False Witness

by Scott Cook

  She wrinkled her nose as if she could actually smell Pulaski in the room. “Why on earth would I even give that greasy little narcissist the time of day?”

  “How was your lunch today?” Crowe asked, ignoring her.

  She blinked. “How was my lunch?”

  “Yeah. Saigon Palace, right? Stella told me.”

  “I had spring rolls and satay shrimp. What does that have to do with anything?”

  Crowe sat on the edge of the desk and crossed his arms. He cocked one boot over the other. “Did the reporters ask you about the attack on Hodge?”

  “No. Why would they? All I know is what you told me.”

  “Exactly. Why would they? Unless maybe you knew more than you were letting on. What about it, Diane? Do you know who was behind the attack?”

  Diane was still on the ropes, but whether it was out of panic or just confusion, Crowe couldn’t tell. “Of course I don’t,” she said. “I would never lie to you, Jason. Besides, how could I know anything else?”

  “The same way you could know about a package taped to the back of a toilet in the men’s room at Saigon Palace.”

  The line was a calculated gambit, designed to elicit a reaction. Crowe had other methods of spotting a lie, but most of them involved sweat and, all too often, pain. He studied Diane closely, hoping for a particular response in spite of himself. If it was true, he’d have his answers. But he didn’t want it to be true, and not just because of his own feelings for her. If she really was behind the hit, it would mean he had been completely suckered from the outset. By a woman, no less.

  Diane cocked her head to one side, her brow a knot of confusion and distaste. “Why the hell would I go into the men’s room at the Saigon Palace?” she asked, clearly baffled. “I barely trust the kitchen there, let alone the facilities. That place is a pig sty.”

  Crowe realized he’d been holding his breath. He let it out in a long, low hiss. “All right,” he said. “I believe you.”

  The confusion on her face quickly turned to anger, and Crowe could see the real Diane was back with a vengeance. “You believe me? About whether I frequent the men’s room in a divey Vietnamese restaurant? What the fuck is going on in your head, Crowe? You have precisely five seconds to tell me what this interrogation is all about, and it better be a damn good story.”

  Crowe thought for a moment before deciding to spill it all. What did he have to lose? He told her about Hodge and what had happened in the Badlands, about Trinh and his suspicions, and what had led him to her office. She listened in silence. When he was done, she turned her back to him and walked to the window. The sunlight streaming through it highlighted Diane’s wicked curves under her dress as she placed her hands on her hips.

  “Get out,” she said without turning around.

  “I had to be sure.”

  “I know. And the fact that you weren’t sure before you walked in here means you don’t trust me. If that’s the case, I can’t be your lawyer.”

  “Come on, Diane.”

  “Goodbye, Jason.” She continued to stare out the window at the Rocky Mountains in the distance, faded to a powder blue by the white light of the summer afternoon sun.

  Crowe scowled as he pushed off from the desk and stalked out of the room. This day just keeps getting better and better.

  #

  Sam and Tess sat in Blue Thunder, waiting for Crowe to emerge.

  “I could have handled him, you know.”

  Tess gave him a pinched smile. “Of course you could,” she said. “I just didn’t want you to get charged with beating the hell out of the de facto leader of Alberta’s most vicious criminal organization.”

  Sam peered at her. “Sarcasm doesn’t become you, Tess.”

  “And the Mr. Tough Guy act doesn’t become you,” she said, rounding on him. “God, it’s a wonder you can even stand with that giant chip on your shoulder.”

  “Well, what should I have done? Rolled over like a dog and run away? How did I know he wasn’t going to attack Diane?”

  “Have you ever heard the old saying about getting more flies with honey than with stupid macho attitude? Besides, Diane Manning is a big girl, she can take care of herself.”

  Sam turned back to look out of the Suburban’s pitted windshield. “There’s just no reasoning with you.”

  Tess reached over and punched him hard in the shoulder.

  “If we’re not going to confront Crowe, why are we waiting for him?” he said, rubbing his arm. “We can’t follow him; he’ll make us in a second.”

  Her eyes grew huge. “Really? You mean this electric blue boxcar wouldn’t just blend into traffic?”

  “Tsk. More sarcasm.”

  “We’re waiting because I left my purse in the office.”

  “Oh. Well, that makes sense then.”

  “I’m glad you agree.”

  They sat in silence and the stifling heat for several more minutes, until they saw Crowe leave the building and walk toward his SUV. He looked angry.

  “All right, let’s go,” said Tess. She opened the passenger side door and dropped to the ground. “And for God’s sake, don’t let him see you.”

  Sam rolled his eyes, but did as he was told. He walked around behind Blue Thunder, keeping an eye on Crowe through the milky glass in the back of the Suburban. He watched as Crowe nosed out into traffic, sped through a yellow light, then turned left to head north on Macleod.

  Inside the lobby, they hit the button for the tenth floor and waited. To the left of them, Sam could hear a steady clip-clop coming from the nearby stairwell. The door to the stairs swung open just as the L button lit up green on the elevator. They had just enough time to see Diane Manning storm out and continue through the front door of the building before the elevator doors slid closed in front of them.

  “I’d give anything to know what happened after we left,” said Sam.

  Tess smiled. “Yeah? Would you give a week’s pay?”

  “Sure.” He pulled out his wallet and extracted a twenty. “Here you go.”

  She chuckled as the doors opened and they headed into the lobby of Ledger, Larson and Manning. The blonde receptionist looked up from a paperback novel to greet them.

  “Forget something?” she chirped.

  “I left my purse in Ms. Manning’s office,” said Tess.

  “Go on in, hon,” said the receptionist. “It’s open. That lock won’t be working for a while.”

  Tess smiled. “Yeah, we saw it from the other side.”

  “Don’t judge Jason by that,” the woman said, waving a dismissive hand at the door. “He’s a hothead, but his heart is in the right place.”

  Said every abused woman in the history of mankind, Sam thought as they entered Diane’s office. Tess’s purse was where she left it, on the carpet between the two chairs. She did a quick inventory as she picked it up. Apparently satisfied, she slung the bag over her shoulder and headed for the door.

  “Checking to see if Crowe stole anything?” Sam asked as he caught up. Tess ignored him. The receptionist waved absently to them as they passed, then returned to her novel.

  Tess hit the button for the lobby when they reached the elevator. When the doors opened, she entered first, then turned to face him. Her go-to-hell smile was in full effect.

  “Hand over the twenty bucks,” she said as he stepped inside and the doors closed.

  “What? Why?”

  “You said you’d give a week’s pay to know what happened after we left the room.”

  He looked at her. “And?”

  Tess reached into her bag and removed her smart phone. He recognized the unique case – polished silver with a quill and inkpot embossed in the center. On the screen was a logo of a pair of headphones hung atop an old-school radio microphone. The name Voice Record Pro was emblazoned across it in a funky red font. Underneath it was a message that read recording complete.

  Sam gaped, first at the phone, then at Tess. His heart was racing. “Seriously?” he breathed.


  “Oh yeah,” she said with a smirk.

  Sam withdrew the twenty from his wallet again. He dropped to one knee and handed the bill up to her waiting hand, his eyes on the elevator floor.

  “I’m not worthy,” he said.

  “No, you’re not,” Tess said, plucking the bill from his grip. “But you’re not a total loser, so I suppose I’ll let you listen to it with me.”

  CHAPTER 18

  Thunderheads had begun to gather in the northern sky, and Crowe was neck deep in black thoughts by the time he trudged into the Rosebush. An hour in after-work traffic had left him ripe to his own nose, and he was now so hungry it felt like his stomach was trying to eat itself.

  There were no signs of life on the main floor, which was odd. Usually there was at least one of them here, if only to keep an eye on the girls. Ultimately, Crowe didn’t care; he was in no mood for a chin-wag. The Roses were good at their jobs, making sure the money continued to flow in despite the situation the organization had been in for the better part of a year, and all of them knew how to take orders. But none of them had any imagination, and empathy was beyond them, so they were shit conversationalists, and next to useless when it came to strategizing.

  Without warning, Pulaski appeared out of the office. His left hand hadn’t needed a cast, but it was the same bruised blue-black as the stormy sky outside. He looked startled when he saw Crowe.

  “Hey, boss,” Pulaski said. “Just making a deposit in the safe. I finally got that guy from the video lottery bar to pay up. Ten grand.”

  “Good work.”

  “Thanks.” Pulaski slung his leather jacket over his shoulder and headed for the back door. “I’m gonna take off before it starts to pour. I fucking hate riding in the rain.” He stopped at the door and turned to Crowe. “Unless you need me for somethin?”

  “Nah, take off.” Crowe didn’t know what to think now. Just because Diane wasn’t involved didn’t mean one of the Roses wasn’t. He didn’t trust Pulaski as far as he could throw him, but he wasn’t going to sneeze at ten grand. And hell, the guy had kept his mouth shut since he got out of the hospital. Was Crowe wrong? Was he hunting shadows, missing the real picture right in front of him? All of it was conspiring with the weather to give him a real Siamese cat of a headache.

  Pulaski let the heavy door slam shut behind him. A few moments later, Crowe heard his Harley roaring away from the gravel lot and off into the distance. Upstairs, of course, the girls would be entertaining their fans via webcams, but they had their own entrance, and rarely mixed with the Roses these days. Things were different before Hodge was locked up – parties just about every night – but the atmosphere had been strained for months. And he was sure some of the girls had figured out that they were keeping the organization afloat; the fifty grand or so they brought in a month was the club’s only legitimate income now, and it was barely managing to keep the lights on. The cash stores had all but dried up in the months since Tom Ferbey was killed. The ten grand Pulaski had just brought in was very welcome.

  Crowe stripped off his tee-shirt and jeans in the unisex bathroom, grabbing identical fresh versions from his locker. He reached reflexively for the Sig Sauer before remembering he’d left it in the Navigator, then padded with the clothes to the communal shower area. Whatever the Rosebush had been in its heyday, it had been big enough to need half a dozen stalls, separated by four-foot-tall pony walls, so that employees could wash away the stink of the day before they went home to their nuclear families for dinner and a roll in the hay with the missus.

  He stood motionless under the showerhead, eyes closed, letting the cold water sluice over his head and shoulders, willing his heartbeat to slow, trying to grab hold of his thoughts. Jason Crowe hated being wrong, and he had been dead wrong about Diane. Yes, she was a manipulative viper, but it was stupid to believe that she had any part in a plot against Hodge. Chalk it up to frustration; he was looking for a clue, any clue, and he seized on what Trinh had offered. It seemed plausible on the surface – Diane had suggested he take over the Wild Roses and let Hodge rot in prison. But shifting loyalty and self-preservation were simply the order of the day in the shadow world in which he lived and worked. The Sacred Church of Looking Out For Number One, of which Jason Crowe was the fucking pope. Diane had no reason to stay loyal to Hodge, especially after the money had all but dried up.

  He shut off the water and wrapped a towel around his waist. Outside, he could hear distant grumblings of thunder, as if the sky was clearing its throat for a major announcement. That suited him fine; a thunderstorm would match his mood, and it would finally bring down the temperature, at least for a little while. He tossed the towel into an industrial laundry hamper (the Rosebush had a couple of machines, usually used by the girls for washing their “dorm” bedsheets) and stood naked for a moment, relishing the coolness of the air.

  “It seems like you’re always impressing me when I walk into this place.”

  Crowe crouched to the floor reflexively and spun to face the intruder. His hand moved to the small of his back before his conscious mind registered the fact that his automatic was fifty yards away in the Navigator. He would be fighting unarmed and naked. All this went through his mind in the fraction of a second it took him to realize he was facing Diane Manning.

  “Settle down, big boy,” she cooed from the doorway to the bathroom. “At least give me a second to get out of my own clothes.”

  Jason Crowe wasn’t a blushing man, but he felt his cheeks grow warm as he turned and grabbed the fresh pair of jeans from the bench in front of him. He’d been naked in front of countless people in his life – even fought naked a few times – but, as always, Diane’s gaze managed to upset his equilibrium. He continued to face away from her and he pulled on the jeans and tee-shirt.

  “I didn’t expect to see you here,” he said. “But I’m glad you came.”

  “I haven’t come yet,” she said with a wicked smile. “But the night is still young.”

  Crowe felt the familiar tug in his jeans. “Look, Diane, I owe you an apology.”

  Diane feigned shock. “Jason Crowe? Apologizing?”

  “I was wrong to accuse you. I was –”

  She held up a carefully manicured hand. “You were grasping at straws. I get it, Jason. I don’t appreciate it, but I get it. You’re desperate for answers, and you thought you saw one. Besides, I haven’t exactly been keeping Rufus Hodge on the front burner these last couple weeks.”

  He walked toward her, feet still bare against the concrete floor. She didn’t turn away as he held her arms – gently, this time. “I made a stupid, stupid mistake.”

  “Couldn’t be,” she said. Her perfume filled his head as she leaned close. “Jason Crowe doesn’t make stupid mistakes.”

  “Wish I believed that.”

  She put her lips to his ear. “Tell you what,” she purred. “I won’t believe you made a stupid mistake, if you don’t believe that I let a couple of reporters and a thug throw me off my eight-hundred-dollar-an-hour game.”

  “Thug? Is that what I am?” Crowe chuckled softly and embraced her. “I’ve never met anyone quite like you, Diane Manning.”

  “You barely even know me,” she said. “But you’re about to know me better.” With that, she pressed her breasts against him and grabbed the back of his head. Lips parted and tongues met, and suddenly Jason Crowe forgot about his surroundings. He grabbed the clasp of the whip handle belt at her waist, removing it in a single movement. She pulled off the tee-shirt he had just pulled on. Her fingernails traced lines in the still-damp hairs on his chest as he grabbed the hem of her dress and drew it up over her head. Two minutes later, he was inside her in one of the army surplus cots that served as party beds for the Wild Roses. Neither of them minded the smell.

  #

  “Apology accepted,” Diane breathed as they lay, panting, in the small bed. She was half on top of him, her warm skin sticking to his own the way only flesh-on-flesh can. “That was almost enough to make me
start smoking.”

  Crowe smiled. It wasn’t the first time – or even the hundredth – that he’d been complimented on his performance, but it still made him feel good. “I had a good partner,” he said.

  “I’ve been wanting to do that for months. I guess we’re those people who have to have a good fight first, like in the movies.”

  They both laughed. It felt good. They were silent for a few moments before Diane said: “I didn’t tell you everything about those reporters. There was something else.”

  So much for the moment, Crowe thought with a sigh. “What was it?”

  “It was actually really, really strange. They asked me if I honestly thought Rufus Hodge had killed Tom Ferbey.”

  He looked at her. “What the hell for?”

  “I have no idea.” She poked his chest. “Somebody kicked in the door right after that, so I couldn’t ask them.”

  He blushed again. Dammit. “So what did you tell them?”

  “They asked for the truth, and that’s what I gave them. I know he isn’t guilty. You told me so yourself that day we talked about the appeal.”

  “So you did believe me.” He supposed he’d thought she believed him, but up until this moment, he realized he had never been sure.

  “Don’t act so surprised,” she said. “I know you’re an honest man, Jason. You’re just not in an honest business. I suppose the same could be said for me.”

  He squeezed her closer. “Does that mean we’re in this together?”

  “Don’t go proposing just yet, tiger,” she said with a grin. “I’m still a lawyer. I’ll start the appeal process as soon as possible, and I’ll see how far I can go with hammering the prosecution’s case. But as I said, I don’t expect to find many people willing to stick their neck out for a man like Hodge, even if the Crown did do a piss-poor job of proving its case.”

  “The irony is killing me,” said Crowe. “The most wanted man in the country gets taken down for the one thing he didn’t do.”

  “And in the process, the Wild Roses take a massive hit, and suddenly there’s a police and media microscope on you, again for something you didn’t do. It’s the perfect setup.”