Witness for the Defense Page 8

  “Maybe Terri decided to join him.”

  “Yes, that's probably it.” She didn't sound as though she bought into the idea. “I called Steven, thinking she might have gone there. And the house in Napa. She wasn't at either place. I don't know why I didn't think of San Diego.”

  My guess was she hadn't thought of it because it didn't make much sense. Why would a woman with a newborn baby hop a plane on the spur of the moment to join her husband on a business trip?

  “What did the police say?” I asked her. “Do you remember?”

  “They asked about both Ted and Terri, but they seemed most interested in Terri.”

  “What did you tell them?”

  “That I didn't know where Terri was.” Lenore sounded nervous. More than nervous. Her voice was tight and thin. “I hadn't talked to the neighbor yet so I didn't say anything about the suitcase. When the police learned I'd spent the night, they wanted to know if Terri was home last night.”

  “Was she?”

  “Of course.”

  There was something about her answer, the tone maybe or the quickness of the words, that gave me pause. “Just the two of you?”

  “And Hannah, of course.”

  “What time did you leave this morning? I thought you were staying until Ted got back.”

  “That was the plan.” She hesitated. “Terri said she wanted time alone. I left here about nine-thirty.”

  Wanting time alone didn't strike me as odd. But a sudden change of plans did. “Let me know if you hear from her,” I said. “And in the meantime, don't worry. The police talked to me, too. They're just gathering information at this point.”

  “I'm going to head back home to Carmel in a bit. Let me give you my number there in case . . . in case anything comes up.”

  I jotted down the number she dictated, then hung up.

  I tried to reassure myself. Once the police had finished their initial inquiries, Ted and Terri would be in the clear. The police would uncover some listener Weaver had angered or some colleague raging with jealousy. They'd get a match on the gun, maybe even a witness who could give them a description of the shooter. The set of possible suspects would gel to one or two, and the Harpers could go about their lives.

  That was my hope anyway. But in the meantime, it was going to be a bumpy ride.

  <><><>

  “It needs more garlic,” Dotty said, swallowing a bite of cacciatore. She glared at her sister across the table. “I knew we should have used more.”

  Bea lifted her chin. “We used what the recipe called for.”

  “But you've got to cook by feel and taste. Isn't that what Fabiana keeps telling us? Recipes are guidelines, not formulas.”

  “Tastes wonderful to me,” I chimed in truthfully. Bea and Dotty were taking an Italian cooking class and I was often their lucky guinea pig. I'd never had a meal they prepared that wasn't four-star.

  Bea nodded. “Tastes fine to me too.”

  “I don't imagine Mr. Parsons likes a lot of garlic in his food anyway,” Dotty said snidely.

  “What does Mr. Parsons have to do with it?” Bea snapped.

  “Don't tell me you aren't thinking about inviting him for dinner because I know you are.”

  “I am not.”

  “Oh yes you are.”

  “If I was, so what?”

  Murray Parsons had called twice since the sisters' return from Reno, and although he'd invited both ladies to tea last Wednesday, it was Bea who'd charmed him. Dotty was obviously miffed.

  “I bet Mr. Parsons would love a home-cooked meal,” I said. “Maybe he has a friend who'd enjoy one too.”

  The sisters were busy giving each other annoyed looks and didn't respond.

  Ted called just as we'd finished clearing the table. “Leave the dishes for me,” I told Bea, and headed downstairs to talk to him in quiet.

  “Have you heard about Weaver?” Ted asked. “Terri just told me.”

  “Terri's there with you?”

  “No. I'm still in San Diego.”

  “Where's Terri?”

  “Home, I guess.” He sounded perplexed. “Why?”

  I explained that a neighbor had seen her leaving. “The police want to talk to both of you.”

  “Us?”

  “I think they're just covering all the bases. I wouldn't worry about it.”

  “Maybe that's why Terri left,” Ted said. “She didn't want to deal with all that until I got back.”

  “Without telling you or Lenore?”

  “It must have slipped her mind.” He paused. “Terri didn't say where she was calling from and I never thought to ask.”

  “How did she sound?”

  “Fine.” His tone was tentative. It was clear I'd opened the door to worry.

  “What did she say exactly? Do you remember?”

  “Just that Weaver was dead. That Hannah was now ours.” Ted was silent a moment. “I just assumed. . . I mean, that she was home. Why . . . why wouldn't she be?” His words, following his own internal thought process, were punctuated with pauses.

  “Maybe the neighbor was mistaken,” I told him. But when I called the Harpers after hanging up from my conversation with Ted, no one answered.

  I tried again an hour later and got the same response. Ditto the next morning.

  If Terri was home, she wasn't answering the phone. If she wasn't home, where had she gone?

  CHAPTER 9

  Terri finally called me late Sunday afternoon. I was sitting on the deck thumbing through the backlog of catalogs that had been littering the coffee table for months.

  “Where have you been?” I sounded like a parent several hours past curfew.

  “Visiting a friend.”

  “But you're home now?”

  “Actually, I'm at the police station.”

  I dumped Crate and Barrel onto the pile at my feet. “San Francisco?”

  “Yeah. They're asking me questions about Bram Weaver's death.” She took a breath. “They said I had a right to have an attorney present. Can you come?”

  “I'll be there as soon as I can. Don't say anything until I arrive.”

  A niggle of worry lodged in my chest. Terri's presence at the police station was not an encouraging sign.

  <><><>

  During rush hour, the drive from Berkeley to San Francisco can take an hour, and Sunday afternoons are sometimes just as bad. But I was in luck. Traffic was light and moving faster than the speed limit. I parked across from the Hall of Justice on Bryant, where I had a choice of spots. During the week there wouldn't have been an inch of spare curb space for blocks around.

  The building was largely deserted. Quiet in a hollow, ghostlike sort of way. I passed through the metal detector, then took the elevator to the fourth floor and pushed open the door marked homicide. The desk in the small anteroom was empty.

  “Anyone here?” I called out.

  A middle-aged man in a rumpled white shirt emerged from the doorway to my right. His hair was heavily grayed and his face lined in a fatherly way. “What can I do for you?”

  “I'm an attorney here to speak with Terri Harper.”

  “You must be Ms. O'Brien. I'm Inspector Dennison.”

  “Where's Holbrook?”

  “He'll be back in a minute.” Dennison raked his chin, gave a sardonic laugh. “No need for your being here really. She doesn't need a lawyer at this point.”

  “What point is that?”

  “We're trying to get the lay of the land, is all.”

  “But you told her she had the right to an attorney.”

  Dennison grinned sheepishly. “Just to cover the bases. You know how it works. Don't want to shoot ourselves in the foot from the get-go.”

  By briefing Terri of her rights, the cops ensured that anything she said could be used in court. Prudent, but not a common practice with non-suspect witnesses. “I'd like to see her alone.”

  “Hey, have a heart. My partner and I are functioning on three hours' sleep. We're anxious to c
all it a day.”

  “Five minutes?”

  “Better we just ask our questions and get it over with.” Dennison's tone was cordial, but unyielding.

  I didn't push it. “Where'd you find her?” I asked instead.

  “We didn't. She found us. Said she heard we were looking to talk with her.”

  “She came here of her own free will?”

  He nodded.

  I felt the tension in my shoulders lessen. Terri wasn't being detained. Not that I saw any reason she should have been, but I'd worried the whole way over. Once the cops latch on to a suspect, it takes a lot of convincing to change their minds.

  “Come on.” Inspector Dennison nodded his head toward the doorway through which he'd emerged. “Your client's waiting in the interview room.”

  Seated at a pitted, gray laminated table with sleeping Hannah cradled in her arms, Terri looked tired and tense. But more angry than afraid. She glanced up as we entered.

  “Thank goodness you're finally here.”

  Dennison pulled a chair to the table for me.

  “I want to get it over with,” Terri said to neither of us in particular. There was an undercurrent of irritability in her voice.

  “So do we,” Dennison said.

  Terri adjusted the blanket around Hannah's face and turned to me. “I was trying to be a good citizen, to help the police. Instead of gratitude I get a Miranda warning.”

  “That's the way it works, Mrs. Harper.” Dennison sat down opposite us. “I tried to tell you that.”

  She glared at him. “You did.”

  Dennison ran a hand across the back of his neck. “Sure you don't want anything to drink?” This was no doubt for my benefit. Reassure the lawyer that her client was being well treated.

  Terri nodded and shifted Hannah slightly in her arms. She handled the baby with an ease I envied.

  “I'm sure,” she said. “Thank you.”

  Dennison didn't bother to extend the invitation to me.

  Holbrook returned and nodded a greeting in my direction. “I see your attorney made it,” he said to Terri.

  “Can we please do whatever it is we have to do so I can get my daughter home?”

  Dennison clicked on the tape recorder resting on the table, then in a monotone that bespoke countless similar interviews, logged in the date, time, and names of those present.

  “You've come to talk about the death of Bram Weaver, correct?”

  “Because you wanted to talk to me.”

  Dennison ignored the pique in her voice. “How did you know that?”

  “My neighbor told me. And I had a message from my mother to the same effect.” Terri looked at me. “Also from my attorney.”

  “Where were you yesterday afternoon?” This was Holbrook. His gaze had drifted to Hannah and he pulled it away.

  “I drove up the coast. To Mendocino.”

  “Why?” His question echoed my own, silent one.

  She shrugged. “I needed some time alone.”

  Mendocino, four hours to the north, seemed like a long way to go to get time alone.

  “Was this a trip you'd been planning?”

  “Not exactly. But I often go to Mendocino when I need to get away. A friend of mine runs an inn there.”

  “You went to see your friend?”

  “Among other things. Mostly I went because I wanted to.” Hannah whimpered and Terri patted her back softly.

  “Without telling anyone you were going,” Dennison added. His tone was neutral, but it was clear that his meaning was not.

  Terri gave him a contemptuous look. “I'm an adult. I wasn't aware I had to ask permission.”

  “I wasn't implying that you did.” Dennison smiled ever so slightly. Fatherly again, humoring a recalcitrant teen. “But it might have been prudent to tell someone.”

  “My mother had gone home,” Terri explained. “My husband was out of town.”

  She appeared relaxed. Her answers were short and to the point, her manner believable. Still, Terri's explanation fell somewhat short of convincing. I knew the police would see the trip north as flight and therefore evidence of her guilt.

  Dennison seemed to concede the point, however, and moved on. “When did you learn of Weaver's death?”

  “I heard about it on the radio yesterday afternoon.”

  “When you were already on your way to Mendocino?”

  “Right.”

  Holbrook twisted sideways in his chair. “What's your connection with Weaver?”

  “You know that already,” I said.

  Terri acted as though she hadn't heard. She looked Holbrook straight in the eye. “He wanted my baby.”

  “The baby you're adopting? The one in your arms?”

  Terri bristled. She pulled Hannah closer. “We've adopted her. She's ours.”

  “But Weaver claimed to be the father, right? Claimed the adoption wasn't legal because he hadn't given consent.” Holbrook paused. When Terri didn't reply, he continued. “Now that Weaver's dead, he's no longer a threat to the adoption. That must make you mighty happy.”

  I interrupted, hoping to stave off any response on Terri's part that could go to motive. “If you've got questions, Inspector, ask them. But Terri doesn't have to sit here and listen to speculation and innuendo.”

  “Just showing you the way things look from our perspective,” Holbrook said.

  Dennison crossed his arms, appearing to gather his thoughts before speaking. “Where were you Friday night?”

  “At home,” Terri said.

  “Alone?”

  “With my mother and Hannah.”

  “All night?”

  “Yes.”

  “Your mother can vouch for that?”

  “Of course.”

  “What time did she go to bed?”

  “I don't know exactly. I went to bed before she did.”

  “What time was that?”

  “Early. About nine-thirty, I think. I had a headache.”

  “Did you take anything for it?”

  “I may have taken some Tylenol, I can't remember.”

  “It was only two nights ago, Mrs. Harper.”

  I folded my arms on the table. “She said she can't remember.”

  Dennison exchanged glances with Holbrook. “Did you talk to anyone besides your mother that evening?” he asked.

  “No.” For the first time Terri looked nervous.

  “Then there's no one besides your mother who can attest to your being home?”

  Terri squinted. “No, I guess not.”

  “Let me make sure I've got this straight,” Dennison said. “You went to bed with a headache, for which you may or may not have taken medication. Then you got up the next morning . . . By the way, was your headache better?”

  Terri nodded.

  “Your mother left for home and you took off for Mendocino?”

  “Right.”

  I was hoping he wouldn't know to raise the issue that I found troublesome. Why did Terri send Lenore, who was planning to stay until Ted's return, home several days early?

  “When was the last time you saw Weaver?” Holbrook asked.

  “On Friday afternoon.”

  “His visit with the baby?”

  Terri's expression was pained. “The judge said we had to let him.”

  “Did you talk to him after that?”

  “I didn't talk to him that afternoon even, except in passing.”

  “Do you own a gun, Mrs. Harper?”

  The question came out of the blue, no doubt intentionally. I glanced at Terri, who seemed unperturbed.

  “No,” she replied. “Guns make me nervous.”

  “Does your husband own a gun?”

  “Not that I'm aware of.”

  “Have you ever owned a gun?”

  Terri glanced my direction.

  “If a gun was registered in your name,” I told her, “the police will have access to the records.”

  An unregistered gun, of course, would present a
different picture. But in general, the worst thing your client can do is trip herself up in lies and half-truths.

  “My father gave me one when I moved to the city,” Terri explained. “He believes women need to be able to protect themselves.”

  “What kind of gun was it?”

  “I don't know exactly. Not big. It fit my hand.”

  “Did you ever fire it?”

  “My father insisted I learn to shoot, but it didn't change how I felt about guns.”

  “What happened to it?”

  I saw a shadow of alarm in Terri's expression. She licked her lips. “I don't know.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means that I don't know what happened to it. I think it was probably stolen. We were missing a number of things after we had work crews in the house during the remodel.”

  “Did you file a report?”

  She shook her head. “We didn't tie the missing things together until a year or so later.”

  Holbrook sucked on his cheek. “So maybe you do own a gun after all.”

  “I. . . “

  Why don't we come out and take a look for it?”

  “I haven't seen—”

  I cut her short. “If you want to look for the gun,” I told Holbrook,” get a warrant.”

  “You don't really want us to do that now, do you?”

  “I think this friendly conversation has gone far enough,” I said.

  Dennison smiled at Terri. “See what happens when you call an attorney? They start making you sound guilty.”

  CHAPTER 10

  “Thank God that's over,” Terri said as we walked out into the hazy afternoon sunshine. She'd secured Hannah in a cloth sling across her chest and was now using her hand to shield the baby's eyes from the light.

  The sidewalk was deserted except for the requisite smattering of homeless folk. A leather-skinned man with matted gray hair was propped against the rise of the stairs, sleeping. Halfway to the corner, a younger, wiry man was engaged in a frenetic shouting match with an invisible adversary.

  “Where are you parked?” I asked her. “I'll walk you to your car.”

  “It's that blue Explorer.” She pointed in the direction my own car was parked. “I appreciate your coming over here on such short notice. I hope I didn't interrupt anything important.”