The Simeon Chamber (20 page)

That’s why I’m instructing you to turn them over to the police and tell them whatever you know up to this point and then step away from the entire thing.”

What did she know? Why all of a sudden had she lost interest in James Spencer? Jennifer Davies had never met Susan Paterson, and yet when Sam told her of Pat’s murder that day in her law office a dark look of foreboding had come over Jennifer’s face. What was she concealing?

“Are you discharging me?”

“Yes, you’re fired. Now you can return my property and I’ll take it to the police.”

“I’m afraid I’m not prepared to do that.”

“Working for yourself?” She looked at him over her glass.

Sam nodded.

“That’s what I was afraid of. So where does that leave us? I could sue you to recover the parchments.” 7

“You could, but you won’t. It would take too long. By the time you got to court I’d have the answers I’m looking for and you’d have the parchments back.”

“Damn sure of yourself, aren’t you? I could go to the police with what I know.”

“In that case you can take their chuckles and the ride down the steps by yourself.”

“Where are the parchments?” she asked.

“In a safe place,” Sam replied.

“I want them back.”

“When I’m finished.”

“No now.”

Nick picked up his menu. “Well, shall we order? I don’t know about the rest of you but there’s nothing like a good argument to whet my appetite.”

Jennifer realized that she was getting nowhere.

“What are you going to do now?” she asked.

“Well, that depends on you.” Sam engaged her eyes directly in the flickering light of the candle. “Will you help?”

“It doesn’t look like I have a great deal of choice.” Jennifer had been backed into a corner, and from the look in her eyes she didn’t like it.

She summoned up every ounce of authority that her voice could muster. “On two conditions. The first is that you keep me informed of everything you discover.”

“Agreed. And the second?” asked Sam.

“That I be permitted to accompany you at any time I choose whenever you are searching for information concerning my father or the parchments.” She waited for a howl of protest, but Sam said nothing.

Bogardus was in a box. She might go to the police; and while it was probable that they would dismiss any story about Drake, if she kept it simple and told them merely that Sam had stolen the parchments from her, they would have to investigate the complaint. He didn’t need any more complications. Besides, he had no intention of honoring her terms unconditionally—only until he found out what she knew about Raymond Slade.

“I suppose I can live with that.” He spoke in a grudging tone.

“The first time I find out you haven’t told me everything, I will go straight to the police with what I know,” said Jennifer.

“Hey listen, if we’re gonna be partners we should start our relationship on a basis of trust.” His face lit up with a smile 239

that would have shamed the Cheshire Cat.

It was nearly ten o’clock by the time the trio finished eating. The conversation centered on Arthur Symington, the only apparent link to “the Committee.” Symington was the key to the entire puzzle. It was a slim lead. After all these years Arthur Symington could be dead. People at the newspaper might not even remember him. It wasn’t much to go on, but it was all they had.

The waitress appeared and removed the empty dishes from the table. Nick had just swallowed a last morsel of chutney and rice and tugged the linen napkin free from the top button of his shirt.

“Tomorrow morning I want you to call my office.” Sam looked at Jennifer. “The answering service will put you through to me. I’ll see if we can find this guy Symington. In the meantime, Nick, I want you to call Jake and tell him to take the parchments to a bank, a big one, and get a safe deposit box and stash them for the time being. If we get lucky we should have a lead on Symington by the end of the day.”

He looked across at Jennifer. It was time for her contribution. “Is there anything of your mother’s that might give us some additional information about the parchments? Maybe something she kept from your father’s things that might give us a clue as to Raymond Slade, who he was?”

With the mention of Slade’s name her look became dark, and without hesitation she said, “No.”

“There must be something. Even if the man has been dead for thirty years, your mother was married to James Spencer. She must have kept something to remember him by.”

“Not that I know of.”

“It must have been one hell of a romance.”

She bristled. He’d hit a raw nerve.

“I’ll look—but I’m sure there’s nothing.”

If there was, Sam was certain he’d never see it.

Nick sensed that he was intruding. He gulped down the last mouthful of coffee, placed his napkin on the table by the cup and pulled several bills from his wallet. “Well, if you two will excuse me, I think I’ll be hitting the road. Jennifer, it was nice meeting you.”

She appeared relieved by the change of subject. “I’m sure we’ll be seeing each other again.” 1

“How are you getting back?” asked Sam.

Nick looked at his watch. “I had Jake drop me off and told him to pick me up at ten-fifteen. He should be out front by now.”

Jennifer looked at Sam. “You don’t happen to have a card with your office number on it, do you? I suppose I could get it from Information.”

Sam rummaged through his wallet. “I don’t think I do.”

Quickly Nick pulled a small stack of business cards from the lining of his wallet. Shuffling through them he found one without any notes on the back. He gave the card to Sam with a pen.

After jotting the number, Bogardus returned the pen to Nick. “I’ll see you later.”

“It was nice meeting you.” Nick looked at Jennifer.

“Take care.” She smiled.

Nick heard the light chatter of their conversation fade into the background, though it was still clearly audible. He was fumbling with his wallet, trying to replace the stack of business cards behind a fold of leather as he approached a table a few feet from his friends. Not looking, he hooked his foot into something draped from the back of a chair.

He stumbled, dropping his wallet on the floor. Credit cards and cash spilled out.

A man seated at the table reached out to steady him.

“I’m so sorry. How stupid of me. I should have placed my cane on the other chair out of the way.”

“No, it’s just my innate clumsiness,” said Nick.

The man knelt on one knee and began to retrieve the cards and Nick’s wallet.

Nick stooped to help.

The man handed the wallet to Nick. “Are you all right?”

“Oh, I’m fine.” Nick picked up the walking cane that he had kicked loose from the chair. It was an elegant affair, heavier than Nick had expected, weighted by a solid brass handle in the form of a bird’s head with a sharp bill. As if in a reflexive motion, Nick hooked the handle of the cane over the back of the chair, smiled at the man one last time and walked briskly from the restaurant.

The man seated himself at the table and after several seconds uncupped his hand to read the 3

small business card that he had palmed from the floor. The embossed black ink read: Dr. Nicholas Jorgensen, Ph.D.

University of California, Berkeley Department of History

There was an office telephone number printed at the bottom of the card. He flipped it over. Written in faint pencil on the back side he read the name: Jasper Holmes 515 Rose Street, Apt. 16

Berkeley and below it a cryptic note, a single word—

“Translation.”

At 5:00 A.M. Sam awoke with a start. Mental images of Pat’s lifeless body from the photograph dropped on the desk by Fletcher during their meeting made sleep impossible. To the sounds of Nick’s snoring he slipped from Angie’s basement apartment and, dressed in pajamas with his briefcase under his arm, walked past the furnace to the small kitchen. He put up a pot of coffee, then sat with his feet propped on another chair as he pulled from his case a three-page coroner’s report.

He’d obtained the document from the police records section immediately after leaving Fletcher’s interview. Under California law, copies of coroner’s reports were public records available to anyone with the price of copying. Unfortunately, the police report from the scene could not be obtained until someone had been charged, and then usually only by subpoena or through formal discovery.

He started to read the report. It contained the usual boilerplate: “The victim is a well-nourished female in her mid-to late thirties, postmortem weight 124 pounds.”

The medical examiner estimated that Pat had lost approximately three pounds as a result of the trauma to her back and the migration of body fluids from the wound. It was his way of saying that she had bled to death.

Sam scanned the balance of the report. There was no evidence of contusions or abrasions 245

to the body, no sign of any struggle. The only wound was a single oblique stab wound to the lower right quadrant of the back, and the actual incision was approximately one inch long, gaping to one and a half inches at the outer skin, with smooth edges.

The ellipse of the wound was flat at one end and came to a point at the other. Examination of the point of entry led the medical examiner to conclude that the weapon used was a single-edged blade of high-quality sharpened steel. The fact that the area around the entry wound showed no bruising on the surface caused him to opine that the murder weapon either contained no hilt or other protrusion at the handle or else the assailant had failed to drive the instrument deep enough to leave evidence of these structures.

Internal examination revealed that Pat had virtually no chance of survival from the instant the weapon entered her back. Piercing in an upward thrust, the blade had severed the renal artery and entered the kidney. Death was nearly instantaneous. From the depth of the wound, the minimum length of the weapon was at least four and a half inches. With the apparent dimensions of the blade, the one-inch elliptical incision at the point of entry, and wound depth only four and a half inches, it was the opinion of the medical examiner that the assailant had for whatever reason failed to drive the weapon all the way home.

Sam turned his attention to a typewritten heading at the bottom of the report: “Physical Evidence and Other Observations.”

“… Examination of the area immediately adjacent to the point of entry reveals microscopic evidence of sodium hydroxide (lye) and traces of monoglycerides and triglycerides of the type added to certain foodstuffs, such as cooking oils.”

Nick had virtually struck out with the D.A4’s staff. Even with Sam running interference over the telephone, the only information he was able to get was the fact that the police lab had isolated the lye compound found near the wound and determined it to be of a type commonly used in a variety of oven cleaners.

Had the killer used a dirty butcher knife or paring knife from Pat’s own kitchen? In the years since he’d met her he hadn’t known Pat to cook more than three times. After tasting her food he knew why. She was also 7

fastidious with her apartment. His dirty dishes in the sink had led to more arguments between the two of them than he cared to remember.

What troubled Bogardus was the fact that his contacts on the D.A4’s staff were being unusually closemouthed. They were intentionally withholding something.

But what was it?

Sam struggled with the key to his office door—

a tiny metal burr, he guessed. Carol had made a duplicate key for him since Sam hadn’t found his own set. They weren’t with his wallet or watch when he’d retrieved them from the hospital safe the day before.

The heat had been turned off for nearly a week and an icy chill pervaded the law office on the pier.

As he led Jennifer through the reception area, his gaze was repeatedly drawn to Pat’s closed office door. Bogardus was able to cope with the tangible reality of her death, but he had difficulty accepting the more mundane fact that her office was now just another vacant room. In the hospital, when the phone call came, his mind had allowed for the fact that she was dead. At the cemetery, standing beside the cold steel coffin—she was dead. But here in intimate surroundings his thoughts continually turned to merciful illusions. He felt he could open the door and she’d be there. As if by sheer force of will he could once again place her radiant face and soft brunette hair behind the desk in the familiar office.

“I would like to see that photograph of Raymond Slade.” Jennifer’s voice penetrated his melancholy.

“Why not?” She wanted to see the picture, and he wanted to know why it was so significant.

Sam walked to the cabinet of pending cases and looked under the letter D. The Davies file was gone. He thought for a moment, then remembered the letter to Jennifer he’d dictated the afternoon of the attack in his apartment. He went to Carol’s desk and rifled through the files awaiting typing. It wasn’t there either. He took a deep breath and walked toward Pat’s office. He opened the door and for several seconds he stared in stony silence. The room was illuminated only by a thin shaft of light passing through the aperture of the closed drapes. The bare walls had been denuded of the familiar plaques, 9

license certificates and framed prints. The desk and credenza were swept clean of all papers and files. In the corner three boxes, one with Pat’s desk blotter protruding from the top, awaited final packaging and shipping to her mother in Connecticut. The Boston fern that had thrived under Pat’s nurturing care was yellow and limp in the darkened room. The office was in perfect symmetry with the morose aura that enveloped his spirit.

He flipped the light switch and a floor lamp behind the desk flickered on. He checked the drawers to the desk and the small cabinet in the credenza. They were empty.

Sam turned off the light, closed the door and returned to his office. It wasn’t until he sank into the deep cushion of his desk chair that the enormity of it struck him.

“Where’s the picture?”

“I’m afraid the file is out of the office right now.”