- Margolin - The Last Innocent Man

Monica had gone to law school after the divorce. David thought she had done it to compete with him. It was certainly not coincidence that led her into criminal prosecution. The tension was there whenever they tried a case against each other. David sensed that their legal battles were, for Monica, only an excuse for carrying on a personal battle of which he had never been a part. That, of course, was the problem with their marriage. If David had cared about Monica, it would never have broken up. But he had ignored her, and he felt guilty that she still felt a need to prove something to him.

David had seen little of Monica between the divorce and her graduation from law school. After she joined the district attorney’s office, their friendship had renewed. They were much better friends than spouses. Sometimes David wondered if he hadn’t made a mistake with Monica, but he knew that if he had, it was too late to rectify it. Their problem was that they had met at the wrong time.

David took a sip from his glass. The gin tasted too sweet. He carried the drink to a corner of the terrace that was not illuminated by the lights from the house and sat down on a lawn chair. He closed his eyes and tilted his head back, letting the chair’s metal rim press into the back of his neck.

Monica was an attractive woman, and she was a different, stronger person than she had been when they’d met. David was different, too. He had toyed once with the idea of trying to reestablish their relationship, but had given up on the idea. He wondered what she would say if he tried.

The terrace door opened and a splash of sound interrupted David’s thoughts. He opened his eyes. A woman was standing with her back to him, staring across the river as he had moments before. She was tall and slender, and her long, silken hair looked like pale gold.

She turned and walked along the terrace with a dancer’s grace. The woman did not see him until she was almost at his chair. He was hidden by the shadows. She stopped, startled. In that frozen moment David saw her set in time, like a statue. Blue eyes wide with surprise. A high, smooth forehead and high cheekbones. It was the woman he had seen earlier on the fringes of the group that had been discussing the Ashmore case.

The moment ended and the woman’s hand flew to her mouth. She gasped. David stood up, placing his drink on the terrace.

“I’m sorry if I frightened you,” he said.

“It’s not your fault,” the woman answered, waving her hand nervously. “I was thinking and I…” She let the sentence trail off.

“Okay,” David said, “you’ve convinced me. We’re both at fault. How about calling it a draw?”

The woman looked confused; then she laughed, grateful that the awkward moment was over.

“My name is David Nash.”

“I know,” the woman said after a moment’s hesitation.

“You do?”

“I…I was listening when you were talking to that woman about the murder case.”

“You mean that Ashmore business?”

“She upset you, didn’t she?”

Now it was David’s turn to hesitate.

“It wasn’t pleasant for me to try that case, and it won’t be pleasant to retry it. I don’t like to think about it if I don’t have to.”

“I’m sorry,” the woman said self-consciously. David immediately regretted his tone of voice.

“You don’t have to be. I didn’t mean to be so solemn.”

They stood without talking for a moment. The woman looked uneasy, and David had the feeling that she might fly off like a frightened bird.

“Are you a friend of Gregory’s?” he asked to keep the conversation going.

“Gregory?”

“Gregory Banks. This is his house. I thought you were with that group that was talking about the case. Most of them are Gregory’s friends.”

“No. I really don’t know anyone here. I don’t even know why I came.”

She looked down, and David sensed that she was trapped and vulnerable, fighting something inside her.

“You haven’t told me your name yet,” David said. The woman looked up, startled. He held her gaze for a moment and saw fear and uncertainty in her eyes.

“I’m afraid I have to go,” she answered anxiously, avoiding his question.

“But that’s not fair,” David said, trying to keep his tone light. “You know my name. You can’t run off without telling me yours.”

She paused, and their eyes met again. He knew that she was debating whether to answer him and that her answer would determine the course of the evening.

“Valerie,” she said finally. “Valerie Dodge.” And David could tell by the firmness in her voice that Valerie had resolved her doubts in his favor, at least for the moment.

David had a lot of experience with women, and there was something about this one that he found intriguing. Common sense told him to go slowly, but he noticed a change in her mood. When she told him her name, she had committed herself, and his instincts told him to take a chance.

“You’re not enjoying yourself here, are you?” he asked gently.

“No,” she answered.

“I wasn’t either. I guess that woman upset me more than I’d like to admit. Look, I’d like to make a suggestion. I know a nice place in town where we can grab a late supper. Are you interested?”

“No,” she said, momentarily dashing his hopes. “I’d rather you just take me to your house.”

DAVID’S CANTILEVERED HOUSEstrained against the thick wooden beams that secured it to the hillside. In the daytime you could stand on one of several cedar decks and look across Portland toward the snow-capped mountains of the Cascade Range. In the evening you could stand in the same place and see the Christmas-light grid of the city spreading out from the base of the hill.

The house was modern, constructed of dark woods that blended into the greenery of the West Hills. It had three stories, but only one story showed above the level of the road, the other two being hidden by the hillside. The house had been custom-built to David’s specifications, and the east wall was made almost entirely of glass.

David helped Valerie out of the sports car and led her down a flight of steps to the front door. The door opened onto an elevated landing. The landing looked down on a spacious, uncluttered living room, dominated by a huge sculptural fireplace that resembled a knight’s helmet with the visor thrown back. The fireplace was pure white and the carpeting a subdued red. There were no chairs or sofas in the room, but a seating platform piled high with pillows of various colors was incorporated into the sweep of the rounded, rough-plastered walls. The only other furnishings in the room were a low, circular light wood table and several large pillows.

A spiral staircase on the left side of the room led upward to the bedroom and down to the kitchen area. A balcony that ran half the length of the third floor overlooked the living room.

“This is magnificent,” Valerie said, taking off her shoes and walking barefoot across the carpet to look at a large abstract painting that hung to the left of the fireplace.

“I’m glad you like it. Do you want the grand tour?”

She nodded, and he led her downstairs into the kitchen and dining room, then back to the second level. The den was located on the south side of the house, and it looked out onto the hillside. It was small and cluttered with briefs, legal periodicals, books, sheets of paper, and pens and paper clips. A bookcase was built into one wall, and a filing cabinet stood in one corner. The walls were decorated with framed clippings from some of David’s best-known cases. Valerie skimmed the texts of a few of them.

“Did you win all these cases?”

“Those and a few more,” he answered, pleased that she had noticed them.