Darkness, Sing Me a Song--A Holland Taylor Mystery Page 5

  “You could have told me that over the phone,” Helin said.

  “I bumped into the CA at the elevator.”

  “She came all the way across the river to offer me a deal, do you believe that?”

  I wasn’t surprised. The American justice system is dependent on deals; it’s a rare case that actually sees the inside of a courtroom. That’s because, unlike in the legal dramas you see on TV where the accused is nearly always innocent and usually saved by the heroic efforts of a brilliant, eccentric, and oh-so-sexy attorney who plays by his or her own set of rules, the vast majority of criminal defendants are guilty as hell. At the same time …

  “This early in the proceedings?” I said. “Isn’t that—”

  “Bullshit.”

  “Premature? Especially if they can’t produce the murder weapon?”

  “Like I said before, she knows something I don’t.”

  “Yeah, about that…”

  I explained it all. Helin didn’t speak for a long time, and I didn’t interrupt him.

  “Do you believe it’s true?” he asked.

  “The daughter says no. I have a meeting scheduled with her for later.”

  “Do you believe it, Taylor? You spoke to the man.”

  “Does it matter? How do you refute something like that?”

  “You don’t.”

  “It’s so prejudicial—can the CA even get it into evidence?”

  “She’ll argue that it goes to motive, and once the words are spoken out loud in court—incest, mother-son incest—that’s all the jury’s going to hear. It’s all they’re going to think about. Maybe we should let Mrs. Barrington stay in jail a little while longer.”

  “I have a thought.”

  “Please.”

  “Joel is adamant that his mother killed Emily. I don’t want for a second to tell you how to make your case, but to get his cooperation, I suggested that Emily was hiding from someone and that as soon as we learn who she was and who she was hiding from, we’ll know who killed her.”

  “Plan B—it had crossed my mind. We know that the St. Paul Police Department ran her fingerprints through the FBI’s fingerprint identification system and came up empty, which means Ms. Denys was never arrested anywhere for anything. Beyond that—it’s possible the reason the cops haven’t ID’d her yet is because they haven’t been trying very hard. It’s possible the CA doesn’t want them to. Why complicate what looks like a slam dunk? Certainly, if we could argue Emily was hiding from someone—even if all we have is a person or persons unknown—that would provide a big complication.”

  “That’s why I get the big bucks, to complicate things.”

  “You said you have an appointment with Devon Barrington? Go easy with her, Taylor. Kid-gloves treatment. She’s underage.”

  * * *

  “Plan B?” Freddie asked.

  “Mrs. Barrington is going to need it.”

  I told him why.

  “That is totally fucked up,” Freddie said. “A mother sleeping with her son—I can’t think of anything more fucked up than that.”

  “A father sleeping with his daughter?”

  “How is that worse?”

  “It just feels worse, maybe because I had a daughter.”

  “You know what I’m feeling? I’m feeling you might’ve been onto something before. I’m feeling this is one we really should walk away from.”

  “Nah, Freddie, you were right the first time. We can’t quit. It’d be bad for business. Bad all around.”

  “Okay, so Plan B, then. You go talk to the little girl. I’ll work on gettin’ Emily’s Social Security number; start there, see where it leads. I’m guessing the po-lice ain’t gonna give us what they have.”

  “Sooner or later Haukass will have to turn over all pertinent information gathered in the case to Helin, but it’s going to be later, as in the last possible moment.”

  “S’kay. I’m on it.”

  “Whoa, whoa. What about the prenup investigation we promised what’s-his-name, you know, the gay guy who wanted us to check out his partner before he put a ring on it?”

  “Tom Averback? A little overtime never hurt anyone.”

  “I don’t want Echo to be upset with you.”

  “After I get done explaining, she’s gonna be pissed at you, not me, don’t worry about that.”

  “Who’d have thought you’d be the responsible one.”

  “Marriage and fatherhood does that.”

  “Yeah, I remember.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  I’m not a coffeehouse guy. I don’t think I’ve ever been in one except to meet a client who, for whatever reason, didn’t want to be seen in my office. I have to admit, though—the café mocha Caribou served up was pretty good. Plus, the first link in its nationwide chain was forged in Edina, a self-satisfied suburb of Minneapolis, and I’m always one to support what’s local.

  I took the mocha to a table near the window. From there I was able to follow the progress of a black BMW 640i as it rolled down Village Center Drive, turned in to the parking lot, and maneuvered until it found an empty space. Both car doors opened, and I was pleased to see the maid step out on the passenger side. She had discarded her maid outfit for a pair of jeans and a tight T-shirt. Devon Barrington had changed clothes as well and was now dressed as if she were attending a business meeting—black jacket and skirt, white silk blouse, her hair down around her shoulders. She looked a full decade older than her “almost seventeen,” and I thought it was dangerous for her to look like that at her age. Apparently the maid agreed, based on the scowl she gave me when she entered the coffeehouse, the one that said, “Don’t even think about it.”

  Devon found me sitting against the glass and moved in my direction. The maid grabbed her elbow and pulled her back. Words were exchanged, although there was nothing angry about them. Devon continued to where I was sitting while the maid placed an order. I stood to greet her.

  “Ms. Barrington,” I said.

  “Mr. Taylor.”

  She offered her hand and I shook it. It was very soft. I motioned at a chair and she sat, back straight and hands neatly folded on the table before us.

  “The weather has been very pleasant,” she said. “Don’t you agree? Especially after that brutal winter.”

  “I do agree,” I said. I was thinking that she was trying too hard to appear grown-up. I couldn’t have that.

  “Is school out for the summer?” I asked.

  Devon’s shoulders sagged almost imperceptibly as she answered.

  “Last week,” she said. “I’m already bored.”

  Given the maelstrom besetting her family, I found that to be a remarkable statement yet let it pass. By then the maid had appeared. She set a cardboard container of coffee on the table in front of the young woman.

  “Thank you,” Devon said.

  “I’ll be sitting over there. I’ll be watching.”

  She meant it, too. The maid found an empty seat three tables away, and from that moment until she left the coffeehouse, she never took her eyes off me. I admired the way she was looking out for Devon. At the same time, it was very disconcerting.

  “How well did you know Emily?” I asked.

  Devon was deliberate in the way she took a sip of her beverage and set the cup down.

  “I wish to discuss my brother first.”

  “Please do.”

  “He’s a momma’s boy. I know that sounds”—she searched for a word and found “silly. Especially considering what was said earlier. He’s a full seven years older, yet he always seemed to demand more of Mother’s attention than I did. My concern is that he might have fabricated some rather awkward adolescent sexual fantasies involving her that he has now twisted for purposes of revenge. Unfounded fantasies, I hasten to add.”

  “That’s a lot of psychology for someone so young and well presented, too.”

  “I’m not so young, Mr. Taylor. Given our unfettered access to online content, I believe you’ll find that my
generation has grown much older much more quickly than previous generations.”

  “Let’s talk about Emily Denys.”

  Devon took another sip of coffee before responding.

  “My mother did not kill her,” she said. “I know this for a fact.”

  “Do you?”

  “For one thing, my mother would never commit such a crime. She is scrupulously law-abiding.”

  “No one is scrupulously law-abiding.”

  “My mother is. When she was nine years old, she told the police that her parents were growing pot in the wooded area behind their house. She knew what they were doing was wrong, you see.”

  “What did your grandparents think about that?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve never met them. My point—she would never have committed the act of which she stands accused.”

  “Why did your mother turn in her own parents? Did she ever tell you?”

  “It was because they smoked marijuana daily and the smoke made her sick and she was afraid her dog would become sick, too.”

  “If she did that for her dog, imagine what she might do for her children.”

  “I can prove she didn’t kill Em.”

  “How?”

  “She … she was with me when the crime was committed.”

  I liked the way Devon was standing up for her family. It made me want to squeeze her hand and hug her shoulder. I did neither. Instead, I said, “Don’t do that. Don’t lie to protect your mother.”

  “I’m not lying.”

  “It’s not on you to fix your family’s mistakes. Whatever happened—and we still haven’t sorted it out—it’s not your fault or your responsibility.”

  “What’s the phrase—last man standing? That’s me. I’m the only adult left. If it wasn’t for Ophira, I’d probably have a breakdown, too—just like Joel.”

  “Who’s Ophira?”

  “Our housekeeper. My friend.”

  I found the maid’s eyes and raised my coffee in salute. She just kept staring.

  “Devon, it’s all right to be almost seventeen,” I said. “In fact, I highly recommend it. I would hope that you stay almost seventeen for as long as humanly possible.”

  Her eyes narrowed as if she were concentrating on a single point far off in the distance.

  “You don’t seem to understand,” Devon said. “Mr. Taylor, my father was killed under circumstances that brought scandal and embarrassment to my family. My mother is now in jail, accused of murdering my brother’s girlfriend. My brother, who up until a few days ago was a smart, funny, caring, and gentle man, has become a raving lunatic accusing my mom of unimaginable crimes. Almost seventeen is no longer an option for me.”

  Poor sad little rich girl, I told myself. Make a Lifetime movie about her and we can all have a good cry, including me. Only it wasn’t my job to feel sorry for her. I needed information.

  “I don’t know if you’ve been told,” I said. “The plan is to bring your mother home tonight. You should have a long talk with her.”

  “I will.”

  “In the meantime…”

  “You want to know about Emily. I liked her very much. Joel and I have always had a really solid big-brother–little-sister relationship. I can’t remember a time when he wasn’t looking out for me, you know? So when he started bringing Em around, I figured she was just being nice to me because of him, which is what the other girls he dated did. Pretend to like me. Only, Em, she really did. Like me, I mean. She was way nicer to me than she needed to be, taking me shopping and stuff even when Joel wasn’t around. Not once did she ever begin a sentence by saying ‘When I was your age’ or ‘When I was in high school’ or ‘When I was dating boys.’ She was just so cool.”

  I believed her, too. The way Devon’s blueberry eyes glistened as she described her friend, the way her language became more representative of her age, I decided Emily must have been very cool indeed.

  “Did she ever talk about herself?”

  “I never gave it any thought until we found out later that she wasn’t … that her name wasn’t Emily. But you know what? She never did speak about her own family or her friends or where she grew up or anything like that. It’s only now, looking back, that I realize how lonely she must have been. She was the most profoundly lonely person I’d ever known. Funny how I didn’t see that at the time.”

  “Maybe it was because when she was with you, she didn’t feel lonely.”

  “You think? That would be … I hope that was true. I really do.”

  “How did she and your brother meet?”

  “They met in a bookstore. I suppose you can blame me, because it was Christmas, going to be Christmas, and Joel didn’t know what books to buy, didn’t know what his sixteen-year-old sister wanted to read, so he asked Emily, and she was so pretty. Don’t you think she was pretty, Taylor?”

  “I wouldn’t know.”

  Devon fished her smartphone from her bag and pulled up several photographs. She leaned across the table and angled the cell so we both could see them. I leaned in, too, but the look in Ophira’s eyes caused me to pull back.

  There were shots of Emily at the Mall of America, the Walker Art Center, a Minnesota Wild game, and what looked like someone’s backyard. In many she was alone. Most were selfies, though, of her and Devon taken at arm’s length. The girl was right—Emily was very pretty indeed, with luminous green eyes and short black hair.

  I asked if I could take some of the photos, and Devon agreed, sending half a dozen shots to my smartphone.

  “Anyway,” she said. “Joel didn’t know what to buy me, and he asked Emily for recommendations. She said he should just get me a gift card and let me choose, only Joel thought that was lame, so between the two of them they selected sixteen books, one for each year. They should have given me the gift card because I read like three of them. But it gave Joel an excuse to spend hours with her, and then he asked her to coffee and then dinner and then drinks, and then they became an item, and then they became much more than that. So he got what he wanted, a girlfriend, and I got … what I really wanted was a car.”

  “From your pics, you seem to have spent a lot of time with Emily.”

  “I had to go to school, and she worked, and then Joel didn’t want me hanging around with them like every minute, but yeah, I guess.”

  “Did Emily ever seem nervous or anxious to you? Did she ever seem out of sorts?”

  “No, I don’t think so. She was always calm … Except for that one time.”

  “What one time?”

  “It was at the office. It was the day … it was the day before, before…”

  Devon stared up and to her right as if she were conjuring the scene from her memory. Her eyes closed. When she opened them again, they were wet and shiny.

  “The office?” I said.

  “My mother has a suite of offices in downtown Minneapolis. That’s where our accountants work, the people who run our businesses. It was my last day of school. We had a half day, which doesn’t make sense to me. Why make us go to school for a half day on the last day? What’s the point? We had nothing to do; our lockers were already cleared out. Anyway, Emily came to get me because she and Joel were going to take me to lunch at someplace really nice. We went downtown to meet him. Only the receptionist told us Joel was in a conference that had gone on longer than anyone had expected.

  “We decided to camp out in the reception area and wait. After a while, Em said she was going to give Joel a wave, let him know that we were there. This wasn’t as disruptive as it sounds because the conference room, the whole room, was surrounded by glass walls, so she could just walk past and he would see her. She didn’t even have to knock on the door or anything.

  “Then she comes back and she’s just … agitated. She walks right out the door. I’m like—what? And she says, ‘I’m tired of waiting. Are you coming or not?’ And she leaves and I follow her. We had lunch and she took me home, and the next day…”

  Tears formed in Devon’s
eyes that she wiped away with her knuckles.

  “I don’t want to cry,” she said. “I’ve been trying so hard not to cry. You have to believe me, Taylor. My mother didn’t do this.”

  “I do believe you.” I didn’t tell her why, though. “Do me a favor, honey. Do yourself a favor. Go home and cry your eyes out.”

  “What good would that do?” She turned her head and took a deep breath. “Good-bye, Taylor.” She stood and rushed out the coffeehouse door.

  Ophira stood, too, and made to follow her, pausing only long enough to glare at me as if she had seen Devon’s tears, blamed me for them, and was now contemplating an appropriate punishment.

  “Apparently you do more than just work there,” I said.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “So much craziness going on—keep an eye out for her, would you?”

  “Someone needs to.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The receptionist who directed traffic at Mrs. Barrington’s offices didn’t know if she should talk to me. It wasn’t that she had been sworn to secrecy. It was that she was loyal to her employer and wasn’t sure if answering my questions would help her or hurt. Admitting to the cops that she heard Mrs. Barrington threaten to kill Emily Denys, she was sure that had hurt.

  I had heard the threats as well since I had been standing there when they were made, the neatly printed results of Emily’s background investigation in my hand. Yet I assured the receptionist that I was on Mrs. Barrington’s side, too. I dropped the name of her attorney in case she wanted to check. To her credit, she did. You’d be surprised how many people would have simply taken my word for it.

  Once Helin confirmed my identity, the receptionist started answering questions I hadn’t even asked.

  “You’ll want to know about Joel,” she said. “More and more he had been getting involved in day-to-day operations. Yet he’s so young—younger than I am, even. It’s hard to take him seriously, especially since he’s always running to his mother for advice.”

  “That’s what mothers are for.”

  “He wants desperately to be taken seriously, though; prove he’s the man of the house, if you know what I mean.”