“Why do you say that?”
“Because I got his name from his driver’s license. When someone is that intoxicated at a private gathering you’d be remiss if you didn’t get his name. If for no other reason than liability,” says the man.
“You wrote it down?”
“It’s on the guest list,” he says. “The list you have is a copy of my working list, the one I used that night. All the add-ons were penned on my list. It was with my papers, so you see, when you approached Mr. Becket he didn’t have access to it because I was on vacation.”
I flip to the back of the list again. Sure enough, there, buried among the other names in ink, is the name Alex Ives, address San Diego.
“This is your handwriting, then?”
“Correct. The gentleman in question was in no condition to write anything,” he says. “In fact, they had to practically carry him to his car. By the time they got him there he seemed completely unconscious. I remember because I advised them to take him to the hospital. I was quite concerned. As I recall, Mr. Ying drove the young man’s car when they left. The other two followed in another vehicle.”
“You saw all of this?”
“I did. I walked them to the car because I wanted to make sure the young man got home safely.”
“Can you give me an approximate time as to when this happened?”
“Let me think. Dinner had already been served-at least the main course, because I recall asking them if their friend had had anything to eat. They said they weren’t sure. Ah, I remember. It would have been just a few minutes before nine. I remember because the sprinklers went on in one of the flowerbeds out in the front area. I got my shoes wet on the way back in. Those sprinklers are set to go on at nine.”
“Can you describe the other men? The ones who helped Mr. Ives to his car? Would you recognize them if you saw them again?”
“I believe so. I would certainly recognize Mr. Ying. He did not appear to be Asian. But then who knows? If I had to guess, I would say he was Caucasian. He was older, about six feet in height, gray hair, very pale blue eyes, quite distinctive. I remember that about him. He was well dressed, though he was not wearing formal attire that evening, I know that. And the event was formal. Tuxedoes for men, evening gowns for women. They stood out because they weren’t formally dressed, the four of them, including your friend. Oh, and Mr. Ying appeared to have a slight disability.”
“In what way?”
“He carried a cane, a walking stick. It had a unique handle, almost black. It appeared to be tarnished silver.”
“A bird’s head?”
“How did you know?”
It was the cane Ben told me about. The one carried by the man who hired her to lure Alex to the party. His name is Joseph Ying.
“Listen, I wonder if you would mind signing a declaration for me, simply reciting the facts as you’ve told them to me here on the phone today. I have a court appearance tomorrow and a declaration from you as to these facts would be exceedingly helpful.”
“No problem,” he says. “I’d be happy to.”
“I can dictate it and have my secretary type it up. Then I’ll read it to you over the phone, make sure you have no problems with any of it. Once it’s finalized I can deliver it out there myself, say in about ninety minutes.”
“That would be fine.”
“I assume you’re at work, at Mr. Becket’s house?”
“I am.”
“I’ll call you back in just a few minutes with the declaration.”
“I’ll be waiting.”
We hang up.
I slump in my chair. Wait ’til I tell Harry. We finally have a witness, one we can use, one who’s still breathing.
FIFTY-FIVE
When I call him back and read the draft of the declaration over the phone, Becket’s assistant, George, listens carefully. He makes a few minor corrections and then blesses the document.
I hang up and have my secretary make the amendments. She prints out the necessary copies and puts them in a file folder. The second she delivers this to my office, I’m out from behind the desk. “I should be back by three,” I tell her. Then I grab the file and race out the door.
I cross the bridge, then keep the pedal close to the floor with one eye on the rearview mirror for the Highway Patrol as I head up I-5. The last thing I need is a ticket or worse, a safety inspection of the old Jeep. A delay like that and Becket’s assistant will be gone before I can get there.
The declaration from George Connor should at least put to rest for the moment any hasty talk of a plea by the state. It is something I can present to the court in the morning. The fact that Connor saw Alex unconscious and totally incapacitated at nine P.M. that evening, two hours before the accident, raises serious problems for the state’s case.
It would take more than an hour, probably close to ninety minutes, to drive the distance from Becket’s house in Del Mar to the site of the accident east of town. To believe that Mr. Ying and his companions deposited Alex at his apartment, and that Ives recovered sufficiently to drive himself out to the accident site in the time allowed would be highly unlikely and close to impossible. That means that the only way Alex could have gotten there was if Ying or someone else drove him. And if that’s the case, what was the purpose?
After I get Connor’s signature on the declaration I will talk to him about testifying. If he’s willing I will also have him meet with a graphic artist to work up a composite picture of the man named Ying.
Thirty minutes later I pull up under the spreading branches of the giant live oak out in front of Becket’s house. I slam the door to my old Jeep, not bothering to lock it. The singed ragtop from the blast that killed Ben is still there. I haven’t had time to even think about getting it replaced.
I cross the street under the oak and head up the long circular drive to the front of the house. The walk hasn’t gotten any shorter since the last time I was here. Finally I climb the white brick steps leading to the front door and ring the bell. A few seconds later the door opens. A tall man with dark hair and black horn-rimmed glasses is standing in front of me. “Can I help you?”
“I’m looking for Mr. Connor.”
“Ah, you must be Mr. Madriani.” He runs the fingers of his right hand through his forelock, brushing a few stray hairs from the rim of his spectacles. “I’m George Connor.”
He offers his hand. We shake.
“Nice to meet you. I hope I didn’t keep you waiting.”
“Not at all.” He welcomes me into the house and closes the heavy oak door behind me.
“I assume you had no trouble finding the place, being as you’ve been here once before?”
“No problem at all. I don’t want to take up too much of your time. I have the declaration here.” I start to open the file. “I brought a copy for you and one for Mr. Becket. I thought that since the party was at his house he might want one for his files.”
“Good of you to think of it. I’m sure he would.”
I start to pull out the documents.
“Why don’t we go into the study? Mr. Becket’s not here at the moment. I can read it and sign there if you don’t mind.”
“Whatever.”
“Can I offer you something to drink?”
“No, I’m fine.”
I follow him across the palatial oval entry. A checkerboard pattern of large black-and-white tiles covers the floor. There is the strong scent of lemon in the air, a smell as if someone has just polished the furniture. It’s difficult to say if anyone else is here, a huge house, but it appears to be empty.
He leads me to the study, opens the door and we go inside. The walls of leather-bound volumes are as I remember, two stories high and looking like Dolittle’s study. He closes the door behind us.
“Why don’t you go ahead and take a seat over there by the desk,” he says. “I’ll be with you in just a moment.”
The large partner’s desk is still there with just enough minuscule grooves and gouges in its heavily waxed surface to certify its antiquity. I see one new item in the room, and like a discordant note on a sheet of music it is out of place. A large metal rolling box, the size of a large suitcase, with what looks like a checkered finish, either aluminum or stainless steel, is standing next to the desk. There is some kind of a design etched into the metal, perhaps the logo of the manufacturer. The case wasn’t here the last time I visited Becket.