Inherit Guilt

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Friday, March 21, 2014

  one

  two

  three

  Saturday, March 22

  four

  five

  six

  seven

  eight

  nine

  ten

  eleven

  twelve

  thirteen

  fourteen

  fifteen

  Sunday, March 23

  sixteen

  seventeen

  eighteen

  Monday, March 24

  nineteen

  twenty

  twenty-one

  twenty-two

  twenty-three

  Tuesday, March 25

  twenty-four

  Wednesday, March 26

  twenty-five

  twenty-six

  twenty-seven

  Thursday, March 27

  twenty-eight

  twenty-nine

  thirty

  thirty-one

  Friday, March 28

  thirty-two

  thirty-three

  thirty-four

  thirty-five

  thirty-six

  Saturday, March 29

  thirty-seven

  Tuesday, April 1

  thirty-eight

  Friday, October 24

  thirty-nine

  forty

  2015

  forty-one

  forty-two

  Epilogue

  Thank you

  Bonus Story

  About the Author

  Also by Russell Cordner

  Inherit Guilt

  A Shane Allen Investigation

  Russell Cordner

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or place, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters and predicaments are products of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.

  Copyright © 2021 Russell Cordner

  All rights reserved.

  For Mom.

  My first and favorite reader.

  1940-2020

  Friday, March 21, 2014

  one

  Staring at his laptop’s blank screen the vibrating phone was a welcome respite from writer’s block. Shane read the name on the call display. The spark of hope was brief, extinguished by apprehension. If he’d learned anything in the past year it was to not get his hopes up. He’d been waiting that long for his source to go on the record. The call could either salvage his reputation or deliver another nail in the coffin of his career. Either way he had to answer.

  He took a deep breath of courage then answered. "Hello?"

  "Shane? Grant Whalley calling. I thought you should know I’ve cut ties with Connor."

  The words were both galvanizing and bittersweet. They could have come a year earlier—when Shane still had a job—but it was better than never at all. He covered the phone as he sighed. Grant was a lawyer for Connor McGraw, the Silicon Valley billionaire who cost Shane his job. Grant and Shane had met numerous times and always been friendly but the lawyer never wavered. He refused to discuss his client on or off the record.

  "Does this mean you’re ready to talk?"

  "I’m still not sure I’ve got anything of value to say."

  "I can be the judge of that. We often don’t even know what we know."

  "There’s no need to finesse me. I’ll meet. But there’s something I’d like you to do first. And it pays."

  Three days later Shane found himself parked street-side feeling more like paparazzi than the lauded investigative journalist he’d worked so hard to become. In his rear-view mirror the greyish-orange dawn crept between the distant skyscrapers of downtown Los Angeles while La Brea Avenue lived up to its name. Like an IV drip of rubber and steel it filled the city with a steady dose of morning rush hour traffic. La Brea was Spanish for The Tar.

  Armed with the pic of a classic car and the name of a dodgy motel Shane was on an errand to get dirt for divorce court. It stung. Grant knew Shane was a serious journalist. He had the awards to prove it. But slumped in his car spying on the door of a three-star motel didn’t have him brimming with respect.

  The motel across the street was nice enough to stand out but its unsavory patrons helped it blend in. With its canted stone walls and sloping wooden roof it was a mid-century snapshot from a bygone era; in stark contrast to the fast food joints and strip malls clogging the city’s arteries. He pictured boat-sized convertibles—finely waxed Packards, Plymouths and Buicks—pulling up around the circular drive on those clear sunny days in the time before smog. When men wore hats, smoking was glamorous, and nobody frowned upon martinis at lunch. It was a swanky place back in the day but his stakeout told him today’s clientele were more interested in hourly rates than whiskey sours and baccarat.

  He rubbed his eyes. “C’mon lady, where are you?”

  As if on cue the door to Room 102 opened. He aimed his camera and the zoom lens teleported him two feet away. Stepping through the door with red-carpet posture and poise her face was hidden beneath a wide-brimmed hat. Something Audrey Hepburn or Sophia Loren might have worn. A lavender wool pencil dress hugged her hips while its V-neck filled with suggestive modesty. She was the kind of woman with décolletage rather than cleavage and she glided with the confidence of beauty and wealth. She knew how to carry herself even in South Los Angeles—a neighborhood once so rough it had to change its name.

  Her lover came through the door next wearing a motel towel cinched around his waist. Even with the giant hat blocking their faces his taut midriff said he was as far from thirty as Shane, just on the other side. He shared neither her comportment or style.

  The car out front Room 102 was unmistakable but Shane snapped a closeup of the plate just to be safe. The fire engine red 1961 Mercedes roadster stood out like a cherry on a hot fudge sundae. Worth a hundred grand, maybe two, it was a miracle it was still in the parking lot.

  The street was coming to life and the clock was ticking. “Let’s go Hepburn. Lose the sombrero.”

  Blocking out horns, exhaust fumes, and a rising sun, he focused, zoomed, leaned, and shifted, trying to get an angle on their faces. But he couldn’t get around that goddamn hat.

  Her lover leaned in and she immediately pulled away. He threw his arms up as she took a step back. Her hat was shaking No as she extended an arm to keep him at bay. He yanked off his towel and threw it on the ground. Hands on his hips, he stood there naked. Whatever they were arguing about it probably wasn’t his performance.

  She took a step toward him as though to calm the situation. He picked up the towel, spun around, and stormed back into the room, slamming the door behind him. Without losing composure she smoothed her dress and walked to the motel’s office.

  She emerged moments later with large black sunglasses covering her face. Shane rifled off rapid-fire shots hoping for one clean pic of her face, but in that getup she could be any brunette with a nice pair of legs. Most crucial of all, he failed to get the money shot. The kiss. He needed her lips locked on his to prove infidelity. A fancy hat, sexy dress, and discarded motel towel weren’t going to hold up in divorce court. He snapped more photos as she drove away, hoping to get lucky. He didn’t.

  Somebody leaned on a horn then peeled past him yelling, “No stopping! Fuckin’ cracker!”

  He loathed Los Angeles.

  The dashboard said 9:02. There was no point hitting the freeway for a
nother three hours. He drove half a block and parked behind a burger joint. Flicking through the photos on his camera he had over a hundred shots and not one of them was what he needed. Sliding his camera under the passenger seat he put the seat back as far as it could go. Before plunging into sleep he thumb-typed a text message: Your shots are coming.

  Shane bolted upright at a pair of 30” air-horns wailing from the roof of the fire engine pushing its way through La Brea and Jefferson. Disoriented, he reflexively checked his pockets. Wallet—check. Phone’s on the seat—check. A quick peek under the passenger seat confirmed his camera was safe as well. He relaxed. Maybe all those violent films about South Central were more hyperbole than fact.

  The dashboard said quarter to three. A six-hour nap, he could still use more, but it was time to hit the road. He was in the eye of the storm—that brief mid-afternoon lull between rush hours. Time to get out of L.A. and back to the Bay.

  It was smooth sailing up the I-5. No accidents, no storms, no speed straps, he was looking at a personal best. With the rolling hills of the Diablo Range on one side and the familiar patchwork of towns, farms, and ranches on the other, the suffocation of Southern California drifted away. By the time the interstate made him choose between San Francisco and Sacramento rush hour was over. The suburbanite hordes had returned to the bedroom communities of more affordable housing and backyard barbecues.

  Shane wanted to be home on the deck of his boat in Sausalito. But rather than looping down past San Quentin he headed for the Bay Bridge. He had business downtown.

  two

  As one of the state’s most sought-after divorce lawyers, Grant Whalley not only excelled at his job, he took it personally. He signed his first client just two weeks after passing the California Bar Exam. His mother.

  His father may not have been wealthy by California standards but Grant Whalley Sr. had done alright for himself. From the one-star motel inherited from his parents he amassed a string of flea bag inns across the state, picking up distressed assets wherever and whenever he could. From as far north as Redding down to Escondido, his portfolio boasted twenty-two properties in all. Rarely straying from Highway 99, most were roadside shacks in hot spots like Chowchilla, Selma, and Tulare, but he’d go after anything if the price was right. Unfortunately for his wife and son his libido followed a similar principle.

  A relentless philanderer, Grant’s father was never shy about his extramarital proclivities. Young Grant often found himself waiting in some motel parking lot while Grant Sr. “tended to business”, and by the ripe old age of ten he was wise to his father’s ways. His mother stuck it out until her son finished school and when she finally announced she was leaving her husband it surprised nobody where her son’s loyalties lay.

  Sylvia Whalley’s final take was sixteen properties, the family home, and half her husband’s liquid assets. She promptly converted all sixteen motels to cash and gave her son a healthy bonus to help launch his practice.

  The tale of the young son defending his mother against the skirt-chasing father spread faster than nip-tuck gossip among the wealthy wives of San Francisco. The story sold itself even before details of the settlement were revealed and Grant’s office phone rang within an hour of being connected. He landed his first client so quickly he couldn’t even hand her a business card.

  Gloria Knowles was heiress to a local shipping magnate and—unsettled by her looming fiftieth birthday—she had recklessly tied the knot without a prenup. Five years later, she needed a hungry, young lawyer to protect the family fortune. He not only secured the family fortune but the Sea Cliff home and Tahoe chalet as well. She rewarded Grant with a generous thank you bonus and, more importantly, an introduction to her network of high society women.

  Cutting a swath through the fortunes of Bay Area elites made Grant Whalley the city’s top-billing divorce by his thirty-fifth birthday. To reflect this success he leased a corner office in the prestigious Triple Five California Street, once famous as the Towering Inferno. Erected in 1969 to symbolize the power of Bank of America, Grant moved in shortly before the bank moved out.

  At the foot of the building A.P. Giannini Plaza was home to two hundred tons of Swedish granite. The imposing modernist sculpture was named Transcendence by its creator but called The Banker’s Heart by locals. It was a favorite spot for Grant to sit and think. He found something soothing in the mountain of polished black stone.

  It was in front of Transcendence he faced the toughest decision of his career. Sitting in a square named for the Italian immigrant who built a bank for the disadvantaged, the irony was not lost on Grant. From day one he’d always been on the side of the underdog. But in a city replete with Goliaths a routinely triumphant David is bound to attract attention. The wealthy men of San Francisco watched in fear as the merciless young attorney assailed their brethren with a fury. Until one of those men changed the game for everyone.

  Tall, fit, and entering his fifties, Connor McGraw was an elder statesman of the Silicon Valley. A billionaire forged in the dot-com boom, he was on the verge of doing it again. After gaining control of a floundering mobile carrier the dynamic CEO was looking at his second billion-dollar valuation. He wanted insurance against his second divorce.

  The offer was simple. It was time for David to embrace Goliath. If Grant stopped representing the wives of wealthy men, many of those men would keep him on retainer. Many of them would never even require his services. Grant would receive a substantial payment each month and they would receive peace of mind. All it cost Grant was his reputation, his mother’s approval, and his passion for the job.

  Elizabeth Whalley was proud of her husband even when he didn’t seem proud of himself. So when he said he wanted to move the family into the city she supported the plan. Their charming Piedmont bungalow was fine for a family of three, but after the twins arrived space was tight.

  She’d chosen the house shortly after the birth of their first son, Craig. She was big on community and safety, and Piedmont’s two square miles of rolling residential roads seemed ideal. But while they felt safe enough, after six years the welcoming committee was still in session. It was the kind of place where second generations were considered new blood. If you didn’t regularly acknowledge that Jack London penned Call of the Wild living in that house on the corner, well, you probably weren’t “Piedmont material”.

  Pacific Heights was a postcard come to life. The affluent neighborhood was a seamless blend of traditional and cosmopolitan, home to venerable locals and foreign dignitaries alike. It felt like a village in the middle of the city and she thought she’d found a place where she could finally be at ease. But there are some things you can’t move away from. Some things you can’t leave behind.

  They'd been in Pacific Heights a little over a year and it already felt more like home than Piedmont ever did. After walking Craig to Waldorf Elementary she would push Jason and Joshua to Alta Plaza Park for her thermos of morning tea. She sat atop the park's grand staircase—her favorite spot—overlooking the Painted Ladies on Clay Street. She poked a deep divot in the step with her toe. Damage from a Streisand film according to the film buff she married.

  Looking up from the scarred concrete she watched her two beautiful boys frolic on the grass and wondered what kind of men they would become. Honest? Generous? Romantic? Would they have their father's ambition? Probably. Would they have her illness? She hoped not. As she watched and wondered she tried her best to hold back the tears. She wanted nothing more than to watch them grow up. She wished she could but knew that was asking too much. She'd been sick for too long and it was getting harder to hide. She couldn't fight it anymore. Some things are impossible to escape.

  The news of his wife’s suicide was as devastating as it was confounding. How he could be unaware of her illness was beyond comprehension.

  “It’s called concealed depression for a reason, son,” Sylvia Whalley said. She’d cut short a trip to the Caribbean the moment she heard the news.

  “It
was concealed alright. Evidently I didn’t even know my own wife.”

  “Don’t say that. You did know her, and she knew you. She loved you. She loved the boys. More than anything in the world. I know that for a fact.”

  “Then why’d she leave us?” Grant cried. “How could she, how could she do that?”

  “It wasn’t up to her, dear.”

  “Really?” he scoffed. “She took the pills, Mom. She’s the one who killed herself.”

  “She didn’t kill herself. The illness killed her. The pills just eased her pain. They were more palliative than anything else.”

  Elizabeth said goodbye to her boys in one letter and apologized to her husband in another. She was leaving it up to Grant to decide how, what, and when to tell them, or if he would even tell them at all. The twins were only three years old, too young to comprehend what was going on. Craig was another story. To an eight-year-old boy, losing his mother is a tragedy. But not knowing why is unbearable cruelty.

  When he began acting out in school the faculty was understanding at first. But striking another student in the head with a full can of soda left them no other recourse. Craig was expelled. Fortunately, a client of Grant’s was able to facilitate a mid-semester admission to the all-boys school around the corner from home.

  After donating a generous sum to The Friends of Alta Plaza Park Grant made a habit of sitting on the new bench atop the park’s grand staircase. He read its bronze plaque every visit.

  In Loving Memory of

  Elizabeth Whalley

  1965 — 2000

  I'd rather sing one wild song and burst my heart with it, than live a thousand years

  ― Jack London

  The structured environment at Craig’s new school was worth the extra tuition and his violent outbursts decreased in both intensity and frequency. But one person in particular helped turn things around. When it was time for the twins to start kindergarten one of their teachers caught Grant’s eye. And even though he’d been a widower for two years, being smitten filled him with guilt. It took him a semester to muster the courage to ask her to dinner but just shy of a year to ask for her hand.