Shadow of Doubt (A Kali O'Brien legal mystery) (12 page)

Of course, if Eddie’s office had been searched then I was already too late. On top of that, I wasn’t even sure what I was looking for. But Eddie had told me Friday night that he needed a lawyer, implied that the issue was sensitive. And he’d somehow come up with ten thousand dollars his wife didn’t know about. The office seemed a likely hiding place for anything he might have wanted to keep from her.

I started with the desk. The drawers were filled with the kind of everyday junk you’d expect, pens, rubber bands, paper clips, a couple of opened Lifesaver rolls and a grade book —all neatly arranged with plastic dividers. In the bottom drawer I found a ratty-looking Stephen King novel and a can of Desenex, each in its own partitioned space. The bookshelf held an array of jock books, a sweat shirt (tidily folded) and a couple pairs of shoes. There wasn’t a cryptic message or incriminating clue to be had anywhere.

By the time I got to the file cabinet, I was willing to bet that someone besides Eddie had been in the office. In typical Eddie fashion, the file drawers had been organized with color coded dividers. But the manila folders inside were twisted, and jammed in at odd angles, the papers spilling over and already dog-eared. I couldn’t imagine any coach, especially Eddie, treating his team photos or player stats so poorly.

I went through the files anyway, hoping I might find some hint of what had been taken. So intent was I at this business of snooping, that I didn’t hear anyone approach until the office door creaked and a cool draft blew across my neck.

By then it was too late.

Before I could turn my head, a powerful hand grabbed my shoulder and shoved me roughly against the wall.

“Stay where you are and don’t move.” The voice was low and guttural. And tough enough that I had no intention of disobeying.

Swallowing hard, I braced myself for a bash on the head or the terror of a knife at my throat. The moment seemed to go on forever. Finally there was a shuffling sound, and then my attacker coughed — protracted, hacking cough that sounded like Doc Holiday caught up in a fit of consumption.

“Okay, lady, you can turn around now, just make it real slow. I gotta gun here, and you wouldn’t be first person I’ve used it on.”

I did what the man said, although I would have preferred not to. There is some small comfort in never having to actually set eyes on the creature who is preparing to do you in.

The reality wasn’t nearly as bad as I expected. The man I faced was gaunt and wiry, with thinning blond hair that hung limply to his shoulders. A large tattoo covered his right forearm; a smaller one was on his left. His eyes were bloodshot, his face colorless and creased, like a piece of crumpled tissue paper. But to be honest he didn’t look anymore menacing than half the people I passed each morning on my way to die Berkeley BART station. Except of course for the gun.

The man sniffled, then glowered at me. He had the quick, jerky motions of someone with a nervous disorder or a history of drug abuse. “You want to tell me who you are and what the fuck you’re doing in this office?”

It was then that I noticed the little patch on the sleeve of his shirt —
S.C. SECURITY.
I let out the breath I’d been holding. I was probably in big trouble, but not in any imminent danger of bodily harm.

“My name is Kali O’Brien,” I said, surreptitiously double-checking to make sure I’d remembered to close the window. “Eddie Marrero’s wife gave me a key.” I held out the key that had fit but not turned, praying he wouldn’t give it a try himself.

The man started to say something and then another coughing fit took hold. The hand with the gun shook unsteadily. I know zilch about guns, but I’d heard the words “hair trigger” often enough that the coughing spasms made me nervous.

“If you don’t believe me,” I said, “why don’t you call his wife and ask her.”

“Even if you got a key, it don’t make sense your snooping ’round here in the black of night That’s why they hired me, you know. Been having all sorts of trouble. Vandalism, theft, that sort of thing. I’m supposed to keep an eye on the place.”

“Obviously there’s been a little mix-up,” I said, with a calmness I thought remarkable. “I was just trying to help out. I certainly don’t want to cause you any trouble.”

“I can’t afford to screw up. Done that too many times in my life already.”

“But finding trouble where none was intended, that isn’t so smart either.” I did my best to come up with a reassuring, down-home kind of smile. “I’m a family friend from way back. Eddie and I went to school together in fact. Right here in Silver Creek.”

“You went to school here?”

I nodded.

“O’Brien,” he said, fixing the watery eyes on my face. “Yeah, thought you looked kinda familiar. Yours was the old lady who killed herself, right?”

I flinched. “Right.”

“Weren’t you some hotshot cheerleader?”

Wrong. “You must be thinking of my sister, Sabrina.”

“Yeah, Sabrina, that’s it.” The gun danced in his hand while his mind delved into the past “Blonde, blue-eyed, stacked. I remember her. So how’s she doing these days?”

I forced another smile. “Oh, just fine. She’s got three little kids now, all cute as can be.”

“Must be nice,” he said, looking off through the window into the growing darkness. “I got me a kid somewhere, too. Don’t even know if it’s a boy or a girl.” He paused a moment then said, “That still don’t explain what you’re doing here.”

The man was sharper than I’d given him credit for. “Eddie’s wife isn’t up to this, so she asked me to go through her husband’s things for her.” It sounded lame so I tried again. “She especially wanted me to check for Eddie’s watch. Seems he left it here Friday by mistake. It isn’t worth much, but it has sentimental value. She was worried it might get misplaced when the school starts cleaning things out.”

My companion scratched his nose. “You find it yet?”

“No, not yet.”

“You say Eddie left it here on Friday?”

I nodded. God help me, Eddie did wear a watch, didn’t he?

“I bet he picked it up when he stopped by Saturday morning. You tell the missus the police probably have it with all his other things.”

“Eddie was here Saturday morning?”

“Yeah. Saw him a little before noon when I was making my rounds.”

“Was he alone?” I tried not to sound too eager.

“Near as I could make out. Might have been someone with him later. I thought I heard voices when I passed by on the other side, but he might have been on the telephone, too.”

“Was there anybody else around?”

“Couple of kids, that’s about it. It’s pretty quiet around here on weekends. Why?”

“Just curious, I guess.”

“Look, you really shouldn’t be here, but seeing as how you’ve got a key and you’re helping out the missus, I’ll let you stay while I finish with this wing. Then you gotta leave and let me lock up, okay?”

There was nothing forced about my smile this time. “Thanks,” I said, with genuine heartiness.

“The coach, he was always real nice to me. You tell his wife I hope she finds that watch.”

Alone again, I sank into the chair, letting the what-ifs roll over me. What if the guard hadn’t believed me? What if the gun had gone off? What if it had been Eddie’s killer who’d come through that door?

I finally pulled myself together. I had maybe five minutes to finish my search; the shakes would have to wait. Leaning forward, I rested my arms on the desk and tried to think. I’d hoped to find some loose thread that might tie in with Eddie’s murder. Now there was a new twist. A couple of them in fact. Eddie’s office might have been searched. I wanted to know why and by whom. And I wanted to know why Eddie had come to the school Saturday morning when he’d told Jannine he was going to the tavern.

While my mind tried to sort through the possibilities, my fingers played with the smooth leather of Eddie’s desk set. It was a deep mahogany color, with matching picture frame and calendar. The sort of practical, but elegant thing that had “family gift” written all over it. The calendar was turned to Sunday. Absently, I flipped it back to Saturday.

Except that Saturday was missing.

I sat up straight and looked again. Sure enough, Friday gave way to Sunday. When I looked closer I could see the paper shreds where the page had been ripped out.

Damn.

Then I noticed on Sunday’s page, the indentations of a hastily scrawled message. I ripped the page out and stuck it carefully into my purse. I made a quick inspection of the retaining file drawer, then turned out the lights and left, taking care to move the trash can from under the window before heading for my car.

<><><>

When I got back home, I pulled the page from my purse and poured myself a glass of wine, all the while trying to ignore the dog whimpers at my feet. Reluctantly, I set the wine glass back down on the counter. Loretta really knew how to lay on the guilt.

“Alright,” I grumbled, “a quick one.” But she had something more leisurely in mind than a short spin down the road. It was almost half an hour before I was able to retrieve my glass of wine and finally examine the page from Eddie’s calendar.

As near as I could make out, there were the initials CN and a phone number. I couldn’t tell if the last digit was an 1 or a 6 so I tried it both ways. The first time I got a recording telling me to hang up and try again. Which I did, his time using the number 6 instead. The phone rang four times before the answering machine clicked in.

The voice was throaty and female. I had reached the Newcomb residence.

Chapter 10

There were three Newcombs listed in the phone book—a Bill, a Carla and a J.P. Carla’s number matched the one I’d dialed, but it was one of those listings with no address. I’d taken a step forward, only to run smack into a brick wall. I cursed my luck, double-checked the phone number, and tried to figure out what ploy I could use to convince Carla to give me her address. Then I thought of Nick Logan, a friend from law school whose specialty is brick walls.

Early on, Nick spent a couple of years with a major downtown law firm, then jumped ship to follow his first love, computers. He still maintains a small legal practice heavily weighted with
pro bono
cases, but he derives most of his income (and his pleasure) from his work as an information broker. I’ve always been impressed with the term, but Nick tells me it’s just a fancy name for computer snoop. Of course, I find that impressive, too.

Nick answered the phone on the first ring. “Hey babe,” he said, “don’t tell me you’ve got your nose to the grindstone at this hour.”

“I’m not at the office. Not even in San Francisco.” I explained about my father’s death and my trip home to sort things out. “But it wouldn’t be unusual to find the firm’s associates still toiling away at this hour,” I told him.

“Not anymore. From what I hear things have really gone to hell in a hand basket over there.”

“They’ve put off taking on any new partners, if that’s what you mean.”

“Yeah, and they’ve also put off giving raises and bonuses.”

“Where’d you hear that?” Bonuses had always been a significant part of our compensation.

“I had lunch with Sara. She says everybody’s pretty bummed out.”

Sara Stewart was an associate a couple of years behind me. She’s also an on-again-off-again girl friend of Nick’s. I’d introduced them years back. I’ve tried to stay out of their way since, so I didn’t pursue the lunch angle, but it was the only heartening sliver of news he’d handed me.

“Terrific,” I said gloomily. “I can’t wait to go back.”