Motion to Dismiss (11 page)

Or longer, I added silently before pushing the thought from my mind. "Why don't you tell us what happened?"

He ran a hand through his hair, leaving an errant tuft at his temple angling outward. "Nina called me at work to say the police were there to search the house. They had a warrant, and also one for my arrest. I'd barely gotten off the phone when one of them showed up at my office."

"They searched your house?" Marc asked. "What did they find?"

Grady shook his head, swallowed hard. "I don't know. I've been fingerprinted, photographed, strip-searched ... humiliated beyond belief."

"Did you give them a statement?"

"No." His skin was pale and clammy. He looked like he might be sick. "I can't stay here. Please. You'll try to get me out?"

"We'll try," I told him, "but I have to tell you, the chances aren't good."

Grady was still, his gaze unfocused somewhere over my left shoulder. For a moment I wasn't even sure he was breathing.

"Are you okay?" Marc asked.

"God in heaven," Grady whispered. "How did this happen?"

It wasn't a question with a simple answer. For a moment none of us spoke.

"This could take months, couldn't it?" Grady asked. His voice was gruff with barely contained emotion.

"Let's take it one step at a time."

His face crumpled. "I can't bear to think what this will do to Nina."

Marc put a hand on Grady's shoulder. "Nina will be fine. She's stronger than you think."

"We'll take a look at the complaint," I told him. "And talk to the D.A. At that point we'll have a better idea where things stand."

Grady nodded numbly.

I hesitated a moment, then asked, "Is there anything you want to tell us?"

He looked puzzled.

"Monday you said you were working late the night Deirdre Nichols was killed. Nobody else was there."

"That's right."

"You sure there's nothing you want to add? Because now's the time to do it, so we know what we're dealing with up front."

He gave me a funny look. "You're asking if I want to change my story?"

Technically we were stuck with the story he'd told the police, but if he was going to add to it, better now than at trial. "I'm just trying to make sure there are no surprises waiting in the wings," I told him.

Grady sat straighter and shook his head vehemently. "I didn't kill Deirdre Nichols. I swear to it." His eyes flickered between mine and Marc's. "You believe me, don't you?"

"Of course," Marc said, speaking for both of us.

I didn't contradict him, but I didn't voice my agreement either.

Half an hour later I was seated once again across the desk from Madelaine Rivera, discussing a case in which Grady Barrett was the defendant. Only this time we were talking homicide rather than rape.

And as I'd predicted, she wasn't willing to recommend bail. Even for Nina's sake.

"I'm sorry," Madelaine said. "I understand how terrible this must be for her."

I wasn't sure she did. That any of us did, for that matter. "Grady Barrett isn't a danger to the community," I told her. "And he's not a flight risk."

"I'm not going to agree to bail."

I had a feeling the judge would follow her lead.

"But we might be able to cut a deal," she added.

"What sort of deal?"

Madelaine examined her nails. They were unpolished and cut close to the quick. "A confession would save us all a lot of time and grief. I think we could take that into account."

I looked at her. "You're crazy. No way would I recommend that."

"Look at the case, Kali. Our victim is a single mom struggling to make a life for her young child. Your guy is rich and successful, the kind who's used to throwing his weight around. First he rapes our victim, then he kills her so she won't testify against him. On top of that, it's the sweet and innocent seven-year-old daughter who discovers the body. The jury's going to love it."

"It's a nice story, but you're kind of short on evidence."

She shook her head. "I don't think so."

There was a knock at the doorway, the same blond policeman I'd seen in Madelaine's office on my last visit.

"Oops, sorry," he said with a quick smile. "Didn't know you had someone with you. I'll drop by later."

From his manner, I suspected his interest wasn't purely professional. "You two seeing each other?" I asked when he'd gone. The last conversation we'd had on the subject, several years earlier, we'd both been bemoaning the shortage of men who were straight, reasonably articulate, and not already spoken for.

Madelaine made a face, something between smugness and disavowal. "If you call a couple of dates 'seeing each other,' then, yeah, I guess maybe so." It was clear she hoped that was the case.

"Nice guy?"

"So far." She shrugged in what was no doubt intended as an offhand gesture. But there was a girlishness to it that made her appear for a moment almost ingenuous. It was a side of Madelaine I'd not seen before.

"What's his name?"

"Steve. Steve Henshaw." She let the name linger on her lips a moment before composing herself for business. "We wouldn't be bringing the case to trial," she continued, "if we didn't think we had a good chance of winning."

"And I wouldn't be defending this client if I thought I would lose."

She didn't smile.

"When am I going to get copies of the reports?"

"Soon. We're still processing some of the information."

"You want to give me the highlights? I'm assuming there's more to it than this alleged rape business."

This time she did smile. "Oh, yes. Much more." Madelaine seemed to be enjoying her role as master of suspense. "You know that Deirdre Nichols' daughter saw Grady's car in the driveway?"

"A car in some ways similar to the one he drives."

A shrug capped with a smirk. "And then there is the handkerchief monogrammed with Grady's initials. Matches one the police seized when they searched your client's house."

"Which Grady claims to have left at Ms. Nichols' the night of the alleged rape."

"And Deirdre just happened to keep it on the floor of the front hallway for two weeks? That's not going to play real well to any jury with half a brain."

She was right. I hadn't known they'd found the handkerchief in the hallway.

Madelaine pressed her fingertips together. "And I find it kind of interesting that the pants Grady was wearing the night in question ended up in the Salvation Army pickup two days later."

"What?" I felt my stomach knot, but I kept my expression flat.

"That's what he says. Their butler, or whatever he is, knew the pants Grady was wearing that night, and the cops didn't find them when they conducted their search." Madelaine ran a hand through her already rumpled hair.

"What
did
they find?"

She smiled. It was the smug expression of someone with the upper hand. "You'll get the whole picture when you read the report."

And then I'd have to have a long talk with Grady.

She leaned back in her chair. "You've got your work cut out for you, Kali."

On that point, unfortunately, we were in agreement.

As soon as I got back to the office, I called Nina. I told her that I'd seen Grady and that he was doing as well as could be expected. Then I turned the conversation to the search the police had conducted that morning.

"What did they take?" I asked her.

"I don't know. They spent most of their time in Grady's closet.

They took some stuff. I'm not sure if that's significant, or if they were just covering all the bases." Nina was trying hard to stay calm, but I could hear the anxiety in the shallowness of her breathing. "Do you have any idea what's going on?"

"Not completely."

She listened in stoic silence while I told her what I knew; then she asked the question for which I wished I had an answer.

"How does it look for him?" Her voice was small, the words more breathed than spoken.

"I don't know yet. I'll have a better idea maybe after I see the police reports. Marc's working on getting them right now."

"It's amazing how one's life can change so abruptly." She let out a breath -- a weary, forlorn sound that made my heart ache.

"It's probably not as bad as it seems, Nina." The assurance rang hollow in my ears, but I couldn't help myself.

"At least I have it easier than Grady." She paused. "He must be so scared."

"Everything will work out, I'm sure." Another empty platitude. Nina must have recognized it as such, because she didn't bother to respond. "I'm going to view the crime scene this afternoon," I told her. "I'll stop by to see you this evening."

"Kali?" She hesitated a moment.

"What?"

"Thanks. I don't know what we'd do if you weren't here."

"Try not to worry, okay?"

A humorless laugh. "How do I do that?"

Officer Duncan, the policeman assigned to be my escort at the crime scene, was a jowly man who took his gatekeeping duties seriously. From the start, it was clear that he wasn't about to turn me loose to poke and pry on my own.

"You want to begin inside or out?" he asked. His breath smelled of spearmint gum.

"Inside." I'd already eyeballed the deck from the street on my last visit, and since Deirdre and her killer had presumably been inside before stepping onto the deck, I thought it best to start there myself.

Duncan pulled a white-tagged key from his pocket and fiddled with the lock. Finally, he opened the door onto a tiled entry hall. I stepped inside. Duncan followed me like a shadow.

The kitchen was to the left; the living area, which stretched the length of the house, was straight ahead, with a wall of wide picture windows and a sliding glass door opening onto the deck. From where I stood, I could see above the treetops into the canyon below.

"Was the sliding glass door open or closed when the police got here?" I asked.

Officer Duncan shook his head. "Sorry, ma'am, I wouldn't know."

I took a notebook out of my purse and jotted a reminder to myself to check. When I moved into the living room, Officer Duncan was only half a step behind.

The house was nicely, but not elegantly, furnished. Two facing sofas in front of a fireplace, an easy chair and ottoman in the corner. They looked as though they'd come as a package deal from one of those modish showrooms where you can furnish a home in one easy trip.

The dining area, which was really an extension of the living room, contained a round oak table and matching chairs. There were no knickknacks, family pictures, or personal items to be seen. I wondered if the owners had packed them away before leaving on their trip, or if they lived as simply as it appeared.

Another thought struck me. "Have the people who live here been contacted yet?" I asked.

"Live here?"

"Deirdre Nichols was house-sitting for a couple who are on a trip. Do you know if the police have reached them about her death?"

"I'm afraid I don't know." His left hand rested on his belt buckle.

"I take it you weren't one of the officers who worked the scene initially."

"No, ma'am."

I opened the sliding glass door and moved onto the cantilevered deck. Below, I could see the yellow tape still marking the spot where Deirdre Nichols's body had fallen.

Why had she been outside on a chilly February night? Had her killer forced her onto the deck, or had she gone willingly? Looking around the house, I'd seen no sign of a struggle, yet I knew the police had found scratches on her body.

I moved into the kitchen with Duncan at my heels. His shoes squeaked on the linoleum floor.

The kitchen was a narrow room with an elevated eating bar at one end. It smelled of ripe garbage.

The coffeemaker was half full, and the counter was strewn with glasses and plates that hadn't made it into the dishwasher. At the far end were a ceramic mixing bowl, a cookie sheet dotted with unappetizing lumps of dough, and assorted baking ingredients -- flour, sugar, a box of oats and one of raisins. Not messy exactly, but cast in that easy disarray of time caught short.

"You think it would taint the crime scene to clean up old food?"

Duncan looked around and shrugged. Maybe to him the stench and the crusty dishes weren't anything unusual.

As elsewhere in the house, I noticed the film of gray granules the police had used in looking for fingerprints. I wondered if they'd found any. Wondered if they had any physical evidence linking Grady to the house on the night of Deirdre Nichols's death.

I spotted a yellow notepad on the counter near the phone. A short shopping list of household staples was scrawled in pencil. I opened the drawer underneath. Pencils, tape, loose coins, and a telephone book.

Deirdre's straw bag hung on the doorknob. "May I?" I asked, gesturing to the purse.

Duncan nodded.

It was a jumble, like my own. But Deirdre's was a mother's purse. In addition to the customary makeup and wallet, it held a lavender Magic Marker, a half-eaten bag of M&Ms, a child's barrette in bright pink, and a can of Play-Doh. I felt a wash of sadness. I knew that the loss of her mother was something that would forever mark Adrianna's life.

I turned to Duncan. "Deirdre Nichols carried a Day-Timer," I said. "Any idea what happened to it?"

"A what?"

"It's like an address book and calendar wrapped into one. Looks like a small loose-leaf notebook."

"Is that what they're called?" He smiled for the first time. "My daughter's got one of those. She's a hotshot architect up in Sacramento. Lots of building going on up there."

"I don't see it here," I told him, rifling through the bag a second time. "You think it was tagged into evidence?"

"Might have been. I couldn't say for sure."

Not that I'd really expected any other kind of answer. "I think the bedrooms are downstairs."

"You want to see the bedrooms?" He made it sound as though I intended something illicit.

I nodded and started for the stairs. Duncan, of course, was not far behind.

The house, like many built on the side of a hill, hugged the terrain for several levels. One flight down was a small bedroom that, from the looks of the stuffed animals on the bed, was probably Adrianna's. From the window I could see the carport, where Officer Duncan had parked, and the section of roadway where I'd pulled in. If the streetlights were bright enough, Adrianna would have had no trouble viewing the silver convertible as she claimed.