“What did he take?” Lisa asked.
“Some letters.”
“Were they important?”
“The fact that they were stolen makes them important again,” I said, then thanked them for their help.
Back in my apartment I headed for the phone. I hadn’t noticed earlier that the answering machine had been shut off. I switched it back on. The recording dial was turned to erase. I moved the dial back to rewind, listening as the tape sped backwards. The message had not been rewound before my visitor attempted to erase it. Consequently, he had only succeeded in erasing blank tape. I turned the dial to play. There was the noise of someone trying to clear his throat and then the voice of a very drunk Aaron Gold.
“Henry… secretary said you called the other day… need to talk to you… s’important… s’about Hugh… Judge Paris.. you got it wrong. Remember, no cops. I’m at home.” The line went dead. I fast forwarded the tape to see if he’d called again. There were no other calls.
Mark said he heard the phone ringing at about three-thirty. A few minutes later, Lisa heard someone in my kitchen. Aaron’s call must have come in while the burglar was in the apartment. If he was in the kitchen, which was just a few feet from the phone, the burglar heard the message. In fact, he not only tried to erase the message but turned the machine off so that the red light wouldn’t immediately attract my attention. Shutting off the machine had also prevented any further messages from Aaron. Suddenly, I was very worried for him.
The phone rang at Aaron’s house three times before his answering machine clicked on. I waited for the message to finish knowing that Aaron often screened his calls, and hoping that he was doing that now.
“Aaron, this is Henry,” I said, practically shouting, “if you’re at home, pick up the phone.” The tape ran on. I tried calling his office but was told he hadn’t been in that day. I put the phone down, got my car keys and hurried out of the apartment.
Aaron lived in a small wooden house on Addison, set back from the road by a rather gloomy yard that was perpetually shaded by two massive oaks. There was a deep porch across the front of the house. The overhanging roof was supported by four squat and massive pillars completely out of proportion to the rest of the building. Gold and I referred to the place as Tara. The recollection of that mild joke dispelled some of my uneasiness as I opened the gate and stepped into the yard.
It was dusk and the shadows were at their deepest. Aaron’s brown BMW was parked, a little crookedly, in the driveway. There were lights on behind the drawn curtains but the house was still. I heard a noise, a movement on the side of the house in the narrow strip of yard between the building and the fence that bounded the property.
Abruptly I stopped, turned and sped toward the side yard, moving as quietly as I could. When I reached the edge of the building I stopped and listened. Another noise, fainter. Breathing? I slowed my own breath. Someone had been coming up the side yard when he heard me open the gate. Now he was standing still, wondering, as I had wondered, at the source of the noise. I crouched, walked to the very edge of the building, and then sprang.
For an instant no longer than a heartbeat we saw each other through the evening shadows. He raised his arm to his chest, holding something in his hand. I balled my hand into a fist and brought it down on his wrist as hard as I could. Startled, he dropped what I now saw was a gun. He gasped, turned, and started running. I stooped down, retrieved the gun and ran after him. He was scrambling over the redwood fence when I got to the back yard.
“Stop,” I shouted, training the gun at his back. I squeezed the trigger and then released it. It seemed suddenly darker as a burst of adrenalin rushed to my head. He was wearing — what? — dark pants, a dark shirt, taking the wall like an athlete. I knew that in another second it would be too late to stop him. I had to stop him. But shoot him? I was going to shoot a man? This wasn’t even remotely a situation of self-defense. I held on to the gun and ran for the fence. He was nearly over the top. With my free hand, I reached up and grabbed his ankle. He kicked free. In another second I heard him drop to the ground on the other side. I clambered up the fence, trying to get footholds on the rough wood. Reaching the top, I looked down at the alley, which ran the length of the street. He was gone. He had run to the end of the block or else had gone into someone’s back yard. I let myself drop back. Try to remember his face, I thought, as I made my way back to the house. The back door was ajar.
I entered the house through the kitchen.
“Aaron,” I said in a whisper.
There was no answer. I groped for a light switch, found it and turned it on. The fluorescent light blinked on, filling the room with a white electric glare. From the doorway of the kitchen I could see into the dining room and to the arched entrance that led into the living room. There was a light on in there. I stepped into the dining room and repeated Aaron’s name. There was no answer.
I crossed the room to the archway, holding the gun loosely at my side. Aaron Gold slumped forward in a brown leather armchair, his chest on his knees, his fingertips scraping the floor. Blood dripped steadily from his lap to a bright circle beneath him. On the table beside the chair was an empty bottle of Johnny Walker Red, a glass, and a small pitcher of water. The strongest smell in the room was of alcohol.
He’d probably been too drunk to know what was happening.
I took no comfort from this.
I started toward him. There was a loud noise out on the porch, the sound of footsteps and voices. Someone was pounding on the door.
“This is the police. Mr. Gold. Open up. This is the police.”
Numbly I went to the door and pulled it open. A young officer was flanked by three other cops. I opened my mouth to speak, but before I could utter a word, one of them said, “He’s got a gun.”
As soon as the sentence was out, there were four guns on me.
“Drop it,” the first officer said. I let the gun slip from my hand to the floor. “Now step outside nice and easy.”
“All right,” I said, regaining my composure, “but my friend is hurt in there.”
“We’ll take care of him in a minute.” One of the other officers directed me to turn, put my hands up against the wall and spread my legs. The felony position. I did as I was told. Another of the officers stepped into the house and I heard him mutter, “Jesus Christ.” To the officers outside he said, “Get the paramedics.”
I was searched, handcuffed and ordered to remain standing against the wall.
“This is a mistake,” I said to the officer watching me.
“It sure is,” he replied.
Now I heard the shriek of sirens as the paramedics’ unit shattered the stillness of the night. I had often heard that noise and wondered to what tragedy they were being summoned. This time I knew.
The officer who had first come to the door approached me, pen and pad in hand.
“What’s your name?” “Henry Rios,” I said.
He looked me over. Perhaps out of deference to the fact that I was still wearing most of my suit from the funeral, he called me mister.
“I’m going to read you your constitutional rights. Listen up.” He began to read from the Miranda card in the dull drone that I had heard so many times before when I was a public defender. I had about fifteen seconds in which to make up my mind whether to talk to him or not.
“Do you understand these rights?” he was asking.
“Yes,” I replied.
“Do you want a lawyer?”
“I am a lawyer,” I said.
The answer startled him and then he searched my face carefully. “I’ve seen you before,” he said.
“I was a public defender.”
He whistled low beneath his breath. “Then you know the script,” he said. “Do you want a lawyer?”
“Yes. Sonny Patterson at the D.A.’s office. I’ll talk to him.”
He nodded. “We’re going to take you down to county,” he said. “I’ll radio ahead and have them rouse Patterson.”