Part 6 (2/2)

He stood up. ”You mind if I take that tape along with me?”

Frank shook his head. One of the reasons he liked dealing with Milton Hoggarth was that Milt knew when to stop. An underling would have pestered Frank about why Hilde had consulted a criminal lawyer, but Milt knew better. And now, although Milt had asked for the tape politely enough, Frank knew he did not intend to leave without it, and that was okay. Doing his job. He removed the tape from the machine and handed it over. Milt put it in a plastic bag, labeled it, and stowed it away in his pocket.

The cats escorted them to the door; looking at them, Milt shook his head. ”I still say their mama got led astray by a mountain lion. Thanks, Frank. We'll be in touch.”

Frank wandered aimlessly through his house, then out to the back porch, where he sat facing the garden, seeing Hilde in his mind, hearing again her words spoken so lightly: ”It's not a tragedy. It could take ten or fifteen years off your life, but maybe not. You just learn to live with it, the way people with pacemakers learn to keep away from microwave ovens. I am careful with medications....”

If only he had reached the telephone a few seconds sooner. What had been on her mind? She could have decided to tell him the name of her lover. Or remembered something she had overlooked before. Or maybe she just wanted to say he was fired.

But her words kept intruding on his thoughts. She was careful with medications. He was still sitting on the porch when Bailey came around the house.

”Hi. Thought I might find you back here.” He drew nearer, then said, ”What's wrong? Are you sick?”

Frank shook his head. ”Hilde Franz is dead.”

Bailey stopped moving for a moment, then wordlessly walked onto the porch and sat down.

Frank told him what he knew about it; afterward they were silent for a time.

Finally Bailey said, ”What now?”

”Nothing,” Frank said. ”If it was an accidental death brought on by her diabetes, that's it. We wait for the autopsy report.”

After a long pause Bailey said tentatively, ”You said 'if.'”

”If it was anything else, anything else at all, I intend to nail the son of a b.i.t.c.h who was responsible.”

Bailey nodded. ”Nothing yet on Barbara's client. And I have a list of Hilde Franz's out-of-state trips for the past two years. Atlanta, Philadelphia, Detroit, L.A. Any follow-up on them?”

Frank shook his head. ”Leave it on the kitchen table. Case closed for now. Then go away.”

Barbara was in the corridor outside Courtroom B talking to her most recent client and his mother, who had tears streaming down her face and was holding Barbara's hand in both of hers. ”Thank you. G.o.d bless you! Thank you. What can I say?”

Barbara didn't know if Miguel Sanchez had robbed a convenience store, but the problem was that the police didn't know, either. He had been handy, and his name was Sanchez. She patted his mother's shoulder and said to the son, ”You're free, but watch your step. They'll be keeping an eye on you.” He was handsome, young, arrogant, and although badly frightened earlier, now he was c.o.c.ky. He grinned in a way that suggested he would do what he would do and didn't need any advice.

Then she spotted Bailey in the corridor motioning to her and disengaged herself. ”Excuse me,” she said, and headed for Bailey, who was looking worried. Bailey looking worried was a terrifying sight.

”What's wrong?” she asked.

”Maybe nothing. Hilde Franz is dead and your dad's in a state. Maybe you should drop in or something. Don't say I told you. He'd be p.i.s.sed.”

She stared at him. ”Dead? How? When?”

He told her what he knew, then shrugged. ”No more until the autopsy's in.”

”Was there a suicide note, anything like that?”

”Barbara, give me a break. I just know what your old man told me, and he didn't say anything about a note. I've gotta go. Don't tell him I told you,” he said again.

”Right. Thanks, Bailey. Owe you one.” She walked downstairs, out through the tunnel to the parking lot across Seventh, and to her car, worrying about her father.

She parked in Frank's driveway, got out, and walked around the house, hoping to see Frank in his grunge clothes doing whatever it was he always had to do in the garden, but instead found him on the porch, still in his nice summer-weight suit.

She joined him. ”Hi, Dad. I just heard about Hilde Franz's death. I'm terribly sorry.”

Barely glancing at her, he nodded.

He looked grim and hard, distant and unapproachable, and to her dismay, he looked ancient.

”Have you eaten anything?” she asked in a low voice. ”I could make you a sandwich or a salad.”

He shook his head, not looking at her. ”You don't have to tell me who your client is,” he said in a harsh tone. ”It won't be a secret much longer anyway and, Barbara, I'm warning you ahead of time, if it turns out that your client had anything to do with her death, if there's even a whiff of suspicion about it, I'll move heaven and h.e.l.l to get him for it.”

”What are you talking about?” Barbara demanded, shocked. ”She died in her sleep. She was ill. If she overdosed accidentally or even on purpose, no one else has to be implicated.”

His expression became even grimmer, his mouth a tight, nearly lipless line. ”She lived with diabetes for many years. She knew how to manage it. And she was not a suicide. Now leave me alone.”

”Dad-” She stopped when he turned to look at her; it was like having a stranger face her.

”She saw something that day,” he said harshly. ”She called to tell me what it was, but it was late at night and she hung up. If it turns out that she saw your client going to Marchand's house, I'll get him, Barbara.”

Barbara stood up. She felt stiff, unnatural, not certain where her hands were, whether her feet would work when she had to walk away. ”Maybe she saw Leona Marchand drive off, and the boy Daniel das.h.i.+ng back to his pals, and she knew Gus Marchand would be there alone. Maybe she went to plead with him, and he let her know he would dig until he hit pay dirt. Maybe she's the one who picked up that hammer and killed him. I'll leave you alone. Call me if you want anything.”

Neither spoke again as Barbara left the porch and walked around the house. Frank continued to sit on the porch.

The scenario he had outlined was the only one that made sense, he had decided. Hilde had seen something without realizing what it meant and had intended to tell him. She wouldn't have revealed her lover's name; she had been too certain they had covered their trail. Besides, she had been too determined to protect him. Frank had seen her resolve in the past and had admired her tremendously for it. And she wouldn't have fired him, not like that, a phone call late at night.

Now three people were dead, and Barbara might be defending the person responsible for them all. He thought of the many times he had pressed the argument that every accused person deserved the best defense available, that the state had the burden of proving guilt, the defense had the burden of knocking down the state's case if it was biased, if it was screwed by mishandling, if evidence was cooked or missing, if the case failed to meet the requirements of the law in any way.

Wait for the autopsy report, he told himself. As Hilde's attorney, he could get a copy; until then, there was little he could do. But he did not intend to let Barbara pin a murder on her. He had been retained to protect her and, by G.o.d, he vowed silently, he would do it.

10.

That night, open-eyed in bed, she kept seeing her father's face, grim, forbidding, hostile even. She had seen that look of hostility before. Her former lover John Mureau had looked at her with that same unconcealed bitterness that in itself was an accusation. You would let this monster walk when he could be guilty, that look said. She had not been able to explain to John, and had never dreamed of trying to explain to her father, who, she had always known, shared her deeply held conviction that everyone, monster or saint, deserved the best defense anyone was capable of mounting.

Until it got personal, she said to herself. Then the rules changed. John had looked at her like that when his children were at risk. Her father had shown that face when a beloved friend died.

She realized with a pang of regret that she had not thought of John Mureau for months, and could think of him now simply as someone she could have had a life with if things had been different. She was unable to summon his face; instead, she was seeing Frank's grim countenance again.

She waited for the telephone to ring, for Frank to call and say that Hilde's death was the result of her diabetes, to say he had been upset, invite her to drop in and have a bite to eat, to say anything at all.

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