No Accident (26 page)

Luke wanted Alex to speak with Les Frees, the head of Liberty’s motor pool, because Les might have a way to track the company SUV that Crash absconded with—and because Les was close with Crash. Apart from the search for Crash, Alex was very interested to speak with him because Jorge Ramirez had also worked in the motor pool before he died. Alex went to Les’s office first thing in the morning on the day after he’d met with the USC football coach.

Alex entered the cavernous garage that housed Liberty’s motor pool and ascended a staircase made of unfinished wood near the back. Les’s office overlooked the interior of the garage. Alex saw an open padlock hanging on a nail by the office door.
I guess Liberty’s standard locks aren’t good enough for Mr. Frees
, Alex thought.
What’s he hiding?

Les was a gruff, burly redhead with freckles that might almost have joined into a nice tan during summer. In late winter they remained apart, spread thickly across his face like a photographic negative of the Milky Way. Alex had to concentrate to keep from staring at the freckles. Alex asked Les if he’d given the police any information about Crash’s missing SUV.

“Cops haven’t called me,” Les said. “And I haven’t called them either.”

“Do you put a transponder on your vehicles? Something to track them if they get stolen?”

“Oh sure,” Les said.

Alex’s cell phone rang loudly. He apologized and pulled it from his jacket, moving his arm slowly so not to reveal the holster underneath his left arm. It was his brother calling, probably calling because he had gotten bored again lying in the hospital. Alex didn’t answer it.

“Have you used this transponder to find where Crash’s SUV is?” Alex asked.

“No, I’d have to call the vendor to do that,” Les said flatly. Alex couldn’t tell whether Les was stubborn or just dense.

“Wouldn’t that be normal procedure when a vehicle is stolen?”

“No one’s told me that Crash’s SUV has been stolen.”

“OK, I’m telling you,” Alex said, getting tired of this game. “So you’ll call the vendor?”

“Sure, I’ll call them,” Les said, but he didn’t move. They stared at each other. Les had the powerful but unlovely physique of a football lineman and he seemed offended by Alex’s brusqueness with him. Les had at least fifty pounds on Alex. They both knew Les would win a fistfight, but Alex had a secret. It was silly, but with the weighted holster under his arm, Alex had less patience with bad attitudes.

“Why don’t you call the vendor now,” Alex said, but not like a question.

Les grunted tersely and picked up the phone on his desk. Alex paced around the man’s office, scanning the photographs that hung on the walls. He looked back at Les impatiently.

Les held the telephone pinched between his ear and his neck. “On hold,” he said.

Alex nodded. He found a photograph of Les and two other men, all dressed in tuxedos in front of a church. One of the other men was Crash; Alex recognized Crash from some photos that Luke had given him. Alex cocked a thumb at the photo and said, “Who’s getting married?”

“Me.”

“Where’s the wife?”

Les gave Alex a hostile stare. “She’s not in the picture, all right?”

“Crash was your best man?”

“One of the groomsmen,” Les said. “You know Crash?”

Alex ignored the question. “Is that why you didn’t report the SUV as stolen?”

Les didn’t answer. Instead, to Alex’s surprise, he replaced the telephone roughly in the receiver. “All right, I’ve got a question for you,” he said. “Alex Fogarty.”

Alex waited for Les to say more, but he didn’t. Everyone at Liberty Industries knew Alex by his alias, Al Franks. Alex had never met Les before. How had Les heard Alex’s real name?

Les patiently looked Alex up and down as if waiting for Alex to betray himself with a twitch or nervous smile. Alex decided to assume Les didn’t know his secret identity, and so he bluffed. “Alex is a cousin of mine. You know him?”

Les rested his hands on his flimsy desktop and pushed himself up to standing. As he did so, Alex saw that a burgundy birthmark covered his left hand
—just like the hand of the man he pursued from the diner after Beto was blown up. Alex felt his entire body stiffen. The man who just uttered Alex’s real name was the same man who nearly killed Alex, the same man who beat his brother bloody.

Les lumbered around to the front of his desk and planted himself in front of Alex, close to him, like they were two boxers facing off. He was three inches taller than Alex and much bigger. Alex didn’t move a muscle.

“Do I know Alex Fogarty?” Les said. “Not really. But I went to his house once.”

Alex smiled tightly. “Will you make that call to track the SUV now?”

“Another thing I found out . . . used to be an Alex Fogarty who worked for Rampart Insurance, left about the time you did. Is that your cousin, too?”

“So what? He didn’t like it there.”

“Same job . . . same initials . . .”

Alex felt sweat start to bead at his temples. The man who had tried to kill him stood inches away from him, teasing him about his fake identity. Alex’s body was still, but his mind screamed “danger.” Against his will, Alex’s thoughts crept to the gun holstered under his arm. The urge felt like lust, he couldn’t ignore it.

“Am I making you nervous?” Les said.

Alex’s right hand moved tentatively across his body, toward the pistol. To maintain control he pressed both hands straight down the seams of his pant legs like he was a tin soldier.

“It’d be better if you didn’t,” Alex said quietly.

Les guffawed, then jabbed a meaty finger into Alex’s breastbone. “Stay away from Crash.”

Alex concentrated very hard and forced himself to smile. “Will you give me the number for the transponder company, then? Luke Hubbard told me to find the SUV, so I’ve got to find the SUV.” Alex figured dropping the CEO’s name couldn’t hurt.

Les wiggled his hands in mock horror at the mention of Luke’s name, then, walked slowly back around to his own side of the desk, checked his computer screen and wrote out a telephone number on a scratch pad. He silently extended his hand for Alex to take the paper.

“Thanks,” Alex said, “so sorry to interrupt your morning.” He turned to leave. When he’d gone as far as Les’s wedding photo on the wall, Alex stopped. “One more thing,” Alex said over his shoulder. He lifted his arm and hammered his elbow into the center of the photograph. The glass that covered it shattered and fell in shards to the floor. “You should stay away from Alex Fogarty.”

When Brad arrived at his office, Cindy handed him a stack of envelopes she had slit open for him. She smiled at him. “Sleep well?”

“Very. And you?” He smiled back.

“I did.”

“Look at this,” he said. He eagerly removed the contents of one of the envelopes and displayed them for Cindy. “Did you see this one?” he said.

She shook her head vigorously. “Oh, no, I never look inside.”

“Those lowlifes at Boswell & Baker slapped a defamation suit on me, just because I raised the possibility that Luke Hubbard fathered a love child with his mistress.”

“What jerks,” she said. Then, leaning toward Brad, she said, “Did he do it?”

“All I know is that this notice says he’s adopting the little bastard. Naturally, that means they’re dropping this ridiculous lawsuit.”

Cindy giggled. She looked at the papers Brad showed her and said, “Dismissal with prejudice, what does that mean?”

“It means they can go to hell,” Brad said. Cindy smiled and looked up at him admiringly. “But now I’ve got a decision to make,” he said, “and that’s whether to ask the court to sanction them for filing a frivolous lawsuit against me.”

“Why in the world wouldn’t you?”

“Easy, there. I’ve got to think long term. The legal community is actually pretty small. No need antagonizing people once you’ve got what you want.”

Cindy looked disappointed.

“But it’d be fun to make them squirm a little, wouldn’t it?” Brad said. He continued flipping through the mail, until he came to a letter from the state bar association.

Another bill
, Brad thought when he saw the envelope, but the page inside bore the letterhead of the bar Disciplinary Committee. Brad read the letter, shook his head like he was trying to clear a bad dream, then read the letter again.

“What’s wrong?” Cindy said.

“Nothing,” he said. “It’s nothing.”
Just the other shoe dropping
, Brad thought with despair. He took the letter and shuffled like a sleepwalker into his office.

Those bastards at Boswell & Baker had done it to him again. Give with one hand and take with the other. They had lodged an ethics complaint alleging that Luke’s defamation lawsuit gave Brad an unwaivable conflict of interest with respect to Sheila, his client. It was unusual for the bar to investigate conflicts of interest without a complaint from the client, but clearly they were willing to make an exception
—Boswell & Baker always got its share of exceptions. And if the bar agreed with Boswell & Baker’s analysis, it wouldn’t matter that Sheila had agreed to keep Brad as her lawyer.

Shit
, he thought.
Shit, shit, shit
. They wouldn’t disbar him. No, not for a first offense, not without a complaint from Sheila. But they could reprimand him, or suspend him.

Brad pressed his hands to his temples. He couldn’t afford to be suspended now. He’d finally gotten current in his bills. Either result, reprimand or suspension, would follow him the rest of his career. And he definitely did not need this headache the day before he took Luke’s deposition. He was being railroaded, no doubt about it, but those who understood that wouldn’t care, and those who cared wouldn’t understand.

. . . Cindy wouldn’t understand.

Brad dropped himself into his offi
ce chair. Sanctioned by the bar . . . what a disaster.
I’m finally first in my class in something
, he thought.

There could be no negotiation with Boswell & Baker over this, there could be no bargain they had in mind. They had taken their complaint straight to the bar, and now it was in the bar’s hands. This was just Boswell & Baker’s attempt to get rid of Brad. So why did they want to get rid of him? It couldn’t be because they feared Brad as an adversary
—they didn’t even consider him a peer. Brad knew that from reading the face of his old classmate Jacob Carter when they met in court—as arrogant when he lost as when he won. No, there must be another reason.
What are they afraid that I’ll discover?
Brad wondered.

Brad drummed his fingers on his desk.

Luke was in the news a lot. Life insurance scams, murdering employees, murdering his mistress—the rumors never stopped, but nothing ever came of them, and Brad had always assumed they were baseless. But what if they weren’t? Maybe they feared Brad was already close to the truth . . .

.
 . . or that the truth was close to Brad.

Brad shifted his hand from the desktop to his desk drawer and opened it. Inside lay the unopened envelope that Jeff Smiley had given him outside Cindy’s apartment, the envelope that supposedly contained Luke’s sealed grand jury testimony. Brad laid the envelope on his desk.

Brad couldn’t imagine what value Smiley’s transcript had. After all, if the prosecutors had found real evidence against Luke, wouldn’t the grand jury have indicted him?

Brad was a lawyer
—for him to read a transcript that was under court seal, even just to have it in his desk, was an ethical violation. Another ethical violation. What harm could come from one more? No one would have to know, except that Jeff Smiley guy, and he’d never tell because he was in as deep as Brad with the purloined transcript. Even if Brad didn’t read the transcript, he was in trouble with the state bar already. And if the alternative to reading the transcript was disciplinary action
and
losing his case . . .

Brad’s hand found a letter opener. The letter opener idly tapped the top of his desk. The sound was like a faucet with a slow drip, a drip that fooled you into thinking it had stopped.

Cindy wouldn’t understand . . .

*
* *

Cindy came into Brad’s office a couple of times during the afternoon and tried to initiate a new round of their usual amusing banter. She wanted to find out what bothered him so much about that letter. But he didn’t respond
—not really, anyway—and he didn’t look bothered anymore. He was focused, absorbed, obsessed—printing documents and reading, printing and reading. She had become invisible. After three hours of being ignored, she collected herself and brought him a hot cup of coffee. The coffee got his attention, and he even thanked her for it.

“What’re you up to?” she said. She tried to sound casual.

“What I’m best at.” Brad smiled and pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “Homework.”

After leaving Les Frees’ office, the loyal thing for Alex to do would have been to call Luke, to report that Les was very defensive about Crash, and so might know where Crash was hiding. Instead, Alex called Sheila.

“I found the man with the birthmark.”

“Really?” she said.

“He’s head of the motor pool at Liberty.”

She gasped. “Are you sure it’s him?”

“I’m sure. I’m also sure he’s the one who beat up Del.”

“Did he say so?”

“He said enough. I think he also knows where Crash is. It’s all starting to come together.”

“Have you told Luke?”

Who’s running this show?
Alex asked himself, annoyed at her nosiness. “Not yet. I don’t want to officially ‘find’ Crash until I’ve got the evidence I need from Frees about the accident.”

“You need your search for Crash as an excuse to snoop around Liberty.”

“Exactly, and I don’t have a lot of time. Frees suspects my fake identity, and Luke has already asked me for a status report on finding Crash.”

“Be careful, Alex.”

“Don’t worry. I’ve got a plan.”

Alex’s plan required a skill that Alex didn’t have. Despite all his brother’s faults, Del was the person he trusted the most for the stunt he had in mind. But Del was in no shape to participate, so Alex reluctantly called Zeke.

“Zeke, I’ve got a scoop for you.”

“I’m all ears.”

Sure
, Alex thought,
Zeke’s always ready to help when there’s something in it for him
. “I need your help with a little errand, and then I’ll explain everything.”

“What’s the errand?”

“It shouldn’t take more than an hour. I’ll pick you up tomorrow at seven a.m.”

“What? Where’s the scoop?”

“Be ready. And bring your lock pick.” Alex hung up before Zeke could protest—or probe—any further.

Sheila had social plans that evening and didn’t come home until after Alex was asleep. Alex instead spent the evening with Del, who was now patched up and, except for a few cuts and yellowing bruises, well on the way to recovery. They went to a bar, had a couple of beers and watched a basketball game. Alex paid, even though he couldn’t afford it. Del could afford it even less. Del said he was thinking of leaving L.A. Alex told him that could be a good idea. Or a bad one. Del said he was still thinking it through.

The next morning, Alex got out of bed without waking Sheila, strapped the holster and pistol beneath his sport coat and drove to Zeke’s house. Zeke was grumpy but ready to go. “This better be good,” he said.

Alex parked in the Liberty lot. It was all but empty at this hour. Alex led Zeke across the quiet facility until they got to the large garage that housed the motor pool. The garage was closed and dark.

“How are we going to get in?” Zeke said.

“I work here,” Alex said. He handed Zeke a pair of leather gloves. “Put these on,” he said.

“What do I need gloves for?”

“Cold morning,” Alex said brusquely.

“No, it isn’t,” Zeke said. “And since when do you work here?”

Alex ignored him. Alex was also wearing gloves, a thinner wool pair. He pulled a keychain from his pocket and unlocked a side door to the main garage.

“If you work here, then why are you wearing gloves?” Zeke said, but Alex ignored that, too. He just made sure Zeke put on the gloves.

Inside, the sound of their footsteps on the concrete floor made a lonely echo off the walls. Alex took Zeke to the staircase that led up to Les Frees’ office.

“Where are we?” Zeke said.

Alex put one of his keys up to the lock above the door, but it wouldn’t fit. “He’s installed his own lock,” Alex said. “Did you bring your tools?”

“Just like you asked,” Zeke said. “Whose office is this, anyway?” Alex didn’t answer. Zeke shrugged and hunched over the lock. He probed it tentatively with a thin, flat needle. Then he looked up and said, “If we get caught, I’ll rat you out.”

“I know you will,” Alex said. “Quit stalling.”

“This lock is a little more complicated than
The Chronicle
’s liquor cabinet,” Zeke said.

Zeke scratched at the lock for a couple of minutes that passed as slowly as if a dentist were scratching at Alex’s teeth. Then the lock turned, and Zeke stood up straight and wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. “After you.”

Inside, Les Frees’ office was just as Alex recalled it, except the broken glass from the picture frame had been swept off the floor.

“What are we looking for?” Zeke said.

“This is the office of Les Frees, who planted the bomb in MacArthur Park that almost killed me.”

“Wait. Slow down. You were there?”

“Yes, I was there trying to buy some evidence that Luke Hubbard was responsible for the accident over Christmas.” Alex took Zeke over to the wall and showed him what was left of the photograph of Les and Crash at Les’s wedding.

“Frees is also tight with Crash Bailey,” Alex said. “Crash killed Luke’s mistress. Luke Hubbard asked me to find Crash. When I came here yesterday to speak with Frees, he was very protective of Crash, and he correctly suspects that I’m using an alias here. I just need to pin the bombing on Les before he finds proof of my real identity.”

Zeke looked stunned. “Talk about a scoop. You’ve been holding out on me.”

“I wonder why.”

Alex spent several minutes swiftly but methodically searching the papers on and around Les’s desk, a task the gloves made harder. Meanwhile, Zeke shifted nervously from one foot to the other, like someone waiting in line for the bathroom.

“Hurry up, Alex. This is freaking me out.”

Alex stopped his search and sighed. “Just what I was afraid of. No obvious paper trail. So much for the easy way.”

Alex dropped onto a decrepit old couch pushed against one wall of the office. At that, Zeke threw up his hands, and spoke with obvious strain in his voice. “This guy Frees could show up at any minute.”

“I certainly hope so,” Alex said.

“Then why the hell are you sitting on his couch?” Zeke asked with a tremor of panic.

“I’m waiting for him. I want to talk with him.”

“What makes you think he’ll want to talk with you?”

Alex casually lifted the lapel of his sport coat so Zeke could see the pistol.

Zeke emitted a sharp sound between a cough and a squeak. “What the hell is that?”

“Zeke, this guy tried to kill me. You wouldn’t understand.”

“You’ve got that right.”

“You can leave if you want,” Alex said, and he meant it. Zeke had gotten Alex into Les’s office; Alex didn’t need Zeke’s bad mojo making the next phase even harder.

Zeke looked vacantly at Alex as if trying to work out a crossword puzzle in his head. “What if he calls out for help, Alex? Will you shoot him? You’ll go to jail.”

Alex furrowed his brow as he considered this, then he realized that, for once, Zeke was right. He bolted up from the couch. “I’m glad I brought you along,” he said. “Let’s get out of here.”

Before they could leave, they heard the steady, assured footsteps of someone ascending the wooden staircase. The footsteps of a man.

Alex motioned for Zeke to find a place behind the open door, out of sight of anyone entering the office. Alex himself rose and pivoted feverishly back and forth, searching for a hiding place. The footsteps on the stairway outside kept their own time, indifferent to the bustling inside the office. Alex found nowhere to hide and so dropped back down on the couch. There he put his hand on the handle of his pistol inside his jacket and tried his best to look menacing. Out of the corner of his eye, Alex saw that Zeke had hunched his shoulders and shut his eyes tight against whatever was to come.

The man ascending the stairs looked into the open doorway. “Al?” he said.

Alex felt a wave of relief like a sudden shower of warm water. At the top of the stairs stood a coworker from the security department. “It’s Jerry, right?” Alex said, trying to keep his voice steady. Inside his jacket, Alex moved his hand from the pistol to a handkerchief, which he pretended to wipe his nose with. Zeke retreated farther into the shadows behind the door.

“So you’ve heard the news,” Jerry said.

“That’s why I’m here,” Alex said blandly.

“News travels fast.” As Jerry shook his head, Alex wondered what in the world was going on. “What a shame,” Jerry said. “He’d worked here almost twenty years.”

So Frees was fired
, Alex thought.
That was sudden
. “What’s the protocol here?” Alex asked. “Same as with any termination?”

“Right,” Jerry said. “Termination
—I never thought of the word that way.”

“So have IT take the computer, forward his personal effects?”

“Right. I already called IT. They’ll be here any minute.”

“Great. I’ve got this one, Jerry. You can head out.”

“You don’t mind? I knew him pretty well, and I’d rather not go through his things, you know?”

Jerry turned as if to go, then paused. He looked back at Alex.

“Did you know Les at all?”

“Not really.”

“He was a great guy. I can’t believe he’s really dead.”