Sliding off her Ray Bans, Josie went the opposite direction, chuckling all the way into the building. The display had been damn impressive – just about as impressive as the lobby of this building overlooking Long Beach's pristine shoreline. The entrance was chiseled out of white marble and warm woods then iced over with cool metal. The elevator was roomy and quick. At the top floor the doors slid back to reveal a private entrance hall that led to the open door of Matthew McCreary's penthouse home.
Josie was no stranger to the trappings of wealth. Money had been her constant companion before she walked away from the kind of clients that made lawyers rich. After defending Kristin Davis – a woman who killed her husband with an impressive casualness and her children just after Josie successfully defended her for the first murder – Josie Bates knew she was not a champion who could be bought merely for money. Still, she had a great appreciation for the things it could buy and the things Matthew McCreary's money bought were exquisite: a spacious penthouse with canary colored walls, white moldings, floral sofas, Louis the XIV chairs covered in plaid silk washed with the colors of a summer sea. Oriental rugs. Real art. Big bucks. So different from the way he and Josie had lived.
When Josie lived with Matthew they traveled light with their money: big spaces, minimal furniture, maximum indulgences. Sex, friends, food. They were successful and sought after. They were brilliantly suited because of their age, their intelligence, and their accomplishments. They were hungry for success so they cut a swath through their respective industries: Matthew turning his father's tech business into an empire and Josie topped the list of go-to criminal attorneys when you were bad, wealthy and didn't want to pay for what you'd done. That was a long time ago; a time she thought she had forgotten. But now, standing in this place where Matthew lived his wife, Josie was amazed to find there was still hurt and regret to be had.
Matthew had not only chosen a life diametrically opposed to the one he shared with Josie, he had chosen a woman who was the antithesis of her.. Michelle McCreary was as petite as Josie was tall, as refined as Josie was self-reliant, as stylish as Josie was careless of the rules of fashion. Funny, Josie had always imagined Matthew with a woman who reminded him of her. Michelle McCreary's portrait hung above the fireplace. Her image smiled graciously down on Josie as if she understood it was hard to lose
Josie turned away from the picture and crossed the cavernous living room, went out on the huge balcony, pulled up beside the man she was looking for and parked her arms on the balcony wall. Rather than look at him, she leaned over to watch the activity below.
The jumper who had fallen through the air minutes earlier lay unmoving on the huge inflatable mattress that had been precisely positioned below the penthouse. A Matrix Stunts truck was parked on the plaza. Two uniformed cops kept looky-loos at bay. It was quite a production and Josie gave Grace McCreary credit for her intuition. The Long Beach Police Department was spending a pretty penny investigating Michelle McCreary's suicide.
''This is a crime scene. Invitation only.'' The redhead detective next to Josie never took his eyes off the woman on the mattress as he spoke.
''That's funny. Since the coroner released the body and allowed a burial, I would assume I'm standing at the scene of a tragic suicide. That would mean you're the one trespassing.''
Josie swiveled her head. The detective did the same. Josie smiled, the detective did not. Yet behind his long red/blond lashes, the detective's hazel eyes registered a blip of amusement. His poker face was admirable and tough to pull off for a guy who looked like he did: porcelain skin that wouldn't last more than a minute at the beach, red hair shot with bronze, freckles. Josie couldn't quite pinpoint what made the difference between him looking like an escapee from Mayberry and a man a woman would like to know better. Whatever it was, it was potent.
''Josie Baylor-Bates. Attorney.'' She gave him a nod.
''Babcock. Detective, Long Beach PD.'' He graced her with courteous smile.
''What are you doing?'' she asked.
He straightened but kept his eyes on the ground below and his hand on the stucco balustrade.
''Testing the trajectory of Mrs. McCreary's fall.'' Before Josie could ask why he would be doing that, someone else joined the conversation.
''Want to do it again?''
Josie looked over her shoulder. Framed in the doorway was a small woman with horrid hair and high color in her cheeks. Babcock patted the balcony rail.
''If you wouldn't mind, Honey.''
Josie cocked her head. The detective caught her look as the woman squeezed between them. She seemed bored as she balanced on the wall and Babcock positioned her. Then she noticed Josie expression.
''Lighten up, lady. Honey's my name,'' she drawled before turning to Babcock. ''Whenever you're ready, sweetie.''
With one hand on the woman's shoulder Babcock winked at Honey and pushed. She fell silently, calm and serene as she hit the blow-up mattress hard. Babcock's team scurried around to take measurements and outline the angle of her landing one more time.
''Amazing what some people do to make a living,'' Josie clucked.
''It's better than the dummy they used investigating that incident in the Valley. That testimony was useless when they got to court. Dead weight doesn't fall the same as a live person.''
''Sounds like you're planning to go to court,'' Josie noted.
''I'm not planning anything.'' He smiled a lovely, old world smile that didn't impress Josie one bit. Sweeping a hand in front of him, he ushered her back inside.
''Then you won't mind cooperating,'' Josie asked as she walked ahead of him.
''I wasn't aware I was being uncooperative. Mr. McCreary said he was eager to find out exactly what happened to his wife, and I'm doing my best to discover that.''
''Really and when, exactly, did Mr. McCreary say that?''
Babcock turned left into the master bedroom. Josie paused in the doorway. Babcock was standing over a champagne colored evening dress crumpled on the floor, his brow furrowed as if he couldn't quite figure out what this said about the night – or the woman – in question. Josie looked away, letting her eyes wander to the bed. A lavender satin negligee was laid out neatly. Michelle McCreary had intended to go to bed it seemed. But that's not what Josie was thinking about as her bottom lip disappeared between her teeth and she felt a flush of embarrassment. Both gowns – so feminine, so sexy - would have been worn for Matthew and that was a man Josie didn't know. Josie's Matthew liked things simple. Straightforward. Bare. That's how Josie had gone to their bed. She cleared her throat. She had almost forgotten why she was there. Babcock looked up.
''You're out of line, here, detective. My client indicated that Mr. McCreary was never asked for permission to search the premises.''
''We're re-enacting, not searching.'' His shoulders rotated, his fingers flicked in the general direction of the balcony.
''You've dusted,'' Josie countered. ''I can see the residue. I imagine you've looked in a few places that were off limits without a warrant.''
''That's what we do when we're called to a scene where there is high profile, violent death. We still might be examining a crime scene.''
''You're the only one who seems to think so. You've kept Mr. McCreary from his home without any explanation of why you think an investigation is necessary.''
''It's my responsibility to investigate. I was told Mr. McCreary would be going to San Francisco for a while. Mr. Douglas gave me his schedule but didn't ask that I vacate the premises. That indicates to me that Mr. McCreary and his staff are anxious to assist us.''
Babcock ticked off his list as he circled the bedroom. Finally, to Josie's relief, he exited to the living room. She turned on her heel and stayed close to argue her point.
''Come on, Babcock. Whatever you're looking for it isn't here if you haven't found it by now. Clear the premises or you'll be the one with the problem. Matthew McCreary had nothing to do with his wife's death.''
''Did I indicate he was a person of interest?'' Babcock raised a brow with the look of a tolerant man who had heard everything and knew he was doomed to hear it again.
''Actions speak louder than words,'' she reminded him. ''You've got a production going on outside that looks like you're putting together an exhibit that would give the DA a wet dream. Since when does the LBPD pick up a tab like that for a suicide?''
''Are you a criminal lawyer, Ms. Bates?'' Babcock buttoned his jacket - navy over a pair of perfectly pressed khakis. A white shirt. An old school tie. An American flag pin on his lapel. He was central casting at its best.
''Do you read the newspapers, detective?'' She countered, even knowing that the matter of Timothy Wren's death and Hannah's trial for murdering her step-grandfather, a California Supreme Court Justice, before that were now only media memories. Other trials, other horrible crimes, more flamboyant attorneys had been in the public eye of late while Josie kept to the ever day matters of every day people.
''I try not to,'' Babcock said easily, moving constantly. ''It just strikes me as odd that you're concerned about my investigation. Why would Matthew McCreary feel the need to hire a criminal lawyer to stop me from doing what I'm doing? All he had to do was pick up a phone and ask me.''
''If Matthew McCreary had hired me I suppose I would wonder, too. But he didn't. I work for the Committee to Elect Mr. McCreary because they understand that perception is everything in politics. The perception of the committee is that you are dragging your feet trying to make something out of nothing. You've got the deceased's fingerprints, her husband's, his sister, his campaign manager's all over this place. You've got a few unidentified partials that will probably match the cleaning lady and some friends of the McCreary's. Those people had reason to be here and are proof of nothing.''
''Anything else?'' Babcock asked, amused and impressed that she had read the files.
''The coroner indicated Michelle McCreary had wounds on parts of her body that were inconsistent with the impact,'' Josie said, obliging him. ''So what? You get some expert to testify that they were made by an assailant, and I could get ten experts to say they were the result of a clumsy jump, or an attempt to save herself because she changed her mind at the last minute. It's all smoke and mirrors.''
''So this committee would like me to pack up my toys and go home because you like your interpretation of the facts better than you like my questions?'' Babcock suggested.
''Come on.'' Josie rolled her eyes. ''You have better things to do than this. Either someone is pulling your strings to make political hay, or your department is worried because this is big and nobody in Long Beach knows how to handle it so you're covering your ass.''
''Are those my only two options?'' Babcock asked.
''I would say so. Look, unless you get the D.A. to issue a search warrant or an arrest warrant this looks like harassment. I can make an awful stink about politics and the police. I know what reporters want to hear and I'm not stopping with the Press Telegram. I'll talk to anyone who will listen because Mr. McCreary's tragedy is of statewide, if not national, interest now that this primary is heating up. Your chief won't like what I have to say, the D.A. won't like it and, I promise, you won't like it.''
Josie shrugged as if to say she was willing to give Babcock a break. Compared to Los Angeles, Long Beach was just a sleepy city on the edge of the ocean and Josie hadn't forgotten how to work the system.
''I don't even like thinking about it,'' Babcock answered amiably. ''But I also don't care to be threatened. Nor do I like leaving a job unfinished. Mrs. McCreary was from a very old and wealthy family whose land holdings go back to the time when this area was nothing but rancheros. Nobody in Long Beach is going to like the messenger who brings bad news about her or her husband.''
''So all this is about covering your bases?''
''It's about a dead woman. If I have questions about how or why Michelle McCreary died I will ask them. I owe her that much. If this was your mother or sister, wouldn't you want to know the truth?''
''Some truths are subjective,'' Josie snapped, surprised that Babcock's little dart had pricked her at all. If that had been Emily Bates, Josie would have left no stone unturned to find the truth about her life and death.
But Michelle McCreary wasn't Josie's mother and her job was very simple. She needed to get Babcock back on track but he was gazing at the forest of the high-rises that had changed the profile of Ocean Boulevard, the sapphire ocean that sparkled under a clear sky and naked sun. He looked sad.
''Don't try to figure out which way the wind blows, Babcock. Let Michelle McCreary rest in peace and her husband get on with business. What you're doing now is cruel,'' Josie suggested, sure that compromise was near. It wasn't.
''Did you know her?'' he asked softly, turning his amber eyes on Josie.
''No.'' Josie shook her head.
''I never had the pleasure, either.'' Babcock's gaze was drawn to the window again as if he could just make Michelle McCreary out behind the curtain of wispy clouds. ''I saw her, though. Michelle McCreary was a beautiful young woman with everything to live for and, yet, she left nothing to indicate why she killed herself. Not a note. Not a message scrawled on the wall. Most suicides want people to know what kind of pain they were in or they want to point a finger at someone or apologize for something they did. Most of them have histories of self-destructive behavior. Drug use. Severe mental problems. So far, I've found nothing to tell me why she might have jumped.''
''And some suicides leave everyone guessing,'' Josie countered.
''Not this one. If she had a reason, I would have found it. And, I haven't found it so, perhaps, she didn't jump.'' Babcock was decisive and passionate but Josie diluted his speculation with common sense.
''You haven't found a reason for her suicide because Michelle McCreary that jump was a thing of the moment. She might have fallen. She couldn't have left anything behind because she wasn't planning on dying. Either way, there was no crime.''