Chapter Two

Mattie finally had to make do with Hardcastle's sincere promise to keep her informed. It was the best he could do. She'd left, looking resigned.

McCormick, he was pleased to note, didn't put in an appearance until nearly an hour later, pulling into the drive just as the judge finished checking the mailbox.

"Anything interesting?" he asked casually.

"Ah . . ." Hardcastle shuffled through the short stack, "no, um . . . wait—" he glanced up and realized Mark was already half up out of the driver's seat. "No, just something from the school's annual fund. It's addressed to me. Probably want a donation."

He watched as McCormick sank slowly back into the seat, muttering, "Don't do that to me."

"Dunno what you're so worried about. You did fine. Hey, if you're not here when it comes, can I open it?"

"No," McCormick shot back indignantly. But then, on the heels of that, he frowned and then shrugged. "Guess you've got a right."

It was Hardcastle's turn to frown. "What? Ya mean 'cause I paid for 'em or something? Nah," he shook his head, "they're yours; you earned them."

"Let's call it a joint venture. Okay, you can steam the envelope open, how's that?"

Hardcastle grinned. "I'll glue it shut again, promise."

"I suppose after that you're expecting a lift to the house, huh?"

The judge climbed in, still smiling.

00000

Dinner was burgers a la Hardcastle. Halfway through that the judge mentioned Mattie's visit. It might have been on the grounds of quid pro quo: "I told you about my day, now you tell me about yours." All he got in return was a slight twitch from the man across the table and,

"Oh, I almost forgot." Mark lifted himself up just enough to pull the wallet from his hip pocket. "Sold some textbooks back today." He opened it, extracted a few bills and offered them, looking apologetic. "Not much—there's a receipt."

"I thought you were going to hang out with a friend."

"I did. Well, sort of. It was Amy—you know, the rabble rouser."

"How could I forget?" Hardcastle smiled fondly.

"Here, take this. I stood in line for almost forty-five minutes."

"I though I told you to hang onto them. Might need 'em for the bar exam."

"I took notes. Here." He held the bills out.

Hardcastle reached for the money reluctantly. "S'pose we can put it toward next semester's books." He thumbed the small sheaf and frowned. "Well, one book, anyway. You should have told me you were heading over there. You've got a list for the next term already, dontcha?"

"Ah, well, yeah, but—"

"It's that jinx thing again, isn't it?" The judge scowled. "You gotta get over that."

"Says the man who insists on checking into the hotel room with his lucky number on the door."

"That's only when it really counts. Anyway, you're always expecting the worst—"

"And I'm rarely disappointed." Mark softened that with a smile. He had been pleasantly disappointed, at least a couple of times recently. But it hadn't been enough times yet to consider it a trend, and from what he'd heard that afternoon, there still might be bad luck in the offing.

"So," he said, changing the subject, "What'd Mattie have to say?"

Hardcastle raised one eyebrow then settled it firmly back down again. "You mean did she have the inside track on the ME's report?"

There was no immediate protest or denial.

The judge sighed. "Well, anyway, she didn't—but if you'd gotten an envelope from the university today she would've beaten me to the steam kettle."

Mark grimaced. "I think you've both got your priorities out of whack. Rumor has it that they're still gunning for me over there. They think Hawksworth was killed. It won't matter what's in that envelope if they find some way to pin that on me."

"How? He was already dead for an hour before you got there."

"You know those 'time of death' things are just estimates. I've got a fast car, and no alibi from the time Mattie dropped me off here, to when I was found standing over his body. I might've been hanging around there for a while after I offed him."

"Why the hell would you do something like that—hell, why would you kill him?"

"Anger, revenge because he framed me—or maybe because I really was guilty of cheating and I knew he had more evidence somewhere."

"So we interrupted you after you killed him and you were still searching his office?" Hardcastle pinched the bridge of his nose for a moment and then lifted his head and stared firmly at the younger man. "Listen, we don't even know if he was killed—"

"The smart money says he was poisoned."

Hardcastle stared at him in disbelief. "Says who?"

"If my source is right, Dean Thomas."

"Damn." Hardcastle squinted at him.

"Maybe it's just wishful thinking on his part. Maybe he's not involved."

"He's not on the list," Hardcastle muttered, half to himself.

McCormick's eyes narrowed. "What list?"

"Huh? Oh—well, I haven't been sitting on my duff, ya know."

"The 'list'?"

"I was cross-referencing all the cases—the stuff you've been involved with the last couple of years. It didn't seem like Hawksworth would have gone to all this trouble—"

"Framing me, killing two people."

"Yeah, all that," Hardcastle nodded, "just 'cause he didn't like the idea of an ex-con in one of his classes."

"Oh, well, finally we get to the crux of the thing."

"But it's not just that, it can't be," Hardcastle said. "I suppose it might have nudged him in the wrong direction but—"

"And we already know he had help—those guys that ran us off the road, unless they were just more old alums who thought I needed my comeuppance. Anyway, Hawksworth was already dead when they came after us."

"Exactly, so I came up with a list, the ones voted most likely to hold a grudge against you personally."

"When were you gonna show it to me?"

Hardcastle looked hesitant. "It's kinda long."

"How long?"

Hardcastle shrugged vaguely. "Not really long. More like longish."

McCormick shook his head. "Maybe you could let me take a look at it, since in a sense it's my list, too; not that I couldn't come up with a few names right off the top of my head."

"Not as many as I came up with, I'll bet." Hardcastle sighed as he pulled himself out of his chair and headed toward the den.

00000

Judge Gault hated unpredictability. He despised irregularity. He was singularly wedded to his schedule, and in Cal. v. Carroden, the defense had been expected to rest before that day's adjournment, after one final witness had been cross-examined and with perhaps a little redirectional tidying up.

Instead the defendant's attorney had made an unexpected request to recall a prosecution witness, Kendall Muller, a technician from the police lab whose testimony, as Gault recalled it, had been a mere quotidian recital of the procedures involved in isolating and identifying some carpet fibers found in the accused's van. The sidebar had gotten testy, but in the end, the specter of a reversible error dictated that the defense be granted every opportunity to present their case.

And as annoyed as Gault was, the results of the additional questioning had been astonishing. Muller, a youngish man with no memorable deficiencies the last time he'd been in the witness box, had grown rapidly more flustered under questioning. The defense attorney had produced a series of exhibits that systematically destroyed the chain of evidence, and had finally proved, incontrovertibly, that Muller hadn't even been in the lab on the date the fibers were reportedly tested.

There'd been crying. Gault hated crying—and from a man, no less. The awkwardness of it all demanded an adjournment. He'd had half a mind to remand the negligent technician to custody with a charge of perjury but he supposed the prosecution ought to have a chance to put the malfeasance in perspective—in the morning.

He strolled into Chez Pierre's, his Wednesday place though his doctor had been warning him off the escargot. Bernard had shown him to his usual spot, a booth toward the side, where he could savor his well-earned gastropods in peace. No sooner been seated than a weasely little server arrived to fill his water-glass—then slipped away with a nod and a smile.

It was a moment before Gault noticed the folded paper beneath the stemmed glass. He was almost certain it hadn't been there when he'd sat down. He frowned at it, as out of place as the whole day had been. He finally sniffed, lifted the glass, and reached for it.

It was a nice piece of linen bond, eight by five, folded once with a crisp crease. Gault's eyes tracked to the signature first, then took in the rest of the short note—just a neatly penned line. He looked up, immediately and saw the writer, seated across the restaurant, obviously having recently arrived himself. The man gazed at him, with only a serene nod in acknowledgment.

Gault swiftly reviewed his current case load and his conscience and, finding no conflict, returned the attention with a smile of his own and a gesture to the empty seat across from him. His expression flattened slightly as the man stood, tall and dignified as ever. He'd never liked being next to him in photos. Gault sighed and stiffened his features into something more collegial as his old classmate approached.

00000

Dean Thomas sat in his office, staring at the man across the desk from him. He'd only had a passing familiarity with the recently deceased Randy Powers, but he could see the resemblance. In this case it was the seed of insolence brought to the fruition of age and power.

"Mr. Powers," he said cautiously, "I really can't tell you anything more than the police—"

"Who've told me absolutely nothing," the man snarled. "'Ongoing investigation'—bah. They're covering for someone. There's no way you'll convince me that my boy killed himself. What about that professor of his—the one they found dead in his office?"

"Professor Hawksworth. Very unfortunate. The cause of death is, ah, undetermined." Thomas smiled weakly. "He was one of our most esteemed colleagues."

"Esteemed, hell—I heard he was slandering my son; accused him of cheating."

"My God, no. I assure you no such charges were laid by the professor."

"Then who the hell was spreading the lies?"

The dean tried to appear hesitant. He wanted 'hesitant' on the record. He tried to make it look as if he were struggling with his conscience for the greater good before he finally blurted out, "It was another student. A 'reformed' felon by the name of McCormick."

Powers frowned. "You mean the same guy the cops said found the body?"

"One of them. The other was a mentor of McCormick's. A former judge who resigned a few years back. He has something of a reputation."

"That Hardcastle guy." Powers grunted. "Yeah. Vigilante."

"That's the one." Thomas looked prim. "They were both on the scene of your son's demise shortly after the shots were fired. Two shots."

"Yeah. The cops tried to sell me some cockamamie theory about how he missed the first time." Powers' face clouded. "If my kid had shot himself, he wouldn't've missed."

"Of course not," Thomas soothed. "Randolph seemed like a very resolute young man. The police gave me to believe that the second shot was merely to convey the gunpowder residue to your son's hand."

"And the note?"

"Faked—at least that's their current theory. I believe it said," Thomas knitted his brow for a moment, then quoted from memory, "I can't handle this anymore. They're following me and they're going to frame me. I didn't do it." He looked up, gauging the impact and then plunged into the exegesis.

"'It' appears to be the murder of another student, a young woman, Ms. West. She'd been seen in the company of Mr. McCormick the night before her death. The 'they's are open to interpretation, but I don't need to point out who was following your son they night he died."

"That doesn't make any sense," Powers grumbled. "So they were following him—trying to frame him. I still don't believe he shot himself—but if one of them did it, why would they implicate themselves?"

"Of what? It would just be the vague ramblings of a distraught young man." Thomas shrugged. "And what better way to throw the authorities off the scent? I'm not saying the shooting was entirely premeditated. But since there was no denying they were there—their vehicle was parked right out on the street where any number of students might have seen it. Well, what better way to cover their tracks than to jot a note—"

"I saw it." Powers winced. "It's a pretty good imitation of my son's handwriting. Not perfect, but good."

"That is interesting, isn't it? Who knows what skills this ex-con picked up in prison? And who knows what use he put them to—he'd already accused your son of cheating. Perhaps he was working on other evidence to 'seal the deal' as they say."

The senior Powers, his brows knit, was nodding now.

"Of course," Thomas added gravely, "these are all conjectures. There's no proof. Not likely to be, either." He shook his head and sighed. "Hardcastle has many friends in the LAPD."

"He's not the only one with friends," Powers muttered.

Thomas sat back, exuding just the faintest air of shock. There'd been rumors that, in addition to his profitable civil law practice, Powers "managed things" for one of the West Coast's more ambitious crime families. Thomas ardently hoped that rumor was true.

"But I would counsel patience," he said with practiced spinelessness—it was just the right tone to egg someone like Powers on. The dean even smiled beatifically and murmured, "We all know crime doesn't pay."

"The hell it doesn't," Powers shot back, looking disgusted. "I've seen it pay plenty." He stood, nodding once sharply. "But not this time."