The Fallen Angels Book Club (3 page)

My mind drifted. I couldn't believe it. Rory. He wasn't my favorite or anything, but he had a great way of deciphering a book's characters and often suggested alternative plots. Regrettably, that talent wasn't enough to offset his compulsive behavior and annoying tendency to let his cynicism get out of control. He was a man of contradictions. He could be aloof as well as charming or witty or depressing as hell.

We were different people, with different reasons for joining the same book club. We were avid readers who happened to be ex-felons. Three years and one recent addition later, we were going strong, except that we now appeared to be minus one member.

Lincoln coughed, breaking my reverie.

“I'm sorry. Could you repeat that? I was trying to remember.”

“We're talkin' about a book, right? What could be so bad?” Detective Lincoln clearly didn't get it. He picked up our next month's selection, which rested on top of my coffee table, and weighed it in his hand as if its mass could lead to an answer.

“You're so right,” I replied. “It was stupid to argue. We get carried away sometimes. We don't always agree with each other, but this time …” I remembered Rory's red face and his finger pointing at each of us around the room.

“This time what?” Faber asked.

“Nothing. I was trying to think if there was anything else, but there isn't. I'm sorry. I just can't believe he's gone.” I pasted on a spacey smile. “Can I offer you some tea?” I prayed they would say no.

“No, thank you.” Lincoln reached into his wallet and handed me a couple of business cards. “Call us if you remember something about Mr. Norris.”

I put the cards in my pocket. “Not a problem.”

As soon as the detectives left, I dialed Abby's cellphone number. She'd be grateful to get a heads up or maybe we could share reactions to the police visits. No answer. I left a message for her to contact me.

As I picked up my book again, I remembered that the murderer in
World at Midnight
was a policeman.

I waited in Clay Boone's law office lobby, trying to ignore the slight headache targeting my temples as I flipped mindlessly through the pages of a magazine. Rory's death was still slowly sinking in. My eyes fell on an ad for Hastings Law School, my old alma mater, and I felt a familiar pang. My goal to serve in the courts had been cut short by my felony conviction. So, as a distant second choice, I got my paralegal certification. Free from background checks and fingerprint databases, I was hired by a well-respected Oakland law firm, Dodson, Dodson & Doyle LLP, known by its employees as Triple D. At first I thought it strange that a firm would continue to have the names of dead partners on its masthead, but later I thought it made perfect sense. No one knew who really ran the place.

Rory had been murdered the same way as in our book club selection
.

I got up and checked in for a second time with the receptionist, who was multitasking—acknowledging me with a nod while murmuring into the phone and typing energetically. Boone's building was only a few blocks from the one where I worked. Not as upscale as Triple D, his office was located in one of the downtown Victorians in a quiet setting without any real view. After a few moments, Clay came out, extending one beefy hand as he directed me down the hall to his office.

“Hollis, sorry to keep you waiting. Come on in. How are things going?” He pointed to one of two black leather chairs facing his desk.

“Things are going well. I've started on my pardon statement. I've identified all my references and I should be able to have everything to you by the end of May.”

Boone epitomized self-assurance. Since I've known him, he's made me feel that if anything could be done, he not only could, but would, do it. I know a lot of attorneys. When I went looking for one to help me file and obtain a Certificate of Rehabilitation, his name was first on my list. It's too bad he didn't work at Triple D. Legal fees were costing me megabucks, but as far as I was concerned, my privacy was priceless. Research told me Boone had successfully represented many ex-felons. He knew what it took to get the desired court decision. I trusted him. Looking at him now, I could see something was wrong.

He pursed his thin lips and shook his head. “You're going to have to move a little faster. Judge Pine announced his retirement at the end of the summer. He's known to be a strong supporter of the rehabilitation program. However, he's being replaced by Judge Mathis who is … well, let's just say he's not soft on crime.”

Great.

My heart beat a little faster. “When do I have to have it all done?”

“I need your paperwork by the first week in May.”

“You've got to be kidding. That's only six weeks!”

“I know it's a little tight, but it's important we get the right judge.”

“Believe me. No one knows that better than I do.”

He held up his hand. “You can do this. How many references are you missing?”

“Well, I don't have any yet. I know who I have to ask, but I wanted to get the notice that I qualified first.”

The most critical reference would come from my employer. After paralegal school, I didn't lie on my employment application about my conviction. My current boss, Avery Mitchell, knew my circumstances. He interviewed me through a temp agency. Unlike the several other law firms I interviewed with, he gave me the break I needed.

Clay sat up. “Well, now you've got the notice. It's time to get moving. We can't let this window close. If you wait, we have to assume it'll take one to two months for your petition to make its way through the system again. We don't want to be given a judge like Mathis midstream. You need to finish your statement as soon as possible. Judge Pine likes to have plenty of time to read a petitioner's request.”

“I've got it outlined.” I put the events of the last couple of days out of my mind and energized my voice to sound upbeat. “I just need to write it. I can be finished with a draft by the end of next week, along with securing my first reference.”

“Good, good. Let me see the rough draft as soon as you finish.” He glanced over at the clock. “Is there anything else?”

It briefly crossed my mind to mention Rory's murder. Instead, I lied and shook my head.

T
he next morning was Saturday and I was on a mission. I had a statement to write. Clearing the kitchen table, I opened my laptop and listed the points I needed to cover. I could only imagine what Boone would say about my application if he knew I might be on speaking terms with a murderer. I certainly had been friendly enough with the victim. I shoved all doubts to the back of my mind and started typing. Three hours and six pages later, my eyes started to glaze over.

Needing a break, I decided to pay a visit to my favorite bookstore, Do Over, on the other side of town. The day was clear but bone-chilling cold. I pulled my coat closer. Once again I thanked the gods for pointing me to San Lucian. Located next to the cities of San Leandro and San Lorenzo, San Lucian was a much-admired San Francisco East Bay Area community. Warm and welcoming, it was more of an oversized neighborhood than a city.

A yoga class was finishing up. Theo, the owner, nodded in recognition when I came in. He wouldn't engage me in conversation unless I gave him a high sign and this time I didn't.

Taking out my statement draft, I poured myself a cup of the orange cinnamon tea offered at the complimentary station and sat in one of the overstuffed chairs in the reading corner. I took my time sipping tea and looking at the few customers who appeared to be like me—trying to find a temporary refuge from whatever.

Murdered like the victim in our book club selection.

Why would a Fallen Angel kill Rory?

Any way I looked at it, Rory must have said or done something that had seriously aggravated a member, but who? No one ever took him seriously.

I glanced up at the door when the bell jingled and then turned my head away in disbelief as the tall lean frame of Detective John Faber appeared. Dressed in faded jeans and a maroon V-neck pullover, he wore an Oakland A's cap and a speculative look. Our eyes locked. Seemingly as surprised as I, he walked over.

“Good morning,” he said. “This is my first time here. I didn't realize it would be on your list of bookstores.” As if sensing my discomfort he stood a couple of feet away.

I mentally collected myself and came up with a half-smile. “It's one of my favorite getaways. I didn't know you were a book lover.”

“Actually, I read quite a lot.” Faber paused. “Well, considering the circumstances, I think it's best I leave and return another time.”

I frowned. “Yes, I guess so. It was nice seeing you, Detective, outside of the ‘circumstances,' I mean.”

He gave me an appraising look. “Yeah, it was nice seeing you, too, Ms. Morgan.”

Then he walked away.

It took some effort to shake off the encounter. Two cups of tea and four new sentences later I was calmer and ready to settle down and write.

Back at home, the light on my answering machine blinked with two messages. It didn't matter. I didn't want any distractions. I moved to the dining room and glanced blankly at the stack of pages on the table.

“What the hell.” I turned, went back to the kitchen, and pushed the message button.

“Hey, Rebecca, it's me.” I stiffened and slid down the wall to sit on the floor. “I know you must be blown away with my calling. I had a hard time finding you. You changed your name, but I still had Rita's number. Boy, did I give my ex sister-in-law a shock when she heard my voice on the phone. Look, we need to talk. I know you must hate me, but this is serious. It's important to both of us. Give me a call. I'm at the Holiday Inn in San Francisco. I'm checking out tomorrow. Call me, please.”

Anger welled up inside me even as I pushed the button to get the next message. I caught my breath. Anger was replaced by shock.

“Rebecca, Bill called. I gave him your number. I didn't tell him where you live or work. He tried hard to find out. He said it was urgent and he had to speak to you. He threatened to bother Mom next, and well … I had to give him your number. Give me a call if you want to talk. I'm sorry. There was nothing I could do.”

I pushed erase.

Rita hadn't spoken to me in five years and just knowing Bill had my phone number made me feel defiled.

William Edwin Lynley was four years my senior. He swept me off my feet with his easy smile and bedroom eyes. He made me laugh. He taught me how to love. Then he taught me how to be stupid. I trusted him without question. We honeymooned in Carmel at the Marriott Hotel and then set up housekeeping in the little community of Montclair in the East Bay Area.

Our first year together was heaven. The second year was purgatory, the third, hell. His insurance practice made enough for me to go to law school without having to take a part-time job, and his periodic traveling gave me the solid blocks of time I needed to study. Bill said he didn't want me to worry about money.

I believed him when he said he just needed me to sign a few contracts he worked on because his fiduciary responsibility as a consultant might give him a conflict of interest. To my credit—I was attending law school after all—I pointed out that my involvement could be seen as a violation of client trust. I ignored all the signs that he was lying to me because more than anything I wanted to believe him. So, to my shame, I accepted his lame explanations and signed. When the California Insurance Commissioner caught up to him, Bill gave him me. He couldn't testify against me as my husband, but with my signatures on contracts, he didn't need to. He and the great lawyer he retained told me that if I pleaded no contest, I wouldn't have to do any time. That was before I had a change of judges. Five years ago, when my sentence came down, all my dreams came crashing around me. I looked past the bailiff to catch Bill's eyes. He shrugged and walked out the courtroom door.

That was the last time I saw Bill.

I
went upstairs, shoved yesterday's mail to the other side of my bed, and lifted up the comforter to uncover the edge of the frame. On my knees, I reached under, feeling rather than seeing, remembering rather than feeling.

I jerked my hand back with a small cry of pain. A splinter. It figured. I sucked my finger, then with both hands pulled out the small cherry wood chest. It had been months since I felt the need to go through its contents. It contained remnants from a life I'd walked away from years before. Pushing aside mementos and my parole papers, I removed a small brass key and returned the chest to its nesting place.

I looked up at my bed clock to check the time. If I hurried, I could make it to the bank. Otherwise, I'd have to wait until Monday.

With five minutes to closing, I strode past a visibly annoyed security guard and walked over to the cluster of desks on the right. There were at least eight other last-minute visitors winding their way along a red rope to the tellers.

“Excuse me,” I said to the young blond who tried to ignore me as she tapped out commands on her computer.