Santa's Subpoena Page 12

  His bushy eyebrows danced. “It would. Would you take me shopping tomorrow? There’s a great store in Spokane, over by Earl’s.”

  Hmm. I thought about it. I wouldn’t mind talking to Earl again about that engagement ring without Florence there. “Sure. I have hearings in the morning but could pick you up around two in the afternoon. For now, talk to me. Tell me about the night you and Sharon hooked up.” I wasn’t sure elderly Santas really hooked up, but I wanted to keep the conversation as neutral as possible.

  He sighed. “I told you. Went to poker, got toasted, and woke up in bed with Sharon.”

  I took another turn, careful of the icy road. “Do you remember, um, well, the night?”

  “No. I was naked and she was, too. She said we, well, you know.”

  My ears pricked. “But you don’t remember it?”

  “No.” He slunk down in the passenger seat. “I felt terrible and told Florence right when I got home, begging for forgiveness.” His hands shook as he patted down the hospital scrubs somebody had given him. “She isn’t the forgiving type. I really screwed up.”

  It sounded like he might not have. “What if you didn’t?”

  He shook his head. “Even if I didn’t, I wasn’t a good husband. During that time, I was playing poker a lot. Way too much. I lost a bundle, and she was right to leave me. The Sharon night was just the final straw, you know? I was such a dope.”

  “She still cares for you,” I said.

  He turned toward me, hope alighting on his weathered face. “Do you really think so?”

  “Yeah. She came to the hospital when you were shot and was in a panic.”

  His shoulders went back. “I don’t know. It’s too much to hope for. Maybe it’s a good thing I didn’t have that threesome with Thelma and Georgiana.”

  I gurgled.

  We reached the curb in front of his apartment, and we both just sat in the vehicle, no doubt running through what had happened the last time we’d been there. Fresh snow had blanketed the bloody sidewalk, but a hint of red could still be seen at the edges of fresh ice. I took a deep breath and opened my door, stepping into the day.

  An instant and raw cold pierced my jacket and burned my nose. I hurried around the other side of the SUV to open Bernie’s door and take his bag of stinky Santa clothes. In silent agreement, we hustled as fast as possible across the treacherous ground, up the stairs next to the destroyed railing, and right into the front door of the building.

  We both let loose sighs of relief at not being shot.

  A rough set of stairs sat to the right of the entryway across from a door, while another door was straight ahead.

  “That’s me.” Bernie pointed ahead of us and lumbered toward his door, fumbling in his bag for a key to unlock it. We moved inside a one bedroom apartment with hand-me-down furniture and dust covering the cold surfaces. “Florence got the house in the divorce, and I haven’t entertained very much.” He looked around as if seeing the dismal place for the first time. “I guess I’ve been a little down.”

  I stepped inside, rubbing my arms to increase circulation. “Does your heat work?”

  “Yeah.” He shut the door and moved for the thermostat near the utilitarian kitchen, which wasn’t much separate from the living room. There was no place for a table, so I figured he ate on the sofa watching the older television, which had been placed on a dinged-up blue dresser. “That should help.”

  I set his bag down, the coffee and cinnamon rolls making themselves known in my stomach. “Do you mind if I use your restroom?” Hopefully it’d be cleaner than the rest of the place.

  “Sure.” He gestured down the one narrow hallway. “Only have the one. I’ll see if I can scrounge up coffee.”

  “I’ve already had too much today, but thanks.” My boots sank into the rust-colored carpet, leaving a little snow, but no way was I taking them off. The carpet was as dusty as the furniture, so who knew if it had ever been vacuumed. Bernie really had been down lately. It took me a second, but I realized he hadn’t even put up a tree. It seemed like a shame that a guy who played Santa all the time didn’t even have a tree.

  I reached the first door, which had been covered at one time or another with at least ten different types of paint and had an oddly pretty plastic doorknob that looked like crystal. I pushed it open and stepped into a dated bathroom with a large green toilet and matching sink. The tile around the exposed shower was a 50’s style pink. The bathroom was okay, and I used it quickly, washing my hands and stepping outside.

  The door across the hallway was open, and a massive painting of Florence in a garden hung over the bed. Taking a closer look, I determined it was actually a photograph and not a painting.

  “I sent it to one of those places on the internet, and they did something fancy with it to make it look like a painting,” Bernie said at my elbow.

  I looked at the scattered pictures of the two of them across his dresser, and they all appeared to have been dusted. He’d really loved her. “I’m sorry, Bernie,” I said, turning back toward the living room.

  “Me, too.” He sighed heavily and followed me.

  A sharp rap on the door had us both jumping.

  We turned and looked at each other, our eyes wide.

  “Bernie McLintock? This is the Timber City Police. Open up.”

  My heart settled back where it should be upon recognizing Grant Pierce’s voice. I looked at Bernie. “This probably isn’t good.”

  Bernie appeared to be done. Just plain done. “Okay.” Pushing his white hair back with one gnarled hand, he moved in front of me and opened the door to Pierce and two uniformed officers.

  Pierce lifted an eyebrow at me. “Bernie McLintock, you’re under arrest for the murder of Lawrence Forrest.” He handed the arrest warrant to me. “DNA came back—your client’s on the knife as well as the body, including beneath the vic’s fingernails.”

  Bernie turned around to be handcuffed.

  “Pierce, come on. Somebody tried to kill him. Obviously he’s a victim,” I protested.

  Pierce shrugged as the uniform set the cuffs in place. “Or he’s involved in something, and his criminal friends don’t want him to talk. Have him talk to us, and we’ll see what we can do.”

  “He was shot last night. Be careful with him,” I said, tucking the warrant in my bag.

  Bernie’s chest moved with a sigh. “Would you call Florence for me? She’ll bail me out. She’s done it before when I got that DUI.”

  “Sure. Don’t say anything, and I’ll find you after court.” I tried not to wince that he’d just asked his possible co-conspirator to bail him out in front of the investigating detective. I truly didn’t think either one of them had anything to do with Lawrence’s death. “If Florence gets you out before I’m done, leave me a message, and we’ll meet up later. Don’t worry, Bernie. We’ll figure it out.”

  Pierce gave me a look screaming that I couldn’t promise that.

  I lifted my chin. “If you’re half as good of a detective as you think, you’ll figure out who really killed Lawrence.”

  Pierce stepped aside to allow the officer to take Bernie out. “Just do your job, counselor, and I’ll do mine.” The scent of lavender body wash hinted from him.

  “Nice body wash,” I said, stepping out of the apartment and locking it up.

  “Smartass,” he muttered, following the officers.

  I walked behind him, keeping an eye out for the red truck. Only cold snow and quiet, rundown houses met my gaze. “I’ll catch up with you later to talk about this case. You have the wrong guy.”

  “Uh-huh.” Pierce followed me around my car and opened the front door. “Anything new on your case?”

  “No. No flowers, phone calls, or painted messages,” I said. “Maybe the person gave up.”

  Pierce waited until I’d snapped my seatbelt in place. “That’s unlikely. Keep an eye on your six, and if you want an officer around, I could make that happen for a short period of time.”

 
“I’m armed and set,” I said. “But thanks.”

  Pierce nodded. “I have feelers out for Jareth Davey but haven’t had any more luck than Aiden or Basanelli. I’ll keep on it, though.”

  “Thanks.” That Christmas card could be coming any day, which was another reason I was having panic attacks. “I’m off to court. See you later.”

  He shut my door and moved toward the blue and white parked behind me. Bernie looked forlorn in the back seat.

  Sighing, I yanked out my phone to call Florence. Hopefully she would bail him out.

  Again.

  Chapter 18

  I sat in the far rear corner of misdemeanor court, where the salmon-colored bench was thick with padding, the overhead light burned out, and the heater vent blasting warmth across my legs. The docket was behind today, and several hearings took place up ahead while I rifled through the file folders Oliver had delivered to me. I’d given him cash to get himself lunch at the deli next door as a thank you for handling Jolene for me that morning.

  Several people dotted the benches through this smaller courtroom, and I recognized a couple of clients up ahead. Today I had three status conferences on upcoming trials: a timber trespass case, a car wreck over a bridge case, and a minor in possession case. Nothing crucial and we were just checking in and setting trial dates. Judge Williams presided up above, and today a bright red blouse showed above the top of her robe. I couldn’t see her shoes but would definitely take a gander before I left.

  She had some amazing shoes.

  A bailiff stood by a door, his beard impressive. Now there was a guy who’d be able to play Santa in a few decades.

  A man I didn’t recognize stood at the prosecuting attorney’s table. From the back, he seemed to be around my age. Maybe mid-twenties, blond hair, nice suit. Right now, he faced the judge and listed a series of offenses for an underaged defendant who’d apparently been caught with marijuana in Idaho. It was legal in Washington state but not in Idaho.

  I sat up to watch, surprised he was pursuing the case.

  From the back, the defendant looked like a kid. He wore a black suit with his blond head down, and he stared at the table. Next to him stood a mid-sized man in a power gray suit which was probably Armani. His hair was steel gray, his manner relaxed, and his posture confident. Right behind them sat a couple, the woman with a blonde bob and the man also in a suit, his dark hair groomed.

  The prosecutor argued for a ridiculous bond, the smooth attorney I didn’t recognize argued back twice as well and then pretty much threw somebody named Violet under the bus. Violet must’ve been the defendant’s friend, and she had been the person actually in possession of the pot. The judge set the case for trial and moved quickly on.

  The judge called the next case, and the defendant’s name had me perking up. Violet Maseretti. Aha. The girlfriend of the pot kid.

  A girl of about fifteen or so shuffled to the center aisle, looked around, and then inched her way through the gate to where her boyfriend had been. She was thin with long black hair, and from what I could see, her eyes matched her name. For court, she wore clean jeans and a blue sweater that might be a size or two too big, with no coat. She pulled nervously on the edge of the sweater as she waited.

  The prosecutor ran through the litany again, this time adding the fact that Timmy Stevens alleged that Violet had supplied the pot.

  I angled my head to better see the judge.

  Judge Williams’ expression didn’t change when she focused on the defendant. “You can have your own attorney.”

  The girl looked around again, seeming like a fish flopping on a dock. “Yes, um, your Honor.” Her shaking voice was soft.

  The judge ticked her head.

  Violet shuffled her feet. “Um, I saw the forms, and I tried to fill them out, but they were complicated. I guess. I don’t know.” She pulled on the sweater again.

  The prosecutor sighed, the sound annoyed. “Why don’t we just plea this down? I’ll offer a misdemeanor with two months in jail and a thousand dollar fine.”

  The kid squawked. “A thousand dollars?” It was telling she didn’t object to the jail time.

  The prosecutor looked her over, tapping a finger on the file folder. “All right. Five hundred.”

  The girl audibly gulped. “Um, well, we had the pot, yeah. But I didn’t take any. Timmy had it. But I guess, well, okay.”

  “Whoa.” I shoved from my warm corner to the aisle, dropping a file folder. Grumbling, I reached over to pick it up, settled my hair, and hustled with the contents falling out to the front table. Not only didn’t I like the optics of all of these men against one girl, I didn’t like the law being used unfairly. “Um, no. Not in a million years.”

  Judge Williams lifted a dark eyebrow. “Ms. Albertini. I didn’t see you back there.”

  “That’s where the heater is.” I slapped my pile on the table and tried to regain my balance.

  The prosecutor turned toward me. “We just had an agreement to a plea.”

  My neck went up and my chin went down. “Well gee, buddy. That’s just great. Pick on the kid without the hotshot lawyer from Spokane.” He had to be, considering I didn’t know him. While I had complete faith that the judge wouldn’t have allowed the plea and would’ve helped Violet find a lawyer, I was here right now, and the kid didn’t seem to have anybody else. “Your Honor, I’d like to be assigned to the case.”

  The prosecutor snapped his lips together.

  “Great. Anna Albertini, please meet Brad Boxer, the new assistant prosecuting attorney.” The judge brought down the gavel. “Consider yourself assigned to the case, Ms. Albertini. Come back in a week if this hasn’t settled, and we’ll go from there.” Her voice more than hinted that we should settle this. I totally agreed.

  Brad Boxer leaned over. “Brad.” He had light brown eyes and a very straight nose. In another world, I’d consider him good looking. Right now, I considered him to be an ass.

  “Anna.” I took his hand and shook.

  He smiled, full of assurance and grabbed his files. “I’m finished today, Judge. May I be excused?”

  “Yes,” Judge Williams said, handing case files over to her clerk. “Ms. Albertini, since you’re here, let’s take care of your status conferences.”

  Violet looked from the judge to me, her deep blue eyes full of confusion. “What just happened?” She was pale and dark circles hovered on her high cheekbones.

  “We’ll talk in a few minutes.” I gave her my best encouraging smile. “Do you mind sitting in the courtroom and waiting for me for about thirty minutes?” It shouldn’t take longer than that to do everything I needed to get done for the day.

  She gulped. “No. That’s cool.” She looked toward the benches. “Where did you say that heater was?”

  I sat across the table from Violet at Smiley’s Diner and removed my coat, wondering if she had one. “You hungry?”

  Her eyes were huge, and her fingers nervous as she settled into the booth, reaching for a napkin to start shredding. “No.”

  Right. Tessa bopped up, tilting her head toward Violet.

  I introduced them. “Are you a vegetarian or anything, Violet?” I asked.

  She swallowed and paused as if considering if she was supposed to be a vegetarian. “Um, no?”

  I’d take that as a no. “Two specials, extra fries, two sodas,” I said to Tessa.

  “You’ve got it.” Tessa took off.

  Violet continued shredding the napkin. “I can’t afford a fancy lawyer.” She spoke to the table, her shoulders bowed.

  “Good thing I’m not fancy,” I said, reaching for my water glass. “How about you tell me whatever happened with Timmy and the pot?” When she looked up, I made sure to keep my voice level and my gaze serious. “I’m your lawyer, so you can tell me anything, and I can’t say a word to anybody. So please just give me the truth? It’s easier for me to help you if you do.”

  She sighed. “Okay. So, Timmy and I started kind of hanging out last month. No
thing serious. Just met up after school to study, and that was it. Last Tuesday, he brought pot that he’d gotten from his brother, and he wanted to smoke it. I didn’t want to because I’m allergic to most smoke, and we argued, and Mr. Jorgenson caught us. He’s the vice-principal, and he said that he had to call in the violation because it’s the law. So we got notices to appear and I came to court.”

  I nodded to keep her talking.

  Her lips turned down. “I can’t believe his lawyer said I brought the pot. I don’t even have a car to go over to Washington, much less money to waste on drugs.” She shook her head. “Boys suck.”

  Tessa set down the baskets of burgers and fries, reaching for the sodas on the counter and plopping them in front of us. “Eat up.” Then she took off again.

  Violet stared at the burger and she breathed deep.

  Acting casual, I reached for mine and took a bite, waiting for her to do the same. We ate in silence, and I could tell she tried to go slow, but the girl was hungry. When we’d finished the burgers and fries, I ordered both of us apple pie with ice cream.

  She winced. “Do all lawyers buy their clients lunch?”

  “All the good ones do,” I lied.

  She rolled her eyes.

  I grinned. There she was. I waited until the pie arrived to dig deeper into her story. “Where are your parents?”

  She stiffened but didn’t stop eating. “Never had a dad, and my mom died three years ago from a bee sting.” She shook her head. “Can you believe it? A stupid bee sting.” Her shoulders hunched. “Not that we were that close, but she was my mom. She might’ve had a small drug problem.” Violet’s eyes blazed when she looked up. “Yet another reason I’d never do freakin’ pot.”

  I ate my ice cream for a while. “Where do you live now?”

  “Over off Nineteenth Street with my great-aunt,” Violet said, not seeming to hold back any longer. “I tried foster care for a bit, but then she said she’d take me, and we do okay. She’s old and everything, but we kind of take care of each other.” She finished her pie and set down the spoon. “I just need to graduate and then figure out college. Everything will be okay.” It was as if it was a mantra she’d said more than once. More than once a day. “If I don’t go to jail,” she muttered.