“Well, I hate calling you there, but I think I’m in trouble, Max,” I said, getting to the point.
“Tell me,” he ordered, and I told him the whole story.
“It’s good you called,” he said when I’d finished. “I’ll meet you at the station house in a half hour. Wait for me in the parking lot.”
I found Alverez where I’d left him, standing by the crates, scanning the room. I told him what Max said, and he nodded.
“Half hour’s fine,” he said. “I’ll see you there.”
I watched as he walked away, leaving me feeling alone, confused, and frightened.
Max and I stood on the edge of the sand dunes watching the ocean as we spoke. I know that it’s popular not to like lawyers, but it’s impossible not to like Max. He’s paternal without being patronizing, direct but always respectful, and old-fashioned without being stodgy. He’s probably about forty-five, but you think he’s older from the way he dresses and conducts himself. He wears tweed jackets and bow ties, and he’s almost courtly in manner.
“If I tell you not to answer any question, don’t. Stop talking when I tell you. If you’re unsure about an answer talk to me in a whisper first,” he instructed me. “If you know the answer and I haven’t stopped you, answer only what is asked. Don’t give any extra information. The shorter your answer, the better. One-word answers are good.”
“What if I can’t give just a one-word answer? What if he asks for my impressions of something?”
“Assuming I don’t stop you, try to answer it in one short sentence. Don’t expound.”
I nodded my understanding and agreement. The ocean was rough today. The bottle green water was dotted with whitecaps, and the waves were bigger than usual. It was mostly overcast. A storm was brewing.
Max told me his fee and I was glad that I had enough in savings so it wouldn’t pinch to pay it. We crossed the street and entered the station house. The Rocky Point police station was new, built in the last year or two and designed to look like a beach house with a peaked roof and shingles left to weather to a silvery tone just like most of the houses along the shore.
Alverez pushed through the swinging wooden gate to greet us, then held it open for us to pass through.
“Thanks for coming. How you doing, Max?” he asked.
“Fine, thanks,” Max said. “How’ve you been? I haven’t seen you since last summer’s clam bake.”
“That was a good time, wasn’t it?” Alverez asked. “Cathy,” he called, “we’ll be in the back.”
A big blonde hurried out from somewhere on the left. “Did you see my notes?” she asked. “You had calls.” She scooped up old-fashioned pink While You Were Out message sheets from a Formica-topped desk and handed them to him, spotted us, and looked at Alverez, a question in her eyes.
“This is Josie Prescott,” Alverez said to her. “And her lawyer, Max Bixby. We’ll be in room two, Cathy.” To me he added, “Would you like some coffee or an iced tea or anything?”
“No, thanks,” I said.
“You?” he asked Max.
“I’m fine, thanks.”
He led us down a short hall to a cheerless room with a floor-to-ceiling wire-mesh cage partitioned in a corner. “That’s creepy,” I said, nodding toward it.
“Yeah. But necessary sometimes for our unruly guests.”
“I guess,” I said.
“Have a seat. I won’t be long.”
I sat so the holding cell was in back of me, out of sight. The chair was hard and uncomfortable. Max sat across from me and pulled a yellow legal pad from his briefcase. I leaned forward, resting my eyes on the heels of my hands, my elbows perched on the scarred wooden table. Max didn’t speak, but I could hear him turning pages on his pad. Unexpectedly, the door latch clicked home with a sharp snap. I looked up, startled by the sound, feeling as trapped as if I’d been locked in the cage behind me.
Without a watch, which I never wore since it always seemed to get in the way when I was working, I had no way of knowing how long Max and I sat. It seemed a very long time, but I felt a sense of unreality, so maybe it wasn’t long at all.
“Sorry to keep you waiting,” Alverez said when he came back, businesslike, carrying a collection of papers. “I have the medical examiner’s preliminary report. Before I tell you about it, though, let me get the recorder set up.”
“Recorder?” I asked.
“Tape recorder. So I don’t have to take notes.”
I looked at Max and he nodded.
“That’s fine. I’m assuming we can have a copy of the tape?” Max asked.
“Sure,” Alverez said.
I watched as Alverez positioned the small unit on the table and pushed a button. A red light appeared and I heard a whirring sound. Alverez gave our names, the date, and time.
“I appreciate your coming in to help,” Alverez said. “Just a formality, but I’m going to ask you to sign a form indicating that you’ve been advised of your rights.” Alverez slid a piece of paper across the table to Max and read me my Miranda rights. It felt hard to breathe. I forced myself to listen, and when he asked me if I understood, I answered that I did. Max nodded that it was okay for me to sign the paper. Never sign something you haven’t read, my dad had taught me. I read it and signed my name.
“Okay,” Alverez said. “So. The medical examiner. The preliminary report is in.”
“What did he say?” Max asked.
“She. Dr. Young said death occurred this morning.”
“When?”
“Between nine and noon, as best she can figure it.”
“Oh, my God!” I exclaimed. “I had a horrible thought before that it was while I was on the porch that he was dying, and now you’re saying it’s true!” Tears came again, but this time I let them fall.
Max patted my arm gently, and whispered, “Don’t speak.”
“I had an officer check things out,” Alverez said, looking at me, changing the subject. “We found your appointment in Mr. Grant’s diary. It lay open to today’s date on the kitchen table. Apparently, he hadn’t forgotten that you were to meet him.”
I shook my head. “Poor Mr. Grant.”
“And your message was still on the machine-apparently un-played.”
“How did death occur?” Max asked.
“What about it, Josie? Do you know?”
“What?” I asked, horrified as the implications of his question sunk in. He thought I knew something about Mr. Grant’s murder.
“Do you know how Mr. Grant died?” he asked again.
“No. Of course not.”
“Well?” Max prompted, tapping his pen on the table. “Fill us in.”
“Mr. Grant was stabbed.”
“Oh, God,” I exclaimed, and began to cry again. “How awful.” I used the sides of my hands and pushed gently under my eyes. The tears gradually stopped.
Struck by a sudden thought, I turned to Max and in a soft voice asked, “I just thought of something. How did they know he’d been killed?”
Max nodded and repeated the question.
Alverez leaned back in his chair, balancing for a moment on the back two legs, keeping his eyes on mine. “His daughter called from Massachusetts and asked us to check on him.”
“She did?” I asked, looking from Alverez to Max and back again. “I don’t understand. Why?”
“She got a call from his lawyer, Epps his name is. Mr. Epps was concerned that someone was trying to strong-arm Mr. Grant into selling his treasures for a song. The daughter, hearing this, was, of course, concerned, and immediately started calling him, but she couldn’t rouse him. Her messages were on the answering machine, too. She called a neighbor, but the neighbor wasn’t home. She called both her dad and the neighbor a few more
