Clear and Convincing Proof (20 page)

 

Frank was listening to the radio when the doorbell rang. A small TV on the counter was turned on to local news, but the sound was muted; they did not have a thing yet. He had stirred eggs, ready to scramble them, had sausages in the skillet browning, bread in the toaster ready to be started, and he was frowning fiercely at the inane chatter of news readers who seemed to think an early-morning audience wanted comedy.

“Why don't you use your key?” he demanded at the front door.

“Good morning to you, too,” she said, giving him a quick peck on the cheek, then going on past to the kitchen. “Anything new?” She pointed to the radio.

“No. Just that she's dead, shot last night, found at about midnight.”

Barbara took off her jacket and then helped herself to coffee.

“How much are you going to tell them?” Frank asked, going to the stove to finish making breakfast.

“I don't know. As little as possible.”

“You know what they're going to claim, don't you? That she saw the killer leave that morning, and she had to be silenced. Also, that she told you what she saw.”

Barbara nodded. She knew. “Well, we were all waiting for a break.” It didn't sound as light as she
had intended. In fact, it sounded harsh and grim and angry. And she was angry, both at herself for not warning Bernie, and at Bernie for talking too much.

“They'll go after Erica Castle,” Frank said. “She's the only thing standing between Darren Halvord and jail, trial, the works. And they'll go after Annie. This will push them into action, and that's the only action anyone can see at this point. Including you, if you'll let yourself admit it. No one else was driving away from the clinic that morning. Just Annie.”

She looked at him, his face fierce and set in determined lines. When he had something to say that she didn't want to hear, that's how he got, she well knew. “Finish it,” she said when he paused.

“Castle lied about the time Darren Halvord left home that morning. Annie and Darren conspired to commit murder. She shot McIvey and took off and he moved the body out of sight and got rid of the evidence. He had fifteen minutes unaccounted for, plenty of time to clean up things before he entered the clinic. And now one of them has used the gun again. That's what they'll think, and it's just about the only scenario that works. And if it's true, that gun's still out there, and there's an opportunistic killer as ruthless as hell who probably thinks you know what it was that Bernice Zuckerman saw that morning.”

She held up her hand for silence and in exasperation he turned back to the stove and moved sausages around while the news reader repeated the earlier story about the murder of Bernice Zuckerman.

“What I'm going to do,” Barbara said when it became obvious that nothing new was being added, “is drop out of sight today. There's no going to the clinic, talking to people, anything like that, of course. And I'd really rather not talk to Milt Hoggarth too soon. I want thinking time. Sound reasonable?”

“No,” he snapped. “It will just confirm that you know too much, to Milt, and to whoever keeps that gun in working order.”

She nodded. “Exactly. Now that they know the gun wasn't tossed into the river, maybe they'll look harder for it. But where I can go is the question.” After a moment she got up and went to the wall phone, called her office and left a message for Maria. “I'll be out of touch for the next few hours. Something came up. Hold the fort. I'll check in later on.” Then, with her hand on the phone, she turned toward Frank. “Okay if I hang out here?”

“They'll send a cruiser around and spot your car,” he said.

“But it won't be here,” she said, and started to punch Bailey's number on the automatic dial. Halfway through, she stopped and disconnected. Not on this phone. If at some future date they demanded to see this phone record, let them see that she had been out of touch, using her cell phone all day. She pulled it from her purse and hit the number for Bailey. He answered when he heard her voice on his machine.

“Hi, it's me,” she said. “Come around to Dad's place, will you? And bring someone to take my car
somewhere for me.” She listened, nodded, then said, “I know. I read the paper and I heard the news. We'll talk when you get here. But keep it under your hat, where you're heading.”

Then, as she considered the coming day, Frank scrambled eggs, his scowl in place, his lips pressed tightly closed. He had said all that he intended. He knew there was no point in arguing with her, a lesson he had learned years ago. He didn't believe in starting arguments he knew he could not win, or at least draw, and she was as stubborn as anyone on God's little blue ball of a planet. She would talk to Milt when she was ready, and she would tell him exactly what she had decided upon in advance. And dodge a bullet? he asked himself silently and savagely.

She was thinking that she had her laptop, her briefcase and cell phone, and there was an upstairs room outfitted as an office, for her use, not his, just as the bedroom upstairs was hers when she wanted it.

“Let's eat,” Frank said.

He was angry with her, she understood, and knew the reason: his fear for her safety. It occurred to her that it really wasn't fair to involve him in her cases the way she did. He had earned a life of comfort and ease, and she kept interrupting it with worry and danger. On the other hand, she told herself, he would be just as worried, but also bored, if left sitting on the sidelines, coddling old clients who wouldn't turn loose, having to listen to Sam Bixby talk about trust
funds and estate planning and articles of incorporation. It was better if he knew what was going on. She was doing him a favor, keeping him young and active. The argument didn't ring true and impatiently she stopped it and said, “Someone has to look after the interests of our clients today. You or Shelley?”

“I'll go,” he said.

“Great. When Milt shows up, rake in some of the chips he owes you, will you? Find out what happened at the clinic last night, why Bernie was there at night, what they have so far. You know.”

Frank glared at her. They both knew that was exactly what he would do. At least she didn't tell him not to reveal her whereabouts, he thought angrily. That would have been the last straw.

“I won't go near your phone today,” she said. “You have my cell phone number. And I won't answer a knock at the door, anything like that.”

Bailey arrived while they were still at breakfast. Barbara gave him her car key.

“Where do you want my guy to take it?” he asked.

“I don't care. Just out of sight for a few hours.”

He shrugged. “Right back.” He left with the key and a minute later she watched through the window as her car backed out of the driveway and headed down the street. Bailey came back in. Then, finishing the eggs and sausage, he said he did not know a thing more than they did, just what was on the morning news.

“We don't know why she was there, what time she was killed, where anyone was. Nothing,” Bar
bara said. “For all I know someone has confessed by now and is in the slammer. Fix that, Bailey. Whatever you can worm out of them at the clinic. Dad will be over there baby-sitting Annie and Darren and I'll be right here. Call my cell phone, not Dad's number.”

“That thing's going to give you brain cancer,” he said.

She rolled her eyes and poured more coffee for them all. Frank got up to make another pot, and she tried to think of what else she could do. The answer came out: nothing. She had to have more information, and until she got something to work with there wasn't a damn thing she could do.

A
fter Frank left, Barbara put their dishes in the dishwasher, washed and dried the skillet, then took all her gear upstairs. She was missing something, she kept thinking, something that she had overlooked, or had not noticed to begin with. In the spare room, her office in this house, she started at the beginning of her notes. Pacing, reading notes, making new notes, studying the demon figure on her monitor, tripping over cats or nudging them out of the way now and then, she had to admit finally that whatever that something was, it continued to elude her.

The phone rang a few times; she ignored it. An unmarked car pulled into the driveway, a man got out, rang the doorbell, then wandered around the side of the house to the garage and peered in. She
watched him from the upstairs window. He left again, and she resumed her pacing.

 

At the clinic Frank was walking from Naomi's office by Annie's side. “You did fine,” he said. “Are you all right?”

She nodded, but she did not look all right. She was as white as a live person could get, he thought, and her eyes were so heavily shadowed it appeared that she had not slept for many nights. And now she had been questioned by two detectives for more than an hour. He patted her arm. “They won't bother you any more today. Why don't you go get some rest?”

She nodded again. “As soon as some of the others get back from lunch.” Her lips felt stiff, she realized, and wondered how lips could become stiff.

“Mr. Holloway, can I have a word with you?” Darren Halvord met them outside the general office door. “Are you okay, Annie?” he asked, looking her over.

“I'm okay. Just tired. I'll see you later,” she said through her stiff lips, and entered the office and went straight to her desk. Two of the other office workers were there talking but fell silent as she crossed the room. She could feel them watching her all the way, watching her back when she sat down. They thought she killed David. And now Bernie? Did they think she killed Bernie? The stiffness in her lips was spreading through her face, down her neck.

One of them could have stolen her diary pages. Maybe she was passing them around to everyone the
way they sometimes did with recipes or jokes. She bowed her head and closed her eyes hard, then suddenly she was seeing another one of the missing pages. She felt the earth dropping away from her. She was floating and watching herself, watching someone take her by the shoulders, listening to someone say, put your head down, and it had nothing to do with her real self that was removed.

Then Naomi and Greg were there and he was acting like a doctor. Her other self came back in a rush.

“I'm all right,” she said, but Naomi was wrapping a coat around her, and Greg was holding her arm. Then they all walked out, through the corridor, through the garden to the residence.

Greg kept his arm around her shoulders when they entered the kitchen. “I'll make you a cup of tea,” Naomi said.

“No. I just want to lie down a little bit. I'm okay now. I just felt dizzy for a second. All those questions…”

“I'll help you upstairs,” Greg said in his doctor's voice. He stayed at her side, kept holding her arm as they went up the stairs and to her room.

She knew he was studying her, feeling her pulse, looking for whatever doctors looked for with a dizzy patient. She forced a smile and pulled away from him. “I'll take a nap. We're all so tired, and scared.”

He nodded. “I'll get you a mild tranquilizer, something to help you relax. Sit down, let's get those shoes off.”

She shook her head. “Just a nap. I'll lock my
door so they won't barge in on me. Really, Greg, I'm okay now.”

After a moment he nodded. “A nap would be good. Naomi's taking the rest of the day off. She'll be downstairs. And I'll bring something for you to take if you change your mind. You hop into bed and rest.”

When he left, she pushed the doorknob in and turned it, locking her door. Then she stood with her forehead pressed against it. That look on his face. She never had seen that face before, watchful, appraising. Judging? If he or Naomi had taken the pages, they would have discussed them, burned them, not passed them around for others to see, and they would think what anyone would think who read them. Wearily she pushed herself away from the door and crossed the room to the window where she could gaze out at the backyard, beyond it to the clinic. She wished she had never seen it before, had never heard of it, had not seen the ad that brought her to it in the first place. She wished she was back home with her gentle father and mother.

The detective who had questioned her appeared at the gate and walked toward the residence. Panicked, she jerked away from the window. Of course, she thought, it would be all over the clinic by then, how she had nearly fainted, how Greg and Naomi had brought her home. Maybe he had come to arrest her.

The floor began to drop away, and she threw herself across the bed and pressed hard on it to hold it
in place. If the police had the diary pages, would that be enough for them to arrest her? Keep her in jail for months, put her on trial, find her guilty? Execute her eventually?

In her mind's eye she could see a black basalt arm pitted with tide pools reaching out to sea, a thunderous wave crashing over it, sweeping it clean. And a lone figure at the end of the natural jetty, waiting, waiting.

 

Barbara had come to a stop in her pacing. There was something at the edge of her consciousness, she thought, something half glimpsed, half understood…. The two cats were on a chair, a great pile without definition, like Jason's golden fleece, when suddenly they both came wide-awake, their ears cocked; then they jumped up and ran out of the office and downstairs.

Frank's whistle, she realized. He had called the cats to warn her that he was coming, and that he wasn't alone. She went down the hall to the top of the stairs, but didn't turn the corner and stayed out of sight of anyone who might glance up the staircase.

There was a soft whistle, then Darren's voice.

“Wow! They're beauties. What are they, coon cats?”

“Yep. This way to the kitchen. I said we'd go have a bite to eat. This is the place. You're not a vegetarian, are you?”

Darren laughed. “No. I tried it a few years ago, but it didn't take. I kept dreaming of steaks, barbecued ribs and fish.”

Frank was giving her the opportunity to stay in hiding, Barbara realized as the voices grew fainter. She hesitated only a second or two, then went down to join her father and his guest for lunch.

Frank was at the sink washing his hands when she reached the kitchen door. He glanced at her and nodded. “He said he has to talk to you,” he said, inclining his head toward Darren, who was standing at the door, gazing out. He swung around to look at her as she entered.

“Right,” she said. “And I have to talk to you. Or listen is more like what I intend to do. I suggest it's time to back up and undo some statements. You first.”

“It's time,” he said. He glanced at Frank, then at the kitchen table. “Here?”

“Here,” Barbara said, pulling out a chair. He pulled out another one and turned it around to straddle it, his forearms on the chair back. Now, with the light behind him, his eyes appeared black and fathomless.

“I told you that Thomas Kelso saved my life,” he said. “He did. My sister had married a gangster, Dad was on the run somewhere, my mother remarried…and I was on the down slope gaining speed fast, ready to start hanging out with my sister and her husband, take whatever came along. Then Kelso called me for an interview. He tossed me a life preserver that day.” He glanced again at Frank, who was busy assembling sandwiches. “Mixed metaphor,” Darren said, “but you get the picture.

“Okay, to bring it to the present. That morning in November, I rode my bike, just as I said. When I turned into the alley, I saw a car leaving at the other end. I could see the brake lights, the exhaust, then it was gone. Okay. Then I saw the umbrella, just like I said before. I went into the garden, and McIvey was there on the main path, dead. I went to the side door to call the police, call someone, but I realized what I had seen, what it meant, and I went back to him. I moved him out of sight and closed the umbrella, and the rest is exactly what I told you.”

“Fill in the one detail,” Barbara said in a low furious voice. “You saw a car leave. Whose car?”

“Kelso's.”

“Why did you move the body?”

“To give him time to get away from there, to get home. To toss him a life preserver.”

“You damn fool! Don't you know the police don't believe a word of your story? You had to have been there within seconds of the murder to account for blood on your boot! The way it was raining that morning, not enough blood would have been on that path for you to pick up and track to your bike ten or fifteen minutes after he was shot. They're waiting for DNA test results, and they're looking for a link between you and Annie, searching for the gun, drawing the net tighter. And now you'd bring in that old man to counter anything that Bernie said. It won't wash! You can't start squirming out of it this way now.”

He nodded. “I've been a fool, all right. But I
would do it again. He's dying, Barbara. The hope of saving his clinic is all that's keeping him alive. I didn't blame him for taking McIvey out. I was sorry I didn't pull that trigger instead of him, in fact.”

Across the kitchen Frank made a throat-clearing noise and Barbara bit back her furious response and took a deep breath. She couldn't account for her anger, she realized. Darren was voicing exactly the scenario she had outlined earlier.

“And now that Bernie's dead and can't contradict your story, you've decided to come clean,” she said with bitter sarcasm.

Darren shook his head. “It's not just like that. Because she's dead, and unless there are two killers running around out there at the clinic, I knew I'd made a mistake. Kelso would not have harmed Bernie.”

“Not even to save his clinic?” Barbara demanded.

“That's beside the point. She was no threat to the clinic. McIvey was. And Kelso wouldn't have hurt her to save himself. What for? He's dying. He gave away his shares, maneuvered McIvey into getting rid of a few shares, did everything he could think of to make sure the clinic survived. McIvey was the only threat he saw. That's what it amounts to, Barbara.”

“What's wrong with him?”

“I don't know.”

“You just know he's dying. You put your hand on his fevered brow and knew he was doomed. Is that how it goes with you?”

He shrugged. “Something like that.”

“Sweet Jesus,” she muttered and jumped up to walk to the door and back. “How much of this have you told the cops?”

“Not a word yet. That's why I told your dad I had to talk to you.”

“Why did you think it was his car, seeing it from such a distance, with the rain and fog on a dark morning like that?”

“The pattern of brake lights,” he said. “Wide spaced, no light in the rear window like Annie's car, like most cars ever since about 1985. It wasn't Annie's Mercedes, if that's what you're getting at.”

“Does your truck have a brake light in the back window?”

He shook his head.

Barbara swung around toward Frank. “What happened last night?” He stopped cutting sandwiches, put the knife down and wiped his hands before he answered.

“Zuckerman got a phone call at about seven-thirty, didn't say who called, just that there was an emergency at the clinic and she had to go over there for a few hours. From all appearances, when she arrived in the parking lot, someone approached her car. She rolled down her window and was shot in the head. If that's how it went, she was probably killed shortly before eight, allowing fifteen minutes or a little longer to drive over. Two nurses reporting for duty at midnight found her body in the car.”

“Where were you from seven-thirty on?” Barbara asked Darren in a harsh voice.

His voice was almost as edgy as hers when he answered. “I took Todd home by seven, over in Springfield. Our agreement is for me to get him home by seven. Then I drove to the Amazon Center, got there at seven-thirty probably. The bridge group meets there every other Sunday night. But I didn't go in. I sat in the truck thinking for a while, not in the mood for cards. I decided not to play and drove home again. I don't know what time I got back. An alibi wasn't on my mind.”

“You never seem to know what time you did anything, but you'd better pray that someone saw you out there thinking,” Barbara said. “Not only that, but that someone can pinpoint the exact time you were communing with nature.”

Frank had the sandwiches on plates by then, and placed one of them on the table. They all stiffened and grew silent when the doorbell sounded. Frank thrust a plate at Barbara and nodded toward the hall and the stairs to the upper floor.

“Don't you breathe a word about Kelso's car,” she snapped, then hurried from the kitchen and to the stairs as Frank went to the door. On the stairs she paused long enough to hear him say, “Milt, just in time for some lunch. Come on in.” She ran up the rest of the stairs and around the banister at the top, out of sight from below, where she could still hear voices from the hall.