Bear Is Broken (17 page)

“I would sleep better at night if I knew my son was in prison for
the rest of his life. It’s almost certainly where he belongs.” He drank
again and set the glass on the desk.

From the room beyond the door came more volleys of moneyed
laughter.

“Is there any special reason you wanted to see me, Dr. Locke?”

He struck the desk lightly with the bottom of his fist. “Whatever
my wife offered you to track down Keith, I’ll double it, and all you
have to do is stay home, do some light reading, watch the boob tube,
sit on your ass.”

Chloe must play both sides, if he knew about Greta’s offer. “You
don’t want him found?”

“He’ll turn up, don’t you worry. But I don’t want some defense lawyer
finding him first, drumming it into his head that he can wriggle off
the hook one more time. And I don’t want him found anytime soon.”

“What makes you think I’ll take your money if I wouldn’t take your
wife’s?” I drank my drink in one swallow as a prelude to walking out.

Dr. Locke gave a little nod. He cleared his throat. “I feel I should
inform you that my son may be a murderer. He may have killed before,
and I don’t think he would hesitate to do it again if you were standing
in the way of something he wanted.”

I turned and looked at Dr. Locke. He was pale. His hand trembled
on the edge of the desk.

“I tell you this for your own safety. You ought to know what you’re
getting into. He was seventeen. His roommate at boarding school.
The official cause of death was strangulation. One loop of the rope
was around the boy’s neck; the other was around his penis. Autoerotic
strangulation, they ruled it. He had marks all over his body, but in the
end the police decided there was no other person involved, that he’d
caused all those injuries to himself. It was hushed up because the family
didn’t want publicity. And I don’t think I can ever forgive myself.”

“How can you be so sure Keith did it?”

“All the holes in his story. He claimed he didn’t know about the
roommate’s habits, but how could a roommate not know something
like that? He was scared, and he was lying. Just call it a feeling on my
part. My son is not put together like normal people. There’s something
crucial missing. His mother doesn’t want to see it, and for years I didn’t,
either.” His eyes glowed with the heat of obsession. “But there comes
a time when you have to face the truth.”

I stood there looking at him, taking in his sickened expression. “So
you think Keith tortured and killed that professor.”

For a moment it seemed like he didn’t mean to say anything more.
Then he looked up, and the heat was gone from his face. In its place
was resignation. “I think you should consider the possibility that my
son lied to your brother about what happened that night, either with
or without your brother’s encouragement. I think you should ask
yourself whether you want to get mixed up in helping my son evade
the punishment he most likely deserves and possibly getting somebody
else sent to prison in his place. You don’t seem bereft of honor. I think
you should ask yourself whether this is the kind of situation you really
want to be involved with.”

Now I understood what he was asking of me: that I put off looking
for Keith until the time for his deal with the DA had passed. “I’m
not working for you, and we’ve never discussed my working for you.
None of what you’ve told me is covered by privilege,” I warned him.
I should have warned him sooner, but I’d been too stunned by the
things he was telling me.

“Let the chips fall where they may. I’m done covering for my children.”

“I don’t want your money,” I emphasized.

“Then don’t take it.” He turned his back, pretending to study the
books on his shelf.

I set my glass on his desk. “How come you don’t have any pictures
of your daughter in here?” I asked, taking a step toward the door and
stopping. “I can see why you wouldn’t have pictures of Keith, but a
girl like that, so accomplished, you must be very proud.”

His eyes flashed in my direction. “You can see yourself out.” He
poured himself another drink and went back out to the party. The
noise from the other room swelled, then receded. As the door opened
I caught a glimpse of curious faces and wandering eyes frozen midturn,
midsmile. Then the door swung closed and I was alone.

I took the opportunity to pour myself another drink and slug it
down. Who knew when I might have the chance to taste Scotch that
old again?

When I walked out into the hall I found Chloe waiting. “Interesting
family,” I told her. “I can see how working here might drive a person
to law school.”

She didn’t respond except to pilot me back through the dining
room toward the foyer.

“You sure no one else wants to see me?” I asked when we reached
the front door. “The dog?”

“He might like to see you, but not for the reason you think. He hates
young men. He’d love nothing better than to chew off your balls.” I
thought her mouth twitched but I couldn’t be certain.

“It’s been a while since I’ve had a good ball licking, but I’ll pass.”

I turned the knob of the front door and stepped out into the chilly
evening. I’d been right to pay off the cabdriver. I felt like I could use
the walk.

I couldn’t get out of that neighborhood fast enough. When I passed
through the gateposts at Arguello I let out a breath I hadn’t even realized
I was holding. I turned downhill toward the park, the prongs of
Sutro Tower and the wooded hills of UCSF before me. A mass of fog
billowed around the base of the tower, the solid-seeming vapor tinted
orange by the setting sun.

As I walked, I thought about what Dr. Locke had said. Did I really
want to get mixed up with the monster of a son he described? Did I
really want people like Keith Locke as my clients?

My route brought me up Turk and past USF, where my brother had
earned his degrees. It irked me that Gerald had lumped me in with
Teddy. There had to be some truth in the accusations about him, but
it wasn’t the whole truth. Just because I’d chosen the same career as
my brother didn’t mean I was like him. I shared neither his anarchist
politics nor his grim obsession with work. I wanted to enjoy my life,
and I wanted to find someone to enjoy it with.

The lights of downtown were just becoming visible against the
darkening sky. There were ethical, honorable ways to defend a man
like Keith Locke, who might well have killed already and gotten away
with it, who might seek my help in getting away with murder again.
Despite Dr. Locke’s warning and my own misgivings, I intended to
find Keith and convince him to hire me as his lawyer. Then I would
find a way to navigate a path between the temptations that had tripped
up my brother.

I caught a cab back to my apartment and changed into jeans and my
hooded sweatshirt. I kicked myself now for having left Teddy’s car at
his house in Canyon last night. I could take the train down to Stanford,
but I didn’t know how long it would take me to find Christine Locke,
and I didn’t want to risk getting stranded in Palo Alto after the last train.
I’d been running on adrenaline, and I could feel exhaustion looming. I
could sleep tomorrow in a chair at Teddy’s bedside. For now, I needed
to learn what Christine Locke had been doing in Teddy’s room.

I decided to head back over to the East Bay on the BART, get a cab
to Teddy’s house, pick up his car, and drive down to Stanford. I was
walking to the BART when my phone rang in my pocket.

“Mr. Maxwell, this is Detective Anderson calling.” His voice was
cordial, professional, as if I were merely the family member of a victim
of a violent crime he was investigating.

“I’ve been hearing from my brother’s clients that you’ve been pulling
them in, Detective. I hope you’re prepared to defend the legality
of those arrests in court.”

“To my dying day. I’m calling as a courtesy, because I thought you’d
be pleased to hear that the district attorney’s office is on the verge of
filing an indictment in your brother’s case. I’m pretty confident that
we’ve got the guy.”

My heart skipped. “Already? Who?”

The satisfaction in his voice was audible. “Ricky Santorez.”

I laughed sadly. I couldn’t help feeling I should have seen this one
coming. “Ricky Santorez is in San Quentin.”

“Yeah, but his homeboys aren’t. After Ricky got off, Teddy handled
cases for that whole crew. Handled a lot of things for them, actually,
according to our informant. Seems Santorez and his friends gave your
brother a lot of money for safekeeping. Around a hundred thousand
cash. At some point your brother started dipping into it. About a month
ago one of Santorez’s friends came around to make a withdrawal, and
Teddy didn’t have anything left to give him. I don’t know what your
brother was thinking. Sounds like he got greedy, and it got him capped.”

“Your wildest dreams come true. You get Santorez and my brother
with one bullet, all for the low price of one desperate snitch telling
you what you want to hear.”

“Desperate, I don’t know. This guy’s serving life. And we confirmed
the details with the bank. Santorez’s client trust-fund account was
emptied in a series of transactions starting about six months ago. Our
guy may be a snitch, but he’s legit. Seems Santorez can’t do anything
without blabbing his mouth.”

“You’re being taken for a ride.” But, in fact, I was uncertain. He
probably wouldn’t lie to me about something so verifiable as a bank
account balance. “What kind of deal is this lowlife asking for?”

“He wants a shot at parole. There are no guarantees with the parole
board, of course, but a letter from the DA’s office should carry a certain
amount of weight. In exchange for Santorez, the DA will write one.”

“Sounds like you’ve got the case on ice. Except for the shooter
and the getaway driver. But I guess from your point of view those are
minor details.”

“Santorez will give them to us. Or someone will roll over. Just give
it time, Counselor.”

He sounded very satisfied with himself, and very confident, but
there was something else. Otherwise he would already have hung up.
I thought of mentioning Keith Locke, just to see if he was on the detective’s
radar screen, but I didn’t want to start going down that road
until I’d talked to Keith myself. And now that Anderson had Santorez, I
doubted he would be interested in alternate theories unless they were
backed with incontrovertible proof.

“You got a name on this snitch?” I asked, though I was sure there
was no way he would give up such sensitive information.

It turned out to be the question he’d been waiting for. “Sure,” he
said. “One desperate lowlife by the name of Lawrence Maxwell. We’re
taking him before the grand jury first thing Monday morning, and we
should have an indictment shortly thereafter. Have a great weekend.”
He hung up.

I stood on the piss-smelling stairs down to the Civic Center BART
with the taste of stomach acid in my throat. I’d heard my father’s name,
and the word parole, but for a few long minutes that was all I could
process of what the detective had said.

It dawned on me that here was my chance to walk away. I could
make a clean break and let the courts sort out whether Santorez was
behind the shooting.

I remembered the letter my brother had left to be mailed to my
father. Could it have reached him by now?

A voice interrupted my reverie, accompanied by a blast of ammonia
and alcohol. “Hey, man, you got some change?” It was a homeless
guy with a cardboard sign under his arm, probably on his way to the
freeway ramp.

I emptied my pocket into his palm and went down into the station.
I might as well go down to Stanford and hear Christine Locke’s
explanation.

The BART got me to Orinda in an hour and fifteen minutes. There
were no cabs at the station, so I had to call for one, a twenty-minute
wait. Then the driver didn’t want to take me up the steep gravel road
into Teddy’s development. I told him he wasn’t getting paid until he
got me to the door. Turning the cab around, he began heading back the
way we’d come, muttering about dropping me off at the police station.
So I paid him and hiked the half mile to the turnoff, then another half
mile up the hill. A second after he sped off without his tip it occurred
to me that the police might have impounded the Rabbit as evidence.

It was a dark, moonless night. As I walked the starlight allowed me
to make out the road shimmering faintly beneath its strip of sky. There
was none of the city’s noises, just crickets and the trickle of San Leandro
Creek. An engine revved somewhere in the distance, then died. The
rains hadn’t started yet, but redwoods make their own moisture, and
the green fragrance of a flowering plant tinged the air.

It was 9 PM by the time I reached the house. The loose plastic sheeting
still flapped in the slight breeze, each unfurling making a loud crackle.
I don’t know how my brother managed to sleep here, with that eerie
racket, why he didn’t bother to fix it, or why he didn’t just finish the
construction once and for all, sell the house, and move on with his life.

The Rabbit stood where I’d left it. I patted its dusty hood, then
went up to the house. As long as I was here, I might as well make sure
the detectives had locked up.

A Contra Costa sheriff ’s notice was stapled to the door, indicating
that the premises had been entered and searched. The handle was locked
but the deadbolt wasn’t. I used Teddy’s keys and went in.
The police had taken his computer, along with the client files and
other documents. It looked as if they’d swept everything into a box to
haul it away; the desk was bare now except for a bent paperclip and
a scattering of the paper disks left by a hole puncher. I felt a spark of
anger: Anderson had no business with those files, even if he’d come
across them in the house, not the office. They’d taken the answering
machine as well.