Indefensible (36 page)

I walk to the Volvo and lift the spare-tire well and toss in this bag I'm holding. For the first time in my life, I have committed a major crime: I am withholding evidence and interfering with an official investigation. But human affairs are minute and intricate things, and the law is a blunt instrument. It is too blunt to resolve the tricky problems of domestic violence and psychological imprisonment in Scud Illman's home. This is what I believe, and by resolving it myself, by removing the evidence of Mrs. Illman's complicity in cleaning up Seth Coen's murder, maybe Colin won't have to go into foster care for so long. Kenny was in foster care for years, and he didn't fare too well. So I have decided that Mrs. Illman had nothing to do with Seth Coen's murder, and Colin might get to keep his mother.

I slam the Volvo shut and return to the house, where I hand Kendall Vance's business card to Bart Curry. “If she doesn't have a lawyer of her own, give this guy a call,” I say.

From where I stand, I can see into a bedroom. The protective-services woman is sitting on the bed talking to Colin.

“Geez,” I say to Curry, “too much coffee again.” I walk into the bathroom, close the door, then tear off and flush away the end of the toilet paper, which was folded neatly into a point.

•  •  •

It is almost time to give myself up. I'll have Chip meet me in TMU's office. Kendall Vance will be there as my attorney and Tina as my friend. I'll tell them my theory about Upton. I'll tell them about the gambling problem of his younger years, the suspicious call Scud made to him on Kendall's phone, and the letter of resignation I found in Upton's desk, written the day of Scud's murder. It is pretty obvious that Scud was blackmailing Upton. Upton will be ruined, but I'll have to wait and see whether the Bureau has more luck than I did with building the case that Upton Cruthers killed Scud Illman.

I'm driving out to Flora's in Turner. I need someplace safe to stash Mrs. Illman's shoes and my box of evidence from Kenny's apartment. I thought of asking Kendall to take them, but that's preposterous. No ethical lawyer would think of hiding evidence for a client.

Dorsey calls. “Talk to me,” I say. I'm impatient to settle deep into TMU's sofa for that long, cathartic surrender. I'm tired.

“Are you sitting down?” Dorsey asks. “I've got good news and weird news.”

Again he waits for me to answer. It's an annoying habit. “Yes, I'm sitting down, Dorsey.”

“We found Seth Coen's boat. Milan gave us a description of the car that hauled it off. Since the buyer saw it for sale right there beside the road, we figured maybe he works in the area, so we put some cops on that road to pull over every brown and white Blazer driving past. Found him quick.”

“And?”

“Tarps were still in the boat. Blood residue. We've matched some of the blood to Zander Phippin.”

“Good work,” I say, still in my cop-speak voice. The theory was right: Zander took his final ride in the bottom of Seth Coen's boat.

“There was blood from several other sources.”

“Able to ID any of it?”

“Negative.”

“Okay, listen,” I say, “there's an open missing persons case, juvenile female named Brittany Tesoro. Talk to Bart Curry in city police. See if she's a match. I'll fill you in later.”

“You're a mysterious bastard, counselor. You ready for the weird?”

“Dorsey, I don't believe it can get any weirder.”

“Oh yeah? Well, we followed up on Scud Illman's other car. Get this: It was parked for like a week at the Rainbow Bend picnic area. The state finally towed it and sent a certified letter to the registered owner.”

“Who never answered because he was inconveniently dead at the time?”

“Right.”

“Where is Rainbow Bend?”

“Like thirty miles out of town. We never searched that far. Figured how far can a guy float downriver in two days? Turns out farther than we thought.”

“The rains,” I say. “Remember how it rained that week? The river was probably raging.”

“And rising,” Dorsey says. “We searched the site, and can't be sure because it's been too long, but the reconstruction guys say the body might not have been dumped in the river. Just left by the edge. The river came up and got him.”

“Interesting,” I say. “But not too weird.”

“I haven't gotten to weird yet. Here's the weird: We've worked the car for trace, okay? And we found something usable, maybe. Some fingerprints, the only ones not from Scud or his wife or son. They were on a coffee cup that had spilled all over the floor. We've ID'd them. Want to guess?”

“Upton Cruthers,” I say without hesitation.

“No,” Dorsey says in a perplexed voice.

I've blown it. I tipped my hand and he's suspicious. I realize it's not sudden, he's been suspicious all along, and now he's toying with me, setting his trap. I see it, but I can't help myself, and I know it has all been leading up to this.
Don't say it,
my decades of training scream to me.
Remain silent, remain silent
, but even if Kendall Vance were here with a choke hold around my neck, I couldn't stop the words as they flow out with effortless certainty. “The prints,” I say, though I don't know how I know, and I have no clue how they got
there. (Or yes, I do know how they got there: Upton Cruthers must have done it. Upton planted my prints at the scene of a murder that he committed.) “The prints are mine.”

The phone is silent; just the fuzz of static tells me we're still connected. I hear the sharp intake of breath. Then an explosion of breath.

“Oh, sweet Jesus, Nick, that was beautiful. You had me for a second.” He laughs. “But seriously, you're sucking all the air out of my punch line. Can you guess whose prints they were?”

I hold the phone away again and steady my breathing, steady my voice. “No, Dorsey, I can't guess.”

“Then I'll tell you. Did you ever hear of a guy named Maxy?”

T
MU is out sick, and Tina is in court. So much for those plans of surrender.

I stash the box of Kenny's stuff in Flora's garage, and I'm about to send Mrs. Illman's shoes flying out the car window into the Aponak River, but I change my mind. What if I've been conned? Maybe she isn't just the abused spouse of a sociopath but a sociopath in her own right.

I call Kendall Vance. “Can I meet with Agent d'Villafranca at your office?” I ask. “I'm tired. I need to turn myself in.”

“You know, Nick, you might be taking this idea of being a suspect a bit too far.”

“No, you were right about it, Kendall, I'm sure.”

“. . . because I'd suggested it merely as a possibility. I didn't mean—”

“All I know is that Chip has been calling and calling, and I've been dodging and dodging, and then he was on his way over to my office. He never comes to my office. And now, in his latest message, he's saying it's urgent.”

“Nick, calm down.”

“And everybody knew I hated Scud. It was all I talked about. When Scud called me that time, I said I'd kill him if he ever mentioned Lizzy again. I've told everybody about it. I wrote it in my report of the incident—that I threatened him. And I've told everybody how I wanted to murder Dr. Wallis . . .”

“Murder who? You haven't told me—”

“Never mind. Thing is, of course I'm a suspect. Think about it. I thought he'd murdered two people I cared about, Zander and Cassandra, then I have this long conversation with him on the phone,
he threatens my daughter, and that's the last known contact anybody ever has with him before he turns up dead in the river. I have motive. And I could have had opportunity: Who's to say I didn't arrange a meeting when we were on the phone that very night? And I've proved myself unstable, haven't I? Haven't I, Kendall? I've admitted to wanting to kill Doc Wallis, I've admitted to threatening to kill Scud . . .”

“Okay, calm down, Nick. Take a few deep breaths.”

“Oh Jesus, Kendall, I've really screwed myself.”

“Let me see what I can find out. Let me make some calls. Don't do anything yet. Can you calm down? Take a moment, I'll stay on the phone.”

I do as he says. I even pull into the breakdown lane and stop and close my eyes, taking some steadying breaths.

“Still there?” Kendall asks after a minute.

“I'm sorry,” I say. “I guess I started to panic.”

“Okay, I'm going to see what I can find out. Don't do anything before you hear back from me. Promise?”

“Okay. Promise.”

We hang up. I pull back on the highway. He's a good guy, Kendall, and I feel lucky to have him. Just a few weeks ago I thought he was a Neanderthal, but now I get the feeling his concern for me goes beyond his professional obligation. I want to spend more time around him. He makes me feel safe. So I call him right back to say that if I'm not in prison, why don't he and Kaylee drive up to join Lizzy and me for an afternoon at the lake Saturday. Kendall says they might like that.

As soon as I end the call with Kendall, Chip calls. I deliberate whether to answer. I just promised Kendall I wouldn't do anything. But when I see Chip's name on caller ID, that little island of calm is blown. I start trembling. There is a rest area a few miles ahead. I'll pull over there and breathe some breaths of the cool fall air. I'll smell that sweet humus-y scent of how life is supposed to be.
Free
is how it's supposed to be; follow rules, do your best, think good thoughts, and shouldn't that be enough to steer you clear of all the Dr. Wallises
and Scud Illmans and this bad dream of getting set up for a murder rap by the diabolical likes of Upton Cruthers?

Ah, but I remember the new evidence. Maxy's prints found in Scud's car. Maybe it wasn't Upton.

In the rearview, I see a trooper barreling up behind, lights flashing. I pull over to let him pass. He pulls in behind me. I flash my blues and reds to let him know I'm someone. He responds with a burp of his siren and stays on my bumper. Damned if I'll pull over before the rest area, but as a show of compliance, I put my blinker on. Then I continue three more miles to the rest area with Johnny Law burping the siren every few seconds.

At the rest area, I get out of the Volvo (cops hate it when you do that) and walk over onto the grass. My legs are trembling. My voice sounds like it's coming through a long hollow cylinder. “Doesn't it smell good?” I say to the cop, who has already maneuvered himself in front of me. “Autumn leaves. Don't you love them, Officer? Think of all the things you'd miss in jail. Ever thought of that?”

“Assistant U.S. Attorney Davis?”

“The very same.”

“Do you know we've got an APB on you?”

“Are you arresting me?”

“No, sir. I'm escorting you.”

“Escorting where?”

“FBI.”

“Why?”

“I wouldn't know the answer to that, sir.”

“Can I refuse?”

“No, sir.”

“It sounds like an arrest to me.”

“No cuffs or anything. Protective custody. There's a wrecker on its way to take your car.”

“Really sounds like an arrest.”

The officer opens the front passenger door of his car. “You can ride in front with me.”

“Okay,” I say. “That isn't very arrest-like, is it?”

•  •  •

“Oh, thank God,” Chip says when I appear in the doorway of his office. He gets up from his desk and hugs me.

“What's the deal, Chip? Sorry I haven't gotten back to you sooner.”

Isler is in the office with Chip. “We've got an intercept,” he says. “It sounds serious, Nick. We think you're a target.”

“Whose target?”

“Nobody's sure. It was just by chance, see. We're interested in this guy for some unrelated bullshit. We've been following him around, so this morning an agent followed him into a coffee shop and sets up at the next table, and the guy gets on his cell and starts blabbing, and our guy records the whole thing. And damned if your name doesn't come up. We're taking it seriously, Nick.”

Chip isn't looking so good. The flesh under his eyes has gone back to a mustard color. It must be harder on him than I thought, investigating me.

“We only caught half the conversation. And we're just into street level, so we only get the trickle-down, you know? We don't have principals. . . .”

“Of course you do, Chip, you're the most ethical guy I know.”

It's gallows humor, but it fails. Upton would have gotten it; Tina, too; Lizzy for sure. But my friend Chip, new-age guy with analytical smarts, bovine wit, and rudimentary human insight, just says, “Thanks, Nick,” and he hands me the printout to read:

 . . . cocksucker knows too much . . . we gotta assume Scud spilled everything, miserable pussy . . . wants to nip this one . . . keep the rest of the cats in the fucking bag . . . Uptown ain't running it, and he never played ball anyway . . . they pulled him off . . . Davis is the one, Nick Davis . . . no leverage . . . can't take the chance . . . yeah, but if it goes south . . . you and me, asshole . . . he does good work . . . saved your ass ten years . . . okay, but then he goes all Boy Scout . . . can't listen
to that shit . . . too hot for local . . . transponded him is all I had to do . . . keep the rest of the cats in the fucking bag . . . it's all set up, the talent does the rest . . . (laughter) . . . blow his lawyer ass away . . . all the better. Your secrets will be safe, too, right? . . . (laughter) . . .

“Who is this?” I ask.

“He goes by Spawner. Real name is Milton Roe, or Milt, another nobody, but he—”

“From my perspective, Chip, he's trying to kill me, which makes him a very definite somebody.”