“You must be a killer on cross.”
“I sure am, so stay on the point: what Miranda told you and why.”
“She told me nothing. Nothing, as in no real thing, nada, caput.”
“Why do I get the feeling she told you about my dad?”
“I don’t know, maybe you’re a suspicious creature whose instincts are to trust nobody. All she said was that Lee and your father were partners and you lived with them after he died.”
She leaned into the light. “My father was an embezzler.” Then she was back in the shadows, her voice coming out of the void. “My dad was a crook.”
“Those are mighty unforgiving words, Erin.”
“There can be no forgiveness for what he did. He stole from his client.”
She took a deep breath and said, “When I was little my dad was my hero. He was funny and smart: he could do no wrong. I never wanted to be anything but a lawyer, just like him.”
I told her I was sorry. Sometimes people fall short of what we want them to be.
“I was thirteen when it came out. The worst possible age. In school I heard talk every day. The humiliation was brutal. I wanted to run away and change my name but Lee talked me out of that.”
“Lee’s a smart man.”
“Lee is a great man. He knew what I needed was not to deny my name but to restore it. I don’t know what I’d have done if not for him. Did you know they put me through law school?”
I shook my head. “Miranda did say they couldn’t be prouder of what you’ve done.”
“Well, now I’ve done it. I made all the honor rolls, got a great job, paid them back. My father’s not just dead, he’s really buried, and I don’t need to do it anymore.”
Abruptly she changed the subject. “Your turn. Bet you’re glad you’re not still a cop.”
“There’s nothing wrong with being a cop. There are some fine people who are cops.”
“I know that.”
After an awkward pause, she said, “Look, I know what happened to you back then. I read all the stories and if any of it mattered to me, I wouldn’t be here now. I like you. You make me laugh. And just for the record, I like the police too. Most of the time.”
“Then we’re cool.”
She flashed me that lovely smile. “We’re cool, man.”
I wondered how cool we were, but at that moment the phone rang.
It was Ralston, taking a chance I’d still be here. “Can you come up to my house? Mrs. Gallant wants to see you.”
“Sure. How about first thing in the morning?”
I had a dark hunch what he would say, just before he said it.
“You’d better come now. I think she’s dying.”
CHAPTER 7
The address he gave me was in Globeville, a racially mixed North Denver neighborhood, mostly Chicanos and blacks who had escaped the stigma of being poor, if they actually did, by the skin of their teeth. Globeville had none of the fashionably integrated charm of Park Hill, but at least it had avoided the ethnic rage that simmered in Five Points a few years back. The area had its own distinct character: bordered by Interstates 25 and 70, formed by people struggling to get along, defined by a school of architecture best described as modern crackerbox provincial, it was a few dozen square blocks of plain square houses and cyclone fences, crammed tight for maximum efficiency.
Erin knew Globeville well. “I had a client who lived in that house,” she said, gesturing as we turned off North Washington Street. “Classic case of a woman who desperately needed a man gone from her life. But nobody was gonna tell him what to do with his woman.”
“Until you came along,” I said with genuine admiration.
“Me and the Denver Sheriff’s Department. She already had a restraining order, they just didn’t want to bother enforcing it. Because she was black, because she was poor, because, because, because. I just became her instrument to get them off the dime.”
“That doesn’t seem like a case for Waterford, Brownwell.”
“It was pro bono. They were less than thrilled when I took it, but I do that once in a while. It keeps my head on straight, reminds me why I got into law in the first place, and lets them know they can’t send me to places like Rock Springs without consequences.”
She had offered to ride along because she found Mrs. Gallant’s story fascinating, and second, she said, “to see where your idea of a real date finally takes us.” Ralston’s house was on North Pennsylvania, half a block from East Forty-seventh Avenue. By the time we arrived, not a trace of light remained in the western sky. I pulled up behind his car and saw his bearlike silhouette in the doorway. He pushed open a screened door as we came up onto the porch.
I introduced Erin as a friend and her hand disappeared into his. We walked through a small living room with the sparest imaginable furnishings—no television, I noticed—and on into the kitchen. There was a rickety-looking table, four plain chairs, a cupboard, and straight ahead the door to the backyard. Off to the right, a short passageway led to the bathroom and beyond that was apparently the only other room in the house, their bedroom.
“Is she in there?”
He nodded. “Denise is in with her. Sit down, she knows you’re here.”
We sat at the table and Ralston offered coffee. He caught me looking around at his raggedy surroundings. “I told you it wasn’t the Brown.”
“It’s fine,” I said. “I was just wondering where you two planned to sleep tonight.”
“We’ll get by. Won’t be the first time we bagged it on the floor.”
I nodded toward the door. “What happened?”
“She just all of a sudden gave out. Her old heart decided it had enough.”
“Did you call a doctor?”
He shook his head. “She didn’t want us to.”
A long moment passed.
“I know what you’re thinking,” he said. “It seems indecent to let her die when help is just a phone call away. But you’ve got to ask yourself what the hell you’re saving her for—to be sent back to that place, just so she can die next month instead of now? She hated it there, you know.”
“That’s not exactly what I was thinking. In fact, I agree with everything you’re saying. But I used to be a cop and in situations like this, I still think like one.”
“Are you saying we could be prosecuted? Man, that would figure, wouldn’t it?”
“I never had a negligent homicide.” I looked at Erin. “Isn’t that what this would be?”
She nodded. “Criminally negligent homicide would probably be the statute.”
“Jesus.” Ralston looked at Erin and said, “You a lawyer?”
She nodded and I said, “She’s a real lawyer, Mike. Be glad she’s here.”
“It’s a fairly straightforward law,” she said. “If you cause a death by your failure to act, it could conceivably be prosecuted as a class-five felony. That’s very unlikely to happen, but you should be aware of the possibilities.” She shrugged. “An aggressive DA…”
“Jesus,” he said again. “The woman just wants to die a natural death, for God’s sake, without having tubes running out of her nose for three months. What’s the law got to do with that?”
“You’re like me,” I told him: “all fire, no ice. You leap before you look. You do a pretty good job of keeping the fire contained, but it’s always there simmering, isn’t it?”
He walked to the window and looked out into the backyard.
“Sit down and talk to me,” I said. “You make me nervous, pacing around.”
He sat and I made the universal gesture for Go ahead, speak. But when he did, it was not about the old woman’s life, it was about her quest. “Have you asked yourself what she really wants? I mean, what can she hope to gain from this search she’s taken on? Even if she found it all tonight and could legally sell it, what good would it do her?”