Motion to Dismiss (26 page)

Sorrow swelled in my chest. I closed my eyes and let the tears come. After fighting them so long, it felt good to let loose and cry.

I remembered meeting Hal for the first time when I was fresh out of law school. We'd been on opposite sides of a case then, but he'd taken me to lunch anyway and given me an hour's briefing on the unwritten rules and behind-the-scenes politics of the D.A.'s office. We'd remained friends even when the client he was working for got sent away for thirty years.

A host of images paraded through my mind like pages in a photo album. Nearly ten years of memories during which Hal had been there for me as a friend, as well as someone I counted on in my work.

For a while, the sadness in my heart was so intense, I felt I couldn't breathe. But gradually grief gave way to numbness. I wondered how Hal had ended up, to use Fogerty's words, in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Or if the answer was really that simple.

I knew I should tell the police what I could about Hal's life. That he was gay, that he'd had a string of failed relationships, and probably a series of one-nighters and attempted relationships as well. Hal might have been searching for Mr. Right, but I knew he wasn't putting his life on hold while he looked.

Was that what had led to his death? A lover's quarrel, or perhaps the wrong choice for an evening's companion?

Or could his death be connected in some way to his work as a private investigator? He'd called me yesterday, twice. Was he killed because of his investigation of the Barrett case? With that thought came a new wave of sorrow, intensified by guilt. I knew I'd have to tell the police about that too.

Finally, I started the car and drove to Marc's. Although I was still feeling hurt by his sudden indifference yesterday afternoon, I didn't want to be alone.

Marc answered the door looking half dazed. He was wearing a rumpled shirt and jeans that showed signs of having been donned hastily. His hair was sticking up on one side and his eyes were bloodshot.

"Sorry," I said. "I didn't expect you to be asleep still." It was already past noon.

He shook his head, as much to clear his mind, I suspect, as in response to my apology. "It's not a problem."

"Are you alone?" I felt suddenly uncomfortable at the prospect of what I might have interrupted. No wonder he hadn't wanted my company last night.

Marc apparently read my mind, because he responded with a twisted smile. "No one's here. I was just resting."

For a moment we stood awkwardly in the open doorway. And then, surprisingly, the tears started flowing again. Damn, I'd thought that part was past.

"What is it?" Marc's face registered concern. He no longer seemed half asleep. "What's the matter, Kali? What's wrong?" He pulled me close and encircled me in his arms.

I pressed my face against his chest. "Hal was killed last night," I said tearfully. "Somebody shot him."

"What?"

"He was in his car, by the lake."

"Shot? Jesus. Did they get the guy who did it?"

I shook my head. "I know you didn't like him much, but he was a sweet guy. Honest and funny and generous beyond belief."

"Liking has nothing to do with it," Marc said. His voice was scratchy with emotion. "I certainly didn't wish him any harm. Hal was a friend of yours, someone you cared about."

"I can't believe he's really dead."

"Jesus, what a shock." Marc stepped back. "Come on, I'll make some coffee. You look like you could use it."

I followed him to the kitchen.

"Do you know how it happened?" he asked, measuring grounds into the filter.

I relayed the few details of Hal's death that I knew. "I'm worried," I said, swallowing hard to hold back a fresh round of tears, "that it might be my fault. That maybe Hal was killed because he was working on Grady's defense."

"Sounds to me like you're looking to beat yourself up."

"No, I think it's a real possibility." What had started as simple supposition had now taken hold in my mind. And I was troubled.

"But why?" Marc handed me a mug of coffee.

"Hal was suspicious of Tony Rodale."

Marc raised an eyebrow.

"He said there were rumors circulating about him."

"What kind of rumors?"

"He didn't know exactly. But he was digging to see if he couldn't find out more."

Marc was visibly shaken. "And you think he found something on Rodale?"

"Maybe. Hal said Rodale might have had police connections as well."

Marc sank into the leather sling chair. "Jesus. Why didn't you say something about this before?"

"There was nothing to tell, really." A half-truth of sorts. I wondered if Marc recognized that.

We sat at the glass-topped dining table and sipped our coffee as though it were a task that required full concentration.

"There's also Eric Simpson," I said after a moment. "The guy who was hounding the Carsons. Hal was looking into that too. He was digging in a lot of different directions, in fact. It could be any of them."

"Or none." Marc rubbed the back of his neck. "Street crime is usually random, don't forget. Rotten luck as opposed to sinister motives."

But what had Hal been doing down by the lake in the first place?

"I take it his wallet wasn't missing?" Marc said.

"I don't know. I didn't ask." I wished now that I'd pressed Fogerty for more information. But the shock of Hal's death had been too fresh for clear thinking. "The sergeant I spoke with asked me if Hal did drugs."

Marc's face registered surprise. "What made him ask that?"

"I guess it's one of the first things that comes to mind in a situation like this."

"Did he?"

"I don't think so."

Marc leaned forward, elbows on the table, his head in his hands. He was still for a moment. Then he stood abruptly and walked to the window. "Maybe now isn't the time to mention this, but if your theory is correct, you might be in danger yourself."

"Me?"

"And me," he added wryly. "If that makes it any better."

A cold chill worked its way down my spine. "What happened to your street-crime-is-usually-random argument?"

"It's still floating around out there. This is an alternative." Marc sat again, turning his chair so that he faced me. "Think about it. If Hal was killed because of something he discovered about Deirdre Nichols' death, then the killer might think we know also."

I stared at my cup, not at all comfortable with the direction my mind was taking. "There was the breakin at our office," I said, thinking aloud.

Marc nodded.

"You really think..."

"I don't pretend to understand it," he said. "But I know I don't like it. In fact, it scares the hell out of me."

It scared the hell out of me too.

I ended up staying at Marc's for dinner and then through the night. I couldn't face being alone, and I think Marc felt the same way. He seemed almost as unsettled by the news of Hal's death as I was -- a reaction I found both surprising and endearing.

We watched the news at six and again at eleven, but there was no mention of Hal's murder. Without celebrity status or an overlay of tantalizing circumstances, life cut short by violence was apparently too prevalent to be newsworthy.

Monday morning I awoke early, before the sun was fully up. While Marc slept, I slipped quietly out of the house and drove home for a shower and change of clothes. I was at my office desk by seven-thirty.

I'd stopped for a latte on my way to work. I sipped it while I checked the answering machine. There were three messages: two late Friday afternoon from investment bankers wanting to speak with Marc, and one on Saturday, from Hal.

Kali, give me a call as soon as you can. I'm onto something, babe. I've got information on Tony Rodale and Deirdre that might just save Grady's ass. You're going to love it
. Hal's words were punctuated with a chuckle.
Didn't I tell you I had a bad feeling about that guy?

Hal's familiar voice brought a sudden ache to my throat. But his message sent a chill down my spine.

What had been, last night, only speculation now faced me in bare, bold relief. It couldn't be happenstance that Hal had been killed just as he'd discovered something suspicious about Tony Rodale.

When Marc came in later that morning, I started to play the tape for him. Then, with an uncomfortable thought that floated in from out of nowhere and lodged itself squarely in my mind, I decided not to. Hal had been right about Rodale. Had he been right in warning me about Marc as well?

My stomach felt sour. I'd been sure that Hal was mistaken in thinking he'd seen Marc with Tony Rodale. And Marc himself had denied it. I still thought Hal must have been wrong. But there was enough doubt in my mind to make me hesitate.

I remembered the pen from Rapunzel I'd found in Marc's kitchen. Had he known Deirdre as well as Tony? Was Marc somehow implicated in a web of deceit that went to the heart of our case? These were not thoughts I welcomed, but I couldn't ignore them. Once the seed of suspicion is planted, it takes root very quickly.

I spent an uncomfortable morning trying to prepare for the preliminary hearing while niggling thoughts about Marc intruded. Twice I headed for his office with the message tape, and twice I turned back.

After lunch I called downtown to check on the investigation of Hal's death.

"Nothing new," Sergeant Fogerty told me. "But we managed to reach his brother. Thanks for your help with that."

"I might be able to help some more." I told him about Tony Rodale as well as the other angles Hal had been pursuing in connection with Grady's upcoming trial.

If the system were truly efficient, word would get back to Madelaine and she'd have the inside scoop on our defense strategy. I was banking on the fact that bureaucracies are rarely efficient.

Fogerty listened, but without the enthusiasm I'd hoped for.

"I can make you a copy of the tape," I said.

"I don't think that will be necessary."

"But you'll follow up on Rodale?"

"I'll relay your message to the detectives in charge."

"Tell them he called on Saturday, the day he was killed. The timing might be important."

When I again turned my attention to preparations for Wednesday's hearing, I had trouble concentrating on anything but the slender folder I'd labeled tony rodale. Inside were my notes from the visit Hal and I had paid him ten days before, along with the status report from Hal concerning Tony's alleged abuse of both Deirdre and his ex-wife.

What had Hal wanted to tell me? He'd discovered something he thought would be useful in Grady's defense. If I could figure out what it was, the police might be able to find Hal's killer. And I might be able to get Grady acquitted of murder.

Hal had listed two phone numbers for the ex-wife, both in Los Angeles. I tried them with no luck. Not even a machine where I could leave a message.

He hadn't included a business number for Rodale, but I found a listing in the white pages for Rodale Investment Management and dialed. The woman who answered had a thin, chirpy voice.

"I'd like some information about investments and financial planning," I told her. "Is there someone there who could help me?"

"I'd be happy to send you one of our brochures."

"I was hoping I could speak with someone in person."

"Mr. Rodale is out of the office at the moment. May I have him return your call?"

I didn't want to talk to Tony Rodale himself; I wanted to speak with someone who knew him. "There's no one else?" I asked.

"No, not really."

"It's a very small company, then?"

"In terms of personnel. But the investment assets are quite substantial."

"Who handles the paperwork?"

This stumped her for a moment. "I do some of it. Most of it Mr. Rodale takes care of himself."

"I see." I was sure Hal would have done better. "What sort of investments does Mr. Rodale handle?"

"It would be best if you talked to him directly. It's a very personalized service."

Best for those who were actually looking to invest, maybe. But not for my purposes. "Has he been in the business long?" I asked, not willing to be put off.

"Seven years. Ma'am, why don't I send you a brochure?" I sensed her growing impatience.

"Yes, of course. But I have a few more questions first. What is Mr. Rodale like?"

"What's he like?" It was obvious this wasn't the sort of question she usually fielded.

"It's important to me to know something about the person handling my finances. It has to be someone with whom I'm, uh, compatible."

"I suggest you make an appointment, ma'am. There's no charge for an initial visit."

"I will, if I decide to go forward. But, you see, it's difficult ... that is, well, I have limited mobility." Play on her sense of compassion and hope God didn't inflict me with some terrible disease by way of punishment. "It's not easy for me to get out and around."

"My mother uses a walker," the woman said sympathetically. "The simplest errands take her forever."

"So you understand why I'd like to know a bit about Mr. Rodale before deciding whether or not to follow up with an appointment."

"Well, he's easy enough to work for," she said, her voice having lost a good deal of its chirpiness. "And his clients seem to like him. I can tell you that. He's quite friendly with some of them."

"Does he strike you as a man of principle?"

"Principle?"

It was apparently not a word that got a lot of play around Rodale's company. "Integrity," I explained. "Is he somebody I should trust with my money?"

She gave a breathless little laugh. "Well, those who
have
trusted him have done rather well financially. But you'd have to make that assessment yourself."

She had her lines down perfectly.

"I really think you should read the brochure," she added. "As a first step."

I fingered the tape with Hal's message, then scooted sideways to my office door and closed it. "You know," I said as though the thought had suddenly struck me, "I'm not even sure I have the correct company. A friend gave me the name, but I've got such a bad memory ... There were a couple of listings in the phone book that might have been it. Maybe you could tell me if a Marc Griffin is a client of Mr. Rodale's. Then I'd know I have the right place."