pour out. I played some Frisbee with Kylie in the backyard as the two women watched and talked on the patio.
And thought maybe a house and a yard and a child and a wife were good things to have. Now. Time to move on.
I moved on. At six-thirty that evening I met Kimberly Pincus at Morton’s on Figueroa, downtown. Best steaks in the city.
And the company wasn’t something to shake a gavel at, either. Kimberly was as dazzling as ever, and making a good argument.
Not verbally. But in every other way, she was calling me off my mountain and back into the real world. It was time. Time to allow myself to get together with someone again.
When you put it down on paper, Kimberly Pincus was the one. She had everything. Looks, intelligence, drive.
Yeah, it was time. I even had a Grey Goose martini in honor of her. We toasted and clinked glasses.
“This,” she said, “is a good thing.”
“The martinis?”
“You and me, stupid.”
We got caught up on our lives. Kimberly was mowing them down in court. She said she had not lost a motion or trial since my seat-belt victory. “You inspired me,” she said. “Now I’m dying for another shot at you.” She took the pick with her olive on it and placed it between her teeth for a moment. Then it disappeared into her mouth.
“Maybe I’ll pick up Jamie MacArthur as a client,” I said, “and you can help the poor dumb prosecutor who gets assigned to the case.”
Earlier in the week, MacArthur had held a press conference denying any knowledge of accounting schemes. Eric Richess had squawked from the jail, pointing the finger at the councilman. MacArthur, looking tanned and confident, said he was working with the controller’s office and was ready to clean house. It sounded to me like he was getting ready to throw Regis Nielsen under the bus. It was going to be fun and games throughout the summer. Just the kind of show L.A. eats up during the dog days.
Over our steaks Kimberly and I talked about trial work and juries, cops and robbers, liars and truth tellers. We traded good-natured jabs and laughed at absurdities. Like the time she had a DUI trial and the young, nervous defense lawyer opened his cross-examination of Kimberly’s test expert with, “Are you truly qualified to give a urine sample?”
In short, we had a good time, and I needed that. I needed it to wash out the stench of Eric Richess.
We ended up back at her place, and sipped wine and watched the city from her window. The lights mesmerized. Not just the brights of Disney Hall, but also the pinpricks in hills, in Angeleno Heights and across the border of Hollywood, and the river of headlights and taillights ebbing and flowing on the freeway.
“What do you think?” she said. “Can we own this town or what?”
“Shall we just rule it from here?”
She smiled. “Sure. Maybe we can put in a moat, keep out the common folk.”
“You’re starting to sound like Marie Antoinette,” I said.
“Am I?”
“Just thought I’d give you a heads-up.”
Kimberly winced, put down her wineglass, and kissed me.
“Stay,” she whispered.
I knew if I did, it’d be one of those things that changes your life forever. Kimberly Pincus was not a one-night stand. She was a forever changer.
Forever…
I took a half step back and tried to jumble some thoughts together.
“What’s wrong?” Kimberly said.
“I have to do something,” I said.
“Here, I hope.”
“I have to see something.”
“When?”
“Now.”
“Not again,” she said. “You can’t be doing this again.”
“Can I call you later?”
“What is it with you?”
“A good question, Kimberly. That’s what I have to find out.”
She looked at the ceiling. “Is this going to be a journey of self-discovery or some other retro thing?”
“Maybe.”
“There are some aging hippies in Topanga Canyon who can help.”
I touched her arm. “I had a great time tonight.”
“Oh, wow. I haven’t heard that one since high school. No, come to think of it, I was the one who said it.” She laughed.
“I believe you,” I said.
“You’re going to regret this. You’re going to look back and realize what a mistake you made.”
“You may be right.”
“I don’t win cases by being wrong.”
I kissed her cheek. “See you in court, then.”
“I look forward to it,” she said.
183
WHAT I HAD to see was in Eagle Rock.
I got there at eleven the next morning, after a trip to the Apple store. Mary Landis had the room in the very back corner of the house. She let me in, but kept the door open.
Her room was spare. Nothing on the walls but a crucifix and a calendar.
“Where are my manners?” Mary said. “Can I get you something to drink? Some water? Or… some water?”
“I think I’ll have water,” I said. “Do you have a Sparkletts ’ninety-three?”
“I’ll check the cellar,” she said.
There was a small white refrigerator by the window. She pulled out a bottle of water and tossed it to me. She opened one for herself.
I held my bottle out in the gesture of a toast. She laughed and tapped her bottle on mine, then we drank.
I hoped she couldn’t see that the bottle was shaking in my hand.
“What’s in the box?” she said.
“A little present.” I handed it to her.
She opened it and took out the iPod and dock that I’d purchased.
“You’re kidding me,” she said.
“It’s the least I can do for the best investigator I ever had.”
She looked like she wanted to speak, but the words were sticking in her throat.
I gently took the dock and iPod from her. “Let’s try it out,” I said.
I went to an outlet and plugged it in. I set it on the carpet because there was no table nearby. I got on my knees and stuck in the iPod, which I’d specially prepped at the store. I turned it on.
“I have some of my own selections on here,” I said. “I hope you like ’em.”
I looked her way. She was at the other wall, her right arm across her body, holding her left arm. As if to relieve some pain from her shoulder wound. Or some other kind of pain.
I found the song I wanted. The soft, smooth Eric Marienthal version of Mary’s favorite Beatles song.
I stood.
Mary was looking at the floor. There’s about ten seconds of intro before the tune gets recognizable. Mary’s face was expectant, waiting to hear what the song was.
She may have heard my pulse. In my ears it sounded like a Salvation Army drum. But this was the only way I could figure this thing out. I didn’t know what words to use. I thought if I used the wrong ones, it would be like touching a soap bubble.
I didn’t want the bubble to pop. But it wasn’t my call. It had to be hers, all the way. Which is why I was silent. Which is why I cooked up this crazy plan. I guess I put my own faith in this: I’ve spent a lot of years studying faces. Jurors. Witnesses. Judges. Prosecutors. But this was going to be the most important judgment of my life.
Then Marienthal’s sax started in on the first line of the tune. Recognizable. Mary’s eyes widened, and she snapped her head up to look at me.
The song was what connected us, across the small room, which now seemed the size of a football field.
But I could see something. I could see tears forming in her eyes.
I went to her. Mary didn’t move. I put my hand out and waited. It seemed to hang there for an hour, but that was okay with me. I wanted her to think about it.
The second verse started in. Just before I lowered my hand Mary reached out and took it. Now mine was steady and hers was trembling. She squeezed my hand as if she were falling from a cliff and I was the one who’d caught her.
I pulled her to me.
She let go of my hand and wrapped both arms around me. She put her head on my chest. I felt her warm breath through my shirt. The music enveloped us and we didn’t move for a long moment.
And I realized then that all fear was gone. For just that moment, at least, it wasn’t inside me in any form. Or doubts. Or questions.
For just that moment I was whole.
I slid my head down so my lips were next to her ear. She inclined her head a little, listening.
And then I said, “I will.”