Max pulled out his notebook and flipped over several pages. "Is there anyone who you know for a fact could not have done it?"
"How would I know that?" the lawyer asked, puzzled.
Max glanced at the notebook. "Last night you said you were in the garage when you heard the shot. That's some distance from the house. Maybe you saw someone just before or just after the shot and that would place them too far from the study to have committed the murder."
"No." That was all he said. Even an office lawyer knows that simple answers are best.
Max looked at Whitney until the lawyer's gaze slid away.
"All right, then. Let's go back to the garage. You were working on your car?" Max put a minuscule note of doubt in his voice. "You often worked on your car?"
"Uh, no." Whitney moved restively in his leather seat, and it squeaked.
"But that's what you were doing that afternoon?" Max pressed.
"Yes." Whitney clipped the word off and glared at Max. Unabashed, Max asked, "What kind of car was it?"
"Oh, God, let me think. Damn long time ago. Oh, yeah, yeah, we had a 1968 Pontiac."
Max let the answer hang. It wasn't the kind of car to excite devotion. Finally, he said, "All right. You were in the garage with your car. What were you doing to it?"
Whitney shrugged. "Cleaning it out. We'd been out to the country on a picnic the night before and it had a lot of stuff in
it."
"What time did you go out to the garage?" Max held his pen over the notebook.
Whitney folded his arms across his chest. "How should I know? Oh, hell, I don't know. I don't remember. What the hell difference does it make?"
"It's necessary to pinpoint exactly where everyone was at four o'clock. When we know that, we may be able to show that one or more of you couldn't have been in the study and murdered the Judge." Max had no idea whether this concept was true, but he felt damn certain there was something Whitney didn't want to reveal. Whether it concerned the garage, his own actions, or his father's murder was impossible to tell. "So"—Max tried a persuasive smile—"could you see anyone else from your vantage point in the garage?"
Whitney drummed his fingers irritably on the desk top. "Look, Darling, it's twenty damn years ago! And I was cleaning the damn car. I wasn't rubbernecking out the window."
"The garage has a window?" Max wished that he had scouted out the garage before coming to the Tarrant offices. He could have been much more precise and demanding in his questions.
"Oh, yeah. Several. And—" Whitney stopped. A startled look crossed his face. He frowned, then shook his head.
"You saw someone?" Max demanded quickly. "Who? Where?"
But Whitney was absorbed in his memories. He was obviously turning an idea—and a worrisome one—over and over in his mind.
Max asked again. "Who did you see?" He felt an urgency, asense of excitement. Maybe, finally, something was going to break.
"Who did I . . ." Then Whitney focused on Max. The lawyer's face hardened. It was as if a shutter came down in his eyes, and they were as bright and hard and unreadable as agates. "I didn't see a damn thing." He repeated it emphatically. "I didn't see a damn thing." There was a ring of truth in his voice. "Because there wasn't anything to see." He shoved back his chair and stood. "It's too long ago. Either Ross did it —or we'll never know who did it. And I'm out of time. Let's make it quick. I was in the garage. I didn't see a damn soul until my brother came slamming in and that was ten minutes after the sound of the shot. At least ten minutes. I didn't leave the garage during that time or shortly before that time. I sure as hell didn't sprint into the house and shoot my father."
Max slowly stood, too, and tried to look benign. "Mr. Tarrant, please be assured that our objective is to unearth the truth, not trouble innocent parties. But until we learn what really happened that afternoon, we have to ask questions, questions that I hope you will answer frankly. For example, will you tell me what kind of terms your father was on with the other members of the family?"
A mirthless smile pulled down the corners of the lawyer's mouth. "Terms? His own terms, Mr. Darling. My father—" He took a deep breath. " 'Judge' was what we called him, Mr. Darling. All of us. Even my mother. The Judge ruled. It was that simple."
"Had you talked with him that day?" Max kept his eyes on Tarrant's face.
"Just a good morning at breakfast," Whitney said carefully.
Whitney wasn't a talented lawyer. His suddenly smoothed-out expression was patently contrived. He wouldn't have fooled a jury for a minute. He sure didn't fool Max.
"Breakfast? Oh, I see. Were you and your wife living there on a permanent basis?" It wasn't quite an idle question, but the response surprised Max.
Anger and, even after all these years, embarrassment
flashed in the attorney's eyes. "I was a young lawyer. I was just starting out." His tone was clearly defensive. "I didn't have the income to afford a home. Besides, Charlotte loved living at Tarrant House."
"Did you?" Max asked quickly.
A dull flush stained Whitney's cheeks. He didn't answer.
Max tapped his notebook. "I have some figures here—your family is quite well-to-do. Couldn't your parents have helped you and Charlotte with a home—or made one of the plantations available?"
"That's an offensive question, Darling." Whitney walked to the door and flung it open. "And I've got better things to do than be insulted by you."
Max stood his ground. "Did the Judge refuse to help you? Did he insist you earn enough money to support yourself outside of family income? I understand he never accepted money from his parents."