“You were amazing,” I say. “Almost like you’ve been practicing.”
“Andy…” is how she admonishes me for prying. Then, “I’ve been doing some thinking. I’m the one who left… and now you’re here to do me a favor. I’ve got to be careful not to take advantage of the situation.”
“So… ,” I prompt.
“So I want you to take the lead, okay? You decide where this goes and how long it goes there.”
I understand what she’s saying, but taking the lead in a romantic relationship runs counter to my normal style. “That’s fair, but I don’t know yet which way I want it to go,” I say in a rare burst of honesty. “I’m not going to be here forever, and I found out that I wasn’t crazy about being dumped.”
She nods her understanding. “I know that. I wasn’t wild about doing it. It was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do.”
I notice something in the cabinet. “Pistachio nuts. You got me pistachio nuts.” Pistachios are among my favorite things in life, and if there were a professional pistachio speed-eating league, I’d be an even richer man today.
She smiles. “And tangerines. And cut-up honeydew melon. And potato chips. And”-she does a little drumroll on the table with her hands-“Raisinets.”
We kiss again, more romantically this time, but it doesn’t lead to sex. I guess since I’ve just been appointed the leader, it’s my fault that it doesn’t. That’s something I’ll have to get used to.
Instead we talk about the case, and I ask her if she has any recommendations for private investigators I can call on. She says that this area is not exactly a hotbed of investigative talent but that she’ll come up with some names.
“By the way,” I ask, “do you think the Davidson farm is worth a quarter of a million dollars?”
She laughs. “Only if they found oil on it.”
This confirms my worst financial fears. Richard Davidson barely has enough money to hire a public defender, but he was not about to let that stand in the way of doing the best he can for his son. He probably decided he’d just have to figure it out as he goes along.
“Anything new in the investigation?” I ask. “You find out who firebombed my client’s house?”
She hesitates. “That’s really something I can’t share with you. You need to go through channels.”
I understand what she’s saying and regret forcing her to say it. I’m going to be seeking a great deal of information in the normal course of pretrial discovery, and I will have to get it from the prosecution, not the police.
“Sorry. I guess I’ll just have to start torturing Lester Chapman.”
She smiles. “I’m sure he’s expecting nothing less. By the way, Andy, don’t underestimate him. He’s actually very good.”
I return the smile. “So am I, babe. So am I.”
• • • • •
CALVIN WANTS TO use my house as our base of operations. It’s fine with me, since this way I’ll spend more time with Tara, but I had just assumed we’d use his office. “Why?” I ask him.
“Because you’ve got a refrigerator, and I’ll shame you into keeping it stocked with beer.”
“What kind do you like?”
“The kind that says ‘beer’ on the label.”
I go out to fulfill Calvin’s request, a rather easy task in this area. In addition to the national beers, there is an entire wall of beers I’ve never heard of, which are brewed locally. I let the clerk advise me on three of the best, and I buy enough to stock the entire upper shelf of the refrigerator.
A few minutes after I get home, Calvin arrives. He opens the refrigerator and nods approvingly at my efforts. He takes a beer out, opens it, and then finds a comfortable spot on the couch in the den on which to enjoy it. “Okay, let’s talk about our case,” he says.
“First we need to talk about your fee,” I say.
He holds up the bottle. “I’m drinking it.”
“Richard Davidson wants to mortgage his farm,” I say.
He laughs. “Yeah, right.” Then, “I thought you were already rich.”
“I am.”
He smiles and holds up the bottle again, showing it to me. “Me too. So let’s talk about the case.”
Since we’re only starting to receive discovery material, we don’t have many facts to go on, yet some potential investigative tracks are quite clear. First of all, we need to look into the lives of the victims, Elizabeth Barlow and Sheryl Hendricks. They were murdered by someone, that much we know, and we have to operate on the assumption that the killer is not our client. Therefore, by knowing who these young women were, and who they knew, we could hit upon the real killer. Or at least some potential killers that we can point to.
At this point we can’t even be sure that Elizabeth, Jeremy’s girlfriend, was the primary, intended victim. The prevailing view is that she was, and that Sheryl was an unfortunate bystander, caught in the carnage. That view is held because Jeremy is the presumed killer, but if he is not, then it could be that Elizabeth was the person in the wrong place at the wrong time. Working against this hypothesis, but not destroying it, is that the bodies turned up on the Davidson property.
We also need to learn much more about the Centurion religion and its possible role in this case. These people appear to be at the very least zealous, and possibly fanatical, in their beliefs. Such strongly held passions can often fit neatly into murder cases, and we must find out if they do in this case as well. Unfortunately, the very eccentricities that have sealed them in their own world will make penetrating that world very, very difficult.
The two most logical places to start are the university that Jeremy and the victims attended, and their hometown, Center City. Calvin volunteers to check out the school, leaving me with Center City. Of the two, it would have been my second choice, but I don’t argue the point.
I tell Calvin that I’m annoyed with the lack of speed at which the prosecutor is providing us discovery material.
“I told you,” he says, “Lester is an asshole.”
We talk for a while longer, mostly to divvy up the assignments so we don’t duplicate each other’s work. We have little manpower and less time, so it’s important we operate efficiently.
Once we convince ourselves we have our act together, Calvin suggests we go over to the diner to get something to eat. Just before we leave, we get a phone call from the court clerk, informing us that Judge Morrison has scheduled a nine o’clock hearing tomorrow to discuss pretrial matters. It will be conducted informally, in his chambers.
On the way to the diner Calvin says, “Since we’re buddies now, you want to tell me how Laurie fits into all this?”
I nod. “Back in New Jersey we were a couple. We talked about getting married, but then she moved back here.”
“And now?”
“And now I don’t have the slightest idea where it’s going.”
“You can do a hell of a lot worse,” he says. “Hell, I’ve spent my whole life doing a hell of a lot worse.”
“You ever been married?” I ask.
He nods. “Three times. Each one a bigger disaster than the one before it.” Then, “How do you want to handle things with Laurie when it comes to the case?”
I shrug. “She’s a cop. She’s the investigating officer… the arresting officer. That’s how she deals with us; that’s how we deal with her.”
“That’ll work for you?” he asks, his skepticism evident.