He had the same security gate setup that Russell and Ian had, but the driveway was a long stretch of road that led straight uphill and opened onto a beautiful expanse of lawn decorated with cherry trees and impressive abstract pieces of iron sculpture.
The house itself was a mix of modern and traditional with large, unadorned windows that gave it a light, airy feel. All that glass might have been a bad idea anywhere else, but isolated the way it was on the top of that hill, privacy was guaranteed. As I got out of the car, the scream of seagulls, the warmth of the twilight sun, and the fresh salty air made me stop and take a deep breath. The jagged shards inside my chest that I hadn’t even been aware of began to melt and my steps slowed as I enjoyed the rare feeling of peace.
I could hear voices coming from the backyard and saw that Graden had left the front door open for me. I walked into an expansive living room that seemed to float over the edge of a cliff. Two of the walls were glass, and gave a panoramic view of the ocean as well as the hills. It made me a little light-headed. I’d been curious to see Graden’s home. What a man does with his personal space can tell you a lot about him. For instance, a trapeze in the bedroom, or a wide array of photographs-all of his mother-would be good to know. So I took a moment to look around. Even at first glance, there was a personal feel to it that told me Graden had picked every piece himself. And that he clearly didn’t believe in clutter. There were just a few big pieces: a sectional couch, a divan, a large square marble and glass coffee table, all in shades of ivory-either a brave choice or a show of supreme confidence in his housekeeper. But the quirky, whimsical art-I spotted a Mark Ryden oil and an original Naoto Hattori-and luscious, exotically embroidered throws and pillows were a perfect counterpoint. The result was a space that was comfortable, fun, and inviting. It made me smile.
But I didn’t try to picture myself living there. Okay, well, maybe I did. Just for a second.
I walked out onto the patio and saw Graden at the grill, spatula in hand. Whatever he was cooking, it smelled delicious. Jeez. All that and pretty too. My stomach gave an embarrassingly loud grumble and I put my hand over it to muffle the sound. Devon and his girlfriend, who were admiring the ocean view, drinks in hand, waved to me. Graden turned to me and smiled widely. “Rachel,” he said as he gave me a long, warm hug. “How’re you doing?” he whispered.
“Better now.”
I had a wonderful time.
Devon’s girlfriend-an archaeologist-was fun, charming, and whip smart, and Graden made a salmon on the barbecue that was heavenly. But other than that one, too brief evening, I worked through the weekend. We had a pretrial motion set for Monday morning and the defense hadn’t filed any written motions. That meant they were going to ambush me in court. I had to be ready for anything.
Monday morning, unable to bear the sound of my cell phone ringing all the way to work, I put it on vibrate. But my phone continued to rattle against my desk as it vibrated with new calls. I wrapped it in a cardigan I kept in the office to shut it up. Declan came in, dressed to the nines-which I’d come to realize was business as usual for him-armed with his files and all fired up. “How come they haven’t filed a motion to suppress on the laptop?” he asked.
“No reason to. We haven’t found anything. But I should check in with the head of computer crimes-”
“Cliff Meisner, right. I remember you said he was going over the laptop to see if there’s any information we can use.”
“Yeah. If it’s still a ‘no go’ it’ll be time to cut bait.”
Declan opened a file and scanned it. “I got all the cell phone people lined up, and I’m working on the maps that show the cell sites accessed by each of the phones.”
“Great. And you’ve got the DVDs of all the crime scene photos from Bailey?”
“In my office.”
“We’ll have to do a run-through to make sure everything’s clear and plays smoothly before we get to trial.”
“Wouldn’t want to come off looking like we had third-rate production values,” Declan said with a smile.
I chuckled. “Your dad would kill you.”
Declan suddenly looked away. “Well, probably. But not for that.”
I waited for him to continue, but he didn’t. I wasn’t going to pry. If he wanted me to know more, he’d tell me in his own time. A knock on the door offered what was probably a welcome interruption.
“Come in,” I said.
A UPS man opened the door. “Could you hold this?” he asked Declan. As Declan held the door open, the man turned back to the hallway, then brought in one of the biggest floral arrangements I’d ever seen.
“Whoa! Are you sure you came to the right office?” I asked.
“Rachel Knight? That’s your nameplate next to the door?”
“Yeah.”
“Then I’ve got the right place.”
The man set the basket down on my desk and it was so huge, I couldn’t see over it. “Uh, I don’t think this is going to work.” But my voice was muffled by the foliage.
“What?” the man asked.
I stood up. “Would you mind putting it over here?” I gestured to the table on my right, then saw that it was covered with files and books. I quickly stacked them on top of each other to make room. He moved the basket. “Thanks.”
“Not done yet,” he said. He brought another arrangement, this time in a metal bowl. Then another one in a large vase. By the time he was through, my office looked like a funeral parlor. And I couldn’t see out my window.
Declan pulled a card off one of the arrangements and read, “‘We know your sister is out there somewhere and we’re praying for her.’” He started to smile, then saw my sour expression and pulled a straight face. “Sorry, you’re right. This is terrible.”
I shook my head.
He smiled. “It’s very sweet, and it’s very good news for us, so stop being such a…”
“Yes?”
“Just stop.”
The press was out in full force this morning, the roped-off area packed so tightly there was no visible space between the bodies. As we passed them on the way to the courtroom, the cameramen almost fell over the rope trying to take my picture.
The courtroom was packed too, but not with friends or family. Nothing of real substance was scheduled to happen today. The people crowding the spectator gallery were just here to see the stars of the show.
We’d drawn Judge Osterman for the trial. He was relatively new to the downtown bench, so I didn’t know him. J.D. took himself out of the running because we were personal friends and he didn’t want any questions raised in a case this big, but I’d hoped we might get Judge Lavinia Moss. Unfortunately, the presiding judge had felt that since Judge Moss had signed the search warrant, it’d be wiser to give the case to someone else. I’d asked Toni and J.D. what they thought of Osterman, but they hadn’t had any information for me either. He was too new.
Judge Osterman had a runner’s lean build and a spare, ascetic look, enhanced by his habit of pursing his lips. His blue eyes bulged slightly and he combed his thin hair straight back. Overall, he gave the appearance of someone who was cerebral and maybe a little compulsive. One look at his chambers confirmed it. His desk was immaculate, all books were ordered properly in the bookcases, and all pens and pencils were tucked neatly into a leather holder that matched his desk pad. I saw no family photographs of any kind. Ordinarily I’d assume that was because he hadn’t had a chance to fully move in, but in Osterman’s case, I had a feeling this was fully moved in. I should set him and Dorian up on a date.