by S. D. Thames
In no time she opened the door, already dressed for a run. “Glad to see you’re still alive,” she said.
“And I’m glad to be alive. And glad you’re glad.”
She looked me up and down, and lifted her brow to ask me what I wanted. I admitted, “I need a favor.”
“I’d rather not talk to you.”
“Then you don’t want to hear the favor I need.”
Angie and Pinkerton were still sleeping when I returned. Val had given me what I asked for—nothing more, nothing less. Not even a kiss goodbye. I couldn’t wait to be able to make this up to her, though I wondered if that opportunity would ever come, and if I could if it did.
Pinkerton snored in his recliner, and Angie slept on her side on the couch, her legs bent so her feet were almost behind her. I thought about what I was about to put her through. I wondered whether it was the right thing to do: taking her, as she rightly put it, into the devil’s den, to be a pawn in a ruse the extent and implications of which she would never understand. Still, I didn’t see that we had a choice.
I set the alarm on my iPhone for 7:15. I closed my eyes, hoping that Angie’s mom wouldn’t visit me in my dreams.
Or maybe I hoped that she would.
If anyone visited me in the short sleep I had, I didn’t remember. I may have been awake when the alarm sounded. My internal clock had already told me it was time to wake up, and the sorry excuse for sleep I’d flirted with all morning seemed eager to leave me at the altar.
I stood and pointed the ringing alarm at the judge and Angie. His snoring diminished, but he didn’t move. Angie sat up and rubbed her eyes. Then she looked at the ladies’ business suit I’d taken from Val’s house, now hanging on a chair in Pinkerton’s kitchen. “What’s that?” she asked.
“Your costume for the day.”
“Please explain this to me one more time,” she said on the drive over. The Monday morning traffic was horrendous, and every street corner leading downtown was lined with campaign volunteers waving signs. The primary was exactly one day away, and I was sure someone was eager to get this case—and Angie—dismissed before then.
“When you enter the courtroom, you’re going to see a row of women, maybe a dude or two, sitting where the jury would sit during a trial. They’re court reporters. You’re going to hide out there, like you’re one of them. That way, they’ll let you in the courtroom early. And you won’t be associated with me.”
“Where are you going to be?”
“I’ll be in the gallery, not far away.” I could hear that her breathing was deep and fast. “Listen, Angie, no plan is ever foolproof.”
“What do you mean?””
“Well, I mean …” I sighed, took a deep breath, and found my footing. “I mean, like when I was in the service, I used to plan things, and I was actually pretty good at it.”
“Milo, I already told you, I trust you.”
I thought back to the kid from Texas, and how much he’d probably trusted me, just because I had a higher rank. “Well, trust is fine, but in times like this, it gets put to the test.”
“What do you think is going to happen?”
I sighed. “Well, that’s just the thing. You can’t predict everything that’s going to happen. That’s what we call random variables. You can try to predict them, but by their very nature, they’re impossible to predict.”
“What are you saying, Milo?”
“Just put it this way: if things go wrong today, if we get separated—”
“Separated?”
I nodded. “You heard me. We’re talking about preparing for the worst. If that happens, I need you to remember something very important.”
“What?” she asked sullenly.
“Remember the videos. If we get separated, and you’re in danger, tell them that we have copies of all the videos. That I have a copy, and there are others that only I know about. Tell them that if anything happens to you, the videos will come out.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Just tell me you understand that, Angie.”
“I understand, Milo. I’ll tell them about the videos.” She took a few deep breaths and bit her lower lip. “So this is worst-case scenario we’re talking about?”
“That’s right,” I lied. Then I took her hand and squeezed.
She squeezed back. “Thank you,” she said, the last words she spoke before we reached the courthouse.
I parked in the covered garage and let Angie get a head start on me. Val’s suit fit her surprisingly well, and the flats we’d bought at Target the day before somehow worked. She pulled the empty roller briefcase we’d found in the judge’s study, which, along with the reading glasses on his desk, had completed Angie’s disguise as a court reporter.
We left the garage, and she crossed Twiggs first. The line to get into the courthouse stretched around the building. Mondays are always crowded, because that’s when the new jury pool has to report for the week. Most of those jurors would be dismissed that day, so less than half would return Tuesday. I got in the line, a few dozen people separating me from Angie. It was eight o’clock, and it already felt like it was ninety degrees outside. There was no breeze; the air felt like a mist of sweat.
Angie looked back to me from time to time, and I nodded for her to keep going. When the main line separated into three different lines for security, Angie took the center line. I’d be too close to her if I took that line, so I went with the line to the right, keeping my eyes open for certain law enforcement officers and candidates for political office who were on my radar, not to mention my newfound friend Giuseppe.
I watched as Angie put her case on the security belt. I hoped the bailiff wouldn’t question why she was entering the courthouse with an empty attaché. The bag passed through without raising any eyebrows. A moment later, Angie had cleared security, and seemed to be hovering around the lobby waiting for me, unsure where to go.
I held up 5 fingers.
She winced like she didn’t understand. Maybe she thought I was telling her five minutes. So I mouthed, “Fifth floor.”
She nodded, but didn’t move.
As I approached the security scanner, I mouthed “go on,” as I didn’t want to ride the elevator with her. Then I held up five fingers, one finger, and then five fingers, to remind her it was courtroom 515.
She seemed to get it, and disappeared.
The elevator I took up was filled to the brim with foreclosure attorneys and courthouse employees. A few people got off on the third floor, but it seemed even more got on to replace them. We bypassed the fourth floor, and there was a mass exodus on the fifth, the floor where most of the civil judges had courtrooms and chambers.
I stopped short of courtroom 515. There was a healthy crowd waiting for the bailiff to open the door. Angie wasn’t far away. She nodded when she saw me, her face jittery and white. All I could do was give her a subtle nod in return. I didn’t know if it was subtle as a precaution or because I didn’t much believe it.
Not long after 8:30, the double doors to the courtroom opened, and a bailiff appeared and said, “Court reporters can come in and set up.”
I nodded again for her to go on. She took a deep breath and got in line.
We were allowed in the courtroom about five minutes later. Angie was already sitting in the jury box with her legs crossed. Most of the real court reporters already had their stenography machines set up, ready to go. If anyone asked why she wasn’t setting up, I’d told her to explain that the attorney who had hired her expected a consent judgment, and that she was just there as a precaution in case the other side changed their mind.
I sat on the back row, on the same side of the courtroom as Angie. I had a direct line of vision to her and most rows in the gallery. The courtroom was filling up quickly, mainly with lawyers who were making last minute attempts to resolve their disputes before going in front of the judge. I heard guys offering 120-day sale dates, offering to produce documents in twenty days, and a
nother guy agreeing to amend his complaint in ten days.
I looked at the witness stand, where a week earlier I’d been sitting when the news of Scalzo’s death hit me like an Evander Holyfield uppercut. I still felt the rush of wind when Mitchell, C-Rod, and Shields had entered the courtroom that day and announced that Scalzo had met his demise. Then I found myself thinking about random variables, and wondering what other surprises might lie ahead today.
I surveyed the courtroom again for familiar faces. Pilka and Jace were a few rows ahead of me. Jace hadn’t noticed me yet. McSwain and Roy Dyer and his crew were on the opposite side, undoubtedly there to answer any questions the judge had about the settlement, and to avoid having to call a jury in a little while.
Then there was a loud knock on the door before the bench. The door swung open, and the bailiff yelled, “All rise!”
I’d told Angie to cough loudly anytime she recognized someone who’d entered the courtroom. Notwithstanding the pieces I’d put together the night before, I still had enough doubt that I knew anyone in the courtroom could be a suspect. As he entered the courtroom I realized that also included Judge Sanders. After all, he’d seemed to want to keep the case on the fast track for trial, and he fit the general bland description of Angie’s VIP clients. I watched her closely and could tell she was doing the same thing to the judge. Then she glanced at me, saw what I was looking for, and gave me a slight shake of the head.
The judge settled into the bench with a tired sigh. “Well, I see we have a full docket today, so let’s get started with any uncontested matters.”
Dyer and Pilka’s new attorney, Wilkes Donahue, quickly stood. Dyer took the lead, saying, “Your honor, we’ve reached a settlement and wanted to let you know we won’t be going to trial today.”
I couldn’t tell if Judge Sanders wanted to smile or shake his head. He waved for the bailiff to give him the copy of whatever the attorneys had filed. Once he had it in hand, the judge started reading. A moment later he set the papers down and sighed deeply. “Has anyone heard from Mr. Wilcox?”
The attorneys looked at each other and shook their heads in unison, a collective no. “I’ve taken over for Mr. Wilcox,” Donahue said.
Just then, the double doors slammed open, and C-Rod led the charge, followed by Shields. I leaned forward, looking for Mitchell to round out the rear, but the door swung closed behind Shields.
Then it reopened, and Mitchell wasn’t far behind.
The judge looked up and stared incredulously at the men storming his courtroom. “Detectives, you’re late.”
C-Rod first approached the bench, apologizing for interrupting. Shields and Mitchell followed in his wake. I was so enamored by their appearance that I’d neglected to check on Angie. When I did, I realized she was nodding, looking straight down. Then she started coughing and glancing at me to make sure I’d heard.
Even though I had no idea who’d caught her attention, I looked her in the eyes and nodded. I saw more than recognition in her eyes. There was fear, too. She was trying to mouth something, but I couldn’t make out what it was.
The judge finished talking to the detectives and Mitchell in private. They both turned and started surveying the courtroom. C-Rod found me first. As soon as he did, he started walking, passing the counsel’s table. He walked down my aisle, and stopped at my row. “You know the drill, Porter,” he said. A bailiff had followed him for backup.
I was just glad C-Rod had approached me and not Angie. Seeing no reason to make a scene here, I stood. As I did, I noticed that Shields was still standing close to the counsel’s table, seemingly surveying the courtroom, as though looking for someone else. I knew just who he was looking for.
Just then, Angie stood, walked past Shields, and raced out of the courtroom. C-Rod didn’t seem to notice her departure, but Shields did. He zipped by C-Rod, and disappeared into the hallway a second later.
I’d also lost track of Mitchell, but when I saw him huddled with the other lawyers talking to Judge Sanders, I began to confirm a lot of the suspicions I’d put in place the night before.
“You heard me, Porter!” C-Rod nearly shouted.
I stood, and realized that every eye in the courtroom was on me. I politely moved past the lawyers that rounded out my row. I stepped into the aisle, and C-Rod pointed the way to the door. I left the courtroom without a word. Once I was in the hallway, I looked in every direction for any sign of Angie or Shields. They seemed long gone.
I hoped that was a good sign.
I turned and started to ask C-Rod what the hell was going on, but before I could speak, he had my face planted against the brick wall. “Milo Porter,” he said, “you’re under arrest.”
I sighed. “What the hell for?”
He turned me around, as though he wanted to see my reaction to his answer. His eyes seemed to glow as he said: “You’re under arrest for the murder of Giuseppe Calcavecchia.”
I mumbled something about random variables, and relaxed my shoulder blades to let C-Rod do what he needed to do.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
The Writing on the Wall
After C-Rod read me my rights, I decided to take him up on the one about remaining silent, at least until I got my thoughts straightened out. Everything had seemed to be going according to plan until C-Rod mentioned the bit about my being under arrest for the murder of Giuseppe Calcavecchia. As C-Rod and I took the elevator down to the courthouse lobby, I wondered what kind of trouble Giuseppe had gotten himself into, and why his death was being pegged on me. Of course, in this case the possibilities were endless.
I wasn’t ready to show my hand to C-Rod just yet, and I didn’t expect him to show his until I was. I needed a few more minutes to think, actually, and it looked like I’d get just that. The bailiff helped C-Rod lead me through the courthouse lobby, where the sight of me in cuffs was turning a lot of heads. The line outside the courthouse had dissipated, but not so much the humidity. The bailiff continued following us until we’d reached C-Rod’s car parked in the government lot a block north. A street preacher on Twiggs was calling for repentance through a tinny bullhorn. His eyes seemed to lock on mine as C-Rod led me to the waiting car.
C-Rod opened the rear passenger door and gave me a light shove into the backseat, pushing my head down as cops always do when loading up a handcuffed suspect. As I was getting comfy, a pair of waving arms across the street caught my attention. They didn’t belong to the street preacher—they belonged to the Honorable Francis Pinkerton, who was panting as he did his best to get my attention.
“What the hell does he want?” C-Rod muttered as he pulled a U-turn back toward Twiggs.
Good question, I thought. I could think of only two developments that would have the judge this excited: either Audrey had returned along with everything she’d taken from him, or he’d found something notable on the DVD footage I’d left with him that morning. Albeit for selfish reasons, I sure knew which one I hoped it was. “Maybe he wants to make a donation to Mitchell’s campaign,” I said. “I bet you could help him out with that, eh, C-Rod?”
We both stared at the judge as we passed him on the side of the street. “Looks like he’s saying your name,” C-Rod added.
Strangely enough, it sure as hell did. As far as I could tell, the judge was standing on the street corner, repeating my name: “Porter. Milo Porter.” Then, for some reason he started pointing across the street, but I couldn’t tell at what. All I could tell was that he seemed to be repeating my name.
C-Rod grunted as he came to a red light. I could tell he was trying to make up his mind about which way he’d turn, which meant he wasn’t ready to take me to the station quite yet. That could be a good sign or a bad one. Then he eyed me in the rearview and said, “You’re not talking yourself out of this one, Porter.”
“You know, she recognized you back there, C-Rod. And Shields knows everything, too. She’s probably with him right now. Sorry, C-Rod, but the game’s up.”
He grunted again and k
ept his eyes pointed at the rearview. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, Porter. All I know is, you’re going down. We have video footage showing you leaving the Embassy Suites last night about ten minutes after one of Art Scalzo’s henchmen was thrown off the roof. And good luck claiming self-defense now, after running the way you did.”
“Right. And back there you said I was under arrest for the murder of Giuseppe Calcavecchia. What’s he got to do with the goon who was thrown off the roof last night?”
“So you’re saying you threw someone else off the roof?”
I shook my head. “I’m not admitting anything. I’m just saying I know this Giuseppe guy, and I know of the guy who met his demise last night at that hotel. They’re not the same guy.”
“Like hell they’re not,” he said. “And I should know, Porter. Remember, I warned you about him the other day at the funeral?”
“The guy you warned me about was tall and lanky. We saw him scoping out the funeral.”
C-Rod’s shit-eating grin widened. “The only lanky person I saw scoping out the funeral was you.”
I didn’t know if C-Rod was screwing with me, or if I was losing my mind. “I’m telling you, C-Rod. The guy at the hotel’s name was Tony Abner, and Shields knows all about him. Shields knows everything. Including the fact that I’ve seen you snooping around all week without your partner.”
C-Rod had no doubt reached a new level of frustration, as he threw his hands in the air. “Hey, I told you, Porter, I’ve been tailing Giuseppe Calcavecchia since he got in town! Now he’s dead.”
There was really no point in continuing this conversation with C-Rod, except that I wanted to know why he kept insisting that the guy I threw off the roof was Giuseppe Calcavecchia. I hadn’t seen or heard from Gus since I’d left him with Kiki’s and Jimmy’s bodies in the Everglades. Now C-Rod had arrested me for his murder, and that called for an explanation. “This is all I’m going to say, C-Rod. I know Giuseppe Calcavecchia. He’s been in my house threatening me a few times, and I saw him as recently as Saturday night. He looks nothing like the goon who tried to kill us last night at the hotel.”
