Clear and Convincing Proof (9 page)

Barbara agreed that it was very clever, well thought out and scrupulously maintained. Even in the winter landscape there was a feeling of privacy about the garden, and there were clumps of green plants, low, spreading conifers, as well as broadleaved evergreen plants, some draping over the edges of the stairlike risers. Heather was in bloom: dusky pink, lavender, white.

They had gone twenty-five or thirty feet along the path, with the clinic building on the right, the garden on the left, when Naomi stopped. A path branched off between two of the planted islands.

“They say this is where he was shot,” Naomi said in a low voice. “And he was dragged up that path to the curve.”

“Do you mind?” Barbara said, and started to walk up the path. Naomi hesitated a moment, then joined her. “How far up?” Barbara asked.

On one side the island was eight or nine feet wide, the other side was a foot or two wider. The path they were on joined another, and Naomi stopped where the two came together.

“Here,” she said. “He wasn't pulled onto the other path.”

Barbara looked up and down the path they had
come to; it curved out of sight in both directions. The one they had just come on went straight to the clinic building, but who would have been out walking on that rainy, foggy morning? “Okay,” she said. “Let's get in out of the cold. I have an appointment with your husband at two, so I'll take off now and come back later.”

They walked back to the residence where Naomi entered by the back door, and Barbara walked around to the front driveway and her car. An appointment with Greg Boardman at two, and lunch with Bailey Novell now.

Bailey was the only private detective she had ever worked with and the only one her father trusted. They both knew he was the best in the business. He had grumbled, “Jeez, Barbara, Saturday? You've got to be kidding.”

“Nope. Tell you what, I'll sweeten the pot and buy you some lunch. Someplace without a basketball game full blast on the television.”

They agreed on a seafood restaurant near the sprawling mall a few blocks from the clinic. Seafood, Barbara thought in resignation; he would order lobster or crab, whichever was more expensive.

She was already seated at a window table when Bailey slouched into the restaurant. She gasped when she saw him. He was wearing an outercoat that fell below his knees and seemed to be made of some kind of shaggy mammoth hair. The garment was gray, shapeless, intended for someone inches taller
and pounds heavier than Bailey. He had on a matching cap.

“My God,” she said when he drew near. “Where did you get that?”

“Like it?” He stroked the hideous fur. “Hannah wanted to go to Portland, hit some of the after-Christmas sales, and I spotted this in an outdoor place. Just what I need, and half price. Do I look like a Sherpa guide?”

She shook her head. “You look like a yak. Take it off and hide it.”

Complacently he took it off, folded it and laid it on a chair, then seated himself. Bailey always looked as if whatever he was wearing had come from Goodwill rejects, and today, since it was a Saturday and, at least in theory, he was not working, it appeared that he had put on the worst of the worst. A worn and faded plaid shirt, thin at the elbows, frayed at the cuffs, and corduroy trousers that had been laundered so often they were almost as shiny smooth as satin.

He ordered the seafood platter and a beer for right now. She ordered clam chowder. Then, with his beer in place, he said, “What's up? I thought you'd be taking life easy for a few months. You turning into a workaholic or something?”

“Something,” she said. “It's the David McIvey murder. Remember it? Back in November he was shot at a clinic on Country Club Road.”

“Vaguely,” he said. “I wasn't paying much attention. Client?” Bailey always said that he liked to know who would pick up the tab before he ordered
food or drink; he also liked to know there was a paying client before he stirred himself. He knew all about the impoverished clients who came to Barbara in Martin's Restaurant.

“A committee's worth,” she said. She told him about the meeting. “So it looks as if the police are narrowing it down to Darren Halvord and Annette McIvey, the widow. There may be something going on between them. I want to know for sure. And I believe Halvord has a history. He'll probably tell me something about it, but I want an outside version as well. Also, the scoop on what the police are up to.”

She gave him a copy of the list of people at the clinic, staff, volunteers, Kelso…“I underlined the ones I want you to start with,” she said. “The patient Dorothy Johnson saw a demon in a black shiny cape.” He gave her a mean look and she shrugged. “Just reporting.”

He was scanning the list when their food arrived. “Halvord and Erica Castle live in the same place. Anything there?”

“I don't know. She is listed as first-floor apartment and he's second floor. It may be nothing more than that, but find out. She was there that morning.”

She eyed his platter, heaped with a mountain of food. Bailey was deceptive. He looked like a middle-aged bookkeeper or middle school social studies teacher, or something equally benign, but he was sinewy, and he could outeat and outdrink people twice his size. She realized she was thinking of Annie McIvey and the problem of moving a body as large
as David McIvey's had been. Was Annie one of those sinewy people with surprising strength?

She finished her chowder while Bailey still had food on his platter. “Just thinking out loud,” she said. “You don't have to make a sound, just think for me. Could a woman who is about five foot three, 115 pounds, drag a body that weighs 175 about eight feet?”

“Depends,” he said with his mouth full.

“Sorry I asked. Eat your crab.”

When he had eaten every bite, finished his beer and wiped his lips, he said, “What I mean is, it depends on how he was moved as much as on how big she is. Head first? Lift the torso and move him? Probably not. Feet first? Grab his ankles, or even one ankle and drag him along, probably. By one hand or arm, maybe. And it depends on the surface of wherever he's being dragged. Waxed floor, probability goes up. On a rug on the waxed floor, way up. Rough ground, it goes down. See? You know how he was moved?”

“Nope. That's your job. Now I've got to run. The police have been on this for weeks. We have a lot of catching up to do.”

“Okeydokey. Got an idea. Get the old man to lie down and see how far Shelley can drag him.”

“It has to be outside in the rain on a bark mulch path,” she said, waving her credit card to catch the eye of their waiter.

“You see a problem with little details like that?” Bailey asked, as he put his ghastly coat back on. At
her look he said, “Just wait until later today and the snow begins to pile up, you'll wish you had a coat exactly like this.”

“It isn't going to snow. It never snows when they predict it.”

She returned to the clinic and met with Greg Boardman who gave her a tour, introduced the staff and volunteers who were on Saturday duty and then talked with her in his office. Most of it was simply corroboration of what Naomi had already told her. And a few more details about David McIvey. Then he talked about Darren Halvord.

“He's the best physical therapist I've ever met,” he said. “He has a gift for it.” He told her about the basketball player who had had a tumor. “David would have operated,” he said, “and it would have been a terrible mistake. He never forgave Darren for being right.” He leaned back in his chair. “David and Darren,” he said. “Both with magic hands. David was a superb surgeon, no one will dispute that, but the magic stopped at the wrists. He had no empathy, no sympathy for his patients, no understanding that a person is more than a bad artery or a ruptured disk, a code on an insurance form. He was an outstanding technician, and inhuman. Darren treats the whole person. He's attuned to the whole patient, and they respond in ways that sometime seem miraculous. David called him a witch doctor, a shaman. I think he had it just about right.”

 

That night Barbara had a date with Will Thaxton, whom she had known for more than twenty years,
ever since they had attended the same high school. They had gone their separate ways and only recently had become reacquainted and started to date. After a leisurely dinner in a very nice restaurant that she didn't like as much as he did, they planned to drop in on three different brew pubs where jazz groups were playing. He knew every jazz group in town, and most of the ones who passed through on tour.

“This kid is the new Miles Davis,” he said as they left the restaurant. “You'll see.”

She sniffed the air suspiciously. The temperature had risen, and the air was moister. They went to the first of the pubs and danced and listened to music, and drank a little. When they left, she sniffed the air again. “It's going to snow,” she said.

“In your dreams. On to the Barrel.”

They danced some more and she agreed that the new kid might become as good as Miles Davis, and he argued that he was already that good. It was midnight when they left, and there was half an inch of snow on the ground, and more falling in huge lazy flakes.

“Home,” she said, laughing delightedly at the snow. “Isn't it beautiful!”

Slipping and sliding, they got to his BMW, and he drove her home, a slow, slippery drive. At her door, he said, “Of course, I can't navigate that Willamette Street hill.”

She nodded. “You'd be insane to try.”

So he went in with her, and they watched the snow fall for a time before they went to bed.

S
he roused when Will got up, then turned over and went back to sleep. The next time she woke up, it was to the smell of coffee, and that proved irresistible. Pulling on her robe she hurried to the window, but to her disappointment, the snow was already melting, dripping off trees, turning to slush on the street. Another Oregon blizzard, she thought in disgust.

Her apartment was small: two bedrooms, one used as an office, a living room-dining space-kitchen in one large area where the kitchen could be screened off from the rest, but never was. Propped against the wall were two Monet prints that she had ordered from the Metropolitan Museum and had framed, but had not got around to hanging. The living room had bookcases stuffed full to overflowing,
a good reading chair and lamp, a television, a good CD player and a stack of CDs, a couch that looked more comfortable than it was and one cloisonné candy dish that was usually empty because she thought of candy at night, not when she was shopping. It was sufficient, she had decided, and made no further attempt at interior decorating. There wasn't room for anything else, she told herself. In fact, the very nice gifts that her father and friends gave her for Christmas or her birthday—a Waterford vase, crystal goblets, a jade-and-silver clock—she usually boxed up and put away, for safekeeping, she always told herself. It was a lie. She didn't want to bother dusting them.

The apartment was fine for one person, crowded with two, and she was neither surprised nor disappointed when she went to the dining area and found a note propped against the coffee carafe on the table. “Logs to split, elusive loopholes to pry open, chickens to feed. I'll call later in the week. You're a sweet sleeper. W.” Smiling at the note, she sat down with the newspaper and coffee, contented.

No demands, no recrimination, no arguments about work, no questions, a perfect relationship, she sometimes thought. They went out on what she thought of as date-type things—movies now and then, theater, concerts. They danced, dined, listened to music, went to bed and then split. Sometimes she mocked his clients, but never as much as he did. He was a corporate lawyer, shoulder deep, he claimed, in trusts, wills, deeds, partnerships and articles of in
corporation, all lucrative, some of it shady but not illegal, because, he also claimed, he was an expert at loopholes. He hadn't had a client end up in jail yet, which was more than she could say. Her response had been that at least she took her clients seriously, and he was playing games. He had readily agreed.

“But,” he had added, “the games I play have made me fairly affluent. In ten years I expect to be rather rich, and in twenty years filthy rich. And as long as a third of your clients come via Martin's Restaurant, no matter how seriously you take their problems, you'll still be wondering if you can afford a new car from one year to the next.”

She thought he was modest about how much money he made. In her eyes he was already rich and she had absolutely no qualms about letting him wine and dine her. He was subsidizing some of her penniless clients.

She realized that she was not tracking a word of what she was reading in the newspaper and put it aside to consider the rest of the day, the following weeks, how much unfinished business she had to attend to, or have Shelley attend to. Meanwhile she had to go over the clinic business once more in order to have it clear in her mind when she told her father about it at dinner that night. She felt almost as if she had been on vacation, and it was time to get back to work. It was a good feeling.

 

That evening, watching her father work his miracles with a handful of vegetables and a piece of lamb, she told him about the case. She didn't get far
because he began scowling fiercely, and since he often saw a snag in the water long before she did, she paused for his comment.

“Why the devil did you take on a new murder case this soon?” he said. “You need some downtime. A bit of a rest. Are you even through wrapping up the details for the Feldman case?”

He might have gone on, but she said, “Dad,” in a way that was not going to be an entreaty, but was rather a warning. “And just what the devil are you doing with that lamb?” she demanded, standing to get a better look.

“I'm skewering it.” Lamb, red peppers, mushrooms, onions, eggplant pieces still dripping from a marinade…

“Oh.” She sat down again and, sipping a good pinot noir, finished telling him what little she knew about the McIvey affair. “Anyway, as far as I can tell, to know David McIvey was to wish him dead. If there were mourners at his funeral, they must have been paid by the hour.”

Frank nodded. “It's a mess,” he said. “Too many motives. And they run the gamut—passion, greed, zealotry. Even for a decent cause it can still be zealotry—possibly revenge.” He shook his head. “Too many possible killers. Any idea why the cops chose Halvord and the widow?”

“Nope. I sicced Bailey onto it.” Then she said, “One of the patients at a window saw a dwarf in a shiny black cape, or else a demon out to snatch the soul before it could escape.”

Frank groaned. “Just what you need, a dose of the paranormal.”

“Actually she could have seen someone. From a second-floor window, looking almost straight down, you might see a normal person, foreshortened, take on a curious shape. I need to look out that window to tell just what she might have seen. And I need a tallish man, about your size, to lie down and see how far Shelley can drag him in the rain over a bark mulch path.”

“You're out of your mind,” Frank said coldly. “Why don't you go see if those fool cats are on the dinette table and if they are, chase them and set it.”

She chased Thing One and Thing Two off the table where they had been sitting like bookends gazing out. They stalked from the room with a grand show of indignation, tried to get sympathy from Frank, who told them to beat it, and then went to the sliding glass door to continue gazing out. It was dark and impossible for them to see anything, but they put up a good front.

“They're waiting for the snow to come back,” Frank said when Barbara returned for plates. “They were out there rolling in it, lapping it up, playing like kids.” They were monster kids, great golden coon cats who weighed in at twenty-plus pounds each.

The McIvey case was not mentioned again until after the meal was consumed, the kitchen cleaned up and a doggie bag of extras prepared for her to heat in the microwave sometime. He usually made enough for her to have another meal at home, and
she was grateful. She divided food into two categories: the meals she prepared for herself, ersatz food, and real food such as Frank made. She preferred the real stuff, she had to admit, but it was beyond her ability to produce it. Their Sunday night dinners, while not a ritual set in concrete, were regular, and did not cause a twinge of guilt on her part; Frank liked to cook, and she liked to eat.

Then, getting ready to leave, she said, “Dr. Kelso and Sid Blankenship are coming by at nine in the morning. Want to sit in on it?”

He said he certainly would like to do that.

She appreciated that he, after practicing criminal law for fifty years, knew a great deal more than she did, and he was extremely helpful when it came to citing cases and recalling obscure rulings. Also, he knew every judge in the state, and could wrest secrets from rocks.

And after his own practice of fifty years, it was now one of his greatest pleasures to watch her work. His daughter, Frank knew, was a better lawyer than he ever had been. For the past few years he had been trying to retire, he sometimes said, but he still dropped in daily at his own prestigious law firm, where he was a senior partner, and where criminal cases were no longer accepted. And he was an occasional associate of Barbara's in her criminal cases. He was very grateful for that.

He had what amounted to a superstitious fear, he once admitted to himself, that anyone who stopped doing the work he was destined for had lost the will
to live. And he had not been able to take on a case involving life-and-death issues following the death of his wife nearly nine years earlier. Then Barbara had brought him back, even as he had brought her back to practice law after she had left in anger and disgust with a system she saw as corrupt. They had saved each other, he acknowledged silently. He was not certain she understood that yet, but she would one day, he knew.

 

Before nine the following morning Barbara had an attorney-client agreement at hand and she had consulted with Shelley about the coming week. Frank had come early, he said to make coffee. Maria Velazques, the office secretary, or Shelley, or Frank always tried to get to the coffeemaker before Barbara did. Promptly at nine Sid Blankenship and Dr. Kelso arrived.

Barbara led them into her office and introduced Frank. As they removed their heavy coats, Sid looked over the room appraisingly, with apparent approval. As well he should approve, Barbara thought. Her father and Shelley's father had furnished it, from the rich burgundy pile carpeting to the fine brocade-covered chairs, the luxurious sofa, inlaid coffee table, her desk and visitors' chairs. Kelso appeared not to notice anything. He kept his white cap on and sank down onto the sofa as if tired. He and Sid both turned down the offer of coffee.

As soon as they were seated, Sid read through the agreement, and said, “Fine, fine.” He handed it to Dr.
Kelso, who signed it without glancing at the contents. “I'll get the other signatures and get it back to you later today,” Sid said. “Now, where do you want to start?”

“Let me see if I have the details of the clinic arrangement correct,” Barbara said. “As it stands now, Dr. Boardman owns twenty-five percent of the shares outright, Dr. Kelso controls the voting rights of another twenty-five percent and Annie McIvey owns five percent outright. Why haven't you petitioned the court for permission to set up the foundation?”

Sid nodded. “That's how it stands. However, on the advice of her civil law attorney, Mrs. McIvey has declined to join in such a petition.” He was still holding the lawyer-client agreement. He tapped it and added, “This may be the instrument to reduce her anxiety and permit her to sign. But even if she does, it could take months for a final decision to be passed down. Appraisals, audits, background checks…It all takes time.”

“And we might not have that time,” Dr. Kelso said in his rasping voice. “My wife is dying. She could go today, tomorrow, in six months, perhaps not for a year. But she is dying, and if she dies before we have a foundation in place it might never happen. Make Annie understand, Miss Holloway. She will be protected, her interests will be protected under that agreement and the clinic will survive as a foundation, but only if she agrees to take a stand with us. We can't wait for a formal accusation to be made, a
trial, two trials. And if she's found guilty, or pleads guilty to a lesser offense, David's children will get his shares, and his ex-wife will sell to the highest bidder on their behalf. That's what this is all about, Miss Holloway.”

She shook her head, regarding him. “No, Dr. Kelso. That is not what this is about. I have been hired to defend Mrs. McIvey if she is charged with murder or being an accessory to murder. That is what I intend to do.”

Matter-of-factly Frank said, “Dr. Kelso, no probate court will release an estate as long as the cause of death of the deceased is an issue. Also, if a court takes under advisement the transition from a nonprofit corporation to a foundation, as you propose, all assets would likely be frozen for a time until the audits and such are conducted. The court might well take a dim view of the nonprofit corporation spending its meager resources to defend two suspects in a murder case, the outcome of which might well influence the decision. I believe Mrs. McIvey's attorney has given her sound advice.”

Sid nodded slightly, as if to say, just what I told him. His smooth face did not change its Humpty-Dumpty bland expression, but Dr. Kelso's face, already like corduroy, seemed to shrivel even more and a deep-maroon tinge appeared on the folded and refolded skin of his cheeks. His sporty cap was more incongruous than ever against his aged face. He turned his sharp gaze from Frank, leaned back and closed his eyes.

“I was home, probably still in bed when it hap
pened,” he said. “Greg called and told me, and after the police left, I went to the residence and we talked. And that's all I know about the murder.” He looked at Barbara then. “Is there anything else?”

“Not today. Later, after I know more, I'll want to talk to you again.”

He nodded and pushed himself up from the sofa. “Not too much later,” he said as he put on his overcoat. “When you're young,” he said, “you think you have so much time, too much time, time for everything. Then you don't. God's little joke.”

Barbara walked out with them and returned with the coffee tray. “What do you think?” she asked Frank, pouring for both of them.

“I think he'll cooperate with you just as long as he thinks it's in his interest to do so.”

“And his interest isn't quite the same as Annie McIvey's and Darren Halvord's,” she said.

“Exactly.”

“He may be the last person in America who still says Miss instead of Ms.,” she said. “Holding on to the past or something.”

 

Annie arrived just as Shelley was ready to leave to go to Martin's Restaurant. Standing side by side in the reception room, they could have passed for sisters, with the same build, similar blond hair, similar good bones and features, but Shelley was afloat in her bubble of happiness, and Annie was mired in gloom. And that did make a difference, Barbara thought, waving Shelley out.