“You got any proof to back that up?” Quintero says.
“None,” I say.
I see Katherine Welsh walking out the front door then, motioning for me to walk with her up the block to where she had parked her car.
“You’re convinced he was murdered,” she says when I get with her.
“I am.”
“With nothing to go on.”
“Maybe less than nothing,” I say. “But as a good Catholic girl, I was taught that faith is believing in what you can’t see.”
“Catholic maybe,” she says. “Not so sure on the good part.”
“It comes and goes,” I tell her.
She stops and gives me a long look, almost as if she’s telling me to cut the shit.
“Who wouldn’t have wanted Paul Harrington to testify today?” she asks finally. “And might have been willing to have him killed to stop him from doing that?”
“Do you even have to ask?” I say.
NINETY
I’VE MADE A TENTATIVE plan with Ben Kalinsky for a nice, quiet dinner for two.
But after I get home and take Rip for a long beach walk, I call Ben to tell him that I am totally deep-fried by the events of the day and am begging off.
“Plus,” I tell him, “I need to start resting up for all the big things I have planned for your birthday this weekend.”
“How big,” he says.
“Isn’t that your job, big boy?” I ask.
We both laugh. Even when I am as tired as I am tonight, and feeling more punk than I have since Sam Wylie gave me the good news about the tumor, Dr. Ben lifts my spirits and eases my soul.
But my stomach is feeling jumpy again, so dinner for me is a couple of scrambled eggs and dry toast. When I’ve finished and cleaned up, I once again try to call Claire Jacobson. She is a recent addition to Katherine Welsh’s witness list, having waived spousal privilege, and I’ve left her several phone messages these past few days because I want to ask her why.
She hasn’t returned my calls, though, or the ones her husband has placed to her. On top of that, Jimmy has driven a couple of times over the past week to the big house she once shared with Rob, only to discover that her blue Bentleywas never in the driveway. He got the vibe that the place is unoccupied.
Claire Jacobson has assured me, on multiple occasions, that she still loves her husband, even with the way he has humiliated her in every possible public way. But by now my experience with Mrs. Jacobson is that I trust her just slightly more than I do her husband.
Tonight I leave another message, asking her to please call me as soon as possible, that I really do need to talk to her before she is scheduled to appear in court in two days.
I am back into the kitchen, fixing myself a cup of Yogi bedtime tea that Sam Wylie has convinced me to try, when I hear my phone from where I left it in the living room.
I run for it hoping it’s Claire, just because I don’t want to be surprised by what she might say under oath, it being a long-established fact that I despise surprises in court.
But it isn’t Claire Jacobson calling me.
It is my ex-husband, Martin.
Always a joy.
“I’m in trouble,” Martin Elian says before I can even say hello.
“In that case, Martin,” I say, “you have probably reached this number in error.”
