A Dead Sister (Jessica Huntington Desert Cities Mystery) (16 page)

“Is this the lady lawyer what wants to talk to me?” he asked Dick Tatum, without taking his eyes off of Jessica.

“Yes, Chet, this is Jessica Huntington.” As he spoke, Dick Tatum stood and walked around the table and stopped beside Chester Davis. A much smaller man than the guard, he still dwarfed the frail-looking inmate. “Thanks, Officer Burke, we can take it from here.”

“Sure thing, Tatum. I’ll be just outside if you need me. Ma’am,” he said, acknowledging Jessica as he backed out of the room and shut the door behind him. Dick Tatum pulled out the chair on the opposite side of the table from Jessica.

“Take a load off, Chet. Shake hands with Attorney Huntington, why don’t you.”

Chester Davis bent over the table to shake hands with Jessica before sitting down. For the first time, he smiled, and Jessica could see he was missing teeth. The ones he had left didn’t look so good. There was no way to tell if the missing teeth had been knocked out, or lost through the ravages of drug use. Given his state of emaciation, he was lucky to have any teeth. A lot of drugs, but methamphetamine especially, could have done this to the man sitting across from her. Or maybe barbiturates, they did a number on your teeth, too. Even though Art had told Frank he was in his fifties Jessica had learned that Chet Davis was about her own age. The same age Kelly would have been if she had lived, about 34 or 35. She could understand Art’s mistake, though, since Chester Davis looked older than the 50-something Tatum standing next to him.

Davis’s hair, the color of wheat, was sparse and patchy. His bloodshot blue eyes were watering, and he was sniffling like he had a cold. Dick Tatum handed him a tissue. He was sick or in withdrawal from whatever he had been using along with the meth. He gazed at Jessica, anxiety on his face. One eye twitched.

“You gonna help me get out of here?” He asked Jessica, shifting nervously in his seat. He folded and unfolded his hands, wiped his nose with the tissue, then wrapped it around his fingers.

“I don’t know, Mr. Davis. That’s up to your attorney and the prosecutor.”

“I thought you said she was going to help us. You said she was going to be on our team, Tatum. What’s she saying?” His eyes were wide, and both blinked furiously as he spoke to Dick Tatum.

“It’s okay, Chet. Ms. Huntington just wants to hear what you have to say. She’s not going to repeat anything you tell her.  She can’t do that.”

“What do you mean, it’s okay? I’m not talkin’ to no one who’s not my lawyer.”

“Mr. Davis, what Mr. Tatum is trying to say is that anything you say, with your lawyer present, will be a privileged communication. You know, private? That means it can’t be shared, outside this room, without your permission.”

“I know what privileged communication means.” His eyes narrowed as he looked at Jessica, hard and stubborn. “He said if I talked to you, told you what I know, you was goin’ to help make a valuation of what I said. That you mighta known who this girl was I saw get murdered and that could make me have more credibility. That’s right, ain’t it, Tatum?”

“Yes, that’s right. But she doesn’t have to be your lawyer to do that. She still has to go by the rules because she’s sitting here in this room with us.”

“Well, that ain’t good enough. She’s not my lawyer. I ain’t sayin’ nothin’.” Chester Davis turned toward the door. He was getting ready to call the guard.

“Wait, Mr. Davis. I can fix this, if it’s okay with Mr. Tatum.” Jessica turned slightly toward Dick Tatum. “Have you got a dollar you can loan Mr. Davis?” she asked the attorney, who was already pulling out his wallet.

“If it’s okay with you, Mr. Tatum, it sounds like Mr. Davis here wants to add me to the team. If you give him that dollar and he gives it to me, we’ll call it a deal. What do you say?”

“That works for me. Chet is that okay with you?” Dick Tatum took the dollar bill from his wallet and handed it to the jumpy, wiry shell of a human sitting across from them. He slowly reached for the dollar, took it and turned it over. He waited a moment longer, then, handed it to Jessica.

“Works for me,” he said as he handed the dollar to Jessica. On a piece of paper, she wrote out a receipt, speaking aloud as she wrote: “Received, this the 3
rd
day of July, 2013, from Mr. Chester Davis, the amount of $1.00 for legal services to be rendered on his behalf in partnership with Richard Tatum.” She signed it and created a space for him to sign it too. He scrawled his name unevenly with hands that shook.

“Do you want to keep that, or shall I?” She asked.

“You keep it.” He handed the makeshift receipt back to Jessica, who folded it and placed it carefully into a pouch of the leather portfolio, open in front of her.

“Okay, will do. Now, how about you tell me about this girl you say was murdered. This is very important to me, since it could have been a friend of mine. Can you tell me what happened?”

“I bet she coulda’ been your friend. She was real pretty like you. Only she had reddish hair, an’ it was a lot longer, and the most beautiful eyes I ever seen.” Jessica tried not to flinch. She was so glad it had been several hours since she had anything to eat. What she heard after that made her ill.

CHAPTER 12

“Can I buy you a cup of coffee, Jessica? You look like you could use one. If it was later in the day, I’d suggest something stronger.” They stood in front of the Riverside County Courthouse, across the street from the detention center building, near Jessica’s car. She was shaken by what she had just heard.

“I could use some coffee, but you should let me buy it. I’ll spend that dollar I just earned in there. I need to go to the Sherriff’s department next. A Detective Greenwald, in the cold case unit, went to Palm Springs and got Kelly Fontana’s file out of storage or wherever it was in the police department. He left a copy for me to pick up this morning. I know it’s nearby but I’m sort of turned around now. Can we get coffee near there?”

A glimpse at her watch revealed it was still morning, but not by much. It was already after 11:30. They had taken their time with Chester Davis, letting him tell his story in his own furtive, halting way. It spilled out in fits and starts, with long pauses in which he seemed to be zoned out or ready to bolt. Tatum was right that he was scared, terrified, in fact. At times, i
t was as if Chester Davis was 20 again, and witnessing the event. The twitching and trembling in his drug-addled body amplified so that he shook like a leaf, and his tremulous voice was barely audible at times. He was not going to make the most credible witness if they ever got far enough along in an investigation to go to trial. Elements of his story were frightfully compelling, and mostly consistent, even when they got him to tell them the story a second and then a third time. The thought of eating made her stomach do a flip-flop, but it was probably bumping up against Dick Tatum’s lunch hour.

“Actually, if there’s someplace that serves lunch, I’d like to buy that for you. You shouldn’t have to give up lunch to babysit your co-counsel. I admit I’m shaken. Chester Davis tells a gruesome story about what sounds like the murder of a close friend.”

He gazed at Jessica, thoughtfully. “The office you’re looking for is right there on Lemon Street.” He pointed just past the detention center building. “If you don’t mind walking a couple more blocks in those shoes, we can have lunch at the Salted Pig.”

“Hang on a second, will you?” Before he could answer, Je
ssica stepped off the curb and to the driver side of her car. She unlocked and opened the car door, tossed her scarf onto the back seat. Then she fished out a pair of black ballet flats. With one hand on the car door for balance, she switched from the pumps to the flats.

The whole thing took a couple minutes, max, and she felt lighter. The act of changing her external appearance discharged some of the contaminating stress she had picked up listening over and over again to the horror that Kelly had endured. It probably took longer for Chester Davis to tell his story than for Kelly to have lived through it, or, more accurately, to have died from it. If he was to be believed, Kelly was running for her life, with two men in pursuit, as she fled into the parking lot where she was hit and killed.

“Okay, now I’m ready. Lead the way, if you don’t mind,” she said to Tatum, who waited on the sidewalk near her car. Without another word, he stepped out and dashed back across the street, and past the detention center building. The Sherriff’s department building was more or less wedged in between Orange and Lemon streets. The entrance was in the middle of the block, facing away from either street. Once inside the building, while saying hello to acquaintances, Tatum hustled Jessica to the information desk in the Central Homicide Unit. She asked for Detective Greenwald. In less than a minute, out walked a tall, thin man in civilian clothes. He wore a long-sleeved shirt with slacks, and no tie or jacket. Art Greenwald was bald except for a fringe of dark hair that ringed his head. Heavy brows hovered above his brown eyes, giving his unsmiling face a stern quality. He examined them both carefully, letting his eyes linger on Jessica.

Still looking at Jessica, he spoke. “Hey Tatum, how’s it going?” Without waiting for a response, Art Greenwald addressed Jessica. “Nice to meet you, Ms. Huntington. How did it go with Chester Davis?”

Before Jessica could reply, Dick Tatum spoke up. “It went very well. Chet spilled the beans. As far as I’m concerned, we have ample reason to reopen that case. Jessica can tell you more.”

“Yes, Detective Greenwald, I guess you could say things went well. I would like to talk to you about what we learned. We were going to go have lunch. Dick suggested The Salted Pig. Did I get that right?” Dick nodded. “Can you join us? My treat, if you have the time, and there’s no rule against my picking up the check.”

“Sure, just as long as you’re not trying to apply any undue influence with the offer of a free lunch.” He stared at her for another few seconds, deadpan.

“No, no. Of course not, I wouldn’t expect...” The detective broke into a smile for the first time, cutting her off. Was he trying to be irritating on purpose? Was this his usual manner or was
he singling her out for some sort of special treatment? The crooked little smile that remained on his face could easily have been a smirk.

“Cut it out, Arty. Jessica’s had a rough morning. She doesn’t need you razzing her. I’m hungry as a horse. Let’s go eat before she changes her mind and we miss out on a free lunch!” Jessica breathed a sigh of relief as the detective chuckled, with the brows moving up and down a bit as he shook his head.

“Don’t call me Arty, Dick-y! So Jessica, is it? Let me get that file for you, Jessica, and we’ll go to lunch. It’s Art to you, too, not Arty or lunch is off, deal?”

“Deal,” she muttered, not sure if he was still kidding or he meant that. He moved toward the back of the work area in which he was standing and pulled a large brown envelope out of a bin.

Dick leaned over and spoke to Jessica in a confidential tone, “Art’s not as funny as he thinks he is, nor as smooth with the ladies as he imagines. You’re bound to get some hazing as the new kid on the block around here. He’s a dependable guy, though, and a good detective. We can count on him if he decides there’s a reason to take another look at what happened to your friend.”

Jessica thought about the difficult relationship she had developed with Cathedral City’s cantankerous Detective Hernandez, who honchoed the homicide investigation into Roger Stone’s death. He had done more than just rib her. He was down-right derisive at times, and threatened repeatedly to file charges against her for butting into the investigation. It was not too surprising that there was antagonism between police who apprehended bad guys and the lawyers who tried them. Especially lawyers charged with defending guys the police wanted to keep off the streets. Even a conviction didn’t guarantee they’d be off the streets for long, though, at least not until they got to the end of their rope, like Chet Davis.

Art and Dick chatted with each other as they all walked to the Salted Pig. A crowd was already gathering, even though they arrived before noon. A self-proclaimed “gastropub,” the place served a range of items. That included the proverbial pub fare, burgers and fries, but with a twist. Most everything was made in house, including the brioche buns and ketchup served with the burgers. Even the coffee ice cream and the time-honored favorite of police officers everywhere—donuts—were handmade.

Not surprising, for a place that had “pig” in its n
ame, bacon and other “pig parts” figured prominently on the menu. The two guys insisted she try the bacon fat popcorn seasoned with maple sugar and sea salt they had ordered as an appetizer. Dick’s burger was made of ground pork, with apple wood smoked bacon, and served with “filthy fries”: a huge pile of fries covered with beer cheese, herbs and roasted garlic. Slab bacon adorned Art’s burger, along with enoki mushrooms and Gouda, topped off with a fried egg and, on the side, a bucket of traditional fries.

Jessica
couldn’t handle a burger and fries, even though she felt much better after a few sips of diet Coke. There were plenty of alternatives on the menu, and she settled for a small plate of Brussels sprouts roasted with a kimchee spice, and a salad featuring labneh, tomato, basil seed and a verbena vinaigrette. The salad was a new take on her perennial favorite, the caprese salad.

“What is it with women and salads?” Art asked as they set her plate down in front of her. “Do you really like that, or is it some dieting thing, or what?”

Dick Tatum butted in before Jessica could respond. She wasn’t sure what to say anyway. She could not get a read on this guy. “Hey, Art, it’s got to be a lot more healthy than burgers and fries, probably why they outlive us men.”

“Yeah, maybe so, but what’s the point if you have to pass up all the good stuff in life anyway?” He dipped a couple of fries in ketchup and stuffed them into his mouth. “They serve beer here, too. Their microbrews are great. Too bad we’re all on the clock. What about beer, Jessica, is that also on your list of unhealthy foods?”

“I drink beer, but if I have a choice I usually prefer wine. I’m not sure why, maybe the same reason I like salads. It just seems lighter, somehow.” Jessica pushed the food around on her plate. She was preoccupied by that interview with Chester Davis, and this conversation was beginning to get under her skin. Staring intently at her fork, she willed herself not to poke the detective with it. Staying on his good side was probably the right thing to do. Putting her fork down, Jessica thought, “I wonder what his good side looks like.”

“So, are you two going to fill me in on what this guy said, or what?” Art asked, breaking an uneasy silence that had settled on them.

“Sure, Art. Jessica, why don’t you start, and I’ll jump in if I have anything to add? I’ve told him some of this already. It’ll probably be better if you do it, since you won’t be tempted to skip over anything.”

“Okay, it’ll help me to recap, too. Then, maybe, we can talk about where we go from here. What we learned from Chester Davis is that he saw someone fitting Kelly Fontana’s description run down in the parking lot outside the Agua Caliente hotel a
nd spa. He says he was 20 at the time. That works out, given his date of birth. Kelly was killed in January, 1999, the same year he turned twenty-one.”

“Hang on a minute. Are you telling me that guy is only thirty-something?” Art Greenwald looked dumbfounded.

“Hey, Art, he’s lucky to be alive,” Dick interjected. “He’s been a meth addict for well over a decade, and it shows.”

“That’s for sure. I didn’t mean to interrupt, Jessica. Go on.” At first, she thought he was close to an apology for butting in. Then, with that order to “go on
,” he slipped back into il comandante mode. Jessica moved ahead, hoping to get this over quickly.

“Chet says he had made a delivery to someone in the hotel. He claims it was a little weed and a few tabs of ecstasy, but who knows. At the time he was a runner for a group of small-time dealers
operating out of a house not too far away in North Palm Springs. Nothing big, a group of users like him, trying to make enough to support their own habit by selling to locals and tourists.” Jessica paused a moment, took a sip of her diet Coke and stole a glance at Dick Tatum. He gave her a little nod to go on.

“He had just come out of the hotel and was about to get on a bike stashed near a back exit of the hotel. There was some kind of construction or remodeling going on. The place has gone through a lot of redoes over the years, but there might be some way to corroborate his story if there was some sort of makeover going on then. Anyway, a line of dumpsters was sitting out there. His bike was leaning against one of them, hidden away so nobody would steal it while he was inside. Before getting back on the bike, he ducks behind the dumpster. He said it was to count his money, but with a little prodding, he admitted he was planning to get high before
riding back to the place where he was living at the time. Apparently, when he had made his delivery to the hotel room, there were half a dozen young guys partying and already trashed. According to Chet, booze, joints and pills were all over the place. While they were pulling money out of their pockets and putting it in a big pile to pay for his delivery, Chet helped himself to some of what was lying around.” Jessica paused again, the story getting harder to tell. She took a deep breath and went on.

“So now he’s in the parking lot with the drugs he skimmed and a wad of cash, and decides he’s going to get high. He’s about to light up when he hears the back door open and somebody running. That makes him nervous. Maybe someone from the party is coming to get the stuff he took, so he stoops down, hoping he’s well-hidden. He peeks through a crack between two of the dumpsters. What he sees is a woman running, a young woman about his age. She looks as wasted as those guys he had just seen, so at first he thinks she’s freaking out because she’s so stoned. Or maybe she’s had a fight with her boyfriend or something like that. The kind of situations he runs into when he makes deliveries. He’s about to light a joint when he hears the door open again. The girl takes off faster as two men come into view, chasing her. They have jackets so he figures maybe it’s hotel staff chasing a guest or employee who’s done something wrong. She’s running flat out across part of the parking lot that wasn’t taken up back then by the old casino building adjacent to the hotel. Then all of a sudden, he sees car lights come on, like somebody was waiting for her in a getaway car. The car accelerated and instead of coming to her rescue went straight for her. She tried to get out of the way, but never had a chance. The car hit her almost head on.” Jessica’s eyes met those of the detectives, filled with misery and sadness as she continued.