by Hy Conrad
Copyright © 2020 Hy Conrad
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner without the prior written permission of the copyright owner, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
ISBN 978-0-578-72029-6
Library of Congress Control Number: 2020912369
Published by Mason Hill Inc.
Key West, Florida USA
HyConrad.com
For Lee Goldberg,
a man of great talent and generosity.
I never thank him enough.
Contents
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
ABOUT THE BOOK
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
ALSO BY HY CONRAD
Toured to Death
Dearly Departed
Death on the Patagonian Express
Things Your Dog Doesn’t Want You to Know
(with Jeff Johnson)
Mr. Monk Helps Himself
Mr. Monk is Open for Business
Mr. Monk Gets on Board
Mr. Monk and the New Lieutenant
PROLOGUE
The young lawyer had been thrilled – thrilled and, if he had to be honest, overwhelmed. As a third-year associate, he was still miles away from making partner. Most of his twelve-hour workdays were spent managing the expectations of mid-level clients, or being second chair on someone else’s case, or pulling strings on behalf of the teenage daughter of a politician who needed to get her shoplifting conviction expunged. This was the preordained path when you were a small cog in a big firm. And yet here he was, having leap-frogged somehow to this strange and challenging opportunity, this singular moment in time.
He had met Keagan Blackburn only once before, in February when he’d found himself seated at the same table as the CEO of Blackburn Energy at a gala for the Austin Symphony. Blackburn had traded chairs with the lawyer’s wife, so the two men could talk. For the life of him, the younger man couldn’t remember what they’d talked about. But he must have made an impression, because it was three months later and Blackburn had hand-picked little David Morganthau to be lead counsel on a murder charge leveled against the oil baron himself. At some point, one of the senior partners would take over. It was inevitable. But for now… This could be the case of the year, he mused. The case of the decade. Another O.J.
Morganthau and Blackburn were seated side by side in brown leather chairs, in an oak-paneled study, gazing across to the legend himself, ex-attorney general of Texas, a man who’d been short-listed for the Supreme Court but had famously told the president, “Hell, no.” He was still one of the best-connected men in the state. If anyone could pull this into focus…
“Which one of you sons of bitches is pulling my leg? I would make more of an effort to be polite, except I’m not in a joking mood.”
Lawrence “Buddy” McFee was a large man without being fat, in his early seventies, with just enough silver hair to warrant an occasional trim around the edges. An ancient Irish setter, his red-gray head propped on the edge of a tartan-plaid dog bed, was vaguely alert to the possibility of a treat, watching as his master ambled over to the wet bar. It was three in the afternoon, but the consultant chose a cut crystal rocks glass and poured himself four fingers of a mellow, blended whisky. Neat. It was a gift, he told them, from a small-batch Fort Worth distillery, in thanks for services better left unmentioned. He offered none of it to his guests, which was just as well.
“It’s no joke,” David felt compelled to state. Again. “Mr. Blackburn says he has no idea who the woman was. He has no idea how or where she was killed. He maintains his innocence on all charges.” The lawyer coughed nervously. “Actually, it’s one charge. Murder in the first. Although the D.A. could alter that, depending on extenuating circumstances.”
“But there are no circumstances, are there?” Buddy settled into his own armchair and the dog returned to his full-napping position. Picking up his yellow legal pad, the consultant made a few more notes. “My old amigo Keagan here refused to tell a highway patrol officer what he was doing in an open field a mile or two from his house. He refused to say why he was dragging the raped and murdered body of a young woman through said field. He refused to say why his Escalade was parked by the side of the road, engine running, with the back open, or why he was in possession of a shovel – a shovel that one can only assume, if the very observant officer had not noticed this little excursion, he was about to use to dig the young woman’s grave.”
“That’s an assumption. Possession of a shovel is not a de facto admission of the intent to…” David Morganthau searched for the right word. “…grave dig.”
“Not grave dig?” The sarcasm in Buddy’s voice was mixed with disbelief. “Possession of a shovel in a field at night with a dead body. What was his intent, for God’s sake?” He was almost shouting. “To paint a still life? ‘Woman in a Field with Shovel’? Nah, even that won’t work. He didn’t have his paint set with him.”
The young lawyer refused to raise his voice. “From the moment of his encounter with the officer, Mr. Blackburn has offered no explanation, other than to maintain his innocence. That is perfectly within his rights.”
Buddy turned to his old amigo and tilted his head. “How the hell do you say nothing? I’ve known your ass thirty years. I’ve seen you lie your way through board meetings and skirt around the S.E.C. with the silver tongue of a snake. Hell, in the old days I prosecuted you and your brother on insider trading, only to have you out-talk me at every turn. And yet you had nothing to say to a green patrolman who probably wanted to believe anything you said, just so he wouldn’t have to arrest the mighty Keagan Blackburn.”
Blackburn swallowed hard and answered in measured phrases. “I told him that I didn’t know her. I had never met her while she was alive. And I didn’t kill her. I didn’t say a thing about the shovel.”
Buddy’s half-grin was sympathetic. “Bad luck there. If you didn’t happen to be holding a shovel – your own shovel from your own garage, according to the report – you might have said – I don’t know – that you just stumbled across her while you were out jogging, and you were in the process of dragging the poor girl out of the field and to the emergency room.”
The oil executive bristled. “But I was holding a shovel. Number one rule: don’t make up a story that you’re going to have change somewhere down the road.”
“So, what happened, Keagan boy? Really.”
When Blackburn didn’t answer, Buddy McFee eased his gaze over to Morganthau and locked eyes with the third-year associate. “Y’all boys got attorney-client. Pay me a buck and it extends to me.”
The lawyer wasn’t sure if this was something that had to be done immediately. But he opened his wallet, removed the smallest bill he could find, a ten, and pushed it across the antique burlwood desk. He was tempted to ask for change but didn’t. “Mr. Blackburn has told me nothing,” he said. “I advised
him that his statement would be held in strictest confidence. I practically begged him. We all did.”
“He won’t tell his own lawyers?”
“Buddy, come on.” Blackburn chuckled darkly and shook his head. “What did you think when I walked in here with this wet-behind-the-ears jackass and not one of the partners?”
‘Hey,” David protested, but the word barely hit the air.
“Yes, I found that curious,” Buddy admitted.
“Did you think I was slumming it for fun?” Blackburn’s tone grew angry. “With my life hanging in the balance? The firm’s had my family business since before I was born. And now, the time when I need them most, they all plead some bullshit about a conflict of schedules. No one was available for me except this…” He waved his hand in the direction of his lawyer. “…Whatever the hell it is.”
That wasn’t how David recalled the sequence of events. Yes, Mr. Blackburn and the partners had exchanged words. Heated words. But at the end, Jonas Price, senior partner of Price, Evans and White, had agreed to take on the case. Personally. One of their most important clients was in peril. It would have been unconscionable, not to mention stupid, to refuse. By this time, however, Keagan Blackburn had dug his heels in. If the partners had any reservations about his story, or lack of one, then they shouldn’t bother. The oil executive would prefer to be represented by someone who trusted him, by someone who wouldn’t push him to reveal more than he was willing to, by the young, ambitious lawyer, in fact, who had sat next to him at the symphony gala back in February.
“You want me to talk to Jonas?” Buddy reached for the landline on his desk. “I’ll get this straightened out.”
“Don’t bother,” said Blackburn. “It’s a matter of pride. Between you, me and the young bumwad, we’ll handle it.”
“Well, at least you had the sense to call me.” Buddy picked up the ten and brandished it for effect. “So, did you kill her? Just between you, me and the bumwad.”
“I did not,” Blackburn said emphatically.
“Good. Never thought you could kill. Not a stranger, at least.”
“Damn right. Hell, she was a black girl, too?”
“And what does that mean?” Buddy asked.
Blackburn squirmed in his brown leather. “You know. A matter of taste.”
“You mean you’re fully capable of raping and killing a white girl, but not a black one? Not sure that’s your best defense. Okay then, if you didn’t kill her, tell me how you got possession of the body?”
“I can’t tell you.”
Buddy McFee sipped his whisky then hunched forward, elbows planted halfway across the desk. “Are you covering for someone, is that it?” Buddy shook his head. “No, that’s not you. Did you do something even worse and would rather take the fall for this? No. What could be worse than rape and murder in the first?”
“No comment,” the CEO growled. “Make it go away. That’s what you do, isn’t it?”
Buddy nodded then turned to the lawyer. “Was there a dash cam?”
“Installed but not operational,” Morganthau told him. “They’re changing systems.”
“That’s one thing in our favor. And who’s the lead detective?”
“Um.” The lawyer was taken by surprise. He fumbled for the papers in his lap and the whole file cascaded onto the floor. He scrambled to pick them up.
“Never mind,” said Buddy. “I’ll get my own guy in there.”
“Someone you trust?” asked Blackburn.
“Trust like family,” Buddy answered.
In the alcove of the study, behind the gray painted waves of a Japanese folding screen, sat Gil Morales in a matching leather chair, unmoving, focused on every nuance of the conversation. How the hell was Buddy expected to make a rape/murder go away? That was the bad thing about having this mysterious, sometimes exaggerated reputation. It could come back and bite you in the ass.
With the darkness behind him and the lights angled on the desk, Gil had a gauzy view through the translucent waves. This was a tactic they often used when the clients wanted absolute privacy with the great man. In the old days, they had played it straight, with Gil waiting in the downstairs kitchen, nursing a Lone Star, before Buddy would walk in an hour later and tell him everything, no matter how confidential. But that had been the old days.
The conference went on for another ten minutes, five minutes too long for Gil’s taste. He waited until the room was empty. When Buddy had gone outside to usher his new clients to their cars, Gil emerged from his alcove, crossed to the desk and took a sip from the rocks glass, just to make sure that it contained colored water and not whisky, to make sure that Buddy hadn’t gone back on his word. It was water, he noted with relief. Good.
The yellow pad lay face-up on the burlwood surface. Gil flipped back to the first page. He’d always been impressed by his boss’s mental clarity. Even after eighteen years at his side, Gil was in awe of Buddy’s ability to organize seemingly random bits of information. It was what had made him a great attorney general and, after that life-changing fiasco forced him to resign, had allowed him to change gears and become a consultant who made problems disappear, who could apply the right pressure and convince everyone, from the press to the police to the governor, that they and they alone had got the best shake.
It was only when Gil flipped to page four that his satisfied grin faded. He flipped again and found that page five was just more of the same, followed by pages six and half of seven. Whatever had been going through Buddy’s mind in those last few minutes, he had managed to keep it secret from the bumwad and the CEO. He had also, Gil realized, been able to keep it secret from his second in command, which was much more worrisome.
Gil downed the last drops from the cut crystal glass, as if it were a soothing shot of whisky and not just brown water. “She’ll know how to deal with this,” he mumbled in a whisper meant for no one but himself.
CHAPTER 1
The ceiling tiles were of the beige, drop-in variety, interspersed with glaring fluorescent tubes. The chair in the waiting area was uncomfortable and thinly padded, just one step up from a folding chair. Permeating the office’s after-lunch atmosphere was the savory smell of Tex-Mex, along with a familiar, slightly more exotic scent. Hummus, she decided.
From a dozen or so cubicles came the sounds of habitation – soft conversations, or phone calls or the low-volume audio from laptop speakers. Callie couldn’t help speculating which of these little cubes would become hers, if she was lucky enough to get the job, which was not quite a sure thing. Almost but not quite. It would depend on the interview.
When you’re twenty-six and smart and ambitious, she mused, you expect the future to point up, not sideways, or in this case down. There was no way to sugarcoat her prospects – from being a section editor at the state’s largest newspaper down to this, interviewing for the metro beat of a free weekly, handed out on street corners or piled next to the change machine in laundromats.
“Ms. McFee?” The sign on office door announced the titles Publisher/Editor-in-Chief, but the man opening it seemed barely thirty. Tall, dark and angular, he kept his thinning hair short, with some permanent stubble on his chin. Callie assumed it was permanent; he seemed the type. “Sorry to keep you waiting.” His accent was surprising – a pure, unapologetic panhandle, in which “wait” becomes “white” and people go into “bidness”.
“Callie, please.” On the way into his office, they shook hands and Callie reflexively closed the door. “If you’re going to be my boss, you should call me…” She stopped short. “I’m jumping ahead. Are you going to be my boss?”
Oliver Chesney’s smile was boyish, which she found annoying. Bosses shouldn’t be boyish. He lowered his eyes to the résumé on his desk. “If you’ll have me. It’s my job to convince you.”
“How sweet,” she said, almost to herself. “Modest and reassuring. But you have questions. Everyone has questions.”
“And so do you, I’ll bet. We wouldn’t be r
eporters if we didn’t.”
“You’re doing your best to put us on an equal footing, even though we’re not. Sorry.” Callie clenched her fists, willing herself to halt the running commentary. “Sorry. Being back in Austin does this to me.”
“I can imagine,” said Oliver, losing the smile.
“I hope not. There should be some private things, even for me.”
He gave it a moment’s thought. “Have a seat, please. Do you want coffee?”
Callie refused the coffee, then refused the tea and the water and something else that sounded tea-related. She sat herself on the same type of uncomfortable metal chair.
“First question, if you don’t mind. Why did you come back to Austin?”
It almost sounded like an accusation. “Do you think I shouldn’t have?”
“That depends on which rumor I believe.”
“Well, short story, there were layoffs at the Dallas Morning News. My role was combined with someone else’s. He had more seniority, and I was let go. I looked around Dallas for a few weeks, but the world has changed. I don’t need to tell you. Too many people who think they’re journalists, publishing online for free, just to get their names out there.”
“That’s not journalism.”
“Thank you.”
“Although we do bear the name Austin Free Press, so I’m not sure how superior we can be. I think our biggest demographic, in print at least, are the people who forgot baggies to pick up after their dogs.”
Callie faked a chuckle.
“But we pay our staff. And we still have a business model. Last year we did a six-parter on Austin’s homeless problem, which really increased our visibility. Shortlisted for a Pulitzer.”
“I read it. Online. It was terrific.”
“Thanks.” Something about his tone told her that he’d written all six parts. “So that’s why we need Ms. Callie McFee. The metro section is where we’re putting our focus. You know this town. You still have connections. Your last name is legendary, if I may be blunt. And when I called the Morning News for a recommendation, Bill Carlisle got on the phone personally and sang your praises. Best new hire in decades, he said. A shame to see her go, but his hands were tied.”
