Howl Deadly (20 page)

His sudden scowl suggested our moments of affability were about over. “I’m concerned about both,” he confirmed coldly. “I don’t want her hurt—either emotionally or financially. She needs to ensure she has enough to live on in her old age.”

“And when she’s gone, you want to ensure you get her estate.” I could be equally cool, of course. I took a sip of coffee and continued to stare.

“I don’t want some young punk to steal from her.”

I leaned back and looked into his steely gaze. “What about a compromise?” I suggested. “Let your mother marry the guy she loves, perhaps even provide for him if she passes first, which is the most likely scenario. But she could also leave a substantial part of her estate to you. It would save your relationship with your mother, and you’d most likely inherit something eventually. If we go to court over this, you know your mother seems sane and possessed of all her marbles. You might lose everything.”

He opened his mouth to protest, but then his brain apparently caught up with his need to assert control. “What do you propose?” he inquired.

“I’ll have to talk to my client first, see if this kind of compromise works for her, and, if so, find out how she’d be willing to split things. I’ll get back to you soon.”

“I’m for resolving things outside of court when possible,” he said slowly. “And it does sound somewhat logical.” Which might be why he hadn’t considered such an obvious solution before making his mother so mad. “So, yeah, let’s see what she’s willing to do.”

He left soon afterward, and I headed for my office, where I called his mom. “Hi, Alice. I’d like to report the results of my meeting with Ellis.” I described it and said her son would consider backing off if she’d allocate her estate in a way he’d accept. Which is what she and I had discussed earlier, as I was setting up the meeting. Of course, she was amenable. “Now, I’d suggest you speak with your accountant and come up with some kind of way to divide things so you’d feel comfortable about what you’d leave to both Roberto and your son, assuming you don’t outlive them both—which you may just be ornery enough to do.”

She laughed. “Great compromise, Kendra. I’ve already told Roberto this was a distinct possibility. And guess what?”

Since she didn’t sound depressed, I assumed her guy was as sweet as he’d seemed. “He thought it would work.”

“Exactly. Okay, I’ll come up with some way to split things, probably halves, if that sounds all right to you.”

“Perfect, Alice. Oh, and I’ll probably be out of my office for the rest of the week, but I’ll always get back to you if you leave a message.”

 

 

 

I WAS FEELING somewhat smug after that meeting. I might have resolved a potentially sticky situation with a win-win solution. It involved not animals but elder law, an interesting area and a part of my current practice that I was coming to love.

But I’m a lawyer. I knew I wasn’t necessarily on a roll. The next situation on my agenda could be a whole lot stickier.

For that meeting, I would be off my home turf. I’d agreed to go to the offices of attorney James Remseyer, who represented Efram Kiley of Pacoima, the former owner of Killer. Or Quincy, depending on how one looked at it. Killer/Quincy was the Jack Russell terrier-cocker spaniel mix re-homed by Lauren Vancouver at HotRescues, possibly because she simply hadn’t found his ID chip. More likely, because she hadn’t looked, since she had believed the dog had been abused.

Fortunately, Remseyer’s office, in Northridge, wasn’t too far away. I’d scheduled this meeting with just attorneys since I didn’t want to disturb Lauren for no reason, and I knew the other individual defendant and representative of defendant HotRescues, Dante, wasn’t available today. But Remseyer had made it clear he wanted to talk about his case. Probably to threaten and attempt to intimidate, so we’d either come up with a high settlement number or go to trial on this potentially difficult case.

But, hell, as a litigator, I’d eaten worse challenges for lunch.

His office was in a commercial area, on the top floor of a three-story building. The penthouse, perhaps?

I introduced myself at the reception desk in an attractive suite that obviously housed several law firms, or perhaps they were all sole practitioners who’d officed together to economize. I was shown into a compact conference room and served a cup of strong coffee in a small disposable cup.

In a minute, a forty-something man with a shaved head and wearing a suit strode in and held out his hand. “Kendra? Hi, how are you?” He didn’t really give a damn, and continued his monologue. “I’m James Remseyer. Thanks for coming on such short notice, but I’m sure it’s in both our clients’ best interests for us to get some of the formalities out of the way.”

I opened my mouth to convey a qualified agreement, but he went on before I could continue.

“I mostly wanted to run some stuff by you so you’d know we have enough evidence to convince even the most skeptical jury of how your clients injured mine. The worst of emotional distress, for one thing. They stole his dog. Did it by fraud, too.” Of course, he’d throw that in, since it permitted him to claim punitive damages, which were multiples of any actual damages awarded. But their award was unlikely in cases like this, though I wasn’t about to say so just yet. “Not only HotRescues and its management, you understand, but even its board of directors and donors have some responsibility here. A lot of responsibility, in fact.” Which was why he had threatened to drag Dante into his spurious suit—because he aimed for the deepest pockets in his contrived claim.

His mouth was still open to eject his next unsubstantiated statement when I tersely shook his hand and took a seat. I motioned for him to join me at the small, rectangular table that fit snugly into the room. And simply sat there till he complied, not even attempting to interject a word.

“So here’s the thing,” he started to spout again, but I held up my hand and smiled.

“Whoa, James,” I said right over his words. “Let’s keep this simple. Your client, Efram Kiley, claims he misses his dog, Killer. My clients say they didn’t know the dog they adopted out was Killer. They found an abused animal and got him a good new home. Period. Your client doesn’t want the dog. He wants money. My clients may be willing to pay something reasonable to your client so they don’t have to pay it to me. And you know courts generally consider pets to be property, so all those claims of emotional distress are spurious.” I generally despised that position, but at this moment it worked to my advantage. Still, there were other claims that could have merit. “Let’s try to settle this before you and I wind up with all the money and fun, shall we?”

He had amazingly stayed quiet. Not so surprisingly, he scowled now. “Maybe,” he grumbled, when I knew he wanted to aim his fist at my face. Settle for something reasonable? That was probably not in his vocabulary. “My client denies abusing the dog, and I believe him.” Of course. “They liked to roughhouse, and that dog was always running away and coming back with bruises. Got into fights with bigger dogs in the neighborhood. So, settle? Depends on what you consider reasonable.” He smiled once more, so I knew multiple dollar signs paraded through his brain. “We were thinking in the neighborhood of”—he named a multimillion-dollar figure—“since your clients’ acts were so egregious, and we’ll still claim punies.”

I laughed out loud. “Even assuming you could maintain your causes of action for trumped-up actual damages—which I seriously doubt—do you really believe a jury would award punitive damages once we skewer your client on the stand with all the evidence that Quincy—oh, right, your client called the poor little guy Killer—had been literally kicked around and probably starved?”

“That’s not how it happened,” he said. “I just told you—”

My turn to interrupt. “If you smear my clients with claims they stole a dog or committed fraud, or whatever, I’ll smear yours. Simple as that. Not that we believe a jury would award any damages at all. But to save us time and more uncomfortable meetings, I did come here with a figure.”

The jerk had the temerity to look me up and down in a sexually suggestive manner. “You sure do, sweetheart.”

“Okay, that lowers the amount by a few thousand . . .” Like to near nothing, at least in comparison. “Here.” I jotted a figure down on the pad of paper in front of me. “You’ll get a substantial percentage of it—I assume you’re working on contingency. I won’t get much, since I’m on an hourly rate, but, hey, there’s always value in keeping a client happy.”

He looked at it and choked. “You can’t be serious.”

“Oh, but I am,
sweetheart
.” He opened his mouth as if preparing to interrupt me, but I knew how to play his game, and pressed on. “Now, it’s time for me to leave so you can run this by your client. Including how the media will adore this case, with the graphic before and after photos we have of a perfectly happy Quincy these days. And did I mention one of my dearest friends is a well-known TV tabloid reporter?” Okay, so I exaggerated a little. Corina Carey was becoming a good buddy, even if not exactly a bff—best friend forever, in online speak. But she’d love a story with all the pathos of this one, though film stars weren’t involved. Dante DeFrancisco was. Even if he refused to be interviewed on camera, he’d undoubtedly let Lauren spill her guts about the poor, persecuted pup she rescued.

But could James’s assertions be true—that Killer hadn’t actually been abused? That could shed a different light on this case—one that might not shine as brightly on my clients.

“You’ll be hearing from me,” he finally interjected. “I’ve already filed a complaint, and will have it served on your clients soon. And then—”

“Once you serve it, we’ll start discovery, with our clients present. If yours doesn’t have a really strong stomach, and friends and relations who’ll stick with him through anything, you may wind up without a penny when he runs screaming from the situation. If you want to make it easiest on him and yourself, let’s settle. If you’re nice about negotiating, I may even suggest to my clients that they come up with a little more money—but if you delay, it’ll be even less. See you soon, James.” I picked up my purse and briefcase, and sauntered out.

And smiled. I wasn’t a litigator for nothing. Confrontations like this amused me.

But I had to report to my clients, too. Starting with Dante. Which gave me a damned good excuse to call him at HotWildlife—and make sure he hadn’t received any threats there, as I had.

 

 

 

BUT WHEN I’D returned to my office and was about to make some calls, I received one first, on my cell.

It was Althea. “Got something for you,” she said, “although I’m only speculating that it’ll be useful.”

“What’s that?” I grabbed for a notepad and pen. If Althea surmised something would be useful, it undoubtedly would be.

“Some stuff on guys in federal penitentiaries with the initials J.D. who’ve been released lately. And one who escaped.”

“Did any—” I had to be careful how I phrased this, since I’d promised Dante not to divulge what he’d said. Even though there hadn’t been much substance to it. “Did any come from an interesting background, not what you’d anticipate of a guy who went bad?”

I heard her laugh. “If you mean, did any come from places other than gang ghettos, the answer is yes. You can’t always generalize where crooks come from, Kendra. Many come from where you’d expect—hard childhoods, broken homes, the wrong kinds of cronies. But sometimes people just want to find an easy way to get rich and think they can pull it off. Or they have hot tempers, and attack or kill someone else. Whatever. Anyway, I’ll e-mail you what I found—sanitized a bit, of course.”

Which meant I wouldn’t be able to tell which Web sites she had hacked into. Not that I cared. Her form of redacting didn’t generally erase anything of importance to me.

“Thanks, Althea,” I said, and absolutely meant it.

In this day of instant communication, I wasn’t disappointed. An e-mail from her appeared almost as soon as we’d hung up. I downloaded it onto my computer and started sifting through it.

There was a Jerry Davis who had been sentenced to a year for getting mad and destroying a public mailbox. I assumed there was more to the crime than that, but in any event he had recently been released.

Juan Dorez had been sentenced for helping his cousin sneak into the U.S. without appropriate immigration papers. He, too, was out now.

Jack Daniels—gee, another common name like Jon Doe’s—had been convicted of counterfeiting money. He was a definite maybe, since something like that could be trumped up by those in authority, but somehow that didn’t sound like
it
.

But then I got to two who sounded like actual possibilities. Jamison Dubbs was convicted of conspiracy in a federal racketeering matter, sentenced to seven years in the low-security Federal Correctional Institution at Lompoc, California, and recently placed on parole. And Jesse Dryler had been convicted of tax evasion and had escaped from the Federal Correctional Institution in Terminal Island, California.

These were two guys I had to research further. Could one have created the new identity of Jon Doe, along with a scheme to get back at Dante and Brody for snitching to federal government superiors who monitored the agency for which they worked? That was what Dante had suggested.

I stared at the names on my computer. I’d Google these guys, see if I could find anything more about them.

Like what agency they might have worked for, and whether it was the kind for which Dante and Brody might have worked as well. And whether the agency still existed, and if anyone else had been outed for illicit activities, and—

Hold it, Kendra
.

Oh, yeah, I’d follow these strings to see if I could tie anything up. Only I absolutely hoped I’d be wasting my time on a useless dead end.

Since if one of these was truly Jon Doe—an alumnus of a government agency that had once employed Dante and Brody—and had come after them in retaliation for a perceived wrong, that could mean one or both of them could be guilty of murder.