The words were a lie in the form of a question, for Gage knew whatever Palmer wanted, it wasn’t that. But Gage didn’t have a clue what it was. Was it help? Or protection? And for whom? Himself? Or her? Or, even more burdensome, maybe he wanted Gage to do exactly what he was doing: protecting her from the truth about him.
“He always used to joke that you were too straight for your own good,” Socorro said. “I guess that means despite everything he trusted you.”
Gage pointed up in the direction of Charlie’s office. “Viz and I were thinking it would be a good idea to pack up his files and computers and move them to my building.”
Socorro’s eyes welled up and she shook her head.
“I’m not sure I’m ready to face the emptiness. When I walked in the other day I still expected to see him sitting at his desk, staring at his monitor, even though he hadn’t been up there since before he got shot.”
“We’ll bring everything back when we’re done,” Gage said. “Set it up just the way it was.”
She sighed. “Thanks for understanding. His work was as much a part of him as his clothes in our closet.” She wiped at the tears with a tissue. “Maybe it’s better if you take it all. I wouldn’t be able to make sense of it anyway.”
“I’ll send over our computer guy, Alex Z.”
Socorro smiled, still wiping her eyes, the skin surrounding them raw and red. “The cute rock-and-roller with the Popeye tattoos and silver earrings who makes the girls in San Francisco go gaga?”
Gage nodded. San Francisco Magazine had recently done a feature on club scene bands, with Alex Z’s picture on the cover.
Her smile broadened. “I think I better make sure my daughter isn’t home when he comes by. I don’t want to take a chance of her going weak in the knees like all the rest of the girls.”
“Don’t worry. He’s got a girlfriend.”
“Then he can drop by anytime.” She touched her lips. “That was the first time I’ve smiled since Charlie was shot. It felt strange. I guess I’m out of practice.”
“You’ve had a tough time. The kids, too.”
Socorro’s eyes settled on the gas barbecue standing on the brick patio.
“In some ways he was a good father, other ways not. I’m not sure what they’ll think about him after the grief passes. A few months ago, Charlie Junior told me his father’s clients appeared to trust him more than respect him. Junior found it very troubling.”
Socorro looked over at Gage, as if for an explanation. It seemed to him she’d used the words of her son as a proxy to ask questions she was afraid to ask for herself, as though she was trying to protect herself from the abyss by looking at its reflection in a mirror held by another.
Gage felt a wave of sadness for the courage she’d lost during the years she’d spent in a world walled off by Charlie. This wasn’t how he remembered her when she was young and fearless, backpacking with Faith in the Sierras and talking long into the night, no subject off-limits, no thought stifled or left unfinished.
He avoided responding to her veiled question by changing the subject.
“Did Charlie have any ideas about who shot him?” Gage asked.
Socorro shook her head. “He just said a man stuck a gun in his back and demanded money. Charlie spun around swinging, but missed and lost his balance. Then the man pulled the trigger. Charlie never got a good look at his face. Just a tall, thin, white guy.”
“Do you know what he was working on that day?”
“A tax fraud case, something to do with yacht donations.”
“Which side?”
“The broker and the appraiser. A lawyer down in Beverly Hills figured out his clients could get bigger tax deductions for donating their boats to charities than they’d make back by selling them, if the appraisals were pumped up two or three times. Charlie didn’t think the case had anything to do with him getting shot, but is it possible?”
Gage shook his head. “People don’t go to war over tax cases. The penalties are too light.”
“I think that’s all he was doing that day. He was winding down his practice even before he was shot. With the twins graduating from college in the spring, he could retire.”
Socorro stared down at her hands folded together on her lap.
“It doesn’t seem real,” she finally said. “Everything feels hollow. Even the cars driving by seem to echo in my ears.” She dabbed at new tears. “Hardly anybody called, even after the Chronicle article. I guess Charlie was just hired help to the people he worked for.”
“People pretend, but there isn’t much loyalty in the legal community,” Gage said, knowing the people who hired Charlie to do the dirty work would now want to pretend they never had their hands in the grime.
“Judge Meyer was the only ex-client who called.”
Gage felt his body tense. Brandon Meyer had Charlie on speed dial during their years working as San Francisco’s stable boys cleaning up after clients with more money than morals. Apparently, their connection hadn’t broken when Meyer grabbed on to the coattails of his brother, Landon, and hoisted himself onto the federal bench a decade earlier.
“What did he say?” Gage asked.
“That he was sorry to hear about Charlie and something about whether Charlie had learned anything new since they’d last talked.”
“About what?”
Socorro glanced over her shoulder toward the inside of the house, then lowered her voice. “I shouldn’t have said that. I’m not supposed to tell anyone.”
“I won’t pass it on.”
She took in a breath, then nodded. “Brandon was mugged a week or two before Charlie was shot. His wallet was stolen. Charlie was looking into it.”
“Did Charlie tell that to Spike? After all-”
Socorro shook her head. “Charlie was positive the two robberies weren’t related. The man who mugged Brandon was Hispanic. Brandon was too embarrassed to report it himself because it happened in the Tenderloin. He cut through one night on his way from the Federal Building to a law office on Van Ness. He thought it would play badly in the media, him getting mugged a few yards away from drug dealers and prostitutes. I can’t blame him.” Socorro shuddered. “I’m afraid even to drive through there.”
“Had Charlie done anything to find the wallet?”
“He’d hung up some posters offering a reward, just using Brandon’s initials, and searched around in garbage cans and dumpsters.”
Gage nodded. “I wondered what had happened to Brandon. I had a meeting at the U.S. Attorney’s office a couple of months ago. I saw him in the courthouse lobby. He gave me that limp-wristed wave he does. He had a bandage above his left eye. I heard he was telling people he had surgery.”
“More like stitches.”
“Was he sure it wasn’t some angry defendant or plaintiff coming back to get even?”
“Charlie wondered about that, too. But I doubt Brandon would remember one face out of the thousands that have passed through his court.”
That was true. Brandon might not have remembered the face, but Gage was certain the person wearing it would’ve reminded Brandon who he was before or after he swung his fist, otherwise there was no point.
“Any other condolence calls?” Gage asked.
“None work-related.” She sighed. “I guess Charlie was old news.”
Not that old, Gage thought, that somebody wouldn’t risk a daytime burglary to search Charlie’s computers.
Viz joined them on the porch, standing behind his sister’s chair, resting his hands on her shoulders. When her attention was drawn toward a barn swallow flitting past, Viz caught Gage’s eye, then tilted his head toward the house. Gage nodded.
“I’ll think I’ll stay here for a few days,” Viz said.
“You don’t have to do that,” Socorro said, glancing up at him. “I’ll be okay.”
“I know I don’t have to. But I want to. I’ll keep you company. Maybe I can help you catch up on chores you put off while you were taking care of Charlie.”
“I guess I could use some help there. I hated Faith to see the house in such a mess.”