No Accident (33 page)

Brad Pitcher sat in the late afternoon haze on a plastic bench covered with graffiti, resting his forearms on his knees as he tried to concentrate on a newspaper.

Sheila was in jail and would certainly never pay the rest of his bill. And the bus was late again—that mattered because Brad had sold the BMW for cash to keep his practice going.

All the newspapers portrayed him as the foolish lawyer who got bamboozled by a murderer. “No comment” was his stock response whenever the reporters called. They were about the only ones who called his office these days. With business at a lull, Brad spent most of his time tending to his disciplinary proceedings with the bar association. It was all too painful to think about. He wondered whether he should just screw it all and move to Hawaii to become a beach bum.
Nah
, he thought,
I’d be bored after an hour
.

Brad heard the steady clap of high heels on the sidewalk nearby. He looked up and saw Cindy approaching. She looked lovely. He sat up straight and smiled at her, hoping they might ride the bus together, but she ignored him as she walked by.

Brad craned his neck to watch her as she walked away. The scent of her perfume followed her, and she looked like she had put on makeup before leaving the office. Then he put it all together: she had a date.

*
* *

Alex looked around the living room of his vacant house. Not only had it been cleaned of the mess that Del left, Alex had given it a fresh coat of paint. It looked great in the morning light. Great for a little family. Alex locked the front door and limped to his truck. His leg was feeling better each week.

This house was paid off now. A few weeks before, Alex wouldn’t have believed that was possible, but a local television station paid him a handsome sum for exclusive rights to his story. After Sheila’s arrest, the public became fascinated by the story of how she orchestrated the car crash, set up her husband to take the blame, and killed Beto and Les Frees to cover her tracks.

The TV station’s fee enabled Alex to pay off the mortgage
—and just in time to save the house from foreclosure. Alex looked at the little house one last time before stepping into the truck.
One down, four to go
, he thought. He got in the truck and started driving.

Sheila took a plea bargain. With her hospital room confession on tape, she didn’t have much choice. She got thirty years
—but no needle, so in that way she got off easier than Beto or the unlamentable Les Frees. Alex was happy he wouldn’t have to testify against her. He knew he’d be even happier when he didn’t think about her anymore.

He’d been thinking a lot about Del. First, wondering where he’d been. Then, after receiving a letter from him, wondering how to respond. Alex had been carrying around a nearly finished letter to Del for days now.

Del was in Alaska, on a fishing boat. “Didn’t you know bookies get seasick?” was how Del explained the move. Alex was happy for Del, happy that he’d left L.A. It was such a dramatic change for Del that Alex had trouble believing at first believing the letter was genuine, until he got to the letter’s postscript, which showed his brother’s quirky humor: “These fishermen can’t play cards worth a damn—kidding.” The second postscript had another surprise: “I forgive you.” Del had the courtesy not to say for what. Reading that, Alex felt ashamed. Alex had never really admitted to himself how he’d done wrong by Del. Maybe Alex could forgive Del, too; Alex couldn’t get shown up by his younger brother. Besides, forgiving Del was a lot easier now that Del was two thousand miles away.

Luke Hubbard, of all people, also showed a surprising capacity for forgiveness
—or more likely for expedience. He had called Alex out of the blue a few days earlier to ask Alex, of all things, whether he wanted a job at Liberty as head of security. “Why me?” Alex asked. “Because Crash is in prison, and I’ve seen how effective you are in action,” Luke said. “Besides, we have something in common—we were both fooled by Sheila.” The number Luke threw out was more than triple Alex’s salary at Rampart; “plus stock options,” Luke emphasized. Good pay, responsibility, a company whose environmental mission Alex admired—the job had everything he could have wanted. Plus, it turned out Luke wasn’t the quite devil that Alex initially thought he was.

Luke had been humbled, if only slightly. He was still CEO of Liberty Industries, but the board of directors had taken away his title as chairman of the board and given it to another director to provide more oversight. After Sheila’s guilty plea, when it was clear that Luke wasn’t responsible for the car crash, Luke’s lawyers at Boswell & Baker got the lawsuit by Roberta Cummings dismissed. A bright note for Luke, but not for Roberta Cummings, because it meant she lost her last hope to stop the foreclosure of her home.

But it turns out that wasn’t so bad.

Alex parked his truck in front of Roberta Cummings’ house. The door was open, and inside Alex could see a living room filled with moving boxes and Mrs. Cummings taping one of them shut.

“Knock, knock,” Alex said.

Mrs. Cummings came to him and greeted him with a smile. “We’re just about ready here,” she said.

Alex pulled the keys to the vacant house from his pocket and gave them to her. “Now you’re completely ready,” he said. Her eyes started to tear up, and Alex let her hug him.

“I don’t know how to thank you, Alex,” she said.

“Don’t thank me. Just make sure that kid of yours mows the lawn when he gets older.”

She looked at her young son, busy in the house playing among the boxes like they were a fort. “We’ll see about that,” she said.

“I’m not great with goodbyes, so . . .” Alex turned to leave.

“Alex, before you go: I want you to know I’m sorry I slapped you that time.”

Alex laughed. He’d almost forgotten about that. In a moment he recalled all that had followed from Mrs. Cummings’ confronting him. “I’m glad you did it,” Alex said. Alex smiled, then turned again and walked toward the street.

“I hope you don’t go back to Rampart,” she called out. “I don’t like those guys.”

Me either
, Alex thought.

A few months ago, Alex would have accepted Luke’s job offer in a heartbeat. On balance, Alex figured, Luke probably did more good for the world than bad. But Alex had seen what happened to those who were close to Luke and had decided that Luke was the kind of big man who makes the people around him smaller. Luke sounded quite surprised when Alex responded that he didn’t need to sleep on Luke’s offer and that the answer was no.

Alex drove home, parked the truck on the next block and snuck into his own house through the back—the money from the TV station hadn’t covered all his bills. The house felt empty. Alex pulled the unfinished letter to Del from his pocket and without hesitation wrote the postscript he’d been searching for: “Anytime you’re in L.A., you’re welcome to crash at my place.” He sealed the letter in an envelope and put on a postage stamp. He left the house and walked toward the post office.

It was a warm spring day, and the coastal haze was just starting to burn off. Alex took out his cell phone and dialed Zeke’s number.

“Zeke, it’s Alex.”

“Can’t talk now, Alex. Too busy.”

“Yeah? You sound pretty wound up. How many cigarettes have you smoked this morning?”

“Too many. Oh boy, I thought this private journalism thing would be simple
—no way. I’ve had to rent office space, plan a marketing campaign, buy accounting software—like I know anything about accounting. Ooh—I got these totally great spy toys. Mini cameras, microphones . . . They just keep making ’em smaller. Best part—the website goes live next week. I’m just hoping I don’t die from a nicotine overdose before then. You have no idea how much work goes into starting a business.”

“I probably don’t,” Alex said with a smile. “Are you still looking for a partner?”

###

I thank the many
people who helped in the completion of this book. Independent editor John Paine’s advice was always apt and practical. My father, Alex Neymark and Joe Weber encouraged me, read multiple drafts and provided thoughtful comments that showed me both flaws and opportunities I would otherwise have missed. The time they spent reading and discussing the story illustrates generosity and friendship. Rebekah Webb gave valuable advice on publishing and other matters. Also essential to this effort was the support of my family, most of all my wife, who read more drafts, indulged more undirected brainstorming and endured more hours alone as part of this project than anyone could who was not motivated by love.

About the Author

Dan Webb lives in California with his family and an aging but energetic Labrador retriever. This is his first book.