“No, thanks. I’ll manage. But look,” I began pacing, “they’re clearly more interested in me than you thought. What I can’t figure out is why they came and took my place apart but didn’t arrest me? Not that I want to go to jail, but what’s going on?” I stopped in front of Gubbins and clasped my hands on my chin to keep from wobbling like a bobblehead doll. “If this is some kind of mind game, it’s working.”
“Try to calm down. The judge must’ve decided that they only had probable cause for a property search at this point. If they’d found the murder weapon in your possession or evidence that placed you at the crime scene, that would justify an arrest warrant.”
I knew that. I wasn’t thinking straight. I took a deep breath, closed my eyes for a second and tried to slow my racing thoughts.
“Listen, I have another idea about who the murderer could be. I didn’t tell Roche. He’d assume I was trying to take the heat off myself.”
I was desperate to share my suspicions with Gubbins and have him use his resources to make the case. He might have an investigator on his staff who could check Stokes out. Someone shrewd, like Paul Drake, the PI on Perry Mason. I’d come across DVDs of the 1950s TV series at the library. Mason was an imposing criminal lawyer with a baritone voice. Both men wore suits with quarterback shoulder pads. They always uncovered the truth and sent the right party to jail.
“You’re shaken up. Let’s get you settled first,” Gubbins said, leading the way into his inner offices.
We entered an impressive conference room. Gubbins waved me toward one of the six red-leather swivel chairs surrounding a large glass table. His decor was more sophisticated than I expected: modern Italian-looking furniture, George Nelson lamps. I zeroed in on the espresso machine on his granite-topped bar. It had been a very long, draining day, and my head felt like it was stuffed with cotton balls. Mental clarity was imperative if I was going to set out my theory for him.
“You know, I could really use a cup of coffee. Would you mind very much?”
“It would be my pleasure to fix you one,” he said.
While Gubbins popped off a pod of Arpeggio, I walked over to the front windows and parted the gray silk drapes. Corwin’s Market had closed a few minutes earlier, but the inside lights were still on—I could read the ORDER YOUR THANKSGIVING TURKEY NOW sign above the entrance. The manager was doing his usual slapstick routine of collecting shopping carts from the sidewalk and struggling to fit them together while they rolled back toward the curb.
Further down Pequod Avenue, a young woman carried a laundry bag out of the Laundromat. The rest of the stores visible from here were already dark, most of the parking spaces empty. There was no sign of the black van.
“What are you looking for out there?” Gubbins asked.
Once again, my lawyer had shown himself to be astute.
“The van that was tailgating me before,” I said, returning to sit at the conference table. “It’s gone. For a minute, I thought it might be a cop keeping an eye on me. But I’m pretty sure I was just paranoid. I’ve been looking through a dark lens lately. It was some guy in a hurry.”
Gubbins frowned. “Tell me if he shows up again.”
He rubbed a twist of lemon on the rim and set the tiny espresso cup and saucer down on the table.
“Drink this and collect your thoughts while I try Thomas O’Donnell.”
“Thomas O’Donnell?”
“He’s the county magistrate who issued the warrant. He can tell us what new information sparked the search—they must have something they didn’t have two days ago, and we need to know what it is,” he said, adding, “I’m close with his sister Mary—the state’s lieutenant governor. We went to law school together.”
Douglas Gubbins, man of contradictions. A small-town lawyer with a power broker’s contacts.
“I missed him at the office, and he hasn’t picked up his cell. He doesn’t take calls once he’s home. But he usually stops at the Massamat Steak and Brew first,” Gubbins said. “I want to try him one more time.” He checked his watch. “He should still be sober.”
Seeing the expensive watch on Gubbins’s wrist reminded me of the wealthy collector Hugh and I had known who dressed exclusively in tracksuits. He wore them everywhere—to openings, patron dinners, auctions. He wouldn’t attend any event that enforced a strict dress code. “No matter how poorly a man dresses, you can tell how much money he has by what kind of watch and shoes he wears,” Hugh had said when the collector showed up to a Christie’s auction in his usual attire and purchased nearly $2 million worth of art.
Despite his cheap suit, Gubbins wore a Rolex and Ferragamo loafers. Between flashing that hundred-dollar bill at Eden’s, the watch and the shoes, it looked like my country lawyer was highly successful. I just prayed he still knew his way around the county criminal court from his days at the DA’s office.
“There’s the phone if you need it.” He indicated the slim, black cordless on a stand. “I’ll be back in a couple of minutes, and then you can tell me all about the murderer.”
What was that tone I’d just detected? Was Gubbins humoring me? I chalked it up to more paranoia.
The espresso tasted strong and smooth—just what the doctor ordered. I was tempted to phone Grace to tell her about the police search, but she’d be outraged. She’d insist I come to her place and stay the night. She and Mac would want all the details. They’d ask about Gubbins’s strategy. I couldn’t handle another interrogation. And I was beginning to feel discomfited at my recurring role as the needy friend.
A stack of Time magazines lay on the table. The cover on the top issue read “Exodus: The Refugee Crisis.” It had a photo of a father carrying his child on the long and dangerous journey to a foreign land that might or might not take them in. Eager for distraction, I perused the story while I finished the coffee, but I couldn’t concentrate on the words. I took the cup to the bar to rinse it. As I watched the clear water swirl down the drain, I suddenly felt guilty. Guilty about the waste. About squandering such a precious resource. There were thousands of refugees who had no access to clean drinking water. Or food and shelter, for that matter. They lived in mud and filth. I felt guilty for not helping them, for not having adopted an abused dog, for having two legs while Eric Warschuk had only one. Guilty for everything I did, didn’t do, was or wasn’t. Where was all this guilt coming from?
You’d think I’d killed someone.
I was jittery, on edge. I should never have had that espresso. When Gubbins opened the door, my heart jumped.
“O’Donnell didn’t answer, but I managed to reach Ben. I told him to try his contact at the DA’s office to find out what prompted the warrant.”
I groaned. “Do we have to involve Ben?”
Gubbins gave me a questioning look. “I can assure you he doesn’t mind helping, and we need every resource we have. So . . . what’s this theory you’ve developed? We’re done with Jeffrey Volani, I hope.”
“We should look into Stokes Diekmann. He was sleeping with Helene.”