 |
|||||||||
 
        |
|||||||||
|
The heavy red-figured drapes over thecourtroom windows were incompletely closed against the sun. Yellow daylightleaked in and dimmed the electric bulbs in the high ceiling. It picked outrandom details in the room: the glass water cooler standing against the paneledwall opposite the jury box, the court reporter's carmine-tipped fingers playingover her stenotype machine, Mrs. Perrine's experienced eyes watching me acrossthe defense table. It was nearly noon on the second and lastday of her trial. I was the final witness for the defense. Her attorney hadfinished questioning me. The deputy D.A. waived cross-examination, and severalof the jurors looked at him with puzzled frowns. The judge said I could go. From my place on the witness stand I'dnoticed the young man sitting in the front row of spectators. He wasn't one ofthe regular trial-watchers, housewives and pensioners filling an empty morningwith other people's troubles. This one had troubles of his own. His broodingblue gaze stayed on my face, and I had the uncomfortable feeling that he mightbe willing to share his troubles with me. He rose from his seat as I stepped downand intercepted me at the door. "Mr. Archer, may I talk to you?" "All right." The bailiff opened the door and gesturedurgently. "Outside, gentlemen. Court is still in session." We moved out into the corridor. The youngman scowled at the automatically closing door. "I don't like being pushedaround." "I'd hardly describe that as beingpushed around. What's eating you, friend?" I shouldn't have asked him. I should havewalked briskly out to my car and driven back to Los Angeles. But he had thatclean, crewcut All-American look, and that blur of pain in his eyes. "I just got thrown out of theSheriff's office. It came on top of a couple of other brushoffs from the localauthorities, and I'm not used to that kind of treatment." "They don't mean it personally." "You've had a lot of detectiveexperience, haven't you? I gathered that from what you said on the witnessstand. Incidentally, you did a wonderful job for Mrs. Perrine. I'm sure thejury will acquit her." "We'll see. Never bet on ajury." I distrusted his compliment, which probably meant he wantedsomething more substantial from me. The trial in which I had just testifiedmarked the end of a long uninteresting case, and I was planning a fishing tripto La Paz. "Is that all you wanted to say to me?" "I have a lot to say, if you'll onlylisten. I mean, I've got this problem about my wife. She left me." "I don't ordinarily do divorce work,if that's what you have in mind." "Divorce?" Without making asound, he went through the motions of laughing hollowly, once. "I was onlymarried one day—less than one day. Everybody including my father keeps tellingme I should get an annulment. But I don't want an annulment or a divorce. Iwant her back." "Where is your wife now?" "I don't know." He lit acigarette with unsteady hands. "Dolly left in the middle of our honeymoonweekend, the day after we were married. She may have met with foul play." "Or she may have decided she didn'twant to be married, or not to you. It happens all the time." "That's what the police keep saying:it happens all the time. As if that's any comfort! Anyway, I know that wasn'tthe case. Dolly loved me, and I loved—I love her." He said this very intensely, with theentire force of his nature behind the words. I didn't know his nature but therewas sensitivity and feeling there, more feeling than he could handle easily. "You haven't told me your name." "I'm sorry. My name is Kincaid. AlexKincaid." "What do you do for a living?" "I haven't been doing much lately,since Dolly—since this thing happened. Theoretically I work for the Channel OilCorporation. My father is in charge of their Long Beach office. You may haveheard of him. Frederick Kincaid?" I hadn't. The bailiff opened the door ofthe courtroom, and held it open. Court had adjourned for lunch, and the jurorsfiled out past him. Their movements were solemn, part of the ritual of thetrial. Alex Kincaid watched them as if they were going out to sit in judgmenton him. "We can't talk here," he said."Let me buy you lunch." "I'll have lunch with you.Dutch." I didn't want to owe him anything, at least till I'd heard hisstory. There was a restaurant across the street.Its main room was filled with smoke and the roar of conversation. Thered-checkered tables were all occupied, mainly with courthouse people, lawyersand sheriff's men and probation officers. Though Pacific Point was fifty milessouth of my normal beat, I recognized ten or a dozen of them. Alex and I went into the bar and found acouple of stools in a dim corner. He ordered a double scotch on the rocks. Iwent along with it. He drank his down like medicine and tried to order a secondround immediately. "You set quite a pace. Slow down." "Are you telling me what to do?" he saiddistinctly and unpleasantly. "I'm willing to listen to your story. I want youto be able to tell it." "You think I'm an alcoholic or something?"
|
|||||||||
|
© Alexander Sviyash, 2009 |
|||||||||