Indefensible (22 page)

Lots of people would love to get their hands on a gun not traceable to them. I acquired one once myself.

Dorsey says my name; I focus on the conversation. “At Nick's suggestion,” Dorsey is saying, “we interviewed the Phippin boy's father. We weren't able to clear him in the Scud Illman murder. He was alone and without an alibi during the critical time. His wife was visiting her sister. Mr. Phippin admitted with regard to Scud Illman that he wanted to, quote, ‘expunge that little shit from God's green earth.' He's got plenty of money to have hired the job; alternatively, he seems to have the wherewithal to do it himself. So we're keeping him on the list. We're doing a workup on him.”

“Other theories?” I ask.

The discussion is aimless. I wait several minutes for something interesting to surface. Nothing does.

“Okay, then,” I say. I put the files back in my briefcase and stand up. People head for the door. “Tarry a moment,” I say to Dorsey, and when we're alone, “How much do you know about your man Penhale?”

“Competent. Not outstanding. Why?”

“Opportunity,” I say. “I'm thinking of the leak: Cassandra Randall's identity. Penhale drove her home that day we were all out at the reservoir. He seems to show up a lot of places.”

Dorsey strokes his mustache. “I'd hate it to be one of mine, but I see your point,” he says.

We haven't talked about the leak in a long time. The assumption has been that when we got Scud in our grip, he'd offer up the snitch as a bargaining chip to keep himself off death row. Now, with Scud dead and no longer suspected of killing Zander, finding the snitch might be our only route back to the killer.

I leave Dorsey and go find Chip outside the conference room. “Any info on those two names I gave you, Bernier Construction and Maxfield Parrish?” I ask.

“I haven't had a moment, Nick. How about I get back to you this afternoon?”

“Something else,” I say. “Your audio/video nerd Sparky, have you looked at him?”

“Looked?”

“As the snitch.”

“Sparky?” Chip is about to protest. The idea rankles. None of us wants to think it's one of our own. In his face, I see the brief battle between Chip the big teddy bear and Chip the jaded federal agent. The agent wins. “Sparky,” he says. “I see your point.”

“Let me know if you find anything,” I say.

In an instant, Chip's manner changes. He loses his nonchalance. “But come on down to my office,” he says. “I need to speak with you about something.”

This is strange, and I'm immediately wary. He's glancing around nervously and trying too hard to seem normal. Whatever it is, I don't want to get pulled in.

“Can't right now, buddy,” I say. “I'm already late for my next, um, meeting.”

“Oh. Well, call me as soon as you can. Okay?”

“Okay-dokay,” I say, and I hurry away.

•  •  •

I'm not an investigator, I'm an administrator, but I need to go out and start peering under a few more stones on my own, because I heard impatience from both Dorsey's and Chip's teams. Their outrage has decayed into weariness. No longer are these killings an opportunity for that quick high-profile arrest, no promotions in the offing, no media heroes. The case is already a failure; one killing became two, became three, became four. Four murders but without the cachet of a serial killer on a rampage. There is no terrorized public, no sensationalism, no news cameras waiting at the steps. These cases offer the possibility of only minor success but huge failure. The killings are separate enough that solving one still leaves three unsolved. Why bring attention to that? With the death of our main suspect, we could let the investigation itself die a quiet death. Just pretend they were solved. Case closed, because officially, politically, no good can come of it. Which means I might be on my own.

•  •  •

I start with Seth Coen. I don't have much on him, just an old sentencing report and prison records. We must have more but I don't know where it is.

Seth's only conviction was for manslaughter. A guy in a bar menaced him with a knife and wound up dead. The record makes reference to the victim's size and strength (muscle-bound; bodybuilder) and to Seth's lack of size (diminutive). The victim was drunk; it is unclear whether Seth was, too. It is also unclear whether the big guy intended actual harm or if he was flashing his blade for effect, but the cost to him was a savage and “lightning-quick” knife in the throat (according to a witness's statement), inserted with a forward plunging motion and withdrawn in a lateral slicing motion (per the medical examiner's report). The knife work was vicious, competent, and intended to kill. For Seth, the cost was a sentence of twenty years in Alder Creek maximum. I wonder if his skill with a blade kept him safe there, because from the sound of him in these reports, he would
have been an appealing target for the bad boys in lockup. Maybe the Aryan who branded him with the swastika kept him on as a pet. Seth was paroled at twelve years for good behavior.

The manslaughter conviction was about three years after Seth got out of the army. He was a sniper in Kuwait during the first Gulf War, deployed under a year, end of story. His prison medical files are extensive. During his years inside, he complained of, among other things, fatigue, confusion, blurry vision, chest pains, and headaches. The prison docs referred to him in their notes as a hypochondriac, complaint-prone, and fragile.

As a whole, the record of Seth's life reduces to a sad profile of human futility: He fought in a war, survived, got in a fight, went to prison, got branded with a swastika, got out of jail, moved into a skuzzy apartment, ended up in a freezer. The only “friend” or acquaintance we're aware of is the lowlife Scud Illman, who, we believe, ended the friendship by putting a bullet in Seth's head. Seth seems to have made a lasting impression on no one and left no one behind.

W
ith Tina beside me, I spin down the ramp of the parking garage. Out on the road, I signal my turn onto the highway, but she yells, “NO,” and I swerve back, thinking I'm about to hit something.

“I have to change clothes,” she says.

“You look lovely.”

“Look at me. A dull gray court suit is lovely?”

“You look fine.”

“Turn up there.” She directs me to her apartment. “Come in if you want, or just wait. I'm quick.”

I wait. It's exactly the kind of place I'd expect her to live. A brick town house, once millworkers' housing, now upscale. She
is
quick, back in a couple of minutes wearing jeans and a silky white blouse with a scarf.

“
Now
you look lovely.”

“Too late. Your credibility is shot.”

We get on the highway toward Turner.

“So about Tamika Curtis,” she says. “The jury is officially hung, and I'm wondering if we should drop this one.”

I don't answer. I see patches of gold in the dark green hillsides, birches among the evergreens, leaves turning.

“I mean, she wasn't that involved,” Tina says, “and there are those three little girls . . .”

I shrug. “Your call, Tina. What should we do?”

She doesn't answer. She looks through my CDs while I scan for some news on the radio. We ride in silence, then she says, “I don't know if she needs to be in prison just for trying to score a little
meth for herself. Percy Mashburn and his gang turned her into a user before she was even sixteen. Kendall is right: It's effing nuts. We give Mashburn a walk in exchange for him turning over all his subordinates.”

“What's become of my take-no-prisoners trial lawyer?”

“I tried her once. I was a good soldier, did my best. But Kendall Vance did better. So let's call it a day.”

“Okay.”

“I know the law, Nick, and nowhere does it say that after getting a hung jury, you have to keep going after this woman who's never caught a break in her miserable life and who keeps having babies with different men, hoping she'll find some guy who likes her enough to stick around. The law doesn't say that Tina Trevor and Nick Davis have to harass her lousy ass till there's nothing left of her.”

“Who are you trying to convince here, Tina?”

Silence again until I pull into Flora's drive. Middle Earth. Bill-the-Dog comes woofing out with her tail going in circles. Tina laughs happily and opens the car door, and as she gets out she says, “Maybe I should have effing stayed in the effing classroom where I effing belonged. But don't fire me, okay, boss?”

There are eight of us for dinner. Flora's friend Lloyd is here, Lizzy has her friend Homa, and Kenny has a girl named Amber who, except for the white cowboy boots, looks surprisingly conventional for his taste. He usually likes women with big makeup and clothes that fit like sausage skin.

“How do you know Kenny?” I ask Amber.

“Um.”

“At her job,” Kenny says, “I seen her and asked her out.”

“Where do you work?”

“Um. Jungle-Land Pets.”

“I'd love to work at a pet store,” Tina says.

Amber stares at her shoes.

“Kenny,” I say, “why were you in the pet store?”

“Buying mice. For my snake.”

“When did you . . .”

“It's a boa. This guy I know was moving, so he gave it away, and I took it. Aquarium and everything, and it's like six feet long and eats mice, 'cept I bought too many, 'cause it only eats, like, a couple a month. So I put the rest in the freezer, but it's not as cool to feed him the dead ones, so I'll keep those for emergency food. I think I'll buy him a rat next.”

“We have rats,” Amber whispers.

“We're almost ready,” Flora says, taking Amber's hand. “I'm just
thrilled
you could join us. Kenny's told us
all
about you.”

I glance at Lizzy, who's glancing at me. We both know Flora has confused this new girl Amber with some girl named Brita who none of us ever met because, despite Kenny's vigorous campaign, she dodged him for weeks and finally threatened to get a restraining order if he didn't stop calling.

Flora leans close to Kenny and says, “She's lovely.”

Lizzy and Homa get dinner on the table. They've been friends since grade school. Homa has dark skin and striking black eyebrows. We all sit, and Flora says, “Let's thank the goddess.” She takes Lloyd's hand on one side and Homa's on the other. Lloyd has Tina on his other side.

“Goddess of plenty . . .”

I notice Kenny groping for Lizzy's hand, but she has it wrapped around her water glass and isn't letting go.

“. . . and the joy of our togetherness . . .”

Lizzy looks pissed.

Tina's thumb does a caress on the back of my hand. I wonder if it's inadvertent. She has Amber on her other side.

“. . . enfolded in the womb of our earth. Amen.”

“Excuse me,” Lloyd says. He goes into the kitchen to wash his hands.

“I wish Chip could have joined us,” Flora says. “I invited him, but he couldn't make it.”

“Too bad,” I say. I'm not sure what to make of this. Chip has always just been my professional buddy. I knew he was talking to
Flora sometimes in the wake of his divorce, but I didn't know they had a real friendship. It makes sense, though. When an FBI agent thinks of becoming an animal trainer, speaking wistfully of blending spirits with the animals, he has apparently glimpsed a skewed reality in which Flora is a regular visitor.

“Kenny,” I say, “I see you haven't dug out that area for the patio. What's up?”

“Boulders,” he says. “That mound right there. I thought it was dirt. But it's one big rock. And there's another over there.”

“What's next?”

“I know some guys. They got a backhoe, but they're busy. They say they can fit me in next week.”

Bill-the-Dog comes over and nuzzles Flora. She subtly drops a piece of fish off the table.

“Mom!” Lizzy snaps.

“Oh, for goodness sakes,” Flora says, and drops another bit of fish to assert herself. Bill-the-Dog gobbles the treats and, in her enthusiasm, gives Lloyd a quick lick on the hand.

“Excuse me,” Lloyd says, and goes into the kitchen to wash his hands.

“Do you have a pet of your own, Amber?” Tina asks.

“Um. The house where I live has a cat,” Amber says. Amber has sandy hair and a youthful look, with full cheeks and sleepy eyes.

“I've been comparing the different Jet Skis,” Kenny says.

Tina says, “Homa: That's an interesting name.”

“Iranian,” Homa says. “It's a bird. A bird like the phoenix. It's a good omen.”

“We sell birds,” Amber whispers.

“It's a lovely name,” I say, and Tina gives me a sideways kick under the table because I said “lovely,” which she must have decided signals insincerity.

“Birds
are
good omens,” I say. “We thought of naming you after a bird, Lizzy. Remember, Flo?”

“No.”

“Phoebe.”

“No,” Flora says, “I don't remember. In fact, I don't remember consulting you at all. We weren't married, so it wasn't really your decision, was it?”

“Mom,” Lizzy says threateningly.

“What, dear?” (Innocent.)

“Of course, we could have gone with Ptarmigan or Wren or Robin,” I say, to lighten things up.

“Cuckoo,” Kenny says.

“Or Yellow Rail,” I say. “Yellow Rail Davis.”

“Daddy,” Lizzy says. She looks crushed, and I feel terrible, because I forgot that we know about yellow rails only because of Cassandra, so they're
not
omens of good luck, at least not to Lizzy and me.

To change the subject, I say, “Kenny, tell us about your Jet Ski.”

Kenny talks about horsepower and acceleration. Lizzy, I notice, is rolling her eyes as conspicuously as possible. Then she blurts, “Kenny, none of us gives a crap about your stupid Jet Ski.”