12th of Never

Chapter 39

WE WERE SEATED at the polished stone conference table at Fenn & Tarbox. Brady, Conklin, and I sat along one side. Five lawyers and their thirteen-million-bucks-a-year client held down the swivel chairs across from us, the backs of their heads reflected in the floor-to-ceiling windows. Beyond the glass was a wide waterfront view of the Ferry Building and the Bay Bridge, sparkling against a dusky sky.

We’d been introduced to the senior partner, the silver-haired George Fenn, who now took his place at the head of the table. I forgot the names of his younger associates because I was riveted by their client, Jeffrey Kennedy, superstar linebacker for the San Francisco 49ers and also the former reputed fiancé of the late celebrity designer Faye Farmer.

Fenn was friendly, even affable, when he said, “I’ve heard a lot about you, Sergeant Boxer. All good. I’m glad you’re working this case.”

Maybe he was glad that I was working the case. Or maybe the big-time lawyer was working me so that we didn’t bring his client down to the Hall for questioning.

Jeff Kennedy was twiddling his BlackBerry, giving me a chance to look him over without being rude about it. I’d seen him on TV, of course, and from high up in the bleachers. I’d watched him wrestle down tailbacks with his 4.4 speed, sack quarterbacks as though they were rag dolls, then shake off goal-line pileups like a cocker spaniel after a bath.

But now I was getting the up-close-and-personal view of this human tank.

Kennedy was strikingly handsome, with a strong jawline, an off-center nose, gray eyes, and plenty of dark hair. He hadn’t shaved and his clothing was rumpled, as though he hadn’t cleaned up in a day or two. Even though the air-conditioning was blowing, Jeff Kennedy was sweating.

George Fenn said, “Just so you know, we’re taping this meeting. Standard procedure.”

Brady said, “Mr. Fenn, this isn’t a deposition. We just want Mr. Kennedy to tell us about Ms. Farmer.”

“Of course,” Fenn said. “But still, we always tape for the protection of our clients.”

Brady flipped his hand as if to say, “Fine,” and then asked Kennedy, “When did you last see Ms. Farmer?”

Brady was a first-class interrogator. It was going to be a pleasure to watch him question the man who was quite possibly the last person to see Faye Farmer alive.