Try Fear - By James Scott Bell Page 0,64

testified on direct that you did not find a suicide note. Are you aware that, according to Di Maio’s book on gunshot evidence, notes are left in only twenty-five percent of suicides?”

“I don’t know one way or the other.”

“Isn’t it a fact that from the very beginning your investigation focused only on Eric Richess?”

“We arrested him, yes.”

“Have you investigated any other leads?”

“Not after the arrest, no.”

“How about before the arrest?”

“We arrested the right person.”

I said, “I move to strike that answer as non-responsive, Your Honor.”

“Stricken,” Hughes said.

“I’ll ask the question again. Did you investigate any other suspect before you arrested Eric Richess?”

“No.”

“So this could be suicide, or the real killer could still be out there, right?”

Radavich objected, the judge sustained it, I paused for dramatic effect, and said, “No more questions.”

And we were done for the day.

96

SISTER MARY AND I took the Red Line from downtown back to North Hollywood, discussing the case. By the time we got on the Orange Line for the ride back to Woodland Hills, I was starving. I suggested honest Mexican food at a place I knew on Sherman Way.

“Just don’t get any sauce on your habit,” I said.

“If you weren’t an officer of the court,” she said, “I’d elbow you in the gut.”

“That’s never stopped you before,” I said.

We were almost to my car, parked on the back side of the lot, farthest from the street.

It looked, somehow, smaller.

And then I saw why.

All four of my tires were dead flat.

Because they were slashed.

“Nice,” I said.

I looked around for the rarest of birds, the on-the-spot parking security guy. He (or she) was nowhere to be seen.

I circled the car, just looking, steaming. And saw on the hood a message.

A little scratchitti in the paint, probably done with a key.

It read, Back off.

97

“PROBLEM?” THE PARKING security guy in his cute little security car had finally seen my wave and driven over. He was about sixty and hadn’t missed many meals.

“Slight,” I said, and pointed to my car.

“Flat?” Security said.

“Four.”

“Four? Oh yeah. Uh-huh. Four flat tires.”

Man, this guy was good. “How do you suppose that happened?” I said.

“Somebody must’ve done it on purpose.”

“You think?”

“Uh-huh.”

“You have security cameras, right?”

“We got ’em over at the pickup. But your car’s over here.”

I slapped my sides. “Surely you have security cameras pointed at the parking lot.”

He made a concerned face and whispered, “Budget.”

“Then how long have you been on duty today?” I said.

“Since two. When did you get here?”

“Seven-thirty.”

“Well let’s see, that would be Clarissa who would’ve been on then, but she didn’t say anything to me, so I don’t guess she saw anything.”

“I don’t guess so,” I said.

“Um…”

“Yes?”

“You know,” he said, “you park here at your own risk. We got signs.”

“Of course,” I said. “And what risk is there when we’ve got a fleet of security vehicles keeping watch?”

“Sir, I’m very sorry. We can report this to the police.”

“Report it. I’ve got to get four new tires before everything closes.”

98

IT TOOK TWO and a half hours. There’s a tire store on Canoga not far from the lot, and a tow took me and Sister Mary there. The store was closed.

So we left the car outside the razor-wired fence, near the shed marked Friendly Fred’s Tires and Treads, and called Father Bob. He said he’d come down in the Taurus to get us.

As we waited, Sister Mary said, “Any idea who might have done this?”

“Somebody who’s taken the trouble to follow me,” I said.

“Or us.”

“Sure, maybe it was an angry Protestant.”

“Not.”

“It’s some bad, theatrical way to throw a little fear into me.”

“Which leads again to the question, who?”

“Who is mad at me? The person who really killed Carl. Maybe somebody who works with the person who really killed Carl. Maybe somebody who was a close friend or lover of the person who killed Carl.”

“Maybe it doesn’t have anything to do with Carl or the murder trial.”

“In which case, who is mad enough to follow me around till they had this opportunity?”

“You messed up that group called Triunfo,” Sister Mary said. “Maybe it’s a residue of one of your early cases. You also got that developer, Sam DeCosse, ticked off at you. Everywhere you go you seem to do that.”

“Maybe it was Sister Hildegarde. Maybe she wants me to back out of the community.”

“Now you’re just being silly.”

“Don’t tell anyone, okay? If it gets out that I’m silly, that’s the end of my rep as a trial lawyer.”

“Your secret is safe.” She paused. “You don’t think…”

“What? The e-mailer?”

She nodded. Another e-mail had