Expert Witness (16 page)

“So, what do you want to tell me?” Mrs. Manning said.

“Other than Mr. Dreyfus doesn’t know how to teach history?” Hannah responded.

“How about why Ms. Bates missed her appointment with me yesterday?”

Hannah’s eyes flickered behind long lashes, but Mrs. Manning, for all her attentiveness, missed it. 

“She’s sick. I’m sorry. I forgot to tell you,” Hannah lied easily, another talent she learned from her mother. Hannah, though, used the gift sparingly and only when absolutely necessary. Sadly, it was necessary now and she regretted it. Mrs. Manning was one of the few people Hannah trusted.

“I see.” The principal clasped her hands and leaned forward. She was an attractive lady:  petite, pretty, stylish, and no dummy. Hannah’s gaze skated over the pictures that covered the woman’s credenza: a husband, two children, and a pug dog named Homer who seemed as much a part of the family as any of the humans. It was all so normal. Hannah would kill for normal. Hannah would kill to get out of this office fast. Hannah would kill for. . .

“Hannah!”

The girl started, her green eyes turned back and met Mrs. Manning’s dark ones. Her lips opened. All she had to do was say the word and this woman would. . . Hannah had no idea what this woman would do if she knew Josie was missing.

“If there is a problem,” Mrs. Manning went on kindly, “I’m here to help. If you’re having trouble with Ms. Bates we have counselors to help you work it out. I know your situation is an unusual one and we are. . .”

“No,” Hannah interrupted. “No trouble with Josie. Everything is good. She just forgot because she’s got this big case.”

“I thought she was sick.”

Mrs. Manning picked up a pencil and ran it through her fingers. Mesmerized by the action, Hannah mentally tapped a finger to keep time with the pencil’s journey. It turned once, twice, four times. Eight. . .

Hannah’s jaw clenched when Mrs. Manning stopped at nine passes. The girl desperately wanted her to turn that pencil upside down twenty times. Since the magic number wasn’t meant to be, Hannah forced herself to pay attention.

“I’m sorry. She has a cold and this case. Even Josie can’t do everything,” Hannah answered smoothly.

“I see.” Tish Manning sat back, paused and finally drew a black, plastic bound calendar toward her.

“I’m open Friday at noon or,” she licked the tip of her fingers and flipped the page, “Next Tuesday. Three o’clock. Do you want to call Ms. Bates now and find out what’s good for her?”

Hannah shook her head. “Tuesday at three will be good.”

“Alright. I’ll put her in. Don’t forget to tell her.” Mrs. Manning jotted the note, closed the calendar and smiled. “Thank you, Hannah.”

The girl nodded, got up and slung the big bag over her shoulder. She turned toward the door.  Nothing in her demeanor reflected her feeling of both relief at dodging a bullet and concern that Josie may not be able to keep the appointment. But before she could get out the door, Mrs. Manning called to her.

“Hannah?”

“Yes?”

“Cut Mr. Dreyfus some slack, okay?”

She nodded and left the principal’s office. In the hall, Hannah checked her watch as she hurried toward an empty room.  Ducking in, she dialed the code for the home answering machine. No messages. She dialed Josie’s phone as she had done almost every hour and, once again, got Josie’s message.

“Where are you?” Hannah whispered desperately. “ Please call me.”

She hung up quickly, hoping Josie’s battery wouldn’t run out before she could return the call. She hoped Archer could connect with the phone company and track that phone.  She was dialing Archer just as the bell rang. There was nothing she could do but go to her next class. The last thing Hannah wanted to do was draw any more attention to herself at school.  Mrs. Manning was satisfied and she would have to be, too, at least for the next forty-five minutes.

With fifteen hundred students to worry about, Tish Manning seldom wasted time wondering if she should act when one was particularly bothersome. She wasted none now as she picked up the phone.

“Gracie? I hate to bother you, but I need a favor.” Tish listened to the admonition that Gracie, one of four school counselors, was not bothered by the interruption and would be happy to do a favor for the principal anytime. Anytime at all. When Gracie’s assurances had run their course, Tish said, “Pull Hannah Sheraton’s file? Yes. Soon as you can.”

Christian Broadcast Complex, Orange County

Archer was at the church before the doors opened. Technically, he wasn’t really at a church. Rather, he was at the digs of Reverend Isaiah Wilson. The preacher’s show was broadcast from the Christian Broadcast Complex in Orange County.  Archer had seen the place in a long shot during a newscast when a whistleblower outed Three Crosses, a televangelist network run by a guy who liked white polyester suits and his wife who sported big wigs, fake eyelashes and crocodile tears.  He and Josie had watched the report. Archer couldn’t understand how people could fall for that crap; Josie understood the need to clutch at straws – even ones as short as those offered by Three Crosses. The performances were as mesmerizing, curious and compelling as was the downfall of the preacher and his wife.

Archer had never seen Isaiah Wilson’s shtick, but as he parked the Hummer and checked the clock he held out no hope that Wilson was any different than the Three Crosses folk. While he waited for the place to open, he dialed Liz who filled him in on the progress with the Jeep. Archer was relieved that Liz wasn’t just on board, now she was ready to row. Getting out of the car, he locked it despite the fact that he had parked on hallowed ground.  There were a few cars in the lot including a buttercup yellow Rolls Royce. The license plate read IBELEV.

“I just bet you do,” Archer muttered as he passed it on his way toward the studios.

The outside of the complex was impressive, sort of a mix of Persian palace and Malibu mansion. It was all white save for the giant gold cross on the ornate turret at one end and little gold crosses running the perimeter of a deck on the other. Archer could make out umbrellas on the deck and they were topped with finials in the shape of baby gold crosses. Behind the main building was a huge, white inflatable revival tent. The parking lot was large enough to accommodate any and all who flocked to the Word. A wrought iron fence held up a golden gate, and that led to a golden path, and that led to a golden door. The gate and the door were still emblazoned with the three crosses logo.

The gardens through which Archer passed were beautifully tended: flowers and trailing plants and topiary shaped to look like saints and lambs and more crosses. Despite the fact that two freeways intersected close by, that a major shopping center wasn’t more than spitting distance, and there was a very, very busy street running just behind, the place was silent and peaceful and comforting. Archer shook his head. He didn’t want to be peaceful or comforted. He wanted some answers. 

He pulled on the huge gold plate handle on the door. It swung open on well-oiled hinge, and Archer stepped into the rarified air of Three Crosses studio. The garden had been serene, but inside was downright heavenly. Directly in front of him was a mini sweep of a grand staircase that led to a golden throne. The throne was bathed in a silvery light that danced, not with dust motes, but something that looked like glitter. Archer raised his eyes, trying to figure out where the light source was, but he couldn’t identify it. Beneath his feet was white marble shot with pink veins. His ears filled with celestial music. He smelled apple pie baking.

His soft-soled shoes made no sound, and he didn’t call for anyone. He wasn’t a believer, a sinner or a mendicant. He was on a mission, and from what he could tell today Isaiah Wilson would be filming. All Archer had to do was find him before he started.

“Can I help you?”

Archer turned smoothly and found himself face to face with a lovely girl/woman. Her eyes sparkled and her skin was polished to a luster. Her hair was caught up in two barrettes in front and hung down to her rear end in back.  At least Archer imagined it hung to her rear end, but it was hard to tell where that would be since she was encased in a sack of a floral dress. A plain white Peter Pan collar circled her neck, and turned up white cuffs finished off the long sleeves. The sleeves were puffed at the shoulder, but there were no seams, no decorative stitching, and no tailoring that gave a hint of the body underneath. The fabric fell to mid-calf and her legs were covered in white stockings. Her feet were nestled in the most sensible shoes Archer had ever seen. His first thought was of the Amish; his second was that the Amish were more fashion forward.

“I’m here to see Isaiah Wilson.”

“Oh, I didn’t know he had an appointment.” Her eyes widened as if she was ready to confess to a sin she didn’t know she had committed.

“I didn’t call ahead,” Archer informed her. “I wanted to catch him before he started filming.”

“The reverend is in contemplation before the show. Perhaps, I could give him a message.”

The girl in the floral dress smiled beautifully and made a mistake. She leaned toward the hallway behind her, taking one step as if to block Archer even as she spoke of Isaiah. Archer smiled back and patted at the pockets in his windbreaker.

“That would be great. I don’t have a pen or paper. Do you think you could find me something to write with?”

“Oh, certainly.”

She brightened. Service was her middle name. She turned and left in a flurry of long hair and flowered cotton. Archer seized the moment and went down the hall.

CHAPTER TWENTY:

An Outbuilding in the California Mountains

Josie sat in the corner of the hut, her eyes trained on the missing brick high up in the wall. She had been awake since dawn, not that she had slept that much anyway. The adrenaline rush when she realized someone was inside the hut had been impossible to shake. Her joy at believing they were saved turned to revulsion when she realized she was grappling with their jailer.

She had thrown herself at him and tried to subdue him, but she was weary. Heat and thirst and hunger had taken their toll and she hadn’t been able to change their situation.  Yet, even now, Josie remained energized by the confrontation and by the fact that her hands, while still bound, were no longer tied to the stake.

Erika had slept through it all and continued to sleep as Josie worked to free her, too. Finally, she slid that rope off the stake, rolled Erika Gardener onto her side, adjusted her arms, and arranged her in a position that seemed as if it would be comfortable. She smoothed the woman’s hair away from her face, touched her cheek, and, as the light dawned, Josie picked up Erika’s water bottle and did what she had to do.

Finally exhausted, Josie settled down with her back to Erika and drifted off to sleep. When she woke the oblong spot of light was in her eyes and Erika was stirring.

“Morning,” Josie said.

 “I have to pee,” Erika mumbled as she rolled over.

“Bathroom’s at the end of the hall,” Josie said as she smiled and held up her still-bound wrists.

Erika’s eyes widened then lowered so that she was looking at her own hands. That’s when Erika Gardener began to laugh and so did Josie Bates.

Downtown Los Angeles, Parole Office

Liz Driscoll had been a shitty little kid. She was the only child of an insecure, single mom who slept in her make-up just in case the house caught on fire and she had to run into the waiting arms of some burly, handsome firefighter. Her mother fantasized that she would meet the man of her dreams in the middle of a disaster.  Liz thought that didn’t sound like much fun, and as she grew up Liz knew that fantasy was downright weird. She didn’t dislike her mother; Liz simply didn’t feel comfortable with her. That was all good because her mother never felt comfortable with the swaggering tomboy she had birthed either.

There seemed to be nothing in Liz’s mother’s background that would account for her Perils of Pauline attitude, and there was nothing in Liz’s life that accounted for her mannerisms. To her mother’s credit, she recognized that fact early on. There were no attempts to dress her up in girl clothes as a child, no lamenting when Liz didn’t agonize over boys in high school, and no fight when Liz struck out on her own. Her mother now lived in Chicago and they saw each other twice a year. Neither of them felt a need for more contact, and it finally occurred to them that they were more alike than they were different. They did better knowing they had each other’s back than actually having it.

So it was not out of character for Liz Driscoll to be stepping a wee bit over the line without giving too much thought to what her captain would say to her field trip. She wasn’t really disobeying orders; she was kind of interpreting them a little more broadly than might have been intended. Hagarty had agreed to have Josie Bates’ car checked for evidence, and he had been clear that he wouldn’t pay for anything else. But Liz’s time wasn’t exactly an out-of-pocket expense. She was on the payroll no matter what she was doing or where she was doing it.