The Family Lawyer Read online

  “Who’s he?” I asked the man about to search Jonah’s bag.

  “Dr. Brooks,” he said. “Deputy medical examiner from the coroner’s office.”

  “Is he gonna move Kirk?” My brother-in-law’s position looked unnatural, the hue of his skin a weird-mermaid blue.

  “Not sure. It’s a little hard since rigor’s set in. And with that temp, seems your brother-in-law’s been dead for about five hours. Now, let’s see.” He turned his attention back to the roller-bag.

  Sandwich bags of Cheerios, five tangerines, two yellow Tonka trucks, a teddy bear, clothes, sweatshirt.

  The man wearing the nylon jacket zipped Jonah’s bag again and offered me its handle. “Thanks. Have a good night.” Whistling, he trundled back into the kitchen.

  Weak-kneed, I plopped into a deck chair. From my seat, I could see through the living room window—Dr. Brooks was still on his knees. A female forensics tech pointed to something on the carpet. Another tech held up the wine bottle that Melissa had planted on the coffee table. A man with a video-camera recorded something I couldn’t see.

  What had he found? What had we forgotten?

  It was cold out here, and my breath clouded around my head. No crickets chirped—the noise from the cops and paramedics had scared every bug south of the Santa Monica freeway. Past treetops, I saw the Los Angeles skyline. The Staples Center glowed purple, and Klieg lights still roamed the dark skies. There had been a game hours ago—nothing compared to the one I was now playing, I was sure.

  “You okay?”

  I startled.

  Ian was now standing at the patio table. He was quiet and watchful. He’d make the game harder.

  I rested my chin on the Elmo bag. My eyes hurt from the lit-up blue of the swimming pool and from the jackhammer chiseling at the space between my eyebrows. “Just sitting here.”

  “You look worried.” Ian dropped into the other deck chair. He could see that I could see into the living room.

  “If not now, when? Kirk’s dead. My sister’s losing her mind. And a murderer’s loose. It’s all so…”

  A white flash from a camera brightened the living room. The photographer who had taken the picture was kneeling to peer beneath the couch. He took another picture and a flash brightened the room again.

  “It’s all so what?” Ian asked.

  “Surreal.” My cell phone played from my sweatshirt pocket. R. Kelly’s “Bump n’ Grind.” Talk about surreal. This time, it my on-again, off-again boyfriend. Asher Davis was an ER doc, hence the late-late-late call.

  The photographer reached beneath the couch and grabbed something. He held a small object up to the light.

  And R. Kelly kept singing.

  “Looks like he found a shell casing.” Ian was also staring at that criminalist kneeling beside the couch.

  “That’s…good, right?”

  He nodded. “Once we find the gun, it’ll be wonderful. We’ll match that casing to the bullet that’s still lost somewhere inside your brother-in-law. Hopefully, that casing will have a fingerprint on it.”

  The medical examiner rifled through the pockets of Kirk’s cargo shorts. Out came Kirk’s cell phone as well as a pair of sunglasses and—

  The man who’d found the shell casing now stood over Dr. Brooks and blocked my view.

  “Do you need to answer your phone?” Ian asked.

  My skin flushed as I dipped my hand into my pocket and clicked the Mute switch on my phone. “I’m good. He’ll leave a message.”

  “So now it’s your turn,” Ian said.

  I cocked an eyebrow at the man seated across from me. “For?”

  Ian smiled and his now-perfect teeth glistened in the dark like a wolf’s. “We need to test your hands.”

  Chapter 8

  Excuse me?” Detective Ian Anthony now had my full attention.

  “We need to test your hands for blood and gunpowder residue.”

  That five o’clock shadow, that smug expression…I now clearly remembered both from our days together up in Santa Cruz, California. I wanted to smack it off.

  Over at the house next door, the lights on the second floor flickered off. Mr. Jackson, a gnome of a man, was peeking out the window.

  Ian whistled to the same forensic tech who had searched Jonah’s Elmo bag.

  The man returned, this time with a gray carrying case.

  “This is Frank,” Ian said as way of introduction.

  Frank said, “Me, again.”

  “Mr. Frosted Flakes,” I said.

  “Like I explained to your sister,” Ian said, “this is just part of an investigation. Oh—we’ll also need a DNA sample.”

  I snorted. “Anything else? How about my blood type?”

  Ian smiled at me. “Standard procedure. Nothing personal, Dani. Don’t you want us to find the murderer and have a case strong enough to convict?”

  I looked at him and the tech, then sighed. “It’s not that—it’s just that I really don’t understand why any of this is necessary. This is my sister’s house, my DNA’s all over the place.”

  Frank sat his gray case on the table, opened it up. “Beyond my pay grade.”

  “Dani,” Ian said, “I understand your concern—”

  “And Jonah’s gonna have all kinds of shit on him, too,” I continued, “because Mel was holding him and then I held him and—”

  Ian touched my knee. “Dani, breathe.”

  “I am breathing.” Those clouds of cold air puffing quickly from my mouth and nose confirmed that I was. I pointed at Ian’s hand on my knee. “I hugged Mel. After she found Kirk. Now, you have whatever the hell on you.” My adrenaline was running high. “No one put us, like, in a holding pen to keep us from contaminating the scene and…and…”

  Ian’s smile was tight. “You’re right—you wandered all over the crime scene because you didn’t know that a crime had been committed. We’ll know, okay? We’re not a bunch of Barney Fifes. Let’s get started, shall we?”

  Frank chose a test kit from his case, then snapped on a pair of latex gloves. “This won’t hurt a bit.”

  I rocked in my seat, still holding the Elmo bag tight against my chest. “You understand my concern, right? You understand why I’m a little stressed out? It’s cuz we’re innocent. We’re not those people, okay? We’ve never had to deal with the police like this, and the swabs and the questions and the little yellow tents all over the place and…” Spent, I slumped in the deck chair.

  “Dani?” That was my sister’s voice.

  “Out here!” I hopped up.

  Melissa charged around the side of the house. She now wore black yoga pants and a gray UCLA sweatshirt.

  I hurried over to hug her. “Are you okay?”

  Her bloodshot eyes had nearly swollen shut from crying. “Shit, Dani.” She pulled away from me and whispered, “They’re about to arrest me.”

  Chapter 9

  Mrs. Oakley,” Detective Elliott was saying. He carried three paper bags in his thick hands. “You’re making this far more difficult—”

  “Because she didn’t shoot him.” I was chasing after the older black man as he and Melissa made their way past the side of the house to the front lawn.

  The entire neighborhood had awakened from all the police activity and the glare of red, blue, and hot-white emergency lights. Clad in bathrobes and winter coats, every resident on Don Lorenzo Drive crowded the sidewalks. Every other person’s fingers tapped on cell phone screens. Mrs. Gossett, a retired school teacher, was now being interviewed by a short, balding detective. She lived across the street and often kept Jonah for a few hours each month. See something, say something was her motto. The FedEx man tossed your package on the stoop a little too hard? A red Honda parked too long in front of your house? She’d tell you. The world needed more busybodies like Mrs. Gossett, I thought—except for days like today. Seeing her talk and point up and down the street, the detective’s pen scribbling in his tiny notebook, made my pulse race. What had she seen? What was she
reporting?

  Detective Elliott led Melissa to a light-blue Crown Victoria parked behind my Escalade.

  “Tell me where you’re taking her,” I demanded.

  “Southwest station down on King Boulevard,” he said. “You know, across from the Laundromat?” Amused, he raised his eyebrows and added, “I’m sure you know it.”

  “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” I whirled to face Ian. “Did you hear what he just said? He thinks I’ve been to jail, or I know people who’ve been to jail, that we’re a bunch of hood rats. That’s why I can’t trust you guys to do the right thing.”

  Ian’s mouth opened.

  But I had already turned back to face Detective Elliott. “Is she being arrested?”

  “We’re just gonna talk,” he said. “We’ll talk about what happened tonight, about where she was, who could’ve done it. It’s all good. Like you said, Miss Lawrence: your sister didn’t shoot her husband. So there’s nothing for her to fear from just talking to me down at the station, away from the noise and her nosy neighbors.” He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

  Melissa took my hands and kissed the backs of each. “I’ll call Kirk’s parents when I get to the station. Take care of Jonah, okay? And don’t forget to take his bag. He won’t be able to sleep without his teddy.”

  “Don’t worry,” I told her. “I got him. I got you.”

  She squeezed my hands, then climbed into the back seat of the blue Ford.

  A moment later, the sedan was cruising down Don Lorenzo Drive, then the car—and my sister—were gone.

  That’s when I let loose upon every remaining person with a badge an assortment of colorful words that I’d learned at my Navy father’s knees. For several moments, no one spoke. Frank the forensics tech broke the silence with, “Wow.”

  Ian grabbed my elbow and hustled me back to the patio.

  The Elmo bag was where I’d left it—beside the table and unattended. I had to stop leaving that damn bag. I plopped back into the deck chair, then dropped my head between my knees.

  Ian’s shadow blocked the light. “You talk to Jesus with that mouth?”

  I sat up and crossed my arms. “He’s heard me say worse.”

  He chuckled and tilted his face to the sky. Finally, he pushed out a breath and looked at me. “You want my been-a-cop-for-twenty-three-years honest advice?”

  I rolled my eyes. “Do I have a choice?”

  “Whether your sister did it or not, doesn’t matter. She needs a lawyer ASAP.” He pulled out a pair of latex gloves from his jacket pocket. “I know, I know: she’s innocent. Again: doesn’t matter. You know why it doesn’t matter? It’s because the wife or the girlfriend or the boyfriend or the husband always does it. Because common wisdom says that no one else cares about you like that except for the person you’re fucking or not fucking enough.

  “And if your sister has any good sense and some money, she’ll hire a good defense attorney who, if shit takes a wrong turn, can get her less time and a better deal. Who can get twelve strangers to see and accept that, I don’t know, Kirk Oakley was a violent son of a bitch who pushed her around for the last damn time. Just don’t be caught off guard, all right? Believe it or not, I accept that there are a few innocent people sitting on death row. I’m not the asshole cop you think I am. So that’s my advice. Take it or leave it.”

  Ian tore open a pack of swabs. “Open your mouth. We can do this here or you can join your sister down on King Boulevard and we can do it there. In the meantime, your nephew would go to Child Protective Services and hang out with kids from really messed-up families. Lady’s choice.”

  A vise tightened around my heart and lungs. Jonah. I had just promised Melissa that I’d take good care of him.

  The cotton swab swirled against my cheek. Ian slipped the swab into a vial, then slipped the vial into his jacket pocket.

  “You know what?” I said. “I agree with you.” My tongue poked at my violated cheek.

  “Oh?” Ian pulled the second deck chair closer to mine, then sat. “So you’re saying that your sister—?”

  “She didn’t shoot him.” I leaned back in the chair and stared up at the pale moon. “Kirk was a violent asshole. He was a player, too. And his current girlfriend is a stereotypical fiery Latina with quick fists and a mouth bluer than mine.”

  “Wonderful. Another good suspect. Tell me more.”

  I let my head roll to the side to look at him—the detective had his pen and pad ready. “What do you want to know?”

  “Her name, for starters.”

  The truth was hidden behind twisted, thorny branches, daring me to reach in and grab it. Problem was: it didn’t sit too far from the sort-of truth, which was just as tempting a choice. One led to freedom. The other…

  “Sophia Acevedo.” I felt light, now that I had uttered her name. “Sophia’s probably stayed in your guest suites once or twice in her life. Right now, she’s supposedly a social worker. Her main vocation, though—other than sleeping with married men—is an urban pharmacist. And Kirk Oakley was her best customer.”

  Ian cocked his head. “Kirk was cheating on Melissa with a drug dealer?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “So your sister really did have a reason to kill him.”

  I sucked my teeth, then said, “Occam’s Razor, Detective Anthony.”

  “Right—the simpler, the better—and the simpler explanation is that your sister did it.”

  “If you knew my sister and knew Sophia,” I said, “you’d also say that the ex-con with the temper did it.”

  Next door, Mr. Jackson had reclaimed his place at the second-story window. Since Kirk had moved in four years ago, the old man had certainly heard his share of arguments between my sister and her husband. But what had he heard today?

  I smiled at Ian. “You want my been-a-woman-for-forty-three-years honest advice?”

  Ian squinted at me. “Do I have a choice?”

  I shrugged, then stared out at the pool.

  Ian leaned forward until our knees touched. “Tell me.”

  “Find Sophia. Her DNA is gonna be all over Kirk. And his blood’s gonna be all over her.”

  Chapter 10

  Officer Robynn handed Jonah back to me and went to grab a coat from his closet. It was fifty-two degrees and damp, and the three-year old boy needed something warmer than the lady cop’s embrace. Even as I held him close to my chest, we both shivered standing on the front lawn. The bright lights didn’t offer a lick of heat, but they certainly made Don Lorenzo Drive look like the back lot at Universal Studios.

  “Here you go, honey,” Officer Robynn said, holding out Jonah’s favorite Elmo coat.

  I thanked the woman and helped Jonah into the jacket. “That better?” I covered his face with warm kisses.

  Jonah whispered, “Uh-huh.” He nuzzled my neck. He smelled so clean—like tangerines and laundry detergent. He was the only pure thing that had ever come out of Kirk Oakley.

  Ian was staring at me from the front porch, and the heat from his gaze made me nervous. Despite my forced cheer with Jonah, the detective’s intimidation tactic was getting to me. So much had happened in this house, and I wanted to get it off my chest. But no. I was many things, but a fool wasn’t one of them.

  On the lawn next door, the balding detective was interviewing Mr. Jackson. The old man had left his upstairs window, since the action had shifted to the streets. His arms were crossed, and he glared at the investigator before him. I caught just a snippet of what the old man had to say: “…treated that sweet girl like common gutter trash. If anybody was trash, he was.”

  And that was the truth.

  On some evenings, Kirk would sit in his blacked-out 300M, blast his stereo and smoke who-knows-what, even though he lived in a house with a big backyard. He was the type who spoke too loudly on his cell phone, drank from brown paper bags on Sundays, let his gaze linger too long and too many times on neighborhood housewives. Despite his MSW, despite his wife’s PhD, despite hi
s two-story Colonial with the red door, Kirk Oakley didn’t belong on Don Lorenzo Drive.

  But Melissa loved him. Thought she could change him. Thought that a baby would transform this man-child into a full-fledged adult. She was wrong because here we were.

  “Ready to go to my house?” I now asked my nephew.

  Jonah nodded and yawned. “Dee-Dee, can we see Einsteins at your house?” Every time I babysat Jonah, we ate grilled cheese sandwiches in my bed and watched episodes of Little Einsteins, a cute show about smart kids doing smart things.

  “It’s kinda late for that, J-Boogie,” I said. Rather, it was too early for that—the sun would be kissing the horizon in just two hours, the sky the color of popsicles.

  “Can we go to the beach?” he asked.

  “It’s kinda late for that, too, sweetie pie. Maybe we’ll—”

  “Hey, Dani.” Ian strode toward me, holding out his business card. “For when you wanna give your forty-three-year-old advice again. Call me anytime. Really: Nothing’s insignificant in a homicide investigation.” He smiled down at sleepy Jonah and touched his head. “Hey, kiddo. You okay?”

  “It’s loud.” Jonah turned his head away and stuck his thumb into his mouth.

  Ian made a sad face. “Sorry about all this noise, okay? We’re just trying to figure out some things.”

  Like who killed your daddy.

  Ian pointed at the Elmo roller bag by my feet. “What’s that?”

  Numbness prickled across my cheeks. “Don’t worry, Frank’s already looked in it.”

  “And what did Frank find?”

  I smirked. “Two nuclear bombs, six crack pipes, and a hammer with brains all over it. But since Kirk didn’t die from any of that, Frank let me keep it.”

  Ian tossed me a lopsided grin and those dummy blue eyes of his almost looked human. “And if I look in it again?”

  “Your face is gonna melt like the Nazi agent in Raiders of the Lost Ark.” Ice rushed through my veins—I wanted to grab the bag and run down Don Lorenzo Drive.