Motion to Dismiss (20 page)

"How'd it go with Grady this afternoon?" he asked, uncapping a bottle before handing it to me.

"He wants a full court press at the prelim. Doesn't want to wait until the trial to make his case."

Marc nodded. "It's a long, hard wait when you're sitting behind bars."

I moved aside the stack of papers I was working on and spread a double thickness of napkin on my desk. Then I pried a wedge from the section of pizza without anchovies. Between bites, I filled him in on my conversation with Grady.

"I think maybe I'm beginning to believe he didn't do it," I said in conclusion. Or maybe I just
wanted
to believe. I was still having trouble sorting it all out.

Marc made a vague acknowledging gesture. "I've been telling you all along that he didn't."

"Are things at ComTech really as shaky as Grady says?" I asked.

"You mean financially?"

I nodded, wiping my finger on a clean napkin.

"A company that's growing like ComTech has to invest huge amounts of money and resources. The payoff comes down the line, usually by taking it public. That's where they are now, at the break point. ComTech needs an infusion of capital from new investors to keep afloat."

"What will happen if they don't get it?"

Marc took a swallow of beer. "The venture capitalists will pull out -- they're not about to throw good money after bad -- and the company will fold."

"Sounds heartless."

He laughed. "People don't invest in a start-up company out of social conscience."

"If ComTech doesn't make it, what does that mean for Grady?"

"He's borrowed against everything he owns and poured it into the company. He stands to make a bundle if things go right, but he'll lose his shirt if they don't." Marc paused. "A lot of us stand to lose if the offering doesn't go through."

"You've invested in ComTech yourself?"

"Small potatoes really, but it's a lot to me." He rocked back in the chair, using the wastebasket as a footstool, and took another long swallow of beer. His fingers worked the label, peeling it away in strips. "Remember all those long discussions we used to have about money?"

"Vividly."

He smiled. "You were such an idealist."

"And you, on the other hand, thought the road to happiness was paved with dollar bills."

"I still do. But now it's not the money I care about so much as financial security. How about you? Didn't you ever find yourself distracted by dollar signs?"

I shrugged. My youthful ideals hadn't fared well against the realities of student loans and the cost of living in the Bay Area. After almost three years in the D.A.'s office, I'd jumped ship for private practice in one of San Francisco's fast-track firms. Six years later, when the firm dissolved, I'd found myself back at the starting gate. I'd played the game straight and by the rules, but I was a long way from financial security.

Marc regarded me thoughtfully. "You know what else I remember? Those nights we'd drink champagne in the Jacuzzi, by candlelight."

Again, that flutter in my chest. Glimmerings from the past that I'd worked hard to banish from my mind. "How come you're spending so much time on memory lane tonight?"

"They were good times. I miss them."

I about choked.
Miss them?
That was something like murdering your parents and then begging for mercy because you were an orphan.

"Don't forget," I said tersely. "It was you who brought those 'good times' to an abrupt close."

Marc's eyes met mine. His expression was unreadable. "I haven't forgotten." Then he rocked forward, sending his feet to the floor with an abrupt thud. "Guess we'd better get to work. Anywhere in particular you want me to start?"

I surveyed the numerous mounds of paper, now restacked on the credenza behind me. I picked one at random. "Take this. I haven't had a chance to go through it yet, but it should contain stuff from Madelaine relating to the crime scene. See if you can put it in some kind of order, then make a summary sheet."

As Marc returned to his own office, I was still trying to wipe the pizza sauce from my hands. I suspected that my office would smell like anchovies and grease for days to come.

An hour and a half later he was back. The disorderly pile of papers I'd given him was neatly fastened with a heavy black clip. "I thought you said Deirdre Nichols' date book was missing."

"It is. At any rate, it wasn't booked into evidence."

He tossed the bundle on my desk in disgust. "Sloppy police work. They took it, all right. They just never bothered to log it in. Who knows what else they've overlooked?"

"You mean it's here?"

"A photocopy."

"Did you have a chance to look at it?"

He nodded. "Skimmed it, anyway."

I found the relevant pages and flipped through them. "Doesn't look like anything is missing."

"That was my take on it too."

I checked the pages of the calendar, and then names in the address book. Adrianna's school, dentists and doctors, a couple of restaurants, and a lot of names I didn't recognize. Tony's number was listed, as well as Grady's private line.

"Nothing there that jumps out at me," Marc said. "How about you?"

I shook my head.

"Scratch
that
defense scenario," he said. "Too bad, I kind of liked it." His voice took on an element of melodrama. "A woman with secret, high-profile connections. Or low-life connections if you prefer," he added parenthetically. "Killed for what, or whom, she knew."

I cut him short. "We'd have had trouble arguing that in court, however. Not without corroborating evidence."

"Nonetheless, it was a theory ripe with possibilities."

"Madelaine knew I'd asked about the date book." I placed the clipped bundle on my desk and frowned. "I wonder why she didn't say anything?"

Marc laughed. "She probably hasn't gotten around to looking at her own stuff. Besides, she's not going to help you any more than she has to."

"Maybe," I said, not altogether convinced. The rules of discovery require prosecuting attorneys to make case documents available to the defense, and in my experience they've generally been pretty good about it. But a prosecutor who wanted to play hardball could easily stall or forget to include a particular item.

"If Madelaine was trying to be difficult, though," I added after a moment's reflection, "she would have withheld the date book until we asked for it rather than sending it along with the other discovery materials. Especially since it was never logged into evidence."

Marc shrugged. "Maybe she's simply disorganized." He checked his watch. "You up for some ice cream?"

Another ritual from our days together during law school. I wasn't sure how much of this
old times
stuff I could handle. "I still have work to do."

He leaned across the desk and touched my chin. "I'll go out and bring some back, how's that? You still into coffee ice cream with fudge sauce and whipped cream?"

Not for years. But suddenly it sounded wonderful. "Okay, you've talked me into it. Make sure you carry it right side up."

"I haven't made that mistake ever again." Marc traced a finger across my lips. "I won't be long."

I went back to my evidence chart, marking possible arguments next to each item I thought Madelaine would introduce. I was lost in thought, trying not to overlook any of the tiny, telling details that might make a world of difference, so the first brush of cool air registered only in the back of my mind. Then I felt a stronger draft and heard the stairway door click shut.

"That was fast," I called out. "What happened, did you forget your umbrella?"

There was a shuffling sound at the far end of the hallway, then nothing. No response, no footsteps.

"Marc? Is that you?"

Silence.

I felt a prickly sensation at the back of my neck. Through the open door of my office I could see into the firm's empty, but lighted, reception area. Beyond that was the dimly lit hallway leading to the stairs.

I stopped breathing and listened. Not a sound. Outside, the sky was dark. I could see my reflection in the rain-spattered glass. I'd just about decided my imagination was playing tricks on me, when the lights went off, plunging the office into darkness.

Fear shot through me like an electric current. For a moment I couldn't move. Then, with a swell of terror, reason returned. I groped blindly on my desk for the phone, knocking the cordless receiver to the floor with a deafening crash.

Footsteps now. Slow and hollow. I wasn't able to tell in which direction they were moving.

Trying to stay quiet, I got down on my hands and knees to look for the phone. My fingers skimmed the soft pile of the carpeting, finding loose paper clips and dust balls, a gluey glob that felt like pizza, and the dried-up remains of what I thought was probably a spider. But the phone was nowhere to be found.

I heard shuffling sounds coming from Marc's office, drawers being opened and shut.

Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a beam of light sliding across the floor of the outer office. It moved erratically for several minutes, and then more purposefully in the direction of my office.

My heart raced. Panic compressed my lungs. Like some beached sea creature, I crawled backward into the corner, my eye fixed on the sweep of light. With effort, I was able to squeeze between the end of the credenza and the wall. I knew I wasn't completely hidden. One pass with the flashlight and I'd be obvious as hell. But I didn't see that I had any options.

The figure was shadowy, but appeared to be male. The only things I could make out with certainty were a pair of heavy, thick-soled shoes and dark trouser legs. He moved into the office, pausing near my desk, so close I was certain he could hear my breathing. I pulled back like a snail in a shell, willed myself into paralysis.

Suddenly, from downstairs, the squeak of a door followed by a thud as it shut. Footsteps accompanied by cheerful whistling. And then, seeing the dark upper hallway, silence.

"Kali?" I recognized Marc's voice. "What happened? Did a fuse blow?"

The flashlight went dark. Quickly, the intruder moved toward the door, pressing himself flat against the inside wall.

"Kali? Are you there?" Marc's voice betrayed growing anxiety.

Watch out, Marc. Turn back. Call for help
. My throat burned with the unspoken words.

A moment's hesitation, then Marc took a few tentative steps closer. "Kali?"

Blood pounded in my ears. My body was soaked in sweat. If I tried to warn Marc, I'd give myself away. But if I didn't, we'd both be trapped.

A cry rose up in my throat of its own accord. "Run!" I screamed. "Get out, get help. There's someone here."

In an instant, the flashlight was on again. It swung in my direction and caught me in the eye, blinding me.

The figure started toward me, and I felt myself freeze, like an animal caught in the path of an oncoming car.

And then his foot found the phone I'd dropped. He tripped, and the light tumbled to the floor.

With a surge of adrenaline I jumped to my feet and ran for the doorway, flying headlong through the dark. I struck my shoulder against the doorjamb and nicked my shin on a table in the reception area.

Using the hallway wall as a guide, I bolted for the stairway at the other end.

And then bumped headlong into another human. Frantic, I screamed and punched and scratched with everything I had.

"Holy shit, Kali. It's me, Marc."

Behind us, footsteps. And then the flashlight beam caught us dimly in its sweep. A gunshot exploded, and then another.

Marc grabbed my hand and we charged down the stairs with the intruder in hot pursuit. When we reached the ground floor, I started for the door.

"It's locked," Marc reminded me in a whisper. "We have to go out through the garage."

I nodded numbly.

"We'll take the stairs to the garage," Marc bellowed, and then pulled me into the men's rest room just as the rapid-fire footsteps behind us reached the landing.

We flattened ourselves against the wall, our breathing labored. I could feel the pounding of Marc's heart through his shirt. I held my breath until I heard the clatter of feet heading down the metal stairs toward the garage.

"He'll find out we're not there and come looking for us," I said.

"Who is it?"

I shook my head. "A man, that's all I could tell. He came in right after you left."

"Just one?"

"I think so."

The echo of footsteps again, up the stairs this time.

"Shit," Marc said.

"I told you we wouldn't fool him."

The steps were slower now. The man was moving methodically, testing doors along the ground floor hallway. It was only a matter of time until he found us.

I looked around the rest room for something to use as a weapon. Even a broom or a mop would have been welcome. There was nothing but an overflowing trash can.

"Shit," Marc said again before heading for the farthest of the two stalls.

I wondered for a moment if he meant it literally.

"It might work," he mumbled, tugging at the heavy trash can. "Help me get this in front of the door."

"It's not going to hold him for long."

"Long enough, I hope."

When we'd set the can against the door, Marc dragged me to the last stall and gestured to the small window above. Even for him, it was a stretch to reach the window frame.

"I'll boost you up," he said.

"It's a long drop to the ground on the other side."

"You got another idea?"

I swallowed hard. I wasn't sure I could pull myself to the window, even with Marc's help, let alone fit through it.

There was movement in the hallway just outside the rest room door.

"It's stuck," Marc said, frantically trying to raise the window. "It won't open. Give me your sweater." He wrapped my black cardigan around his hand. "Stand back."

Several sharp blows, and the glass shattered. Marc punched at the remaining jagged fragments, knocking them loose. Then he bent over and clasped his hands, making a foothold.

"Come on. Give me your leg. I'll help you up. When you hit the ground, take off running. Don't wait for me."