tuesday. I called to let him know I was okay, and not to
forget that the gas man was coming the next day to check a leak
I'd smelled. We didn't talk much. I asked him how he was
and told him I was okay, and he said when was I coming home and I said
I wasn't, and then he started getting mad and so I just hung up
on him," she said proudly, and then spoiled the effect by letting
out a sad, deflating little sigh halfway to being a whimper, and adding
parenthetically, "I don't even know if he stayed home to
let the gas man in."

"So you didn't call your husband on Monday?"

"Oh no, I sure didn't."

"And you didn't talk to anyone else who might have told
him where you were? A neighbor, maybe? Or a friend you saw in the
street?"

"I didn't see anyone, no."

"Where were you on Monday night, Mrs. Larsen?" Kate
slipped the question in as if it had no more weight than the others,
and Emily answered it before her lawyer could stir in her chair.

"I was staying at a shelter that Carla set up for me. I'm still there."

"And did you leave at all, any time after, say, six on Monday night?"

"No, I don't think so. No, I'm sure I
didn't--there was a meeting and then I stayed up talking to
some people until, golly, near midnight."

Kate slapped her notebook shut before Carla Lomax could voice an objection.

"We'd like to borrow the keys to your house, Mrs.
Larsen. We need to do a search, to see if your husband may have had
visitors or something. We won't disturb anything, and we'll
be out of the way before you get back."

Carla Lomax automatically began to protest Kate's need for a
warrant, but Emily, in a rare gesture of assertiveness, overrode her.
"I really don't mind, Carla. I think I'd rather they
were in and out before I got there. Instead of standing there watching
them go through his stuff, you know."

Another indicator that Emily was more than she appeared, this ready
grasp of the intrusiveness of a police search. Kate studied her
thoughtfully as Emily took a set of keys out of her purse and handed
the whole ring over to Kate. Kate wrote out a receipt for them and
stood up to go.

"I'll phone you later this afternoon," Kate told
the woman, "to make arrangements to get these back to you and let
you know how things are going. Will you be at the shelter?"

"Oh. Well, I suppose I could meet you at the house, when
you're finished, if I can get a ride. There's no reason not
to go home now, is there?"

Looking at Emily Larsen's bleak attempt at a smile, despite
the woman's deceptions Kate could have sworn that she was only
now coming to realize that her husband was out of her life. "We
have no objection to your returning there, if that's what
you're asking, and I would be happy to arrange a ride if it would
help. Thank you, Mrs. Larsen. Here's my card, let me know if I
can do anything for you. Ms. Lomax, could I have a word, please?"

Carla Lomax followed Kate out to the hallway, shutting the office door behind them.

"I'd rather not tell you the location of the
shelter," she began immediately, but Kate put up a hand to stop
her.

"I wasn't going to ask you, although I probably know
already. What I wanted to say, Carla," she said mildly, letting
her gaze stray to a child's drawing of a purple cat on the
opposite wall, "is that your client seems to know more about her
husband's death than she was willing to say, and it might be a
good idea for you to have a little discussion with her on the
difference between not answering a question and obstructing justice.
Before we get into the realm of actual perjury, that is."

Kate gave her a smile as insincere as Emily Larsen's declaration of ignorance, and left.

BACK AT THE HALL of Justice, Kate handed the Larsen keys over to
Crime Scene, booted up her computer, and got to work. Hawkin came in an
hour later sucking at a peppermint, his thinning hair giving off the
aura of the lemon shampoo he habitually used after witnessing an
autopsy. She asked him what the pathologist had found.

"Rigor might have been delayed by fat, might have been speeded
by a struggle, but the internal temp confirmed time of death between
nine-thirty and eleven-thirty Monday night. Cause of death
strangulation. No obvious sign of drug use. So far absolutely zilch at
the crime scene. Not even a tire track. Oh, and the tech was right,
that was a taser burn on Larsen's chest. Person or persons zapped
him, cuffed him, tied a red cotton scarf around his neck, and pulled it
tight. Exit one wife-beater."