The Return of the Fallen Angels Book Club (A Hollis Morgan Mystery 3) (5 page)

T
he next morning Hollis was the first one in the office. It was her favorite time of day. She stopped to look out Triple D’s almost floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Bay. The new Bay Bridge, which joined San Francisco with the East Bay, provided a picturesque backdrop. The sun had begun its rise over the Oakland-Berkeley hills and cast a warm yellow glow on the water as it chased the fading blue of the night sky away. But today she could hardly enjoy the sight.

She hadn’t slept well.

In the middle of the night, the cold realization that Jeffrey Wallace had been murdered had finally hit her. She felt obligated to honor his life and the good he had done. Looking at his family, she’d realized there was a side to him she hadn’t known; however, from what she did know, he hadn’t deserved to die the way he did. She labeled her own file for Jeffrey’s murder and placed the ME report and her notes inside.

The firm was coming to life. She heard the early morning banter and smelled the aroma of fresh coffee. In her inbox was the file George had returned. He’d written comments on one of her legal research memos, and she had to grudgingly admit his suggestions were right on.

She spent the next hour doing paperwork and making client contacts until her phone buzzed.

“Hollis, you have a call from a Mr. Brian Wallace. I’ll transfer,” Tiffany announced. Performance bonuses were being discussed this week. Hollis noticed Tiffany was executing her receptionist’s role with renewed commitment.

“Brian, how can I help you?”

“I need to discuss something with you as soon as possible,” Brian said, not even bothering with a hello. “I can take off work for an early lunch. Are you free at eleven?”

She agreed, curious about his urgency.

Hollis told Tiffany she would need one of the conference rooms for a morning appointment. Tiffany nodded and immediately entered the room assignment into the computer. That was one definite advantage of being an attorney over a paralegal; your requests were rarely questioned.

Hollis was finishing up George’s morning assignment when Brian arrived.

She’d asked for the small conference room without the panoramic view. It limited distractions and kept conversations from wandering off point. Tiffany had put out glasses and a pitcher of water.

Dressed for the office, Brian wore a conservative light gray suit, white shirt, with gray tie. His light brown hair was slicked back and his blue eyes darted around the room. He sat down and began to fidget with the stapler on the table.

“Hollis, I need your help, and maybe Gene’s too … maybe all of the Fallen Angels.” Brian stood and paced the room.

She noticed the assumed familiarity with his use of first names.

“I understand you need our help, but it would help to know why.”

“You already met Frances, my stepmother. She and Dad were married about eight years. It seemed like an okay marriage to me—I wasn’t living at home—and Dad seemed happy, until about six months ago. They’d gone on a vacation to Hawaii and when they got back, Dad told me that he and Frances were going to set up a revocable trust. If anything happened to him, he wanted me to be executor, but Frances would have access to all their holdings for her life—except ten percent, which would go to the Public Library Foundation. I am to have his separate property now and after she dies. I’m the sole beneficiary of their trust. If there are still assets after my death, then the Public Library Foundation receives the remainder of the trust.”

Hollis busily took notes.

“Was the trust funded and finalized?”

“Yeah, five months ago.”

“All right, what you describe is not uncommon. That’s standard language for a revocable trust.”

“I realize that, but about three months ago, Frances filed for divorce. Dad was surprised and I think, hurt. He didn’t see it coming. None of us did.”

Hollis wrote, then circled the word divorce on her note pad. Now she knew why he needed her help.

She put down her pen. “The trust takes precedent. The divorce wasn’t final. I know you may not want to hear this, but unless there is language in the trust specifying otherwise, your stepmother—subtracting your father’s separate property and the amount to the Public Library Foundation—will still have full access to his estate.”

“I knew it.” Brian rubbed the nape of his neck. “She already spends like there’s no tomorrow.” He stopped and held out his hand out as if to stop whatever Hollis must be thinking. “Look, I admit I would like the money, but I’m not desperate for it. I have a good job as a supply manager, but … but ….”

Hollis offered, “But you don’t think your father would want a woman who was getting ready to divorce him to have his hard-earned money after his death.”

“Exactly.”

“What do you think Gene or I can do?”

“Dad told me about the Fallen Angels. He was very proud of all of you, especially after the trial.” He sat down again. “Gene can run a background check on Frances. He can use his newspaper connections. For some reason, she’s very secretive about her past. My mom died when I was five. I think Dad must have been really lonely when he met Frances and didn’t bother to learn much about her.” He leaned across the conference table. “Hollis, Dad once told me you had the sharpest deductive mind he knew of. I want you to find out what’s she’s up to.”

She felt her brows knit together. “Have you heard anything about your father’s killer? Do the police have any leads?”

“What?” Brian looked startled. “Oh no, there’s nothing so far. They talk or come by to see me every day. Er … I do know they’re following up on the angle of possible disgruntled parolees.”

She shifted in her seat. “I’m sure there’s always that possibility, but after office hours it’s not likely he would have let a—”

“Look, I’m not a cop. I think a parolee is a real strong possibility for a suspect, and so do the police.” Brian took a swallow from the glass of water. He was starting to sweat profusely. “Do you think you can help me with the trust or not?”

“You have to understand that even with a straightforward court filing, it takes thirty days from the date we file to get a hearing.”

“Okay, no problem. We can use the time to flush Frances out.”

“During that interval I can run a public records check on her while Gene covers her friends and family background.” Hollis looked down at her notepad. “But this can cost a lot of money. I’m not a private detective, nor do I want to get in the way of the police investigation.”

“I don’t have a lot of money.” He played with his pen. “I was hoping the Fallen Angels and not your law firm could help with digging up the truth. And maybe you could help me with processing the trust as co-executor; then you wouldn’t have to charge your full rate. You’d get paid out of the trust.”

Hollis grimaced. George was right about clients looking for a fee break from new attorneys.

“Brian, did you tell the police what you just told me, I mean about the trust and divorce? Money is a great motivator.”

“Yes, I told them. They asked me if I thought Frances killed my father and honestly, I don’t think she did. Frances has her issues, but I don’t think she’s a murderer. Besides, she was conducting an evening seminar when Dad was shot.”

Hollis glanced down at the time on her cellphone. “Okay, let me get things moving. Today is Thursday; I’ll file a request for hearing on Monday. Then I’ll talk with Gene and we’ll get back to you.”

Brian dabbed at his damp forehead as the two of them walked to the elevators. He held out his hand and she shook it. It was clammy. She hoped he didn’t notice her wiping her hand against her pants afterwards.

“Thanks Hollis, I’ll look forward to hearing from you.”

Hollis was in her office munching on a lunch of flavored crackers when she called Gene.

“It didn’t take him long to get over his grief,” he said.

“That was my thought. It sounds like he wants us to play private detectives.”

Hollis took some satisfaction from having Brian request their assistance. He would be her second client. She ignored the nagging concern that she would have to deal with John’s warnings about police interference. “I’m not sure Brian knows what it is we’d be looking for.”

“I think you’re right,” Gene said. “But we can put it out there with the Fallen Angels. As a group we might be able to come up with a few avenues to pursue. Although to tell you the truth, I’m sure Jeffrey would be skeptical that we would be able to avoid crossing over into police territory.” 

“Yes.” Hollis was glad Gene wasn’t sitting in her office to see her look of resolve. “But I think he would want us to help his son. We’ll meet and decide then how to handle things.”

“That’ll work. Maybe while we’re helping one Wallace, we can find out who killed the other.”

After the call with Gene, Hollis got down to tackling Shelby Patterson’s case. She’d finished checking out real estate agency references and had narrowed it down to two. The firm she finally chose offered to place more advertising and oversee getting the house and yard in shape. She looked up to see Tiffany standing in her doorway.

“What?”

“There’s this guy waiting to see you in the lobby. You didn’t tell me you had an appointment other than Mr. Wallace.”

Hollis frowned. “I don’t have any other appointments today. Why didn’t you just call me and announce him over the phone?”

“He seems upset.” Tiffany smiled weakly, turning to look over her shoulder. “We used to be able to talk about this kind of stuff when you were a paralegal, but you’re one of my bosses now and I feel funny.”

Hollis’ curiosity clicked in. “First, I’m still me and I hope you’re still you. So, for me, we’re on the same team. But tell me the name of this mysterious gentleman and I’ll come and talk to you after he’s gone.”

“It’s Shelby Patterson’s father, Mr. Darol Patterson.”

Entering the lobby, Hollis could immediately see why Darol Patterson had caused Tiffany to lose her usual professional cool. He was strikingly handsome, brown-skinned, tall and with a presence—a man who oozed charm. For Hollis, the greater surprise was his well-tailored attire—navy sports coat, open collar white shirt, and gray slacks. He looked nothing like the drug-addicted loser Shelby had described, except for his piercing dark eyes, which projected agitation and frustration
.

She took him to the same conference room she’d shared with Brian Wallace that morning.

“Mr. Patterson, what can I do for you?”

“I understand you’re representing my daughter in a lawsuit.” His voice was low, clear, and articulate. “I want to know what my rights are, and I’d like you to hear my side of the story.”

Hollis shook her head slowly. “Mr. Patterson, you need to get your own legal representation. I can’t advise you regarding your rights. As you said, your daughter is my client. I can’t discuss or share any—”

“Okay, okay, I get it. If it gets to that point, I’ll be representing myself.” Leaning across the table, he let his eyes bore into Hollis’, and his voice rose with just a little irritation. “Besides, I think you’d be better able to serve her if you knew my side. Wouldn’t you agree?”

She gave him an open-palm gesture to go ahead.

“I won’t go into my … my disgrace as a man with an addiction. Suffice it to say that I hit bottom and then I saw the error of my ways and came back to the living. I’m ten months clean. Unfortunately, my mother was a mean and vindictive woman who I think always hated me because I resembled my father. He left her after five years during which she made his life a living hell.” He looked around the room. “Can I have a glass of water?”

“Of course.”

Hollis poked her head out the doorway and asked Tiffany if she could bring in a couple of bottles of water.

Sitting down again, she folded her hands and waited for him to continue.

“That house is mine. My mother turned my daughter against me. Susan, Shelby’s mother, was a good woman. We loved each other until the day she died, and I love her still. But my mother hated the fact that Susan loved me and wouldn’t go along with her.”

Tiffany returned with the water and left.

Hollis couldn’t help but ask, “Mr. Patterson, if your mother hated you so much, why would she give Shelby, your stepdaughter, her house?”

His little laugh was soft and off-putting. “I wondered that too. My mother was shrewd. I was a disappointment to her all my life, but especially after I got caught up in drugs. But even though I beat that and made sure my kids did too, she never would forgive or forget.” Darol, who had been clenching and unclenching his fists, finally folded his hands. “She knew it would torment me to have my stepdaughter turn against me.”

Thoughts swirled around in Hollis’ head. This apparently simple matter was becoming increasingly complicated.

“Shelby doesn’t want to hurt you.” She bit her lip. “But she’s intimidated, and can you blame her after the harassment?”

His eyes turned ice cold. “What harassment?”

For a quick moment Hollis flashed back to a similar reaction from Shelby. Were these abrupt mood swings a family trait?

“Shelby says she’s been getting repeated hang-up phone calls and her car was vandalized.”