Evidence of Guilt (26 page)

I wanted to scream. If she was dead, she'd been dead for decades. If she was dead, she couldn't have seen Bongo discover the bodies. Or talked with Granger about what she'd observed. Sorting this out and explaining it to Granger was going to tax my brain beyond measure, and I doubted it would make a difference. Exasperated, I gave up and handed over the twenty dollars.

"You ever been to Paris, France?" Granger asked.

"Once. Why?"

He wadded the money and crammed it into a jacket pocket. "Just wondering if it's like they say it is." "How's that?" Another gap-toothed grin. "Oooh, la."

I leaned my elbow on the desk and reread the page of notes I'd scrawled--one of my many attempts at organizing a coherent defense. I crossed off a few lines, added another, then crumpled the paper into a ball, took aim and pitched it into the trash. Shooting baskets, office style. It was one of the more useful lessons I'd learned during my tenure at Goldman & Latham.

I could also twirl a pen with my fingers, like a miniba-ton, and play a halfway decent game of pool. These particular talents had earned me the respect of my fellow attorneys, mostly male, and probably stood me in as good stead as my substantial monthly billings. Of course, none of it mattered one iota when the firm fell apart.

I scribbled a couple of ideas on a clean sheet of paper, and decided I didn't like that direction any better. I squeezed the page tight and shot again, this time a bank shot off the wall behind the basket. Perfect.

I told myself I was thinking, but in truth my mind was

meandering, like a bee in a field of flowers. It drifted from random thought to random thought, now and then settling for a moment before picking up and moving on again. Not that I didn't have plenty to think about. But I was having trouble holding onto whole thoughts, especially when I tried to organize and shape them in any coherent way.

As I was winding up for yet another bank shot, the phone rang. I'd pretty much given up on Dr. Markley, but for a brief instant after I picked up the receiver I held my breath in anticipation.

"Where the hell have you been all morning?" Sam grumbled.

I exhaled, deciding to ignore the baggage and stick to the question. "At the library," I told him.

"Research?"

"Story hour." Then, before he had a chance to explode and maybe strain his heart, I explained that I'd found Granger.

"And?" Sam inquired. His voice held a trace of eagerness it hadn't before.

"The guy's loony. I doubt he knows anything, and even if he did, we'd never get a straight story out of him."

"Damn. Not that I didn't expect it."

I crumpled another sheet of paper, blank this time, and tried shooting over my shoulder. The paper fell a good two feet from the wastebasket. "So why were you trying all morning to reach me?"

"You gotta go see Wes."

"I went yesterday."

"So I heard. But you need to go again, today."

"And why's that?"

"Because he wants to see you, that's why."

"Wes wants to see
me?
You must have got the message

wrong. We aren't exactly chummy."

"Cut the wise stuff. Go see him, okay? Then give me a

call and let me know what this is all about."

The day was hot, even hotter than it had been on my last visit. It was the kind of white heat that swallows you up in an instant. Although I wasn't thrilled about the idea of spending more time with Wes, the lure of air-conditioning balanced the scales a bit.

The bracing crispness of the jail was nice--for about ten minutes. Then goosebumps formed along my arms, and my fingertips turned white. The powers that be had cranked the fans up quite a bit since yesterday.

"You wanted to see me?" I said to Wes when the guard left us alone.

He sat without looking at me. Wiped his palms against his pant legs. His face showed signs of sleeplessness, "\feah, I did," he said after a moment

We sat in silence. A silence that fairly echoed off the bland gray walls of the visitor's room. The overhead fluorescent lighting flickered intermittently. A steady stream of cold from the air-conditioner blew in my face. I tried to keep from shivering.

Wes scowled at a spot somewhere near his right shoe. Finally he raised his eyes. There was none of the cocky belligerence in them that I'd seen earlier.

"What are the chances of beating this thing?" he asked.

"With a jury trial, that's hard to predict."

"The prosecution's got nothing concrete, though." It was half-statement, half-question.

"They wouldn't be bringing it to trial unless they thought there was a good chance they'd win."

Wes turned his attention back to the spot on the floor. 'They're going for the death penalty," he said.

I tried to keep my tone gentle. "You knew that."

"Yeah, I guess I did." He paused. "But there's different kinds of knowing."

I nodded.

"What you said yesterday, it got me thinking."

"About what?"

"A lot of things. Like no matter how much the police nicked up, I'm the one's going to pay the price."

"Statistically, we've got the advantage. The burden of proof is with the prosecution."

Wes frowned. "Statistically, you've got the advantage in Russian roulette too." His hands made another pass down his pant legs. "How's the defense shaping up?"

"We haven't settled on an approach yet."

"In other words," he said slowly, "it doesn't look good."

"It could be better." I didn't like the message, but I didn't want to gloss things over either. "They've got evidence tying you to the crime--the rabbit's foot, the dirt from your motorcycle, the blood that matches Lisa's type on your trousers. There's also that comment you made about Lisa being a bitch. Add to it the fact that you were in a bad mood Friday night, drinking heavily, that you left the bar earlier than usual and have no way to verify your whereabouts thereafter. If I was sitting on that jury, I'd be hard-pressed to think there wasn't
somethingstrange
going on."

Wes's eyes were dark. Flat. They seemed to sink into their sockets.

"And that's just the bare bones of it. By the time the prosecutor gets through embroidering things, I'm willing to bet the jury's going to have a pretty vivid picture in their minds."

The eyes closed. He rubbed his hands over his face.

I could see that Wes was hurting and I softened my tone. "In order to win," I said, "we've got to offer them somer thing. Some picture of our own, or at the very least some new twist that will make the jury see the prosecution's picture in a new light That's where we need your help."

I waited, and when Wes didn't say anything I continued. "The biggest hurdle, I'd say, is the rabbit's foot. It's an unusual one to begin with, and they've got a witness who will testify he saw you with it Thursday afternoon. Now we can argue that the one found at the murder scene isn't yours, but--"

"It's mine," Wes said slowly. "And I didn't lose it. I gave it to Amy myself."

I sucked in my breath and waited. The air no longer seemed chilly, but I shivered anyway.

Wes studied his hands.

"When did you give it to her?" Tasked, not sure I really wanted to know the answer.

"Friday evening. I went out there to see Lisa. Amy was kind of hanging around, you know how kids do, bugging her mother. I thought maybe the rabbit's foot would keep her occupied so Lisa and I could talk without being interrupted all the time."

My mind was filled with questions, all of them scrambling to be heard. I grabbed one at random. "What was it you wanted to discuss with Lisa?"

Wes slouched down in his chair, worked the fabric near his knees. "Christ, how can things turn out so wrong? How

can things happen that make no sense at all? It's like that guy who woke up one morning and discovered he was a termite."

"Huh?"

"That German writer, what's his name, Khadafi or something."

"Kafka?"

Wes nodded. "That's the guy."

"It was a cockroach, not a termite. And I think he was Czech."

He shrugged, then sat forward, his expression suddenly intense. "The thing is, the world's suddenly upside down. It's out of your hands. Out of anyone's hands, really. Rolling out of control, faster and faster. Gathering speed. Taking on kind of a life of its own." He sat back. "Feels almost like you've got dynamite strapped to your back and the timing device is on autolock."

"You're losing me," I said. And scaring me a little too, because it dawned on me that Wes might be working up to a confession. "Let's back up a couple of steps, okay? Why don't you tell me why you went to see Lisa Cornell in the first place."

Wes stood, popped a knuckle, then began pacing. This is where it gets kind of complicated," he said.

I waited while he crossed the room, then turned and retraced his steps. Although his gait was smooth, he was clearly agitated.

"I met Lisa a couple of months ago," he said slowly. "Over at this bar in Coopertown called the Last Chance. The Oasis is kind of my regular spot, but sometimes I'm in the mood for something different. A different crowd, a different pace. Something that's a little quieter. There's a guy there who plays the sax. He's good."

Wes paused, made another pass across the room. "Anyway, I was sitting there one night, just listening to the music, when I caught sight of Lisa over at the bar. I didn't know her or anything. I just noticed her because she was good-looking. And unusual. What with that long, honey-colored hair and a kind of a natural, freshly scrubbed look. She wasn't the type you normally see sitting alone at the bar. For a while we played one of those eye games. I'd glance over and catch her watching me. As soon as I did, she'd look away. But the minute I dropped my gaze I knew she was back to staring. A couple of times she'd smile, ever so slightly. I figured she was looking for some company, you know? But just as I was getting ready to go over and buy her a drink, this other guy came in and joined her."

I knew I shouldn't interrupt but did anyway. "What other guy?"

Wes shrugged.

"What did he look like?"

"Tall, tanned, longish hair that kind of hung in his eyes. The sort that thinks the world owes him a living."

Definitely not Philip Stockman.

"A couple of weeks later I saw her again. She went through the same flirty routine with her eyes, but I'd decided she wasn't going to make a fool of me twice, so I didn't play along. Next thing I know, she's sliding into the chair next to mine. It was pretty clear she was coming on to me, but there was something kind of wholesome about it too. We had a couple of drinks, talked about music-- turns out she plays the piano and guitar, and we joked about going on the road together. Made a long list of silly names for the group."

Wes paused and chewed on his bottom lip for a moment before continuing. "One thing led to another, and before

you know it we ended up back at my place. By then we were going at it pretty hot and heavy, the preliminaries anyway. And she wasn't holding back any. I mean, it wasn't onesided; she was just as eager as I was. Then boom, out of the blue she turns real cold and distant. Says she's got to leave. Tells me she's worried about leaving her kid. Hell, she had all evening to think about that."

"What did you do?"

"Do? I didn't
do
anything, but I was pissed as hell. The way I figured it, she got her jollies out of leading guys on."

"Did she mention anything about a headache?"

Wes laughed harshly. "No, but that would be classic, wouldn't it? 'Not tonight, dear' on a pick-up date. Anyway, about a week goes by; then she shows up one day at work. All sweet and innocent."

"Is that when you made the comment about her to Har-lan?"

"Yeah. I was still pissed. Then she calls me on Thursday and says why don't I come over to her place Friday evening for a drink. Gives me this song and dance about how sorry she is for what happened. How she can't understand what got into her. She told me she was seeing some shrink about these weird fears she has. It sounded kind of lame, but it was certainly a novel approach. She came across as real sincere too."