Silent Witness (34 page)

CHAPTER 34

Josie made two phone calls on her way back to Hermosa Beach. The first was to Wilson Page who had been put back on the payroll when Jude got over his snit. She would have him do a search for medical trials that Tim might have been involved with.

As instructed, she let the phone ring ten times. That was as long as it took Wilson to get to the phone if he happened to be in the bathroom. Wilson had timed it, paced it, huffed and puffed to move his weight sideways through the doorway of the bathroom, readjust himself and get into his chair so he could speak to someone properly. On the fifteenth ring, Josie gave up and entertained the crazy thought that Wilson was out.

Out. That was rich.

Wilson couldn't go anywhere without the man who came to help two days a week. That man came on Sundays and Tuesdays. This was Thursday. Wilson should have been home. Since he wasn't, Josie dialed home and listened to another phone ring. If Hannah was there, she might want to hear the magic number twenty. On a good day she would pick up on ten. Today must have been a spectacular day. Sullen though she sounded, Josie found herself grinning when she heard Hannah's voice.

''Seven rings. Are you celebrating?'' Josie gave the steering wheel a click left and eased the Jeep around a stalled car and back to the freeway onramp in one graceful move.

''Nothing much,'' Hannah answered, ''I only got asked to design the cover for the yearbook next year.''

''Very nice.'' Seeing the meter light on the ramp was red, Josie braked then accelerated as it turned green a few seconds later. She merged and settled in at sixty-five, checked her rear-view for an opening into the fast lane, took it and said, ''You don't sound too happy.''

''A girl in my math class said you were a sell-out. She said you worked for any freak that paid you. She said you had to be as messed up as your clients – me included.''

''What did you say to that,'' Josie asked.

''I said screw you.'' Hannah was short but her anger wasn't directed at Josie, rather it was the posturing of someone who just realized words had a lot in common with sticks and stones.

''I would have preferred something more intellectual but I'm assuming that got the job done.'' This was a far cry from the girl who was going to quietly pay for the sins of her mother. Good girl.

''I know,'' Hannah answered. ''It wasn't real creative so I said her boob job sucked, too.''

''There we go. Give her something to think about.'' This time Josie laughed outright. She found her opening, merged into the fast lane and kicked it up to eighty.

''Are you coming home now?'' Hannah asked.

''I am, but then I'm going over to Archer's place. There are still a lot of boxes to go through.'' Josie raised her voice. At the speed she was going the inside of the Jeep was like a wind tunnel.

''I can help.'' Hannah's offer was too fast, too anxious. She didn't just want to help, she needed to help. Hard work would keep Hannah from trying to dig the bad-boob- job girl out from under her skin with a razor blade.

''Great,'' Josie said. ''Any messages?''

''Faye wants to know if you need Angie for anything?''

''Call her back and tell her thanks, but no,'' Josie refused the offer of Faye's paralegal as he kept her eyes on the stream of cars ahead. True to form, LA traffic was slowing for no apparent reason.

''Oh, Jude called. He said Wilson might need help with something and to call him.''

''I already tried. Wilson didn't answer.''

They talked a little longer. Hannah would have dinner ready and then they could start to work. When the call was done, Josie turned her baseball cap around since the long hanging sun had finally dipped beneath eye level. She gauged the flow of traffic. It didn't look good. In half a mile, Josie decelerated from eighty to twenty-five until she was reduced to inching forward in gridlock. Nothing to do about it. Los Angeles was on the move and it seemed like every car in the city was feeding into the 405. All except one, the driver of that car was already at his destination, wanting to get his work done before night fell.

Wilson Page was terribly sorry he had missed that call.

He should not have gone to the bathroom. He should have an answering machine. He had software that could be activated and turn all three of his computers into answering machines but he hadn't bothered with even one. So few people called that the idea of needing something to record a voice message seemed ludicrous. Everyone Wilson knew 'talked' to him on the computer. When they said 'CYA' they meant through the computer. When they laughed they used acronyms or little smiley face icons and it didn't matter what they looked like or how they sounded. All of them were just pixels on a screen, no need to interact when you didn't want to. No need to put a happy tone to a voice that didn't really sound happy at all.

Of course, there were days when Wilson missed the sound of a voice other than his own. He heard his own often enough as he talked his way through the day and he didn't much care for the conversation.

Good morning. Good morning, Wilson. You're not dead.

My that was fine. Excellent way to start the day. Getting out of the chair. Standing up on your own.

Hungry? Yes? Why, yes I am and only three in the A.M.

Then there were conversations like today; little chats about his health and losing weight and the awful wheezing that came because his lungs and his heart could not bear the load they carried.

Perhaps a little less for lunch, Wilson.

Walk faster, Wilson.

Lift your arms, Wilson.

This body; it hadn't been the same since he'd gone to Pacific Park with Jude and all his new friends. The outing had been too much for a man as large as he was now. Even getting to the phone was too much. Well, that was not altogether true. Truth be known, he didn't try too hard to get to the phone when he felt off his stride. Wilson did not like the conversations when the words people spoke only sandwiched the ones they wanted to say.

If they said, 'aren't you feeling well, Wilson?' they meant:

Well what would you expect, you hunk of blubber?

If they said, 'you should have yourself checked out.'' they meant
:

Why bother. You're going to die, Boyo. Sure as shootin' death is lean, mean and you sure can't outrun it.

If they said, ''You really must watch out for yourself. You never know what could happen.'' they meant:

It's only a matter of time. They'll bury you like a horse. They'll send you to the glue factory. We're not talkin' dust, Wilson, we're talkin'a whole pile of dirt when you start disintegrating.

Unless, of course, it was Jude on the phone. Jude never talked between the lines. Jude just took things at face value and that was why Wilson adored him. That was why Wilson worked so hard for Jude, charged so little and sometimes actually called him just to talk. Sometimes Wilson asked Jude to stop by on one pretense or another because he liked to look at a man who was as handsome as Jude and he liked to listen to a man who was as smart as Wilson himself. In fact, Wilson Page dreamed of being Jude Getts in the same way a farm girl stuck in the middle of nowhere dreams of becoming a movie star. It would never happen, but it was a great dream.

Yet early this afternoon he had called Jude for real. Yes, indeed, he couldn't wait for Jude to check his e-mail. Wilson wanted to hear the pride in Jude's voice when Wilson told him what had come down the pipeline. He wanted Jude to congratulate him for making three real phone calls, for standing up to the people who needed to be stood up to. Jude would be so proud that Wilson had been a man.

But Jude wasn't in and Wilson's excitement abated. The time in the bathroom had convinced him that nothing was as important as getting to his chair and sitting quietly. He had worn himself out by taking the bull by the horns and calling those people. Now if the phone rang, so be it, Wilson was going to take care of himself.

Then he realized it might be Jude ringing him up. If he could get to the phone, he could ask Jude to come sit until the panic passed. Wilson reached for the receiver and put his mitt of a hand on top of it with every intention of calling Jude's office again but before he could, Wilson fell asleep.

He dreamed of himself as a thin man even though his subconscious was aware of the sound of his wheezing and that his lungs were not filling properly and that his heart was pounding against the walls of his chest. That heart was pounding and knocking like an engine. Knocking and. . .

Wilson opened his eyes. He was still heavy with sleep but he chuckled nonetheless. Now that he was awake, Wilson discovered it wasn't his heart knocking at all. There was someone at the door, rapping the way Jude rapped. Not exactly that way, but it was a confident sound, a let's-get-this-show-on-the-road sound. Wilson blinked at the clock. It was early. Perhaps Jude had gotten his message and come from wherever he had been. That would be like Jude to leave something important just to check on Wilson.

''Come in.''

Wilson called out only to find himself coughing and catching his breath, holding a Kleenex tight to the lips that almost disappeared in the fat of his face before he got out the second word. He turned his head as best he could. He wanted to greet Jude properly. However, the coughing persisted and all Wilson Page could see through the tearing of his eyes were a pair of fine shoes and a grey pants that broke perfectly on the vamp.

''Jude,'' he wheezed.

Wilson Page looked up and smiled his exhausted smile only to find it ending in a deep intake of breath that never quite made it to his poor beleaguered lungs.

Darn.

Just when he needed a breath the most.

CHAPTER 35

Three men stood on the landing outside Wilson Page's place. Another waited by a car. Two more were huddled inside the front door.

'''Scuse me. Hey, do you mind?'' Josie raised her voice but it was her height that got her noticed.

The men in the doorway stopped talking, looked right at her then took another second to really see her. Their brows furrowed with worry, the edges of their mouths and eyes twitched with nerves. They had been speaking in whispers. On finally found his voice.

''Are you a relative?''

''A friend,'' she answered sharply.

''He had a lot of good looking friends,'' one of the other men muttered, eyeing Josie curiously, wondering what on earth she had to do with a man like Wilson Page?

''Look, just let me through, okay?'' She put her hand on his shoulder to move him aside but he pushed back halfheartedly.

''I don't know. It's kind of tight in there. We've got stuff to figure out. Maybe you should wait until . . .''

The suggestion of what Josie might do was lost as Jude Getts called to her.

''Josie. Josie.''

The men were distracted. Josie saw her opening and plowed through. She was in Jude's arms before anyone could stop her. Josie closed her eyes unable to look at the mountain of white cloth that covered Wilson Page's dead body. When she tried to step away, Jude held tight to her arms as if to reassure himself that Josie was alive and well.

''I got here as fast as I could,'' she said quietly. ''I was caught in traffic. I'm sorry, Jude. I'm so sorry about Wilson.''

When Jude didn't let go, Josie talked faster, searching Jude's beautiful face. His hair still waved back from a perfect brow but that mega-watt smile was gone, the high color in his cheeks had drained, the crackle that was the essence of Jude Getts had flat lined and it worried her.

''It's okay,'' he interrupted, his hands shaking her and tightening on her arms. ''You made it. I've been here awhile. They. . . I don't know how . . . I don't know. . .''

''Jude,'' Josie said firmly but he didn't hear her.

''I mean nobody knows what to do . . .'' Jude ran on. ''This is such a bizarre situation. Wilson had called and I blew him off and I felt bad. I called. . .no answer. . . I felt so guilty. I found him just like that. In his chair. . . I leaned down and said. . .''

''Jude. . .'' Josie pulled back but Jude stepped with her.

''Don't you see? If only I had. . .''

''Jude!'' Josie forced her arms out to the side, breaking the hold he had on her. Startled, Jude jerked upright, his mouth opening in surprise before pulling tight with annoyance. Josie lowered her head, her voice. She put a hand on his shoulder. ''I'm sorry. You were hurting me. Come on. Come with me.''

She led him out of the room, past the four men who discussed the problem of moving Wilson. Josie walked faster. Jude did the same. Josie hoped he hadn't heard the men talking about Wilson as if he was an unwieldy piano.

She stomped down the ramp that had been built to the side of the steps to make it easier for Wilson to get out of the house. She strode across a lawn that was half- brown from lack of care and past the man who lingered near a paramedic unit. Jude followed with a determined step, his eyes down as if he was rethinking an opening statement even as he headed into the courtroom.

They stopped under the canopy of the big, waxy green leaves of a magnolia tree. Josie was by the thick, rough trunk. One foot rested atop a root that snaked out of the ground then ducked back in again like some subterranean creature who didn't like the look of the upside world.

''You okay?'' Josie stuck her hands deep in the pockets of her jacket, her baseball cap still firmly in place. She looked away from Jude, a coward in the face of such pain and loss.

''Yeah. Thanks.''

Jude lied. He kicked at that thick root, stepped on the rupture as if he could push it back into the ground. When he couldn't change the configuration of the tree, he tried to figure out how he could have changed the outcome of the day.

''If I had talked to Wilson when he called I would have heard that he wasn't doing well. I could always tell. I always got my doctor over to see him when that happened. If I had just answered the phone and heard his voice, I would have known. I could have done something.''

Josie didn't bother to argue the point. She had played the
if only
game a thousand times and there never was a winner.
If only
she'd stayed in Hawaii with her father he wouldn't have died alone.
If only
she'd been a better child her mother would have stayed home.
If only
she had seen through Linda Sheraton-Rayburn sooner, Hannah would never have endured jail and a trial for murder.
If only
Josie had asked Archer the right questions when they first met. . .Well, that might not have changed anything.