Wednesday
It was almost ten a.m. before Hollis was able to finish work with Penny and turn her attention to the second envelope retrieved from Bell’s safe. The name on the outside was Naomi Eaton. The envelope was much lighter than Cantone’s and she quickly emptied the contents out onto her desk.
The first was a single page from a 2010 desk-pad calendar for the month of June.
Hollis wrinkled her brow and squinted to read the tiny handwriting that filled various boxes under the days of the week. The entries primarily consisted of names, times, and what appeared to be a four-digit code. Other entries appeared to be appointment reminders. She could see no meaningful information. The only other item in the envelope was a sheet of paper containing Eaton’s address and phone number.
Hollis pushed the button for Penny’s extension and asked her to come to her office.
“What’s up?” Penny asked.
“Take a look at this.” Hollis handed over the page. “I’d like you to make a list of the entries by date. While you’re at it, see if you can make sense of what it all means. You’re faster at deciphering handwriting than I am.”
Penny looked curiously at the paper. “Should I bill my hours to the Bell matter?”
Hollis nodded. “Right now, Bell is my priority. I want to finish processing his estate as soon as possible.”
After Penny departed, she picked up the next, much larger packet. The name on the outside was Jeremiah Griffin. Hollis was perplexed. What was Bell up to? She kept recalling his disapproval of female professionals, and if this was an attempt to goad her even after his death, he was succeeding.
Once again, she tilted out the envelope’s contents. This time she found stapled printouts of approximately a dozen emails. The emails were clamped to an inch-high stack of letters and memos on “Jordan Manufacturing” letterhead.
And, as with the other two envelopes, there was a single sheet of plain paper with Griffin’s contact information.
She turned to her keyboard and typed in “Jordan Manufacturing.” It was a fabrication company located in Burlingame, not far from the San Francisco Airport. Its website was low profile, offering up only a picture of a two-story building, address, phone number, and email contact. On the “About Us” page, sixteen employees wearing short-sleeved blue-denim shirts stood in a half-circle and grinned into the camera. Hollis wondered if the white-shirted, confident looking man in the center was Griffin.
While she was tempted to read through the correspondence, she placed it back in the envelope. Right now she only wanted to get an idea of what was contained in each, and she had one more to go.
She turned to the fourth and thickest envelope. There were two names across the front: Ian and Millicent Pittman.
The first thing she noticed was that the Pittmans’ packet held two passports in the names of Weatherly. The next item she lifted was a gun permit for a Glock, equipped with a laser and issued in Texas five years before.
The bulk of the remaining contents were receipts going back ten years. The most recent was a medical bill for a doctor’s visit dated six months ago.
She raised her eyebrows. What was going on?
Hollis took out a pad and made columns: who, what, where, and when. After listing the names, she noted the content of the envelopes and the location of the owners: two in the Bay Area, one in Sacramento, and one in Carmel Valley. She leaned back in her chair. She could see no connection between the individuals.
Her phone buzzed.
“Hollis, if you want to see Gordon, he’s free now,” Tiffany said. “His next appointment is in thirty minutes.”
Hollis gathered up her pad, a pen, and the Cantone envelope and headed for her manager’s office. Gordon Barrett had been a partner with Triple D for four years, but she rarely worked with him since his practice was almost exclusively criminal law. George’s departure had given her the opportunity to move up, but it also required that her work be overseen by one of the law partners. Barrett had worked with George and now she’d inherited him.
When she poked her head in his office, he was on his phone. He waved her in and then turned to face his window. Taking a calming breath, she gazed out at the view. Gordon had a corner office with uninterrupted floor-to-ceiling glass windows. The grandeur of the Bay and Golden Gate Bridges was on one side and the San Rafael Bridge on the other. It was just as well that the view from her own office was less distracting, showcasing only Angel Island and the Berkeley hills.
Gordon’s voice was rising and he swirled around to pick up his cellphone. “Let me check my calendar,” he muttered as he scrolled through the screen. “Look, I can’t make any promises. You violated parole. The judge doesn’t care about your excuses or how philanthropic your family is. He will likely send you back. Uh-huh … uh-huh …. Okay, I’ll talk to the DA and get back to you.” He clicked off. He held up his hand when Hollis moved to speak and pushed the intercom button. “Tiffany, give me twenty minutes with Hollis then get Fred on the phone. I need to talk to him before my next appointment.”
He looked at Hollis and smiled. “Sorry,” he said, “you’ve got my full attention.”
“For,” Hollis leaned in to look at the clock on his desk, “nineteen minutes. So I’d better hurry.”
She quickly took him through the saga of Bell: his instructions, the dismissal of his staff, and her discovery of the safe’s contents. While she spoke, Barrett reached for the Cantone envelope and dumped its contents on his desk. He quickly flipped through it.
“Do the rest of the envelopes have the same kind of stuff?”
Hollis shook her head. “No, they’re all different, seemingly all unique to the individual.” Hollis noticed he stole a glance at the clock as he shoved the paperwork back into its container.
“What’s your plan?”
She could feel her brow creasing in a frown. “Gordon, doesn’t this all sound a bit suspicious to you?” She leaned forward. “I mean, even my cursory assessment of what appears to be questionable information is that we’re looking at blackmail.”
He gave an impatient wave of his hand.
“Okay, let’s say our client was a blackmailer. It appears he’s returning his victims’ dirty laundry and attempting to redeem himself. What’s the crime? Our job is to inform these people that they are off what could be a very nasty hook.”
Hollis shook her head slightly. “Well, then, I’m going to meet with Cantone first,” she said. “That’s the one you’re looking at. I’ll give him the envelope, have him sign an affidavit, and leave. That’s my plan.”
He nodded. “Look, I agree this is a bit unsavory. But our job is to represent our client, and I’m trusting you know how to do your job because I’m not a close supervisor.”
Gordon glanced at the clock and then back at her. “What do you think your billables will be?”
Hollis hoped she’d hidden her surprise. “Er, I don’t know. It’s going to include local travel, and it may be a while before I can meet with everyone.” She paused to think. “Rather than quote a number I can’t defend, let me get back to you once I accomplish the first delivery.”
“Good answers, but from now on, when you brief me on a new matter, always have an estimate of your billable hours. You’ll discover that as one of our senior attorneys, you’re expected to keep the firm’s profits healthy and ongoing.”
“Not a problem.” She gave him a slight mock bow.
“In fact, let’s set up a time when we can go over how I like to work.” As he picked up his smartphone, he gave her an appraising look. “By the way, the color of your suit is very flattering.”
George had never questioned how or where she spent her time, but to be fair, he was the one who was accountable to the partners. Gordon Barrett was considered an excellent asset to the firm. His practice centered on keeping the rich out of jail, and they were willing to pay a great deal to ensure that he did.
Hollis ignored his compliment about her attire. Barrett was a good-looking divorcé. Rumor had it he wasn’t shy about reaching out to Triple D’s female lawyers for companionship.
After agreeing to a meeting time, she left, keeping her expression neutral.
* * *
Back at her desk, she punched in Anthony Cantone’s contact number. The call went straight to an answering machine.
“Mr. Cantone, my name is Hollis Morgan. I’m calling for Matthias Bell. He—”
“Wait. I’m here,” Cantone replied in a high-pitched voice. “Who did you say you were?”
Hollis cleared her throat. “My name is Hollis Morgan and—”
“Hold on. How do you spell your name?”
She spelled it slowly.
“Okay, got it. By the way, I want you to know I’m taping this conversation,” he said in a rushed voice. “What does Bell want now?”
“Mr. Cantone, Mr. Bell died last weekend—”
He gasped, “Bell’s dead?”
“Yes. I’m responsible for settling his estate. He left—”
“Well, I know he didn’t leave me anything, the crook.”
She hurried on, cutting off any further interruptions, “Mr. Cantone, it seems like you have a lot of … questions. Would it be possible to meet with you later this week or perhaps next week? I can deliver a package he left for you. It won’t require much of your time.”
There was silence on the other end.
Then he said, “So you’re acting for Bell?”
“I’m the executor of his trust,” Hollis said, trying to contain her exasperation. “I don’t want to go into any details on the phone because I would prefer to discuss them in person. Are you available this week or next?”
“Er, uh, yeah, let’s make it Thursday afternoon, say one o’clock. My office is in Carmel Valley just outside Carmel By the Sea.”
“I have your address,” she said jotting down the appointment in her calendar. “I’ll see you then.”
“Fine, fine, so you’re sure Bell is dead?”
* * *
After the meeting with Gordon and the call with Cantone, Hollis needed a cup of tea to push back her agitation and increasing suspicions. On her return from the break room, she sipped the jasmine brew and passed by the front desk, where she picked up her messages, enough to form a small pile. She had just closed her office door when her direct line rang.
“Hello, Rebecca, it’s Rita.”
Hollis froze. She hadn’t heard her birth name used for some time. She responded, “Hi Ri, I just saw your message that you’ve been trying to reach me this morning. I was getting ready to call you.” She paused. “I’m sorry; it’s been a busy morning. Is everything all right? Why didn’t you call me at home?”
Rita was Hollis’ older sister by two years. Never close, their relationship had been strained ever since Hollis’ incarceration and release. It had improved only minimally after she was pardoned. Rebecca Hollis Morgan was her maiden name, but Rita, and the rest of the family, refused to call her by anything but Rebecca. Even though she’d informed them that she was using her middle name as a sign of her fresh start at a new life.
“Rebecca,” Rita said, “I don’t have time to go over what I didn’t do, and I don’t have long to talk. I have to get back to Mother.” She sighed and then said in a rush, “Yesterday, we heard from Joe’s unit’s that his return is delayed again.”
Hollis couldn’t stop her intake of breath. Her younger brother, her only brother, was the single person in the family who hadn’t judged her after her sentencing, and the only family member who’d kept in contact with her.
“Was he on a mission?” Her voice held a slight tremor.
“Becca, I don’t know.” Rita paused and gave another deep sigh. “They told us they would get back to us immediately if his status changes. His status … good grief.”
“Can I do anything?” Hollis asked, noticing that her sister had used her nickname, a sign she was relaxing.
“This call isn’t about Joe. Come home, Becca,” Rita said haltingly, and then in a stronger voice, “Mother wants to see you. Come home, Becca.”
Hollis sat quietly, gazing out the window in her office at the stretch of traffic leading across the Bay Bridge to San Francisco. Only it wasn’t the traffic she was seeing, it was her family that occupied her thoughts.
She had made peace with her status in the family. Rita, the older by two years, was perfect, Joseph, who followed her by four years, was the handsome darling, and she was the black sheep. To be fair, she hadn’t carried that label until she married Bill Lynley and had gotten embroiled in his illegal insurance schemes. Up until that time, she was just considered “different.” Her parents were not equipped to deal with emotions, good or bad, and Hollis’ compulsion to come to the aid of those in need or who had been wronged made her family uncomfortable.
She smiled, remembering her mother’s plea: “Rebecca, why do you always have to get involved? It’s none of your business.”
“Because I can help,” she answered, after realizing it was her truth.
But this was long before her family had turned their backs on her in the courtroom when she was sentenced. During her eighteen months in prison, she came to doubt herself and her beliefs.
The eight years since her release, with only minimal contact with her sister, and scattered, brief phone calls with her father and brother, had left her with an emptiness she’d locked away. And other than secondhand inquiries concerning her health, she had not spoken to her mother since her imprisonment.
Now, her mother wanted to see her.
* * *
Gordon Barrett was almost dismissive when Hollis told him she would be leaving for a couple of days to take care of a family issue.
“I hope everything is okay,” he said, not looking up from his keyboard. “Hey, do what you have to do.” He turned to her and flashed a sincere smile. “Good luck. If you need more time, just leave me a message.”
* * *
Hollis drove to her condo from work in a daze. She had not seen her family since they’d witnessed her insurance fraud conviction and sentence to prison. They’d never been a close family. Actually, if anything, they were more dysfunctional than most. When the judge brought down the gavel on her future, she exchanged looks with her mother, Ava Morgan, and her mother turned her back and walked away.
Hollis’ father, Jack, hadn’t been well at the time. Tears slipping from his eyes, he had tried to reach out and give her a hug, but the guards blocked his path.
That was the worst day of her life.
Jack Morgan didn’t express emotion very well. None of them did. So Hollis could only imagine the pain he must have felt to show those tears. It haunted her still.
Her mother was another story. She and Rita were just alike. Tall and beautiful, judgmental and petty, and neither spared any criticism when it came to Hollis. Her mother didn’t hesitate to tell her that the family had only come to the last day of the trial because Hollis’ attorney insisted it would arouse the sympathy of the judge and jury.
Replaying Rita’s call in her head, Hollis shivered. Why would her mother want to see her now? She hadn’t responded to Hollis’ calls when she’d been given a pardon, or graduated from law school, or had been sworn in as an attorney. Her mother had maintained stony silence, and to Hollis’ dismay, her father had largely followed his wife’s lead.
Hollis pulled into her garage. John, already home, had his suitcases out on the bed. He was watching a basketball game as he went back and forth from closet to his dresser with shirts and underwear for his trip.
“You’re home early,” she said as she offered her lips for a light kiss.
After the kiss, he drew back and gave her a critical glance. “And you’re home late. What’s the matter? I can tell from your face, there’s something going on.”
“Don’t you ever tire of being a detective?” she said wearily, slumping back on the lounge chair and lifting her feet on the rest.
Regarding her solemnly, John raised the remote to shut off the TV.
“Talk to me,” he said, patting the bed for her to come and sit next to him.
“I heard from my sister,” Hollis said. As she plumped up a pillow, she recounted Rita’s news about Joe.
John tilted her chin up. “But there’s something else.”
She snuggled next to his chest. “They want the prodigal daughter to come home for a visit.”
He gave her a squeeze of understanding.
“Look, I need to finish packing. Let’s have a fast meal out and get back home. You can help me finish getting ready and then we can talk.”
Hollis nodded.
They dined at a popular neighborhood café. They kept the talk easy, and soon John had Hollis laughing about some of the “characters” on his job.
“You don’t have the corner on characters,” she chuckled. “Try working at Triple D.” They finished dinner on a high note.
Later, when they were back home, Hollis lay on the bed folding John’s socks into efficient rolls that would fit neatly in his softcover suitcase. He was chatting away about “the team” and how they felt more like brothers.
“Do you have a team sister?” she teased.
John looked up toward the ceiling. “Now that you mention it—”
She tossed a sock at him. He caught it midair and sat down next to her.
“Okay, let’s talk. You’ve been um … preoccupied since you got home. It’s not just the call from your family, is it? There’s more to it.”
“How can you say that? I’ve been talking all evening. Besides, this thing with going to see Mother, well, I admit it has me on guard.” She sighed, then told him about Bell and the safe full of file folders. She added, “And then with you leaving, I—”
He placed a finger over her lips. “Don’t.”
Hollis nodded. “Sorry.” She patted his hand, and then brought it to her lips. “I’m used to you being here or at least knowing where you are. This time … this time, you’ll just be out there.”
“You’re not worried, are you?”
“Who me, worry?”
They exchanged long looks and then kissed deeply. After a moment, they pulled away and Hollis pointed to his suitcase.
“Come on, we need to finish this,” she said.
He stood and bowed then returned to his packing, placing a bulky sweater in the bag. “If I understand what you’ve been saying, thanks to Bell you have a new job assignment as a high-paid delivery girl. Is it true you’re giving out free pizzas?”
“Very funny.” Hollis shook her head in frustration. “I’m beginning to think that Matthias Bell deliberately set me up.”
She told him about her conversation with Cantone.
“It sounds like blackmail to me,” she said, tossing a folded t-shirt in his bag. “But when I briefed Gordon, he nonchalantly told me it wasn’t my concern if Bell was a blackmailer.”
John shrugged. “Let’s say he was a blackmailer. Could it be that you’re too sensitive to the fact that Bell was a crook, and now that he’s dead, can’t be punished? On the other hand, he wasn’t all bad; he decided to release his victims.”
“That’s just it, John.” She deftly squeezed his favorite pair of Dockers into the suitcase. “Bell was a jerk. I can’t see him fearing the afterlife enough to give his victims back their lives.”
“So, now what are you saying?”
“I don’t know what I’m saying. I just … ugh.”
John pulled her to him again, and their long, liquid kiss rushed through her. He stood, taking his garment bag off the bed to hang on the door.
“Do you think we can put aside Mr. Bell for the evening? I’m going to be gone for almost a month, and it would be real nice if …” He slid the suitcase to the floor and turned to her. “If, uh, we could make up for anticipated lost time.”
“I thought you’d never ask,” she murmured and pulled him to her.