“Laycee personified all of the women he bedded. But hate? No. I wouldn’t give her that much of my energy. I didn’t respect her. I’m angry with myself for befriending her.” I fidgeted with my purse strap. Revisiting my marriage and the mistakes I made? Not my favorite subject. “How do we handle Detective Pratt? She wants to talk to me again.”
Oliver sat back, puffing his cigar. “Let her wait. The cops got nothin’ to bring you in or hold you on. They got guesses. Everybody’s got guesses. Here’s my guess: they don’t have confirmed time of death, they don’t have the murder weapon, and they don’t have the fingerprint reports back. So Pratt is shooting out accusations at people like cardboard ducks in a carnival booth, waiting for someone to quack out a confession. Ain’t happening. Ain’t happening, honey.”
I felt a little more encouraged, although not completely convinced about Oliver. “In other words, you want me to wait for her to find another suspect?”
“You can bet that right now, she’s not looking at anyone but you and Jarret. Gives her something to do. That box you let her take out of your house, you know, the one she removed with your permission? What’s in it?”
“Books I haven’t looked at in years, just some…I don’t know exactly.”
“What do you mean you don’t know exactly? You didn’t open it when you got home?”
“No.” I braced for another lecture.
Oliver sat forward in the big leather chair, sweeping a hand through his mop of hair. “You…you’re kidding. What?” He sighed. “What if the killer dropped the murder weapon in the box on his way out? Oh boy, they must be having a party at the police lab. Commendation plaques are being ordered.”
“Stop.” I held up my hands. “First of all, Carla Pratt isn’t ignorant, neither am I, and according to Kitty, neither are you. Carla had to know the contents of the box before she came to see me today. If the knife were inside, you and I would be talking from opposite sides of a table at the jail down the street instead of here in your office. Second, I’m not amused by the name game we just played. You’re the man I’m thinking about hiring to protect my freedom. My freedom is precious to me. I don’t know anything about you.”
He pointed to the wall behind me. A JD degree hung above four framed commendations from the California State Bar Association.
“I have a wife and two kids who eat too much,” he said. “I work too hard, I don’t sleep enough, and I’m impatient. What else can I tell you?”
“Why did you opt to practice criminal law?”
“Is this the character interview part? I love the interview part. You’re curious why I chose to defend criminals.”
“I wouldn’t put it quite that way but—”
“I like practicing law. I like seeing the justice system work. I like making the system work. I would rather read sports statistics than contracts. Divorcing couples are nastier than petty criminals. Probate and trusts would make me feel like a funeral director. Okay? So do I like working with criminals? Let me ask you this—did you become a psychologist because you like working with crazy people?”
I smiled. Maybe I could appreciate Oliver Paul. “I like all kinds of people. Kitty told me—”
“Gotta love old Kitty Kirkland, right? The gal’s got balls.”
“I wasn’t finished,” I said.
“Maybe you’re not, but I am. I like you. You’re thorough. I’ll take your case. We have work to do. We need information to move the spotlight off you. I want the lowdown on the other names on Pratt’s witness and suspect lists. I want to know what she knows. You haven’t been charged—I don’t have discovery to dig through. As I said before, I’ll have my private detective do some checking.”
“He won’t have much time to investigate. How long can we stall Detective Pratt?”
“She’ll have a hell of a time reaching me tomorrow. I’ll be in court. She knows she can’t talk to you without me present. Maybe I’ll take the family to Palm Springs tomorrow night for a weekend visit to my mother. Ma misses me. She called me twice this week for money.” Oliver rocked back in his chair. “But the longer we put off Pratt, the more ticked off and suspicious she’ll get.”
“Who’s your detective?”
“His name is Hank McCormick. Ex-LAPD. He’s been on disability since a rifle shot blew out his knee.”
“I wonder if he knows my father and brother,” I said. “Dad is a retired homicide detective and Dave is RHD. They may be able to help him out.”
“We’re not doing a potluck where everybody brings a dish.” Oliver pointed at me. “I want your word—no ‘helpful outsiders’ to muck up the investigation.”
I had heard and ignored the same warning a few times before. My life, my potluck, and my decision. “Not outsiders—family.”