The Fallen Angels Book Club (19 page)

He sighed with acceptance and walked back to his car. I wanted to kick myself. Mark had shown me kindness and I had reverted back to the old me. I called out, but he had pulled away from the curb.

The rest of the weekend, while I waited to hear what had happened with the police, I caught up on laundry and housework. Rena never called and I didn't have Mark's phone number.

On Monday morning, with one eye on Mark's door, I sent him an email with information about the background on the Southern California cousins and a time he could drop off his case file so I could help him. I included a line of question marks, hoping he'd get the message to call. Later I was passing through the lobby when I saw a note on the office “Out” board. He was in court covering for one of the attorneys who was sick.

Keeping my frustration in check, I worked on locating cases related to breaking wills. Triple D had a great law library, as well as online access to a comprehensive software collection of case law. As a paralegal, I knew how to undertake case research better than most attorneys. It was more time-effective to do as much research as I could online before I tackled our law library. I still preferred having a book in my hand to scanning pages on the computer, though. I looked at probate cases appealed in the last year and then worked my way back until I found several “on point” cases. By lunchtime, I had a list of about fifteen potential precedents that warranted pulling their volumes off the shelf.

An hour later, after I made my way through the library stacks, I headed back to my office with a cart full of appellate volumes.

“Hollis,” Mark said, standing in my doorway. “Can you make my travel arrangements to Los Angeles?”

“No.” I stopped myself when I saw his teasing smile. “No, wait. Yes, I'll get one of the administrative staff to play travel agent for you.” I gave him a humble smile.

“Thanks.”

“Ah, do you have a moment?”

“Sure.” He sat down.

I pushed some file folders to one side of my desk, clearing a space for him.

“I need another favor. Close the door. But first, what happened with Rena?”

“It was straightforward. A weekend duty officer took her statement and bagged the note.”

“So Faber and Lincoln weren't there?”

He hesitated. “No, the duty officer said the detectives assigned to the case would be in touch with her. I thought I would talk with them today, but I had to show up in court.”

“Don't worry. They'll contact her, I'm sure of that. What I need, Mark, is …”

He leaned forward eagerly.

“Full access to Inquiry First.”

He pushed away from the desk. “Ah, so that's what this is all about. Are you crazy? I can't order the software on my own. Not only is it expensive, I'd be interfering in an ongoing criminal investigation. Use the beta test version.”

“I did, but I need more information.”

“It won't work.” He drummed his fingers on the desk pad. “You've been helping me out, and I'm really grateful, but—”

“I understand. It's just that I'm running out of options and time. Even so, I don't want to put you in a tough spot.”

He tried to hide it, but I saw his long exhale of relief. “All right, if you're sure.” His voice picked up energy. “Can you tell me what you're looking for or, I guess, who you're looking for?”

“Okay. Work with me on this. First, Rory was a known blackmailer. Second, due to the nature of having blackmail-able information, his killer is more than likely a member of the club. My guess is that Rory blackmailed his murderer. Third, his murderer had to kill Abby because she could identify him.”

“Inquiry First would help you how?”

“Inquiry First would give me detailed information about everyone's background. I'd cross-check each one with Rory and find out why he or she might be a victim, or maybe a murderer.”

“I have to believe the police have access to Inquiry First or something even better. Why are you so determined?”

“Because I know them; I know how they think. I've been in their sights. I don't have time … I don't have time to let justice take its winding, often detoured, course.”

“Were you blackmailed?”

“No. That's another issue. I think the police consider me a suspect because I can't prove I wasn't being blackmailed.”

Mark took up a pen and doodled on a pad. “Okay. I follow your thinking but not your conclusion.”

I threw up my hands. “What part don't you understand?”

“What difference does knowing everyone's background make? Your penal convictions make all of you easy targets in the mind of a blackmailer.”

“But—”

“Let's just make that assumption. One of your club members, whose sanity I seriously question, is copying murders on your booklist. That said, don't you think the police already know this?”

I held my head in my hands and thought about what he said. “You're probably right. There aren't many of us left—Gene, Miller, Rena, Richard and me. I guess I'm burning out. I need some downtime from all of this.”

“Good idea.” He stood. “What are you going to do now?”

“Go home and think about something else. I've been looking at this from only one angle. I need to step back.”

Mark seemed to buy my false bluster. After he left, I didn't even want to put into words the growing dread that my clock was running out on securing a pardon. Either I had to find the killer quickly or make sure I was no longer a suspect. The murderer was killing more than club members. He—or she—was also killing my chance to get my life back.

I
was in a somber mood when I got home. It had been scary but also a relief to confide in Mark. If nothing else, I heard how my thoughts sounded outside of my head.

I peered into the refrigerator, looking for potential dinner candidates.

The doorbell rang.

One reason why I bought a condo off the beaten path was so that no one who came to the door could say they were passing by. I tried looking through the peephole, but the man had his back to me.

“Who is it?”

“It's me, Becky, I mean Hollis.” Bill. He turned around and into my line of sight.

My heart pumped rapid-fire as a rush of adrenaline shot through my veins. Even so, fight or flight didn't seem to be an option. Thankfully, I still had my work clothes on. I hated that I cared what I looked like, but I wanted him to see what he had walked away from.

I ran my fingers through my hair, stalling. “How'd you find me? What do you want?”

“The reverse phone directory. I want to talk to you face to face and not through a door.” He paused. “I'm leaving in the morning. I promise I won't bother or contact you again.”

“You're going to have to leave without seeing me. We've already talked.” I kept my breathing steady, hoping to calm down.

“I guess I don't blame you. I just wanted to see you one last time and to set some things right. I'm worried you don't know what you're facing.”

“Said and done.” However, I didn't move away from the door.

“Becky, I mean Hollis, I'm sorry I haven't got used to your new name. But you have to talk to me. I—”

“I don't
have
to do anything. I can't believe you even have the nerve to come here.”

“I have no excuses. I never expected your forgiveness. What I did has haunted me ever since.” He sighed and looked regretful. “I will never attempt to speak to you again and I won't contact your family. I've changed. I just want you to know about Rory, to see you, to tell you I'm sorry.”

I started to feel foolish talking through the door. I opened it.

When he walked in, he immediately sucked all the energy out of the room, or at least out of me. He always had a way of filling a room and consuming all the air.

Bill wore my favorite cologne. He wore it when we were married. I wondered if he did it now on purpose. He was smart enough not to smile. I didn't know if the remorse in his eyes was real or not.

“You have fifteen minutes.”

“I'll take it.” He came straight in and sat down on the living room sofa. “You look good, Becky. Real good.”

So did he. He was still handsome in a past tense sort of way. He hadn't changed a bit. I wanted to believe he'd started to gray or go bald, but his thick chestnut hair was photo-ready.

“Cut the crap, Bill. You have fourteen minutes.”

“I want to explain why I … why I let things go the way they did.”

In prison, I had imagined the conversation I'd have with Bill. It would take place in a hospital where he was dying from a debilitating disease that would take years to play out. During my visit, I'd hold the life support switch in my hand, but I wouldn't pull it. I'd let him live to regret another day.

Except that now, here I stood, struggling to remember the words I'd practiced for the past five years, in the same room with the man who I'd let redefine my world.

“It's too late for explanations. Your actions explained everything. You have twelve minutes.”

He walked over to the glass cabinet and patted the frame. “Hey, you kept your grandmother's frog collection. I remember how much you hated it.” He held it steady and started to open the glass door, then caught the look in my eyes. He pushed it closed. “You used to be kind. I guess I did this to you. I deserve it.”

Trying to swallow the lump in my throat, I sat down. “Oh, no,” I choked. “You didn't
do
anything to me. I did it to myself. But I'm free of you now, Bill.”

Tears streamed down my face. I looked around blindly for a tissue. He grabbed a box off the mantel and sat next to me. I was furious with myself; I hadn't let myself cry over my marriage for years.

“Tell … tell me why.” I hated my words even as I spoke them, but I couldn't stop them or the sobs.

He put his arm around my shoulders. I pulled away.

“I'm a loser, Becky. As hard as it is for me to say, you're lucky to be rid of me. I've never done a smart thing in my life … except maybe when I married you. Given an opportunity to do something selfless, I'll walk away every time.” He started to pace.

“Then why are you warning me?”

“I think my lucky streak is running out. I've overstayed my welcome in too many states. I'm going to leave the country. Listen, you're in trouble. I think I might have put you there.”

“What's new?”

He gave me a sad smile. “I took a job for a friend, okay Michael—Rory—to provide insurance for some dummy real estate transactions. I didn't know it at the time, but he knew you. It's a long story. I know, I only have—” he looked down at his watch, “—nine minutes. Let's just say jerks attract jerks and I knew eventually I wouldn't be able to keep him away from you. However, it seems somebody took care of him for me. He won't be bothering anybody else anymore.”

He was alarming me. I sat up. “You make murder sound like an inconvenience. Who are you talking about? Do you know who killed Rory? Was he blackmailing you, too?”

He shook his head. “I have a couple of ideas, but they're still only guesses.” He leaned forward on the sofa. “The thing is, there are still people out there—a guy named Newton for one—who may try to get to me through you. Things are starting to move too fast. I need you to keep quiet. Don't tell them anything.”

He was coming at me too fast. “I don't know anything.”

“Right, that's exactly what you tell them. You've got to take this seriously. I need you to give me cover in case they get in contact with you.”

Sometimes I can be really naive. This conversation was a flashback that hit me between the eyes and cleared my thinking. It was the same old Bill, except this time it wasn't the same old me.

Uncomfortable under my stare, he looked down at his watch again.

I stood. “I want to thank you, Bill. Your coming by helped me answer a lot of questions.”

He stood, too. “Ah, sure, Beck, you know I—”

“I always wanted to know why you left me in that courtroom and afterward, how you could live with yourself knowing your wife was in prison because of you.” It was my turn to smile. I moved toward him. He backed away. He was right to be fearful.

“I hated to do it.” He spoke a little too fast. “I knew I could save you by cutting our ties. Without a record, we figured you wouldn't have to serve a full sentence. I didn't know they'd switch judges on us. I didn't know I'd only get county time. I told—”

“Yet you were the one to get released early.” I moved to the door. “It's time for you to go.”

He started to lean down as if to kiss me. He must have seen my
Kill Bill
expression and straightened up. He handed me a piece of paper. “Well, then, goodbye. You don't have to worry. I won't come by again. Here's my cellphone number in case you want to reach me.”