Silent Witness (10 page)

''That's democratic,'' Josie mumbled. Chagrined to find her thoughts had been so transparent, she reached for her coffee cup and held it in both hands. ''Those documents could have been doctored. I'll have them looked at by experts.''

''That's what Amelia was doing.'' He held up another sheaf of paper. ''This is the last report and it has been authenticated. This inspection was completed right after the accident.''

He tucked that one away in the folder and gathered up the rest.

''If you don't mind, I'll have them rechecked.'' Josie put her coffee back on his desk. ''But I don't want to jump ahead of myself. Right now I'd like to take a look at the files from the first civil trial. Who handled Lexi's claim?''

''Well, there you have hit on an amazing thing.'' Jude looked like a kid who had just stumbled across twenty bucks lying on a long, lonely road, no chance of getting it back to its rightful owner. ''There was no settlement on Lexi for Tim's death. If she had collected, it would have been near impossible for me to settle on Colin's behalf. Not that I couldn't have pulled it off eventually, mind you. It's just that a wrongful death claim two years after one parent was compensated would have been an uphill battle.''

Expressionless, Josie looked at Jude without really seeing him. She didn't see the lush greenery in the atrium behind him or notice his smile or the gleam in his eye. Josie's visual field had shrunk to focus on a pinpoint of color on the collar of his shirt, a hatch print of delicate navy, beige and grey lines intersecting on a white background. Desperately she tried to make the bits and pieces of information fit into a pattern as neatly as the Tattersol boxes separating the white ground of that shirt. No mechanical problem. No civil action after the accident. No reason for Archer to commit a crime. No evidence that a crime had been committed.

''I don't get it,'' she mused. ''Even if there wasn't a mechanical error, a case could have been made for operator error. If that didn't fly, Pacific Park would have paid out if Lexi made the right noises just to keep her from talking publicly about what happened. Sidestepping any appearance of wrong-doing would be worth a bundle.''

''Maybe you should ask your client why his wife didn't file,'' Getts suggested. ''But for now it's all a great mystery. If we work together we'll solve it sooner than later. I think you know that, Josie.''

Josie cast him a harsh glance.

''Do you think patronizing me is going to get your hands in Pacific Park's pockets any sooner?''

''Do you think insulting me is going to make me change my mind?'' Jude laughed back. ''Look, let's get something straight. I'm not ashamed of what I do. Believe it or not, this isn't all about money. I help people who need my help and Colin Wren needs it.''

''You've got to be kidding? A man who ignored his son for ten of his thirteen years? He's the kind of client you want to help?'' Josie demanded.

''You only have Archer's word that Colin was a creep,'' Jude reminded her.

''That's good enough,'' Josie assured him.

''And I have Colin's word that he wasn't,'' Jude replied. ''And to me that's good enough.''

''Keep talking. You'll convince someone that Colin Wren deserves to profit from Tim's death.''

Jude shook his head and ran his hand down the arms of his chair. Fun and games were over.

''You're obviously a good lawyer, Josie, but buying into your client's point of view so wholeheartedly isn't all that smart. You don't know Colin Wren, you don't know me and none of us knows what this case is really about. If you take everything your client says at face value then he has a fool for a lawyer. Argue his point of view but don't own it until you know it's the right one.''

''Thanks for the advice.'' Insulted by the lecture she pointed to the file. ''Is that for me?''

''Copies of everything we have. Xeroxed just for you.'' He handed it over with a smile.

''Thanks.'' She took the folder and held it against her chest. ''I'll take it from here and you can get back to whatever other business you have on your calendar.''

''I don't think so, Josie. You and I are going to be joined at the hip for a few months so you might as well relax.'' Jude's expression was mischievous and his cavalier attitude was not making her happy.

''In your dreams, Jude. I don't like the way you work.''

''I think I've been fairly efficient so far.'' He feigned hurt before his expression melted into resolve and he crossed his arms over his chest. He was tired of sparring. ''Without me your boy would still be in jail. Without me you wouldn't be one step ahead now. Without me, you'd be running just to catch up. And without Colin, Archer would be an ex-cop in jail. Not a pretty place for him to be.''

''Okay, I'm impressed with the theatrics and your secretarial staff and Colin Wren's deep pockets,'' Josie agreed. ''But I'm having a real hard time with you. This isn't funny and money is secondary to the fact that a boy is dead and a good man is accused of killing him. You seem to think this was all conjured up to amuse you.''

''Believe me, I know this is no joke,'' Jude insisted and Josie saw the steel of Jude Getts behind the polish. ''But I won't apologize for thriving on the challenge. When I smile it means I'm revved. I smile because without some levity I would fall into a black hole of despair when I realize how many wrongs I can't right. But most of all, my attitude is just reflective of the fact that I love what I do.'' He leaned forward, picked up a pen and pulled it through his fingers. ''And I'm anxious to do it with you.''

''Double entendre not intended,'' Josie shot back, unimpressed.

Jude laughed outright and tossed the pen away.

''You're not my type. Love the legs but I prefer a little more hair to run my fingers through. Blond, not brunette.''

''Fine. I'm not your type. You're not mine professionally or personally. So, let me get on with my work because I work better alone.''

''And I don't intend to work at cross purposes,'' Jude warned. ''We want the same thing just for different reasons. It doesn't make sense not to put our incredibly smart heads together on this.''

Josie opened her mouth to object just as her phone rang. A half turn afforded her some semblance of privacy while she took the call that would finish her conversation with Jude Getts.

''That was Ruth Alcott's office. She's the deputy DA who caught this case and she's got time to see me now.'' Josie raised the file in her hand. ''So thanks for the information. I'll handle it from here. I don't need any more of your help''

While Josie filled him in Jude rolled down his shirt sleeves, grabbed his coat and rounded his massive desk. With a friendly pat on her back as he passed Jude said:

''Don't be ridiculous. Of course you do.''

It wasn't just the way he looked that made people on the Strand give Archer a wide berth, it was the way he moved. He walked with his arms by his side and his chin thrust out. His powerful body was propelled forward like a missile seeking a target. Archer moved as if he would not, could not, stop for anything or anyone. He moved dangerously and people watched him pass with more than a little curiosity and a great deal of relief that he had not stopped to notice them.

His pace did not change when he turned into his building and took the stairs two at a time. Ignoring the pain that shot through his ribs and the incessant pounding in his head, Archer made it up three flights in sixty seconds flat.

The key caught, the lock gave. He slammed the door open and walked straight on to the balcony. He went back in. And back out again. Three times he did this. Once he hesitated near the tripod. For a millisecond he thought about screwing the camera on, refracting his rage through the lens, calming himself by framing the ocean, the sky, the birds, the beachgoers.

Fuck it
.

That notion shredded in his mind like a past due bill he couldn't pay. What was the use of trying to feel better about any of this? Archer stormed inside and outside and in again. There would be nothing to see through that lens that he couldn't see without it. A grey day. A doomed day. Nothing to recommend it just as there was nothing to recommend him anymore. The district attorney and that woman from Pacific Park had seen to that.

The newspaper accounts had been bad enough, but voices speaking against him, using his name in the same sentence as murder, was unconscionable. He was defenseless against the impact of that news conference. Archer had seen his future in the faces of the two men having coffee at Burt's. They kept their eyes Northwest like the pointer on a faulty compass but couldn't help flicking his way, to check him out. There had been doubt in Burt's eyes, too. Burt who never gave anyone shit was suddenly cautious, wondering if it was good for business to have Archer sitting alone looking so damned scary in the back of the place. So Archer left. He paid his bill and he left and as he passed Billy Zuni, Archer wondered if he had been a coward not to stop and look the kid in the eye when he called. But Archer couldn't stop because a kid alive and well was the last thing he wanted to see.

Archer was on the balcony again, shaking under the weight of his fear and anger. With a great cry he brought his hands down on the balcony wall, gripping it as if it was the only thing keeping him from falling off the edge of the world. Beads of rough stucco bit into him, punctured the skin of his palms before he marched through the house again looking for something to put him out of his misery. Booze. Pills. Not his style. Never even thought about it until now. His service revolver.

Archer paused.

Archer headed toward his bedroom. He would find it. He would touch it. He wouldn't use it but he needed to know the option was there. Five more steps. Hard and heavy on the floor. He didn't get far because he stumbled at the sight of Lexi's picture, the small one he kept in the living room up on the bookshelf. Without thinking, reacting to its mere presence, he let loose with another bellow, grabbed it and threw it against the wall. Archer didn't know how long he stood there, his arms akimbo, his breathing labored, but it couldn't have been long. The sound of the shattering glass still rang in his ears, the sight of Lexi's face crumpling in the cheap twisted frame the only thing he could see. With no glass to protect her, no frame to hold her straight, no gold shiny metal to make her pretty Lexi looked back at him as if he had punched her down then and there. He might as well have killed her and left her body lying on his living room floor for all the grief he felt.

Falling to his knees, Archer picked up the photo and ignored the small cut that bled when he brushed the glass against the wall with his bare hand. Sitting back on his heels he cupped the photograph in both hands. Lexi still smiled but her eyes looked through him knowingly, stoic in her acceptance of what he had become. There was a gash on her cheek where a shard of glass had cut through the color to the white paper beneath. The way the picture had crumpled and creased aged her.

Slowly Archer got to his feet, cradling the picture in his hands. Ignoring the frame and glass at his feet he frantically tried to smooth the wrinkles, work the shreds of paper to cover the cut. It was useless. The more he tried, the more insistent was the thing welling inside him. It felt like a cry. It felt like something living, like a huge thing that was growing and bringing with it a sense of doom. Archer wanted to be rid of that awful feeling, the premonition that his life had caught up with him. Maybe if he didn't look at Lexi, maybe he could put that feeling away, too.

Turning her face away, Archer wiped the photograph on the side of his hip, cleaning it up before he slipped it between two books on the shelf.

Better?

Not yet.

Carefully, Archer tapped the picture in until he couldn't see even the edge of it anymore. He had made a little tomb, buried Lexi one more time and this time it was easier. In a minute or an hour or a year Archer wouldn't even remember where he put it.

Better?

No, it was too soon. He knew Lexi was in there, damaged by his hand, exiled because of his fear, wedged between two books. In the dark. Alone. Archer put a hand on those books then his head fell onto his hand and his lips moved. The words reverberated in his head and he hated himself for speaking them, thinking them, meaning them right at that moment.

''Damn you, Lexi. Damn that kid.''

CHAPTER 10

Ruth Alcott went back to college before her third marriage. She graduated law school in time to handle her own divorce from a husband who had settled neatly into a routine she found boring. Now fifty-four and independent, Ruth made just enough money to keep herself in elastic waist pant suits, sensible shoes and yearly trips abroad to check out medieval churches. Her husband hated all three of her vices.

Ruth Alcott was a deputy district attorney who had no illusions that she would ever actually amount to anything under the generally accepted guidelines for success. She would never be the District Attorney - not enough media appeal. Private practice was out - not greedy enough. She would never marry again - too selfish. She was, however, a fine deputy because from nine to five, fifty weeks a year, Ruth Alcott was a rabid good guy. She believed if the cops brought it to her, and there was the slightest appearance of cause, it was her duty to pursue that matter to the bitter end. For Ruth that end was usually conviction. Today Archer was the bad guy and Ruth was seated high on the white horse of justice. In fact, that horse was so high she couldn't seem to hear a thing Josie Bates was saying.

''Look, Ruth, you guys have been messing with Archer six ways from Sunday.''

Josie stood up and planted her hands on Ruth's desk. She thought about swiping the desk clean to make Ruth sit up and take notice. Instead, she lowered her voice and picked up the pace of her argument.

''Using your own investigators to make the collar was bad enough, but it's been more than twenty-four hours and there hasn't been an arraignment. This whole thing stinks, Ruth.''

''I don't remember that class in law school that said prosecutors had to lay out their case for the defense within twenty-four hours,'' Ruth said, unfazed by Josie's indignation. ''Your client was advised of his rights. . .''