by Gorman, Ed
“He couldn’t have been stupid enough to put his name down as the owner.”
Lauren looked offended. “Of course not. Besides, I didn’t look at the owner registry. I figured title would be held by some offshore corporation. I went through the list of boat names instead.”
“Boat names? Why would you do that?”
“Because men aren’t sentimental, except when they are.” She looked at my watch. “They can’t hide the things that matter to them.”
I tugged my cuff over the gold dial. “So did he go for a name from the old country? Or something dumb, like Other People’s Money or Sucker Bet?”
“Wrong, and wrong. But I knew I’d found the right one as soon as I saw it.” She grinned, and I half-expected to see canary feathers sticking out of her mouth. “The Loretta Lynn.”
“Isn’t that a country-western singer?”
“You got it. Born and raised in Butcher Hollow, Kentucky.”
“Why would this guy name his boat after her? He’s Swedish.”
“Norwegian.” Lauren hugged herself happily. “Remember when
I told you the coal mines were in Kentucky? Well, guess what town they’re in.”
“You’ve got to be kidding. I still don’t see how the hell you made the connection with Loretta Lynn. I didn’t think you were a country-western buff.”
“I’m not. But the CDs he’d left in his office were all hers, except for — here’s the good part — the soundtrack from Coal Miner’s Daughter, the movie they made about her life.”
The pride in her voice was beginning to grate. “So then what did you do?”
“The records said the Loretta Lynn was a converted trawler. The DMV guy said that meant it ran on diesel. I called around to the fuel docks until I found the one that knew the boat. The gas jockey ID’d an e-mail photo of my guy, and the Harbor Patrol took me out there. Two days later, I was waiting when he showed up with empty tanks and a grocery list.”
“I suppose you called the media for the perp walk,” I said into my glass. The tumbler was almost empty again, and I considered refilling it.
“Of course.” She almost purred the words. “You know I love the look of a man in a monogrammed shirt and handcuffs.”
“Yeah, those initials come in real handy when it’s time to sort prison laundry.”
The corner of her mouth twitched. “Always the clever one, Tommy.”
Looking out the window, I could see the interior of my office reflected endlessly across the skyline, illuminated boxes filled with bland furniture, screen-savered computers, and generic wall art. As I scanned the warren of other buildings, I half-expected to see someone like me looking back. It made me uncomfortable, and I pulled my gaze back to. Lauren.
“So why did you stay?” I fiddled with the thick clasp on my watch — opening it, snapping it shut, opening it again. The diamonds winked at me. “In Seattle, I mean.”
Her reply was quiet, measured. “I met you, Tommy.”
I stopped playing with my watch.
Lauren got up from her chair.
“Assuming that ridiculous sundial on your wrist is correct, I better get going,” she said. “One of the secretaries let slip that part of tonight’s program includes a small celebration in my honor.”
The words jumped out before I could stop them. “A celebration?”
Her eyes drilled into mine. Anticipation shimmered off her.
“I’m leaving Seattle too.”
I felt something flutter in my chest, forced my eyebrows up in feigned surprise.
“You’re looking at the new DOJ liaison with the local SEC office.” Lauren leaned forward and placed her hands flat on the desktop. Her fingers were long and tapered, the nails filed into perfect ovals. “In Boca Raton.”
The change in her demeanor was subtle but unmistakable. Damn. Sooner or later, we always came to this point in the conversation.
“You may be clever, Tommy, but you’re not clever enough.” Her voice was as soft as cashmere, but underneath I could feel the chill of steel. “I’m going to get you. Three years left on the securities fraud SOL. And, of course, there’s Nick. There’s no statute of limitations on murder.”
Even when I held the winning hand, she still made me feel like I was chasing the pot. Had I refilled my glass twice or three times? I passed a damp palm over my face.
“This isn’t one of your coal deals.” My tongue felt slightly too big for my mouth. “For starters, the REIT investors’ lawsuit was tossed.”
Lauren blew out a dismissive breath. “Plaintiff’s lawyer jumped the gun. Doesn’t affect the criminal prosecution.”
“Lack of evidence — that’s what the judge said when he granted my lawyer’s motion to dismiss. If the plaintiffs didn’t have enough proof to get past more likely than not, how are you going to make it all the way to beyond a reasonable doubt?”
The determination was plain on her face. ‘I’ll find the evidence.”
By any means necessary. I tapped my watch. “You know as well as I do, the more, time that passes, the more memories fade, the more documents are lost, the more people decide to put all this behind them and move on. As for what happened to my partner — ” I put on the sad expression I’d used for the reporters, “ — carjacking gone wrong. Real tragedy.”
“Four thousand investors lost everything in your REIT, Tommy. Four thousand. Already there have been two suicides, plus God knows what other damage — divorce, derailed retirements, ruined careers...” Lauren paused, bit down on her lip.
But it wasn’t my fault, I wanted to tell her. I’d been in hock up to my eyeballs to those deranged Russian bookies. They “let me” pay off my marker by washing their gambling profits through the REIT. I didn’t know they were going to rip off the investors too.
“And we both know Nick wasn’t killed by any carjacker.” Her voice had dropped to a whisper, and I had to lean forward to hear her. Our faces were so close, I could see the pulse beating at her temple and smell her perfume. Definitely grapefruit. Maybe a little cypress?
“He’s dead because he decided to take the immunity offer and testify.” She nearly spat the words. “Against you.”
Also not my fault. Since when did my partner the schmoozer ever bother to look into the mechanics of a deal? Nick’s job was to bring in the business, not run it. When he stumbled onto the money laundering, I had no choice. Otherwise the Russians would have left me lying on that cold concrete floor.
Lauren pushed herself off the desk. “Run to Florida, run halfway around the world. It won’t make a bit of difference. You’ll never be able to put enough distance — or time — between us. More search warrants, new witnesses — I’ll plant the damn evidence if I need to — I’ll get the proof I need. Then it’ll be like that hideous watch of yours was turned back to yesterday.”
Her look of distaste stung. I dropped my eyes to the digital recorder in the drawer. I imagined I could hear its motor humming. Everybody’s on the run from something, Lauren. Or should be.
“I’ll see you in Florida, Tommy. Don’t get too comfortable in your new place. Before you know it, you’ll be moving to another gated community — the kind where Security carries pump shotguns instead of cell phones and the bars on the windows aren’t just for show.”
With a rustle of blue silk, she was gone.
I’ll see you in Florida, Tommy.
The black October rain beat against the window. I checked my watch, drained the last of the scotch, and pushed back my chair. I picked up the recorder from the drawer, turned it off, and dropped it into my pocket.
The irony of where I was headed hit me in the hallway and kept me laughing all the way to the elevator. I punched the Down button. Galletti wouldn’t have offered a talk-and-walk on the Russian thing if he suspected anything about Nick. Lauren must have been keeping her cards close. Made it sweet for me. Once her overeager — or dumb — boss put blanket immunity on the table, I had my get-out-ofjail-free card. If I took his deal, I’d
be untouchable for the murder.
As the elevator doors slid open on the parking garage, I thought back to that night. I hadn’t expected Nick to struggle, let alone rip the watch from my wrist. The Rolex had fallen into a crack in the cement floor beside one of the support beams, wedged out of reach. I averted my eyes as I walked past the spot. What the hell had possessed me to engrave the damn thing?
My DNA, Nick’s blood — the feds had already been over the scene. But Lauren was talking about a new search warrant. If she found the watch before I disappeared into witness protection, my deal with her boss would evaporate. I’d be facing the needle instead of twenty years.
The gray Buick was parked next to the exit ramp, its engine running, in one of the spaces with a good view of the main, entrance. The air was thick with the stink of exhaust. I could hear tires swishing through the puddles at street level.
I slid into the backseat and rested my head against the plump leather. Galletti eagerly twisted around in the driver’s seat. No doubt he’d seen Lauren leave. Jesus, the guy had it in for her so bad, he was going to be late to his own roast.
Our last meeting had not gone well. He’d moaned about my coming up empty-handed again. I’d dropped the bomb about my Florida move.
“We both know witness protection is gonna stick me in someplace like Oshfart, North Dakota,” I’d told him when he finished squawking. “I want to see sun and beach and girls in bikinis one last time. Besides, isn’t this all moot, like you lawyers say? If Lauren’s moving to Florida, she’s not your problem anymore, right?”
He hadn’t been able to hide the ambition and spite in his hooded eyes. Galletti wasn’t gunning for Lauren because she crossed the line. He wanted to take her down because every month she won more cases, more headlines, more fans. She wouldn’t be the first prosecutor to parlay those into a glory ride. But it was a trip her boss wanted to take himself.
I let my eyelids close as his voice once again bore into my skull, more excruciating than the hangover I knew I’d have in the morning.
He asked me the question.
How many had it been this time? Two — no, three counts of prosecutorial misconduct, any one of which was enough to deliver Lauren’s head — and career — to Galletti on a silver platter.
“Nothing.” I shifted in the seat. The recorder jabbed me in the rib. “Didn’t even get a chance to turn it on.”
I got out of the car and went back to my office. I sat down at my desk, took the whiskey bottle out of the drawer, and poured slowly until my glass was full again. I thumbed the Rewind button on the recorder and turned up the volume so I could hear her voice over the rain.
I’ll see you in Florida, Tommy.
• • •
A Stanford graduate and former plaintiff’s trial lawyer (her specialty was suing middle-aged white guys who stole other people’s money), TWIST PHELAN is the author of the critically acclaimed and award-winning Pinnacle Peak mystery series (Poisoned Pen Press) and short stories for various anthologies and Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. “Time Will Tell” was a finalist for the 2010 Crime Writers of Canada Arthur Ellis Award for Best Crime Short Story.
Twist is currently at work on a financial thriller. Find out more about Twist and her work at www.twistphelan.com.
BY HOOK OR BY CROOK
By Charlie Drees
I set the compact tape recorder on the scarred table and watch Dexter Bass pace back and forth in the cramped tooth. He’s sixthree — give or take an inch — with a sinewy build and long, sun-bleached blond hair. The police file indicates he’s been a guest of the state on two prior occasions, but his muscles appear to come from hard manual labor rather than from pump ing iron on a prison workbench. Watching Bass, I feel more like an audience than his court-appointed attorney. He catches me glancing at my watch and slides into the chair on the other side of the table.
“Am I boring you?”
“Mr. Bass, I’ve been appointed — ”
“I’ve had lawyers like you before,” he says, fixing me with his charcoal-colored eyes. “Just going through the motions — and I did the time.”
I settle back in my chair. Due to a shortage of public defenders in our jurisdiction, judges pick from a rotating pool of defense attorneys and assign them to defendants who can’t afford legal counsel. And they frown on attorneys who do a less than stellar job with the assignment. As luck would have it, I’m at the top of the list this week. I can’t afford to annoy the judge, so I swallow my pride. I haven’t had much practice, and the words stick in my throat.
“Mr. Bass, I apologize. I’m not bored. I’m just eager to get started.”
Bass studies my face, checking for any sign of deceit. It’s hard to fool an ex-con, but he’s overmatched and he looks away after a few seconds. Hey, I’m a lawyer. I’ve had plenty of practice look ing sincere.
Bass brushes his blond hair off his forehead. “What do you want to know?”
I click on the tape recorder and grab his file. “Let me go over what’s in the police report, then you can tell me your version, okay?”
“Sure.” He glances at my briefcase. “You got any cigarettes?”
“Sorry. It’s a no-smoking facility.”
Bass snorts. “Figures. They want me healthy so they can stick a needle in my arm.”
Like most cons, Bass knows the law. I open the case folder. “You were arrested early this morning at the Shamrock Bar fol lowing a fight with Cletus Rupp. Rupp died from injuries he sustained during this fight. Witnesses claim you two had been arguing.” I peer at Bass over the top of the file. He’s busy scruti nizing something trapped underneath his fingernails.
“After your arrest, the police discovered a gym bag in your car containing $10,300 in cash. They also found a hammer covered with blood and strands of hair, a man’s Rolex watch, and a wallet containing $63. The driver’s license and credit cards were issued to Steven Toscar.”
Everyone knows who Steven Toscar is. Was. Toscar made tons of money in real estate. Two years ago, he shut me out of one of his projects, costing me a chance for a big score. It upset me at the time, but I got over it. It appears not everyone is as forgiving as I am.
“Toscar’s wife called 911 at eleven 11:38 PM.” I rustle the pages until Bass looks at me. “The police are check ing to see if your fingerprints match the ones found on the ham mer. So what’s your story?”
“Rupp was self-defense. He attacked me. But I swear I didn’t kill Toscar.”
“The evidence suggests you did.”
“Cops plant evidence all the time.”
“Are you saying that’s what happened here?”
All I’m saying is I didn’t kill Toscar. Somebody must’ve planted that evidence.”
A con’s typical defense. I lean back in my chair. “Why don’t you tell me what happened.”
Bass rests his hands on the tabletop. They’re large hands, tanned and callused as though they’re used to hard manual labor. Like swinging a hammer.
“Two months ago,” he begins, “I’m sitting in a bar, having a few drinks, minding my own business, when this guy grabs the stool next to me and orders a beer. I don’t pay any attention until he pays for it. That’s when I see the hook.”
“A hook?”
“Yeah, a hook.”
I arch an eyebrow. “Like a pirate’s hook?”
“Not exactly,” Bass says. “It had these pinchers that were curved on the end. He didn’t have any problem digging the money outta his wallet.” Bass pinches his fingers together. “He was really...”
“Adroit?”
Bass frowns. “Huh?”
I dumb it down a notch. “Skillful?”
“Yeah, skillful. I never met anyone with a hook. We had a few beers, got to talking. He said his name was Cletus Rupp and he owned a swimming pool business. He asked if I wanted a job.”
“Rupp offered you a job?”
Bass nods. “I told him I was an ex-con. He didn’t care. There aren’t that many
jobs for ex-cons, so I said sure. The first contract he gave me was the Toscars’ pool. That’s how I met Eve.”
I recall a picture from the society pages of a young, attractive woman thirty years younger than Toscar. “You got involved with Toscar’s wife?”
Bass’s dark eyes look haunted. “Mr. Cleary, I didn’t stand a chance.”
I watch the tape spin for a few moments. “What happened?”
“I worked on the pool twice a week,” Bass says. “At first, Eve acted like I wasn’t there. Then one day she asked if I wanted a drink. I told her I wasn’t supposed to drink on the job. She said it was just lemonade — and she wouldn’t tell anyone.”
“Were you nervous?”
“Hell yes,” Bass says. “I’m not stupid. I figured she had something on her mind.”
“And did she?”
“Yeah. She wanted to know if I’d kill her husband.”
The tape runs out. I fumble the little plastic cassette out of the tape recorder, flip it over, and shove it back in. Before I start the tape, Bass asks for something to drink. I step outside, talk to the guard, and he brings us two Pepsis. After he leaves, I push the Record button.
“Mrs. Toscar asked you to kill her husband?”
Bass unscrews the top on his drink. “Not in so many words. First, she told me she knew I was an ex-con. I asked if that mat tered. She said no. And that’s when she told me to call her Eve.” Bass faces me. “Mr. Cleary, I’ve been in some nasty prison fights, but when she said that, she scared the hell outta me.”
“What happened?”
Bass sips some Pepsi before replying. “She told me how her husband didn’t pay any attention to her. How a woman like her had needs.” He takes a deep breath. “One thing led to another, and we ended up in bed.”
My heart ratchets up a notch. “Go on.”
“Afterward,” Bass says, “she kept telling me how much she hated her husband.” He rakes his fingers through his hair. “This went on for a month. Eve would say she wished we didn’t have to sneak around. I’d laugh and tell her she’d never settle for an ex-con. She’d pout until I’d say I was sorry. It was weird, but it felt kinda good too. It made me feel ... special.”
