“Well, that’s something I’ll never be accused of.” He smiled. “Hey, Wilson,” he yelled to one of the jailers, “release the gentleman. He owes me a couple of drinks.”
“I owe you a case.”
“No,” he said, suddenly serious. “You owe me an explanation.”
“Did you call Terry Ormes?”
“Yeah, she’s up in my office. That’s where we’re going.”
It was only around ten but if felt like midnight. Sonny brewed a pot of coffee and brought out a fifth of Irish whiskey from the deep recesses of his desk. Terry yawned, accepted coffee but laid her hand across the cup when he started to pour the whiskey in. He shrugged and poured me a half-cup of coffee, a half-cup of whiskey. For himself, he dispensed with the coffee.
“Now that we’re all comfortable,” he began, settling into his armchair and his affected Southern drawl, “why don’t you begin at the beginning?”
Between the two of us, Terry and I told Patterson the history of the Linden-Smith-Paris clan from the end of the nineteen twenties to the burial of Robert Paris that very afternoon. Patterson listened without comment, moving only to lower the level of fluid in the whiskey bottle now and then. There wasn’t a lot left when we finished.
He looked back and forth between us and shrugged. “So,” he said, “what crime has been committed that I can prove?”
Terry looked at him. “How about four murders, a burglary, and conspiracy to obstruct justice?”
“A crime that I can prove,” he repeated. “In the murders of
Christina and Jeremy Paris, the eyewitness is dead, the coroner is dead, and the deaths have the appearance of being an accident. The remaining evidence — the will — is grist for speculation but not nearly enough to make out a murder. And the trail is twenty years old. The officers who wrote these reports might be dead themselves, and you know as well as I do that their reports are inadmissible hearsay. The death of Hugh Paris-” he glanced over at me. I’d told him that Hugh and I were lovers. “Put out of your head how much you liked the guy. Let me put it as crudely as I can — a hype O.D.’s and drowns. No one sees the death, no traces of murder survive except in Ormes’ recollection. So maybe we can impute a motive to the judge, after a lot of circumstantial fandangos, but so what? The judge is dead. Even assuming he arranged Hugh’s murder, I doubt very seriously that he jotted it down in his appointment book.” He looked at us.
“Aaron,” I said.
“Yes, Aaron Gold. After I persuade the cops that you didn’t do it — and you didn’t, did you — ?” I shook my head, “what do you think they’re gonna conclude?”
“A break-in,” Terry said wearily, “that got out of hand.” Contemptuously, she added, “All the pieces fit.”
“Detective,” Patterson said, “cops are like prosecutors in this respect: we have to play the facts we’re dealt. We can’t engage in cosmic theories, because we’re bound by the evidence we gather and the inferences we can draw from it. You can’t expect me to put Robert Paris on trial for a murder that was committed four days after he died. All that the evidence will support in the case of Aaron Gold is a bungled burglary.”
“The perfect crimes,” Terry muttered.
“Exactly,” Patterson said, shaking the last drops of liquor out of the bottle, “the perfect crimes. No witnesses, no evidence. Plenty of motive — if the murders could be connected, but nothing connects them except a few bits of circumstantial evidence and one hell of a lot of conjecture.” He looked at us again and sighed. “Drink up.”
“Drink up? Is that the D.A.’s position on these murders?” “Jesus Christ, Henry, think of this case as a defense lawyer. Wouldn’t you love to be defending Robert Paris? With the case I have against him?”
“Paris didn’t physically kill Hugh, and he didn’t pull the trigger on Aaron,’’ I said. “The murderer is still alive.’’
“Then bring him to me,’’ Patterson said, “and we’ll talk.”
I said, “This is a police matter.’’
Patterson shook his head. “You know as well as I do that the police don’t have the time or interest to pursue this investigation. They’ve got their hands full. And as for you,” he said, turning to Terry, “my advice is that if you place any value on your career on the force, you’ll discontinue your interest in closed cases.”
She lifted her eyebrows. “What do you mean?”
“I mean Hugh Paris,” Patterson said. “I’ve been known to bend elbows with Sam Torres. He knows that you’ve been assisting Rios, and he doesn’t like it. In fact, he considers it a personal affront that his subordinate would use police resources on a case that he closed and on behalf of a civilian.”
“Christ,” I muttered. Terry looked stricken and I knew why. A woman detective, even a good one — no, especially a good one
— would always be walking the line. A misstep could have disastrous consequences on her career. I couldn’t ask her to risk it for me.
“You’re on your own, Henry,” Patterson said. “Take my advice and forget it. Go away until things cool down. You’re not safe.”
“Then you believe the murders are all connected?”
“Of course I do. I believe every word of it. The rich are malignant.” He held out his empty coffee cup to me. “Now what about those drinks?”
I woke late the next day, having closed a bar with Patterson the night before. Terry had begged off early. Sonny and I remained, getting drunk, swapping trial stories and he complaining about his marriage. Boys’ night out, except that Aaron Gold was dead.
I went out for the papers. The San Francisco Chronicle made no mention of the murder, but the local daily put it on page one. I read it while the coffee brewed — burglary suspect, unidentified man detained and then released, no other suspects, would anyone having any information kindly notify the police.
As I drank my coffee, I wondered who there was to mourn Aaron. His law firm associates? A few ex- girlfriends? He had family in L.A. that he had spoken of maybe twenty times in all the years I’d known him. After all those years and all the people he’d known, I probably was still his closest friend. It disturbed me to think that he’d gone through life so alone. That image of opulent self-worth that he projected to the world was shadow play. My grief was real.
I needed to think, but the effort was painful; all the easy connections between Hugh’s death and Aaron’s led to a dead man, the judge. But there it was. Aaron had information he wanted to share with me about Hugh’s death. The man who broke into my house was also interested in that information — not gaining access to it — but suppressing it. He also had taken the only proof I had linking Robert Paris to his grandson’s death, so I’d assumed that Aaron’s information further implicated the judge. But the judge was dead. What difference would it make to anyone whether his reputation was ruined?
And then it came to me. No one cared about the judge at this point. The break-in and Aaron’s murder were the acts of someone with something left to lose should it become public knowledge that the judge had arranged his grandson’s death. And who was that someone? Hugh’s actual killer — the man or men hired by the judge to carry out the murder. Robert Paris’s death hadn’t really solved the crime. Hugh’s murderer was still at large and I believed that that person was more than a goon employed for the occasion but someone upon whom the judge had relied pretty often. Who would know about the inner workings of Paris’ staff? Only a peer who had frequent dealings with that staff. John Smith.
And who was John Smith?
I had done a little research on Smith, gleaning the few facts I knew about him from the back issues of the Chronicle and my conversations with Grant. He was eighty-one years old, unmarried, a banker by profession, and something of a philanthropist. Four months out of the year he lived in Geneva where he was associated with various banks headquartered there. He was also chairman of the Linden Trust and, by virtue of his control of the disbursements of that fund, was more responsible for the development and course of nuclear research than any other private citizen. He gave money to Catholic charities, had had a rose named in his honor, had never graduated from college. In virtually every respect his life was opposite that of his brother-in- law, Robert Paris. Yet Smith, who lived in relative anonymity, was by birth something that Robert Paris never became, a member of the American aristocracy.
Nor, apparently, did the two men like each other. There was never anything as obvious as a public falling out.
