Sunset Beach(61)

“Looking at the police reports, I found a potential witness,” Zee said. “It’s the old lady who called nine-one-one after our client fell.”

He looked over at Drue. “What do you say to a ride-along?”

“This is a waste of time,” Wendy objected. “We don’t need to invest any more firm resources—”

“Sweetie?” Brice said. “Let’s let Zee take one more run at it.” He looked over at Drue. “Keep your eyes and ears open and you might learn something today.”



* * *



A gleaming black Ford F-250 pickup was parked at the curb in front of the law office. Drue hiked herself up and into the passenger seat, and before she’d buckled up, Zee was speeding down the street.

He steered the truck with one hand and reached for a package of Nicorette gum from the seat beside him, tossing the wrapper onto the floor of the truck. He chewed like he drove, rapid-fire.

“Where are we headed?” Drue asked.

“We’re gonna go talk to Mrs. Delores Estes.”

“She’s the witness?”

“Yup,” Jimmy Zee said.

He glanced over at her, then returned his eyes to the road. “Wendy’s giving you a pretty raw deal, huh?”

“Dad won’t let her fire me, so she’s trying to force me into quitting,” Drue said. “I’m damned if I’ll give her the satisfaction.”

He switched the gum to the other side of his mouth. “You ever done work like this before?”

“Never.”

“That’s good,” he said. “I won’t have to break you of any bad habits.”

“Can I ask you something?”

“Depends on what it is,” he said.

“What makes you think this case is good? I mean, I thought Dad hated slip-and-falls.”

“He does, but this one has a few things going for it. One is the defendant. The owner of that 7-Eleven, who is a franchisee, has excellent liability insurance, which is mandated by corporate. The second is the victim, our client, turns out to have a substantial, provable injury. If we can show that her boyfriend was the thief, and our client was simply an unwitting bystander, that’s a win.”

She nodded. “That makes sense.”



* * *



Less than a mile away, Zee turned off Fourth Street into a shabby-looking apartment complex called Barcelona Bay. The buildings were two-story affairs, with eight units apiece, tan stucco with pseudo-Spanish-looking rusted wrought-iron balconies.

He cruised slowly, making two quick right turns, then pulled in front of Building 20, Unit 2012.

Zee cut the truck’s engine and reached past Drue, popping the catch on the glove box. His hand closed over a small black pistol. He leaned forward in the seat, lifting the back of his polo shirt and tucking the pistol into a holster in the small of his back.

Drue didn’t bother to hide her shock.

“A gun? Is that really necessary? To talk to a little old lady?”

He chewed his gum and reached back into the glove box, bringing out a small can of Mace. “Little old ladies who live in Section Eight housing have guns. And they have kids and grandkids and neighbors with guns. I don’t ever want to be outgunned. Ya know?”

He handed her the Mace. “That’s a present from your uncle Zee. Keep it where you can use it in a hurry if you need to. I’m gonna let you do this interview.”

“You are? How come?”

He shook his head. “Again with the questions. Sometimes, little girl, you gotta just trust me and go with the flow, okay? You’re gonna talk to her because in my experience, sometimes elderly black ladies don’t especially want to open up to white dudes, especially former cops, like me.”

She let the “little girl” reference pass. “How did you find Mrs. Estes?” Drue asked.

“Her name was on the police report. She’s the one who called the ambulance after our client fell.”

“Anything special I should ask her?”

“Ask her what she saw in the 7-Eleven that day. Get everything, down to the tiniest detail. Ask her if it looked like our client was just a law-abiding citizen, minding her own business, when she slipped and hit her head. Ask her why she called nine-one-one. Like that.”

“Anything else?” Drue asked.

“Be sympathetic. Win her over to our side. And don’t screw it up,” Zee said. He opened the truck door and as he got out, carefully pulled his shirt over the holstered gun.

The front door to apartment 8 was open. A television was on inside, and the smell of frying fish wafted into the humid mid-morning heat.

Zee rang the doorbell. Nothing. He pounded on the aluminum frame of the screen door. “Mrs. Estes? Mrs. Estes? Are you home?”

A woman’s voice called out from inside. “Who’s that?”

Zee nodded at Drue.

“Hi, Mrs. Estes,” she called. “Could we please talk to you for a few minutes?”

A heavyset woman walked slowly toward the door. She wore a short-sleeved flowered cotton housecoat, similar to the ones Drue’s grandmother once favored, with thick rolls of flesh extending to her hands. Her head was covered with a pink vinyl shower cap, and she wore backless gold bedroom slippers.