Follow the Money

22


I woke up an hour away from Murdock’s office and I could hear my mother making breakfast in the kitchen. There was the smell of coffee and the familiar odors of home. After hanging up with Murdock, I’d driven straight to Riverside without returning to my apartment. The urge to get away propelled me onto the freeway. It made sense at the time. Riverside was halfway to Palm Springs.

Everyone was surprised to see me. I told them I had a meeting in Palm Springs the next day, trying to act normal. But my mother noticed I hadn’t brought a bag. And I looked exhausted and upset, she’d said. We ate dinner, watched television, and chatted loosely about unimportant things; but there was a current of suspicion in my parents’ voices. I went to bed early to escape it, blaming the meeting for my need for sleep.

Later, I could hear them talking at the end of the hallway near their bedroom. Hushed but concerned voices drifted in under the door. “I’m just saying he seems a little strange,” my father said. My mother countered that I was under a lot of pressure and was worried about starting classes again. “Well, all I’m saying is that working at that place has changed him. Did you see that car?” My father replied as he walked down the hall to the kitchen and opened a cupboard.

Sleep came and went and did little to ease my concerns. I took my time getting up and straggled into the kitchen where my father sat at the table drinking coffee and staring at the sports section.

“Well there he is.” My mother looked up from a pan of frying bacon, smiled, and began pouring me a cup of coffee. “We thought we might have to go in after you.”

I smiled back, took the coffee, and tried to shake off my worry. My dad looked up from the paper. “How you feeling?” he asked.

“Good. Slept like a rock.” I smiled as I took a seat at the table across from him. But it was a lie. The bacon, eggs, toast, and small talk about how the boat was running were all permeated by the residual dread from the day before. I was afraid of what else I might learn from Murdock, but I was also afraid of remaining ignorant of the truth. I kept hearing Andersen’s angry voice. It was impossible to ignore.

When I left the house a little after ten, my mother hugged me like normal, but clung a little tighter and longer than usual. And, as though sensing some kind of trouble, she spoke more earnestly when she uttered her standard, “Take care of yourself, dear.” My father just shook my hand, remained seated at the table, and smiled, somewhat distant. “Give it hell in class and finish at the top,” was all he said.

Palm Springs sits in the middle of a desert. In August, the heat there is almost unbearable and even at ninety miles an hour I found myself debating whether to put up the top and turn on the air conditioning. It was one hundred ten degrees and the air came at me like the convection current off a blast furnace. The wide and barren Cochella Valley stretched east and south from Palm Springs until the mountains flattened out and the broad desert opened up, stretching all the way to Arizona. It is cruel land, but brown and purple and majestic in its own unforgiving beauty.

The oddity of Palm Springs, with its endless golf courses, manicured lawns, swimming pools, and sky-high palm trees, is shocking given the surrounding landscape. I came in on Palm Canyon Drive and drove slow along Tahquitz Canyon, marveling at the boutiques and restaurants, noting at each stoplight that none of it should be there. I found Murdock’s office in a squatty brown building, parked, put the top up on the car, and waited for someone to arrive.

After twenty minutes, a white Audi wagon pulled into the lot, drove up toward me slowly, and then stopped. A thin, athletic man in his early fifties got out and walked toward me. He had the stride of someone accustomed to a leisurely life. He was tan and looked like a guy with a single digit handicap and a killer backhand. I opened the door as he approached.

“Mr. Olson?” He seemed hesitant.

“Mr. Murdock?” We shook hands and Murdock looked me over for a moment, perhaps surprised to be meeting someone so young. I saw him catch my watch out of the corner of his eye. Then, he glanced behind me at the new BMW and concluded I must be who I said I was.

“Good to meet you. Why don’t we get out of this heat. It’s impossible to do anything in the middle of the day around here. At least in August anyway.” Murdock’s crisp tan shorts brushed together as he walked to his office door and pulled a key from his pocket. “The trick is to get up and at it early,” he said without looking back. Then, turning as he opened the door, “I got eighteen in this morning.” He grinned. I grinned back and nodded approvingly.

The office was cool and I immediately questioned whether the golf story was true. Why would someone leave the air conditioning on all weekend?

“Well, there’s the stuff I have,” he said as we walked past his secretary’s desk. I looked at a four-inch thick folder with a flap over the top and a large rubber band stretched around it. We went in through another open door and sat in Murdock’s back office.

The furniture was non-descript, it could have been stolen from any bank lobby in America. Murdock reclined in his chair and folded his fingers behind his head. “So Sharon Steele. What can I tell you?”

“Well, I know that Sharon hired you three days before she was killed. I’ve got a copy of the check she wrote you for the retainer.” I paused, shifting in the chair but really watching for Murdock’s reaction. He seemed unfazed.

“I also know that the Steeles had some marital problems in the past, but everyone I’ve spoken to indicated that those problems were resolved.” Murdock smiled at that and reclined even further, putting his feet up on the desk.

“Man, it’s funny,” he began. “I remember her calling me and setting up the meeting. She came in and we talked. She gave me some papers and she left. We’d planned to meet again. She made an appointment, but, of course, I never saw her again. I also remember that she called me the next day or a couple of days later just to tell me that she’d had some documents sent to me. Fed Ex.”

“What did she come to see you about?”

Murdock held his gaze for a second and then put his feet back on the floor and leaned forward. “Look, I don’t need any trouble. I agonized over this when it happened. And after Steele was convicted, I figured it was all over.” He stopped for a second and, though still staring at me, seemed to be looking at something far off in the past. “I remember it was all over the news on that Sunday. When I came in on Monday, the Fed Ex guy showed up with an envelope from her. I really didn’t know what to do.”

Murdock sat back again. “So I didn’t do anything. I put it all in that file you saw and I stuck it in storage. I figured I’d deal with the ethical issues when and if someone ever showed up to ask questions.” He laughed out loud and slapped his palm on the desk. “Shit! I never thought it would be twelve years later.”

I crossed my legs and said, “Why were you concerned? Did she tell you something?”

Murdock shook his head and gave me a look that said, you don’t know a damned thing, kid. “You know, I didn’t really play golf this morning. I came in here and stared at the file for about an hour. I was going to open it and find out what was in that envelope, but I’m pretty sure I already know. Well, I don’t know exactly, but generally. I debated whether to say anything. But it’s been twelve years and Steele’s a free man now. That concerns me.”

“So you did know something relevant to the murder.”

“Shit, kid.” Murdock scratched the back of his head. “Did I know something? I can’t be sure, but I’ve got a pretty good idea.” The room went quiet while I watched Murdock struggle with himself.

“So why did she come see you?” I finally asked.

“Shit,” Murdock uttered, with a tone of resignation. “I’m only telling you this because Steele’s out.” I said nothing, merely letting the rationalization hang impotent in the air.

“Okay,” Murdock began. “What I remember is that she called to make an appointment and wouldn’t tell me what it was about. She just said she needed me to block off a couple of hours, that she would pay me for my time, and write me a retainer check if she decided to hire me. She sounded kind of crazy or — not crazy — but stressed, worried.”

I just nodded and listened.

“Anyway, I had no idea who she was. I remember she showed up, very well dressed, looking sharp. She looked like the kind of woman who had a lot of money. Real money. You learn to spot that quick in a town like this. She said her husband was James Steele, the senator, and that she wanted to divorce him.”

Murdock paused, watching me, letting it sink in slowly.

I asked, “Why did she come see you? No offense, but this seems kind of out of the way.”

“That’s the first thing I asked her. I’m not one to turn away a paying client, but something about it seemed weird right away. That’s a pretty high profile case and I’ve done some big ones over the years, but there are plenty of guys in LA who could handle that for her. So I asked her ‘Why me?’ and she said it was because she needed someone who wouldn’t have any connection to her husband or any of his cronies. She seemed scared, more than just worried. I represent a lot of women in big divorce cases, they always worry about the outcome of the case, but she wasn’t. She was worried about something else.”

“What do you think it was?”

“Well, I think we both know what it was. She got killed didn’t she?” The words almost seemed flippant, and Murdock looked like he regretted saying them as soon as they were out. “Well, I certainly didn’t suspect anything like that at the time. But after it happened, I was sure what I knew was probably connected.”

“You think he killed her just because she wanted a divorce?”

“No, I think it was because of the reason she wanted the divorce.” Murdock hesitated again and then spoke quickly. “She came in here and basically said that her husband was having an affair, and had been for years. She said she’d caught him once before and they’d separated briefly but had reconciled. Then, she said she got suspicious again and had an investigator follow him. She now had proof of the affair. Now, imagine what a bombshell like that would do to a U.S. senator preparing to mount a re-election bid.” Murdock raised his eyebrows and exhaled, obviously relieved at having told someone after so long.

I wasn’t sure what to say. “You think Steele figured it out and killed her?”

“Hell, I don’t know any more than what she told me. I don’t know what happened when she left here, but once she got killed I figured that what I knew was probably relevant. But what was I supposed to do? I’ve got an ethical obligation to maintain confidences. And that’s not bullshit. I mean, my clients tell me a lot of shit during a divorce and I can’t get a reputation as a guy who talks when the pressure’s on. Besides, they got Steele. He was convicted. I figured no harm no foul.”

I saw his point. I thought briefly of Dan Kelly’s comment about not wanting to get involved. I was beginning to sympathize. The more involved, the more the potential to suffer severe personal harm.

“So what then, she tells you her husband is having an affair and she wants a divorce, and what did you tell her?”

“We talked about divorce generally. There were kids involved and so she would need to show he was an unfit father in order to get full custody. She wanted to take the kids and move back to New York. So you see, the evidence of the affair was going to come out. Or, if he didn’t want it to, he would have to just let them go and then face a lot of questions. I told her to make sure she had enough evidence. She said she did, that she’d hired this P.I. who had done a whole report. I’m pretty sure that’s what the Fed Ex guy dropped off the day after she was killed. But like I said, I haven’t looked at it.”

Murdock took a deep breath and let it out, thinking back, trying to remember details. “So I told her it was a good idea to get a place of her own and to take personal belongings out of the house, just to get the things she really cared about out of the house. She had money, so it wouldn’t be a problem to move some things quietly. But she told me she’d already taken care of it, that she’d bought a small house up in one of the canyons and had already moved stuff out there. She gave me some papers she had, stuff she didn’t want her husband to find. She said she’d send me the stuff her P.I. had put together and we made another appointment.”

“But she must have said something to him.”

“I have no idea.” Murdock shook his head. “She just didn’t seem like the kind of person who would lose her head. I mean, she was a tough politician’s wife. Wealthy New Yorker, sophisticated, savvy. I think Steele must have figured out something was up and confronted her. That’s only a guess. But when a woman walks into your office and tells you she wants a divorce and then turns up dead a few days later, I don’t think it takes a genius to figure out they’re connected.”

“No,” I spoke softly, looking at the diplomas on the wall. “I don’t suppose it does.”

“Like I said before,” Murdock went on, “I thought a lot about it. But who knows what really happened? People can do all kinds of things in the heat of the moment.”

I finally felt compelled to say what had been weighing on me most, “So if he did it, a guilty man has gotten off.”

But Murdock surprised me. He pursed his lips slightly, mulling it over, and said, “I suppose that’s right, but the man did do twelve years. That ain’t exactly scot-free. But I hear you.”

“But it’s the wrong result.”

He laughed a little and shot back, “There’s a big difference between what the law ought to be and what the law is. The right result only exists in law school or philosophy classes. In the real world, the right result is the result you get.”

I had nothing more to say. I just sat there, surrounded by a silence so complete it left my ears ringing. I thought about Dan Kelly again. I believed everything he said. Steele too. Kelly could have been lying. He could have merely been mistaken. I stared off into space trying to sort through it all, trying to put my thoughts in order. I realized I hadn’t blinked my eyes for several minutes.

“Well, shit,” Murdock finally broke the silence and stood with an expectant look. I stood as well, and followed him back out front.

Murdock picked up the file and handed it to me. “Like I said, I’d just as soon never have to think about this thing again. So, between you and me, you found this thing.” Murdock smiled.

I took the file and tucked it under my arm. “Thanks for meeting with me. This has been helpful.” We walked to the front door and paused while Murdock leaned against it, hesitating.

“It’s funny,” Murdock said, turning back toward me and glancing at the file under my arm. “The things that come back to haunt you.” He shook his head and put his sunglasses on. “You just never know.” Murdock smiled, pushed the door open, and was consumed briefly by the brilliant glow of the afternoon sun. I followed him into the light and was blind and nearly dizzy in the overwhelming heat. Late-August in Palm Springs. Brutal. Murdock locked the door behind us and we headed across the parking lot toward the cars.

I thanked him again. Murdock turned and walked swiftly back to his white Audi, dressed in his light tan outfit, looking like a man heading cheerfully out to a tennis match.

I lingered in my car after Murdock drove off. I debated opening the file then and there, but decided to wait rather than risk misplacing something or having it fly out the window on the drive back. Better to leave it all sealed just a little longer. I pulled out onto the street slowly, slightly disoriented in the suffocating hot of the day, waiting feebly for the air conditioning to cool.

By the time I reached Cabazon the air had lost the harsh desert heat and I debated pulling off to put the top down. As I eyed the exit, I checked my mirrors and noted a black Taurus a dozen car lengths behind me. Cabazon, with its massive complex of factory outlet stores and little else, sits on the edge of the desert and traffic was still light, even for a Sunday afternoon. I thought nothing of the black car, other than how unfortunate a color like black was in the heat.

Heading west, I passed the split in the freeway that would take me south on the sixty to Riverside and instead remained on the ten, heading for Los Angeles. The traffic rushed along the wide concrete artery at a brisk eighty miles per hour, but by San Bernardino there were noticeably more cars on the road. Traffic was nearly bumper to bumper going seventy and I was certain that things would slow down as I got closer to the city. I put the window down and felt the air. It was perfect. I got off at the next exit to put the top down.

I pulled into a parking space directly in front of the glass doors of a Circle-K, put the red file folder down on the floor of the passenger’s seat, and went in to buy something to drink. Though I thought my fear of theft was unrealistic, paranoid, I kept an eye on the car the entire time I was in the store. It was a quick stop, less than a minute out of the car, but anything could happen, I supposed. But of course, nothing did.

On my way out through the doors, I paused and took in a deep breath, enjoying the final day of my summer break as much as I could. And it hit me only then: that this was it. The summer was over. I thought briefly about the classes I had yet to prepare for, shook the thoughts from my mind and took a long drink of the fizzy Seven-Up, wishing I’d bought water instead.

With my head tilted back, my eyes fell on a black car parked next door at a Burger King. I watched a bald man with a moustache sitting in the driver’s seat. I felt a surge of energy. He looked incredibly familiar. He did not appear to be getting out of the car, did not appear to be eating, and did not appear to be leaving.

I got in my car and put the top down, glancing over my shoulder at the black car and the man inside. For a second, I thought I saw the man looking at me and quickly looking away when I turned toward him. Where had I seen him before? I finished putting the top down and looked back again. I told myself I was crazy, paranoid. I felt an urgency to get home. I needed to study. I needed to stop thinking about Steele and Andersen and get back to my normal life.

On the freeway I turned up the radio and tried to pick up speed and lose myself in the act of driving, but it was impossible. The hoards flowing back into the city were bringing traffic to a frustrating thirty or forty miles per hour. The carpool lane was nearly empty and I watched several cars filled with people cruise by me while my foot alternated between gas and brake.

It was hopeless. I turned the radio up louder and tried to think about nothing at all. But the reason I was stuck in traffic kept coming back to me. The folder slid around on the floor with every act of acceleration and braking. I imagined Steele confronting his wife. I could almost hear her threaten him. She knew everything. She was going to leave him, take the children, and leave him open to questions. And suddenly, Steele could see his life unraveling around him.

In a hot moment he gives in to his rage. He attacks her. Once it is over, Steele realizes what he has done. He is covered with blood. He is unsure what to do. He calls his lawyer. There is a conversation. But about what? Maybe he confesses, maybe he makes up a story as he goes along. He locks his four year old in a room. He calls 911. He calls his lawyer back, worries that his daughter will be home soon and then, from out of the panic, it hits him. The daughter’s boyfriend. The kid his wife hated. By the time the police arrive he has his story.

He never tells anyone about the calls to Andersen because they make him look guilty. Andersen never tells anyone because it’s a privileged conversation. Andersen doesn’t investigate Bishop because he knows it’s a lie. But why let Steele take the stand and tell his story? Why let Steele perjure himself? I struggled with these and other questions, avoiding the obvious one that I was afraid to focus on: what do I do now?

Steele was enjoying a resurgence of popularity. Carver was a hero. The firm had a new, high profile client with a lot of potential for bringing in business as people lined up to get on the Steele bandwagon. I didn’t want to think about waltzing into Carver’s office to tell him that we might have gotten it all wrong.

Then there it was in the mirror. I could see the black Taurus speeding up the wide-open carpool lane. When the Taurus slowed, I focused on the license numbers, repeating them in my head to remember them. It merged in two cars behind me. I could see the man driving. He was alone. Not only should he not have been in the carpool lane, but if he was really trying to get somewhere, why get over and merge back in with traffic? And suddenly I remembered where I’d seen him. He was sitting in Andersen’s office when I was walking out. And then I knew I’d seen him other places too. Parked on the street somewhere. Was it really the same guy? Was Andersen having me followed? And if so, why?

My eyes scanned the traffic. It was plodding along with no real end in sight. I eyed the empty carpool lane and decided to press my luck. I jerked the wheel to the left and stomped on the gas. The BMW bolted from the lane, the roaring torque propelling me back into the seat and launching the car up over a hundred in an instant. The cars on the freeway rushed by like fence posts and in less then twenty seconds I was a half mile ahead.

I watched the empty lane behind me. Nothing. I pushed it some more and blew down the carpool lane for another mile until I was finally trapped behind a mini-van that was barely going faster than the rest of the traffic. I merged back into the bumper to bumper cars and felt relief come over me.

The black car never appeared behind me. I turned the radio up nearly all the way and laughed out loud. I was going crazy. It couldn’t have been the same guy I saw in Andersen’s office. I wasn’t really being followed. I was just losing it. Everything was getting to me. I was seeing conspiracies everywhere. I had to relax. Everything was going to work out. Somehow.