Rough Justice

now?

Marta paused. Why now? That could be the answer. It could be that the missing papers would implicate Steere in Eb Darning's murder. Otherwise, why the frantic activity at this point? Assume Steere had sent Alix to get these papers after Marta had told him she'd find evidence against him. He did have a portable phone. Maybe Steere called Alix and told her to find the file and hide it elsewhere. Or shred it, keep it secret. If Steere wanted it secret, Marta wanted it all the more.

Marta stood at the file cabinet, thinking. Then she remembered that the police had searched Steere's city town house when he was first arrested. The D.A. tried to get a warrant to search Steere's beach house, but Marta had successfully opposed it for lack of probable cause. But Steere wouldn't have taken any chances. If there were any evidence here relating to the crime, he would have had it hidden, or disguised it. It could be something that looked innocent but wasn't. Like Steere himself.

Marta's gaze circled the home office. Across the room was a small credenza with two drawers left open. She hurried to it, opened the top drawer, and thumbed through it. Personal records. One manila folder read ANTIQUES and was filled with furniture receipts. English Interiors— One mahogany lowboy, $1550.00, read the one on top. Marta slipped it back.

She pulled the next file, labeled BOAT. Boat? Marta didn't know Steere had a boat. She flipped to the bill of sale. FOUR WINNS 258 Vista Cruiser, twenty-five feet long. It had cost $47,425 and had been bought almost four years ago. Also in the folder were insurance documents and docking bills from LBI Marina. Piratical was the boat's name. Perfect for Steere, but not helpful.

Fuck. What time was it? Marta checked her watch. 1:45 A.M. She tensed. The jury would resume deliberations in seven hours. Could Christopher turn them around? Where could those papers be? Maybe hidden elsewhere in the house. Somewhere she wouldn't expect. Marta abandoned the credenza in a hurry, then checked the other rooms for anything that seemed out of the ordinary. Nothing.

Marta hurried downstairs and searched the first floor. She rummaged through bookshelves and kitchen cabinets. Highboys and lowboys. Nothing. She didn't even know what she was looking for. It was an impossible task. She plopped on the living room rug. Her fatigue was catching up with her. She didn't know what else to do. On the living room wall hung a large framed blueprint of the mansion. BUILT IN 1888, TODD HUNTER, ARCHITECT, read the architectural block lettering.

Marta blinked, distracted. She loved houses, even plans for houses. The blueprint was a deep marine color, and the architect had drawn in white. She could see the ruled lines describing the living room and dining room, then the dotted swinging lines for the double door between them. This was an old, old house. No wonder it wasn't up on stilts like the others she'd driven by. Marta knew from her beach house on Cape Cod that the newer houses would have bedrooms downstairs and living areas on the upper floor, to take advantage of the ocean view.

Marta frowned, the house hunter in her disapproving. It was a problem with Steere's house, for all its grace and elegance. No water view. She looked at the bank of windows that faced the beach. They were large, but dunes obscured the ocean view. Snowy mounds lay around the house like loose pearls.

Marta thought a minute. Why would Steere, who could afford any house on Long Beach Island, choose one that had no ocean view? Then she remembered something. What had Steere said? In the interview room at the courthouse? I love the beach, but I hate the water. The memory jerked Marta awake. Steere hated the ocean. He hated it so much he'd bought a house with no view of the water. So why did he own a boat?

Marta scrambled to her feet and sprinted back upstairs.

38

Judge Rudolph stood behind his desk in his chambers and frowned at the handwritten motion for a mistrial, which had been hand-delivered to his chambers. His law clerk sat across the desk, red-faced. Joey had been stupid enough to accept service of the motion papers. Strike three. Judge Rudolph wouldn't take him to the high court, if he ever got there, now. 'You should have refused it!' the judge snapped, throwing the papers onto his desk in anger.

'I'm sorry, Your Honor.'

'You should have told her to file it during business hours.'

'I know, Your Honor.'

'It doesn't have a clerk's time stamp. There's nothing official about it. You could have told her you didn't have permission to take it.'

'Yes, Your Honor.'

'You could have asked for her ID, for God's sake. How did you even know who she was? Why do you let strangers into my chambers like that?'

'She wasn't a stranger. It was Judy Carrier. I know her from court, Your Honor.'

'Don't backtalk me! I have my personal things in here! This is my chambers, not yours!'

'Yes, Your Honor. I know.' Joey sat on the chair opposite the judge's desk. His head hung over the legal pad and photocopied cases in his lap.

'The woman shows up to serve papers and you hold out your hand?'

'Carrier said she filed it, Judge.'

'At one o'clock in the morning?' The judge was shouting now. 'How could she file it, you idiot?'

'She said it was an emergency.'

'It's her emergency, not my emergency. You know how many papers we get here that some lawyer calls emergency papers? How many, Joey? A million? Everything's an emergency to a lawyer!'

'Yes, Your Honor.'

'Who runs this case anyway, the lawyers or me? It's not an emergency unless I say it's an emergency! Until then it's just more paper. Another lawyer with another pleading. Paper. Garbage. Trash. How many times do I have to tell you?' Judge Rudolph snatched off his tortoiseshell glasses and rubbed his eyes irritably. 'My God. I hate this.'