“Do you have any idea where she is now?”
Nikki shook her head. “She used to live up on Rivera but she’s not there now. At least, she’s not listed in the telephone book.”
I made a note of her last-known address. “I take it you never knew her well.”
Nikki shrugged. “We had the customary exchanges when I called the office but it was just routine stuff.”
“What about friends of hers or places she might hang out?”
“I don’t know. My guess is she lived way beyond her means. She traveled every chance she could and she dressed a lot better than I did back then.”
“She testified at the trial, didn’t she?”
“Yes, unfortunately. She’d been a witness to a couple of nasty quarrels I had with him and that didn’t help.”
“Well, it’s worth looking into,” I said. “I’ll see if I can get a line on her. Is there anything else about him? Was he in the middle of any hassles when he died? Any kind of personal dispute or a big legal case?”
“Not that I knew. He was always in the middle of something big.”
“Well, I think the first move is to talk to Charlie Scorsoni and see what he has to say. Then we’ll figure it out from there.”
I left money on the table for the dinner check and we walked out together. Nikki’s car was parked close by, a dark green Oldsmobile ten years out of date. I waited until she’d pulled away and then I walked the half block to my place.
When I got in, I poured myself a glass of wine and sat down to organize the information I’d collected so far. I have a system of consigning data to three-by-five index cards. Most of my notes have to do with witnesses: who they are, how they’re related to the investigation, dates of interviews, follow-up.
Some cards are background information I need to check out and some are notes about legal technicalities. The cards are an efficient way of storing facts for my written reports. I tack them up on a large bulletin board above my desk and stare at them, telling myself the story as I perceive it. Amazing contradictions will come to light, sudden gaps, questions I’ve overlooked.
I didn’t have many cards for Nikki Fife and I made no attempt to assess the information I had. I didn’t want to form a hypothesis too early for fear it would color the entire course of the investigation. It did seem clear that this was a murder where an alibi meant little or nothing. If you go to the trouble to substitute poison for the medication in someone’s antihistamine capsules, all you have to do afterward is sit back and wait. Unless you want to risk killing off others in the household, you have to be sure that only your intended victim takes that particular prescription, but there are plenty of pills that would satisfy that requirement: blood-pressure medication, antibiotics, maybe even sleeping pills. It doesn’t matter much as long as you have access to the supply. It might take your victim two days or two weeks but eventually he’d dose himself properly and you could probably even manufacture a reasonable facsimile of surprise and grief. The plan has a further advantage in that you don’t actually have to be there to shoot, bludgeon, hack up, or manually strangle your intended. Even where the motivation to kill is overpowering, it’d be pretty distasteful (one would think) to watch someone’s eyes bug out and listen to his or her last burbling cries. Also, when done in person there’s always that unsettling chance that the tables might be turned and you’d wind up on a slab in the morgue yourself.
As methods go, this little oleander number was not half bad. In Santa Teresa, the shrub grows everywhere, sometimes ten feet tall with pink or white blossoms and handsome narrow leaves. You wouldn’t need to bother with anything so blatant as buying rat poison in a town where there are clearly no rats, and you wouldn’t have to sport a false mustache when you went into your local hardware store to ask for a garden pest control with no bitter aftertaste. In short, the method for killing Laurence Fife, and apparently Libby Glass as well, was inexpensive, accessible, and easy to use. I did have a couple of questions and I made notes of those before I turned out the light. It was well after midnight when I fell asleep.
CHAPTER 4
I went into the office early to type up my initial notes for Nikki’s file, indicating briefly what I’d been hired to do and the fact that a check for five thousand dollars had been paid on account. Then I called Charlie Scorsoni’s office. His secretary said he had some time free midafternoon, so I set up an appointment for 3:15 and then used the rest of the morning to do a background check. When interviewing someone for the first time, it’s always nice to have a little information up your sleeve. A visit to the county clerk’s office, the credit bureau, and the newspaper morgue gave me sufficient facts to dash off a quick sketch of Laurence Fife’s former law partner. Charlie Scorsoni was apparently single, owned his own home, paid his bills on time, did occasional public-speaking stints for worthy causes, had never been arrested or sued-in short, was a rather conservative, middle-aged man who didn’t gamble, speculate on the stock market, or jeopardize himself in any way. I had caught glimpses of him at the trial and I remembered him as slightly overweight. His current office was within walking distance of mine.
The building itself looked like a Moorish castle: two stories of white adobe with windowsills two feet deep, inset with wrought-iron bars, and a comer tower that probably housed the rest rooms and floor mops. Scorsoni and Powers, Attorneys-at-Law, were on the second floor. I pushed through a massive carved wooden door and found myself in a small reception area with carpeting as soft underfoot as moss and about the same shade. The walls were white, hung with watercolors in various pastels, all abstract, and there were plants here and there; two, plump sofas of asparagus green wide-wale corduroy sat at right angles under a row of narrow windows.
The firm’s secretary looked to be in her early seventies, and I thought at first she might be out on loan from some geriatric agency. She was thin and energetic, with bobbed hair straight out of the twenties and “mod” glasses replete with a rhinestone butterfly on the lower portion of one lens. She was wearing a wool skirt and a pale mauve sweater, which she must have knit herself, as it was a masterpiece of cable stitches, wheat ears, twisted ribs, popcorn stitches, and picot appliqu�. She and I became instant friends when I recognized the aforementioned — my aunt having raised me on a regimen of such accomplishments — and we were soon on a first-name basis. Hers was Ruth; nice biblical stuff.
She was a chatty little thing, full of pep, and I wondered if she wasn’t about perfect for Henry Pitts. Since Charlie Scorsoni was keeping me waiting, I took my revenge by eliciting as much information from Ruth as I could manage without appearing too rude. She told me she had worked for Scorsoni and Powers since the formation of their partnership seven years ago. Her husband had left her for a younger woman (fifty-five) and Ruth, on her own for the first time in years, had despaired of ever finding a job, as she was then sixty-two years old, “though in perfect health,” she said. She was quick, capable, and of course was being aced out at every turn by women one-third her age who were cute instead of competent.
“The only cleavage I got left, I sit on,” she said and then hooted at herself. I gave Scorsoni and Powers several points for their perceptiveness. Ruth had nothing but raves for them both. Still her rhapsodizing hardly prepared me for the man who shook my hand across the desk when I was finally ushered into his office forty-five minutes late.
Charlie Scorsoni was big, but any excess weight I remembered was gone. He had thick, sandy hair, receding at the temples, a solid jaw, cleft chin, his blue eyes magnified by big rimless glasses. His collar was open, his tie askew, sleeves rolled up as far as his muscular forearms would permit. He was tilted back in his swivel chair with his feet propped up against the edge of the desk, and his smile was slow to form and smoldered with suppressed sexuality. His air was watchful, bemused, and he took in the sight of me with almost embarrassing attention to detail. He laced his hands across the top of his head. “Ruth tells me you have a few questions about Laurence Fife. What gives?”