Lisa Scottoline - Running From The Law

“What police cars? Where?”

“Out in front, on the lawn.”

“In front of what?”

“In front of her carriage house.”

“When did you see cars in front of her house?”

“Patricia wouldn’t have liked that, right on the lawn. It was unnecessary.”

I touched the wet sleeve of his trench coat. “Fiske, look at me. Are you telling me you were at Patricia’s carriage house?”

He faced me, in a kind of shock. “I didn’t kill her, Rita. You must believe that.”

Jesus. Bullets of rain hit the roof. The car grew hotter, the windshield fogged with steam. “When did you go to the carriage house?”

“I stopped by on the way home, after you and I spoke on the telephone. After the deposition.”

“Why did you go there?”

“To convince Patricia to drop the lawsuit. Our affair would come out, everything would come out. There was no other way to solve the problem.”

I recoiled, letting go of his arm, and searched his face in the dark. “And when she wouldn’t drop it, you killed her?”

“No! When I got there, police cars were everywhere. The neighbors were out. I knew something terrible had happened. I kept driving.”

“Where did you drive? Did you go home?”

“No, I just drove around.”

“Where?”

“Around. I don’t remember exactly. Just driving, trying to figure out what had happened to Patricia. I was a little late to dinner. Kate got to dinner in her car, with Paul.”

I didn’t know what to say. I couldn’t process it all fast enough.

“You know I didn’t do it, Rita.”

“How do I know that?”

“Because you know I love Patricia. Loved her. Only you know that. You know about the spider mums. Why would I kill her, if I loved her?”

“Pick a motive, any motive.”

“Don’t be so glib.”

Fuck you. “Because she ended the affair.”

“But I knew it would end. I knew it wouldn’t last forever. I’m not a child.”

“Because she was trying to ruin you, then.”

“No, she wasn’t.”

“Of course she was! Why would she sue you?”

“I don’t know. She is… was a very complicated woman.”

“Oh, please.” When will men stop calling manipulative women complicated?

“You don’t think so? You met her.”

“It’s not as if Patricia and I had lunch, Fiske. I took her deposition because she was suing you. She had your name and photo in every newspaper in three states. You need to think in realistic terms. Patricia’s been murdered and you could end up a suspect. You have a big-time motive and a see-through alibi.”

“You think I’m a suspect?”

Hello? Anybody home? “Yes. I would say the prime suspect, if I practiced criminal law, which I don’t. You need a criminal lawyer, Fiske. You must know some, the best.”

“You’re my lawyer.”

“Not anymore.”

He looked angry. “You won’t represent me? Why not?”

“You lied to me, for starters.”

“I didn’t lie. I just didn’t explain the whole… I didn’t think it would all come out. I’m sorry. But I want you to represent me.”

“It isn’t my field. I hate criminal law, it’s dirty work. You want Leslie Abramson, not Rita Morrone.”

“I want Rita Morrone.” He shifted toward me, his shoulders bulky in the leather bucket seat. “We have time. I’m a judge, a prominent member of the legal community. They won’t indict me unless they have their ducks in a row.”

“What ducks, if you’re innocent?”

“The same circumstantial evidence you have.”

“You mean the paintings, the florist?”

“Yes.”

“Are there hotel bills?”

“Never a hotel.”

Like a judge’s chambers is better? Your tax dollars.

“I went to her house, once or twice, at night,” he said. “But she was never at my house. Our house.”

What a guy. “How about your phone bills?”

“I don’t think they show calls to her, but I didn’t call her often in any event. She asked me not to, and I respected her time. She had to paint when she wasn’t working.” He paused. “But I did call before I left my chambers tonight. Before I went over.”

“Why?”

“To ask if she would see me. I told you, I respected her independence.”

Terrific. “That call will show up on a bill, now that the suburbs have a new area code.”

“Yes.”

“It won’t look good, Fiske. A call right before she was murdered.”

“I didn’t know she’d be murdered! If I were going to drive to her house and kill her, would I have called first?”

I considered this, and evidently so had he, about ten steps before me. Fiske was a chess player, nationally ranked. He even played by mail, sending postcards that bore gobbledy-gook like Be3 and Bg7. Suddenly, something fell into place and I turned cold. “Fiske, you know what I think? I think you knew all of this was going to happen.”

He turned toward me in the shadows. “I knew Patricia was going to be killed?”

“No, you knew that I would find out about you and her.”

“I didn’t plan for this to happen.”

“Maybe not, but it was inevitable, wasn’t it? Look, nobody in the family knows about the affair, do they?”

“No. Kate doesn’t suspect anything. She thinks Patricia was an opportunist.”

“And Paul?”

“Of course not.”

“So you kept it from the family. But when you had a chance to hire a lawyer, you chose a lawyer close to the family. Practically in the family.”

“Well, yes.” Fiske acted only vaguely aware of his own mind, but I didn’t believe it for a minute. My father had been right, which annoyed me no end.

“You hired me to use me, Fiske. You used me then and you’re using me now.”

“That’s not true!”

“Then why let me be the one to find out about your affair? Because you thought I’d keep it secret?”

“Any lawyer would have done that. It would be privileged.”

“You thought I’d be loyal to you no matter what, even to the point of keeping quiet about a murder. What other lawyer could you ask to do that?”

“I didn’t murder Patricia!”

“Then why me?”

“I didn’t think it would turn out like this, I tell you.”

Liar. Cheater. Bastard. I reached for the ignition, but Fiske gripped my forearm.

“Wait. Maybe… part of me did. Part of me must have wanted you to find out. So that it wouldn’t be a secret anymore.”

“Bullshit. Two-bit psychology.” I turned on the ignition despite his grip. “You wanted to destroy your life? Screw up your marriage?”

“I… think I must have,” he said, his tone anguished. “Yes.”

I looked at him while the engine rumbled. His face was obscured and he made no sound, but I had the sense he was about to cry.

“I think… I wanted to tell Kate,” he continued, almost thinking out loud. “I wanted her to know. It just… got out of control. I loved Patricia, Rita, and somebody killed her. I want to know who.”

It rang true. He sounded determined and bewildered, both at once. A natural reaction given the circumstances. Maybe he was innocent. Wrongly accused, or about to be. If so, his world was on the brink of falling to pieces, at his own hand. He slumped forward and rested his temple in his hand, inadvertently reminding me of a face card again. Not the king of diamonds this time. The king of hearts, the suicide king. Fiske was either that or a cold-blooded killer.

Why were men so damn complicated?

They have no right,” Paul said as he glared at the TV screen.

A black reporter stood on the wet flagstone path leading to the door of the Hamiltons’ huge house, a three-story stone Tudor with diamond-paned windows, an arched front door, and spiky turrets on both sides. Any idiot could see the place looked like a minicastle, which wouldn’t help public relations any.