Desperate Measures (23 page)

“Go get some rest,” Barbara said after the detective left. “It's been a tough day for all of us.”

Alex stood up, then hesitated. He took off his sunglasses and faced her. “I don't know how you pulled it off today, keeping me out of the police station. But whatever you did, thanks. Shelley told me what comes next, if they arrest me, I mean. I know I won't be able to wear a hat in court, or the sunglasses, either, I guess. I just wanted to say, Don't worry about it. If they order me to jail, you know, go straight to Jail, do not pass Go… If they do, is it possible to have a cell by myself?”

“Yes,” Barbara said. “You know I'm going to work my butt off to keep you out of jail. Keep that in mind.”

He put his glasses back on; his mouth twisted in what she could now recognize as a smile, and he said, “I will.”

A few minutes later, alone in the offices, she sat at her desk thinking. Frank's words had shaken her. If there were two prime suspects and he had eliminated Hilde Franz, it left Alex. Period.

If she had to use Hilde Franz to save Alex, she would do it.

There was nothing she could prove, but she could cast a net of suspicion, demonstrate that Hilde had had more motive than Alex and that she had had the opportunity. And there was Mr. Wonderful, she thought. He might have nothing to do with the case Barbara was committed to defend, but if she ever found him, she was prepared to drag him into the limelight; that was just how it worked. One way or another she was certain that she could introduce enough reasonable doubt to acquit Alex, but at what cost to how many others, some of whom might be guilty of nothing more than being human?

The girl Rachel, hardly more than a child, with a woman's out-of-control hormones, hemmed in by a strict father, rebellious. Human. Barbara would have to rip her story to shreds, destroy her credibility, possibly destroy her, plummet her into the despair that Dr. Minick feared.

Hilde Franz, no longer able to defend herself, a fine woman whose reputation was at risk, whose life could be turned into a mockery now after her death. Her sin? Possibly murder, but possibly only that she had fallen in love with an unsuitable man. Human.

Her lover, Mr. Wonderful. Unknown at present, but possibly a weak man who had yielded to temptation with the wrong woman. Human.

And Gus Marchand himself. The world had seen the righteous man, the man who feared God, who had lived by impossible standards. The world had been blind to the man who had ruined his wife's life with his rigid beliefs that did not include sexual joy and who had failed to keep his children pure.

He was the center. The ripples of his life and death were still in motion, disturbing, changing, threatening everything they touched.

She arrived at Frank's house at seven; as soon as she entered, fatigue swept over her, and the aroma of onions and garlic made her knees go weak.

“Thought you were going to skip dinner altogether,” Frank said in way of greeting. “Have you eaten anything today?”

“I think so. A sandwich. Or was that yesterday?” She said it lightly, but in truth she didn't know.

Herbert stepped out from the kitchen to call, “You folks about ready to eat?”

They were. He had made Cajun jambalaya and okra deep-fried in a beer batter. “Down-home kind of food,” he said complacently. “Comfort food, know what I mean?”

Barbara nodded. It was delicious and she was starved; the start of a headache vanished, and her stomach settled down to its customary state of silence.

After dinner she trailed after Frank to the living room. “Got a minute?” she asked. Neither of them had mentioned Alex during the meal; they didn't talk about business in front of Herbert, even if he did work for Bailey.

“Sure.” Frank settled on the sofa and she took a chair across the coffee table from him. Both cats strolled in; one settled on his lap, the other one on hers.

“They're getting fat,” she said.

Frank patted his stomach. “I'm afraid I am, too.”

“I'm starting to waddle a bit myself,” she said. “I want to tell you a little about Alex Feldman, before you read a distorted account in the newspapers. Any objections?”

He shook his head.

Without mentioning X or
Xander
, she told him what she had learned about Alex and Dr. Minick. Now and then Frank nodded; parts of the story he had heard from Hilde. And at one point, when she paused, he realized that she was leaving out a great deal. No mention of a blue computer so far, or hiding Alex away somewhere for days. He grunted approval when she told how she had prevented Alex's arrest prematurely. He approved of keeping clients out of the pokey.

Then, winding down, she dislodged Thing One from her lap and stood up. “Be right back,” she said, walking out. She returned with her briefcase and found the two pictures of Alex that she had taken to Judge Hardesty's chambers. “This is Alex,” she said, handing them to him.

Having her describe the young man was one thing, Frank thought, studying the pictures; seeing him was altogether different, and no doubt meeting him in person would be different again. An almost overwhelming sense of pity and a great revulsion filled him. Such cruelty, he thought, such an injustice to an innocent babe. A swift second thought followed: it was impossible to believe that someone so twisted by a birth accident would not be twisted emotionally and psychologically as well. He handed the pictures back to Barbara.

“They'll crucify him, Dad,” she said in a low voice. “There is something in us that makes us abhor the monster; bigots take it further and abhor anyone not like them. But if a monster walks among us, the first instinct is to destroy him, cleanse the world of such hideous deformity. Innocent, guilty of murder, that isn't what he'll be tried for; they'll try him for being a monster.”

“Hold on, Bobby,” he said. “You've told me what will be public anyway, but stop there, no more. I'm still looking out for the interests of Hilde Franz, and until I'm satisfied about her death, that's all I'll be doing.”

“I know. I have just one thing to ask from you. I need an investigator to do some digging, and if I can't use Bailey, who should I get? Bailey's the only one I've ever worked with, the only one I even know. I've tried someone else, and he's dismal.”

“Oh yeah? Who?”

“Harris Dougherty. Will Thaxton's office uses him.”

“The Doughboy! Good Lord! Forget him. Let me think a minute.”

“While you're thinking, I'll go put on coffee. I'm afraid I'm in for a long night.”

He prodded Thing Two awake. “Up, you brute. I'll help make coffee. Let Herbert have the television.”

Then, in the kitchen, he said, “Way I see it, Bailey's on limited orders from me. No reason he can't do some work for you, too. Report to you. Since you're part and parcel of my search for Mr. Wonderful, can't do any harm. And it would be good for him. He's as testy as a fool with a toothache who won't go to the dentist.”

She felt the pressure on her shoulders lift and fly away like an overweight vulture that had decided the recumbent figure was armed, after all. “Thanks, Dad. You know, you're all right.”

Later, with Barbara upstairs working and Herbert settled in the living room before the TV, probably planning his next culinary masterpiece, Frank sat in his old worn chair in his study to think. Barbara had wanted him to get the chair reupholstered, or at the very least use a throw on it, and he had said no. The way he figured it, he and the chair were wearing out at about the same rate, and one was still as serviceable as the other.

It gave him no satisfaction at all, he reflected, to have found out why Will Thaxton had entered Barbara's life again. Not that he would have chosen Will for her, but—be fair, he told himself—the fact that he considered the kind of law Will practiced boring did not mean the fellow himself had to be boring. Anyway, he had two strikes against him, boring or not: two ex-wives.

Barbara did not talk about her love life, or lack of one, and he had no idea if she still harbored feelings for John Mureau, but he doubted it. She didn't act like a woman eating her heart out. If he were in a confessional, or on the couch of a shrink sworn to secrecy, he might have admitted that he wanted to see his daughter settled down, married, and it wouldn't hurt to have a grandchild or two in the picture, but that was something he could say to no one, least of all to Barbara. But, Christ, he thought, when he was gone, she would have no one.

Then he was thinking of Alex Feldman. Barbara said we have the instinct to kill the monsters, he thought, but there was a reason. People learned that monsters too often were as monstrous inside as outside. That young man must be consumed by rage, fear, hatred for the world, for himself, his parents…. He imagined Barbara leading Alex through his respectable law-firm offices, causing panic attacks in the old established clients, who would flee in horror.

Then he turned his thoughts to Herbert, and he realized that he wanted that man out of his house sooner rather than later. He liked Herbert, he reminded himself, and he was a fine painter and a wonderful cook, but Frank wanted him to go away. Besides, he reasoned, if the intruder in Hilde's house had been after the book, he had it now, and there was no reason to think he would come after Frank, who had been in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Patsy would finish the index in the next day or two; Herbert would be done with painting by the end of the week. Pay the man and tell him, So long, he decided. This week Bailey would finish eliminating the names on his list, or else point his finger at one of the last two. Then what?

That was the pisser, Frank decided. Confront him? With what? Demand an explanation, an account of his whereabouts when Gus Marchand was killed, and the night Hilde died? On what authority?

The next morning Bailey pointed his finger. “Isaac Wrigley,” he said. “His prints were in her house; they were gone at the same times on several different occasions; he gave her rides to the committee meetings pretty often. If it's someone on that list, he's the guy.

“He's forty-one years old!” Frank said indignantly.

“And married, with two kids and a pregnant wife,” Barbara added. “Nomad wife in the attic, I presume.”

Bailey gave her a puzzled look, then shrugged. “His wife's off to her folks' place in Monterey. His research offices are on south Willamette, about four blocks from Hilde Franz's house. He does all kinds of pharmaceutical studies. He gets at least twenty-five hundred for each participant he brings in. Not bad pin money for part-time work. He doesn't do the testing or the medical stuff; he's what they call a facilitator.” He consulted his notes. “At the university he's a molecular biologist, involved in research with graduate students. What the hell that means, I don't know.”

“I don't believe he's the man Hilde talked about,” Frank said. “If he gave her rides now and then, visited, that could explain his prints in her house.”

“For the time being, let's pretend we do believe he's Mr. Wonderful,” Barbara said. “See if you can find out where he was the day Marchand was killed, and the night Hilde Franz died.”

“Not up front yet?”

Barbara shook her head. “So far back, you don't even cast a shadow in his neighborhood.” She glanced at Frank, then said, “And later on, around ten, can you come by the office? Dad and I agreed that you can look into a few things for me.”

Bailey gave Frank a questioning look, and Frank said, “Why not? We're back to square one with Hilde's special friend, and no leads. Might as well be doing something useful for someone. Report to her,” he added, and then stood up. “I'm going to the office and pester Patsy.”

When Bailey left, Barbara went upstairs to collect her belongings to go to her office. She would make a slight detour to Willamette, to the complex where Isaac Wrigley had set up shop, and then to Hilde Franz's house, to see what kind of walk it would be to get from one to the other late at night.

And, she told herself, as soon as they arrested Alex, she planned to pay a call on Dr. Isaac Wrigley.

21

On Friday morning
Frank was in the upper corridor of the courthouse early, but he lingered, chatting with an attorney here, a clerk there, until Barbara's group arrived for the arraignment of Alexander Feldman. He had no desire to sit in Judge Forry Gittleman's court and watch him dispatch one accused after another in a speedy manner.

Then he saw Martin leading a small group, a minor parade with him as grand master. He was big, six feet three, and nearly that broad, a former NFL star, now the owner and cook of Martin's Restaurant. Behind him, wearing a black beret and sunglasses, was Alex Feldman, flanked by Barbara and Will Thaxton, and behind those three came Shelley and Dr. Minick, and finally, a Hispanic youth carrying a stack of books. It was an impressive group. Martin cleared the way; the others hemmed in Alex Feldman so that he was hardly visible. Frank entered the courtroom and took a seat in the last row.

Arraignments seldom drew many observers, and today there were only three others in attendance. Frank paid little attention to the proceedings before the bench. An assistant D.A. droned charges—drugs and assault—the judge asked the accused if he understood the charges, explained he had the right to counsel, a jury trial.… The accused man pleaded not guilty and was taken away. A public defender who probably had met the accused no more than ten minutes earlier did not even bother to ask for bail; it was a foregone conclusion that the indigent man could not raise bond.

Then Barbara's group entered the courtroom: she and Alex went to stand before the bench; the others sat in the front row. Alex removed his beret and sunglasses and stood holding them, his hands at his sides, a peculiarly defenseless pose. Only his back was visible, and the eerie skinlike cover on the metal plate in his head. Frank had positioned himself so that he could watch Forry's expression, and he saw him glance up, then look harder; he appeared to be making great effort not to reveal anything, but his mouth tightened, and his eyes narrowed. It was as if every muscle in his body became taut in his determination to remain expressionless.