Perri O'Shaughnessy - Unlucky in Law

“Where does Sergey Krilov stay when he’s in California, Deano?”

Deano stepped into the shower and turned his innocent, unlined face up to its flowing waters. “I haven’t got a clue, my man.” He shrugged and rubbed soap into his armpit, giving Paul a roguish look. He had decided that Paul was not going to pound him this time.

He started to sing the song Paul hated the most in all the world. “‘Cherish is a word I use to defi-hi-hi-hi-i-i-i-ine-’”

Paul said, “Give my regards to your mother.”

“What? Sorry, my man, this water-”

Paul grabbed him by the throat with his left hand. He just couldn’t help it. With his right hand he turned off the shower.

“Hear me now?” he said.

Deano, a lover, not a fighter, tried to nod his head, his eyes bulging.

“Don’t ever take a job from the Pohlmann firm again.”

Big nods.

Paul released Deano, who fell back into the shower and pressed himself against the wet wall.

“Read your spam,” Paul said. “There are a lot of cures out there for conditions like yours.”

Paul drove over the hill to Carmel. Hungry, he decided to stop off next door at the Hog’s Breath for lunch before returning to his office. He ordered a turkey sandwich on rye, flipped open his phone, and called the Sacramento police. He spoke with a lieutenant there, Martin Gross, who was working on Ginger’s assault case. The Sacramento police had a great interest in the bones that were stolen, and Paul filled him in as well as he could. Even with this strange background, they were working on the premise that this must have been a drug theft gone bad.

Did Ginger or her associates keep useful or illegal drugs on the premises? Paul had asked.

No, they didn’t. But why else break into a lab? The suggestion that the bones might have motivated someone made the lieutenant chuckle at first. Then he wanted to know the reason for the suggestion, then grilled Paul for details, asking many questions about Krilov, although remaining somewhat unclear on the connection. He kept Paul on the phone for a long time, trying to collect information.

Maybe they would find Sergey Krilov for him, Paul thought, hanging up, but he wouldn’t count on it. He finished his sandwich, punched in the number for San Francisco General, and asked to speak with Father Giorgi.

“Sorry, he doesn’t answer,” the switchboard reported.

Did that mean the priest was sleeping, or did it mean he was gone?

“No one has checked out of that room,” said the helpful girl on the phone. “Want me to page him on the hospital intercom?” She did, but he didn’t answer the page.

“Get me the nurse on duty,” Paul said.

She did. The nurse on duty confirmed that Father Giorgi was in his bed, sleeping.

“He needs to call me,” Paul said. “It’s urgent.”

“I’ll make a note of it,” the masculine voice said dubiously. “But I’m off-shift in a couple of hours, and he’s been badly hurt.”

Paul considered the chances of one of the nurses remembering to tell Giorgi to call, and even if that happened, the chances of Giorgi calling. Then he estimated how long a trip to San Francisco would take. He paid the tab and walked back out to the Mustang. He could make it by night.

He could think of one place Krilov might be. He might be near the hospital, waiting to finish the job. Although he had notified the police that Krilov might come back, they hadn’t put a guard on Giorgi’s room, just warned hospital security. But Giorgi knew dangerous things, and maybe he’d be ready to share them now, with Paul, before he had to share them with Krilov.

Friday 9/26

“KLAUS,” NINA SAID BEFORE THEY ENTERED THE COURTROOM, “I’M concerned.”

“Are you?” he said serenely.

“We are losing this trial.”

“That kind of thinking will get us nowhere.”

“I’m concerned that too much is slipping by us. While I’m straining to get us through each day in court, you seem-hardly here.”

“That’s the young, untried Nina talking,” he said. “Not the skilled lawyer who can handle anything. Naturally, when you have a failure of nerve, you attack. In fact,” he said thoughtfully, “that’s good strategy. You see, you’re smarter than you think, and are certainly well able to assist in this case.”

“Don’t try to flatter me. You had months to prepare for this trial. I had two weeks. You sit there and you make little comments, and now and then you participate, but the whole thing has fallen on me.”

Klaus cupped his hand to his ear. “Do I hear a whining sound?”

“I don’t care that it’s hard, and I’m not properly prepared. I care that you aren’t giving it everything, and that our client will suffer for it.”

His thin shoulders raised up and lowered. Suddenly he was just a fragile old man, doing his best. “I’ll take over,” he said. “It’s no problem, if you don’t feel ready.”

“That’s not what I meant!” she said, exasperated. If anything, she had finally seen a definite need to take over herself. “I just want you to be…” Awake is what she was thinking, but before she could say more, Klaus had opened the door to the courtroom.

“Yes,” he said mildly, introspectively, “time for me to take over.”

“No!” she said, too late. She followed him into the courtroom.

Erin O’Toole took the stand, got sworn in, and sat down, tucking a loose end of her blouse into black slacks with fold marks. She obviously didn’t wear them often. Her long black hair was held back in an orange scrunchie, but wisps framed her pretty face. Beside Nina, Stefan’s glumness deepened. “This sucks. If only she didn’t have to go through this.”

“She can handle it, Stefan. She’s tougher than you think.”

“I wish…” he said, but Jaime Sandoval had begun his direct examination with innocuous questions, like the ones you gave to polygraph subjects before dinging them with the real deal.

“If she ever takes me back, I’m getting her that ring,” Stefan continued to whisper while Erin answered tedious questions patiently. “The one she always looks at in the window on Alvarado. I’ll sell my car. I’ll sell everything.”

“Maybe you should wait on the ring,” Nina said, finding her own in place on her finger, still feeling awkward, and thinking possibly he should think first about finding out if Erin loved him the right way, and enough.

“Don’t be so hangdog!” Klaus leaned toward them both, whispering. “We need absolute confidence.”

They all sat back and listened in astonishment to the story Erin was concocting.

“We were drinking tequila that night,” she said. “It wasn’t Stefan’s choice, but I like it. I got into it back in the old days at Northstar with the ski crowd. I used to waitress, and they always ordered tequila. To me, it’s a classy drink.” She laughed deprecatingly, and to Nina’s surprise, so did the audience behind her. “If potent.”

“He was drinking?” Sandoval asked, clearly flummoxed by this unexpected line.

“Yes,” she said. “Things got wild. I mean, we were in love, you know what I mean?”

Stefan spoke close to Nina’s ear. “She’s confusing that night with the night before, you know. When I didn’t go to the graveyard. She waylaid me,” he said, apparently unaware of the choice of words, “and I didn’t make it to the graveyard.”

Was she confused? Nina didn’t think so.

“Ms. O’Toole, are you claiming he drank a lot that night?” Sandoval asked.

“More than usual. And we went to bed early.”

“Are you claiming that Stefan Wyatt did not leave the house that night?”

“Absolutely.” She nodded. “He was busy with me.”