The Lincoln lawyer - By Michael Connelly Page 0,80
know the question my house prompts. Even with my struggles to stay afloat with it, how fair is it that when a prosecutor and defense attorney divorce, the defense attorney gets the house on the hill with a million-dollar view while the prosecutor with the daughter gets the two-bedroom apartment in the Valley. The answer is that Maggie McPherson could buy a house of her choosing and I would help her to my maximum ability. But she had refused to move while she waited to be tapped for a promotion to the downtown office. Buying a house in Sherman Oaks or anywhere else would send the wrong message, one of sedentary contentment. She was not content to be Maggie McFierce of the Van Nuys Division. She was not content to be passed over by John Smithson or any of his young guns. She was ambitious and wanted to get downtown, where supposedly the best and brightest prosecuted the most important crimes. She refused to accept the simple truism that the better you were, the bigger threat you were to those at the top, especially if they are elected. I knew that Maggie would never be invited downtown. She was too damn good.
Every now and then this realization would seep through and she would lash out in unexpected ways. She would make a cutting remark at a press conference or she would refuse to cooperate with a downtown investigation. Or she would drunkenly reveal to a criminal defense attorney and ex-husband something about a case he shouldn’t be told.
The phone started to ring from inside the house. I moved to the front door and fumbled with my keys to unlock it and get inside in time. My phone numbers and who has them could form a pyramid chart. The number in the yellow pages everybody has or could have. Next up the pyramid is my cell phone, which has been disseminated to key colleagues, investigators, bondsmen, clients and other cogs in the machine. My home phone—the land line—was the top of the pyramid. Very few had the number. No clients and no other lawyers except for one.
I got in and grabbed the phone off the kitchen wall before it went to message. The caller was that one other lawyer with the number. Maggie McPherson.
“Did you get my messages?”
“I got the one on my cell. What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong. I left one on this number a lot earlier.”
“Oh, I’ve been gone all day. I just got in.”
“Where have you been?”
“Well, I’ve been up to San Francisco and back and I just got in from having dinner with Raul Levin. Is all of that all right with you?”
“I’m just curious. What was in San Francisco?”
“A client.”
“So what you really mean is you were up to San Quentin and back.”
“You were always too smart for me, Maggie. I can never fool you. Is there a reason for this call?”
“I just wanted to see if you got my apology and I also wanted to find out if you were going to do something with Hayley tomorrow.”
“Yes and yes. But Maggie, no apology is necessary and you should know that. I am sorry for the way I acted before I left. And if my daughter wants to be with me tomorrow, then I want to be with her. Tell her we can go down to the pier or to a movie if she wants. Whatever she wants.”
“Well, she actually wants to go to the mall.”
She said it as if she were stepping on glass.
“The mall? The mall is fine. I’ll take her. What’s wrong with the mall? Is there something in particular she wants?”
I suddenly noticed a foreign odor in the house. The smell of smoke. While standing in the middle of the kitchen I checked the oven and the stove. They were off. I was tethered to the kitchen because the phone wasn’t cordless. I stretched it to the door and flicked on the light to the dining room. It was empty and its light was cast into the next room, the living room through which I had passed when I had entered. It looked empty as well.
“They have a place there where you make your own teddy bear and you pick the style and its voice box and you put a little heart in with the stuffing. It’s all very cute.”
I now wanted to get off the line and explore further into my house.