Gloria had called Sacramento on the day she died. Did she call Welch and make demands? Maybe hit him with a threat, a little jab to the solar plexus? Tell him she’d ruin him?
Maybe Gloria had something other than her words to back up the threats. Maybe she had something in writing, something more than the Dear John letter. Maybe she had documents, ledgers, or journals that tied the senator to Karadimos.
Welch could have told Karadimos about the call, told the Greek to have her taken care of. That would have gotten the Greek’s fat ass onto the plane that night, and it would have provoked him to make an unannounced visit.
But if that were the case, wouldn’t he just have a hit man do the job? There’d be no need at all to fly down from Sacramento.
The sun beat down on my car and I started to roast. I hung my left arm outside the car and felt the hot August air drift through my fingers. A thought grabbed me and I couldn’t shake it loose. Every notion I had about the case was pure speculation. I had nothing tangible or solid.
The prosecution would have facts and photos. Hard evidence, the knife with Gloria’s blood still on it, for example. Bobbi had a witness, a neighbor who would point at Rodriguez, and say, “That’s him! That’s the man I saw arguing with Gloria Graham just before she was murdered.”
What would I do then? Would I stand in front of the twelve jurors, who’d be waiting for solid answers to the prosecutor’s claims and say, “Well, folks, you see, I have this feeling in my gut.”
I glanced across the street. A movement in the window caught my eye. I could see Mrs. Wilson, Bobbi’s witness, stealing a look at me through a slit in her Venetian blinds. I walked to her house and rang the doorbell.
C H A P T E R 34
A wary eye peeked at me when the door cracked open a few inches. “Are you Mrs. Wilson?”
“Yes,” the woman replied in a meek voice.
I slipped my card through the opening. “My name is Jimmy O’Brien. I’m representing the poor man who’s wrongly accused of the murder that happened across the street. Could I talk to you for a few minutes?”
“The police said you would try to see me. They told me I don’t have to talk to you.”
“That’s true, you don’t-but I’m just trying to clear up a few points. Get the facts straight in my mind. It won’t take long.”
“They said that you would try to trick me.”
I smiled and held my arms out, spread my fingers and twisted my open hands a few times. “I haven’t any tricks up my sleeve. I’m just a lawyer trying to do my job, not a magician.”
“You seem like a nice man, but I already told the detectives everything I know.”
“Mrs. Wilson, I’m sure you did, but it’s up to me to make certain they wrote what you told them correctly in the report.”
“You think they’d lie?”
“No, not at all,” I said with all the sincerity I could muster. “I just want to ensure that an innocent man doesn’t go to prison because of a clerical error.”
“Oh, my…”
“You wouldn’t want that to happen, would you?”
“No, I guess not…” Her voice trailed off, and she was quiet for a moment, then she said, “It’s hot outside. C’mon in.”
She closed the door, released the security chain, and opened it again. Mrs. Wilson, in her late sixties, had gray hair cut short in an attractive manner. She wore a light blue housedress and only a touch of makeup. I stepped into her small living room and sat in a wicker armchair.
“Would you care for a cool drink?”
“Sure.”
“Jamaica?”
“Pardon me?”
“Jamaica, it’s a delicious drink. My late husband, Raul, taught me how to make it. I just brewed a fresh batch. It’s served chilled, like iced tea.”
Why didn’t she brew coffee like everyone else? “Oh, I’d love some.”
Mrs. Wilson left to fetch the refreshments and I let my eyes wander around the room. The place was spotless. But a number of modern paintings hung on the walls-if you could call them paintings. They looked like someone’s nightmare, dark and gloomy with red streaks running through them. A sick mind at work.
I automatically sat up straighter when Mrs. Wilson returned. “Do you like my paintings, Mr. O’Brien? I never took an art course or anything, just paint what comes to me in my dreams.”
“They’re wonderful.” Okay, I lied.
“You’re too kind.” She held a platter. On it were two tall glasses filled with ice cubes floating in a reddish pink liquid. She handed me one of the glasses. I took a sip. Delicious! How long has this stuff been around? I asked myself.
“This is a great drink,” I said. “What’s it made from?”
“Hibiscus flowers. I grow them in the backyard.”
I set the glass down on the coffee table in front of me. Mrs. Wilson sat prim and proper, taking little bitty sips of her hibiscus concoction, smacking her lips from time to time. I asked her about the argument, and she proceeded to tell me what I already knew from the police report. The truck was in the driveway, where it stayed past her bedtime. Gloria and Rodriguez argued, she said, for about ten minutes. She had spotted them earlier in the evening arguing on the driveway. After the argument ended, around six, Gloria went back into the house. Mrs. Wilson went to bed at ten, took a sleeping pill, and didn’t hear or see anything after that.
“Did you hear what they were saying when they argued?” I asked.
“No, I wasn’t listening. I just heard a loud voice.”
“Whose voice was it? Miss Graham’s or the accused?”
“Gloria’s. She seemed very agitated. You know, waving her arms around and shouting.”
“But you couldn’t hear what she was shouting about, is that correct?”
“No, I was too far away.”
“What was Rodriguez doing?”
“Rodriguez?”
“The accused.”
“Oh, he just mostly listened.”
“Didn’t he shout back?”
“I couldn’t hear. I was too far away.”
“Did he look angry or upset in any way?”
“His back was to me. I couldn’t tell if he was upset.
Couldn’t see his face.”
“Was he jumping up and down, waving his arms around, anything like that?”
“If he did, I didn’t see it,” she said, shaking her head slowly.
I didn’t want to press too hard. Maybe I should ease up a little.
“I just have a few more questions, Mrs. Wilson.”
“You can call me Vera, that’s my name.”
“Vera, you’ve been very helpful. You have a keen sense of observation.”
“I’m not a busybody or a snoop.”
“Of course not,” I said. “But you’re doing the right thing, volunteering the truth. No one else in the neighborhood came forward like you did.”
“I just want to be a good citizen.”
“I understand. Now let’s see if you and I can figure this thing out, together.”
“I’ll help if I can.”
“Of course you can. Now let’s review: Gloria seemed furious and Rodriguez just stood there. He told me Gloria wanted the trees moved. Do you think that made him angry, fuming mad? What do you think?”
“I don’t know if he was angry or not.”
“Well, it takes two people to have an argument. Do you think maybe it was only Gloria who was upset?”
“She seemed upset.”
“Upset about a few trees? Rodriguez moved them. He said it was no big deal.”
“Maybe she was upset about something else,” she said.
“But not at my client?”
“Perhaps not. I don’t know.”
“Telephone records show that Gloria called her boss’s hotel that afternoon. Sometimes bosses can upset people.” I let the last statement hang in the air and waited for Mrs. Wilson to respond.