A Dead Sister (Jessica Huntington Desert Cities Mystery) (15 page)

“Well, timing is everything isn’t it? There have been a couple women who mattered a lot to me. They were important, but nobody that I felt the way you seem to have felt about Jim. Not only have I never been married, but I can’t even remember thinking seriously about it. Now I’m at a different stage of life. Forty is right in front of me, and I’m wondering the same thing you are: why haven’t I married? I’m sure 70-100 hour work weeks are part of the problem, but not the whole answer to that question. I take responsibility for the fact t
hat there hasn’t been much time to invest in another person. I suppose that would not have made me good boyfriend, husband or father material. Hell, if I
had
married, who knows. We might
both
be sitting here discussing the “ex.” To friendship, Jessica! Let’s toast that, and see if we can’t figure that part out, along with building a working relationship. I don’t know about you, but I could use a friend. I’ve let even that part of my personal life languish in pursuit of my career.”

“To friendship,” Jessica said, giving his glass a clink. “That’s important and why I’m so keen to find out what happened to that friend of mine who was killed years ago
. I’ve let friendships go too. It wasn’t just my career, but my marriage and the crazy everyday life I lived trying to make two careers work. I’d like to chalk up the dearth of friends in my life to the divorce. I can’t think of anyone I met, in all the time we lived there as a couple, that I want to contact. My circle of friends in the desert is pretty small, too. Although my family and I have lots and lots of acquaintances, I can count my close friends on one hand.”

“Maybe that’s all anyone has a right to hope for, Jessica, that you find four or five people in a lifetime that you can count on. Relationships take time and energy, both in scarce supply under the best conditions. If you’re really lucky, maybe one of
those people turns out to be someone you can connect with in the way you hoped you had done with Jim, a soul mate waiting to find you.”

“Paul Worthington, you are a true romantic. Thanks for being so understanding. It’s a relief to be able to talk about all of this. I’d say that puts us well on the road to friendship. While we’re at it, let’s keep the dream alive: To soul mates!”

“I can be very understanding, and patience is a virtue I possess in scads. So let’s give it a year and see where things stand, on all fronts: To soul mates!” They clinked glasses again and polished off the last of their brandy.

Their eyes met for a b
rief moment. She could see in them the openness that had drawn her to him that day at the office in Palm Desert when they first reconnected. Recalling what her father had said about Jim’s lack of depth, she took stock of the man sitting across from her. This older, more reflective version of Paul Worthington than she remembered from law school was a man she looked forward to getting to know better. Add another surprise to the list accumulating in her unpredictable life, this one a pleasant one. In her mind, she made another toast: “To surprises!”

CHAPTER 11

When Jessica returned to her dad’s house, it was nearly ten o’clock. She and Paul had lingered over a cup of decaf coffee after the brandy, engaged in amiable chatter about nothing much. The brouhaha on Rodeo Drive came up again, and this time they both had a hearty laugh about it. Shortly after she had left, a TV crew had raced to the scene in time to catch the flavor of the month smashing the photographer’s camera in a fit of unbridled rage. She and Paul both agreed the publicity couldn’t hurt, given the crass nature of her most recent film. It might even help the tantrum-throwing diva. The incident could, however, play out differently in James Harper’s life.

“How would you all handle such an incident if it was one of your associates?” She had asked.

“Speaking for myself, I’d be on alert about a guy like Jim, concerned that his judgment was as poor at work as it was in his personal life. Of course, not all of my comrades-in-arms would agree.” He went on to explain. Jessica laughed as Paul described how each of the partners, the half a dozen men instrumental in founding the law firm in the 1950s, would handle the matter.

That led to a conversation about the role the firm played, now and in the past, in relation to the film industry. From there, they moved on to talk about art and theater, more broadly. They discovered that she and Paul shared a passion for old movies, especially film noir. Paul had quite a collection. They even made a date of sorts. Setting a whole evening aside, they would watch a couple of their favorites, as well as a film Jessica had not seen before from Paul’s collection. “He’s serious about this friendship thing,” Jessica thought as they planned. She felt a bit of eagerness, too, at the prospect of seeing him again. There was something so centered about the man. It was a pleasure to be around him.

After an hour or so, they had called it a night. The town car dropped them back at the parking structure used by law firm employees. Paul walked Jessica back to her car, then stood there watching, with his hands in his pockets, as she drove away. She was sorry that he stood there alone and prayed, silently, that his soul mate was out there somewhere, as he believed.

Jessica had to be underway early, in order to get to the County jail in Riverside by 10:30. She was too wound up to sleep, so she went to work packing her things. Before midnight, she had the car all loaded up, except for the things she needed in the morning. The sleeveless gray dress hung on a stand in her closet, along with the caramel pumps and one of the paisley scarves that had hints of both colors in it.

It was odd how her work as a lawyer had come back to her, in a different form than she had ever considered. How odd, too, that this outcome had started with Roger’s death and her desire to help her friend, Laura. Roger’s death had not only led her to call Paul Worthington, but had rekindled her relationship with Frank Fontana. Sitting on the edge of her bed in her father’s house, Jessica thought about the two men. They could not have been more different, at least superficially. What they had in common was more important. From what she could tell, both had pursued careers in law and criminal justice, led by an underlying conviction about the importance of fair play and playing by the rules. Too soon to know for sure, both seemed to be decent, straightforward men. Jessica appreciated those traits after discovering her husband was a deceitful, coward, unwilling to confront her with the fact that their marriage was over.

When she got up at dawn the next morning, Jessica went through her routine. Coffee was followed by a half hour of laps in the pool. She took a shower, after rinsing out her suit and putting it in the dryer, so it could dry for the trip to Riverside. Finishing the last of the yogurt and berries in the fridge, Jessica dressed and did her hair and makeup. The scarf was the perfect accent for the gray sleeveless Max Mara, and those caramel shoes gave her a few extra inches of height. One last look in the mirror assured her that she was ready for another day of lawyering.

The drive to Riverside was as uneventful as being on the road with about a million other cars can be. Most drivers were pretty well-behaved on the freeways. Occasionally, some guy on a motorcycle sped by, driving between lanes when traffic backed up. That was legal in California. She had
never seen one of them get nailed, but it didn’t seem like the smartest choice you could make when surrounded by F-150s and SUVs the size of tanks.

She was headed to the
city of Riverside which serves as the county seat. In it were located the courthouses and administrative buildings, as well as the county Sherriff’s department, where Jessica needed to pick up Kelly Fontana’s cold case file later on. Chester Davis was being held at the Robert Presley Detention Center downtown, not too far from where he had been arrested.

One of five jails
, it was reeling from overcrowding, as were all the others in the county. Two decades of rapid economic growth in Riverside County had been accompanied by a commensurate growth in crime. The county jail had already added beds, but was still overcrowded. In 2011, local jurisdictions were mandated to keep non-violent, non-sex-offending felons out of state prisons and hold them in county jails. In the past, jails had held arrestees only while they were awaiting trial and/or sentencing, typically only for a few weeks or perhaps a few months. Now they were faced with burgeoning numbers of inmates needing to be housed sometimes for years.

Beds that would have “turned over” quickly remained occupied, so crowding and the shortage had worsened. A major expansion was underway in Indio, one of the eastern-most desert cities in the county. Nearly 300 million dollars was being spent to revamp the Indio jail and the complex of courthouses and administrative buildings surrounding that facility. Poorly equipped to house inmates long-term, jails were scrambling not only to find enough beds, but to accommodate inmates’ needs for physical and mental health care, as well.

Jessica took the University Avenue/Mission Inn exit toward downtown and merged onto Mulberry St. After a couple quick lefts, she was on Orange Street, where the Presley detention center was located. With ten minutes to spare, she found parking in front of the Riverside Courthouse across the street from the detention facility. When her interview with Mr. Davis was over, she could walk to the Sherriff’s Department, nearby, on Lemon Street. The Mission Inn was only a few blocks farther away, so it would be a short jaunt afterward from where she was parked to the lot situated behind the hotel.

The street between the courthouse and the Robert Presley Detention Center was lined with palms. Built in 1989 to expand the old jailhouse, the detention center occupied a modern-looking, high-rise with tinted-glass windows. Well, maybe only a mid-rise by LA standards. Seven or eight stories tall
, it towered over the gleaming white, more ornate Spanish-colonial courthouse. The lobby Jessica walked into was also modern. It was more like a bank than a jail, with several “teller” windows operated by Sherriff’s department personnel. A number of people were milling about, standing in line, or sitting, waiting for one thing or another. To her right was a sign leading to restrooms, a locker room for visitors to store the things they were not allowed to bring with them to their meetings with detainees, and an elevator.

Jessica was nervous. She had been in a jail, but only once. The summer before she started law school, she had signed on for a prelaw community service course. It was intended to expose her to law practice as a generalist by shadowing lawyers and their legal assistants. What she remembered most about the jailhouse visit was the hooting and hollering of inmates. The smirking guard she followed eventually deposited them at the visitation room where the lawyer met with his client. She discovered later that he had taken them the long way around. The second thing she remembered was the odor. Sweat and urine combined with the smell of peppermint from the gum the guard was chewing.

Jessica took another nervous look around. Before she could decide what to do next, a gentleman in a suit emerged from a door marked by a “staff only” sign. He smiled broadly as he strode quickly across the lobby toward her. Of average height, fiftyish, he had just a hint of middle-aged spread around his waist. His face was round, with a slightly ruddy tone to his complexion, set off by a tangle of dark hair that needed to be combed. His round, wire-rimmed spectacles accentuated the roundness of his face. Something about him reminded her just a tiny bit of Columbo. Perhaps it was the air of disheveled amiability that induced Jessica to smile as she reached for his outstretched hand.

The suit he wore was clean but wrinkled. In a medium brown color, it looked like it was made of a lightweight fabric, a practical choice for summer in Riverside. It was probably high 80s already this morning, and would top out somewhere in the mid-90s by late afternoon. His tie was a tad crooked, but it had a blue and tan stripe that went well with the light blue buttoned-down shirt he wore. The contrast was striking in comparison to the bespoke attire she had seen yesterday at the big law firm, but a far more reasonable reflection of what a typical lawyer could afford.

“Ms. Huntington, I presume,” he said as they shook hands.

“Yes, Mr. Tatum. It’s good to meet you.”

“I’ve spoken to Chet and he’s willing to meet with you as you requested. I explained that you want to hear what he has to say about this woman he saw murdered in Palm Springs. I also explained the woman may have been someone you knew years ago, a friend and you want to find out what happened to her.”

“Okay, that’s right. I’m glad he’s agreed to meet with me. Thanks for setting this up.”

“Well, let’s go. I’ve moved him to the old jail for now, where the inmates in protective custody are held. I thought we’d have more privacy, and he might be more comfortable telling you what he knows where it’s more secluded. There’s a tunnel in the basement that we use to move detainees from here to the courthouse. It will also take us to the old building. Follow me!”

On that note, he moved to the elevator, signaling to the guards responsible for securing its use where they wanted to go. Together, they rode the elevator down to the basement and made the brief walk down a well-lit corridor lined with security cameras. Another well-guarded elevator in the old jail building took them to the second floor where, after another round of security checks, they were ushered into a room with no windows, a small table and several chairs.

“We might as well sit down, Ms. Huntington. This might take a few minutes.”

“Sure, but please, call me Jessica.” She sat down on a metal folding chair. The chair sat, facing the door, on the far side of the fau
x wood-grain, collapsible table. Dick Tatum pulled up another chair next to her and sat down.

“So, Jessica, you drove in from LA this morning. Is that where you live?”

“No, I’m sort of in transition right now. I grew up in the desert, Mission Hills in Rancho Mirage. That’s not far from Palm Springs. I’m back there for the time being.”

“That’ll be quite a drive if you’re going to be working in LA, won’t it?” His head was cocked to one side, his arms folded over his chest looking at her with unabashed curiosity.

“Actually, the firm I’m working with is opening an office in Palm Desert. That’s where I expect to do most of what they’ve hired me to do and it’s where you can find me if you need to speak to me. Or you can just call me on my cell.” As she spoke, Jessica reached in to her purse, a little sheepish at the thought that the bag she carried probably cost more than Dick Tatum’s entire outfit. She pulled out one of the business cards Paul Worthington had given her the day before, removing it from a lovely, silver-clad business card holder engraved with the firm’s logo. “My cell number is on here along with the contact information for my office.”

Dick Tatum took the card and slid it into one sleeve of an inexpensive leatherette card holder. From the other sleeve, he pulled out a card of his own and handed it to Jessica.

“Here, now you’ll know how to reach me, too, Jessica.”

“Thank you Mr. Tatum. I...”

“Dick, please. We’re on a first name basis now.”

“So, how is it you happen to be in Riverside, Dick? Is this home for you?”

“As a matter of fact, it is. I’ve lived here all my life...went to undergrad school here in town at UC Riverside. That’s where I met my wife. I thought about going to LA or San Diego for law school, but then my wife got pregnant and wanted to be near her family. So I got my law degree here in town, too, at California Southern.” He had folded his arms over his chest again and that quizzical look had returned to his face. No, it was more intense than that. Sort of like Atticus Finch doing the Vulcan mind probe. Jessica found it mildly disconcerting, and was about to revise her view of the man as amiable.

“How many children do you have, Dick?” she asked, continuing their polite conversation. Before he could answer, there was a commotion at the door. Jessica looked up as a tall, heavy-set guard in the short-sleeved version of the Sherriff’s department uniform escorted Chester Davis into the room.

Jessica tried not to display the shock she felt at the sight of Chester Davis. The guy was probably only a few inches taller than she was and, possibly, weighed less. He swam in the bright orange jailhouse jumpsuit he wore. His arms, which extruded from the suit, were nothing but skin and bone. He gave a nod of recognition to his attorney, Dick Tatum, then, stared point blank at Jessica.