Unlucky in Law (16 page)

“How often would you say he came here?”

She put the ledger carefully back in its place on the file cabinet with the others.

“Dozens of times, even after . . . oh, heck, I might as well tell you. Who's to protect? This was all so long ago. I was even young then.” She smiled, shaking her head. “He did get involved with another woman after his wife died.”

“Oh? That's interesting.”

“But that didn't stop him from remembering Davida. He always brought flowers for his wife. The groundsman had to chase him off one time. He was digging away, wanting to plant them! That wasn't allowed even then. Of course, they have to be able to mow and keep things nice. Now her grave and his are mostly gravel, although they were originally grass. You'll see why when you go over there. He had bought a double grave site framed in concrete. It's raised slightly above the other graves, and was impossible to maintain as grass now that they ride the mowers instead of pushing them by hand.”

“I'd like to hear what you can tell me about his new lady friend.”

She blushed. “He didn't want me to know, because he never said a word, but a woman called here once, trying to find him, and—you can just tell when someone has a claim on someone else, you know? I never saw her or heard her name. So that's my gossip. I've fallen from the path of righteousness again today. Such is my fate.”

Paul was starting to really like Mrs. Peltier. She had just handed him a mystery woman to check out. There's nothing like a mystery woman to a detective. “You say he used to tell you stories. What kind of stories did he tell?”

“About his childhood in St. Petersburg, mostly. I guess he was thinking a lot about those days. I think he had some really happy times. And some very bad ones, too. Sometimes, he got absolutely bleak, telling me. But generally, he liked telling about riding horses, learning to shoot, that kind of thing.”

“You said he told you wild stories. These don't sound so wild.”

“Oh, you know. I hate to pass them on. The whole thing is probably ridiculous. But”—she shrugged—“nobody's ever asked me before, and I don't really think he would mind if I told you.”

“Told me what?”

“Oh!” she said, so delighted she put her hands together in a silent clap. “I even have a picture! I just thought it was so absurd, and nothing he could say convinced me.” She started rummaging around. “Let's see. Now where would that thing be?” After searching the central drawer in the desk, she moved down the left side, then down the right, while Paul fidgeted with frustration.

“Let me help?” he asked.

“No, you just drink your tea!” she said. “I know it's here somewhere.” She moved to one of the file cabinets. “Could I have put it in here? Over the years, I've been moved to do a little spring cleaning. Let's hope I didn't throw it out. Really, I'm an appalling pack rat, that's the truth. Look at all this stuff.” Papers piled up on the desk behind her. A few stacks had settled on the floor. “I simply have to get better organized. It's not as though I have a particularly demanding clientele most days.”

Driven to it, laughing with her in spite of himself, Paul drank his tea.

“Maybe I was teasing him back a little,” she said, working through the second drawer as if all day and all night lay ahead with nothing better to do, “because he took it so very seriously, and the whole thing seemed just ridiculous. So he brought this picture, which he found in a book in the library. He actually had a copy made for me. He said this would prove it.”

“Prove what?”

“Eureka!” she said, pulling out a tatty-edged print. “Thank goodness I'm not at all the compulsive housekeeper Harry always accused me of being. It's just, he never really looked in the drawers. He never really saw all I could pack in there.”

She showed him the picture. The fuzzy black-and-white showed an impressive procession of black-booted men in uniform, light-colored shirts buttoned slightly to one side, flat, round caps with brims pulled neatly down over their foreheads. Toward the end of the procession rode a solemn young boy on horseback, dressed like a sailor, with a round white cap.

“These men are prerevolutionary soldiers, the Russian imperial army. Their allies called it the ‘Russian Steamroller.' And that's him,” she said, pointing at the boy. “That's Constantin, or so he told me. It could be him.” She smiled. “He was older when I knew him.” At the front of the marching group stood a man in a tall fur hat, with a neat beard and a heavy, drooping mustache, obviously the most important person there.

“Nicholas the Second,” she said to answer Paul's inquiring glance. “The last Romanov tsar. They ruled for three hundred years, until 1918.”

“What was Constantin Zhukovsky doing there?”

“He made up so many stories,” she said, “but who knows? He claimed he was a page to the tsar. The last one, as he used to say.”

Paul asked to borrow it so that he could make a copy.

He left, map in hand, walking the winding strips of road until he ran into Wish. They headed toward a square plot, marked off by a low concrete berm. Inside it, below a spreading shade tree, they found the place where Constantin Zhukovsky had been buried.

“It's a gathering of Russians,” Wish remarked, “dead ones.” Each headstone there was marked with an unusual cross with two straight horizontal crossbars at the top, and below them, a short slanted one. “Do you think people care if they're hanging with their ethnic brothers and sisters when they are dead?”

“I can't speak for them, but obviously their relatives do,” Paul said. “It's just like a community meeting here, only nobody's hell-bent on overthrowing the mayor.”

The cross marking Constantin Zhukovsky's grave was made of wood splintered with age. No remaining sign of disturbance in the gravel covering the grave exposed Stefan Wyatt's activities of several months ago. Wish stared at the headstone. “Constantin Zhukovsky, 1904–1978. That's all it says.”

“What should it say?” Paul asked.

Wish thought. “It should say, Beloved Father and Husband. Or something. Don't you think at the very least your headstone ought to summarize you somehow? It should mark some special achievement, I think.”

“Maybe they hated him and kept it short to avoid embarrassing him.”

“I don't get the impression that he was a creep, do you?”

“No,” Paul admitted. He took the picture out of his pocket and studied it. What did Mrs. Peltier's story mean? And if it was true, why hadn't the family commemorated Constantin Zhukovsky's fascinating background on his headstone?

13

Sunday 9/21

O
N
S
UNDAY MORNING,
P
AUL FOUND
E
RIN
O'T
OOLE WATERING A
corner plot near the off ramp from Highway 1. While she watered, she crouched now and then to dig up the occasional weed, cut off browning flowers, and check inside her flowers for bugs. She had very long black hair done in two braids that intersected halfway down her back. Her clothes were practical. The minute she spotted Paul, she turned off the hose, and walked lightly toward him.

“Here you are again,” she said, pumping his hand. “Never saying die.”

Paul enjoyed Erin's energy. You could almost see the billions of molecules bouncing around inside her, pinking her cheeks, pumping those toned legs. He just wished he could get something out of her. He had spoken with her once already, but she had been too upset to say much. Today, she seemed a little more accessible.

“Ms. Reilly's secretary called to let me know you were coming again, Paul. Sorry about last time. I hope I didn't put you off, but I wasn't myself.” She lifted her eyes above the frown that had formed. “So let me help you today. What do you need from me?”

“Well, I have some more questions.”

“Anything to help Stef.” Her voice, with its high, young pitch, held a stalwart firmness in it.

“Is there a better place to talk?” Paul asked loudly, to beat the traffic noise.

“I'm done,” she said. “Mind following me home? I'd love to get the sweat situation under control before we get into life stories.” The fog had burned off early that morning. Even in Monterey, September could be hot, and unlike yesterday, the day already simmered.

He didn't mind following her. She drove a white van with the name “Green Plant Haven” on its side. They didn't have to go far. She lived in a dinky house not far up from the bay, adorned with flowers. A border along the white picket fence sported a crazed collection of color. The yard had a tidy sprawl to it Paul could not help admiring. Nina's cottage would benefit from Erin's touch, no doubt about it. Erin sat him down in her living room with a can of soda, then disappeared.

When she returned, she gleamed in a dazzling white T-shirt and jeans. She sat down in a striped yellow armchair that tipped into a recliner when she leaned back. “Something to eat?” Erin offered, taking a long drink of her soda. “I've got tuna, even some homemade soup.”

“No, thanks,” Paul said, even though he was, in fact, hungry. “I just have a few minutes.”

“So?”

“So tell me a little more about you and Stefan.” He looked at his notes. “You told me before that you met at a restaurant?”

She looked reluctant, but decided to answer. “Yep,” she said. “We met at the bar of an old restaurant in Carmel, the Pine Inn. Stef was bartending. This is back when he had a job. They have a cute bar. I used to go there to drown my sorrows,” she said, remembering.

“What sorrows were those?”

“Oh, you know. Some guy did me dirty,” she said. “My heart was shattered and would never be the same.”

“Stefan helped you see differently.”

“He helped me so much, at first, just by listening while I groaned about my troubles. I wasn't looking for someone, you know? But there he was, wagging his tail. Lonely, eager, but most of all, he has his own philosophy of life, and a kind of—wisdom. He has a unique take on the world. He's for change, the good kind. Believe in people, give them what they need to get along.”

“He was a political activist?”

“His politics weren't the problem,” she said bluntly. “His breaking a promise to me was the problem.”

Paul nodded.

“Even so, Stef's not a really bad person. People should know him better before they decide he's some generic bad guy and put him away for life.”

“What happened to the bar job?”

“He got fired. He wanted to unionize the workers. I supported him in that.”

Yeah, you supported him all right, Paul was thinking. Stefan lived his principles, and you brought home the bacon.

“And I support him now, even though we're not together anymore.”

“You broke up after his arrest?” he asked, nudging her along.

She nodded.

“Why?”

“I need to trust someone,” she said. “I couldn't get my heart broken again by a man who wouldn't be straight with me.”

Flame in her eyes, burning, fearsome. If Paul lied to Nina, would she hold it so ferociously against him? No. They had traveled way beyond hard-and-fast rules. “How long were you together?”

“About two years before he got arrested.”

“While you were together, did you ever fight with him?”

“Oh, all the time.”

“He ever hurt you in any way?” He had checked and found no record of domestic calls, but many women never called.

“What? Are you crazy? Stefan would never—oh, my God. I see what you're getting at. Did he ever, like, creep up behind me and try to strangle me? No. He never did! He never hit me. He never touched me, except”—she appeared near tears—“tenderly.”

“You have your own business?”

She needed a few seconds to blink and change topics. “No. I work for another woman who gets in all the clients. She contracts to landscape and maintain specific commercial properties. We don't do houses, only businesses, which keeps her profits higher. Our clients are gas stations, restaurants, that kind of place. The Monterey Bay area's full of small-business types needing our kind of service,” she said. “Sure wish I owned the company. I'd love to buy her out. Stefan and I could . . .” She blushed. “I used to think we'd make a really dynamite team.”

“That night that Stefan got caught,” Paul said. “Could you tell me about it one more time?” People's stories had a way of changing. He wanted Nina to know what Erin would say on the stand. She needed all the help she could get on preparation for this trial, and had gotten precious little. What a ridiculous situation, Nina taking on yet another lost cause, this time with Klaus, who was speeding into senility, from what he had seen lately.

“We ate out at the Captain's Gig,” she said promptly. “Then we had a few drinks, I think, and just talked. Tequila. It's the devil for sure. I guess I went to bed early.”

“You didn't know he went out.”

“No.”

“You had no idea he was digging up a grave that night,” he said.

“No.”

“Did you notice what time he left?”

Erin shifted her legs, which had been crossed, to a more rigid position, parallel and aligned. “I didn't notice he was gone at first. I didn't notice until later.”

“Which was when?” Paul asked.

“Maybe midnight. I woke up and he wasn't there. And then a few hours later he called from the police station. Talk about a wake-up call. That was bad.”

“What do you think of Wanda Wyatt?”

“Stef's mother?” She picked at some loose threads along the edge of a pillow. “He's way more like her than his brother.”

A bulb flickered. “But she favors his brother?” Paul said.

“She doesn't have high hopes for Stefan.”

“Ah.”

“He has potential, but she still sees him as an immature child who never got potty-trained and has accidents to this day. Everything's a personal affront to Wanda, like Stef's messing up intentionally to make her feel bad.”

“Messing up, as in lobbing a brick at a police officer?”

She must have heard his disapproval. Her entire body stiffened, preparing for a strong defense. “That cop was beating a friend of his with a stick. It wasn't like it sounds.”

“Or,” Paul consulted his notes, “getting into a bar fracas and sending another man to the hospital?”

“He was a kid. The other guy picked a fight and he fought back. It wasn't his fault the guy fell. He hardly touched him.”

Oh, this girl was the perfect mate for many, many guys Paul had personally helped put away over the years, back when he had been on the force. What a cheerleader! But what an adorable cheerleader.

“People don't understand him. You don't, and you're supposedly on his side. Let me tell you, Stef's generous, sweet, a real pushover. He does his mother's chores, which his brother would never do. He helped our neighbors, buying them groceries, taking them out to run errands, fixing their cars.”

“He's been in jail twice before.”

“Yeah, yeah. Repeat offender. That's what my folks call him. Every bad thing he ever did, he got caught and punished for. But he would never kill someone, for God's sake. I just wish—my family is old-fashioned. The truth is, I care about what they think. It's a mess. I couldn't stay with him unless they approved. Obviously, they don't. So who knows what will happen?” She set her cup on the table and ran a finger around its edge. “We need you people to get him out of that place. How can they just lock him up and take away his future? I want him out.”

Paul thought about how young they were, and how very long even a few months apart must feel. How long had he hung on to Nina? For years. And he was not getting any younger. Distracted by her hunky young jailbird beau, Erin didn't even bother to flirt with Paul. To her, he must seem out of the running.

“We want him out, too, Erin. We'll do what we can.”

She leaned back in the scruffy chair, smoothing impossibly wrinkled jeans. “I had things all planned out for us,” she said. “I was going to get him to propose to me, then drag him to meet my family and show them how cool he is, really. Then we would have a wedding on the beach at Carmel River, with—oh, flags, a pretty dress. Everyone high! And now when those thoughts come into my head, I just put them aside. Either that, or I have to cry. But whatever happens with Stef and me, he's innocent. He shouldn't be in jail.”

“He's facing a third strike,” Paul reminded her, afraid to enable such powerful faith. How hard she would fall, if Stefan Wyatt turned out dirty.

As they usually did.

“I wanted to talk to you about that. What if I told you—he stayed home that night, and never went to the cemetery at all?”

“I wouldn't believe you. You've been deposed. You've made statements to the police.”

“What if I could prove it?”

“How?”

“I don't know. A video with a date on it?” She leaned toward him.

So, she was willing to lie. Love conquers all, including distinctions between good and bad. He guessed he knew that better than anyone. “Did he ever speak directly with Alex Zhukovsky in your presence?”

“Would it help if he did?”

“You want to help him, tell me the truth.”

“Then no.”

“You don't know anything about someone hiring him to go to the cemetery?”

“I want to help him,” she said urgently.

“Erin, what really happened?”

Tears filled her eyes. “I don't know why he went there that night. Damn it! I knew there was something up when he poured his drink in the plant, but he was being so nice. I just thought he wanted to stay sober for . . .” She paused and blushed. “You're a good listener.”

“Do you know his brother, Gabe?”

“I've met him a few times. He didn't exactly hang with us.”

“How close are he and Stefan?”

“Stef loves and admires Gabe. He's done plenty for him, starting when they were little kids and Gabe was sick. Stef took care of him then, even though Stef was the younger brother. That's hard on a family. Maybe it's why Wanda favors Gabe, because he was weaker physically when they were growing up.”

“What was wrong with him?”

“A blood disease. Stefan donated blood or something, and Gabe was cured.”

Blood? Paul's ears pricked up, but then he remembered an earlier case: a blood transfusion doesn't change someone's DNA. Rats. “What does Gabe think of Stefan?”

“Gabe thinks he's guilty,” she said flatly. “He says the blood evidence can't lie. Have you met him?”

“He was away most of last week and we haven't had a chance to hook up. I understand he works for an agency, Classic Collections?”

“When I first heard the name, I thought, wow, fashion. Maybe he can get me clothes cheap.” Her mouth hinted at dimples. “But no, Gabe's your man when it comes to collecting on a bad debt. He's their top agent.”

“How does he get along there?”

“He hates his boss. He feels underrespected, underpromoted, underpaid. Wanda hasn't been a good influence, always building him up, praising him for a C on his report card, you know? I think she feels guilty she was a widow, that she couldn't give him a father. Isn't that stupid, as if she could have kept her husband alive when his time came? Have you met Wanda yet?”

“Yes, we've met, briefly.” He couldn't think of a case he had worked on with less lead time and more frustrating, abortive encounters. “I'm seeing her again this afternoon. Any chance Gabe had something to do with putting Stef up to this graveyard job?”

She stared at him. “Why would he?”

“Did Gabe know Christina Zhukovsky?”

“I never heard he did.”

“Do you happen to know if he attended a conference that was held at Cal State Monterey last spring?”

“Something about Russians, right?”

Amazed that he finally had a hit, he said, “Right.”

“Yeah. He went. I think someone from his work was speaking. Maybe they wanted to open up a Russian office. Weird thought, huh?”

“Did Stefan attend?”

“Why would he? No.”

“Does Gabe have a girlfriend?”

“They come and go. You have to be happy in who you are to love and be loved. He isn't.”

Paul looked at his notes and asked, “Any idea why he consulted the Pohlmann firm? Because apparently, that's how Stefan ended up hiring them.”

She thought, and Paul almost laughed at how intently she screwed her face up, as if organizing the machinery inside her head had to happen before any real thinking could be accomplished. He could see how she might be perceived as flighty or not too bright. Erin wasn't dumb. It had taken him a while to figure that out. She had too much going on inside, and hadn't yet learned to order her thoughts and present them in the way the world liked, strained into a weak juice. “Something about a will. Maybe he needed one? Although it's not like he has any money, or Wanda, either.”