The car eased onto Balboa Boulevard, the privacy partition already up.
“I’m sorry about the shakedown,” said Cantrell. “I want to keep things as informal as possible right now.”
“Bodyguards lend a friendly air.”
“So do tape recorders.” He leaned back and regarded Weir openly. “Your relationship to Becky Flynn, and, of course, Virginia, aren’t lost on me. I’m a cautious man, and I apologize if it comes off as suspicion.”
The limo made a U-turn past the ferry landing, then headed east up the boulevard. Weir sat back, committed to the idea of playing this one close to his chest, for right now. Let Cantrell put up his ante — whatever it is — then raise the hell out of him. If all Cantrell wanted was an early look at Jim’s cards, the best idea might be to give him a peek at his best. While that was going on, there were two things he needed. The first should be easy; the second might not.
“I try to stay clear of the politics,” said Weir. “It’s not my game.”
“It’s certainly Becky Flynn’s. I watched a closed-circuit broadcast of her little press conference this morning. The media should love it. She’s gunning for me through Cheverton and whatever she’s dug up on those people. Would you say that’s an accurate assessment?”
“I’d have to say so.”
“I thought you would, since you’re doing her legwork.”
“She’s got a client to defend and I’m working for her. Her case for Horton Goins took her to Cheverton, among other places.”
“What did you find?”
“Pretty much what she said to the press.”
“There’s more than that or she wouldn’t have been so bold.”
Weir shrugged. “We’ll see.”
“I’m sure we will, knowing Becky. And I wish her all the luck in the world defending Horton Goins, because I believe he is only partly guilty.”
Weir said nothing.
“The Newport Beach Police and the district attorney have damaging evidence against him. Brian Dennison and George Percy are competent men.”
Jim studied Cantrell again. The party line, he thought. No surprise.
Cantrell sat back. The reading lamp still shone down on him, its beam brushing his shoulder, then passing on to illuminate the circle of newspaper. A hair lay caught on top of his coat shoulder, wavering slightly in the draft from the air conditioner.
“However, I believe that Goins was merely used to commit the act. He was employed on behalf of certain people who are opposed to my political views — paid handsomely, I would hope. Now, the flowers found on Ann were allegedly ordered by someone at a company I own. They were bought over the phone, on a company credit card, so it could have been anyone with access to the card number. At PacifiCo, that makes about eight authorized people; at Cheverton, two more. Unauthorized possibilities? About twenty-five hundred. The card could also have been used by anyone outside the company who knew the number, or got lucky making a number up. It certainly could have been used by the same people who employed Mr. Horton Goins. But who is the card holder? Cheverton. And who owns Cheverton? I do. Are you with me, Mr. Weir?”
“So far.”
“Second, a tie tack was stolen from my beach house last month, along with some other things. It turned up at the murder scene, in the hands of Mackie Ruff. A Detective Innelman traced it to the jewelry store where my wife bought it.”
“It also turned up on your video blurb against Prop A.”
“I know that. It was planted at the crime scene by Goins, as ordered. I’m positive of it.”
“How can you be positive?”
“Because, Jim,” said Cantrell, leaning forward, “I wasn’t there. I didn’t kill her. I didn’t know her. She waited on me at the Whale — occasionally — and we got along just fine. The sum total of my relationship with your sister was professional. She was a lovely, bright young lady and I liked her very much. I never physically touched her. I never made a pass at her, or her at me. And I’m not going to sit still while someone tries to set me up. Are you listening?”
“Very closely. Go on.”
“It’s not lost on me — or you and Becky — that Ann’s car was found a block or so from my beach house, or that I ate at her station the night she died. The police know it. Did you?”
“Yes. And nobody’s accused you of murdering Ann. You’re the first to do that.”
“Mr. Weir, be as honest with me as I am with you. I’m not a stupid man. Becky is getting ready to make that claim; it’s the trump card in her election run — and she’s using you to gather evidence.”
“Becky’s framing you?”
Cantrell said nothing for a long moment. “Mr. Weir, I’m a lot less eager to accuse my accusers than they are to frame me. If I knew who was behind this, I would go straight to Brian Dennison and George Percy. For now, I would have to consider Becky Flynn a prime candidate. Her offer to defend Goins might not be purely for the publicity. Have you thought of that? At some point, she not only could be defending Goins but defending herself, or people sympathetic with her views. Of course, she’d be immensely better off if Goins was simply found dead, wouldn’t she?”
Weir silently acknowledged the monstrous logic. “You’ll never convince me that Becky had her best friend murdered. I’ve known her for more than thirty years. She’d known Ann for thirty-plus years.”
“And I’d known her as a waitress for a few months. Where is my motive?”
Jim smiled slightly. “Maybe your conscience is a little overworked. There isn’t enough to charge you.”
Cantrell shook his head at Jim, the lines of his face deepening. A plain and simple anger flickered in his eyes. “Becky doesn’t need me charged. She knows, as a lawyer, that she doesn’t have a case. She just needs me slandered before June fifth, dragged in for questioning, linked to Ann in any way possible. God Weir, open your eyes. You’re being used, and so am I. One more point here, since you brought it up — you don’t know the first thing about my conscience.”
Jim considered the unabated anger in Cantrell’s eyes. “You’re probably right about that.” He took one of the fresh copies of Horton Goins’s photo from his jacket pocket and handed it to Cantrell.
Cantrell took it, placing a glorious thumb directly onto the bottom-right corner of the print surface. “Horton Goins,” he said.
“Have you seen him?”
Cantrell was incredulous. “What? I’ve seen this picture in every newspaper in the county for a week, and you ask me if I’ve seen him? All of a sudden, under your intense cross-examination, I realize I’ve seen this guy?”
“All that must mean no.”
Cantrell handed back the photo, shaking his head. “Idiots,” he said, mostly to himself.
Jim looked at the picture again, then slipped it back into his pocket. Fingerprints, he thought; one down. “Sorry, never hurts to double-check.”
Cantrell stared out the window for a while, seemingly oblivious to Weir.
“I guess you’ll be happy to see Horton Goins arrested,” said Weir. “He can finger his bosses if George Percy puts enough pressure on him — I mean, if he’s got any bosses. All in all, I’ll bet you’d like to see nothing happen until after June fifth.”
Cantrell nodded. “Dennison is using Goins to look good, and so is Becky. It’s fair. What I’m saying is, the more Becky comes rapping on my door with ‘evidence’ that I was involved with Ann, the more I’m sure that someone is creating a case against me. I’m asking you to consider the possibility.”
Cantrell studied him from the padded recess of the corner. The reading lamp was still trained on his paper. The hair stuck to his shoulder still wavered in and out of the beam. “Weir, some things are more important than who wins this election. A woman’s life has been lost. At least one innocent man — I — am being implicated. Forget the election. You don’t think Goins did it. Fine. If Goins didn’t do it, he’ll walk. But you and Becky should either get off my case or get into it far enough to find the truth.”