Chapter 51
I OPENED THE pool house door for four cops I didn’t know.
Hal Archer was sitting in the lounge chair again, staring out over the canyon. He had made himself a fresh scotch, and I thought there was a good chance he would pass out.
There was an equally good chance he would launch himself over the cliff, so I kept an eye on him as the detectives did a walk-through.
Detective Sergeant Joan Feeney introduced herself and her partner, Detective Phillips, told me that she and Chief Mickey Fescoe were old friends. Meaning, on this case she was reporting directly to him. As Feeney’s partner went into the next room, she took out her notebook and asked me to tell her what I knew.
I told Feeney that Hal Archer was a client, that Private Investigations was contracted to do security checks on his executive staff and whatever else Archer and his family needed in the way of surveillance and security.
Feeney asked, “And what brought you here today, Mr. Morgan?”
“Mr. Archer called to tell me that his wife was trying to kill him. He wanted me to evaluate her. Tell him if I thought he was in danger. He asked me to talk to her, reason with her if I could.”
“I see. You came out to reason with her.”
She wrote it down.
“A half hour after he first called me, I called him back and then he told me that his wife was dead,” I said.
“Okay,” said Feeney. “As I understand it, the DB in the next room is the wife that was allegedly threatening to kill Mr. Archer.”
“That’s right.”
“And did your client say that he killed her?”
“He just said that she was dead.”
Lying to the police was obstruction, and I was breaking the law on behalf of my client. But I had turned Archer in; I didn’t feel that I needed to put him on death row.
Feeney asked, “Did you disturb the scene in any way, Mr. Morgan?”
“Not at all. I looked. I saw. I phoned Mick.”
Feeney’s partner, Detective Phillips, was saying to Hal, “Did you kill your wife, Mr. Archer?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. But I do know you’re blocking my view.”
Phillips said, “Stand up, Mr. Archer. Put your hands behind your back.”
Feeney took my phone number, closed her notebook. She looked in at the victim, called Chief Fescoe, and gave a report. Hal said to the cop, contempt oozing with every word, “I’m not standing until I feel like it. Lift a hand to me and I will sue you personally and then I’ll sue all these cops.”
Detective Phillips lifted him by his elbows until he was standing, and Feeney pulled Hal’s right arm behind his back, did the same with the other arm, locked the cuffs around his wrists. Hal screamed, “You’re going to be sorry. You wait.”
Feeney read him his rights and Hal shouted over her.
“No, you don’t. Jack. Tell this rookie bitch—”
I caught up with Hal, stayed right with him as he was pushed and hoisted through the house and along the marble walk to the curb.
I told him, “Cooperate, Hal. Do what the police say, but don’t talk about anything that happened here.”
“You fickle prick.”
“Shut up, Hal. I’m calling your attorney now. You’ll be neck-deep in lawyers within the hour.”
Hal was looking at me like he was a pet dog that had bitten the neighbor’s child and was now being dragged to the dog catcher’s van. It was as if he just didn’t understand what he’d done. He showed no remorse for stabbing his wife to death.
I stood on the sidewalk and watched the cops stuff a bellowing Hal Archer into the backseat of the squad car. It was true that he’d soon be surrounded by a wall of his own lawyers.
But I didn’t think there was a law firm in the world that could save Hal Archer from spending the rest of his life in an eight-by-six-foot cage.