She clicked the computer mouse and stared at the enlarged picture of the black man on the screen. Eb Darning, a bank employee; clean-shaven and well-groomed. Bennie clicked again and displayed a photo of Heb Darnton she'd clipped from the online newspaper. It must have been a file photo. Heb had a thick beard, wild hair, and a deranged expression.
Bennie tilted the photos so they were side by side on the screen. Eb Daming/Heb Darnton. She had plugged in both names in every website about Philadelphia she could find, including the local newspapers' sites. Bennie sat back in her chair and compared the two photos. It could have been before and after pictures of the same man.
Bennie was shocked. What had the associates stumbled onto? What was going on in her law firm? Was this what had gotten Mary shot? And how was Marta involved? There were too many questions, all of them threatening the existence of Rosato & Associates. Bennie couldn't lose everything she had worked for, not again, and not without a fight.
She stared at the man's picture. Eb Darning. He had the answers. The online article said he had lived on Green Street in the sixties. Bennie knew Green Street well, it was in the city's Fairmount section. Bennie had a client on Spring Garden Street, a barber who cut everybody's hair in the neighborhood. He would know Darning or he would know somebody who did.
Bennie reached for the phone.
* * *
BEAN'S PROCESS read white letters painted in a crumbling arc on the tiny storefront. The barbershop hadn't changed since the fifties. It was wedged flat as a jelly sandwich between a rib joint and a restored apartment building. Its fluorescent lights shone bright through the snowstorm.
Bean lived above the shop, but he met Bennie in it, standing next to her as she sat in one of the old-fashioned chairs, of white porcelain with cracked red leather cushions and headrests. Bean was most at home in his shop, which Bennie understood perfectly. "Sorry to get you out of bed," she said.
"Don't think nothin' about it." Bean waved her off with a dark hand that was surprisingly small for someone of his girth. At sixty-seven, Washington "Bean" Baker was still large, with chubby cheeks and brown, wide-set eyes, but the most remarkable aspect of his appearance was the unusual shape of his bald head. His forehead bulged where his hairline used to be, his chin protruded, and his skin color was brown tinged with red. Growing up his mother had decided her baby's head looked just like a kidney bean, so she called him Bean. "I'd come down for you anytime, lady," he said.
"Even though I lost your case?"
"I tol' you nothin' would come of it. Nobody gonna stand up agains' the cops. They shake you down and get away with it."
"Now they wouldn't."
"Why?" he asked, with a slow smile. Bean did everything slowly. He thought carefully before he spoke and moved only with deliberation. It was a comforting trait in a man with a straight razor at the carotid. "You learn a few tricks since you were young?"
"Just a few. So have the juries. Today those cops would have been convicted."
"Should I be waitin' on a refund?"
"Hey, I took you on contingency, remember? I didn't stick you."
Bean smiled. "I know. I jus' said it to get you riled up."
"I feel bad enough already," Bennie grumbled. "I shoulda had 'em. They lied on the stand."
"They sure did." His voice was soft, his tone matter-of-fact. "They're cops."
"I owe you one."
"Forget it. I jus' like to see you get worked up."
Bennie edged forward on the barber chair. "Do you know anyone named Eb Darning, Bean?"
"Eb?" Bean rubbed his bald head with his fingertips, kneading his red-brown scalp like soft clay. "Eb? Long time ago. Eb. I remember Eb."
"What do you remember about him?"
"Only one thing to know about Eb. He drank too much. Had a problem with the bottle. Went to the state store every day. I used to see him. Eb was there soon as they opened. He'd be waitin' on the sidewalk. Tol' me he only bought one bottle a day. If he got more than one, he'd try to drink 'em both down."
"Any drugs?"
"Just the bottle."
"When was the last time you saw him?"
"Ten years, maybe twelve."
"Take a look at this." Bennie pulled the computer photo of the clean-shaven Eb Darning from her coat pocket and handed to Bean. "Is this him?"
"Sure. That's Eb."
"Now I want to show you another photo." She passed Bean the photo with the beard. "Take a look at it and tell me if you think it's Eb, too."
"This him?" he asked after a minute.
"You tell me."
Bean walked with the photo to the cushioned benches against the shop wall and eased his bulk into one of them. The benches had been scavenged from various restaurant booths and were stuck together in mismatched banks of red, blue, and brown. They made a vinyl rainbow against the white porcelain tile on the wall. A black pay phone with a rotary dial was mounted next to the tile, and yellowed political posters were taped to the back wall, with faded pictures of black ward leaders. Bennie let her eyes linger on their bright, ambitious faces because Bean would be looking at the photo for the foreseeable future. "Well?" she said when she couldn't wait any longer.
Bean looked up, blinking. "Doesn't look like the Eb I knew, but it could be him. The eyes, it could be him. He didn't have no beard when I knew him. That I know for sure. He came in for a shave, time to time."
"If the beard were gone, would that be Eb?"
"Could be. Could be." Bean handed back the photos. "Got old fast, he did. I wouldn'ta recognized him if you hadn'ta said somethin'."
Bennie took it as a tentative yes and slipped the photos back in her pocket. "What kind of man was Eb, do you remember?"
"A drunk."
"I mean his personality."
"To me, he was a drunk. Thas' all. All drunks the same." Bean shrugged a heavy set of shoulders. He wore a loose-fitting blue barber smock with baggy pants even though the shop was closed. Bean always said he slept in his smock, but Bennie hadn't believed him until now. "Eb was quiet in the chair, when he was sober. Rest of the time he jabbered."
"Did he talk about work?"
"Work. Yeah."
"He worked at the bank, right? PSFS."
"Bank?"
"Yes. PSFS."
Bean's focus fell on a clean linoleum floor with black-and-white tiles. "That was only for a while. A year maybe. I know 'cause Eb started wearin' a tie. Then he quit and he stopped wearin' the tie. Wore that tie for about, say, a year."
"Why did he quit, do you know?"
"The bottle. Eb never kept work for too long. Always lookin' for the angles, you know? I offered him a job once, sweepin'. Eb said no thanks." Bean frowned so deeply his forehead wrinkled like an old bulldog. "Said, 'I don't do that work.' I didn't like that, I sure didn't."
Bennie smiled. "Who wouldn't work for you, Bean? I'd work for you in a minute."
"You? You a slob. I seen your office."
"We're talking about Eb now, not me, so tell me about Eb. Everything you know."
Bean settled deeper into the cushioned bench. "Eb. Eb. Let me see. Eb was the type of man, he didn't want no real job. Wanted the easy money. Lookin' for the angles. All the time, lookin'. You know what I mean?"
"Yes."
"Eb liked the jobs at City Hall."
"City Hall?"
"Thas' what I remember."
"What did he do there?"
"Jobs."
"Who did he work for? What department?"
Bean smiled, this time without warmth. "Woman, what kind of jobs you think a man like that does for City Hall?"
"I don't know."
"Don't be silly."
"Educate me. What jobs?"
"L and I, for a while."
"Licenses and Inspections?"
"What department don't matter, call it what you like. Building permits, the fleet. Parking Authority, what have you. Eb worked for City Hall. Eb did what he had to do. He got paid in cash money."
&nb
sp; "Did he have any friends?"
"Not that I know."
"Wife? Girlfriend?"
"No wife. Maybe a girl, for a while."
"Anyone special?"
"No. Coupla girls."
"Damn."
"Wait." Bean held up a hand. "You're rushin' me now. I said 'no' too fast. There mighta been a kid."
"A child?" Bennie hadn't read anything in the newspapers about a child. No one had come forward.
"Little girl." Bean nodded. "I saw it, in a picture in his wallet. A school picture of a girl. Real cute."
"What was her name?"
"Don't know. Never talked about her. I axed when I saw the picture and Eb just shook his head. Didn't say nothin', just shook his head. He had a long look on his face, a bad look. I figured somethin' bad happened to that little girl. Like she passed and Eb didn't want to speak about it."
Bennie paused, trusting Bean's instincts. "Eb had no one else except the daughter?"
"No."
"No friends from work?"
"No. Sat in the chair, didn't say much 'cept to answer. Sometimes he got a shave, like I said. When he was goin' for errands. For the city."
"What errands?"
Bean cocked his head and frowned. "Now how do I know what errands?"
"Maybe he said. Give me a break here. I'm trying to figure this out. What did he say about the errands? Can you remember?"
Bean closed his eyes as he thought. His eyelids fluttered, slightly greasy.
"Didn't you ask him, 'Why you need a shave today, Eb?' 'Why are you all dressed up today, Eb?' "
"Hush now and let me think. You an impatient, impatient woman."
Bennie clammed up.
"Eb used to say somethin' 'bout 'inspection,' " Bean said slowly, and opened his eyes.
"Building inspections?"
"Maybe that was it."
Bennie was thinking of Steere's city properties. They would have to be inspected every year. Steere's violations were notorious. Somebody had to be looking the other way. Somebody who was working the angles and got paid in cash. "That was when?"
"You're takin' me back now."
"Twenty, thirty years?"
"Maybe. I don't remember."
"When was the last time you saw Eb?"
"Don't know. I los' track of him. Heard he los' his place, moved away. Drinkin' all the time. Don't know where he is now. Ain't seen him."
Bennie paused, debating whether to tell Bean what had become of Darning. She couldn't tell him that Eb was the homeless man Steere killed. The information was privileged, and Rosato & Associates was in unethically deep shit as it was. But she couldn't just leave him in the dark. "Bean, I'm sorry, but I think Eb may have been murdered."
"Thas' too bad," he said, but Bean's expression didn't change. It was strange to Bennie because the man had a huge heart.
"You don't seem that upset."
"I ain't upset. I ain't surprised neither."
"Why?"
"It happens."
"Murder?"
Bean nodded, and Bennie did feel silly. "The killer won't get away with it."
Bean just smiled.
"He won't. Not if I can help it," she said, then caught herself. What was she saying? Steere was her client, a Rosato client. Bennie's firm was being paid to get him off. Wait a minute. Was that what had happened? Was that why Mary had been shot? Why Marta disappeared? Were they working to get to the bottom of Darning's murder, with a mind to hanging Steere? Their own client?
Bennie couldn't let that happen. Not to her firm, not to her practice. It could ruin them all. If Steere was a killer, it wasn't the job of his own lawyers to bring him to justice. That would be a betrayal, a violation of the ethical duty that made the most sense to her. Loyalty.
Bennie had to put a stop to it. She stood up, grabbed her coat, and slipped it on. "I gotta go, Bean. Thanks a lot for the information."
"It's still snowin' out there. Why don't you set until it slows up?"
"No thanks."
"I could trim that mop on your head."
"Gotta run," Bennie said as she hit the cold air.
34
Judge Rudolph pondered the bad news propped up on his elbow next to his snoring wife, reluctant to leave the warmth of his king-size four-poster. The judge had been fast asleep when he got a call from his law clerk telling him that two of Steere's lawyers were missing or shot and security guards had been murdered. Christ, if it wasn't one thing it was another. Judge Rudolph knew he had a terrible night ahead and it would begin as soon as his bare toes hit the cold hardwood floor. He had some concern for the lawyers, but he had to keep his focus clear. What about his elevation to the Court?
"How long, Lord?" Judge Rudolph muttered to himself as he swung his skinny legs out from under the white baffle comforter. His feet chilled on contact with the hardwood floor that Enid refused to cover with anything as plebeian as a rug. He scurried to the bathroom in his boxer shorts and stood shivering on the rag bath mat. It was too cold in this damn house. Enid kept the thermostat at 68 degrees, and his toes were blue half the time. The judge hugged himself to get warm and wiggled his feet on the bath mat. He wasn't moving off that rug. The tile floor would be ice.
The judge inched the bath mat over to the toilet with his toes. He'd have to get to chambers and deal with this mess. The snowstorm howled outside the bathroom window. He'd call the sheriff to drive him in. Not even a blizzard would stop him. It would take more than an act of God to keep Harry Calvin Rudolph from the Supreme Court of Pennsylvania.
The judge lifted the seat up. It would take a minute since that go-round with his prostate. But he was okay, he was fine, he still had a long career ahead. Breathe in, breathe out. Reeeee-lax, like the doctor said. Say it slow, "Reeeee-lax." Then it came, with his thoughts.
One lawyer was left: the big blond, Carrier. Legally, the case could go forward as long as one lawyer was alive, assuming the defendant didn't object. But if Steere filed for a mistrial or a continuance, that would make for a different result. Judge Rudolph didn't know the law on this point exactly because there was no law on it. How often did the lawyers get knocked off while a jury was out? The judge had told his law clerk to get his ass into chambers and come up with the right answer. Joey, who couldn't even buy milk.
Judge Rudolph jumped off the bath mat and scampered back across the chilly parquet to his dressing room, where he landed with both feet on the Oriental rug. His feet were so cold. He slipped into his socks first and was halfway into his suit pants when the telephone rang.
"Damn!" He hurried into the den to get the phone, holding his pants up with one hand. The last thing the judge needed was Enid awake and bitching. She hated the Steere case. She'd missed their winter vacation to Sanibel because of it, and when Enid didn't get to play golf she became unbearable. Judge Rudolph scooted down the hall into his den just as the phone rang again. He snatched it from the hook and his suit pants dropped to his ankles when he realized who the caller was. "Mayor Walker," the judge said, surprised.
"Cold enough for you, Harry?" the mayor asked. His voice sounded casual, as if he called the judge in the middle of the night all the time.
"Sure as hell is." Judge Rudolph wasn't having any of it. The mayor was a Democrat and the judge a Republican, so the mayor would never back him for the Court. Pennsylvania was one of the few states that still voted for its judiciary, like prize heifers in a county fair, and for that the judge thanked his lucky stars. Except for the Democratic enclave that was Philadelphia, most of the state was conservative and Republican. "Quite a storm."
"Blizzard of the century."
"At least of the reelection."
Both men laughed unpleasantly. Judge Rudolph, standing in a wool pool of suit pants, knew Mayor Walker had pushed Steere's prosecution. The mayor would like nothing better than a mistrial, which would keep Steere in jail and release his properties. The judge would like nothing better than a verdict, which would ensure him a new robe.
/> "I'll get to the point," the mayor said. "I gather you've heard the news. Someone is killing Elliot Steere's lawyers."
"I wouldn't go that far." The judge hoisted his pants up by their waistband. He'd be damned if he'd discuss the Steere case with the mayor. How would it play out later?
"I would. Murder, kidnapping. A tragedy, and a catastrophe for the case."
"It's a tragedy for the guards' families, but it shouldn't affect this case." The judge was choosing his words carefully. It was risky to even entertain the call. Judge Rudolph knew only one way to protect himself. He pressed a button beside his phone and the audiotape hidden in his desk drawer clicked noiselessly into operation. "I have no intention of discussing the merits of the Steere case with you," the judge said as distinctly as possible.
"I'm not calling to discuss the merits," the mayor said, equally distinctly. Peter Walker didn't get to be mayor by being completely obtuse. His own tape recorder had been rolling from the outset. "I called to touch base with you on the procedure with the blizzard. Iron out the logistics. I've declared a snow emergency, but I can get the jurors escorted to their homes. When do you anticipate you'll be dismissing the jury?"
"There will be no dismissal. The jurors will remain in sequestration and continue their deliberations."
"What? I can't imagine it would be lawful to go forward in these circumstances. One of the associates on the defense team, Mary DiNunzio, is in intensive care and not likely to pull through."
"The defendant has a lawyer, a bright young woman," the judge said. Maybe this was his chance to redeem himself for that "tit" comment. "She's very competent to handle the trial, as are many of the women who come before me. She works in an all-woman law firm, you know, Rosato and Associates. I have a great respect for that firm. I have no doubt they'll do everything in their power to protect the defendant's right to counsel and due process."
On the other end of the line, the mayor rolled his eyes. Who was up for election here, the judge or him? Oh. Both. "Lead counsel is missing, too. Marta Richter. How can you proceed without her?"
"Ms. Richter isn't missing. My law clerk spoke with her this evening and she was fine."
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