Defense for the Devil (37 page)

“I have what I need.”

“But not enough to go after me? How unfortunate for you, how lucky for me.” He leaned back in his chair. “My father was a simple man, Ms. Holloway. He had a truck and he moved people, not far usually, from one address in Brooklyn to another, sometimes all the way to the Bronx, or even Staten Island. It was very hard work. And it was a pain. People complained that a waffle iron was missing or a chair was scratched, petty details that were annoying, over and over. Together we changed direction, thirty-one years ago it was. We became specialists. Over the years the business has become very successful. I can move anything and do, and I never ask questions about the origin of what I move. I feel strongly that it’s not my business to inquire; I’m not a detective agency. But over the years I have come to have a reputation for reliability, you see. I insure what I move, and I deliver. Always.” He sighed. “A reputation is a precious commodity, Ms. Holloway, as I’m sure you’re aware. But something quite strange started happening in the past few months. Quite strange, indeed. My staff has suffered certain losses, not irreplaceable, but still, bothersome. And a customer is starting to get very anxious about a delay in a certain shipment, and not only that, but the entire question of confidentiality has arisen in an irksome manner.”

Briskly Barbara said, “Mr. Palmer, I told Trassi what I wanted at our first meeting. He delivered, and so did I, exactly as we both agreed. What has come up between you and him since then does not concern me. I have not breached the confidentiality of our transaction, and I don’t intend to. When we first talked, you and I, I told you what I want: Trassi, Stael, and Ulrich. That has not changed, and I won’t need to go into a matter that is concluded as far as I’m concerned in order to get them.”

“You can’t have Trassi,” he said then, his voice flat and very cold now.

“I already have him,” she said. “If he skips, an arrest warrant will be issued and he will be brought back to face a contempt charge. Of course, he understands this quite well. He’ll never work as an attorney again, and whatever problem you have with him you will have to solve without me. Now, I really do have things to do. Such a busy season, you know.”

“Ms. Holloway, I made you an offer. I’ll deliver Stael and Ulrich with whatever you need to convict them. I doubt you have enough to do it without help. But, understand, turnabout’s fair, now, isn’t it? I can also offer you to them, don’t you see?”

She laughed. “Not very subtle, after all, Mr. Palmer. You know very well that too many others are in possession of my facts.” She stood up.

“I cried like a baby when my mother died,” Palmer said softly. “I was eighteen. My father was very embarrassed by such a display, of course, being English as he was. When he died, I was thirty, and I wept again. The Irish are very sentimental, I fear. How Irish are you, Ms. Holloway? I can see the English in you, but Irish? I wonder if you would weep in public as I did.”

35

Half an hour
later she, Frank, and Carter Heilbronner sat in Frank’s study with the drapes closed and few lights on, as if this really were a friendly get-together of old pals.

“He wants me to release Trassi. He offered to exchange Stael and Ulrich, with whatever evidence I need to nail them, for his favorite attorney,” she said. “He threatened me, and he threatened my father. What more do you want?”

Heilbronner was watching her closely, and she appreciated now the reason Frank had arranged the lighting as he had. Her face was in shadows. She had washed her hands, but she felt an almost irresistible urge to go wash them again, harder.

Heilbronner was sitting comfortably, his legs crossed, his hands at ease on the arms of his chair. Frank was in his old brown chair that was gradually falling apart, and she was in a wing chair with a high enough back that she could rest her head against it. Heilbronner brought his hands together and steepled his fingers.

“Ms. Holloway, I need a little information. For instance, why did Palmer go along with your scenario and release that money to Ms. Folsum? That would be a good place to start, I believe. I’ve read all the statements and talked to Mr. Chenowith at Internal Revenue, and, frankly, it doesn’t really work. Does it?”

“I can’t divulge confidential matters that concern my client,” she said. “But I can tell you another story that you may find interesting. Then we can come back to that. Agreed?”

He nodded.

“Years ago,” she said, “young Marta Chisolm and her husband, Joel, moved to New York City. His mother hated Marta and was very upset with the marriage. Following the death of her husband, she became depressed and relied for a time on sleeping pills, tranquilizers, and alcohol. Then Joel said that his marriage was over, that he was coming home to live with her, and she dropped the dope and booze overnight. She changed her will, leaving a fortune in antiques and an expensive house to him, with the expectation of having him with her once more. Marta and Joel came to town for him to obtain a loan from his mother, and oversee the change in the will, and to confirm that the marriage was ending. Sometime during the next two weeks something happened to Joel’s mother, and she once more turned to drugs and alcohol, and this time she overdosed and died. Joel came into a very large inheritance, as well as the house and the antiques. Then he was shot and killed, and Marta was very rich.”

When she paused, Heilbronner said coldly, “None of that is news. What are you getting at?”

“Marta was restless with her rather dull husband,” Barbara said, as if he had not spoken. “She had met a man named Palmer, and no doubt at that time he was devastatingly charming and irresistible. What I’m suggesting is that she, with Palmer’s help, planned to kill Joel’s mother as soon as possible after she changed her will. Marta was in the house long enough to substitute something deadly, or maybe simply too potent to be taken with alcohol. Also, I’m suggesting that, back in New York again, she called her mother-in-law and said forget it, no separation was taking place, Joel would never return to Eugene, she would never even see her grandchild. Then she waited for the inevitable, which came about as planned. Soon after that Joel was shot and killed by unknown assailants.”

Heilbronner wanted to speak, but she held up her hand and said sharply, “Wait a minute. What I’m suggesting is that someone could find the original inventory of those antiques, as well as the original insurance policies that covered them; both of the other children had copies, and so did their lawyer. That someone could find the appraisal, and the auction records, and find out how much of what was inventoried was actually sold then. A real investigation might reveal that Palmer sold a lot of priceless antiques privately at some later date and pocketed the money. His payment. And from that time to this, Marta Chisolm Delancey has been his to use when the occasion arose.” Very softly she said, “It must be extremely important to get Trassi off the hook, for him to use such a big card in such a small case as the Arno murder.”

For a time Heilbronner didn’t move. Then he tapped his fingertips together almost delicately, it seemed. “Can you impeach her, beyond question?”

“Yes.”

The silence lasted longer then, until Frank said meditatively, “I think the question now is, If you hook Calpurnia, do you also snag Caesar? Interesting little problem, isn’t it? Carter, I suggested coffee a while back. Maybe now’s a good time to reconsider.”

“Coffee would be good,” Heilbronner said.

His face was turned toward Barbara, but she felt certain he was not seeing her. Frank left and they were both silent for a time, until Heilbronner said, “You don’t have an iota of proof, I take it.”

“Adding one plus one plus one; local gossip; a good dose of intuition and guesswork; end results,” she said. “And perjury.”

Frank returned with a tray. “Way I see it,” he said, “a map’s worthless unless you know two things—where you stand, and which way is north. But if you know those things, then it’s dot-to-dot child’s play. I don’t keep up with politics the way I should, I’m afraid. I wonder how many committees Delancey’s on, how much power he’s gained in the past fifteen or twenty years. Cream?”

Heilbronner rose and walked to the window, pulled the drape aside, and stood gazing out.

Barbara accepted a cup of coffee from Frank, watching Heilbronner. After a moment she said, “You’ve read the statements and findings; you know I agreed to pursue Mitch Arno for his ex-wife and recover long-past-due child support. I did that, and as far as I’m concerned, that whole matter is history. At present, my only concerns are staying alive, keeping my father alive, and exonerating Ray Arno. He is a textbook example of an innocent bystander.”

Heilbronner let the drape fall back into place and turned once more; he went to the table and added cream to a cup of coffee, then sat down. “I understand,” he said almost absently. After another moment he focused on her again, sipped his coffee, then said, “One of the theories that has arisen, Ms. Holloway, is that you or Maggie Folsum found the money along with something else that had great importance to Palmer, and that you used the other item or items to force him to deal. This suggested that it was not his own money, of course; he would have been more reluctant to relinquish his own money. But, as you say, the past is done, history. He recovered his item or items, you accomplished your mission for your client, and it’s over. Theories come and go, but we have the official record, statements, the IRS final agreement, and I see little profit in trying to ferret out each and every detail of historical incidents.”

Then Frank said bluntly, “Carter, there are a couple of little items that do need clarifying. Where are Stael and Ulrich? Palmer has made threats; they’re his hired guns. Be nice to know where they are.”

“Yes,” Heilbronner agreed. “They were not very high-priority, I’m afraid. I don’t know where they are. In Oregon, last seen in Portland, over a week ago. I’m afraid we’ve been more preoccupied with the senator’s wife, and the reason for her appearance here, than with Palmer’s hired hands.”

Frank nodded. “Seems to me that there’s been a lack of attention to several things. Losing a guy back East to a drive-by shooting; losing two ex-cons who are about to get accused of murder. One way or the other Trassi is dead in the water. I hope, Carter, that when all the bodies are laid to rest and the dust settles, Mr. Palmer isn’t going to be the only one to walk away untouched. I trust there’s no one with a vested interest behind the scenery manipulating priorities, making decisions about what is or isn’t important enough to keep an eye on. You know, someone in an oversight position second-guessing fieldwork.”

Heilbronner’s face was expressionless. He set his cup down and got to his feet. “It’s been informative and interesting talking to you both. Thanks. I’d better be on my way. I know you have work to do, and so do I. Fieldwork can be demanding—Saturdays, Sundays, holidays, no letup. Communications break down; people in the head office are out partying while you’re in the field slogging away. I’ll be in touch.”

He shook hands with Barbara, then left with Frank, talking about the fog, about Christmas shopping still to do, about nothing.

Later that day she moved into Frank’s house. Whether she was try
ing to protect him or be protected in his house didn’t matter.

“You think you can’t possibly get through the days sometimes, but then the day’s over and you did it,” she whispered that night to Thing One, who was half on her lap and half on the couch. He grunted when she spoke. Both Things grunted a lot, the first cats she had ever heard make that particular noise deep in their throats, as if trying to speak. She stroked the cat and watched the fire, wishing for tomorrow, wishing for Christmas to be over.

Frank came in, trailed by Thing Two, and sat opposite her; the other cat tried to get into his lap. It was grunting, too.

“Rain’s moving in,” Frank said. “Maybe that will be the end of the fog for a time. Sylvia asked us over for eggnog and a cookie tomorrow. I said okay. I’ll eat the cookie and drink the eggnog, and you can tramp around her hills in the rain. Deal?”

Tomorrow, Sunday. “Sure,” she said. “Sounds good.”

And so she got through Sunday; Sunday night, tired from climbing hills in the rain, she slept undisturbed by dreams. You do get through the days, she thought. You really do.

She worked Monday, and most of Tuesday, Christmas Eve. She visited Ray on both days, and, strangely, she felt almost envious of him; in jail over the holidays, his family pretending a cheer they couldn’t be feeling, yet he was enduring the season in better shape than she was. She could envy him his faith, she thought, and envy his big family that was so supportive and comforting, even if they all talked at once.

Frank spent most of Christmas Eve in the kitchen, preparing dinner for Shelley and Bill Spassero, and Bailey and his wife, Hannah. A party, Barbara thought bleakly, putting on a long skirt and cashmere sweater, her party clothes.

Christmas night she stood in her upstairs room at the window, gazing at the city lights through the rain that continued to fall steadily. She had thought John might call, then had decided there was little point in it. What could either of them say, except “Merry Christmas”? And tomorrow, back to court, back to the real world. What a long holiday. Then, looking at the lights shimmering through the rain, she whispered, “Merry Christmas.”

36

Court was not
filled to overflowing that morning, the day after Christmas. No doubt, the usual hangers-on would wander in eventually, but the media had lost interest again since there were reports of flooding in the valley, and the immediacy of floods at the holiday season would make for more human-interest features than a humdrum murder case, at least for now. After the lunch recess, they would be back, Barbara knew. The jury was not happy to be in court again—that was evident from some dour expressions. Tough, she thought, and called her first witness.

Douglas Herschell was in his thirties, prematurely balding, a stocky man with a large open face and a good-natured grin. He was a machinist, he said, at a chicken-processing plant in Pleasant Hill, fifteen miles south of Eugene. He lived on Stratton Lane with his wife and a seven-year-old son.