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Authors: Rebecca Forster
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of technicalities. You might say, I abhor them,” Daniel Young said. “I tried to convince the prosecutor to fight, but he was confident he could convict on first degree murder. He didn’t account for the fact that jurors are human. Many find it difficult to impose the harshest sentence when another option is available.”
Archer resisted the urge to point out that the prosecutor had the law degree, but he also had to give Young credit for not blaming the lawyer completely. Archer had seen enough jurors swayed by the oddest of sympathies: a pretty face, a sad childhood, or an old mother sitting in the spectator gallery. Archer never understood it, but then it wasn’t his job to worry about things like that. His job was black and white: investigate, click the puzzle pieces in place, point the finished piece at the jury and hope they weren’t idiots.
“Do you remember the prosecutor’s name?” Archer asked.
“Rothenberg, I think,” Daniel said offhandedly. “I doubt he’s still with the D.A.’s office. I don’t think he was cut out for public service. Is his name on that list?”
Archer shook his head, “No. I’ve got a Paul Rothskill listed. You sure the prosecutor was Rothenberg?”
“Positive,” Young began only to pause. “Wait. Wait. Rothskill was the young man who had been with the two victims before they were abducted.”
“Erika Gardener?” Archer ticked off.
“A reporter. Very attractive.”
“Donald Maas?” Archer said.
“He was the judge.”
“Cuwin Martin?” Archer asked. “Peter Siddon?”
Daniel Young’s brows pulled together. He leaned forward and reached for the paper. “Those names aren’t on the list.”
Archer smiled held up the see-through envelope. “Good memory. They aren’t.”
“I have an exceptional memory, if I do say so myself. It’s long and very clear. Pity those who underestimate it,” Daniel said, seeming a little peeved at Archer’s game. “Why ask me about those two?”
“They called Josie’s office recently. I figured it couldn’t hurt to see what you knew.”
Daniel Young tented his fingers and tapped them against his chin. He dropped them when he saw Archer staring.
“Where was her car found?”
“In the parking lot of the Blue Fin Grill. Redondo Beach,” Archer answered.
“My bike club was by there yesterday. That’s the one thing the beach cities did well. The bike path from Santa Monica to Palos Verdes is amazing, don’t you think?”
Archer’s chest tightened. The guy didn’t just look GQ, he lived it. The doctor was part of the cycling elite that terrorized Southern California. They rode in packs, dressed in matching Spandex, and wore helmets that made them look like raptors. The serious male riders shaved their legs to cut down on wind drag. Male or female, they all had great butts. That was the only good thing Archer could say about them. The fancy cyclists thought they owned the highways and bi-ways. They rode double-digit miles, cut you off in traffic, blew stop signs and never signaled. Knowing Young was one of those put him in perspective for Archer. Any other time, he wouldn’t be spending even a minute with the doctor, but Archer didn’t want to bond, he just wanted information. To his credit, Young had read Archer’s initial disdainful expression accurately.
“You know, Archer, given the circumstances, you should count yourself lucky that I’m talking to you at all after your assault on my office staff and myself. A modicum of respect and a little courtesy would be appreciated.”
Archer colored. That Young couched his slap down in that polite psychiatric voice ticked him off. Still, he knew he deserved it.
“Just a few more questions.” Time was wasting and somehow they had veered from the problem at hand to Daniel Young. The guy wasn’t that interesting, and finding Josie was imperative. “Did you stop and go into the restaurant?”
“We didn’t stop. We went up to Palos Verdes, around the
Archer resisted the urge to point out that the prosecutor had the law degree, but he also had to give Young credit for not blaming the lawyer completely. Archer had seen enough jurors swayed by the oddest of sympathies: a pretty face, a sad childhood, or an old mother sitting in the spectator gallery. Archer never understood it, but then it wasn’t his job to worry about things like that. His job was black and white: investigate, click the puzzle pieces in place, point the finished piece at the jury and hope they weren’t idiots.
“Do you remember the prosecutor’s name?” Archer asked.
“Rothenberg, I think,” Daniel said offhandedly. “I doubt he’s still with the D.A.’s office. I don’t think he was cut out for public service. Is his name on that list?”
Archer shook his head, “No. I’ve got a Paul Rothskill listed. You sure the prosecutor was Rothenberg?”
“Positive,” Young began only to pause. “Wait. Wait. Rothskill was the young man who had been with the two victims before they were abducted.”
“Erika Gardener?” Archer ticked off.
“A reporter. Very attractive.”
“Donald Maas?” Archer said.
“He was the judge.”
“Cuwin Martin?” Archer asked. “Peter Siddon?”
Daniel Young’s brows pulled together. He leaned forward and reached for the paper. “Those names aren’t on the list.”
Archer smiled held up the see-through envelope. “Good memory. They aren’t.”
“I have an exceptional memory, if I do say so myself. It’s long and very clear. Pity those who underestimate it,” Daniel said, seeming a little peeved at Archer’s game. “Why ask me about those two?”
“They called Josie’s office recently. I figured it couldn’t hurt to see what you knew.”
Daniel Young tented his fingers and tapped them against his chin. He dropped them when he saw Archer staring.
“Where was her car found?”
“In the parking lot of the Blue Fin Grill. Redondo Beach,” Archer answered.
“My bike club was by there yesterday. That’s the one thing the beach cities did well. The bike path from Santa Monica to Palos Verdes is amazing, don’t you think?”
Archer’s chest tightened. The guy didn’t just look GQ, he lived it. The doctor was part of the cycling elite that terrorized Southern California. They rode in packs, dressed in matching Spandex, and wore helmets that made them look like raptors. The serious male riders shaved their legs to cut down on wind drag. Male or female, they all had great butts. That was the only good thing Archer could say about them. The fancy cyclists thought they owned the highways and bi-ways. They rode double-digit miles, cut you off in traffic, blew stop signs and never signaled. Knowing Young was one of those put him in perspective for Archer. Any other time, he wouldn’t be spending even a minute with the doctor, but Archer didn’t want to bond, he just wanted information. To his credit, Young had read Archer’s initial disdainful expression accurately.
“You know, Archer, given the circumstances, you should count yourself lucky that I’m talking to you at all after your assault on my office staff and myself. A modicum of respect and a little courtesy would be appreciated.”
Archer colored. That Young couched his slap down in that polite psychiatric voice ticked him off. Still, he knew he deserved it.
“Just a few more questions.” Time was wasting and somehow they had veered from the problem at hand to Daniel Young. The guy wasn’t that interesting, and finding Josie was imperative. “Did you stop and go into the restaurant?”
“We didn’t stop. We went up to Palos Verdes, around the
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