But Cammon, inevitably, is also drawn into the search for the killer dubbed “The Rover” who is believed responsible for the deaths of at least three young women along the coast. In the course of both investigations he meets fascinating people such as Father John Salvez, a lone priest tending the crumbling ruins of Whittlesun Abbey; alcoholic Ellen Ransell and her beautiful epileptic daughter Guinevere—who claims to have seen The Rover; and F.R. Symington, a teacher and Community Theater director who knew Andre.
Both cases are complex and Cammon's methods—sometimes plodding, sometimes creative and exotic—are a pleasure to watch. Whellams has not just created an interesting detective; he has the ability to fashion many complex characters without resorting to outlandish eccentricities. Readers will be hard pressed to solve either crime before Cammon, though the opportunity is there.
* * * *
Andy Siegel, a New York City personal injury and malpractice lawyer, introduces Tug Wyler in his debut Suzy's Case (Scribner, $26) and Wyler shares both his creator's profession and location as he tackles a variety of cases, including that of a young girl who suffers severe brain damage while under hospital care. Wyler is a feisty, appealing character (except in his utter surrender to his shrewish wife).
When criminal attorney Henry Benson is forced to give up his injury practice because of a “civil litigation misadventure” (i.e. malpractice), Wyler inherits all twenty-one of Benson's ongoing cases with the two lawyers splitting fees fifty-fifty. Wyler refers to the cases as HICs (Henry's injured criminals) and while some of the cases are lucrative, others are mainly headaches and ALL of them involve bona fide criminals who have been tried, convicted, and jailed.
* * * *
* * * *
These cases provide Wyler with some of his best scenes in and out of the courtroom. But there is one case that is different. It involves a little girl, Suzy, who at age six was in the Brooklyn Catholic Hospital receiving treatment for sickle cell anemia when something went dreadfully wrong and Suzy, a child prodigy, was transformed into a spastic quadriplegic with severe brain damage. Benson tells Wyler there is no case, their own expert witness, Dr. Laura Smith, says there is no case, and the defendant has filed for dismissal.
Siegel does an excellent job of detailing the legal hoops that Wyler has to jump through since he is now the attorney of record for Suzy but it is Suzy's beautiful and determined mother, June, who really makes him jump and convinces him to look into the case more deeply. And Wyler finds enough to be sure that someone is covering up something and that there really is a case to be made.
While Suzy's case is the one that involves sleuthing and danger, as well as legal maneuverings, Wyler's other cases represent a delightful smorgasbord that illustrate his creative approach to lawyering both inside and outside the courtroom. Wyler's catch phrase for all his shortcomings is “at least I admit it” and it's hard not to look forward to future Tug Wyler novels. At least I admit it.
* * * *
ALL POINTS BULLETIN: Mark Billingham's latest Tom Thorne novel—The Demands—is just out from Mulholland Books. * Supernatural-noir thriller Faustus Resurrectus, a debut novel by Thomas Morrissey, is out in spring 2012 from Night Shade Books.
Copyright © 2012 Robert C. Hahn
[Back to Table of Contents]
* * *
Fiction: BRUTAL
by Robert Lopresti
* * * *
Art by Kelly Denato
* * * *
When Domici walked into the office, Coyle stepped out from behind the door and hit him with a sap. The little man tumbled, face first, onto the cheap gray carpeting.
Moving fast, Coyle tore strips from a roll of duct tape and bound Domici's hands, then his eyes, mouth, and feet. After that he half dragged, half pushed the man over to the side wall.
He tore off one more strip of tape and attached it to a computer—printed sign he had brought with him. It read closed due to illness. Opening the door a few inches, he paused a moment to make sure there was no one in the hall. Then he put the sign up on the door.
Back inside, he opened his case and started to assemble the rifle. He still had almost half an hour.
He was checking the telescopic sight when he heard Domici moan. Coyle put the rifle down on the desk and knelt beside the gray-haired accountant.
“Hello, Mr. Domici,” he whispered. It was hard to recognize a voice by a whisper. “Nod if you can hear me. Good. Let me introduce myself. I'm an assassin. One of those people you've heard about, the kind who can kill a man with one finger. Do you believe me?”
Another nod.
“Excellent. Do you want to die?”
A pause. Then an urgent shake of the head.
“That's fine. I don't want to kill you. So, here's how we both get what we want. You don't try to see my face. You don't make any noise. You don't try to escape. As long as you follow those rules I won't have to hurt you. Understand?”
Another nod.
“Great. Lie there and try to relax. I just need your office for a little while. In an hour, two at the most, you'll be free. Tomorrow you'll be on TV telling everybody how brave you were.”
Coyle patted him on the shoulder. He stood up and went back to his rifle. He turned Domici's desk chair to face the window. All the shades were down except the one that faced the entrance of the Gallatine Hotel, across the street and three flights down. It was a four-star establishment, maybe a little embarrassed to share the block with this ratty old office building.
At five minutes before two a limousine pulled up in front of the Gallatine's entrance. The revolving door turned and a bodyguard in an expensive suit came out, not paying as much attention to his surroundings as he should have been.
He was followed by the target, a tall, bald man wearing a black trench coat, open to show a gray silk suit.
Coyle's first shot hit the senator above the right eyebrow. His second, as the man started to fall, went in just below the knot in his blue tie.
By the time the senator's body hit the steps there was an opening in one of the world's most desirable clubs.
The bodyguard was fast. He was pulling his pistol out of his jacket by the time Coyle's next bullet hit him in the shoulder. The guard spun around and dropped facedown beside his employer.
It wasn't a killshot, and hadn't been meant to be. No one was paying for the bodyguard to die. Coyle just wanted to inhibit pursuit.
For the same reason he fired one more time, putting a bullet into the hood of the limousine, to discourage the driver from trying to play hero.
Coyle turned around and dropped the rifle under Domici's desk. Less than ten seconds had passed since the senator had stepped out of the hotel.
When the shooting started Domici had begun to whimper. Coyle ignored him. He took off one latex glove and tucked it in the pocket of his bright yellow rain slicker. With his other hand he opened the office door and pulled it shut behind him. Then that glove went into the raincoat.
As he walked toward the elevator he saw a man and a woman chatting in front of another office. Coyle ignored them. His slicker and red tweed cap were memorable; his face was not.
The elevator took him to the parking garage. He had left the silver Toyota as far from the security cameras as possible. Coyle popped the trunk and removed a briefcase, black overcoat, fedora, and leather gloves. He opened a large black trash sack. It contained three bright blue medical waste bags he had removed from a suburban hospital early that morning. Lifting a large kitchen knife from the trunk he sliced through the three bags. When their contents began to mix together in the black trash sack he added his raincoat and tweed cap to the pile.
Coyle sealed the sack and headed toward the stairs. He dropped the bag into a dumpster as he passed. If the cops were lucky enough to find it, some evidence tech would have a miserable time trying to lift his DNA out of the mess.
The stairs took him to an alley behind the office building. He could hear sirens as he stepped into the back door o
f a luncheonette. Coyle walked past the office and restrooms and presented himself at the main counter.
“Pick a seat,” said the waitress. There were only a few customers, having a late lunch.
Coyle sat, facing the window but not near it. He ordered a salad and asked the waitress what the sirens were about.
“Maybe the TV knows,” she said, and turned on the local news channel.
By the time Coyle's food arrived the newscaster had an urgent bulletin. “We have just heard that Senator Charles Dowling suffered a brutal attack downtown today. We don't have any details at this time.”
And not knowing anything, they began to speculate as to why the senator was visiting the biggest city in his state unannounced.
Coyle hid a smile behind his teacup. The senator had been with his mistress at the hotel and there was a bonus if her name showed up within the first two days after the killing. This might mean his client had a grudge against the lady or it might mean that she was a convenient red herring. It was none of Coyle's business either way.
He left a good but not memorable tip. Outside, he headed toward a one-way street that led south, toward the site of the killing.
Two police cars rushed past, paying no attention to Coyle, who walked north toting a briefcase and holding a cell phone to his ear.
He had parked his getaway car, a blue Acura, in front of a taqueria five blocks from the hotel. By the time Coyle reached the familiar corner he hadn't heard a siren in two minutes.
He stopped. The car was gone.
“I don't believe this.”
“Believe it, man,” said a skinny Chicano in a fringed red cowboy shirt. “That's what they do when you park near a fire hydrant. They tow your car. You can't get it back till you pay the fine, and man, it's a big one.”
“What hydrant? I don't see any hydrant.”
“Right here, man,” said the cowboy. He backed up until he was standing next to a sandwich-board sign that advertised TRINI'S TACOS. There was a hydrant hidden on the other side.
“I'll be a son of a bitch,” said Coyle.
“You oughta sue Trini,” said the cowboy. “I tol’ him and tol’ him not to put his sign there but he always does. And you think the ticket lady would move the sign but she says it's not her job to do heavy lifting. You oughta sue her too.”
Coyle's getaway plan was simple. Drive to the commuter rail station; take a train to the next city. From there he could drive his own car two states to home.
But now what? He wasn't going to pay to get the car back and stealing one near the scene of the crime was a bad idea.
At that moment a cab appeared, heading toward him on the one-way street. The fare light was on. Coyle stepped into the street and waved. “Taxi!”
“Watch it, jackass!”
The bicycle messenger had gone the wrong direction on the one-way street to avoid the cop cars and ambulances that were sucking the life out of the main drags. He had been pumping along, making up for lost time and hadn't expected a pedestrian to pop out in front of him.
He got his front wheel past Coyle but the swerve unbalanced him and they slammed into each other.
Coyle fell forward and his head smacked the side of the taxi. The bicyclist kissed the curb. Both men lay still in the street.
The taxi driver, a bearded man in a turban, took one look at the situation and hit the gas. He managed to miss both men, but ran over the rear tire of the bicycle.
“Bastard!” yelled the cowboy. “Somebody oughta call the cops!”
Coyle got slowly to his feet. His head hurt and his eyes wouldn't focus. “What happened?”
“This loco ran his bike into you and that other loco ran his taxi into him. You oughta sue ‘em.”
What Coyle wanted to do was kill the bicyclist, but this wasn't the time or the place.
“No cops,” he said. “I have to get moving.” He staggered back onto the sidewalk. The cowboy picked up his briefcase.
A woman in a blue dress was helping the bicyclist to his feet. It was time to go before the inevitable argument started.
Coyle walked down the street without a glance back. He was a block away before he realized the cowboy had kept his briefcase. Oh well. It was just a prop anyway. All it contained was a few stock reports he had printed off the Web in case he needed to convince someone he was a real businessman.
Which way was the train station? He turned his head and the sudden shift made him dizzy again. This was not good. He needed to be at his best and most alert and he was anything but.
It was about a mile to the train station. The walk might clear his head.
Three blocks later a tall man with red hair stepped out in front of him. “Got a cigarette?”
“No.”
“Then gimme your wallet.”
Coyle stared at him. “What?”
“You heard me, grandpa. Gimme your wallet now.”
Coyle was at most a decade older than the red-haired man. He grinned. “Okay, sonny. You have two seconds to get out of my way.”
He was almost too slow in noticing Red looking past him. Coyle ducked and the blow from behind hit him on the shoulder. The attacker was a chunky black man with a hammer in his right hand. Who ever heard of a mugger using a hammer, for God's sake?
“Hand me the wallet, clown.”
Coyle heard Red behind him. He spun around, aiming a kick at the man's stomach. Red said “Ooof” and sat on the sidewalk.
The hammer hit Coyle on the right ear. “You son of a bitch,” he said.
Normally handling these jokers wouldn't have raised Coyle's pulse, but the collision with the car door had left him shaky. His timing was off.
He barely managed to grab the hammer away as the second guy swung it again. The chunky man stared at him in amazement, as if such a thing had never happened before in the history of the world.
“You want it back?” he asked, holding it at arm's length like a sword. He flipped it over so the handle was pointing toward the other man. “Here it is. Come and take it.”
Chunky made up his mind. He turned and ran.
Coyle laughed. He walked back to Red, who was still sitting on the sidewalk, taking deep breaths.
“Call me grandpa again,” he suggested, swinging the hammer lightly.
Red opened his mouth. “Help! I'm being mugged.”
Coyle heard noise behind him. Two middle-aged women in business attire had turned the corner and were staring wide-eyed at him standing over Red with a hammer.
“He mugged me,” said Coyle.
The taller woman was reaching into her purse. If she was going for a pistol he was too close to run, so Coyle moved forward and grabbed her arm.
The pepper spray hit him straight in the face.
Coyle jerked away and covered his face, screaming. His eyes felt like they were on fire. Someone tried to come near him and he pushed hard. A woman squealed.
He turned and started to run, but immediately tripped and fell flat.
“Sit on him,” said a woman. “I'm calling the police.”
Someone flipped Coyle onto his back. He guessed it was Red, which was confirmed when a heavy fist punched him in the gut.
“How do you like it?” said Red.
Coyle doubled up but his eyes hurt too much for him to concentrate on the pain in his stomach.
The next thing he was aware of was Red's hand in his pocket, removing his wallet. “You should have given it up when we asked nice.”
“Gimme that, you bastard.”
“Better spray him again,” Red shouted. “He's trying to get away.”
When the tall woman stepped forward, eager for another shot, Red swatted the spray out of her hand. Then he grabbed her purse and took off.
She screamed and chased after him.
The other woman was staring at Coyle wide-eyed. “Are you a good guy or a bad guy?” she asked.
Struggling to his feet, he staggered away.
Coyle knew there was a park somewhere ahead.
If he could stay on his feet there should be a water fountain to sooth his eyes. He ran.
He found the stone wall of the park three blocks north. Beyond it he spotted a water fountain and stood for ten minutes, gratefully pouring water over his burning face.
It was getting dark. Coyle sat down under an oak tree.
Red had stolen his wallet. His face no doubt looked like he was a victim of second-degree sunburn. Very memorable.
He still had his cell phone, but he knew no one in this city. He could call his contact, the man who set up assignments for him, and ask him to wire some cash. But wire it where? And what would he use for ID to pick it up?
Coyle shivered. He couldn't stay here all night.
He got to his feet, stiff with chill and assorted pains.
He could mug someone for money, but you can't get on a train without ID these days. He'd have to steal a car, which might bring the kind of attention he didn't want. Taking the driver along would make sure the theft wasn't reported, but he disliked killing people unnecessarily, especially without being paid for it.
Damn that bike messenger.
He had seen a homeless mission a few blocks east of the park. He could rest there for a few hours and get started in the morning.
It felt good to have a plan, even one as slim as that. Coyle started to walk and instantly the headache returned.
He made it halfway across the park before he heard footsteps on the path behind him. Coyle stepped off the gravel path and turned around.
There were three of them, young men. Two wore sweatshirts from a local university.
“Hey there, pal,” said the blond one. “You're just what we were looking for. You need a place to sleep?”
“Just keep going,” Coyle said, loudly. He couldn't run so he didn't move.
“Now, that's no attitude,” said Blondie. He reached into his pocket. “Look. Forty bucks. You can probably get a room for that.”
AHMM, September 2012 Page 9
