Privileged Witness (3 page)

''I doubt his wife would have appreciated him keeping one around.''

''He wasn't always married,'' Grace reminded her and with the mention of Michelle McCreary, Matthew's wife, the emerald ring turned ‘round and 'round. Only the thumb of Grace's left hand moved as it reached for the ring. Grace seemed oddly unaware of the motion even though it was accompanied by the slightest tic that made her well coiffed head pull up as if someone had bridled her and the bit was painful.

''But he always had a sister.'' Josie reminded her. Then, anxious to shift the spotlight where it belonged, she said: ''Listen, Grace, is it just me or don't you find it just a little disturbing that Matthew led me to believe you were dead?''

''Matthew told me you always wanted to live at the beach. He said you were a bleeding heart. . .'' Grace talked over Josie as if she hadn't spoken. That was the last straw.

''Okay. I don't know why you're here but this conversation is going nowhere. If Matthew wants to see me he can call.'' Josie reached for her purse. She was sliding out of the booth when Grace leaned over the table and stopped Josie as easily as if she had erected a wall.

''Matthew didn't stop thinking about you when he married Michelle,'' she confided. ''He would see you on the television or see a picture in the paper. I could tell what you meant to him. You should know that.''

Josie paused, confused by this little bit of intimate information. Grace's own hands slipped beneath the table and Josie had no doubt the emerald was still whirly-gigging. Annoyed by Grace's liberties, frightened of them because the past was insinuating itself into the present, Josie pulled her lips together in annoyance. Grace's mere presence was rewriting Matthew's history and Josie's right along with it. Archer and Hannah, Billy Zuni and Burt, Faye and Josie's life by the beach could be lost in the backwash as Grace raised the wreckage of a lost love.

''Matthew and me, that was a long time ago,'' Josie muttered. ''And our history is private. Now, if there's something you want, tell me. If you were just curious, you've seen me. And, when you see Matthew, tell him to take care of his own business instead of sending a sister he was ashamed of to say it for him.''

Josie was about to leave, to forget she had ever met the woman, when she realized that Grace was struggling with a revelation of her own. A fascinating play of emotions rippled across her expertly made up face. Her shoulders broadened as if steeling for an assault – or trying to absorb a possibly fatal blow.

''Oh, I see. How ridiculous. I never realized that's what he felt. He's been asham . . .'' She couldn't bring herself to finish that sentence so she started on another. ''I thought he had told you something – enough that you would understand our early relationship.''

Shaking back her black hair, she hid her hurt behind a studied composure and apologized in a modest voice. Her sudden subservience was unsettling. That's when Josie realized Grace McCreary's composure was a sham. She had probably always known the truth but now that it was said and she was devastated. It seemed a living Grace was less important than the memory of Josie. Both of them knew it but it cut one of them to the quick.

''Christ.'' Josie shifted and pulled her purse close, uncomfortable with the turning of this particular tide.

''Christ,'' she muttered again.

''No, it's all right.'' Grace put up a hand to ward off any sympathy. The emerald, slipped to the wrong side of her finger, flashing like some alien sign of peace. ''You mattered to him, I didn't. Please, don't be angry with Matthew. He had his reasons and they aren't important now.''

''Then what is important?''

''Matthew is in trouble. I need you to help him.''

Grace leaned close. Josie could see that her eyelids were dusted with two shades of shadow: silver and chrome. She could see that her liner wasn't black at all but the deepest, richest grey. She saw that Grace McCreary's skin was beautiful and her hair was luxuriously thick. Josie should have been able to admire her but under the scrutiny of those dark, narrow, too close together to be beautiful eyes, Josie was uneasy. She had the feeling she was being drawn into something she wasn't ready for.

''Why would Matthew need anyone's help?'' Josie asked cautiously.

Grace's face lit up like that of a lonely child thrilled to find someone would play with her. She pulled a manila envelope from her purse and pushed it across the table.

''The police don't think Michelle committed suicide. They think Matthew killed her. His own wife, if you can believe it.''

CHAPTER 4

Some say that adults can't remember their childhood; that those who profess to recall a mother's song, a special gift, a poignant moment before they reached the age of reason are only parroting things told to them. Josie knew that was untrue because she remembered being five years old.

When she was five, her family lived in military housing in Texas. Their little house was neat but not perfectly kept. Her mother's stamp was everywhere: a compact by the lamp, a magazine left open, a coffee cup lipstick-stained by her full, wide mouth, a note written in her precise printing with the odd little flourish crossing every ‘t'.

The day Josie remembered clearly was hot as only Texas heat could be. The base was still as only a military installation could be when men have gone off to do important things and women waited at home doing not much at all. Josie's father had been gone a long time so it had just been Josie and her mother in the house. Late that hot morning, though, a man in uniform came to visit. He stood in their house taking to Emily Bates. He never sat down.

Josie wore a pink T-shirt was too big and green dungarees that were too short. She was shoeless and she was quiet. She stood on the patch of hallway that connected the two small bedrooms to the living room. She was half hidden, not because she meant to hide but because she was shy when people came to the house while her father was away.

The officer talked in a voice that reminded Josie of the idling motor of their old car – low and constant and reassuring. Her mother's dress was splashed with yellow daisies; her flat white sandals had jewels on the strap between her painted toes. She stood eye to eye with the man because she was tall. Her shoulders were back. Her hair was pinned up carelessly. She looked beautiful but that was all she looked. She didn't smile when the man talked nor did she frown. Emily didn't answer him back and seemed to be only half listening. When he was finished talking, the man waited. When Emily still didn't say anything, he left.

Josie's mother went after him a second later but stopped at the screen door, watching until she was satisfied he was gone. She put her fingers on the screen as if gauging the strength of it. Josie inched into the living room, sticking close to the wall, watching her mother. Finally, Emily closed the front windows and drew the shades despite the heat. When she was finished, she walked to her bedroom, seemingly lost in her own thoughts. Yet, when she passed, her hand slipped over her daughter's silky hair and Emily murmured:

''Don't ever let them know you're surprised, baby.''

The words were like liquid. They washed over Josie who nodded but didn't look up in time to see her mother's sad smile. Emily was already locked behind the closed door of her bedroom. Lickety-split, Josie ran into her room, put her ear against the wall, and pulled her doll blanket up to her chest. Just when she thought her mother had fallen asleep, Josie heard crying. She put her ear tighter to the wall, pulled the blanket closer still and listened until all she heard was silence. It was a day and a lesson Josie would never forget so she kept her gaze steadily on Grace despite her surprise.

''If what you say is true, then I should be talking to Matthew,'' Josie said evenly.

''No, no.'' Grace whispered even though the place was deserted. ''He doesn't even know I'm here. He doesn't think anything is wrong at all. But I know there are people who would use Michelle's death to cast aspersions on Matthew. People can be cruel, even the ones closest to you.'' Grace's voice dropped to intimacy. ''But, of course, you know that, don't you? I mean, your mother.''

Josie ignored the personal reference. Her history was none of Grace's business and Matthew had been wrong to share it.

''Matthew's in a tight race for the nomination but it's hard to believe that there's a conspiracy to take him out of the primary on the back of his dead wife. Besides, the death was investigated. It was suicide.''

''Then why haven't the police let us back into the penthouse? Why have they interviewed us so often? They even talked to Tim Douglas, Matthew's campaign manager.'' Grace didn't wait for an answer. ''I can tell you why. It's because the police want to find something wrong. Someone is manipulating them.''

''Or the police are being thorough,'' Josie countered but Grace McCreary's paranoia could not be stopped.

''Or the detective in charge – his name is Babcock – '' Grace nudged the envelope another inch. ''Maybe he wants to make a name for himself. I've seen it a hundred times. A small man wanting to bring down someone larger than life; a woman wanting to attach herself to a powerful man. People can be so petty and selfish. Loyalty is the exception. Please,'' she begged, ''I just need you to look into this. If they have nothing, then stop this harassment. If there is a problem, then tell me so I can get our lawyers involved.''

''Why wait? Matthew's swimming in money. You've probably got a small army of attorney's who can handle this with a phone call.''

''They all have agendas.'' Grace overrode Josie's advice. ''Information can be leaked. If the papers got wind of this, they would have a field day. It would be so tawdry. Right now Matthew is enjoying a bounce from the sympathy factor after Michelle's death. If people thought he was actually involved, though, if it was even suggested. . .'' Grace shook her head soulfully as if to say he might as well be as dead as his wife. ''Please, just look at what I've brought you. Please.''

She took a few sheets of paper out of the envelope and laid them out like the dealer's hand. A crime scene report. A clean copy of the coroner's report. Matthew's schedule for the day Michelle McCreary threw herself off the balcony of their penthouse. Another schedule for a man named Tim Douglas.

Now and again Grace McCreary looked up to gauge Josie's interest and she was pleased with what she saw. Curiosity had gotten the better of Josie Bates. She was curious about the man she once loved, about this resurrected sister, about his dead wife. Josie was interested for all the wrong reasons and that kind of curiosity was like throwing a boulder into the quiet pond of her life. The ripples would rock every boat she had floating and Josie wasn't sure she wanted to take a chance on capsizing even one.

''I don't think I can help you,'' she shied away gracefully but even she heard the shadow of uncertainty in her voice. She cleared her throat and began again. ''I work solo. My only back up is Faye Baxter, she owns a neighborhood firm in Hermosa Beach. The investigator I use isn't even in the country. My life is very different than it was when I knew Matthew. There's a lot at stake here and you need a lawyer with the resources to deal with it.''

''No, I need someone who will have Matthew's best interests at heart,'' Grace pleaded. ''I'm just asking for a couple of hours, a short conversation with the detective in charge.''

Josie drummed her fingers on the table as her eyes swept over the information again. Grace had a point. This was a no-sweat deal. More billable hours could be created out of nothing than normal folk could imagine. Still, there was one problem with taking this job.

''Look, it's not the work or the time I'm worried about. The problem is you can't hire me on Matthew's behalf. If he wants me to check this out then he'll have to hire me. I'm sorry.''

Josie swung her legs out from under the table. She was ready to go but Grace McCreary took her hand. She took it like a little girl and looked up at Josie with those worldly eyes of hers. Those eyes were bright with an almost frantic neediness that Josie had seen in Hannah's not all that long ago.

''Please, don't go. Help me. I really love Matthew. I thought you still did, too.''

Josie was transfixed by the other woman's voice, her jewels, the quickness of mind that seemed to be in perpetual motion, the constant changing of her tactics. Grace dropped Josie's hand as if she suddenly realized the other woman's aversion to such a liberty. They looked at one another a second longer. It was Grace who broke the spell. She picked up her cigarettes. Josie wasn't sure if this was a diversion to hide the embarrassment of begging and being passed by or calculated strategy but it was amazing to see.

''I'm sorry. That was uncalled for. And you're right. This is business.'' She had a cigarette between the fingers of one hand; her lighter was in the other. She offered a solution. ''I would like to hire you on behalf of the Committee to Elect Matthew McCreary to the United States Senate. This is a committee which I head. The committee would like you to determine if there is some pending police action that might harm our ability to function on my brother's behalf.''

With that, Grace McCreary dipped her head toward the lighter's flame and, as she did so, it illuminated her face. In the glow, her lashes slashed deep, spidery shadows over her cheeks, her nose seemed to narrow and lengthen, her cheeks hollowed. When Grace raised her head again she held the cigarette away, snapped the lighter shut and looked up at the ceiling. The smoke curled upwards as she spoke.

''Besides, you're interested. If you weren't, you would have left long ago.'' Grace lowered her chin, looked at Josie and said: ''Admit it. You were never really going to walk away, were you?''

CHAPTER 5

Josie stood on the sidewalk beside an old woman. The old woman wore a flowered dress, sensible shoes and held a polka dot umbrella to protect her against a blazing fall sun. Together they watched the body of a woman hurtle through the air from the top floor of the fancy apartment building. The old lady let out a little squeal when the body hit. She jerked around as if she expected Josie to gather her into her arms, realized what she was doing and recoiled with another little squeak before they made contact. Josie smiled. Disconcerted, the old lady hurried on as fast as her legs could take her.