Free Limits of Justice, The by John Morgan Wilson Page A

of her.”
    “But she was highly organized, dotted every i and crossed every t. You said so yourself. If she intended to take her own life—”
    “I get your point.”
    “Without a will, her mother inherits everything.”
    “Vivian Grant Preston, the former starlet who spent time in the loony bin.”
    “She was institutionalized?”
    “According to Charlotte.”
    “She’s about to come into some serious wealth—Charlotte’s house in Nichols Canyon, her father’s estate in Montecito, the entire inheritance he left to Charlotte. Quite a few million, I imagine.”
    “The dog.”
    “What?”
    “The mother gets the damn dog, as soon as I can find her. I knew you were useful for something, Templeton.”
    “I’m talking about a motive for murder, musclehead.”
    “Motive isn’t everything.”
    “It’s a start.”
    “Then how about starting with Randall Capri?”
    “What’s Capri’s motive?”
    “The news coverage of Charlotte’s death and the resulting publicity for his book should translate into some nice royalties down the line. Maybe a whole new career on the bestseller lists.”
    “I hadn’t thought of that.”
    “That’s what I’m here for.”
    “Stuff it, Justice.”
    “Anything else, before I finish my breakfast?”
    Her tone suddenly lightened, becoming more personal.
    “One or two things, actually.”
    “Let’s start with one, see how that goes.”
    “You never told me how it went with Oree on Sunday, after I left the two of you alone.”
    “No, I didn’t.”
    “Are you going to see him again?”
    “I don’t know, Templeton. Don’t you have a story to write or something?”
    “Don’t be so mean, Justice.”
    She didn’t sound so coy now; I heard real vulnerability in her voice.
    “OK, what’s the matter?”
    “I needed somebody to talk to, that’s all.”
    “If you’d needed somebody to talk to, you would have called Oree.”
    “Oree didn’t know Harry. You did.”
    I had no response for that.
    “I miss him, Benjamin.”
    Her words sliced like a fine blade.
    “Ben, are you still there?”
    “Yeah, I’m here.”
    “I was thinking about him this morning, sitting here in the newsroom, realizing this is where you worked with him all those years ago, when you were my age. I remembered how he introduced us after he moved over to the Sun, how he got us to work together, the things he taught us.”
    “How I pretty much destroyed the man.”
    “No, Justice, that’s not it. I just miss him, that’s all.”
    “Understandable.”
    “I never lost anybody before Harry. Not even my grandparents.”
    “You get used to it after a while.”
    “So you really thought my piece was solid and workmanlike?”
    “Cross my heart, hope to die.”
    “On that same note, how do you feel about attending a funeral?”
    “I’d rather chew glass if it’s all the same.”
    “Charlotte’s service is set for Saturday. The autopsy’s slowing things down, and they may do more tests. I’d like to be at the funeral, but not alone.”
    “I guess I could make it then.”
    “I’ll pick you up at half past twelve.”
    She hung up, and I was left with the remaining scrambled eggs and a few scrambled memories of Harry Brofsky. I didn’t want to go there, so I turned to the accordion file sitting on the table between my plate and the window. I pushed the plate aside, pulled the file closer, started working my way through it, section by section.
     
    *
     
    Not quite two hours later, I’d scanned close to a hundred documents, the most intriguing of which was a handwritten list of names and phone numbers. The ink had faded slightly with age but was still clear, and the handwriting matched Randall Capri’s signature in the copy of Sexual Predator I’d asked him to autograph. Most of the names were unfamiliar to me, but at least two were quite well known—Mandeville Slayton, a popular singer of soulful romantic ballads, and Edward T. Felton, Junior, a multimedia mogul who operated at the