Cafe Underground Presents
River Of Lawyers
-- Chapter 1
The Detective Andi Wicksham Series, by RL Bell
Copyright © 2001 RL BELL
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Andi Wicksham's INVESTIGATORY SERVICES
Chapter 1
Portland Oregon. Quarter to five, Monday evening with January rush-hour clamor and a day-long drizzle that drifted all day like snow on an old TV. Detective Andi Wicksham stared down to the glistening headlight-smears, then swung her chair back around to her desk–this time next week she'd be Cabo San Lucas sucking a Margarita in the shade of a palm with mangos enough to bath in.
The phone rang. “Wicksham...” she answered.
“Hi, it's Traci...got a minute...”
Andi smiled. Yeah sure. But listen to this Cabo fantasy...I could smear myself with soft, warm, ripe, juicy mango, then...” Andi smirked and leaned back in her chair.
“What?” The response came a bit too loudly.
“In Cabo...it's just an idea. Not that I'd actually do it...unless the mangos were golden-sweet.” she snickered. “Five days, three-and-a-half hours.” she grinned with a glance at her watch. “Can’t wait.”
“Andi, we need to talk.”
“Fine, what’s up?” She swung her feet onto the opened top drawer and snuggled into her chair.
“Maybe this isn’t the time...you working?”
“Up to my gills...so what?”
“Not now.” Traci said firmly. “I’ll wait...”
There was a click and the phone buzzed in her ear, but three days of late reports and billings were stacked on her desk–three days minimum to clear it. Forget the backlogged correspondence–if it grew enough mold she could kiss that off completely.
She gritted her teeth, pulled her hair back from her forehead with both hands and stared hard at the computer screen, took a sip of coffee and flailed spiritedly at the keyboard. Work-logs, contacts, details; the tedium of investigation–worthwhile connections, discarded leads, phone calls attempted and completed. All the tedious stuff deserving payment capped by three or four paragraphs on how one thing led to another in her search for a dead-beat dad’s secreted assets. She tracked the creep through three jobs, four apartments and two relationships only to find him holed up in a nice cushy job selling insurance, taking flying lessons and driving a red car worth thirty-grand...no wonder he couldn’t pay child-support.
She pushed to wrap it up. It had been too much work for a client she couldn’t charge half what she should–no sense making it worse making out the bill.
Her business card said “Investigatory Services,” but report writing was the job. She made a rude sound and punched aggressively at the save button. To make-up the loss, she would have to stick the next dentist checking prospective partners or executive’s wife on the trail of an alimonial golden-parachute.
Her coffee was cold, but another ten minutes of clerical engineering would have the report sandwiched in her files and its duplicate, meagerly figured invoice, enveloped and stamped. She made a mental note–she had to start getting decent retainers or go on food stamps. It would be a miracle if she saw half this billing in the next three months.
She looked at her watch as she finished, one more report and she would be home by seven.
The phone rang again. She let it ring twice out of orneriness before snatching it up and barking her usual “Wicksham.” She glared at her computer screen and backspaced mental curses over her typos.
“Ms. Wicksham...this is Lionel Morse of Templeton, Morse and Bryant. I’ve been given your name by two different sources, both of whom recommended you highly.”
Andi rolled her eyes. She recognized the firm–not the voice; up-scale law, downtown high-rise, hourly fees somewhere along the lines of eighty hours at minimum wage–there was no reason for him call her other than to put the heat on someone. “I’d like to help, but unless it can hold I can’t fit it in.” In her mind’s eye Cabo San Lucas beckoned.
“You haven’t heard my problem, Ms. Wicksham. We haven’t just picked your name from the book. We have a delicate investigation and have decided you would be the best one to trust.”
Andi visualized him with a used-car salesman’s smile and the mistaken illusion that compliments would be coin to buy an appointment. She closed her eyes. “My time is extremely tight and I’m leaving town Saturday. Unless it can hold, I can’t fit it in.”
“This is a delicate matter Ms. Wicksham.” the patient voice continued as if he did not understand. He exuded firm confidence, slick lawyers battered away with smooth persistence. If she had the time her fee would bump up at least two brackets.
“It’s a matter of some urgency and we’re prepared to pay a premium for inconveniencing you.”
A premium? Too bad. Andi picked up a pencil and bounced its eraser on her desk. He wouldn’t pay in the denomination Traci would. “The problem is, Mr. Morse, my plate is full and I leave town in less than a week.”
“I understand juggling busy schedules, Ms. Wicksham.” the voice droned calmly persuasive; as if she sounded interested. “This is an unusual affair. If we could purchase an hour of your time, perhaps tomorrow morning at ten-thirty, we would pay a fee of...say, three hundred dollars for the inconvenience. Just one meeting, I’d very much like to lay this problem before you. No obligation.”
“I’ll probably say no. Couldn’t we discuss it over the phone?” Andi wheedled as she reached for her appointment book.
“I’m sorry.” The practiced voice was calm but firm. “Say, ten-thirty, here?” He dangled the money like a worm on a hook, expecting confirmation.
“I don’t know.” Andi stalled, sipping cold coffee to stall for time. “Let me check.” she glanced out the window and rolled her eyes. “No, won’t do. How about quarter to twelve?”
“Eleven-forty-five.” Morse dictated his address and telephone number and offered a goodby that sounded like he had struck oil. Andi made a face and pushed aside her appointment book. Her fee hitched up another bracket and a half. Not that she’d trade the work for Cabo.
She spun her chair to stare out the window. Templeton, Morse and Bryant–they were strictly uptown–corporate acquisitions and environmental litigation of the deep-pocket variety. Tomorrow morning would be soon enough to see what she could find on them. It never hurt to have an idea what you’ll face. She sighed and turned back to her keyboard. Two more hours would kick the next report. A couple hundred bucks from Morse over lunch and back to her grindstone through the afternoon. God she hated office work...she’d never let this crap build up again. NEVER AGAIN!!!
Sure..like hell.
Besides the tedium of the office work, investigation was dirty business. In five years she’d rubbed elbows with some incredible scum and it was the better class of client she felt slimed by–unethical, bourgeois cretins expecting to buy unfair advantage–spoiled, yuppie professionals self-medicating with compound tincture of arrogance. She glanced out the window at the dark, low sky. Of course not all those gracing her door were top-floating sludge; the one who’s report she just finished worked on the marginal edge, supporting two kids doing temp work. Good thing the other half of her clients had money and didn’t flinch a being charged up-front. She’d come to peace with charging them more. God bless the selfish, self-centered souls greasing the skids of the sled she dragged.
The phone rang again. She let it go to its second ring before impatiently grabbing it. “Wicksham.”
“Andi.” It was Traci again.
Andi’s face flushed involuntarily flushed and her palms felt sweaty. The warmth of Cabo San Lucas beckoned. “Hi babe, was just thinking of you.”
“Cabo’s not happening. I’m calling to tell I’m getting back with my ex. It was wrong, we hadn’t finished.”
Andi choked. “What are you thinking?” She mentally shrieked and floundered for reasons.
Traci’s voice ground forward at a defensive clip. “It’s not like we were an item. It’d only been three months.”
“But we’d plans.” The floor turned spongy then dropped like an elevator to her emotional sub-basement.
“I’m sorry.”
“SORRY???? You’re SORRY?”
“I’m not going to argue.” Traci’s slamming the phone down sounded like a gunshot.
The evening careened from worse to bad; receipts she needed for billing were at her apartment and she could only get her friend’s answering machine, listening to Sonny’s quirky message extolling the virtues of fudge. She could imagine Sonny’s lizard swiveling its eyes in different directions, listening, while Sonny was out getting silly over Thai food.
Frustration solidified around her ankles as she tried to type, her self discipline evaporated. There was a malignant tinge to the air, she’d been dumped like over-ripe compost. Dumped. Damn-a-mundo...dumped. Forcing herself to focus, her fingers careened faster than her spelling and she ended up pounding the keyboard in frustration. She paced a figure-eight around the office, opened the door just to slam it and careened the wastebasket off the filing cabinet with a kick. Another two laps and she returned to typing; cursing lovers, telephones, lawyers, and the mountain of paperwork that chaining her to her desk.
She was getting nowhere fast, cashed it in, rinsed the coffee pot, emptied the trash, wiped the few uncluttered surfaces, flipped the lights and turned the key, hurrying down the stairs and up the street to drown her sorrows in a double chocolate fudge malt (double malt) and hazelnut-bittersweet chocolate truffle. Fuck ‘em all. Chocolate never lets you down. She dallied in an anonymous corner, grateful no one near was acting lovie-dovie. The last thing she wanted was to go home to her empty apartment. Finishing the malt, she got a hot apple juice and biscotti, killing another hour and a half.
When she finally got there, two anxious calls from Sonny waited on her machine. She dialed, but there was no one but the lizard listening again. Whoever said ‘all things would pass’ was an irrational optimist.
The next morning, in a tan silk blouse, slacks and bolero jacket she braved the tenth floor office of Templeton, Morse and Bryant. The brass appointed, oak-paneled elevator opened onto inch-thick iron grey carpet in-cut with sculpted teal and salmon geometrics laid over ankle-deep padding. A glass wall etched with the firm’s name graciously screened open French doors and a tasteful French Provincial receptionist’s desk with a bright young woman in prim lace and fawn colored wool.
Through heavy wooden doors on each side she could see the machinery of the legal locomotive; double rows of blue upholstered cubicals housing middle-aged legal secretaries and eager researchers ringed with formidable banks of tan, four-high cabinets. It was the epitome of efficient office culture down to its vague murmur of rustling paper and quiet voices that evoked a sense of focused industry.
She turned down the offered coffee or Perier and settled into one of the stiff couches in the high-ceilinged waiting room. It was nauseatingly tasteful–wide stretches of the low-tone tertiary colors design schools must make a percentage on, lined with low couches vaguely Hollywood-Egyptian of the 1930's. The solid doors were easily eight foot high and probably weighed as much as a brick layer.
Faint jazz muzak tweaked toward bass tones enveloped from invisible speakers and the walls held impeccably chosen Georgia O’Keeffes. Law was a lucrative business in this realm; a far cry from the dog-eared offices of the divorce and real estate lawyers she counted as clients.
Lionel Morse swept in a minute later to usher her down the hall to his office. “A partner of this firm has been murdered.” he stated flatly after swinging the door closed. “We’d like you to look into the matter.” It was a signal; down to business without formalities–starting even before the gracious wave to a chair. He took an identical one across a low teak table instead of reining from across the rosewood desk set by the window. A three-hundred dollar check, four photographs of a man in his mid-thirties and a one page fact sheet lay clipped together before her. She scanned as he talked, the pictures were casual, a slightly greying male, well dressed, unmarried professional.
“Saturday night at the Yacht Club. Robert Bryant. Brutally apparently, there may have been a struggle. The police aren’t discussing it, but we’ve heard that blood was found.”
“But no body?”
“No body. It could have been thrown in the river, they’re searching all the way to Astoria.” He looked suitably distraught.
“You’ve never hired me before.” It was flattering, but being called from the minors to pitch in the Series set red flags waving. “You must have big-time agencies on retainer, surely they could handle this. Murder is a matter for the police.”
Morse didn’t bat an eye. “Our investigators may be a bit too close for this. They’d lack perspective, and...” Morse pursed his lips. “...we felt you might an easier entry into the circles he traveled.”
Andi stared, dumbfounded. Had they investigated her personal life? How could she have a reputation in a town so eccentric even the a past mayor posed as a flasher accosting a statue?
Morse glanced out the window, then back. “We have the highest respect for your ability and discretion. Your professionalism recommends you.” He spoke evenly, neutrally, with a touch of chest-resonance that evoked sincerity. “This an issue we want handled delicately. Scandal can be extremely expensive.” He smiled wanly. “We trust the police to handle the criminal end, but keeping abreast of the investigation might give opportunity for spin control.” Morse sat back with a self-depreciating smile.
Andi recovered enough to ask, “Uhhh...what focus did you have in mind?” Not having time for him had been her best bargaining tactic, but as of sixteen hours ago, her time lay unencumbered and she didn’t think she could claim it with a straight face.
“Contacts, friends, associates. His secretary can lead you through his business contacts. Probable motives, opportunity, suspects, standard line.”
“I thought you trusted the police to handle it.” Andi looked directly into his eyes.
“Meaning, we don’t expect you to step on their toes.” Morse let the sentence hang. “What do you expect for a fee?” He ducked the punch and countered.
“I haven’t accepted the case. I’ve had plans to go to Mexico and have a mountain of paperwork.”
“You need clerical help Ms. Wicksham.” Morse parried with a lopsided smile–a lucky guess or something he knew? “We’ll pay a reasonable daily and expenses, plus...say another thirty-five hundred to offset rescheduling your vacation. Maybe it can help you get out from under your mountain. He was direct if anything.
She wondered how much he knew of her paperwork piles. Who could have told him? Nobody. She told him four ninety-five a day--twice her usual which she usually didn’t collect–still, probably a fraction of his. Morse seemed physically relieved and passed across a large manila envelope. She glanced through it as he made general comments, made an appointment with Bryant’s secretary, had a brief tour of the office, as was guided back to the front desk. His smile remained in place as he asked her to fax a contract and offered to sign originals in the afternoon.
Retreating to the elevator, Andi tried to come to grips with what she’d fallen into. She had time for the work now that Mexico was down the tubes, the bonus more than quadrupled her plane fare which she would get some refund from. With her love life skidded into a ditch and its tangled wreckage still sending up smoke she’d be better off working. And, she had money for a temp, if only she was organized enough to put one to work–which she wasn’t.
Morse might be avoiding his regular uptown investigators because they would work for his competitors too and couldn’t be trusted not to blab. Better to hire a small fish without access to those that mattered. The scenario spoke of potential dirt–Morse’s partner Bryant must have been into something sticky. She wandered to her car lost in thought; she would see Bryant’s secretary at nine in the morning, but this morning she had to crank Morse’s contract, snag a copy of the police report, view the crime scene and get some background on the law firm.
The morning drizzle had stopped and, as she drove back across the bridge, the sky was clearing. Back at her office, a fax from Morse waited with contract suggestions, she typed his changes and faxed the contract, opened a “Bryant” subdirectory in her computer and phoned her friend, now inspector Ramirez–a buddy since teenage days when they wasted days in city parks, smoking pot.
“Can’t give what I don’t got.” he complained. “Got a standard initial report–which you can have, nothing special; time of call, responding officers, sketch of the scene, some pictures that don’t show a thing, fingerprints we haven’t traced. They’re checking blood type.”
“DNA?”
“You watch too much TV. We don’t even have a body, he wasn’t officially missing until yesterday. Maybe somebody tripped and cut his head and Bryant’s off on a bender.”
“Nothing else?”
Ramirez yawned. “We aren’t putting time into it. Being paid to take interest?”
“Why else? By the way, you owe me a pizza on your dream Seattle would take the Nicks.”
“I should have had my head examined, next time, ignore me.”
“Next time I’ll make it two pizzas.”
“Skinny people got too high a metabolism. Can’t schedule now, gotta go. Ciao, eh?”
She tried Traci again–still the machine, where she left a third, far more bitter, message than she should have. Sonny wouldn’t rise until noon. Andi bounced her pencil and fumed, Morse had stated flatly that it was murder, which she accepted without question, but the police, who should know, didn’t. It seemed out of character for a down-town lawyer in a million dollar office. She made a note to set up a separate file on Morse.
She dialed the manager at the Yacht Club–Morse had made good his promise to call. Norton Stredlow’s voice balanced with practiced distance, agreeing to a last minute appointment a forty minutes away. Soon as she faxed a standard contract with the appropriate figures she would drive by the station for the report and pick her way across the river.
She had been to the Yacht Club a few times. It was upwardly pretentious in a Portland kind of way, simplicity speaking to exclusivity not gaudiness; the manager, Norton Stredlow’s lips pinched in a disapproving pout, but he was polite to a fault sitting stiffly on the front third of his chair. Evidently Morse’s call was enough to make him to perform, but not enough to make him happy.
“Did you know Mr. Bryant?” Andi asked conversationally.
“I knew who he was. He wasn’t a member.” Stredlow murmured stuffily.
“Can you tell me about the incident?”
Stredlow favored her with a sour look before running down a mental list. Noris-SDI, a local high-tech firm, hosted the event which was a hot buffet and open bar, in a four hour window; Bryant, Morse and fifty-three other guests, attended by ten Yacht Club employees. At ten-thirty a staff member reported the appearance of an accident in the boat house. Stredlow inspected it himself, saw the blood and called the police.
“The person reporting the blood, is he here?” Andi wished she had taken time to read the report.
“No.”
“Can you tell me the staff on duty?”
“I’m sorry, Yacht Club policy.”
“How about a copy of the guest list?”
“No.” the manager drawled haughtily, “We didn’t invite the guests.”
Andi didn’t push, the police would have covered that ground. “Can you show me the boat house?”
He led through the restaurant and by the bar and banquet room to the ample decks looking over the marina’s river-wall, docks and boat house. The boat house stood on the concrete quay near the arm of the enclosed harbor. The doors faced the river and were out of line of site from the Yacht Club. Gated gangways led to the docks lined with sleek hulled yachts costing more than small downtown condos.
Yellow police streamers still sealed its doors, but a peek in the windows showed rowing shells and oars across the far wall, along the one on the right, cabinets and a work-bench set on the third. It had a quiet, athletic, utilitarian look; uncluttered and well maintained.
“I suppose Mr. Bryant wouldn’t have a key?” Andi asked.
“Not to my knowledge...” Stredlow replied a bit archly. “But guests go in and out, some loan keys to friends.” He pointed a manicured finger. “The was blood is on the floor in front of that second cabinet. I suppose we’ll be let in to clean sometime. It was smeared to the door.” It was as if he was giving instructions to a janitor.
“As if something was dragged.”
“A body?” He asked disingenuously.
Andi ignored him and examined the deck.
“Washed away by the rain. It was already almost gone when the police arrived.” The manager seemed anxious to return to his desk. Back in her car, she made notes and looked through the police report. No reports of arguments or gunshots. The blood was discovered by a busboy collecting glasses–nobody was seen entering or leaving, but then how hard would the police investigate with no body and a party of the influential going on?
The report listed miscellaneous tools, boat tally-logs, prescription dark glasses, papers, a map, pencils and three drink glasses found on the floor “..as if the result of a struggle.” The blood came from a single pool, mid-floor without splatter, with streaked drag-marks. No weapon or no bullet casings, no blood on any club-like tools set about, multiple fingerprints marking the glasses, door knobs and woodwork.
The sky was beginning to cloud again, Andi shivered and wished she had a warmer outfit. There was nothing more to gain there, she tossed the report to the passenger seat and drove off. She’d eaten an apple mid-morning, but missed lunch and now had to rush back to see what Morse faxed back on their contract. Maybe Sonny could do an early dinner.
There was another call from her at the office–just before one from Morse discussing the fax. Lawyers were a pain–he wanted a paragraph committing weekly written reports, but then offered a healthy retainer as if to make up for it. Andi typed in the changes; she would have given any reports he wanted with a simple request, he was paying enough to decide how she spent his time.
With the revamped contract printing, she phoned him back. “I went by the Yacht Club and got the police report.”
“Quick work...and without a signed contract.”
“I’m not that mistrusting, you’ve got some credibility. I need a copy of the party’s guest list. Noris-SDI hosted, do you work with them?”
Morse paused. “They’ve been clients now and again. I’ll see what I can do.” His voice trailed-off as if he were making a note.
“Why did you consider this murder and not kidnaping or just disappearance?”
“Probably just catastophizing, Ms. Wicksham, I don’t remember the term I used.” His voice was lightly touched by self-depreciating humor. “I was distressed, I must have jumped to that conclusion. Is it important?” A stupid question.
“Tell me about that evening.”
“We came separately from work, had plans to meet a client and tie-up loose ends after the yacht club. We both worked the room for an hour or two, but I didn’t pay attention to when he left. He missed both appointments...something he’d never done before. He didn’t call Sunday, come in Monday or cancel appointments.”
“Did he seen nervous, distracted...upset? Why were you there?”
“He seemed as normal as ever, nothing unusual that afternoon I remember. It was just a minor social affair; part of a partner’s job description.”
“You must have suspected there was a reason for murder or you wouldn’t have suspected it. Who do you think could have done it?”
“I’ve no idea. Really.”
Morse’s voice was a seamless mask, but Andi didn’t buy it. “Personal friends, business contacts? Who might profit from his disappearance?”
“Nobody I’d suspect of murder.”
“How about impending cases where his absence would make a difference? If it was murder it was somebody who knew him benefitted.”
“No enemies I know of...sincerely. But he worked independently, ask his secretary, Katherine...Ms Chang-Turner. I’ll personally review his clients. Maybe it’ll reveal something.”
Andi ignored the deflection. “What do you know of his past clients or cases? Any unhappy adversaries? He must have cost opponents big money.”
Morse’s voice flowed calm and measured. “Criminal law wasn’t his field. Our clients come to agreements, they don’t win or loose.”
“Still, who might dislike him? Somebody lose a big case in the last year?”
“No opposing colleagues I can think of had that sort of malice. That’s the sort of thing I was hoping you’d turn up.”
Andi bit her lip. In her experience a lot of lawyers had considerable malice. “Do you know who he might have seen socially?” It strained credibility that in seven years of late-night workaholism and attention to detail, he hadn’t learned more of a business partner.
Morse conceded that Bryant traveled without saying where, deflected everything else of substance and offered, “I’ll be in the office until eight and have your retainer waiting.”
Andi mumbled “Goodbye.” She finally reached Sonny, wailed about Traci and agreed to meet at the Café Underground. Back to at the grindstone, she pecked at her backlog, then glanced at her watch, debating whether to go first to Templeton, Morse and Bryant and then back to her apartment, or drop her pending box by an inch and a half, then do dinner and take the contract by.
She worked another forty-five minutes before burn-out made the decision. The new contract in a folder, she grabbed her overcoat, fled down the stairs and across the bridge to the search out elusive late-afternoon parking.
Afterwards, check and contract on the seat beside her, she was held up by the Hawthorne bridge raising. Two cars back from the lowered gate she watched gloweringly. The tourist, faux paddle wheel’s only evidence of even arguably needing the bridge raised appeared to be its antenna flying a small red banner. She still wore the bolero coat and silk blouse–inappropriate anywhere but among high-rises. She would exchange it for a couple of shirts, coat and levis before meeting Sonny for dinner.
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