Chapter 15 - The Last Client

Los Angeles, 15th July 1977

The air in the courtroom was sticky. Della felt how her sweat was soaking her blouse and she used an old leaflet she had found in her purse to fan herself. The man next to her was grunting and constantly moved his behind against hers. She had given up on avoiding him and concentrated on the trial. Somewhere on the other side of the courtroom Perry was sitting. She knew he had seen her as she had seen him when she had entered the very same room that had once been their common battlefield. Yet they hadn't exchanged a word, hadn't even tried to make contact.

The man in the dock was Peter Hardcastle. He was the man the police had arrested for Paul's murder and from the look of it he was about to leave the courtroom as a free man. The DA and the police had done a poor job in building up their case. They didn't have the murder weapon and there was no witness who could place the defendant at the scene of the crime at the time of Paul's murder. They had circumstantial evidence Hardcastles' fingerprints in Paul's office and they could prove Paul was investigating Hardcastle for the murder of Rebecca Powell, but ultimately there wasn't much to go with, since they never truly tackled Rebecca's murder and the circumstances of it.

To put it simply the DA didn't offer any motive for Paul's violent death, which wasn't enough to send someone to prison for murder - even if Della believed Hardcastle was indeed the culprit they were looking for. Della hadn't worked in the criminal field for some years, but she knew how it looked when the prosecution was losing a case and they were losing big time here.

She looked at Irene Drake who was sitting in the front row. How bad must she feel to realize there was no way someone would pay for her husband's death?

Richard hadn't wanted her to come to watch the trial. He was afraid her presence could raise questions about Rebecca Powell's death three years ago. He must have used his influence to make sure Rebecca's murder wouldn't make any more headlines. It troubled her to think that her husband and ultimately her involvement in the old scandal was the reason Hardcastle would leave the courtroom as a free man.

"Why can't we all leave behind us, Della?" he had asked one morning over coffee and toast. The answer was simple.

She couldn't leave anything behind, because Paul had been a part of her. Her friend, her colleague, the man she had trusted with her life so many times. The brother she never had, the man who knew most of her secrets. Not watching the trial that was supposed to give him justice was not something she could have lived with. Of course, she hadn't said any of it to Richard. She had simply reminded him of all the years they had worked together - and she promised to give his mother a visit to see if Martha was all right or needed anything - a statement that had sounded as lame as it meant. Martha never needed anything from anyone.

The court was adjourned and the people rose. Della looked over to the seat where Perry had been sitting. He was gone. When had he sneaked out? She felt a stitch in her chest when she remembered the last evening they had spent in each other's company. She remembered the alcohol, the argument, the sexual tension. Her wish to make love to him, to claim what was hers. Ashamed she looked down to her feet. What had she been thinking going to his apartment? It had been a call for disaster.

She cleared her throat and turned to leave. It took her breath away to spot Perry standing near the entrance. He was leaning against the panelled wall, talking to a man she had never seen before. From the way he was scribbling on his notepad he was a reporter who was eagerly taking any bait Perry was offering. Since when did Perry talk to journalists? She straightened her shoulders and passed both men, determined not to acknowledge him. She failed badly. Her eyes met his before she had reached the hallway. Disturbed she broke the eye contact and his eyes followed her, penetrating her body, almost accusingly. Did he really think she would talk to him, here, in front of all of these people? When a reporter could overhear them? She couldn't risk ending up in the newspaper. Richard would rightly be furious, if her name would get dragged into his trial or even worse into the next best gossip column.

Then there was another, much more devastating thought. Perhaps he was so angry with her because he knew this was ultimately her fault. If she hadn't been so stupid to become involved with Rebecca Powell's boyfriend none of this would have happened. Paul would still be alive and all their lives wouldn't be in shatters. Guilt flooded her like poison and brought tears to her eyes. She quickly swallowed her tears and fled the courthouse, unsure whether she would return to witness the rest of the trial.

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Sacramento, 10th September 1977

"Andy?" Della couldn't hide her surprise when she opened the front door for the FBI agent. She hadn't expected him, especially not on a Saturday morning.

"I hope I'm not disturbing," he said. "But I've got something for you." He held a file in front of his chest. "That's my final report on your husband's death and your kidnapping."

"I see." She stepped back and asked him in. "Would you like some coffee?" she offered once he had settled down at the dining table.

"Yes, why not?"

"It took me some time to collect all the evidence," he explained when Della returned with coffee and cookies. "But as you can imagine it's a complicated case…" his voice trailed off and Della nodded. He looked like someone who feared to deliver bad news and didn't know where to start.

"I have this feeling there's something you're trying to tell me," she said. "Just out with it."

"Well, yes, I think there are some aspects of this case that'll surprise you." Andy cleared his throat. "How much did you know about your husband's medical condition?"

"You mean his obvious disability aside?" She asked while she passed him a cup of coffee. Andy nodded.

"I only know there was something wrong with him he wouldn't tell me."

"Your husband had cancer, Della. Bone cancer to be precise…. It had already spread, so there wasn't much to be done. I talked to his doctor and he told me Richard was aware of the little time he had left."

Della wasn't shocked, she wasn't even surprised. "So in the end his last heroic act was nothing but a shortcut to a less painful death," she summed up and ran her hand over the closed folder on the table. Once more she wondered how much of her marriage had been a lie and when she and Richard had started to fall apart.

"I wouldn't go that far," Andy said quickly. "But it certainly gives the events around your kidnapping a new perspective. Richard had nothing to lose but you and he made sure you were saved. Ballistics prove that it was his gun who wounded Norton and killed his factotum. It gets a little more complicated when it comes to Laura Mason after she managed to escape the room the two of you were held in. We know she received a massive bow to her head. We also found her finger prints on your husband's gun. We guess that Norton wasn't dead after Richard had shot him. He was still alive and then his henchman shot Richard who shot him. When Laura ran downstairs and saw Norton's blood trail she picked up the gun, searched for him and got involved in a fight with him. Norton got killed and she ended up with a broken skull."

Della shook her head and shivered. "I'm still surprised I got out of this alive," she said.

Andy smiled, "You were lucky. My advice is don't question it."

She wished she could and decided to ask him about another matter that kept her awake at night.

"And what about Paul's murder?" she asked. "Who killed him?"

Andy sighed, put his cup down, and took his time before he answered. "I'm afraid I don't know. As you know the weapon who killed Paul was an old army revolver, a Smith and Wesson, if I remember correctly. I had hoped we would find it among Hardcastle or Norton's possessions, but we didn't. Both men had a remarkable collection of guns, but not one of them was used to kill Paul."

"In other words Hardcastle was truly innocent?"

"It seems so… as hard as it is to hear."

"And what are you doing to find his killer?" she asked, realizing how accusing she sounded.

"We're checking the evidence again… hoping to find a new lead, but I'll be honest, Della. It's likely we won't find anything." He raised his hand to silence her, before she could voice her protest. "I promise you I won't let it go, but you know how it is. The longer it takes, the more evidence vanishes. Next week I'll try to locate the last client wanted to receive that evening. It's the only lead we have."

"What last client?" Della asked, alarmed.

"There was an appointment in Paul's diary. According to Irene Drake that woman never showed up. That's what Paul told his wife over the phone when they last spoke that evening. The police couldn't find her back then and we figured it was all fake to keep him in the office. It could be all speculation of course. Perhaps it was just some housewife who wanted Drake to spy on her unfaithful husband and got cold feet…"

"What's her name?" Della asked.

"Elizabeth Smith. Sounds fake if you ask me."

Della agreed. "Well, if there's anything I can do to help…"

"I won't call you," Andy finished her sentence. "I want you to take care of your son and that crazy lawyer of yours."

She chuckled. "I'm not sure which one is harder to take care of."

"I think the older one is the tougher cookie," Andy joked and then he became serious again. "Will you tell your mother-in-law about Richard's illness?"

Della shrugged. "I think there's a fair chance she already knew about it and if she didn't know, why burden her with it?"

Andy understood. "I see... how long will she be staying with you?"

Once more Della sighed. "I haven't the foggiest idea, Andy."

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Los Angeles

With mixed feelings Perry unlocked the door to the house he had been sharing with Laura for over a decade. The air inside was sticky, the shutters were closed, and dust was dancing in the air. Wherever Laura had spent the last couple of weeks it wasn't in here, that much was sure. Since his last visit when he was looking for Laura nothing had changed in here. Apparently not even their housekeeper had been at the house, which was all the more curious since Laura usually insisted on her cleaning the house when they were on vacation.

He checked every room in the house, opened the windows, and checked the mail that was piling on the floor behind the front door. Invoices, advertisements, and the usual useless invitations for even more unnecessary parties. The oldest letter was four weeks old. One month. What had she been doing all this time? It wasn't like her to neglect everything.

He threw the letters on the dusty dining table and went upstairs. Laura's study was on the first floor next to their bedroom. As always everything was neat on the surface with a beautifully arranged photo of them together on their wedding day and another one from their last vacation in Maui two years ago. The perfect facade for a less than perfect marriage. Even at home Laura kept up the illusion that she had nothing to worry about.

When he opened the drawer he found a collection of handwritten papers that she had carelessly crammed inside. He scanned the notes, but every piece of paper was work related. For many years Laura had worked in the real estate business and she was by all means a successful business woman. He closed the drawer and opened the next one. Inside he found a small folder with business cards - again most of them came from her clients and business partners, but one card raised his attention. He had almost overlooked it, because it was hidden behind a small handwritten note with the number of his office.

It was a business card of the Paul Drake Detective Agency. His heart beat faster as he turned the card. Laura had written a date across it.

4/29/77, 9 pm

It was the day of Paul's death.

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Sacramento

Something was wrong with Perry. Della felt it in the way he made love to her. There was a desperation about the way he kissed and claimed her that was more than just hunger or love. He was bruising her skin and more than once she wondered if their neighbours could overhear them. Wishing she could help him to get rid of the demon that was possessing him, she returned his rough kisses and dug her fingernails into his back when he lost all control over his shaking body.

Later he fiercely paced the small hotel room, smoked one cigarette after the other and didn't seem to know she was still sitting in the messed up bed. She knew this state of his mind, had watched him doing the very same thing in the office for years. He was breaking down the case in his head, built up theories and discarded them, when he ended up in a blind alley.

So why did this feel different? This wasn't just any case and there was no courtroom to fight in. There was something he wasn't sharing with her. He hadn't told her where and how he had spent his day, but it was obvious that whatever he had found out was eating at him like a wild, greedy animal.

"What is it, Perry?" she finally asked gently. She pulled the sheet around her body and rose from the bed. He stopped dead in his tracks and looked at her as if he had only noticed her presence now.

"I'm not very attentive tonight, aren't I?" he asked self consciously and stubbed his cigarette in the full ashtray.

"That depends on how you define attention," she quipped as she adjusted the oversized piece of cloth around her chest.

He faked a smile, pulled her into an embrace, and kissed her messed up, curly hair. "I'm sorry."

"Just tell me what's going on with you."

"I had a bad day."

"I figured that much," she said and leaned back to have a better look at his face. "There was a time when you wouldn't have hesitated to tell what's bothering you," she reminded him and the sadness in her voice made him bow his head in shame.

"It's not you," he said. "It's me and my own inability to come to terms with the consequences of my own mistakes."

She gently cupped his face with her hands. "So why don't you talk about it?"

"Because it would hurt you and I don't want to lose you. Not again." His answer took her breath away. Wearily she rested her head against his shoulder.

"We still have a long way to go, haven't we?" she asked and then, before he could answer, the phone rang. He groaned. It was past midnight. Who called at this time of day?

Annoyed, he picked up the phone and barked his name. "Mason!"

While Perry listened to his caller, Della snatched a cigarette from the small bedside table and lit it. Although it was the wrong time to leave now that Perry was finally opening up to her, she should go home. Ruben slept over at a friend's house, so she didn't have to worry about him, but Martha surely waited for her to come home. She didn't want to risk being questioned by the inquisition in the middle of the night.

"I'll be there in the morning." Perry hung up the phone and looked at Della.

"What is it?" she asked curiously.

"That was the hospital. Laura woke up."

Della swallowed. "I see… is she… alright?"

Perry nodded. "Looks like it… she's talking… has no memory about the day of the kidnapping."

Della chuckled, but it sounded bitter. "Of course, she hasn't." She finished her cigarette and started picking up her clothes.

"You want to leave?"

"I have to," she answered. "My watchdog is waiting for me."

"Perhaps it's time to buy her a one way ticket to L.A.," Perry suggested. "It's time she moved on."

Della gave him a long, pensive look. "Isn't that the case for all of us?"

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