The Beginning (60 page)

“People aren't stupid, Dad. They can look at Marlin Jones and see he's a psychopath. He's crazy but he's not insane. He knows exactly what he's doing and he has no remorse, no conscience. He's admitted to all the killings. Besides, even if he's acquitted in Boston, he'll be sent here to be tried. He also admitted he'd murdered two women in Denver. He'll go down. In one of those places, he has to go down.”

“Ah, Lacey, people can be swayed, they can be manipulated, they can see gray when there's nothing really but black. I've seen it happen again and again. Juries will see what they want to see—if they want to free a defendant, no matter what the evidence, they'll do it. It's that simple, and many times that tragic.

“I hope Marlin Jones does come to California to stand trial. At least here we've got the death penalty.”

“If he got the death penalty, I think the electric chair would be too easy and quick. I think all the families of the women he killed should be able to kill him, over and over.”

“That's very unliberal of you, Lacey.”

“Why? It's only right. It's justice.”

“It's vengeance.”

“Yes, it is. What's wrong with that?”

“Not a thing. Now, my dear child, Agent Savich probably wonders if you and I go on and on like this. Let's take a short time out. Tell me about these loose ends you're here to tie up.”

Evelyn Sherlock smiled, but again, it seemed to Savich that her face still remained without expression. It was as if she'd trained herself not to move any muscles in her face that would ruin the perfect mask. She said, “They probably think you murdered Belinda, Corman, isn't that right, Agent Savich?”

Now that was a kicker. It was Savich's turn not to change expression. He said, bland as chicken broth, “Actually, no, ma'am.”

“Well, you should. I guess you're not as smart as you are handsome. He tried to run me down. No reason why he wouldn't kill Belinda. He didn't like her, hated her, in fact, since her father is in San Quentin. He said Belinda would be as crazy as her father and me. That's an awful thing to say, isn't it, Agent Savich?”

“It's certainly not what I'd say, Mrs. Sherlock, but everyone is different. Now,” he continued, turning back to Judge Sherlock, “I wonder, sir, if you would mind telling us if you ever had Marlin Jones in your courtroom.”

“No.”

“You're very certain?”

“Yes, naturally. I remember every man and woman who's ever stood before my bench. Marlin Jones wasn't one of them.”

“Before you became a judge, did you ever prosecute him?”

“I would have remembered, Mr. Savich. The answer is still no.”

Savich opened his briefcase and pulled out a black-and-white five-by-seven photo. “You've never seen this man?”

He handed Judge Sherlock Marlin's photograph, taken the previous week.

“No, I've never seen him in my courtroom. It's Marlin Jones, of course. Lacey, you're right. He does look like a classic psychopath, which is to say, he looks perfectly normal.”

Savich handed him another photo.

“I'll be damned. It's Marlin Jones but you've doctored this photo, haven't you?”

“The FBI labs are the very best. I asked them to render me photos with various disguises a man could use effectively.”

“It's a mustache, the sideburns longer, the hair combed over as if the guy wants to cover a bald spot—it's amazing. Sorry, but I've never seen this man either.”

Savich gave him a third photograph.

Judge Sherlock sucked in his breath. “I don't believe this. I prosecuted this guy years ago, but I remember him. He was a hippie sort, up on marijuana charges. Look at that bushy beard and the thick bottle-cap glasses. Hunched shoulders, but he was still tall, as tall as I am. I remember that he looked at me as if he wanted to spit on me. What was his name, anyway?”

He fell silent, staring down at the photo, tapping his fingers on the arm of the leather chair. Then he sighed and said, “I'll have to look it up. I guess I'm getting old. No, wait a minute. It was a weird name. Erasmus. That's it. His name was Erasmus something, I don't remember his last name, but it was a common name. It was at least fifteen years ago. I managed to plea-bargain him into three years even though it was his first offense. He himself was so offensive I didn't even hesitate to push the public defender. He had no respect. Yes, it was three years. This is Marlin Jones?”

Sherlock took the photo from her father. Dillon hadn't told her about this. She stared at the photo, then at her father. “It's possible, then, that because you gave him that three-year sentence, he wanted revenge. It's possible when he got out, then, that he killed Belinda, to get his revenge on you.”

“There's a problem here,” Savich said.

Both Judge Sherlock and his daughter looked at him, their left eyebrows arched in an identical way.

“Look again at the photo, Judge Sherlock.”

“Yes, all right. What?”

“Marlin Jones would have been twenty-three years old fifteen years ago. This man is older, maybe fifty or fifty-five.”

“Well, yes, you're right, he is. It's hard to tell with all that hair and the glasses. Oh, I see what you mean. It isn't Marlin, is it?”

“It's his father,” Sherlock said slowly. “This man, Erasmus, the man Dad prosecuted, is Marlin's father. And this is an old picture of him, isn't it?”

“Yes. The FBI field office in Phoenix got hold of this photo of him from an old driver's license. Our lab people worked on it. I didn't tell you about it, Sherlock, because I didn't really think it would lead to anything.”

“Is the man still alive?”

“He is as far as we know. He hasn't been back to Yuma in years. That's where he raised Marlin. Marlin left at eighteen. Erasmus drifted in and out for a few years, then disappeared. He'd be about sixty-four now. Where is he? No one knows.”

“Let me see the man,” said Mrs. Sherlock.

Lacey handed her mother the photo.

“He's scruffy. I remember his sort; they were all over San Francisco back in the sixties and seventies. But he was in court in the late eighties, Corman?”

“Yes, some fifteen years ago.”

“I think he would be handsome without those glasses and all that hair and beard.”

“His son is handsome, Mother, very handsome. Here's his photo. But you know, he's got dead eyes.”

Mrs. Sherlock looked at Marlin Jones's photo, stared toward her husband, and fainted, sliding out of the chair and onto the carpet before anyone could catch her.

“What do you want?” Douglas stared at Dillon Savich. He laid down the papers he'd been reading and rose slowly, splaying his fingers on the desktop.

“It's okay, Marge. Let him in. He's FBI. Ah, you're here too, Lacey. Why is he with you? You know I don't like him. He's corrupted you, changed you.”

“He's my boss. He has to be with me.”

“Madigan,” Savich said, barely nodding.

Douglas said nothing. He sat back down in his chair. He crossed his hands over his stomach.

“How are you doing, Douglas?”

“I'm very angry at the moment, but you don't care about that. Why are you here with him?”

Savich said easily as he sat down in one of the plush client chairs opposite Douglas Madigan's large high-tech chrome-and-glass desk, “It appears Belinda had an affair with Marlin Jones. Did you know about it?”

“No. I don't like your jokes, Agent Savich.”

“No joke, Mr. Madigan. As far as we know it's a distinct possibility—that Belinda slept with Marlin Jones seven years ago.”

Lacey was watching his face. There was no sign of pain, of anger, of remembered betrayal. Nothing.

“So you're saying you know why he killed her?”

“No, that's not what we're saying. I'm sorry, Douglas,” Lacey said, sitting forward, extending her hand to lightly touch his forearm. “It seems there were some things about Belinda none of us knew. Mother saw a photo of Marlin Jones and fainted. She'd seen him, she said, seen him kissing Belinda in the driveway. At least that's what she told us. You know Mother. One can never be quite certain if the flag is going to be flying high or hanging at half-mast.”

“That crazy old bitch is probably right about this. Belinda was a gold-plated faithless bitch.”

They all turned to see Candice Addams Madigan standing in the doorway, a flustered Marge behind her, waving her hands. Douglas smiled and said, “It's all right, Marge. Tell you what, anyone else comes, wave them on in. Hello, Candice.”

Candice walked into the office, head high, beautifully dressed in a pale blue wool suit and a Hermès scarf. “She was a bitch and she did cheat on you.”

“But was the man Marlin Jones? I doubt it. Where could she have met him?”

Candice gave her husband a scornful look. “Belinda had low tastes. I've heard that she went to dives, to real low-class places. That's where she would have met this killer. Yes, I'll bet she did sleep with him. She slept with everyone. Why don't you ask
her
?” She turned and gave Lacey a vicious look. “Yes, ask the little princess here. She probably went with her sister. She might have slept with him too.”

Sherlock had blood in her eye. Her heart was pounding; she was ready to kill. It was Savich who grabbed her wrist and kept her in her place. “Ignore her,” he said low, only for her hearing. “She's miserable she's so jealous. Let it be. Let's listen. Consider this a bad play. Let's see if we can't figure out the theme of the play.”

She tried to pull away from him. She couldn't take any more from this miserable woman. “Okay, then, Agent Sherlock, this is an order from your superior. Don't move and be quiet.”

She tried to calm her breathing, but it was hard. “That's different, then, but I still want to pound her.”

“I know, but later. Now let's listen.”

“What are you two talking about?”

Savich smiled at Candice Madigan. “I was telling Sherlock that you looked pregnant to me. She insists you're not, that you look too slender. But I can tell your stomach is out there. Who's right?”

Candice immediately sucked in her stomach, taking two steps away from Savich. Then she realized what he'd done to her. She dropped her hands to her sides, straightened really tall, and shot a look toward her husband. He merely smiled at her. “Go ahead, Candice. After all, I don't have a client for another twenty minutes. Feel free to talk about whatever.”

Candice Madigan walked to her husband, kissed him on the mouth, then turned to say to Sherlock, “I'm not pregnant but I will be soon. You keep away from my husband, do you hear me? You haven't seen mean until you've seen me mean.”

“Yes, I hear you,” Sherlock said. Then she smiled. “You and Douglas planning a baby, then?”

“We will be soon. It's none of your business. You're a little gold-digging tart, just like your sister. Stay away from Douglas.”

“Oh, she will,” Savich said. “Now, Candice, how do you know so much about Belinda? She was killed seven years ago. You weren't even around then.”

“I'm an investigative reporter. I looked up everything. I spoke to people who'd known her. She betrayed Douglas, over and over again. All the women in your crowd knew about it. With this Marlin Jones character? Why not? Again, it wouldn't have been a problem for her to run into him at any one of the low-class bars she frequented.”

Savich pulled out his little black notebook and his ballpoint pen. “Could you give me some names, please?”

She turned stiller than Lot's wife. “I did this last year. I don't remember now.”

“Give Mr. Savich two names, Candice. Just two.”

“All right. Lancing Corruthers and Dorthea McDowell. They're both rich and idle and know everything about everyone. They live right here in the city.”

Savich wrote down the names. “Thank you. Actually, I'm pleased you could come up with even one name. I'm impressed.”

“I am too,” Douglas said.

“They knew all about her too,” she added, nodding toward Sherlock.

“That should prove to be interesting,” Savich said, again taking hold of Lacey's wrist. “You see, I'm hoping she'll agree to marry me, once I ask her properly.” He paused a moment, then looked very worried. “I sure do hope they won't tell me things that will change my mind about asking you. Were you a loose teenager, Sherlock? Will you corrupt me if I marry you?”

“I don't think that Bobby Wellman could count as loose, do you?”

“Who's Bobby Wellman?” Douglas asked.

Savich shook his head.

“No one will say anything remotely questionable about Lacey,” Douglas said. “Look Candice, Lacey was only nineteen when Belinda died. She was even a bit on the backward side for her age. All she did was play the piano. I don't think she ever even saw other people. She just saw her music. Now, tell me that was all a joke about you marrying him, Lacey.”

“He still has to ask me right and proper.”

“No!” Douglas stood now, leaning toward Lacey, and said, his voice rough and low, “Listen to me, Lacey. I've known you for a very long time. I don't think you should marry this man. You can't. It's a very bad idea.”

“Why, Douglas?”

“Yes, Douglas, why?” Candice asked.

“I know his kind. He doesn't care about you, Lacey. You'd just be another notch on his belt.”

Savich started whistling.

Everyone turned to stare at him. Sherlock wanted to laugh, but she held it back.

“Sherlock Savich,” Savich said slowly, looking up at the ceiling, rolling the words on his tongue. “It has quite a ring to it, doesn't it?”

“Dammit, no, you can't marry him, Lacey. You can't. Look at him; he's one of those stupid bodybuilder types you see at the gym who are always staring at themselves in the mirror. Their biceps and pecs are all pumped up but their brains are the size of peas.”

Lacey said mildly, “Douglas, you need a reality check here. You need to get a grip.”

“All right. So he can play with computers, that's no big deal. He's a nerd with big arms. You can't marry him.”

“Well she can't marry you, Douglas; you're already married to me.” Candice took one step toward Sherlock, then pulled up when she saw the look on Savich's face.

“Congratulations,” Candice said, stepping back. “I do mean that. Marry him.”

“This is getting us nowhere fast,” Savich said. “Now, Candice, Sherlock and I are here to speak to Douglas about Belinda. Would you like to stay or go?”

“Why? Belinda's been dead for seven years. Her killer is in jail, in Boston. I've even given you two names, women who knew her, who knew what she was like. Why are you talking to Douglas? He doesn't know anything.”

“There are all sorts of loose ends, ma'am,” Savich said. “Tell you what, why don't we come back after you and your husband bond or kill each other or eat lunch or whatever else you'd like to do?” Savich rose as he spoke, his hand out to Sherlock. She looked at that big strong hand and smiled. She still wanted to belt Candice.

“No, wait,” Douglas called out, but Savich shook his head and waved.

She said as they walked from Douglas's office, “What will we do now?”

“Let's duck around the corner for a minute. Douglas's door is still open; Marge isn't at her desk. Who knows? Maybe we'll hear something we shouldn't.”

They moved as close to the open door as they could, pressing back against the wall.

“You can't still want her, Douglas. Didn't you see what she was wearing? By God, she even chews her thumbnail!”

Sherlock looked at her thumbs. Sure enough, one thumbnail was nearly down to the quick. How had that happened?

“That's enough, Candice,” Douglas said. He sounded incredibly tired. “That's really quite enough. She shouldn't marry him. I'll have to think about this, then write down all the good sound reasons why it wouldn't work. This shouldn't be happening.”

“No, what shouldn't be happening is that you still lust after her. Are you blind? What's there to lust over? Get over it, Douglas. Buy some glasses.”

Douglas didn't appear to have heard her—that or he was ignoring her. He said, “They're back here because of Belinda. There must be something going on with Marlin Jones. Savich called them loose ends, but I don't trust him. Mrs. Sherlock claimed she saw Marlin Jones kissing Belinda in the driveway. You say it's likely Marlin had slept with Belinda, but you're just jealous, Candice. You didn't know Belinda. It's all nuts. I don't understand any of it, but I think they must doubt that Marlin Jones killed Belinda. Maybe they think I killed her and that's why they're here.”

“That's crazy, Douglas. They don't have a clue. They're here fishing around. Keep your mouth shut. Now, take me to lunch. I have to be back at the station at two o'clock.”

“We're outta here,” Savich said. They were in the elevator and on their way down from the twentieth floor of the Malcolm Building within a minute.

 

DINNER
had been quiet; that is, no one had had much to say about anything, which to Savich, was a relief. Evelyn Sherlock ate delicately, gave Savich disapproving looks, and said again that he was too good-looking and not to be trusted. She said nothing at all to her husband, except over a dessert of apple pie, she finally said, not looking at him, but down at her pie, “I spoke to one of your law clerks—Danny Elbright. He said he needed to speak to you but I told him you'd gone to the gas station. I asked him if I could help him and he said no, it was something really confidential. Even your wife couldn't know.”

“It was probably about a current case,” Judge Sherlock said and forked down another bite of pie. He closed his eyes for a moment. “This is delicious. I need to give Isabelle another raise,” he said.

“No, she makes too much already,” said Evelyn Sherlock. “I think she bought the pie. She's rarely here except when she knows you'll be here. I don't like her, Corman, I never have.”

“How is your companion, Mother?” Sherlock said. “Her name is Mrs. Arch, isn't it?”

“She's fine. She never says anything, only nods or shakes her head. She's very boring, but harmless. She's younger than I am and looks the way my mother would look if she were still alive. She doesn't try to seduce your father and that's a relief.”

“Mrs. Arch,” the judge said, “is not younger than you are, Evelyn. She must be all of sixty-five years old. She's got blue hair and is a good size sixteen. Believe me, your mother never looked like Mrs. Arch.”

“So? She's not dead yet,” said Mrs. Sherlock. “You've slept with every size and age of woman. Did you think I didn't know? I remember everything once I'm reminded.”

“Yes, dear.”

It was an hour later in Judge Sherlock's library that Savich finally said, “Sherlock didn't realize until recently that Belinda had had a miscarriage. Why didn't this come out?”

Judge Sherlock was stuffing a pipe. The smell of this particular tobacco was wonderful—rich and dark and delicious. He didn't answer until the pipe was lit and he'd sucked in three or four times. The scent was like a forest. Savich found himself breathing in deeply. Finally, Judge Sherlock said, “I didn't want any more publicity. What difference did it make? Not a bit. What do you mean Lacey didn't remember?”