Amanda was quiet and had moved only to breathe, so I continued.
"But, the nurse said something back there, before you showed up. Cancer is going to be the main thing in my life from here on out, but it's not going to be--it can't be--the only thing. I'm going to have a life after cancer. And that life is going to include things like helping protect you and putting away human stains like Michael Wheeler for good."
I pinched the bridge of my nose and closed my eyes for a second. "But I shouldn't ask you to put your life in my hands, to risk your neck just because I want to prove I can take cancer on headfirst and beat it. This isn't about me thumbing my nose at my disease, it's about keeping you alive and giving you your life back. This is a serious question. I guess what I'm saying is, do we find someone else to take this one, to watch your back? Or do you want me to stay on the case?"
I choked up and stumbled over the last few words, surprising myself. The possibility of having to step aside--good reasons or not--scared me. A black depression welled up in my heart at the thought of returning to the empty, meaningless days when retirement had yawned open in front of me.
I didn't have time to dwell on it, though. Amanda launched herself across the room and, with a sob, wrapped her arms around my neck in a bear hug. Not easy, considering I was slouched sideways on the sofa. I closed my arms around her and hugged her back, feeling how small and seemingly fragile she was.
"I'll take that as a yes," I said, and squeezed.
. . .
My confession seemed to patch things up, which was a good thing, as the rest of the afternoon was a wash. Between bouts of fatigue and waves of sleepiness, I reclined on the couch and stared off into space. I'd like to say I was busy solving the mystery of where in the hell Michael Wheeler was hiding, but in reality, my mind was completely blank, as empty as an upside-down bucket. Amanda puttered, asking me how I was doing every so often as she got familiar with the house and where I kept things. I felt guilty, watching her act as my impromptu sick nurse, but there wasn't much I could do about it. When there wasn't any more puttering left to do, she came in and asked me if I wanted the TV or some music on to keep my mind occupied.
"No TV," I said, cringing at the thought of being pinned to the couch, helpless, forced to watch the crap that passed for innovative programming. "That's my weather and sports box only. And, ah, the music I like isn't for relaxing."
She looked at me, curious. "Really? I thought cops were jazz guys. Smoky bars and saxophones, that kind of thing."
I groaned. "Jesus, no. I can't stand that stuff. All that honking and tooting drives me nuts. It's so random. It never seems to end."
"So what do you listen to? Like, do-wop stuff?"
She'd said it with a straight face, so either she was a great actress or she wasn't actually trying to insult me. "No, Amanda, I don't listen to do-wop. I grew up in the seventies, not the fifties."
"Like what?"
"I…look, I doubt we're on the same page, musically speaking."
"Try me."
I sighed. "The Dead Boys? Television? The Voidoids?"
Her face stayed blank. It was like I was explaining the inner workings of a jet engine. I tried again. "The Stooges? Chelsea? The New York Dolls?"
She shook her head.
I tried to find something to bridge the gap. "The Clash? Iggy Pop?"
Nothing. Then I thought of it. "The Ramones? You gotta know the Ramones."
She lit up like a light bulb. "I gotta be sedated," she crooned.
"No," I said. "But close enough."
"So you're into…punk?"
"You got it, sister," I said. I sat up, trying to get comfortable. "Hard to believe, huh?"
"I don't know. I can't see you with a Mohawk and a pierced nose."
I waved that away. "That came later. We wore jeans and Tshirts."
"So, you still listen to that stuff? Where's the collection?"
I pointed at the dining room with my chin. "In there. Inside the big wood thing hides a wheel. That's a machine that was invented to play round, plastic disks we call ‘records.'"
She smiled sweetly as she got up to investigate. "I know what they are, Marty. I've been to the Smithsonian."
A faint thunk told me she'd opened the cabinet containing my stash of LPs, something I hadn't done in a long time. Two years? Three? I realized with something like amazement that I'd become a boring old man. I'd thought it had been cancer that had sapped me of joy and energy, but maybe it had started earlier than that.
From the dining room, I heard the whisking noise of albums being pulled out and slipped back into place. Amanda giggled a few times, probably at the atrocious covers, then I heard the faint click and buzz as the stereo was turned on and some scuffing noises as she put a record on the turntable. I got the shivers when I heard those first few seconds of rhythmic static--a mechanical thrill you can't get from a CD or a computer file--then the opening bars of The Business playing England 5, Germany 1 jumped out of the speakers, looking for blood.
She listened to it for a few seconds, then cranked it. Jesus, it was loud. For a second--just a second--I almost yelled for her to turn it down. But then she leapt into the living room, dancing a lunatic jig to the beat, her hair flying around like a storm. I started to laugh and it felt good. Amanda kept up the dance for the full 2:54, throwing in some air guitar for good measure. She only stopped as Steve Kent's last chord faded from the speakers. She grinned at me, totally out of breath, her hair wrapped around her head like a squirrel's nest. I was still laughing, but the sudden silence let us hear what had probably been going on for a while: someone knocking at the door with a hard, businesslike rap.
"Oh, shit," Amanda said, and ran to turn the record player off.
I heaved myself off the couch, anxiety twisting in my gut. I thought about getting my gun, but dismissed the idea. Killers don't knock when they want to increase their body count. Though that brought up another unpleasant thought: if it had been Wheeler, we would've never heard him come in the back or through a window with The Business's greatest hit cranked to ten on the dial. So much for light-hearted memories of the punk generation.
I opened the door. Standing a foot away with her hand raised to knock again was Julie Atwater. I couldn't have been more surprised than if Michael Wheeler himself had been standing there with a box of chocolates and a signed confession. Her mouth was set in a flat, livid line. The cold December wind blew her hair across her face and she pulled it away with an angry gesture.
"Counselor," I said.
"Singer." She stood there, glaring at me.
I raised my eyebrows. "Can I help you?"
"You were lying," she said.
"Sorry?"
She crossed her arms over her chest. "What is your game, Singer? What are you trying to get out of me?"
"Get out of you?" I repeated, confused.
"Michael Wheeler," she said. "Tossing his name at me. Like I'd crack in half. You're after something and I want to know what it is."
"I'm trying to find the guy--"
She plowed ahead. "I hope you know a hell of a lawyer, Singer, because you're going to need one. I'm not intimidated by cops, ex-cops, or other assholes who think they can get what they want by throwing their weight around. I gave you a chance to ask your stupid questions."
Before I could say anything in my defense--whatever that was going to be, since I didn't know what I was being accused of--I felt Amanda push past me through the doorway and take a step outside, right into Julie Atwater's grill. Atwater might've been on fire about something, but Amanda was a half-foot taller and didn't have the most accommodating look on her face, either.
"Lady, I don't know what the hell's wrong with you, but this guy doesn't need this right now. If you've got something important to say, I suggest you call it in, because I'm not going to let you stand here and rip strips off him."
Atwater looked at Amanda like she'd fallen out of the sky. "Who are you?"
Amanda put her
hands on her hips. "I don't give my name to bitches who stand on other people's porches and scream at them in the middle of the night."
"What did you call me?"
I put a hand on Amanda's shoulder to try and restrain her before we had a full scale brawl in the front yard. "Hold on. Jesus Christ, would you both calm down for a second? Let's pull this inside or we're all going to freeze to death."
"I don't think so," Atwater said. "Whatever it is you're trying to squeeze out of me isn't going to come out whether you try to scare me or sweet-talk me."
"Atwater, I got to tell you, I have no idea what you're talking about," I said. "Really. You look like you're ready to blow a gasket over something, but if it's my little stunt with your security firm, I thought we were over that. I'll apologize if that'll make you feel better."
Atwater put a hand to her chest and gave me a look of amazement. "Really? Apologize? And then what? Try your story about Michael Wheeler wandering the streets again?"
I exchanged a look with Amanda. "He is wandering the streets again."
She shook her head. "Singer, just stop. You're no good at this. If you want to scare me or extort me into something you're going to have to try harder."
I started to argue, but at that moment the world started to tilt and I grabbed onto the door frame. Amanda took my elbow.
"Is this supposed to impress me?" Atwater said. "Get a little peaked bullying other lawyers you know?"
"He was at his oncologist getting chemo," Amanda said, propping me up. "Good enough for you?"
"Hey, now--" I said, but Atwater interrupted me.
"Chemo?" She looked stunned.
I winced. So much for my privacy and dignity. "I had an appointment early this morning and I've been flat on my back since. No time to intimidate public defenders, I'm afraid. Or anyone else, for that matter."
Atwater opened her mouth, shut it again. She glanced at Amanda. "Who are you, anyway?"
"Amanda Lane," she said with an edge, still angry. "Who the hell are you?"
Atwater stared back at her. The encounter wasn't going according to plan for her, obviously. I tried to diffuse the situation.
"Amanda, this is Julie Atwater, Michael Wheeler's defense attorney at your mother's murder trial," I said. "Counselor, this is Brenda's daughter."
Atwater still didn't say anything. Her face was inscrutable. We stood there for a moment, an awkward triangle of three, then the wind gusted again and what little adrenaline and energy I had was swept away in the face of an angry winter. "Look, I know you're still mad, confused, whatever, but why don't you come inside and talk. Because we've got to talk. And I'm not going to do it standing here with the door wide open."
She didn't move.
"Please," I said.
Something broke through. Maybe she saw how hard I was holding onto the door frame or the fact that we were telling the truth became self-evident. Whatever it was, her face--a mask of anger and accusation a moment before--relaxed. A fraction.
"I think I owe you an apology," she said.
"Forget that," I said. "We need to talk about Michael Wheeler."
. . .
It was late, but everyone was up for coffee. The three of us shared a chill that had nothing to do with the cold draft finding its way through the cracks of my house. I grabbed the cups while Atwater settled into an easy chair across from the couch where I'd flopped most of the day. She pulled her hair behind her ears, revealing gold hoops that, coupled with the black jeans and a cream cable knit sweater she wore, made her look stylish and ten years younger than when I'd seen her in court wearing drab business suits. I handed out the coffee, then sat down and looked at her.
"Can we get a few things straight?" I asked. "It sounds like you think I'm trying to scare you into doing something illegal. Or maybe just to harass you. I'm not. I'm after one thing and one thing only: to stop Michael Wheeler."
"It wasn't a put-on," Atwater said, lacing her fingers around her mug.
It hadn't been a question, but I treated it like one. "No. I'm sorry if my approach was, ah, duplicitous, but you didn't have any reason to give me the information I needed."
"Hanging up on you probably didn't help," she said.
I smiled. "It didn't. And if you throw gas on a fire, well, you know how it goes. I got my back up and didn't make it any easier on you. I apologize for that. But the truth is that Michael Wheeler is back in DC, counselor."
She got a peeved look on her face. "Would you stop calling me that? Julie is fine."
"Okay…Julie," I said, trying it out. "In any case, you're one of maybe four people who might have a scrap of information about him. So I had to talk to you."
"How do you know it's him?" she asked.
I gave her the whole story, with Amanda chipping in here and there. Throughout it all, Atwater kept her eyes focused on the floor, her fingers stroking the side of her coffee cup. Her eyebrows were knotted in a frown, causing a little ridge to develop at the bridge of her nose.
"That's what we know," I said when we were done. "Maybe it helps make sense of what I was doing at your place. Now, are you ready for some questions?"
"Like, why did I come over here ready to rip you apart?"
I nodded.
She put her coffee cup down on the table between us, then put her hands to her face for a minute. I thought she might cry, but she took a deep breath and smoothed her hair back several times, a ritual-like gesture. I thought we'd passed the moment and she was going to hold it together, but she crumbled forward instead, burying her face back in her hands and this time she really did start to cry. Quietly, with her shoulder jogging up and down and no sound coming out. I looked on, useless. I'm good for nothing when people cry. But before I could open my mouth and say something stupid, Amanda walked around the coffee table, knelt down, and put a hand on Julie's shoulder. She traced small circles on her back until the heaves subsided. I made myself useful and brought some tissues from the kitchen, which I put on the table. She grabbed one and blew her nose, then stared into some middle distance.
"God," she said in a whisper. "I hate him. For everything. For every goddamn thing that's gone wrong in my life for the last twelve years."
I said nothing.
"My career wasn't just a mess because people thought I'd been handed a lame duck case. That was half of it." She wiped her eyes, balled up the tissue, picked up another. "The other half was simple. He scared me. It was so obvious he'd done it. He never came out and said it, but he'd…brag about it. Describe how it felt. It was all for my benefit. He'd watch me, waiting to see my reaction, telling me what it was like to watch her--to watch her die. He'd laugh if I showed the smallest emotion, the tiniest tic. He'd pat my hand and tell me not everyone was cut out for it. Cut out for killing."
I felt rather than saw a small convulsion in Amanda, a ripple that went through her back and shoulders. I looked over, but her face was stony, impassive.
Julie cleared her throat, getting a measure of control back. "He never threatened me. Not directly. But he seemed so sure that he was going to get off, so smug about it, like he had some kind of insurance. Like if he didn't make it, it could only be because of me. And if I screwed it up, I'd pay."
Something dawned on me. "You stopped taking homicide cases after his trial."
She took a breath. "Not all of them, just most. It doesn't really make sense, after all. Not every violent criminal is a murderer. There're plenty of people out there you should be afraid of who don't kill. If I'd wanted to be one-hundred percent safe, I would've dropped criminal defense work. Done corporate law or something. I stopped short of that. Trial law is what I was born to do. But I won't take a murder case if I can help it. I just can't do it. Won't do it."
"No more Michael Wheelers," I said.
She nodded. "I feel safe. In control."
"But not the easiest ride."
"My career took a hit. I'm considered a second rate attorney and earn a tenth of what I should. But I'm alive."
/>
"Then I showed up," I said.
"When you told me he was back in town, it all came back. I could hear his voice, feel his hand on my arm. His hand was always hot, burning up. I could feel it through my sleeve. I can feel it now."
I gave her a second, then asked, "Why tell us this?"
She sighed. "I'm tired of being scared. Twelve years tired of it. And not just scared. Guilty. I helped that bastard walk out of the courtroom and get on with his life, while the rest of us were left holding the bag. You, me, Amanda. Sometimes it seems like he's the only one that got away intact."
We all were quiet for a minute, then I said, "There's a way to change that."
She looked at me for a long time, then nodded.
. . .
"You think there's anything in your files that can help?" I asked. "Something that would pin down where he is right now?"
"I don't know," she said. "I recorded our conversations and logged a lot of hours coaching him, trying to get our story straight. There might be something buried in all that paperwork."
Amanda, quiet for most of the conversation, spoke up now. "Did he…did he say why he did it?"
Julie glanced at her. "I'm sorry, he didn't. For all his bravado, he was still careful. Whenever he talked about it, you know, trying to get a reaction from me, he always described things in the third person, distantly, as if he were an observer. It's not like I'd take the stand against my own client, but he still chose every word with care."
"Don't worry," I said. "When I get my hands on him, he'll tell us anything we want."
Amanda smiled at me, but it was empty. There's precious little consolation in bringing a killer to justice. If I had my hands around Wheeler's neck right now, it still wouldn't bring her mother back. I squeezed her shoulder, then turned to Julie.
A Reason to Live (Marty Singer1) Page 13
