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  “You’re kidding.”

  “I bagged groceries all summer. And Mom made sure I was never late. She did what she could to keep me in line without my dad around. Until I was fifteen.”

  “What happened?”

  “That’s when she died. A virus, just took her over. Antibiotics did nothing. Some swamp thing. Like a horror movie.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “Thing was, I thought there was a time there, when she was in the hospital, all tubed up, that if I tried hard enough I could get her out of there. But I couldn’t think what to do, and it was almost like I got paralyzed. Right there in her room. I wanted to will her better because…”

  We were silent for a long moment. I could hear my own breathing. It sounded like a guy on life support. I wanted to clam up. Couldn’t.

  “I wasn’t exactly a model son around then,” I said. “I wanted her to live so I could make up for it. So I could make her proud of me. In the hospital, she reached out her hand to me.” I saw it now, clearly, as if a fog had suddenly blown away. “She reached for me and I was afraid. I took her hand, but I was afraid. Like I was the reason she was there. And I was the only one who could pull her back. But she didn’t come back. That night she died.…”

  That was it. I couldn’t go on. I put my face in my hands and tried not to lose it. I was aware of movement, and then Kate was at my chair. Her arms went around me, pulled me close, as if I were her own child.

  160

  I COULDN’T SLEEP that night. The adrenaline during a closing argument is like liquid electricity, running through pipes of flesh, leaving every nerve with the feeling it’s on fire.

  The next morning, I shot hoop for a while, alone, testing my sore patoot. It was nothing compared to what had happened to Sister Mary. I hoped her wound wouldn’t hold her back, from ball or anything else she wanted to do.

  In fact, I hoped I wasn’t holding her back from what she wanted to do.

  At two in the afternoon I was sitting—tenderly—at the Ultimate Sip, reading the Daily News, when I got a call from Hughes’s clerk. The jury was ready with a verdict.

  I didn’t like that it was so soon.

  I made my own calls. To Kate, then the hospital. But Sister Mary, they said, had been discharged. I called her cell and got voice mail. I called Father Bob. Told him what was up, and where was Sister Mary? He said he’d make sure she got the message.

  But not in time, apparently. Because it was just me and Eric at the counsel table when the jury came back in.

  I watched their faces. Several made eye contact with me. A good sign. If they’re sending your client away, they usually don’t look at you.

  But I’ve been fooled before.

  161

  THE CLERK, Ms. Mavis Elliott, read the verdict in her official-sounding monotone. “We, the jury in the above-titled action, find the defendant, Eric Mark Richess, not guilty of the crime of murder.”

  Kate cried out behind me. Eric turned to me and gave me a giant bear hug.

  And I was transported to another dimension. Not the Twilight Zone variety, but the trial lawyers’ magic carpet ride above the clouds. There is no feeling like a verdict in your favor, and no higher high than not guilty if you’re a criminal defense lawyer.

  Radavich was not ready to give in. He requested that the judge poll the jury, and Hughes did exactly that. He asked each individual juror if not guilty was their true verdict, both in the jury room and now, sitting in court.

  Each one answered, “Yes.”

  And that was that.

  Eric turned and embraced his mother at the rail.

  Kate had her son back. That’s the thing that mattered. Watching her hold her son was like watching a drowning woman grab onto the rescue boat.

  It was as perfect a day as a lawyer could have.

  It’s the crash after the high that you have to watch out for, especially when it comes at you like a fifteen-foot wave.

  162

  RADAVICH LEFT THE courtroom without saying a word to me.

  Outside, Kate told me she wanted to have me and Sister Mary over to the house, so we could all celebrate together. She promised to make her secret-family-recipe cheesecake. I told her that sounded fine.

  Some reporters wanted a statement from me, and news about Sister Mary. I wasn’t ready to give either. I went around to my car and sat in it for a few minutes. The sky was clear. City Hall loomed.

  Which reminded me there was another thing looming, a question—so who killed Carl?

  I knew Kate would be asking me that later. I didn’t know what answer to give. I wondered if any of us would ever know.

  I called Sister Mary, got voice mail. “We won,” I said after the beep. “And tonight we’re going to Kate’s house. Can you make it?”

  I didn’t get any call back.

  Five minutes later my phone vibrated. It was a text message. I brought it up.

  Congratulations. I must take you to dinner. K.P.

  You must, I thought. You must.

  163

  AT ST. MONICA’S, I collared Father Bob, an appropriate thing to do with a priest. “What’s up with Sister Mary? She got out of the hospital—where is she?”

  “Come into my humble abode,” Father Bob said. We were outside his trailer, the orange hotplate of the sun dropping behind the hills.

  “Let’s talk right here,” I said. “I’m not sitting down for a while.”

  “All right,” he said. “Maybe it is better this way. Sister Mary has left St. Monica’s.”

  It sounded like the report of a death. “Meaning?”

  “She is going to reassess her calling, in a time of prayer, away from…” His voice trailed.

  “Me?”

  “From everything,” he said.

  “Where is she?”

  “She’s fine.”

  “That’s not what I asked.”

  “Ty, it’s best that you just leave this alone for now. Let things simmer down.”

  “She leaves? Just like that? Says nothing to me?”

  “She asked me to tell you. It’s best this way.”

  “I want to know where she is,” I said.

  “It’s best that you don’t know,” Father Bob said. “And please don’t call her.”

  “Padre, do not treat me like some pimple-faced teenager, okay? Do not.”

  “Just give her this time.”

  I said nothing.

  “And please remember,” Father Bob said, “that you always have our love and support and friendship.”

  “Fantastic.” I looked at the basketball court. They could tear it up now. Put in outhouses if they wanted to. Or a statue of Saint Hildegarde. In fact I was ready to start tearing it up myself.

  164

  AND I WAS still feeling that way when I got to Kate’s house. Father Bob was there before me. Kate had a spread laid out, cold cuts and bread and soft drinks on ice. And a big cheesecake. With a piece missing.

  “Eric was here,” Kate said, “but had to go.” She tried to smile, but it was an effort. She added, “His wife. He needs to work things out with her.”

  “She didn’t come with him?” I said.

  “Fayette is, well, high-strung sometimes,” Kate said. “But that doesn’t mean we all can’t celebrate. My son is home. Like in the Bible story, right, Father?”

  Father Bob nodded. “The Prodigal Son. He was lost and is now found.”

  We sat around and ate sandwiches, but this felt more like a funeral than a celebration. Kate was hurting but tried not to show it.

  I was steaming. Eric should have had his ungrateful heinie right here. But for Kate’s sake, I made conversation. That seemed to help her a little. And the cheesecake was, in fact, delicious.

  Around nine o’clock Kate asked what her legal obligations were concerning Carl’s debts and papers and effects. She was getting his mail forwarded to her and had a stack of bills. I told her to give them to me and I’d arrange for all the notification. I told her I’
d handle the estate. Carl had died intestate, so she would be entitled to the assets under the laws of succession. But creditors could take a bite out of the assets.

  She was glad to hand it all over to me. She said she wanted to pay for the work. I told her to make me two cheesecakes. One for me, and one I’d take to Father Bob.

  Deal, she said.

  I made conversation for an hour or so longer. Then I said I should get going. Father Bob stayed. I took off for the townhouse in Warner Center. I had a few things I wanted to say to my client.

  165

  HE WASN’T HOME. Neither was his wife.

  At least they didn’t answer the buzzer.

  I sat in my car across from the townhouse. No lights on in the window. I decided to wait.

  While I did, I went through some of Carl’s mail, separated the bills from the junk. He had bills and dunning letters from the cable company, the DWP, the gas company, and three notices from Capital One Visa. I opened the Visa bills and looked at the last one with any charges, from mid-January to mid-February.

  The last purchase Carl made was on the night he was killed. He bought something at BevMo, the big wine and liquor store. I remembered one of the tenants mentioning she saw Carl walking into the apartment building with a BevMo bag. No doubt with the tequila that he had in him when he died.

  I stayed out there another hour and a half without anybody coming home. I gave up and went back to St. Monica’s.

  That night I dreamed I was in Dodger Stadium, alone, at night. The lights were out and I was wandering the seats, looking for someone to shine a light and get me to the exit. Nobody came.

  166

  THE NEXT MORNING, early, I called Zebker from my trailer.

  “You want me to congratulate you or something?” he said.

  “I don’t want you to start the day on a sour note,” I said. “So skip it. But you do have a killer to catch.”

  “We had the killer.”

  “I have a credit card bill here that says Carl bought something at BevMo a few hours before he died. Somebody saw Carl going into his building with a BevMo bag. I didn’t see that listed on your inventory. What happened to the bag?”

  Pause. “Maybe he dumped it before he went into his apartment.”

  “How likely is that? You bring your shopping bags in, you unpack, you toss the bag in the trash. And what else was in that bag?”

  “What does it matter?”

  “I thought you’d be curious, that’s all. You know me. Willing to help, right? I’m not ready to pack this case in.”

  “Good luck,” he said.

  “If you find something out, I’d appreciate a call.”

  “I can’t promise you that.”

  “Detective, I know all about your culture of silence, not sharing case information with the common shlub. But I am not a common shlub. I am, in fact, a remarkable shlub. I sacrificed my left butt cheek to catch a potential killer. And I’ve been very open with you. Now you can, in your discretion, give me any information you choose to. I’m asking you to so choose.”

  “What does the judge say? I’ll take it under advisement.” Then he disconnected.

  I looked out at the empty basketball court for a while, then got ready for the day. I had someone to see.

  167

  BOTH ERIC AND Fayette looked hungover. They were in bathrobes, but Eric let me in and offered me coffee.

  “Sorry about last night,” Eric said. “I needed to spend some time with my wife, you understand.”

  I tried to. I sat with them around a kitchen table. Fayette looked like she didn’t want me anywhere near the place.

  “I can’t thank you enough,” Eric said. “What you did in there was amazing.”

  “We caught a break,” I said.

  “Some break,” Fayette said.

  Eric looked at her, then back at me. “It all worked out for the best.”

  I took a sip of coffee, trying to figure out how I felt about Eric Richess. Finally, I said, “I’m very fond of your mother, and I don’t want to see her hurt. I think she needed you last night more than you two needed each other.”

  “That’s really none of your business,” Fayette said.

  Eric patted her arm, to mollify her. She jerked away. Now I felt totally out of place.

  Eric said, “I hear you, Ty. Don’t worry about it.”

  “But I am worried about it, Eric. I’m worried about it a lot. And I tend to get very cranky when I get worried.”

  “That sounds like some sort of threat,” Fayette said.

  Lady, you haven’t heard me come within twenty yards of a threat, but just tempt me. Go ahead.

  Eric said, “Ty, you are above and beyond. I’ll do the right thing by my mom.”

  Which reminded me, I had a right thing to do, too.

  I got out of the Richess love nest and drove down to the Motel 6 and gathered up Daryl. He wanted to stay and watch more TV, but I told him he was ready to re-enter society as a productive citizen.

  He didn’t know if he wanted to.

  I did not give him a choice, even though he still had some facial healing to do. “But you don’t scrub pots with your face,” I told him.

  “Say what?”

  “Say, get in the car.”

  I drove him to St. Monica’s homeless shelter and went to the front desk, where Sister Barbara ran things. They had one room available. I said Daryl would do especially well in the kitchen, starting with the pots and pans.

  “Oh, man!” Daryl said.

  “And you are grateful to the Sisters, aren’t you, Daryl?”

  He opened his mouth but I glared it shut for him. “Yeah,” he said. “Sure. Happy to do it.”

  I nodded my approval.

  Outside, my old pal Only, the medical marijuana maven, was waiting for me at my car.

  “Dude!” he said.

  “Dawg,” I said.

  “Guess what? I’m starting my own business!”

  “Whoa. Does Wall Street know about this?”

  “They will, man.”

  “What’s this new venture called?”

  “Psy Chic,” he said. Pronouncing it sheek. “Get it? It’s psychic services for the upscale crowd.”

  “My congratulations,” I said. “I think you have found the perfect niche market right here in L.A.”

  “Maybe you could help me incorporate,” he said.

  “Definitely. You’re going to need the protection of the corporate veil.”

  “Thanks, man. And I want you to be the first.”

  “That’s okay—”

  He grabbed my left wrist and closed his eyes. “Quiet, please. Just make your mind a blank.” Only put his left hand up in the air, like an antenna. “You are going to do something very, very important.”

  I waited.

  “And soon,” Only said.

  He opened his eyes and let go of my wrist, and smiled.

  “You’ll make a bundle,” I said.

  168

  I DROVE TO the Sip and found, as usual, Pick McNitt in a snit.

  “When did saving money become an idiot thing to do?” he said. “Putting money in the bank, every paycheck, that’s what my dad did, how he raised his family. So what dipstick decided this was stupid, and convinced us to gamble, to become a nation of consumers instead of savers? To drown ourselves in debt to let the good times roll? Who was it? Who?”

  I declined to guess and went to the back to read the paper. I hadn’t gotten too far in when my cell buzzed.

  It was Zebker. “Courtesy call,” he said.

  “Am I going to be happy about it?” I said.

  “Remains to be seen. I just talked to Detective Stein. He gave me a courtesy call. Are you sitting down?”

  “Unfortunately, yes,” I said.

  “Then here it is. The rifle you found in that guy’s house is not the one used to shoot the nun.”

  I waited for a punch line. And waited.

  “You still there?” Zebker said.
>
  “I’m picking my jaw up off the floor, I’ll just be a second.”

  “Yeah. The guy, his name’s Gruber, is an ex-felon. You were right about that. But the other guy’s clean. He’s back on the street.”

  “Oh, that is good news. Anything else?”

  Zebker said, “And I thought you’d like to know we traced the receipt at BevMo. Carl used his card to buy two bottles of Jose Cuervo Black Medallion, a liter of Pepsi, and a bag of pretzels. We found the tequila bottles, one empty and one half full, and pretzels in the apartment. We didn’t find a liter bottle or the bag.”

  “Why are you telling me this?”

  “Look, there’s things I don’t like about this file. But we can’t arrest your guy again, and if he didn’t do it, somebody else did, and maybe you can help me find out who.”

  “How?”

  “Just think about it, will you?” he said.

  “You’re not mad at me?”

  “You did your job. Fine. No hard feelings.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Maybe I’ll bump into you at a Dodger game sometime. We can talk about it over a Dodger Dog.”

  “Yeah, right, and—” I stopped myself.

  “You there?” Zebker said.

  “The inventory list. You have it there in front of you?”

  “Just a second.” Pause. “Yeah, right here.”

  “Is there a Dodger hat on it?”

  Another pause. Then, “No. Why?”

  For a few seconds I couldn’t speak. Then I said plenty.

  169

  AT SEVEN O’CLOCK that evening, I went to see my client once more.

  Fayette was not happy to see me.

  I walked right in and said, “I need to talk to Eric. Alone.”

  “Hey, you can’t just—”

  “Tell him I’m here,” I said. I went to their balcony door, opened it, and went outside to look at Warner Center Park.

  “Now listen,” Fayette said, “we have plans—”