E is for Evidence (5 page)

“If I took money, where'd it go?”

“I don't know, Kinsey. You tell me. If it was cash, it wouldn't be that hard to conceal.”

“I'd have to be a fool! I'd have to be an idiot and so would he. If he's going to bribe me, do you think he'd be stupid enough to put the cash in an envelope and write a note to that effect! Mac, this whole thing has frame-up written all over it!”

“Why would anyone do that?” At this point, his manner wasn't accusatory. He seemed genuinely puzzled at the very idea. “Who would go to such lengths?”

“How do I know? Maybe I just got caught in the loop. Maybe Lance Wood is the target. You know I'd never do such a thing. I'll bring you my bank statements. You can scrutinize my accounts. Check under my mattress, for God's sake. . . .” I broke off in confusion.

I saw his mouth move, but I didn't hear the rest of what he said. I could feel the trap close and something suddenly made sense. In the morning mail, I'd gotten notice about five thousand dollars credited to my account. I think I knew now what that was about.

 

 

 

 

 

I packed up my personal belongings and my current files. California Fidelity had suspended our relationship until the Wood/Warren matter could be “straightened out,” whatever that meant. I had until noon to clear the premises. I called the telephone company and asked to have calls forwarded to my home until further notice. I unplugged the answering machine and placed it on top of the last cardboard box, which I toted down the back steps to my car. I had been asked to turn in my office keys before I left, but I ignored the request. I had no intention of giving up access to five years' worth of business files. I didn't think Mac would press the point and I didn't think anyone would bother to have the locks changed. Screw 'em. I know how to pick most locks, anyway.

In the meantime, I was already analyzing the sequence of events. The Wood/Warren folder had
been sitting on my desk the entire weekend so the fire department reports could have been switched at any point. I'd worked from notes that morning without reference to the file itself, so I had no way of knowing if the inventory sheets were in the file or not. I might not have registered the loss had I looked. My office door and the French doors opening out onto the balcony showed no signs of forced entry, but my handbag, along with my keys, had sat in Lance Wood's office for three hours on Friday. Anybody could have gotten into that bag and had duplicate keys made. My checkbook was there, too, and it didn't take a wizard to figure out how somebody could have lifted a deposit slip, filled it out, stuck it in an envelope with five grand, and put the whole of it in the night-deposit slot at my bank. Obviously my instant-teller card couldn't be used because my code number wasn't written down anyplace.

I drove out to Wood/Warren, my brain clicking away, fired by adrenaline. The moment I'd understood what was going on, the anger had passed and a chill of curiosity had settled in. I'd felt my emotions disconnect and my mind had cleared like a radio suddenly tuned to the right frequency. Someone had gone to a lot of trouble to discredit me. Insurance fraud is serious damn shit, punishable by two, three, or four years in the state prison. That wasn't going to happen to me, folks.

Heather stared at me, startled, as I moved through the Wood/Warren reception area, scarcely slowing my pace. “Is he in?”

She looked down at the appointment book with confusion. “Do you have an appointment this morning?”

“Now I do,” I said. I knocked on the door once and went in. Lance was meeting with John Salkowitz, the chemical engineer I had been introduced to on my earlier visit. The two men were bending over a set of specs for an item that looked like a giant diaper pin.

“We need to talk,” I said.

Lance took one look at my face and then flicked a signal to Salkowitz, indicating that they'd continue some other time.

I waited until the door closed and then leaned on Lance's desk. “Somebody's trying to shove one up our collective rear end,” I said. I detailed the situation to him, citing chapter and verse in a way that left no room for argument. He got the point. Some of the color left his face.

He sank into his swivel chair. “Jesus,” he said. “I don't believe it.” I could see him computing possibilities the same way I had.

I drew up a chair and sat down. “What was the emergency that pulled you out of here so fast Friday afternoon?” I asked. “It has to be connected, doesn't it?”

“How so?”

“Because if I'd questioned you as I intended to, you probably would have mentioned arson, and then I'd have known the fire-department report was counterfeit.”

“My housekeeper called. I'm in the middle of a nasty divorce and Gretchen showed up at the house with two burly guys and a moving van. By the time I got home, she'd cleared out the living room and was working on the den.”

“Does she have the wherewithal to set up a deal like this?”

“Why would she do that? It's in her best interest to keep me alive and well and earning money hand over fist. Right now, she's collecting over six grand a month in temporary support. Insurance fraud is the last thing she'd want to stick me with. Besides, she's been in Tulsa since March of this year.”

“Or so she claims,” I said.

“The woman is a twit. If you knew her, you wouldn't suspect her of anything except licking a pencil point every time she has to write her name.”

“Well, somebody sure wanted to blacken your name,” I said.

“What makes you think it's me they're after? Why couldn't it be you?”

“Because no one could be sure I'd be called in on this. These fire claims are assigned almost randomly,
according to who's free. If it's me they want, they'd have to go about it differently. They're not going to burn down your warehouse on the off-chance that I'll be called to investigate.”

“I suppose not,” he said.

“What about you? What's going on in your life, aside from the divorce?”

He picked up a pencil and began to loop it through his fingers, end over end, like a tiny baton. He watched its progress and then shot me an enigmatic look. “I have a sister who moved back here from Paris three months ago. Rumor has it she wants control of the plant.”

“Is this Ebony?”

He seemed surprised. “You know her?”

“Not well, but I know who she is.”

“She disapproves of the way I run things.”

“Enough to do this?”

He stared at me for a moment and then reached for the phone. “I'd better call my attorney.”

“You and me both,” I said.

I left and headed back into town.

 

As far as I knew, the D.A.'s office hadn't been notified, and no charges had been filed. A valid arrest warrant has to be based on a complaint supported by facts showing, first of all, that a crime has been committed,
and second, that the informer or his information is reliable. At this point, all Mac had was an anonymous telephone call and some circumstantial evidence. He'd have to take action. If the accusation was correct, then CFI had to be protected. My guess was that he'd go back through my workload, case by case, to see if there was any whisper of misconduct on my part. He might also hire a private detective to look into the affairs of Wood/Warren, Lance Wood, and possibly me—a novel idea. I wondered how my life would hold up if it were subjected to professional scrutiny. The five grand would certainly come to light. I wasn't sure what to do about that. The deposit was damning in itself, but if I tried to move the money, it would look even worse.

I remember the rest of the day in fragments. I talked to Lonnie Kingman, a criminal attorney I'd done some work for in the past. He's in his early forties, with a face like a boxer; beetle-browed, broken nose. His hair is shaggy and his suits usually look too tight across the shoulder blades. He's about five foot four and probably weighs two hundred and five. He lifts weights at the same gym I do and I see him in there doing squats with three hundred pounds of plates wobbling on either end of the bar like water buckets. He graduated summa cum laude from Stanford Law School and he wears silk shirts with his monogram on the cuff.

Attorneys are the people who can say things in the mildest of tones that make you want to shriek and rend your clothes. Like doctors, they seem to feel obliged to acquaint you with the full extent of the horror you could face, given the current path your life is on. When I told him what was happening, he tossed out two possible additions to the allegation of insurance fraud: that I'd be named with Lance Wood as coconspirator, and charged as an aider and abettor to arson after the fact. And
that
was just what he came up with off the top of his head.

I could feel myself pale. “I don't want to hear this shit,” I said.

He shrugged. “Well, it's what I'd go for if I were D.A.,” he said offhandedly. “I could probably add a few counts once I had all the facts.”

“Facts, my ass. I never saw Lance Wood before in my life.”

“Sure, but can you prove it?”

“Of course not! How would I do that?”

Lonnie sighed like he was going to hate to see me in a shapeless prison dress.

“Goddamn it, Lonnie, how come the law always helps the other guy? I swear to God, every time I turn around, the bad guys win and the little guys bite the Big Wienie. What am I supposed to do?”

He smiled. “It's not as bad as all that,” he said. “My advice is to keep away from Lance Wood.”

“How? I can't just sit back and see what happens next. I want to know who set me up.”

“I never said you couldn't look into it. You're an investigator. Go investigate. But I'd be careful if I were you. Insurance fraud is bad enough. You don't want to take the rap for something worse.”

I was afraid to ask him what he meant.

I went home and unloaded the boxes full of office files. I took a few minutes to reword the message on my answering machine at home. I put a call through to Jonah Robb in Missing Persons at the Santa Teresa Police Department. As a lady in distress, I don't ordinarily call on men. I've been schooled in the notion that a woman, these days, saves herself, which I was willing to do if I could just figure out where to start.

I'd met Jonah six months before while I was working on a case. Our paths had crossed more than once, most recently in my bed. He's thirty-nine, blunt, nurturing, funny, confused, a tormented man with blue eyes, black hair, and a wife named Camilla who stalks out intermittently with his two little girls, whose names I repress. I had ignored the chemistry between us for as long as I could, too wise (said I) to get pulled into a dalliance with a married gent. And then one rainy night I'd run into him on my way home from a depressing interview with a hostile subject. Jonah and I started drinking margaritas in a bar near the beach. We danced to old Johnny Mathis tunes, talked, danced
again, and ordered more drinks. Somewhere around “The Twelfth of Never,” I lost track of my resolve and took him home with me. I never could resist the lyrics on that one.

We were currently at that stage in a new relationship where both parties are tentative, reluctant to presume, quick to feel injured, eager to know and be known as long as the true frailties of character are concealed. The risking felt good, and as a consequence the chemistry felt good, too. I smiled a lot when I thought of him and sometimes I laughed aloud, but the warmth was undercut by a curious pain. I've been married twice, done in more times than I care to admit. I'm not as trusting as I used to be and with good reason. Meanwhile, Jonah was in a constant state of upheaval according to the fluctuations in Camilla's moods. Her most recent claim was that she wanted an “open” marriage, his guess being that the sexual liberties were intended more for her than for him.

“Missing Persons. Sergeant Schiffman.”

For an instant my mind went absolutely blank. “Rudy? This is Kinsey. Where's Jonah?”

“Oh, hi, Kinsey. He's out of town. Took his family skiing for the holidays. It came up kind of sudden, but I thought he said he'd let you know. He never called?”

“I guess not,” I said. “Do you know when he's expected back?”

“Just a minute. Let me check.” He put me on hold and I listened to the Norman Luboff Choir singing “Hark, the Herald Angels Sing.” Christmas was over. Hadn't anybody heard? Rudy clicked back in. “Looks like January third. You want to leave a message?”

“Tell him I hung myself,” I said and rang off.

I have to confess that in the privacy of my own home, I burst into tears and wept with frustration for six minutes flat. Then I went to work.

The only line of attack I could think of was through Ash Wood. I hadn't spoken to her since high school, nearly fourteen years. I tried the directory. Her mother, Helen Wood, was listed and so was Lance, but there was no sign of Ash, which probably meant that she'd moved away or married. I tried the main house. A woman answered. I identified myself and told her I was trying to locate Ash. Often I tell lies in a situation like this, but the truth seemed expedient.

“Kinsey, is that really you? This is Ash. How are you?” she said. All the Wood girls have voices that sound the same; husky and low, underlaid with an accent nearly Southern in its tone. The inflection was distinct, not a drawl, but an indolence. Their mother was from Alabama, if my memory hadn't failed me.

“I can't believe my luck,” I said. “How are you?”

“Well, darlin', we are in a world of hurt,” she replied, “which is why I'm so glad to hear from you. Lance mentioned that he'd seen you at the plant last Friday. What's happening?”

“That's what I called to ask you.”

“Oh Lord. I'd love to bring you up-to-date. Are you free for lunch by any chance?”