Privileged Witness (17 page)

His mouth opened and his teeth were bared and Josie pulled back again but she was up against the wall. Up against all of it. There was no place to run. Matthew was as tall as she, stronger than Josie. Whatever he wanted Josie couldn't give him. Figuring that out turned Josie's understanding to fear. If Josie couldn't give what he wanted, Matthew McCreary was determined to take it.

Just as panic came into play, just as Josie Bates realized Matthew McCreary didn't care who was crushed beneath him, Josie was blinded by a white light. She was saved.

Breathing hard, narrowing her eyes against the glare, Josie looked first at Matthew. He still stood close, his face hovering above hers, his hands still on the sides of her head. He was pale and confused, panting and unable to account for how he had gotten to where he was. Not that anyone was asking. Indeed, Tim Douglas's mouth was set in a grim line. He didn't seem to have any questions about the situation.

Not that Josie cared what he thought. It was Grace standing by his side, staring at her brother as if he had just killed Michelle all over again, that made Josie shrink inside her skin.

CHAPTER 23

It was three in the morning. Archer was up, dressed and had a coffee mug in his hand as he stood on his deck looking at the deserted beach. The world was tinged with that promise-of-sunrise color. Not quite blue, almost grey sky with a wash of something akin to a blush wisping somewhere beyond touching. The ocean was black-to-blue, frothing magically white when it touched the shore only to prove itself less than fairy dust as the already hard packed sand sucked up the sparkles. The street lights were off. Lover or drunk would have to find their way home in the half light. Archer looked toward the pier and saw someone moving under it, just this side of the lifeguard headquarters. That would be Billy Zuni, left out of his home again – or someone very much like Billy.

Archer took a drink. The coffee was hot and bitter and necessary – the same as his sleep had been. He had been worn out by the marathon drive from Mexico back to Hermosa and was deep in rest when Josie came to his bed. She pulled herself close. She touched him, insisting he wake. Without a word she made love to him as if needing to be reassured that he was alive and well and loving her back.

He obliged.

She didn't stay.

Hannah, who didn't often wake any more, would be frightened to find she was alone if she did that night. It was a standard excuse that marked Josie's desire to be a better example than Hannah's own mother. Archer had argued that Hannah had seen more in sixteen years than Josie had in forty. Josie argued it was time she saw something different. But last night it had been more than worry over Hannah that sent Josie packing. There was something bothersome inside that she wanted to keep private. Not that he couldn't guess what dogged her. Two and two still made four. Josie had gone to the McCreary place alone. She came back uneasy. That's as far as he took the equation.

Unfortunately, whatever Josie brought with her, enough of it had sloughed off so that Archer was out of sync. He itched like he needed to wash it off, or sweep it away, but it proved as elusive as dust mites on a hard wood floor. The more he tried to collect it, examine it, toss it aside, the worse the feeling of disquiet. So he showered, dressed, had his coffee and now that it was time to go Archer felt better. For a few hours he would forget about last night. If Josie wanted to tell him what went down she would. If she didn't bring it up, he would forget it.

Archer drained the coffee mug and left the patio door open when he went back inside to wash out his cup. Hopefully, whatever Josie had brought with her would air out. The keys to the Hummer were on the bookshelf where he always kept them. Archer touched the rosary that shared the space. Finally, he opened a drawer palmed his revolver. He lifted his shirt and holstered the weapon in the harness under his arm.

He was ready to work.

CHAPTER 24

There was something invigorating in the smell of fish and diesel and metal. It smelled like hard work and big money being made by brawny men.

Archer got to the port by four fifteen and found the berth where Kevin O'Connel was due to offload toys from China from a ship of Turkish registry owned by a Swiss consortium. If O'Connel was around then Archer missed him and that made him doubt that the guy had been there at all. So he nosed around, not bothering to pretend he was anything other than what he was: a P.I. looking at Kevin for something. Anyone who knew Kevin knew the something was the money he owed his ex-wife so there wasn't much chit-chat to be had. Best Archer got was one guy – casual labor – who grumbled that O'Connel had been working overtime hours that belonged to him.

Archer listened patiently, took note of the days the other man ticked off and then did a quick calculation. If the information was right, Kevin O'Connel was still fulltime, easily pulling down a hundred grand a year. Funny thing how O'Connel told the court he was handling max three days a week, unable to work because of the mental stress of his wife's vindictiveness. Archer had the union psychologist's paperwork filed with the court to prove Kevin was in a weakened state. Now he had some guy's gripe that O'Connel was hale, hearty and greedy. That could only mean one thing: the man was off the books, hiding the cash and screwing his ex-wife out of her settlement.

All in all, a decent day's work before six in the morning. Archer grabbed a second cup of coffee and sat down, wishing he had his camera. The play of changing light on the spirals of rope – thick as a man's trunk – was one of the most beautiful things Archer had ever seen. The hoists, tall enough, strong enough, to lift sixty thousand tons of goods with a throw of a gear, the turn of a knob, looked like a stand of exotic birds, their beaks dipping toward the ships to pick up their prey. The world of the docks was as complex as the goods moved in and out. Ships arrived from far away lands; government regulations were met or ignored as needed. The constant threat of terror was outweighed by demand for the things packed in those containers. Yet this world was simple, too, and stark and suddenly one that Archer wasn't too enamored with.

The punch came fast from behind. Archer didn't take it well. The Styrofoam cup flew out of his hands as he was thrown forward. Damn if his face wasn't in the way as the hot coffee jumped up to scald him just before splashing on the ground beneath him. But the stinging burn along the side of his face was the least of his worries; the six guys blocking out the early morning rays were top of mind.

The one with the big square head had him by the shirt collar. He was leaning real close so that Archer could see he had dark little hairs in his nose and a piercing through his ear but no earring. Just another hole in his head.

''You looking for Kevin?'' he growled.

Archer swallowed hard. Whoever punched his kidney had done a damn good job of finding his mark and it was taking a minute to find his breath so he nodded.

''Kevin don't know you.'' This time he yanked Archer up just high enough so that his gut crumpled and Archer found himself wishing there was a john real close. ''Kevin don't know you, right?''

''Right,'' Archer rasped. Not only did he have to pee real bad, the guy with the ham hands had twisted Archer's shirt at the throat. Not the best interrogation technique. Archer didn't think it was something he should point out .

''Okay. So, don't think we're all such dumb shits. Tell Suzy she's going to get what's coming to her. She don't need to send down nobody to see she gets it. Understand? So you better get off and out of here and don't come back.''

Square Head pulled Archer up an inch higher then threw him away like a piece of garbage. The man got high marks for drama because his audience was well pleased. Grunts and muttering and peacock threats were heaped on Archer who knew enough to stay exactly where he was. When the men sauntered away, not even bothering to run, Archer decided two things: first, Josie was going to have her work cut out for her getting the bucks out of Kevin O'Connel and, second, Archer was thankful that he was lying in a pool of coffee when it could just as easily have been blood.

Josie didn't bother with breakfast. She didn't even bother with coffee. She was just bothered. The night had been long, unsatisfying and guilt ridden. She had lain awake trying to figure out if she had done something to warrant Matthew's outburst and why she had felt shamed when she saw Grace's face. The situation wasn't what it seemed Josie explained as she took Grace aside.

''A breakdown. . . I found him. . . he is grieving. . . ''

I understand.

''A reaction. . . His anger at his loss. . .Didn't want me. . .''

Of course.

''Didn't encourage. . . He remembered the old days. . . It just happened . . .''

Naturally. He keeps things inside.

Grace nodded, agreeing with everything, that ring of hers whirlygigging again. Her close-set eyes were dark and penetrating as if she was listening. She wasn't. Instead, Grace McCreary looked at Josie as if she knew exactly what had happened. It was desire. Lust. Seduction. Matthew was free. It was an opportunity. There was no doubt.

Josie stopped talking and waited for Grace to say something, ask a question, make a judgment. But Grace just ignited the flame on her gold lighter and considered her cigarette for a minute before she lit it. She looked across the balcony and let the smoke bleed through her lips. Her head fell back, her free hand lay against her long, pale neck. When she faced Josie once more, Grace didn't look into a lawyer's eyes but those of the other woman and whatever Grace was thinking remained a mystery. Dropping her unfinished cigarette onto the tile, she ground it under the toe of her shoe.

''I'm glad you were here for him, then.'' She smiled distantly, got up and went to the bedroom where her brother had taken refuge.

Tim muttered a goodbye. Josie left soon after and stood on the street looking up. When she realized there was nothing for her to see, Josie left, too. Instinctively, she went to Archer. Josie had lost her footing he was the only one who could lead her back to the path. But if it had been that simple Josie wouldn't have remained silent as they lay side-by-side; she wouldn't have replayed ever second of that encounter as she lay shivering in her own bed. Her rest wouldn't have been fitful in those six hours that she slept, aware that Hannah had come to look down on her but unable to rouse herself and tell the girl to go away because Josie wasn't worth watching over. She had used Archer and that shamed her.

Now, she tried to forget about the night as she got out of the Jeep in the parking lot of the Long Beach courthouse. It was tough to do since someone had taken a key to the side of her car and leisurely carved figure eight into the ebony paint. She cursed herself for being too tired to garage it the night before. The defacement could have been a random act of vandalism, but the thought that it was a juvenile message sent by Kevin O'Connel gave her the creeps. Giving the car a quick pat, she walked across the parking lot, went through the metal detectors and found department 9.

Clutching her briefcase in her left hand, Josie pulled on the door with her right. As expected they were all there: Grace sitting straight-backed at the defense table, Matthew behind her, Tim beside him. P.J. Vega looked busy at the prosecutor's table. The clerk was at her desk. The bailiff hovered by the bench. What Josie didn't expect was the sharp pain deep in her chest, an overwhelming sense of failure gripping her.

Stepping back, she let the door close and pushed up against the wall taking a minute to subdue the panic that came with clarity. Her guilt lay not in what happened at the penthouse, or in seeking out Archer for comfort. Josie's shame was deeper than that. She was not the lawyer Grace deserved. In all these weeks – since the minute Grace had uttered Matthew's name - it had been Matthew Josie was concerned with; Matthew she was trying to impress. That was wrong even if the intent had been subliminal. Today that would change.

Standing tall, Josie opened the door again and this time walked down the center aisle like a lawyer ready to advocate for her client. She nodded to Matthew and Tim Douglas and noted five other witnesses on P.J. Vega's list.

Josie took her seat beside Grace who looked stunningly rich. Her taupe suit was piped in black. The high collar of her jacket skimmed her square jaw making her look like royalty. Her skirt was short, her legs good and her shoes were high heeled, square toed and expensive. Diamond studs the size of peas sparkled on her earlobes. The emerald ring was on her finger, quiet for once. Where, Josie wondered, would they find a jury of Grace McCreary's peers if worse came to worse?

The court was doing its housekeeping. Josie did hers. People moved in and out and finally settled. Babcock sat behind the prosecution. There was a sketch artist and a couple of reporters. The preliminary hearing was of interest but if this went to trial they would all have to fight their way past a crowd of reporters. It was Josie's job to make sure that didn't happen.

The clerk called the court to order. Judge Michael Belote took the bench with the look of a man who commanded everything he surveyed. He moved with precision, spoke with authority and had left a lucrative private practice to serve the people. Seven years on the bench were long enough for him to be close to omnipotent. He liked to run a tight court. P.J. Vega respected that and called Horace Babcock as her first witness.

It took twenty minutes for P.J. to establish the scene, determine that he had taken the proper precautions to preserve evidence and had appropriately tracked down a witness who had seen Grace on the balcony with Michelle McCreary. This was only a preliminary hearing so P.J. needed to do little more than that. When she sat down, Josie stood up.

''Detective,'' she said, ''two weeks after the incident involving Mrs. McCreary, you were still investigating the matter, is that correct?''

''Yes, it is.''

''On the night of the incident did you discover any evidence that would lead you to believe that Mrs. McCreary had been murdered?''