Майкл Коннелли - Law of Innocence

“What does this mean, Mickey? What are they looking for?”

I hadn’t really had time to think about those questions. I told Lorna I would call her back and disconnected. I then sat on the couch, unmoving, as I watched Drucker and the unnamed detective going through the drawers of my desk. The uniformed officers were milling about in the hallway. They were there to enforce the search if there was pushback. But since I was cooperating, they had nothing to do but stand with their hands on their equipment belts.

I knew that Death Row Dana was shoring up her case. I guessed that this search was about accounts receivable and motive. They were looking for documentation that Sam Scales had stiffed me. They wanted my own records to prove it, and that told me that the murder-for-financial-gain charge was still in play.

A few minutes later Drucker closed all the drawers in the desk and looked at me.

“Let’s check the garage,” he said.

“There’s nothing in the garage,” I said. “The California bar frowns on client records being stored in unsecured locations. You want to just skip all of this and go to my warehouse. I know what you’re looking for, and if I have it, it’s there.”

“Where’s your warehouse?”

“Over the hill. Studio City.”

“Let’s check the garage and then go.”

“Whatever.”

It was too early for Bishop to be around. After the garage was cleared—my first time being in there since the murder—I drove the Lincoln, and as I made my way north through Laurel Canyon, I thought about how many times I had chided clients for being cooperative with the people working to take away their freedom. Do you think by being nice and helping them out you’ll convince them you didn’t do it? Not a chance. These people want to take everything away from you: your family, your home, your freedom. Do not cooperate with them!

And yet here I was, leading a parade of police cars to the place where I kept the records of my practice and livelihood. This was the moment when I thought maybe I did have a fool for a client. Maybe I should have just told Drucker to fuck off and let him find the warehouse on his own, then cut the locks and figure out where the files were.

My phone buzzed and it was Lorna again.

“I thought you were going to call me back.”

“Sorry, I forgot.”

“Well, they’re gone. I heard them say they were going to the warehouse.”

“Yeah, I’m heading there now.”

“Mickey, what are the chances they’re going to finish their search and then arrest you on new charges?”

“I thought about that, but they let me drive my own car and lead them up here. No way Drucker would have done that if he had an arrest warrant in his pocket.”

“I hope you’re right.”

“Have you heard from Jennifer yet today?”

“Not yet.”

“Okay, I’ll call her to let her know what’s going on. Hang in there, Lorna.”

“I just wish this would all be over.”

“Me too.”

I led the police brigade up Lankershim to the climate-controlled warehouse where I kept my records along with male and female mannequins and other props I had used at trials over the years. I also had two racks of suits there of various sizes that I kept for clients to wear in court and the third of my three Lincoln Town Cars. There was also an upright AMSEC gun safe for when I took firearms in trade for services rendered. As a condition of my bail, I could have no firearms, so I’d had Cisco take the guns to the home he shared with Lorna until the case came to an end.

The warehouse had a roll-up garage door, which I opened for the searchers. I then led them to a locked storage room within the warehouse, where I kept archived records in locked filing cabinets, in full compliance with California bar guidelines for securing client records. I used a key to unlock the first four-drawer cabinet.

“Have at it, gentlemen,” I said. “This row contains the business records going back to ’05, I believe. You will find the P and Os, the accounting and tax returns, all the financial stuff. That’s what you are entitled to see under the scope of the warrant. The other drawers contain case files and they’re off-limits—even the Sam Scales files.”

The room was too small for the whole group, which now included Drucker’s partner, Lopes. I backed out of the room to where the uniformed cops stood and I hovered by the doorway, where I could keep a watch on the search.

There was a folding table in the file-storage room that I used when I had to look through old cases. The detectives remained standing but opened the files they were interested in on the table. If there was something they wanted to take, they placed it to the side.

With the three of them working it, the search was conducted quickly, and by the time they were finished, they had placed four documents aside to seize under the authority of the search warrant. I asked to see them.

“There is nothing in the warrant that directs me to share with you what we seize,” Drucker said.

“And there’s nothing in there that directs me to cooperate with you,” I said. “But I did. Whatever you take, it comes back to me in discovery anyway, Detective. So, why be a dick about it?”

“You know, Haller, you didn’t have to be a dick yourself and rake me over the coals in public.”

“What? You’re talking about the other day in court? If you think that’s raking somebody over the coals, wait till you testify in front of the jury. Make sure you wear your Depends, Detective.”

Drucker gave me a smile without a note of humor in it.

“Have a good day,” he said.

He brushed by me, holding the documents to his chest so I could not get even a glimpse of them. Lopes and the unnamed detective followed him out. Then the whole entourage of detectives and uniformed escorts left the warehouse. I texted Lorna to let her know I had not been re-arrested. Yet.

29

Friday, January 17

The Catalina Express moved swiftly over the dark waters of the Pacific. The sun was just starting to dip behind the island that lay ahead of us. The wind was biting cold but Kendall and I faced it on the open deck, arms wrapped around each other. It was Friday afternoon and I had told Team Haller that I was disappearing for the holiday weekend. My bail restrictions prohibited me from leaving L.A. County without the judge’s permission, so I chose a spot as far away as I could get without breaking the rules.

The boat docked at the pier in the Avalon Harbor at 4 p.m., and there was a chauffeured golf cart from the Zane Grey Pueblo waiting for us. It carried us and our one bag up the hill, the driver making small talk about the renovations recently completed at the historic hotel, which had once been the home of the author and the place where he had written several of his novels about the western frontier.

“He lived out here because he loved the fishing,” the driver said. “He always said that he wrote so he could fish—whatever that means.”

I just nodded and looked at Kendall. She smiled.

“Did you know he was a dentist?” the driver asked.

“Who was?” I asked.

“Zane Grey,” he said. “And that wasn’t his real first name. His real name was Pearl—like the woman’s name. No wonder he went by Zane. That was his middle name, actually.”

“Interesting,” Kendall said.

It was off-season and the hotel was nearly empty. We had the pick of several rooms, all named after the author’s most popular novels. We took the Riders of the Purple Sage suite, not because I knew the book but because it had a view of the harbor and a working fireplace. I had been in the room before, many times, many years ago, with Maggie McPherson when we were still married.