Three Classic Thrillers (22 page)

“Is that all?”

“Yeah, on Lamm.”

“What about Mickel?”

“Pretty sad. He committed suicide in 1984 at the age of thirty-four. Shot himself in the right temple with a Smith & Wesson .357. He left a lengthy farewell letter in which he told his ex-wife he hoped she would forgive him and all that crap. Said goodbye to the kids and his mother. Real touching.”

“Was it in his handwriting?”

“Not exactly. It was typed, which was not unusual, because he typed a good bit. He had an IBM Selectric
in his office, and the letter came from it. He had terrible handwriting.”

“So what’s suspicious?”

“The gun. He never bought a gun in his life. No one knows where it came from. No registration, no serial number, nothing. One of his friends in the firm allegedly said something to the effect that Mickel had told him he had bought a gun for protection. Evidently he was having some emotional problems.”

“What do you think?”

Lomax threw his cigarette butt in the frozen rain on the sidewalk. He cupped his hands over his mouth and blew in them. “I don’t know. I can’t believe a tax lawyer with no knowledge of guns could obtain one without registration or serial number. If a guy like that wanted a gun, he would simply go to a gun shop, fill out the papers and buy a nice, shiny new piece. This gun was at least ten years old and had been sanitized by professionals.”

“Did the cops investigate?”

“Not really. It was open and shut.”

“Did he sign the letter?”

“Yeah, but I don’t know who verified the signature. He and his wife had been divorced for a year, and she had moved back to Baltimore.”

Mitch buttoned the top button of his overcoat and shook the ice from his collar. The sleet was heavier, and the sidewalk was covered. Tiny icicles were beginning to form under the barrel of the cannon. The traffic slowed on Riverside as wheels began to slide and spin.

“So what do you think of our little firm?” Mitch asked as he stared at the river in the distance.

“It’s a dangerous place to work. They’ve lost five
lawyers in the past fifteen years. That’s not a very good safety record.”

“Five?”

“If you include Hodge and Kozinski. I’ve got a source telling me there are some unanswered questions.”

“I didn’t hire you to investigate those two.”

“And I’m not charging you for it. I got curious, that’s all.”

“How much do I owe you?”

“Six-twenty.”

“I’ll pay cash. No records, okay?”

“Suits me. I prefer cash.”

Mitch turned from the river and gazed at the tall buildings three blocks from the park. He was cold now, but in no hurry to leave. Lomax watched him from the corner of his eye.

“You’ve got problems, don’t you, pal?”

“Wouldn’t you say so?” Mitch answered.

“I wouldn’t work there. I mean, I don’t know all that you do, and I suspect you know a lot you’re not telling. But we’re standing here in the sleet because we don’t want to be seen. We can’t talk on the phone. We can’t meet in your office. Now you don’t want to meet in my office. You think you’re being followed all the time. You tell me to be careful and watch my rear because they, whoever they are, may be following me. You’ve got five lawyers in that firm who’ve died under very suspicious circumstances, and you act like you may be next. Yeah, I’d say you got problems. Big problems.”

“What about Tarrance?”

“One of their best agents; transferred in here about two years ago.”

“From where?”

“New York.”

The wino rolled from under the bronze horse and fell to the sidewalk. He grunted, staggered to his feet, retrieved his cardboard box and quilt and left in the direction of downtown. Lomax jerked around and watched anxiously. “It’s just a tramp,” Mitch said. They both relaxed.

“Who are we hiding from?” Lomax asked.

“I wish I knew.”

Lomax studied his face carefully. “I think you know.”

Mitch said nothing.

“Look, Mitch, you’re not paying me to get involved. I realize that. But my instincts tell me you’re in trouble, and I think you need a friend, someone to trust. I can help, if you need me. I don’t know who the bad guys are, but I’m convinced they’re very dangerous.”

“Thanks,” Mitch said softly without looking, as if it was time for Lomax to leave and let him stand there in the sleet for a while.

“I would jump in that river for Ray McDeere, and I can certainly help his little brother.”

Mitch nodded slightly, but said nothing. Lomax lit another cigarette and kicked the ice from his lizard-skins. “Just call me anytime. And be careful. They’re out there, and they play for keeps.”

A
t the intersection of Madison and Cooper in midtown, the old two-story buildings had been renovated into singles bars and watering holes and gift shops and a handful of good restaurants. The intersection was known as Overton Square, and it provided Memphis with its best nightlife. A playhouse and a bookstore added a touch of culture. Trees lined the narrow median on Madison. The weekends were rowdy with college students and sailors from the Navy base, but on weeknights the restaurants were full but quiet and uncrowded. Paulette’s, a quaint French place in a white stucco building, was noted for its wine list and desserts and the gentle voice of the man at the Steinway. With sudden affluence came a collection of credit cards, and the McDeeres had used theirs in a quest for the best restaurants in town. Paulette’s was the favorite, so far.

Mitch sat in the corner of the bar, drinking coffee and watching the front door. He was early, and had planned it that way. He had called her three hours earlier and asked if he could have a date for seven. She
asked why, and he said he would explain later. Since the Caymans he had known someone was following, watching, listening. For the past month he had spoken carefully on the phone, had caught himself watching the rearview mirror, had even chosen his words around the house. Someone was watching and listening, he was sure.

Abby rushed in from the cold and glanced around the parlor for her husband. He met her in the front of the bar and pecked her on the cheek. She removed her coat, and they followed the maître d’ to a small table in a row of small tables which were all full with people within earshot. Mitch glanced around for another table, but there were none. He thanked him and sat across from his wife.

“What’s the occasion?” she asked suspiciously.

“Do I need a reason to have dinner with my wife?”

“Yes. It’s seven o’clock on Monday night, and you’re not at the office. This is indeed a special occasion.”

A waiter squeezed between their table and the next, and asked if they wanted a drink. Two white wines, please. Mitch glanced around the dining room again and caught a glimpse of a gentleman sitting alone five tables away. The face looked familiar. When Mitch looked again, the face slid behind a menu.

“What’s the matter, Mitch?”

He laid his hand on hers and frowned. “Abby, we gotta talk.”

Her hand flinched slightly and she stopped smiling. “About what?”

He lowered his voice. “About something very serious.”

She exhaled deeply and said, “Can we wait for the wine. I might need it.”

Mitch looked again at the face behind the menu. “We can’t talk here.”

“Then why are we here?”

“Look, Abby, you know where the rest rooms are? Down the hall over there, to your right?”

“Yes, I know.”

“There’s a rear entrance at the end of the hall. It goes out to the side street behind the restaurant. I want you to go to the rest room, then out the door. I’ll be waiting next to the street.”

She said nothing. Her eyebrows lowered and the eyes narrowed. Her head leaned slightly to the right.

“Trust me, Abby. I can explain later. I’ll meet you outside and we’ll find another place to eat. I can’t talk in here.”

“You’re scaring me.”

“Please,” he said firmly, squeezing her hand. “Everything is fine. I’ll bring your coat.”

She stood with her purse and left the room. Mitch looked over his shoulder at the man with the familiar face, who suddenly stood and welcomed an elderly lady to his table. He did not notice Abby’s exit.

In the street behind Paulette’s, Mitch draped the coat over Abby’s shoulders and pointed eastward. “I can explain,” he said more than once. A hundred feet down the street, they walked between two buildings and came to the front entrance of the Bombay Bicycle Club, a singles bar with good food and live blues. Mitch looked at the headwaiter, then surveyed the two dining rooms, then pointed to a table in the rear corner. “That one,” he said.

Mitch sat with his back to the wall and his face toward the dining room and the front door. The corner was dark. Candles lit the table. They ordered more wine.

Abby sat motionless, staring at him, watching every move and waiting.

“Do you remember a guy named Rick Acklin from Western Kentucky?”

“No,” she said without moving her lips.

“He played baseball, lived in the dorm. I think you may have met him once. A very nice guy, real clean-cut, good student. I think he was from Bowling Green. We weren’t good friends, but we knew each other.”

She shook her head and waited.

“Well, he finished a year before we did and went to law school at Wake Forest. Now he’s with the FBI. And he’s working here in Memphis.” He watched her closely to see if “FBI” would have an impact. It did not. “And today I’m eating lunch at Obleo’s hot-dog place on Main Street, when Rick walks up out of nowhere and says hello. Just like it was a real coincidence. We chat for a few minutes, and another agent, guy by the name of Tarrance, walks up and has a seat. It’s the second time Tarrance has chased me down since I passed the bar.”

“The second …?”

“Yes. Since August.”

“And these are … FBI agents?”

“Yes, with badges and everything. Tarrance is a veteran agent from New York. Been here about two years. Acklin is a rookie they brought in three months ago.”

“What do they want?”

The wine arrived and Mitch looked around the club. A band was tuning up on a small stage in a far corner. The bar was crowded with well-dressed professional types chitting and chatting relentlessly. The waiter pointed to the unopened menus. “Later,” Mitch said rudely.

“Abby, I don’t know what they want. The first visit was in August, right after my name was printed in the paper for passing the bar.” He sipped his wine and detailed play by play the first Tarrance visit at Lansky’s Deli on Union, the warnings about whom not to trust and where not to talk, the meeting with Locke and Lambert and the other partners. He explained their version of why the FBI was so interested in the firm and said that he discussed it with Lamar and believed every word Locke and Lambert had said.

Abby hung on every word, but waited to start asking.

“And now, today, while I’m minding my own business, eating a foot-long with onions, this guy I went to college with walks up and tells me that they, the FBI, know for a fact that my phones are bugged, my home is wired and somebody down at Bendini, Lambert & Locke knows when I sneeze and take a crap. Think of it, Abby, Rick Acklin was transferred here after I passed the bar exam. Nice coincidence, huh?”

“But what do they want?”

“They won’t say. They can’t tell me, yet. They want me to trust them, and all that routine. I don’t know, Abby. I have no idea what they’re after. But they’ve chosen me for some reason.”

“Did you tell Lamar about this visit?”

“No. I haven’t told anyone. Except you. And I don’t plan to tell anyone.”

She gulped the wine. “Our phones are tapped?”

“According to the FBI. But how do they know?”

“They’re not stupid, Mitch. If the FBI told me my phones were tapped, I’d believe them. You don’t?”

“I don’t know whom to believe. Locke and Lambert were so smooth and believable when they explained how the firm fights with the IRS and the
FBI. I want to believe them, but so much of it doesn’t add up. Look at it this way—if the firm had a rich client who was shady and worthy of FBI scrutiny, why would the FBI pick me, the rookie, the one who knows the least, and begin following me? What do I know? I work on files someone else hands me. I have no clients of my own. I do as I’m told. Why not go after one of the partners?”

“Maybe they want you to squeal on the clients.”

“No way. I’m a lawyer and sworn to secrecy about the affairs of clients. Everything I know about a client is strictly confidential. The feds know that. No one expects a lawyer to talk about his clients.”

“Have you seen any illegal deals?”

He cracked his knuckles and gazed around the dining room. He smiled at her. The wine had settled and was taking effect. “I’m not supposed to answer that question, even from you, Abby. But the answer is no. I’ve worked on files for twenty of Avery’s clients and a few other ones here and there, and I’ve seen nothing suspicious. Maybe a couple of risky tax shelters, but nothing illegal. I’ve got a few questions about the bank accounts I saw in the Caymans, but nothing serious.” Caymans! His stomach dropped as he thought of the girl on the beach. He felt sick.

The waiter loitered nearby and stared at the menus. “More wine,” Mitch said, pointing at the glasses.

Abby leaned forward, near the candles, and looked bewildered. “Okay, who tapped our phones?”

“Assuming they’re tapped, I have no idea. At the first meeting in August, Tarrance implied it was someone from the firm. I mean, that’s the way I took it. He said not to trust anyone at the firm, and that everything I said was subject to being heard and recorded. I assumed he meant they were doing it.”

“And what did Mr. Locke say about that?”

“Nothing. I didn’t tell him. I kept a few things to myself.”

“Someone has tapped our phones and wired our house?”

“And maybe our cars. Rick Acklin made a big deal of it today. He kept telling me not to say anything I didn’t want recorded.”

“Mitch, this is incredible. Why would a law firm do that?”

He shook his head slowly and looked into the empty wineglass. “I have no idea, babe. No idea.”