Death on a High Floor (43 page)

She got up, turned, and started to leave the bench, but then appeared to remember something. Still standing, she turned back around and asked, “Counsel, who will be your next witness tomorrow after Detective Spritz?”

“It was going to be Susan Apacha, Your Honor, but there’s been a slight change of plan, and it will now be two really quick witnesses. Sergeant Drady and Maria Hernandez.”

“Who,” the judge asked, “is Maria Hernandez?”

“The mailroom supervisor at Marbury Marfan.”

“All right. And after the two short ones?”

“Stewart Broder. But he shouldn’t take long either, and then we have the blood analysts.”

“Okay, fine,” the judge said, and headed out of the courtroom.

Precise witness order is normally not of much interest to a judge, and her lack of concern did not surprise me. One name that Benitez uttered did concern and surprise
me.
And Jenna, too, because she gave me a quizzical look.

Stewart was on the prosecution’s witness list of course. Their witness list held almost a hundred names, as did ours. The normal practice is to list everyone under the sun, even if you intended to call only five of them. You just never knew who you might need. But I don’t think anyone on my team had ever seriously considered that the prosecution might call Stewart.

I didn’t have long to think about it because Jenna and Oscar were quickly packing up. “Come on,” Jenna said. “The sheriff is still being cooperative about getting us out of here
sans
Blob, so we’ve got to hustle.”

I turned around and saw Stewart himself sitting in the last row of spectator seats. He didn’t look happy. Maybe he’d had a major acne outbreak, because his makeup looked thicker than ever. I waved to him, expecting that he’d wave back, but he didn’t. Instead, he bolted out of his seat and practically zoomed out the double doors. Doors that were enmeshed in a milling Blob presence, clearly waiting to accost us.

Several sheriff’s deputies suddenly appeared, formed a flying wedge, and pushed the Blob away from the doors. We followed the wedge out. There were a lot of shouted questions as we went by, which we ignored. The coarsest of them asked if I would please take off my shirt.

The wedge protected us all the way to the elevators, where we were permitted to enter the “judges only” elevator for the trip to the parking garage. It was only as we got in that I realized Uncle Freddie had joined us.

Oscar pushed the button marked “G,” and we headed down.

“Why the hell are they going to call Stewart?” I asked.

“Probably,” Oscar said, “because Spritz testified he let Stewart onto the eighty-fifth floor. Best guess, they want him to testify that he didn’t disturb evidence while he was there. Probably on and off in five minutes.”

“Maybe I’ll keep him there a bit longer,” Jenna said. “I might have a few questions for him myself.”

“He didn’t wave back at me,” I said.

“Perhaps,” Uncle Freddie said, “he wished to avoid bringing upon himself undue attention from members of the Fourth Estate.”

“Yeah,” I said. “Could be.”

The elevator doors opened, and we all walked over to Jenna’s Land Cruiser, which was parked nearby. Oscar got in front with Jenna. Uncle Freddie climbed into the back with me.

Oscar spoke first. “Good job, Miss James. You took their case down a peg. Maybe even a peg-and-a-half.”

Jenna put the car into first gear and headed toward the exit ramp. “Enough to win, Mr. Quesana?” she asked.

“No,” Oscar laughed. “Not hardly. Not yet, anyway.”

I thought the “not yet” was a big concession.

“Can I ask a question?” Oscar said.

“Sure,” Jenna said.

“What was your good-faith basis for your hypothetical fact that Simon had a below average body temperature?”

Jenna actually giggled. “Oh. When he had the flu, I took his temperature and told him it was normal. Ninety-eight point six. And he told me that that meant he had a fever, because his normal temperature was 96.9.”

“That was it?” Oscar asked.

“I thought it was enough.”

“Well, I sure as hell hope his medical records or something else supports that somehow. Other than you as Nurse Jenna. Because if we end up needing to prove it, it’s gonna be kinda awkward to put you on the stand.”

“Oh, something will turn up,” Jenna said.

We had by then started to move up the exit ramp. To my delight, there was no Blob presence at the top, and we were soon on city streets, headed toward the blessed anonymity of the freeway. Slowly, though, because rush hour had begun and the traffic had already started to congeal.

Jenna changed the subject. “So, Uncle Freddie, what’d you learn today?”

“Not a great deal, alas,” he said. “The prints on the other dagger came back, most unfortunately, as a ‘no match.’ My colleagues report that those prints are not on the national fingerprint database.”

“Interesting,” Jenna said. “All lawyers have their prints on file with the state. So that means Stewart didn’t handle that dagger, and Harry didn’t either. It was somebody else.”

“Or they wiped it clean,” Uncle Freddie said.

“What other dagger are you talking about?” Oscar asked.

“Oh, I forgot,” Jenna said. “You missed Uncle Freddie’s morning briefing. Uncle Freddie found another dagger hidden in Stewart’s office. I’ll fill you in later.” In response, Oscar simply grunted.

“I should also wish to report,” Uncle Freddie said, “that one of my colleagues used some connections we have to check on recent travel itineraries of various individuals of interest to us.”

“Which ones?” I asked.

“Detective Spritz and Mr. Stewart Broder.”

“What about Harry?”

“We weren’t able to locate anything about Mr. Marfan.”

“All right. Then what did you find out about Spritz and Stewart?”

“Nothing much. Mostly holidays. Last October, Detective Spritz went to China on a trip organized by the International Society of Homicide Detectives. And Stewart Broder took a holiday in Greece last summer.”

“Where in Greece?” I asked.

“Skopje.”

“That’s the capital of Macedonia,” I said.

“Right you are. It was in Greece only in classical times. Which were the best of times, wouldn’t you agree?”

I had no interest in comparing historical epochs. I responded simply by saying what was on my mind. “It’s not far from Philippi, where Brutus began to coin the
Ides
to pay his armies. Not long before he was defeated by Mark Antony and committed suicide.”

“You find that significant?” Oscar asked.

“I find it a seriously odd coincidence,” I said.

“Perhaps so,” Uncle Freddie said. “But, on the other hand, Macedonia is also an increasingly popular tourist destination for those who wish to remain in Europe, but nevertheless seek to find something that lies on the less well-trodden path. And in any case, Mr. Broder journeyed there on a archaeology trip planned by a Yale Law School alumni group.”

“Okay,” I said. “But on the
other
other hand, Stewart is the kind of person who beats a very well-trodden path to five-star hotels and three-star restaurants. And I’m guessing there aren’t a lot of either in Skopje.”

Before I could pursue that line of thought further, Jenna’s cell phone rang. She answered it and then handed it to Oscar. “It’s your friend Chris Ogalu.”

Oscar did not immediately take the phone from her. “It’s
Christian
,” he said.

Jenna continued to hold the phone out and, finally, Oscar took it. He listened for a minute as we all sat silent, listening to him listen. Then he said, “Okay, thanks,” and handed the phone back to Jenna.

“What did Christian say?” Jenna asked.

“He said he got Boone out already, and Boone’s headed back to wherever he lives in Santa Monica. He promises Boone will stay put for now. If we want to interview him further or call him as a witness, we should get in touch with Christian first.”

“That was quick work,” I said.

“Yeah,” Oscar said. “He does good work. The only fly in the ointment is that Boone apparently insists that he’s going to call Stewart.”

“What for?” I asked.

“To complain.”

“Well,” Jenna said, “I don’t suppose there’s much we can do about that. Let’s hope Stewart refuses to talk to him.”

“So,” Uncle Freddie said, “I gather then that you have all made the acquaintance of the unusual Mr. Boone?”

Oscar twisted fully around in the front seat and stared at him. “You know Boone?”

“I do not, but one of my colleagues has made his acquaintance. Four days ago, I placed an ad in the classified section of the
L.A. Times
requesting that anyone with pertinent information about the unfortunate demise of Mr. Rafer communicate that information to a tip line. In exchange for a monetary reward of course. It’s remarkable what an advertisement like that will sometimes yield. Indeed, I was hoping that the killer himself might even call. Killers are oft voyeurs of their own killings, you know.

“I gather the killer didn’t exactly call,” I said.

“Correct. Indeed, most calls proved of little worth. But then, early yesterday, Mr. Boone rang us up. His information sounded a trifle more interesting, so I requested that one of my colleagues interview him in person.”

“You have a lot of colleagues,” Oscar said.

“Yes, I do. Trusted colleagues.”

I found it all hard to fathom. “Why the hell would Boone be reading the classifieds?”

“A great many neurotics peruse the classifieds, Robert,” Uncle Freddie said.

“Forget about why he was reading them,” Jenna said. “How did he get into Judge Gilmore’s chambers?”

“Oh, quite explicable,” Uncle Freddie said. “I was of the view that the District Attorney would not be inclined to give him a serious listen were he to ring them up directly, and especially not if we presented him. So I suggested—through my colleague, of course—that Mr. Boone might visit Judge Gilmore herself to relate his story.”

Oscar was still turned around in the seat. “That’s
why
he went to see Judge Gilmore. Did your colleague also tell him
how
to get in to see Judge Gilmore?”

“Well,” Uncle Freddie said, “I do own an interest in the security company that supplies the software for the courthouse security system, and I am aware of certain codes that might be used to override the system, but I would certainly never supply those codes to someone as unstable as Mr. Boone. And I’d be deeply shocked if any of my colleagues had disclosed them. Shocked to my toes. I cannot even imagine it. So I have no idea how he got in.”

No one said anything. Oscar turned back around and faced the front. Jenna drove, saying nothing. Uncle Freddie and I just sat there.

To distract myself from the awkward silence, I looked out the side window. We were at that moment totally stopped in downtown traffic, and I could hear the honking of horns—quite rare in Los Angeles, but increasingly common as New Yorkers have moved in—that seemed to announce that we weren’t going anywhere for a while. I looked at the real people on the streets, going about their business, not on trial for anything. I remembered when I was able to do that.

The car had started to creep forward again. “Stop the car,” I said. “I’m going to get out and take a little walk.” I unbuckled my seat belt.

“Are you carsick again?” Oscar asked.

“No, I’m just tired of being cooped up like a bird in a cage. It’s been weeks since I’ve been anywhere other than my house, this car, or the courtroom.”

I had expected Oscar to protest. Instead, he simply said, deadpan, “You’re the client.”

That’s code, of course. When a lawyer says that, particularly in that tone of voice, it translates as, “You’re a serious moron, but you’re over the age of eighteen, I’ve done everything I can for you, and there’s apparently nothing I can do to stop you, so good luck.”

Jenna simply said, “I don’t think it’s wise.” But she pulled to the curb and stopped the car.

“I know,” I said. “But I’m going anyway.” I started to open the door.

“Where shall we pick you up?” Oscar asked. “Do you want us to follow you?”

“No, I’ll just grab a cab at the Biltmore. There are always cabs there. It will be a new adventure for me. Taking a cab in L.A.”

“Promise me,” Jenna said, “that you won’t talk to anyone, especially not the cab driver.”

“I never talk to anyone about the case.”

“Like,” Oscar said, “you didn’t talk to the
National Enquirer
reporter on the plane.”

“That was different.”

“Or that kid who asked you for your autograph.”

“Okay, okay. I get it. I’m just going for a walk. No talking to anyone.”

Uncle Freddie grabbed my arm. I thought he was going to try to keep me from getting out. Instead, he reached into his inner suit coat pocket and pulled out a mechanical pencil. “Here you go, old man, you might want to take some notes.”

“Take notes of what?”

“Oh dear me,” Uncle Freddie said. “I forgot you are not in my business. It is also a digital recording device. If anyone accosts you in a threatening fashion or tries to trick you into confessing, press the eraser gently, and it will record what they say on the chip embedded in the pencil body. Up to five hours. The microphone is in the metal clip.”

“Isn’t that a crime in California? To record a conversation with someone without telling them?”

“Not if they’re threatening you with a crime.”

“Well, I don’t think I’ll need it, but thanks.” I took it from him, slipped it in my shirt pocket, and got out. A light rain had begun to fall. I felt truly alive for the first time in weeks.