Motion to Dismiss (25 page)

As I turned to give the carousel operator my ticket, I caught sight of a man near the exit, a familiar face I couldn't quite place. I looked for him again on our second swoop around, but he was gone. It wasn't until we were on our way to the refreshment stand that I remembered who he was. The cop Madelaine Rivera was dating. Somehow I hadn't imagined her falling for a guy with kids.

We bought hot dogs and took them to an empty table away from the bustle of a birthday party in progress.

"You having fun?" Marc asked Emily.

Her mouth was full, but she nodded vigorously.

He turned to me. "How about you?"

"More fun than I've had in months." The answer was only partially in jest. I didn't know where our relationship was headed, or where I wanted it to head even, but I knew that we'd crossed the invisible line of simple friendship.

Under the table, Marc's hand slid intimately up my thigh. He raised a brow and grinned. "Really? The most fun in
months
?"

"Really."

Marc gave me a playful pinch. "I hope that's a slight exaggeration. I seem to remember a night that was kind of fun too."

Emily poked a straw at her soda. "I wish my daddy was here though."

"Me too, honey." Marc stroked her head. "And I know that's what he'd like as well."

"Simon says it might be a long time before he comes home. Maybe never."

I wanted to give Simon a good shake.

Marc tucked a wayward strand of hair behind her ear. "Don't listen to Simon, sugar. Your dad's coming home. We're going to make sure that he does."

Simon wasn't the only one who needed a shaking. I kicked Marc under the table. It was one thing to be optimistic, but I wasn't comfortable with empty promises. And I didn't have the foggiest idea how you explained the difference to a seven-year-old.

"We're going to try," I told Emily. "We're going to try very, very hard. But it's not really up to us, or your dad. If it was, he'd be with you right this minute."

"How are you going to try?" she asked.

That was something I'd been wondering myself. But Emily's question was of a different nature. "Some people have accused your daddy of doing a bad thing," I explained.

She nodded knowingly. "They say he got mad at Adrianna's mommy and pushed her. She hit her head and died."

I wondered if this was the distilled wisdom of a seven-year-old or an explanation carefully constructed by Nina. "He says he didn't though," I told her. "I believe him, and so does your mom."

"Me too," Marc added. He opened a plastic packet of catsup and squeezed it onto his French fries.

"So why can't he come home?" Emily asked.

"Because it's not up to us. We are going to tell our side of the story -- why we think your dad didn't do it. And the other side will tell the reasons they think he did. A group of people called a jury decides who they believe."

Although Emily nodded, I wasn't sure how much she understood. Nonetheless, the answer seemed to satisfy her. She reached for a handful of Marc's fries.

"Your mom will be home before long too." I added.

Another nod. "As soon as my baby brother is born."

"Maybe sooner, even." The baby wasn't due for another three months.

"Except then she's going to be very sick," Emily said solemnly.

I realized how confusing all this must be for someone her age.

Marc swung his legs over the bench we were sitting on and stood. "How about an ice cream cone?" he asked Emily.

"With sprinkles."

"Absolutely." He turned to me. "How about you?"

My eyes were focused elsewhere. I'd caught sight of Madelaine's friend again, pouring creamer into a container of coffee. I waited for him to join one of the tables of children, but instead he walked off in the other direction.

Marc turned to follow my gaze. "What is it?"

I shook my head. "Nothing really. I saw someone who looked familiar. A cop Madelaine Rivera is dating."

Marc strained to see where I was looking.

"He turned left at the gate," I said. "You can't see him from here."

Marc licked his lower lip. "What kind of cop?"

"Homicide, I think." I spoke softly, above Emily's head. The man had, after all, been investigating the scene of the crime for which her father was facing trial. Then I shrugged. "It's not important."

Marc frowned. "What's he look like?"

"Athletic build, blond hair cut close to the scalp, a slight scar on his chin."

Marc crumpled our hot dog wrappers and paper cups, then dumped them in the trash. "She's dating a cop, huh?"

"They went out once or twice at any rate. I think she'd like it to be a regular thing."

Marc laughed, but I thought I detected a darkening in his expression. If I hadn't known him better, I might have suspected he was secretly enamored of Madelaine Rivera. Or perhaps I didn't know him as well as I thought. I remembered Hal saying that very thing.

"You two ready to head home?" Marc asked, already moving in the direction of the exit.

Emily hung back. "Aren't we going to get ice cream?"

"Sure. We'll eat it in the car."

"I thought we were going to ride the bumper cars," she protested.

Marc ruffled her hair. "Not today."

He appeared distracted on the way home -- no longer joking with Emily, and seemingly oblivious of my presence. Although I'd hoped we might spend the evening together, Marc asked to be dropped off first, before I took Emily home. I tried to hide my disappointment.

"Is something wrong?" I asked when we reached his place.

Marc shook his head, offering me an apologetic smile. "Sorry, I've got a headache. I think it was too much sun."

"If you feel better later this evening, you want to take in a movie?"

He looked at me for a moment, then touched a finger to my cheek. "I've got work to do. But if I had my druthers, I'd choose to be with you any day." He turned to Emily in the backseat. "You too, sport. I had great fun today. We'll do it again sometime."

He got out of the car with a wave to both of us.

I had work to do too, so I told myself that maybe it was just as well. Still, I couldn't help feeling a little hurt. I wondered if I'd done something to make him angry.

After taking Emily home, I went by the grocery and picked up salad fixings for dinner. Then I hit the bakery section and added a fresh apple strudel to my basket. If I was going to spend Saturday night alone, working, I figured I deserved some consolation.

Bea had left me a note saying that Hal had called twice. He would try again later or reach me at the office. After I'd put the groceries away, I tried calling him back. No answer. I tried again after dinner, but he was still out. Obviously Hal had a more active social life than I did.

Since I had the house to myself for the evening, I worked at the dining room table, which offered better light and more space than my cramped desk downstairs. I turned on the stereo and slipped in a Miles Davis CD. Then, kicking off my shoes, I got down to work.

With the hearing only four days away, I needed to transform my rambling notes and thoughts into something concise and compelling. It wasn't going to be easy.

Whatever small hope I'd had of finding a major flaw in the prosecution's case had pretty much evaporated -- and with it, our chances of getting the case dismissed pretrial. While the evidence against Grady wasn't overwhelming, it was strong enough. There was no doubt in my mind that if I offered only a routine challenge to the state's case, the judge would find probable cause to try Grady for murder.

I'd been clinging to the hope that Hal might come through with something solid about Tony Rodale or Eric Simpson. Or that Xavier would come forward with an eyewitness account that exonerated Grady.

They were all long shots, and I'd just about given up. Hal's call today was encouraging. He wouldn't have phoned on a Saturday if it wasn't important.

Some days I wake up exhausted. For no particular reason, I feel spent and oddly out of sorts. As though my body had been dismantled during the night and reassembled with a slightly different fit.

Sunday was like that. My jaw ached from grinding my teeth, my head was filled with vague memories of an unsettling dream, and my neck was stiff.

I've learned from experience that it's best to try to shake the feeling by ignoring it. So after breakfast I forced myself down to the gym, where I walked the treadmill and rode a stationary bicycle for five totally uninteresting miles, and then put my muscles through the wringer at exercise class. When I felt I'd had about as much as I could handle, I took a shower and drove to Sam Wong's grocery in the hope of locating Xavier.

By the time I parked, half a block from the store, I realized that a warm Sunday in early spring was probably not the optimal day for finding teenage boys at the local grocery. Nonetheless, I did stumble across a handful of them sitting on the sidewalk outside, smoking. They had shaved heads, multiple facial piercings, and the vacant stares of misspent youth.

Two knew Xavier. But they didn't know where he was right then or where to find him. They promised to tell him that I wanted to talk with him. I didn't think they'd remember for longer than five minutes.

"You got a call," Bea said when I got home. "Someone from the police department. I wrote his name on the pad by the phone."

On a Sunday? I was surprised. Maybe they'd found a suspect in our breakin. It would certainly be a relief to have that off my mind.

I dialed the number Bea had written down, then waited to be connected with Sergeant Fogerty.

"Are you acquainted with a Harold Fisher?" he asked without preliminaries.

Hal. I felt it in my chest, like a rolling blast of thunder. Bad news of the worst kind. "Yes," I managed to say. "He's a friend of mine." My voice sounded foreign to my own ears.

"I'm sorry to have to tell you that Mr. Fisher was killed last evening."

I sucked in a lungful of air, feeling suddenly as though I were suffocating. "Killed?"

"He had your card in his pocket," Fogerty continued.

When I didn't say anything, he continued. "I realize this is painful for you, but we need a positive in-person identification. Do you think you could help us with that? I can send someone over for you."

My mind was several beats behind the sergeant's. "Killed?" I repeated. "How? Was there an accident?"

Sergeant Fogerty cleared his throat. "He was shot, ma'am."

The morgue is not a comfortable place to spend time, even on a lovely spring afternoon. Or maybe especially then, when the contrast between life and death is underscored so starkly.

Sergeant Fogerty was kind, though, and patient. He didn't try to hurry me, and he didn't turn gruff, or paternal, the way some men do when confronted with an emotional situation.

"You ever done this before?" he asked, leading me into a small room at the end of a downstairs hallway.

I shook my head.

"We use closed-circuit TV these days. It helps a little. Still, it's not pleasant. You going to be okay?"

"I think so." I was grateful I didn't have to stand close to the actual body.

Fogerty darkened the room and angled a television on a metal cart so that I could see it.

"You ready?"

I nodded.

The screen flickered and then settled on what looked to be a sheet. After a moment, two rubber-gloved hands raised the sheet just enough to accommodate viewing. Steeling myself, I lowered my eyes to look, tentatively at first, the way you test the temperature of hot water. I turned away quickly and then, when the initial shock had worn off, looked back again. Hal's skin was colorless, his expression frozen, but his face was unmarked and clearly recognizable.

I nodded. "It's him." Where the sheet angled up, I could see the upper portion of Hal's skinny shoulder and pale, hairless chest. He seemed much frailer in death than he had in life.

"You're sure?" Fogerty asked.

I nodded again.

He touched my arm and turned on the light. "Thank you."

"That's it?"

He nodded. "All we needed was a positive identification."

"Do you know what happened?" I asked. "Or why?"

Fogerty led me back upstairs. "Not really, certainly not the 'why' part. A couple out walking their dog found the body late last night. Your friend was slumped over the steering wheel of his car. Shot. Had probably been dead for several hours by then."

The image of Hal bleeding and crumpled in pain while I was at home waxing envious about his social life loomed large at the back of my mind. I tried to ignore it.

"Where'd they find him?" I was still reeling from the news of Hal's death, trying to fit the pieces so that they made sense.

"The car was on Belleview," Fogerty said. "By the lake."

I leaned against the wall. "Is that where he was killed?"

"Looks that way."

"Any leads?"

Fogerty shook his head. "It's most likely a case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time, but we won't know for sure until we get further into the investigation." He paused and looked at me kindly. "No offense, but did your friend by any chance do drugs?"

"No. At least I'm pretty sure he didn't." Not unless you were counting tobacco and sugar. Hal wasn't even much of a drinker. "Why? Did you find something that makes you think he did?"

"Just wondering, is all. That's most often what's behind this type of crime. He have any family?"

"He has a brother," I said, trying to remember what Hal had told me about him. "Same last name. He teaches at one of the schools back east. Amherst maybe, or Williams. As far as I know, Hal didn't have any other family."

"We'll try to reach the brother." Fogerty shook my hand, touching my shoulder at the same time. "Thanks for your help. I know it wasn't easy for you."

From downtown I drove to Lake Merritt, five minutes away, and parked near the spot where Hal had been killed. The afternoon sun was still bright, and the sky unclouded. But the day seemed dulled by a haze of my own coloring. Only a few days earlier, Hal and I had walked the perimeter of the lake. And now Hal was dead. It didn't seem possible.