I is for Innocent

14

I went back to the office, again parking my car in Lonnie's slot. As usual, I took the stairs two at a time all the way to the third floor and spent a moment leaning against the wall gasping while I recovered my breath. I let myself into the law office through the plain unmarked door halfway down the hall from the entrance. It was an exit we used as a shortcut to the bathrooms across the hall from us. Originally, the third floor consisted of six separate suites, but Kingman and Ives had gradually assimilated all the available space except for the rest rooms, located in the corridor so as to be accessible to the public.

I unlocked my door and checked for messages. Louise Mendelberg had called, wondering if there was any way I could get Morley's keys back to them that afternoon. Morley's brother was due in and they wanted to make his car available. Any time would be fine if it was not too much trouble.

I decided to get my desk organized and then Xerox the files I'd picked up at Morley's house so I could return them at the same time. I sat down and went through the mail, putting bills in one pile and junk in the wastebasket. I opened all the bills and did some quick mental arithmetic. Yes, I could pay them. No, I couldn't quit my job and retire on my savings, which were nil anyway. I peeked at the balance in my checkbook and paid a bill or two just for sport. Take that, Gas amp; Electric. Ha ha ha! Foiled again, Pacific Telephone.

I gathered up the stack of folders and went down to use the copier. It took me thirty minutes to Xerox all the data and reassemble the files. I put the originals back in the grocery bag Louise had given me for the purpose, set aside a box of files to review at home, and then removed my 35-millimeter camera from the bottom drawer and loaded it with a roll of color film. I hauled out the telephone book and looked up Tippy's father in the yellow pages under Painting Contractors. Chris White's company, Olympic Painting, was featured in a substantial quarter-page box ad that listed his name, company address, telephone number, license number, and the scope of his work: 'complete painting services, water blasting (we provide the water), custom colors and matching, fine wood finishing, wallpapering.' I jotted down all the information relevant to my purposes. After I dropped off the files, I was going to go find five or six white pickup trucks and take pictures. I had a quick chat with Ida Ruth and then went out by the same door I'd entered, hauling the grocery bag and a cardboard box.

The drive to Colgate was pleasant enough. The day was clear and chilly and I flipped on the VW's heater so that it would blow hot breath on my feet. I was beginning to give serious thought to the possibility that David Barney might be innocent. Up to this point, we'd all been operating on the assumption that he was the one who shot Isabelle. He was the obvious suspect, with the means, the motive, and the opportunity to have killed her, but murder is an aberrant deed, often born of passions distorted by obsessiveness and torment. Emotion doesn't travel in a straight line. Like water, our feelings trickle down through cracks and crevices, seeking out the little pockets of neediness and neglect, the hairline fractures in our character usually hidden from public view. Beware the dark pool at the bottom of our hearts. In its icy, black depths dwell strange and twisted creatures it is best not to disturb. With this investigation, I was once again uncomfortably aware that in probing into murky waters I was exposing myself to the predators lurking therein.

Morley Shine's driveway was empty, the red Ford rental car nowhere in evidence. The Mercury still sat on the grass in the side yard. I stood on the porch and studied the pattern of rust spots on the fender while I waited for someone to answer my knock. Two minutes passed. I knocked again, this time louder, fervently hoping that I wasn't rousing Dorothy Shine from her sickbed. After five minutes, it seemed safe to assume that no one was home. Maybe Louise had taken Dorothy to the doctor or the two had been required to put in an appearance at the funeral home to pick out a casket. Louise had told me they left the back door unlocked so I made my way around the side of the house, passing through the breezeway between the garage and house. The door to the utility room was not only unlocked, but slightly ajar. I rapped again at the glass and then waited the requisite few minutes in case someone was home. Idly, I surveyed the premises, feeling vaguely depressed. The property looked as though it was ready for the auction block. The backyard was neglected, the winter grass dry and frost-cropped. In the weedy flower beds that bordered the yard, last autumn's annuals were still planted in dispirited clumps. Once-sunny marigolds had turned brown, a garden of deadheads with leaves limp and withered. Morley probably hadn't sat out here with his wife for a year. I could see a built-in brick barbecue, the cook surface so rusty the rods on the grill nearly touched each other.

I pushed the door all the way open and let myself in. I wasn't sure why I was being so meticulous. Ordinarily, I'd have popped right in and had a look around, just because I'm nosy and the opportunity was presented. This time I really didn't have the heart to snoop. Morley was dead and what remained of his life should be safe from trespass. I left the grocery bag of files on the washing machine as instructed. The very air smelled medicinal, and from the depths of the house I could hear the ticking of a clock. I pulled the door shut behind me and returned to the street.

As I took out my car keys, I realized with a flash of irritation that I'd meant to leave Morley's keys in the bag with the files. I turned on my heel and retraced my steps at a half trot. As I passed the Mercury, I could feel my steps slow. Wonder what he has in the trunk, my bad angel said. Even my good angel didn't think it would hurt to look. I'd been given ready access to both his offices. I had his very keys in hand and in the interest of thoroughness it seemed only natural to check his vehicle. It was hardly trespassing when I had implied permission. By the time I reached that phase of my rationalization, I had popped open the trunk and was staring down in disappointment at the spare tire, the jack, and an empty Coors beer can that looked as if it had been rolling around in there for months.

I closed the trunk and moved around to the driver's side, where I unlocked the car and searched the interior, starting with the rear. The seats were covered in a dark green suede cloth that smelled of cigarette smoke and ancient hair oil. The scent conjured up a quick flash of Morley and a sharp jolt of regret. "God, Morley, help me out here," I said.

The floor in the back netted me a gas receipt and a bobby pin. I wasn't really sure what I was looking for… an invoice, a pack of matches, or a mileage log, anything to indicate where Morley had gone and what he'd done in the course of his investigation. I slid into the driver's seat and placed my hands on the steering wheel, feeling like a kid. Morley's legs were longer than mine and I could barely reach the brakes. Nothing in the map pockets. Nothing on the dashboard. I leaned over to my right to check the glove compartment, which I found crammed with junk. This was more my speed. Cleaning rags, a lady's hairbrush, more gas receipts (all local and none recent), a crescent wrench, a pack of Kleenex, a used windshield wiper blade, proof of insurance and registrations for the last seven years. I removed item after item, but nothing seemed pertinent to the case itself.

I returned everything to the glove compartment, tidying the contents in the process. I straightened up and put my hands on the steering wheel again, imagining I was Morley. Half the time when I search I don't find jackshit, but I never give up hope. I'm always thinking something's going to come to light if I just open the right drawer, stick my hand in the right coat pocket. I checked the ashtray, which was still full. He'd probably spent a lot of time in the Merc. In this business, where you're on the road a lot, your car becomes a traveling office, a surveillance vehicle, the observation post for a nightlong stakeout, even a temporary motel if your travel funds run short. The Mercury was perfect, aging and nondescript, the sort of vehicle you might note in your rearview without really seeing it. I checked the car above eye level.

On the sun visor, he'd attached a "leather-finish" vinyl utility valet with a mirror, a slot for sunglasses, and a pencil and blank memo pad that looked unused. The valet was attached to the visor by two flimsy metal clamps. I reached up and pulled the visor down. On the underside, Morley'd slipped a six-inch strip of paper under one of the clamps. It was the perfect place to tuck such things; "To Do" lists, receipts for cleaning, parking lot tickets. The strip had been torn from a perforated flap for one of the film envelopes used by a One-Hour Foto Mart in a Colgate shopping mall. The strip showed an order number, but no date, so it might have been up there for months. I slipped the paper in my pocket, got out of the car, and locked it up again. I completed the return trip to the utility porch, where I dropped the keys in the brown bag with the files I'd left.

I drove the five blocks to the mall. An Asian fellow, wearing rubber gloves, was visible through the plate glass window of the One-Hour Foto Mart, removing strips of film from the developer. Prints on a conveyor moved slowly down one side of the window and across the front. Fascinated, I paused, watching as a surprise fortieth birthday party progressed from cake and wrapped presents on a table to a crowd of grinning well-wishers looking smug and self-satisfied while the birthday boy in sweaty tennis togs pretended to be a good sport.

I was stalling, postponing the inevitable. I wanted the photo order to be pivotal. I wanted the pictures to relate to the investigation in some terribly meaningful and pithy way. I wanted to believe Morley Shine was as good a private eye as I'd always believed he was. Oh well. I pushed the door open and went in. Might as well get it over with. Chances were I'd be looking at a set of snapshots from his last vacation.

The interior of the shop smelled of acrid chemicals. The place was empty of customers and the young clerk who waited on me took no time at all coming up with the order. I paid $7.65 and he assured me that I'd be reimbursed for any prints I didn't like. I left the envelope sealed until I reached my car. I sat in the VW and rested the envelope on the steering wheel. Finally, I opened the top flap and slid the prints into the light.

I made a startled sound… not a real word, but something punctuated with an audible exclamation point.

There were twelve prints altogether, each marked at the bottom with last Friday's date. What I was looking at were six white pickup trucks, two views each, including one with a dark blue logo with five interlocking rings. The company was Olympic Painting Contractors; Chris White's name was printed underneath with a telephone number. Morley had been on the same track I was, but what did it mean?

I sorted back through the photographs. It looked as though he'd done exactly what I meant to do. He'd apparently visited various businesses and used-car lots around town and had taken pictures of six- and seven-year-old white pickups, some with logos, some without. In addition to Chris White's company truck, there was one utilized by a gardening firm and one used by a catering company with a camper shell on top. Clever touch. Because he'd incorporated a variety of trucks in the "lineup," it was possible that a more detailed recollection might be triggered from the one and only witness we had.

I stared out the car window, pondering the implications. If he'd talked to Regina Turner at the Gypsy Motel, she'd never mentioned it to me. Surely she'd have brought it up if she'd been queried twice about the same six-year-old fatal accident. But how else could he have known about the logo and color of the vehicle, if not from her? David Barney might have told him about the truck that nearly knocked him down. Morley might have thought to check old issues of the newspaper just as I had myself. Maybe he acquired a copy of the original police report on the hit-and-run and then decided to take the pictures with him when he interviewed the only witness. A description of the truck plus Regina's name and place of business would have been noted by the first officer on the scene. The problem was, I hadn't spotted the police report among the files I'd found, nor had I seen any photocopies of the newspapers to indicate that he was curious about other incidents on the night Isabelle was killed. When I'm working a case, I tend to take a lot of notes. If anything happened to me, the next investigator coming down the pike would know what I'd done and where I'd meant to go next. Clearly, Morley didn't work that way…

Or did he?

I'd always given him credit for being both smart and efficient. The guy who trained me in the business was a nut about details, and since he and Morley had been partners, I'd assumed it was an attitude they shared. I suspect that's why I was so dismayed when I finally saw Morley's offices. It was the chaotic state of his paperwork that made me question his professionalism. What if he wasn't as disorganized as he seemed?

A sudden image intruded.

When I was a kid, there was a novelty item that circulated through our elementary school. It was a fortune-telling device, a "crystal ball" that consisted of a sealed sphere with a little window, the whole of it filled with dark water in which a many-sided cube floated. The cube had various messages written on it. You would pose a question and then turn the ball upside down in your hand. When you righted it, the cube in the water would float to the surface with one of the printed messages uppermost. That would be the answer to your query.

In my gut, I could feel a message begin to rise to the surface. Something was off here, but what? I thought about what David Barney'd said when he'd suggested Morley's death was a shade too convenient. Was there something to that? It was a question I couldn't stop and pursue at the moment, but it had a disquieting energy attached to it. I set the notion aside, but I had a feeling it was going to stick to me with a certain burrlike tenacity.

At least with the pictures, Morley had saved me a step, and I was grateful for that. I took comfort from the fact that we were thinking along the same lines. I could go straight back to the Gypsy and show these to Regina.

"Well, that was quick," she said when she caught sight of me.

"I was lucky," I said. "I came across a batch of snapshots that should do the job."

"I'll be happy to take a look."

"I have one question first. Did you ever hear from an investigator named Morley Shine?"

Her face clouded briefly. "Nooo, I don't think so. Not that I recall. In fact, I'm sure not. I'm good with names-my return customers like to be remembered-and his is unusual. I'd know if I'd talked to him, especially about this. What's the connection?"

"He was working on a case until two days ago. He died Sunday evening of a heart attack, which is why I was called in. It looks like he saw a link between the same two incidents."

"What was the other one? When you were here earlier, you said a near miss of some sort."

"A white pickup truck bumped a guy at an exit off the southbound One-oh-one. This was about one forty-five. He claims he knew the driver, though he had no idea there'd been a hit-and-run earlier." I held out the envelope. "Morley Shine dropped these off to be developed. If he meant to talk to you, he was probably waiting until he picked up the prints for ID purposes." I placed the envelope on the counter.

She adjusted her glasses and removed the twelve snapshots. She studied them thoughtfully, giving each picture her undivided attention before she laid it on the counter, making a line of trucks, like a motorcade that marched across the blotter. I watched for a reaction, but when Tippy's father's truck crossed her line of vision, there was no alteration in her expression, no remark indicating surprise or recognition. She studied the six trucks with care and then put an index finger on the Olympic Painting pickup. She said, "This is the one."

"You're sure of that."

"Positive." She picked up the print and held it closer. "I never thought I'd see this again." She flashed me a look. "Maybe we'll finally see someone brought to justice after all these years. And wouldn't that be nice."

I had a brief image of Tippy. "Maybe so," I said. "Anyway, you'll hear from the police as soon as I talk with them."

"Is that where you're off to?"

I shook my head reluctantly. "I have something else to do first."

I made a quick call to Santa Teresa Shellfish, but Tippy'd traded shifts and wasn't going to be in that day. I left the motel and headed for Montebello, hoping I could catch Tippy at home… preferably without her mother hovering in the background. In essence, I'd put the woman on notice. Rhe knew something was up, though she probably didn't have a way to guess just how serious it was.

West Glen is one of the primary arteries through Montebello, a winding two-lane road lined with tall hedges and low stone walls. Morning glories spilled over the fence tops in a waterfall of blue. The gnarled branches of the live oaks were laced together overhead, the sycamores interplanted with eucalyptus and acacia trees. Thick patches of hot pink geraniums grew by the road like weeds.

The small stucco cottage that Rhe and Tippy occupied was a two-bedroom bungalow built close to the road. I squeezed my car in on the shoulder and walked up the path to the porch, where I rang the bell. Tippy appeared almost instantly, shrugging into her jacket, purse and car keys in hand. She was clearly on her way out. She stared at me blankly with her hand on the doorknob. "What are you doing here?"

"I have a couple more questions, if you don't mind," I said.

She hesitated, debating, then she checked her watch. Her expression denoted a little impromptu wrestling match-reluctance, annoyance, and good manners doing takedowns. "God, I don't know. I'm meeting this friend of mine in about twenty minutes. Could you, like, really make it quick?"

"Sure. Can I come in?"

She stepped back, not thrilled, but too polite to refuse. She was wearing jeans and high-heeled boots, a portion of a black leotard visible under her blue denim jacket. Her hair was down today and it trailed halfway down her back, strands still showing waves where the French braid had been undone. Her eyes were clear, her complexion faintly rosy. Somehow it made me feel bad that she looked so young.

I took in the cottage at a glance.

The interior consisted of a combination living room/dining room, tiny galley-size kitchen visible beyond. The walls were hung with original art, probably Rhe's handiwork. The floors were done in Mexican paving tiles. The couch was upholstered in hand-painted canvas, wide brushstrokes of sky blue, lavender, and taupe, with lavender-and-sky-blue pillows tossed carelessly along its length. The side chairs were inexpensive Mexican imports, caramel-colored leather in a barrel-shaped rattan frame. There was a wood-burning fireplace, big baskets filled with dried flowers, lots of copper pots hanging from a rack in the kitchen area. Dried herbs hung from the crossbeams. Through French doors, I could see a small courtyard outside with a pepper tree and lots of flowering plants in pots.

"Your mom here?"

"She went up to the market. She'll be back in a minute. What did you want? I'm really really in a hurry so I can't take too long."

I took a seat on the couch, a bit of a liberty as Tippy hadn't really offered. She chose one of the Mexican chairs and sat down without enthusiasm.

I handed her the pictures without explanation.

"What're these?"

"Take a look."

Frowning, she opened the envelope and pulled out the prints. She shuffled through with indifference until she came to the Olympic Paint truck. She looked up at me with alarm. "You went and took a picture of my dad's pickup?"

"Another investigator took those."

"What for?"

"Your father's truck was seen twice the night your aunt Isabelle was murdered. I guess the other P.I. meant to show the pictures to a witness for identification."

"Of what?" I thought a little note of dread had crept into her voice.

I kept my tone flat, as matter-of-fact as I could make it. "A hit-and-run accident in which an old man was killed. This was on upper State in South Rockingham."

She couldn't seem to formulate the next question, which should have been, Why tell me? She knew where I was headed.

I went on. "I thought we ought to talk about your whereabouts that night."

"I already told you I didn't go out."

"So you did," I said with a shrug. "So maybe your father was the one driving."

We locked eyes. I could see her calculate her chances of squirming out from under this one. Unless she fessed up to the fact that she was driving, she'd be pulling her father right into the line of fire.

"My dad wasn't driving."

"Were you?"

"No!"

"Who was?"

"How should I know? Maybe somebody stole the truck and went joyriding."

"Oh, come on, Tippy. Don't give me that. You were out in the truck and you fuckin' know you were so let's cut through the bull and get down to it."

"I was not!"

"Hey, face the facts. I feel for you, kiddo, but you're going to have to take responsibility for what you did."

She was silent, staring downward, her manner sullen and unresponsive. Finally she said, "I don't even know what you're talking about."

I nudged her verbally. "What's the story, were you drunk?"

"No."

"Your mom told me you'd had your license suspended. Did you take the truck without permission?"

"You can't prove any of this."

"Oh, really?"

"How are you going to prove it? That was six years ago."

"For starters, I have two eyewitnesses," I said. "One actually saw you pull away from the scene of the accident. The other witness saw you at the southbound off-ramp on San Vicente shortly afterward. You want to tell me what happened?"

Her gaze flickered away from mine and the color came up in her cheeks. "I want a lawyer."

"Why don't you tell me your side of it. I'd like to hear."

"I don't have to tell you anything," she said. "You can't make me say a word unless I have an attorney present. That's the law." She sat back in the chair and crossed her arms.

I smirked and rolled my eyes. "No, it's not. That's Miranda. The cops have to Mirandize you. I don't. I'm a private eye. I get to play by a different set of rules. Come on. Just tell me what happened. You'll feel better about it."

"Why would I tell you anything? I don't even like you."

"Let me take a guess. You were living at your dad's and he was out and these friends of yours called you up and just wanted to go out for a little while. So you borrowed the truck and picked them up and the three of you or the four of you, however many it was, were just messing around, drinking a couple of six-packs down at the beach. Suddenly it was midnight and you realized you better get home before your father did so you quick took everybody home. You were barreling home yourself when you hit the guy. You took off in a panic because you knew you'd be in big trouble if you got caught. How's that sound? Close enough to suit?"

Her face was still stony, but I could see that she was fighting back tears, working hard to keep her lips from trembling.

"Did anybody ever tell you about the fellow you hit? His name was Noah McKell. He was ninety-two years old and he'd been staying at that convalescent hospital up the street. He had the wanderlust, I guess. His son told me he was probably trying to get home. Isn't that pathetic? Poor old guy used to live in San Francisco. He thought he was still up there and he was worried about his cat. I guess he forgot the cat had been dead for years. He was heading for home to feed it, only he never got there."

She put a finger to her lips as if to seal them. The tears began. "I've tried to be good. I really have. I'm AA and everything and I cleaned up my act."

"Sure you did and that's great. But your gut must send you little messages, doesn't it? Eventually, you'll get back into booze just to silence that voice."

Her voice shifted up into the squeaky range. "God, I'm sorry. I really am. I'm so sorry. It was an accident. I didn't mean to do it." She hugged herself, bending over, the sobs as noisy as those of a child, which is what she was. I watched with compassion, but made no move to comfort her. It wasn't up to me to make life easier. Let her experience remorse, all the grief and guilt. I didn't know that she'd ever let herself assimilate the full impact of what she'd done. The tears came in uncontrollable waves, great gut-wrenching sobs that seemed to shake her from head to toe. She sounded more like a howling beast than a young girl filled with shame. I let it happen, almost unable to look at her until the pain subsided some. Finally, the storm passed like a fit of helpless laughter that peters out at long last. She groped in her purse and pulled out a wad of tissues, using one to mop her eyes and blow her nose. "God." She clutched the fistful of tissues against her mouth for a moment. She nearly lost it again, but she collected herself. "I haven't had a drop of alcohol since the night it happened. That's been hard." She was feeling sorry for herself, maybe hoping to stimulate pity or compassion or amnesty.

"I'll bet it has," I said, "and I applaud that. You've done a lot of hard work. Now it's time to tell the truth. You can't skip over that and expect recovery to work."

"You don't have to lecture me."

"Apparently I do. You've had six years to think about this, Tootsie, and you haven't done the right thing yet. I'll tell you this: It's going to look a lot better if you walk into the police station of your own accord. I know you didn't mean to do it. I'm sure you were horrified, but the truth is the truth. I'll give you some time to think, but by Friday I intend to have a conversation with the cops. You'd be smart to get your butt in there and talk to them before I do."

I got up and slung my big leather bag across my shoulder. She made no move to follow. When I reached the front door, I looked back at her. "One more thing and then I'll leave you to your conscience. Did you see David Barney that night?"

She sighed. "Yes."

"You want to expand on that?"

"I nearly ran into him coming off the freeway. I heard this thump, and when I looked out the window, he was staring right at me."

"You do understand you could have cleared him years ago if you'd admitted that." I didn't wait for her response. She was beginning to sound martyred about the whole business and I didn't want to deal with that.