Reilly 13 - Dreams of the Dead (10 page)

“What novel?”

“You know. All about a small-town law office?”

The waiter brought their order. Nina speared a shrimp, dunked it in cocktail sauce, ate it, and said, “So that’s what she’s been coming in early to work on. She said she had a project.”

“She has a project all right. She’s gonna pull a Proust on you.”

Across the restaurant, Nina could just make out Sandy’s cowboy hat. “But—she never wrote any fiction before, as far as I know.”

“Even Hemingway had to start someplace.”

Nina put this latest strangeness aside as a puzzle to be dealt with later. “Until Sandy gets back, let’s talk about why you’re here.”

“Fill me in.”

“I’ve told you most of what I know. I’m sorry I didn’t call you before I told Philip Strong I’d take his case. He had a hearing coming up fast and he needed help. The sale is in trouble because of this Brazilian thing, and—”

“You have a conflict of interest, don’t you? Maybe not a legal one, but there’s definite conflict between my interests, our interests you might even say, and the resort.” Paul gave her a knitted-eyebrow look that she couldn’t interpret, then went back to nibbling shrimp.

“If he’s alive, Jim’s actively engaged in ruining his family. If he’s dead, he’s causing harm, too. But here’s the problem. He can’t be alive, can he, Paul? Because you told me he would never threaten us again, and you told Bob you took out the garbage. Bob told Sandy.”

They both searched out Sandy’s cowboy hat with their eyes this time. She was listening to the earnest speech of another woman. She noticed them looking across the crowd and gave a nod. Nina noticed what a handsome nose she had. Some noses can handle cowboy hats; Nina’s nose couldn’t.

“So I indulged in poetic license, honey,” Paul said. “The bit about the garbage pieces. Bob needed reassuring. Tell me it’s okay to stretch the truth with a kid who’s having nightmares.”

She nodded.

“As for Sandy? She can handle the truth. Jim Strong was garbage, garbage who killed a man you loved and went looking to kill you—that’s the truth.”

Nina sipped her ice water, admiring his chin, his clear hazel eyes, his square shoulders. “Where is this garbage, Paul?”

He put his fork down.

“I need to know now.”

“Puts me in a hard place. I wish the evil had been interred with his bones,” Paul said. “Who imagined Jim would turn up again, a vengeful ghost?”

“I wouldn’t demand to know something unless it was necessary.”

Paul watched a couple, smiling, toast each other with red wine at a table near the door. “I can see our future, and it’s not so pretty.” Paul had small laugh lines around his mouth and eyes that at the moment looked more like deep, dark pits. “San Quentin has no indoor pool, I hear, no gym, and a bunch of fellows I’d rather not know better.” He fell silent, then said, “I’d do it again. I fought to save your lives, damn it!”

“My life and Bob’s.” She waited but he didn’t respond. “Now tell me what happened that night.”

*   *   *

P
aul gave himself enough time to imagine himself in prison. He had visited San Quentin, seen the Northern California oaks and eucalyptus trees leading the way, deceptively alluring, sweet-smelling. Then you got to the prison, and the protocol leading up to a simple visit—well, it stopped just short of an anal search. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

He had also visited Alcatraz when he was a kid growing up in the city. He recalled the clank of the cells when the doors shut, and although nobody lived there anymore, he had no trouble imagining the misery and noise of its inmates, the smells, the hopelessness.

In prison, he would hate his fellow criminals and they would hate him more. His life, with the charms of jogging on the beach, loving a woman in the mountains, feeling the sun, thrilling with the power of his car’s engine—all that would end in such ugliness.

All this because he had killed a man who needed to die. Relying on the law in this case was not an option. The man would have lived on, evading the law as he had always done, protected by an enabling family, a lifelong threat to Nina and Bob.

So here in Paul’s heart, Jim Strong remained alive even in death, a ghost, haunting. He wanted to unburden himself, confess, but he found it hard to trust his instincts in this case. What was right? Killing Jim? Burying him? Confessing? Going to prison for killing a malignant killer?

Paul did not often think of himself in moral terms, but right now, he saw no other option but truth, whatever the cost.

“I hope you know what you’re doing, Nina. Taking on knowledge like this is a burden. I’m afraid it may hurt you.”

“I’ve accepted that.”

“Do you consider this information protected by the attorney-client privilege?”

She hesitated.

“I told you there was a conflict. You may need or want to pass
this on to Philip Strong sometime. But I want to retain control over the information.”

“I—”

“So right now I’m going to tell you a story I heard about a guy who took out a murderer who tried to kill his own lawyer.

“This guy followed the murderer to your, I mean
her
, house. He watched the murderer break the lock on her door. She was inside asleep. The men struggled. The murderer had a knife, a long, deadly Bowie knife. He had killed her husband and his own wife. He was almost in.”

Nina looked down, recalling the snowy night. Bob had not been home. She, alone, had felt afraid but brushed off her fear. Foolish. Outside, a killer crept. If it hadn’t been for Paul—

“This guy jumped the murderer and there was a hell of a struggle. One of the strangest fights ever. They were both quiet to keep you out of it. He was quiet so that he wouldn’t alert you. He was in good shape, Nina, younger than the guy and tough. The guy didn’t murder him. The murderer was trying very earnestly to kill the guy. They fought a fair fight and the good guy won. The guy put him down. He took the body of the murderer away and buried it in the mountains.”

Paul finished without emotion. He rubbed his palms together. “He never meant to kill, but he’d never allow someone to hurt you, Nina.”

“And he didn’t.” She put her hand on his arm. “I’m right here, right now, thanks to you.”

“But now I have to ask you for something. Can you help the Strong family, what’s left of it, by proving Jim’s dead without involving either of us? Without getting me put away for the rest of my natural born days?”

“I wish I could promise. I’m not sure.”

The waiter returned. Paul asked for a pint of Hefeweizen.

“As a minimum,” Nina said, “we have this obligation: we have to make it possible to push the Paradise sale through. That should
be the goal. At least that way the family is not ruined and publicly disgraced. They won’t go bankrupt.”

“It would be nice to find the money Jim stole from the resort.”

“It’s gone by now. Spent. It has been a couple of years. Life’s expensive. No. Wait. He’s dead. I’m confused, Paul.”

“How much money do you think Jim stole?”

“Over a million dollars, including smaller thefts over a period of time, and the big theft right before he—”

“A lot, then.” Paul leaned back, drank some beer.

“The embezzlement started a cascade of financial problems that leads straight to this sale.”

“I get it. I do. I wouldn’t necessarily be feeling all that helpful,” Paul said, “but I’m reeling from reading this affidavit. Someone has big ideas. They want some of the sale proceeds. But how could anybody lay hands on Jim Strong’s share?”

“I don’t know. The situation is starting to shape itself. There are several different moves ahead, but I just set up the ongoing game on the board and haven’t got a real picture as to where the pieces go yet.”

“I need to spend some time up here. Such a quaint little mountain town it is, too.”

“About that night, Paul.”

“That dark, bloody night.”

“I took photos of the scratches on my doorknob a few days afterward. I wish you’d pounded on the door and come in and called the police.”

“I never wanted to involve you.” He spoke hoarsely, head down. He meant this.

Nina put her forehead to Paul’s and said softly, “He’s dead? You’re positive?”

“Positive.” Paul watched as Sandy’s ample denim-clad hips swayed their way. “Cue our conscience.”

“Did I pretend to be having fun elsewhere for long enough?” Sandy asked. “Figured you had catching up to do.” She sat down
next to Paul. She liked him and sometimes showed it by suddenly slapping him on the back or chucking him on the chin. The ice had melted in her iced tea. They had polished off the shrimp.

“Salud,”
Nina said, tapping Paul’s beer and Sandy’s tea with her water glass. Glug glug.

“Is Wish doing his job down there in ol’ Carmel?” Sandy asked.

“He’s fine. I think he has a girlfriend,” Paul said. “He answers his phone, turns red, goes into the storeroom, and shuts the door. Then I hear the whispers.”

“Glory be,” Sandy said. “I hope she can cook. I’ll call him tonight.” Wish hadn’t lived at home for several years, but Sandy still concerned herself actively with her son’s love life. “So are you gonna get involved with this new case?”

“Have to,” Paul said.

“True,” Sandy said. “No choice there.”

Paul looked at her. Sandy squeezed lemon into her tea as if nothing mattered but the lemon, the tea, as if the world moved in stately sequence and untoward emotions never occurred.

Paul looked at Nina. She gave a slight nod.

“Sandy?” he said. “I apologize. I’ve made some missteps that hurt Nina and you.”

“I’m well aware,” Sandy said.

Their lunch arrived.

“I screwed up,” Paul said. “I should have knocked on Nina’s door that night and gotten you and the police involved.”

“True,” Sandy said. “Who’d you think you were? This is America.”

Paul cleared his throat. “Sorry.”

“Apology accepted,” Sandy said.

T
hey talked about Paul’s kayak trip, where he had almost been overturned by dolphins gamboling all along the Pacific shores that year. The dolphins came at Christmas. Nina thought it amazing that dolphins took a regular route down to Mexico for Christmas,
not a whole lot different from seniors taking their winter vacations. “You grew up on the Monterey Peninsula,” Paul said to Nina. “Don’t you miss the ocean?”

“I used to think I wouldn’t be able to stand it, but it turned out for me that Lake Tahoe had the same effect, you know? It’s a huge body of water, alive like the ocean.”

“So you don’t miss Pacific Grove?”

“I sure don’t miss the fog.”

“Well, Pacific Grove misses you, honey,” Paul said, and both Nina and Sandy laughed.

After coffee, Nina got back to the case.

“There’s a hearing tomorrow regarding the sale of Paradise Ski Resort, and the lawyer who has been handling all of it, Lynda Eckhardt, needs me there. It’s possible Judge Flaherty will insist on proof of Jim Strong’s death or signed permission before he allows the sale at all. That’s the worst possible result, and I can’t believe he’d do that, even with this new claim that he’s alive.”

“Can’t he be presumed dead? It’s been two years,” Paul said.

“Probate Code section 12401 says the person has to have been missing for five years in almost all cases,” Nina said.

“Wow, long time for the family to wait for their money.”

“That’s right. And even worse . . .” Nina explained that the judge was likely to put the full $2.5 million net after the sale into escrow, not charging Jim’s gross share with a proportionate share of the debts, since Jim had not consented to having that share taken out.

“What does that mean in terms of what the family gets right now, then? If that amount goes into escrow?”

“They get zilch. All the other money will go toward the debts, and these net proceeds will all be tied up in an escrow for the indefinite future.”

“Especially since Jim’ll never show up to take possession of it and work out a settlement with his family. Any idea who might be involved in this affidavit?” Paul asked. “It’s a forgery, and according to you, a credible one.”

“I have thought about it.” And so she had, with Jim’s face glaring at her from underneath her eyelids at three in the morning. “Michael Stamp and his firm are representing Jim Strong. They’ve been retained through the Brazilian attorney. Mike is smart and articulate. He’s got plenty of international business. He might have a deal going with a Brazilian lawyer. Maybe he’s got a brother down there desperate for money? Maybe he’s run into problems with his stocks being worth nothing, and he’s close to retirement age? Maybe he promised his wife five carats for her fortieth?”

“I like the greedy-trophy-wife angle. Always blame her if you can. Yeah, sure, maybe it is Stamp. That’s a good first guess, anyway.”

Nina smiled at him, knowing he was working hard to be his usual carefree self, when he appeared far from it. “Hard to know what will push someone over the edge. You might spend your whole life honorable, and then blow it all because you didn’t get what you thought you deserved in the end, and you see all of your hard work turning into nothing.”

“We have a forged affidavit and a possibly compromised attorney so far. Got anything else?”

“Philip’s daughter-in-law, Marianne, has some sort of connection with Brazil. She always said she wanted to run the resort, along with her half brother, Gene. Maybe this is a twisted way of taking control of it.”

“How do you mean?”

Nina shook her head. “I’m not sure. But they don’t get along, any of them. Then there’s Kelly, his daughter. Remember her?”

“The law student, right?”

“She has changed so much, Paul, you wouldn’t recognize her. I don’t know. Something off there. She’s hiding something. Maybe she’s hiding a lot of things.”

“I bet the scammers figured they had a crack at getting the money sent down to Brazil, getting hold of it down there. Lynda Eckhardt—she wasn’t exactly putting up a fight, right?”

“It’s risky, Paul. How could they know Jim wouldn’t hear about
it on Twitter or something and make another claim himself? They don’t know for sure he’s dead.”