The Disappearance (34 page)

A friend. What a crock. The man’s scared I’m making headway, Luke thinks, that I’ll upset his little red applecart. Luke has Joe Allison’s life at stake, and his own as well, given he was shot at, but Williams has his career. Whether Luke Garrison wins or loses, his life will go on pretty much as it has for the last three years. If anything, it’ll be better. He’s back in the world, he’s focused on his work, he’s more at peace with himself than he has been for a long time. And he has a good woman at his side, which he’s finally recognized and can deal with.

It seems stupid and, yes, callous, but the worst that can happen to him is that he loses the case. If he does, it’ll be because Joe Allison is guilty. He’s convinced of that. If Allison is innocent—if nothing freakishly dramatic, that he doesn’t know about, comes up at trial to prove Allison’s guilt—he, Luke Garrison, will get Allison off. He’s that confident in his ability.

Williams and Logan, on the other hand, will lose their credibility. They will almost certainly lose their careers, which for both men define them. They will lose face, they will lose self.

He’s already gone through that, and come out the other side. So in that fundamental regard, he has nothing to lose. Win or lose this particular case, his life has nowhere to go but up.

F
ERDINAND DE LA GUERRA
and Luke Garrison. Two men. One of a certain age, one who sometimes feels he’s aging too fast. Sitting in the living room of the old gentleman’s house. It’s a several decades-old Spanish colonial situated on a quiet, narrow lane in Mission Canyon, in the flats. It’s a wonderful house, full of history, beautifully furnished with Mission-style furniture, the walls covered with early twentieth-century landscape paintings of the central coast, portraits of old land-grant ancestors stiffly posed, South American tapestries, ancient swords, guns, Spanish conquistador helmets. On some of the dark, burnished tables, there are small pieces of authentic pre-Columbian art: Aztec, Mayan. And one painting more contemporary, the centerpiece of the room, hung over the large stone fireplace: a Diego Rivera, a gift from the artist, personally, to the owner’s father.

The house and its owner fit each other like kid leather gloves, Luke thinks. Aging but still elegant.

“You’re going to be in trial in a few weeks. How do you feel?” The judge looks over at Luke as he poses the question. He pours two snifters of forty-year-old Spanish brandy. The aromas are overwhelming in the glasses, redolent of crushed flowers, wild berries, old succulent grapes. And beautiful women on dark candlelit nights when this house was overflowing with desire.

“Better,” Luke says confidently. “Our odds are on the rise.” He leans back in his chair, holding the liquid in his mouth, the flavors drifting into his head, heavenly fire.

“What about you?” The tone is anxious, trying not to be. “Aside from the case.”

“I’ve got baby-sitters watching the dark corners, so I feel safe—safe enough. Whoever it was isn’t going to come after me again, I don’t think. Unless he’s desperate or crazy, in which case—” Luke throws up his hands. “It’s constricting, seeing a deputy over my shoulder every time I step out my front door.” He points towards the door. “It’s annoying as hell, especially to Riva. It reminds her of what happened.”

De La Guerra smiles. “She’s like me. She wishes you weren’t on the case anymore.”

Luke nods. “Like I said, if I let whoever did this run me off, he wins and I lose. And so does the law, which I care about, it’s still my life.”

“What about your life? How would you feel about losing that?”

“I wouldn’t like it,” Luke admits. “But I don’t plan on that happening. Neither does our esteemed sheriff. He’s tired of being embarrassed.”

The judge shifts to the practical. “Has there been any progress? Do they have any leads?”

Luke shakes his head. “Not a one.”

“You’re still thinking it was Doug Lancaster.”

Outside, an owl hoots in the darkness. Luke walks over to a floor-to-ceiling window. He looks out into the night, trying to see where the owl is perched, high up in a tall pine that sits at the edge of the property. “The owl a regular?” he asks. “What kind is it, you know?”

“It comes and goes,” De La Guerra replies from his comfortable leather chair. “A great horned,” he says to the second part of Luke’s question. “They’re pretty common around here.” He sips from his drink. “You didn’t answer my question.”

“Owls are good hunters,” Luke says ruminatively. “Sit there dead still for hours, then they swoop down silent with that great wingspan and take their prey before the poor rabbit or mouse knows what hit him. Reminds me of some situations I’ve seen lately.” He turns back into the room. “It’s what I think, yes. Who else is a better candidate?” He picks up the decanter holding the brandy. “May I?”

“Go ahead.” The old man warms his glass in his hands. “No one, but that doesn’t mean it’s him. It seems far-fetched to me that he would go after you personally.”

“You mean he’d bring in a hired gun?” He pours a small amount of the fiery potion. A little goes a long way with this stuff. He hasn’t been drinking much lately. He wants to be sure his wits are about him, not dulled and slowed by alcohol.

“That’s a more likely scenario, don’t you think?”

“I guess so. Yeah,” he says, thinking more about that. “Doug wouldn’t directly get his hands dirty.” He smells the brandy nose as it drifts out of the snifter. “Which is more scary, really. It could be anyone walking around, someone I wouldn’t have a clue as to who he is. He could be watching me right now, and I wouldn’t know it.”

His old mentor nods ponderously. “Yes. That’s my point.”

Luke sits down again, heavily. “Shit.”

“You need to think this through, Luke. That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you.”

Luke looks out into the darkness again. “I’ve got to be really careful,” he agrees. He looks over at De La Guerra. “Don’t talk like this around Riva, all right? She’s freaked out enough as it is.”

“She has to be thinking about it,” the judge tells Luke. “You have to realize she’s protecting you by keeping quiet about her fears.”

Luke sits back. “She’s really been good for me,” he says. He’s never commented on her before like that, not to someone else.

“She loves you.”

Luke nods. “I’m lucky.”

“You don’t appreciate how lucky you are.”

“I’m beginning to.” He glances at his watch. “I’d better be moseying. Thanks for the good stuff.” He sips the dregs from his glass.

“Thank you for the company,” De La Guerra says. “This old house needs company. I’m not much good company for it anymore.”

Luke feels a pang. “I’ll come around more.”

“And bring your lady. I promise I won’t mention what we’ve been talking about.”

“I will. Don’t bother getting up, I’ll let myself out.” He walks to the front door. “Thanks for the advice.”

De La Guerra smiles as he shakes his head. “I can’t give advice anymore,” he says. “I haven’t figured my own life out yet, let alone anyone else’s.” He pauses. “Be careful. That’s all I ask.”

The assault on Luke has achieved a certain notoriety. The tabloid television shows—
Hard Copy
,
Inside Edition
,
Geraldo
—ran stories on it within a week of when it happened, and some have followed up.

Lying in bed with Riva, Luke watches himself being interviewed by a vacuous woman. The interview is a week old, a syndicated program. He and the interviewer are standing outside the courthouse, where he had gone to file a subpoena for some documents. “How do you feel about someone trying to kill you?” she asks him, teeth flashing through a frozen smile.

“Like anyone else would,” he says, looking in the vague direction of the camera over her shoulder. “Angry. Worried.”

“What a genius,” Riva comments, watching with him.

“Are you satisfied with the job the police are doing in trying to solve your case?” asks the interviewer. It was obvious to him, all during the interview, that she was trying to make eye contact with him. He evaded her overtures.

Luke chose his next words carefully. He has the sheriff on the run, psychologically speaking. He doesn’t want to upset that balance. “They’re trying hard,” he says to the camera. “A hit-and-run shooting, that’s a tough crime to solve.”

“Which you should know, since you were the district attorney here,” she throws in.

“I used to be,” he answers.

The only story about him that’s been negative was done by Lancaster’s station. The new station manager, Tim Talbot, read an editorial a couple of weeks ago on the six o’clock news. Referring to the shooting, he described Luke as “an out-of-county lawyer who specializes in defending drug dealers,” and “a man with an obvious aversion and hostility to authority.” There was scant reference to Luke’s being the former county district attorney. Talbot questioned out loud what Luke was doing on private property, as if by being there he was committing a criminal act of his own.

On the screen, the woman interviewer throws Luke a curve: an intelligent question. “What happens if the police catch the person who tried to kill you, either before or during Joe Allison’s trial? Won’t that have a big effect on it?”

He’s been asking himself that very question ever since he started thinking clearly after the shooting. He hasn’t come up with an answer, because he’s been avoiding it. Now he has to. “It would depend on who the person was,” he answers.

Riva, in bed, sits up, looks over at him.

“If it was someone connected to Joe Allison’s case, as opposed to …” She stumbles momentarily over her script.

“Someone not connected?” he finishes for her.

“Yes, that’s what I meant,” she says, recovering quickly. She’s smiling gamely, but it’s obvious to her that he won’t be taking her out for drinks later this afternoon.

On the television set he shrugs. “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.” He smiles back, an unencouraging smile.

That’s the end of that interview. He flicks the set off with the remote.

“What did you really want to say?” Riva asks him, referring to the last set of questions.

“Were my evasive tactics that obvious?”

“Yep, to me. I know you.”

“You know the answer to that.” He turns to her, leaning on his elbow. In the moonlight he can see the outline of her breasts through her thin nightgown. They’re gorgeous; in this light they seem larger, fuller. He wants to nuzzle them. “If it’s someone connected, like Doug, all hell breaks loose. We’d have a mistrial. If not, it won’t amount to much.”

She slides her body closer to his. “When
are
they going to catch him?” she asks.

He looks at her. “Maybe never.”

“Do you really think that?” Her face is frightened.

He nods. “If whoever it was doesn’t try to do it again, the police may never find out. There are no solid clues, no witnesses, no one’s come forth with a tip. That’s the way these things are usually solved, somebody ratting out somebody else. That hasn’t happened yet.” He strokes her slender back. “If that’s the case, it’s fine. It means no more harm will come. I’m hoping that’s the case,” he says. “I’m not looking for revenge. I’ll be content if it fades away.”

“But don’t you want to know who did it?” she persists, “
I
want to know who tried to take you away from me.”

He draws her to him. “No one’s going to take me away from you.”

She snuggles closer. “Is that a promise?”

Outside, a sheriff’s deputy in a car is watching over them. In here, he has to protect her from her fear that some madman might take him away.

“Yes,” he says, feeling the night closing in on them. “That’s a promise.”

A week and a half to go. Luke mock-trials with some men and women from the public defender’s office that he’s asked to help him. It’s an awkward session; they were used to being on opposite sides from each other, when he not only kicked their asses with regularity but enjoyed it. And they are miffed that he was chosen because Allison and certain powers-that-be in the community wanted a high-profile lawyer. So their participation is less than wholehearted.

Still, it goes okay—not terrific, but not a catastrophe, either. He works at what he thinks will be the most important issues, for his side and his opponents. The way he conducts his case will be largely reactive: how witnesses for the prosecution spin their stories, what new or unexpected information comes up, how he can use it to his advantage. Judge De La Guerra observes, occasionally making a note.

The session lasts most of the day. By the time they’re finished, a grudging bond has developed between him and the other lawyers. He’s on their side now, and he’s good. And he’s genuinely appreciative of their help. When it’s over, they all walk down the street to the Paradise Bar & Grill, where he buys a couple of rounds. Then the others leave, and he and De La Guerra are alone.

“What do you think?” Luke asks. He feels the session was worthwhile. Nothing jumped up that he hadn’t anticipated.

“It’s going to be an ugly situation,” De La Guerra observes, “what with all the family laundry being aired in public. You never know if that will help you, by making them look bad, or hurt, by making the jurors feel you’re taking advantage of a family’s suffering. It’ll depend on your jury,” he advises sagely. “You can’t necessarily win with the right jury, but you can easily lose with the wrong one.”

“I know. Given the notoriety of the case, and the passions that have been aroused, I feel like I’m starting with a strike against me. Maybe two,” he says somberly.

“Do you have a profile of your ideal juror?” the judge asks. “Are you using a jury consultant?”

“No, I’m not using a consultant. I know what we need.” When he was the prosecutor they often used consultants, and although they were helpful, eventually he didn’t use them much. He’s been doing this a long time; he has a good feel for how jurors react. “The key will be seating people who are appalled at the Lancasters’ lifestyle. Think about it—father, mother, teenage daughter, all having illicit affairs. My hunch is that Glenna, especially, might catch a lot of it. A woman who was sleeping with a man while she was grieving, and he turns out to be the accused. What a bad taste
that
leaves in the mouth.”