Hostile Witness (5 page)

Linda shivered. She liked neither Rockwell nor Dali. She liked Kip the way he used to be before all this; his own blank canvas. She liked the Kip who relied on her or Fritz for definition. But Fritz wasn’t here anymore, the governor was holding out the things Kip wanted – power, attention, notoriety of his own - and she wasn’t the same woman who had left the house earlier that evening.  For the first time, the next step in Linda’s life wasn’t clear.

Kip didn’t look at her when she came in. He barely moved as he methodically picked up, looked at, and placed his father’s things in a box on the side of the desk.  Linda felt him vibrating, radiating frustration and anger.  It rolled around the room like a Dervish.

“I don’t want to talk, Linda,” he said quietly, his voice trembling.

“We have to talk.”

“No,” Kip held up his hand, “we don’t”

“Then what do you want to do?  Just sit and wait until we know what ever it is that they know? You want to wait for other people to make their moves before we do? You want to pretend this isn’t happening?”

Linda started toward the desk but stopped short. The usual ministrations wouldn’t work to soothe him. He didn’t want to be touched. She couldn’t coax him to bed.  He had been changing ever since Fritz died. It hadn’t been unattractive or unwanted – until now. Linda backed off, holding herself in check. She would tread carefully until she had the lay of the land. She talked, thinking on her feet.

“You’re right. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I just can’t believe this is happening.  Everything was going so well,” she held out her hands to stop him from interrupting. “But we can control this situation. I spoke to an attorney about Hannah. She’s an old friend. She’ll get Hannah out of jail. Once that happens we’ll send her away to school. Lot’s of people have problem kids. Everyone will forget about this.  My attorney won’t bring you, or the firm, into this. She’ll deal with this discreetly. . .”

“Discreetly?” In the blink of an eye Kip was up, standing behind the desk, his plain features contorted into disbelief and rage. He picked up a picture of his father and hurled it across the room. Not at her. Luckily, not at her. “How in the hell do you figure the murder of a California Supreme Court Justice can be handled discreetly?  When they thought this was an accident nobody was discreet. We won’t be able to sneeze without people trying to figure out what goes on in this house. They’re going to want a reason Hannah was arrested and if they can’t find one they’ll make it up.  Hannah caused problems from the minute she walked through the door. For my father. For me. Even for you.  But now she’s going to ruin my life. . .”

“Okay. All right,” Linda screamed.  She backed up.  Afraid of her husband for the first time since she met him, Linda would never let him know. “You’ve always wanted her gone. Do you want me gone, too? You’re such a big man now you don’t need me?  If that’s what you’re saying then I’m out of here. I’ll take care of myself and I sure as hell won’t care who gets taken down if they prosecute my kid.”

Kip put his hands on one of Fritz’s awards. It was a heavy thing made of crystal and wood. Even in the dim light Linda could see his arms shaking with the tension of his pent up emotions. He fought with himself wanting to lift it, throw it, and cradle it to his breast.

“It was supposed to be my time.  I was making it my time. I was standing up. . .it was all for you. . .me. . .”

Linda Rayburn watched her husband implode. Slowly he sank back into the chair, his hands still around the hunk of glass and wood. He lowered his head until it rested on the cool wedge of crystal. Linda bowed her own, her hair covering her face, her shoulders slumping. Maybe they were all lost; maybe not.  Finally, Linda raised her head. Her eyes narrowed. Inside there was a sliver of steel left. A little gift from her mother who made Linda what she was – a friggin’ survivor. Linda was going to share that gift with Kip because the last thing she wanted to do was leave.

Slowly she walked toward her husband and wrapped her arms around his head. She pulled him into her. His arms went around her waist as she buried her lips in his hair.

“I know what you did for me. I know what it cost you,” she whispered.

“You do?”

 “Yes, and I was proud. And now you’ve got to stay brave and see this through,” Linda said.

“I can, but you’ve got to help me now,” Kip mumbled. “You owe me that. After everything I’ve done. After all the risks I took for you. You owe me, not her. I hate her. It’s my turn now.”

Linda’s heart turned to stone. Just when she thought life was going to be easy it took the cruelest turn of all. She hadn’t even wanted one and now she had two children pointing at her, making her part excuse, part reason, part inspiration for the things they did. It wasn’t fair.

Linda sighed and caressed Kip’s hair. She would do what she could. She’d push Kip to his limit and make him find his courage again. She’d be smart, she’d watch and wait, and move only when it was necessary. But in the end, if Hannah didn’t do her part, they were all screwed.

4

Josie woke up at six with the sun in her eyes, the smell of Archer all around. It was in the sheets, on her body, in the scent of the dark coffee he preferred, the piquant smell of the chemicals he used in his darkroom. The sense of him was everywhere. In the way his clothes were hung precisely in the closet, and in the book of forensic techniques that lay open on the bedside. Once a cop always a cop.  On the bookshelf, a rosary hung over the neck of an empty bottle of tequila. It was a long story.  Short version: Archer found religion one night while a buddy lost his. He said he kept the rosary to remind him to play savior only when it was a sure thing. Josie didn’t believe him. He could never be so calculating. He had saved her, and she wasn’t a sure thing. Josie threw an arm over her eyes for a second, then rolled onto her side to touch the place where he had slept. The sheets were cold. He’d been gone for awhile.

Josie got out of bed and searched for her clothes. She found her muscle shirt and panties but the sweats and sports bra were missing in action. She shimmied into what she had, glanced at the picture of Lexi, Archer’s dead wife, and then went looking for the man they shared.  She found him on the rooftop balcony, a perk of owning the building.

“Morning,” Josie walked up behind him and wound her arms around his waist. He was a big man; made her feel downright dainty. She loved the smell of his shirt. Starched and pressed by the man who wore it.

“Don’t move,” he commanded.

Josie didn’t but only because she didn’t want to. She held her breath, loving the feel of him when he was excited by what he saw through his lens. His gut tightened beneath her hands. A solitary muscle rippled. Quick like a snake. A click. He sighed with satisfaction and stood up slowly, surveying the beach once more before turning around to kiss Josie. She kissed him back just long enough for them both to be happy. When she slipped out of his arms, he let her go. No nonsense. No jealousy. No neediness.  Respect. Affection. Comfort. Chemistry. It was the kind of relationship people who could take care of themselves did well.

Archer and Josie did it extremely well.

They met a year ago. Archer snapped a picture of her at the pro-am volleyball tournament. She had her hand on her hip, baseball hat on backwards, sunglasses covering her eyes. When the picture was printed, Josie was pleased. She could see her six-pack abs, the ropes of muscles in her legs, and the fine definition of her biceps.  Archer said that wasn’t what he saw. He saw her glaring at him from behind those glasses, unhappy that she had lost a critical point, determined she wouldn’t lose the next one.  He knew they would be more than good friends. It took Josie a month longer to figure it out.

“You want more coffee?” Josie picked up the thermal pot to pour herself a cup.  He shook his head.  Josie and her coffee joined him by the balcony railing.  

“I got the sun coming up.  I picked up some woman skinny dipping around five.” Archer lifted his chin to indicate the surf. Josie looked at him. He had a wonderful profile. He looked like an Irish boxer: strong jawed, short, straight nose, eyes that were dark and close together. Those eyes held a person tight in his line of sight. His was a man’s face and a man’s body. He didn’t own a suit. He was as different from the men Josie used to date as Baxter & Associates was from the kind of law she used to practice. What had she seen in those men in designer suits?  Josie leaned into him, playfully banging his shoulder with her own.

“You’re going to get sued one of these days when somebody sees themselves on a postcard or in a magazine.”

“I know a good lawyer. She wouldn’t let me down.” He pushed back. Not a hint of a smile. It wasn’t his way. He smiled with his eyes, with his touch. Josie knew when Archer was happy. It was the same way he showed hurt and anger and compassion - with his eyes, with his touch.

“I wouldn’t count on that,” Josie said wryly. “I might decide you’re not worth it one of these days.”

Archer put a big hand on the back of her neck and followed up with a kiss. He pulled Josie into him, draping his arm over her shoulder.

“This from a woman who lets herself in and has her way with me in the middle of the night? I think I can count on her.”

Josie sipped her coffee and stayed nestled against him. He waited just long enough, then gave her the nudge she seemed to want.

“So? You weren’t exactly talkative last night.”

Josie chuckled softly. The truth was they hadn’t exchanged two words. Archer once told her that he could tell what she needed by the way she came to bed. If Josie wanted to talk she crawled in already debating. When she needed something else – something more personal – she came in quietly, stayed close, he could hear her thinking. He even seemed to know whether it was old troubles, or new, that had to be dealt with.

Then there were the nights like last night. It wasn’t sleep she wanted, or talking she needed. Josie needed to clear her mind so she could rest, and Archer had a way of making that happen.

“I had a visitor last night. . .” Josie began, training her eyes on the runner of sand and the never-ending carpet of blue ocean as she filled him in.

Twenty minutes later they were sitting in the beach chairs on the balcony sharing a bagel, Josie’s coffee was cold and her story was over. Archer knew it all: Linda, the history, the girl, the charge, the victim, the retainer – impressive - and the fact that the next move was Josie’s.

“You told her you were going to check it out. So check it out.”

“Jesus, Archer. You know how I feel about murder – women involved in murder. It’s not that easy.”

Josie took a bite out of the bagel. She wasn’t hungry; she just didn’t relish trying to explain again why it wasn’t easy. But Archer had made his living investigating criminals – lawyers were not a great challenge.

“Why not?” He laced his hands behind his head and looked right at her.

Most people found it uncomfortable to look Archer in the eye. They said his eyes were flat, cold and judgmental. Josie always thought of his gaze as a level playing field.

“Because it opens a can of worms.  If she’s innocent, she’s going up against a lot – the press and the DA who really wants a pound of flesh and who knows how the governor’s office will play into all this.  If she’s guilty and I get an acquittal, I don’t think I could live with myself. It’s sort of like being an ex-nun. I still believe in God, I just don’t think He’s omnipotent. Besides, it’s been a long time since I put together a defense like this. . .”  Josie put her fingers to her mouth. She didn’t exactly bite her nails but she came close.

“You handled really big cases for sixteen years before you came here,” Archer reminded her.

“Linda’s a friend. . .” Josie countered.

“She’s an acquaintance.  If she was a friend I would have heard about her.”

"Okay. Okay. Then there’s the fact that this is a juvenile matter.” Josie held up her hand. “And before you say anything about her being charged as an adult it’s still a child we’re talking about. I don’t know what to do with a kid.”

“You know what to do with a client, Josie.”

Archer snapped the pedal of his black racing bike he kept on the roof, instead of the garage. The garage was full of files from old cases, keepsakes from the house he shared with Lexi, and a Hummer. That vehicle was a man’s hunk of metal that could go anywhere he thought there might be a picture or a perp.  Archer watched the pedal twirl for a minute and then looked at her.

“When Lexi died I didn’t want to look at another woman. Then you stood right in front of me.  I couldn’t ignore you and that caused a lot of pain, Jo. I had to figure out if I was happier being with a live woman or living with the memories of a dead one. Do you think you don’t miss what you used to do?  Maybe this thing is a test. Go see this girl. If you feel hinky, walk away.  Just do it because it’s the right choice.”

 “Good job, Archer. Make me feel like two cents. I’m not afraid if that’s what you think. I could go down there. I could see this girl and make up my mind.”

“Then do it. That’s all the mother is asking.”

“No. You don’t know Linda. She’s expecting me to make the trouble go away,” Josie objected.

“Who cares what she expects? I’m just saying that if you turn your back now, you’ll never look in the mirror the same way again.”

 “Says you, Archer.” Josie pushed herself off the beach chair. She should be on the beach picking up a game, checking on Billy, or laying all that tile.  She should be biking to Santa Monica with Archer. She shouldn’t even be thinking about dead people and murderers, innocence and guilt, and the thousand ways she knew to spin evidence to make her story sound like God’s own truth. And Archer should be a little more helpful.  He could at least concede she had a reason to be cautious.  When he didn’t, Josie bailed.

“I’m going home.”

As she walked past, Archer reached up and took her arm.

“You should know what you’re made of, Josie. Everybody should know that.”

“See you tomorrow.” Josie kissed him on top of his head.  “Or maybe next week.”

She found the rest of her clothes in the bedroom, dressed, and collected Max. If it had just been her, Josie would have hustled down the three flights of stairs.  With Max, it took a little longer.  On the Strand, Hermosa was coming alive. Rollerbladers, walkers, a mother pushing a stroller, people sipping coffee, reading their paper, and surfers straddling their boards, waiting for the wave they could ride, or the one that would drown them.

Josie didn’t bother to watch and see which it would be.  She felt her own wave coming and she wasn’t ready.

From the rooftop balcony Archer leaned on the railing and watched Josie go. He didn’t bother to turn the tripod and take a picture of her. He never liked to take pictures of people walking away so he just watched Josie as the early morning people turned to look at her. She was so tall and striking, tanned and confident.  He also saw she walked just a little too fast for comfort and not fast enough for exercise, she kept old Max close to her like a friend along to help her find her way in a strange place.

But Hermosa wasn’t strange. It was the call of an old, frightening, fascinating place that had Josie Baylor-Bates spooked. Archer could have talked her through it, past it, or out of it, but he didn’t. That woman had been fooling herself for a long time. Josie thought she chose to live near the beach in Hermosa and work in a neighborhood law firm because she was disillusioned. That was a lie.  Josie had run to Hermosa, hidden her head in the sand of Faye Baxter’s little law firm. Now somebody was tugging on her head, and she was trying to keep it stuck in the sand.

Archer took a deep breath and looked away. She was almost out of sight and there was nothing he could do for her now except wait for her to come back. Much as he wanted to go with her, stand guard when she came face to face with that kid, he wouldn’t.

Instead, Archer put himself behind the camera and turned it back to the sea. That’s how much he loved her.

 “Input.”

Governor Joe Davidson poured nonfat milk on his half a cup of bran cereal, positioned the small plate of fruit to his left, and the tall glass of lemon water on his right. Though it was early, and though the sun was shining invitingly outside his hotel room in Santa Monica, he had eyes only for his sparse breakfast, and ears only for ideas on how to handle the Rayburn matter. The Governor’s chief of staff, Alex Schaeffer, and his campaign manager, Cheryl Winston, had thought about nothing else since they heard the news of Hannah Sheraton’s arrest the night before.

“Well,” Cheryl began, “I’m a little pissed the D.A. didn’t give us a head’s up on this. I would think, given the fact it had to do with a justice’s death, he would have at least kept us in the loop.”

“Cooper’s an ass,” Davidson said flatly. “He thinks this little show of autonomy will be impressive enough to put him in the running for Rayburn’s seat. Miscalculated as usual - the arrest, and the assumption.”