Dead Money

by Grant Mccrea

  97.

  AT THE OFFICE EVERYTHING SEEMED QUIET. Calm. Orderly. Misleading.

  In the conference room were Warwick, Shumaker and Dorita.

  Warwick looked stricken. Angry and stricken. Shumaker looked like Shumaker. Imperturbable. Dorita looked as nervous as I’d ever seen her. She was smoking. In the same room with Warwick.

  Things had come to this.

  Seriously? I asked.

  Dead seriously, Dorita said.

  Warwick and Shumaker nodded glumly.

  The rest are on their way, said Shumaker.

  The rest of the partners, I deduced. The whole ugly crew. Coming in on a Saturday. Jesus. This was big. This might be the end of the firm.

  What the hell happened? I persisted.

  We don’t know, exactly, Shumaker said in his even tone. We’re awaiting a report from the DA’s office.

  Nothing? I said. We know nothing?

  First indications are suicide, Shumaker said.

  Warwick shook his head.

  Jesus. Warwick was screwed. Hell, the whole firm was screwed. Fifteen million a year out the window.

  He fell from the thirty-third floor, said Dorita, instantly rendering my thought both comical and just plain bad.

  Jesus, I said. Fell? Jumped? Was pushed?

  We don’t know anything yet, said Dorita.

  Has anyone talked to Jules? I asked.

  Warwick gave me a withering look.

  Why? he asked. You think the kid did it? You want to do this pro bono now?

  He had a point. I’d sort of forgotten that Jules’s defense was a paying job. And our paycheck had just hit the road. Hard. Still, could we just leave Jules high and dry?

  Has anybody talked to the twins? I asked.

  Warwick threw up his arms.

  They’re at the police station, said Shumaker.

  I looked at Dorita. She gave me a tiny nod. She knew what I was thinking.

  I excused myself. Went to my office. I was a little surprised to find that it was still there. I called Butch. He wasn’t available. I paged him. I knew he’d call back.

  While I waited I reflected on the fact that Warwick hadn’t physically attacked me as I came in the door. FitzGibbon, it appeared, hadn’t called him to complain about our conversation of yesterday.

  You would have thought he’d have called the minute we’d left. Two partners of the firm to whom he entrusted millions’ worth of business, violating his trust? Practically accusing him of murder? It’s a wonder he hadn’t put out a hit on me.

  Damn, I thought. For all I knew he had.

  I needed to know the time of death.

  Dorita came in just as the phone rang. It was Butch.

  Butch, I said. I knew I could count on you.

  Sure, Rick. No problem. But I can’t talk.

  Two quick questions, Butch. You in on this FitzGibbon thing?

  Sure. Everybody’s in on it. It’s the biggest thing around here since Rockefeller.

  Okay, just two things. Then maybe we can meet later.

  Sure thing, Rick. But I don’t know when. I’ll have to call you.

  All right. First thing, were the twins there?

  When he fell?

  Right.

  Seems they were.

  Okay, second thing. Exact time.

  Ten thirty-four, he said.

  They were at the office at ten thirty at night?

  You said two questions, Rick.

  Okay, Butch. That one was rhetorical. Didn’t count. Call me when you can.

  Will do.

  I looked at Dorita. I nodded my head. The twins had been there. Ten thirty-four. In his office. I presumed his office. It was on that floor. And hours after we’d left.

  All those hours to call Warwick.

  But he hadn’t.

  Something had come up, Raul had told us.

  It must have been something big.

  So, Dorita said. Theories?

  We spooked him into it.

  Fear. Or remorse. Or both.

  Ramon pushed him.

  Raul pushed him.

  They didn’t want to wait for their inheritance.

  A time-honored motive.

  Jules pushed him.

  Hm. Not with the twins there, he didn’t.

  He’s in cahoots with the twins.

  There you might be stretching it a bit.

  He got drunk and fell.

  Unlikely.

  Too much of a coincidence?

  It’s hard to believe that it didn’t have something to do with our conversation with him.

  Yes. The problem being.

  That if it did, it doesn’t eliminate even one of the theories.

  Exactly.

  All we’ve got are theories.

  Well, we still have our jobs.

  Today.

  Tomorrow?

  Unlikely.

  I just had a great idea, I said.

  Yes?

  Let’s have a drink.

  Rick?

  Yes?

  You’ve got a problem.

  Thank you.

  And anyway, do you think we should be letting time go by? Cold trail and all that?

  It won’t take long, I said, fishing in the cup of pencils on my desk for the small key that opened my bottom desk drawer.

  You’re kidding, right?

  Would I kid you? I asked, pulling out a half-empty – well, in the circumstances half-full - fifth of Scotch and two small glasses.

  Dorita made a face. But she drank hers down.

  That felt good, I said, relishing the distraction of a good gut-burn.

  Can’t deny it.

  Hey, I said, pouring myself a refill. I never got an answer. Has anybody talked to Jules?

  He’s at the station too.

  They picked him up on this?

  Well, wouldn’t you? Closest blood relative? History of animosity? Suspect in recent murder?

  Yeah, I guess so. Jesus, why didn’t he call me?

  Maybe he doesn’t know your number.

  He knows my number.

  Maybe he doesn’t want to see you.

  That doesn’t make any sense.

  Anything make sense around here for the last month?

  You’ve got a point there.

  I usually do.

  The little moron. Who else is going to help him?

  I can’t answer that question. Not enough information. It does, however, betray a rather excessive amount of self-regard.

  Damn, I said.

  What?

  I got a call last night. Just before yours. I ignored it. Probably that was him. Calling from the station.

  Could be.

  I’m going down there.

  Not without me, you aren’t.

  I didn’t mean to imply otherwise.

  Okay. Give me a few. I’ve got to make a couple of calls. Cancel a few things.

  Dorita left. My chest felt tight. I thought about Steiglitz. Shit. I didn’t want to think about Steiglitz. I didn’t want to think about anything.

  I eyed my empty shot glass. It looked lonely. I reintroduced it to some mediocre Scotch.

  98.

  WE FLAGGED A CAB. It smelled strangely of pickles. Dill, I thought.

  I took that to be a good sign.

  At the station there was a mob. Television trucks and vans lined the entire block. Reporters were shoving microphones into any face that moved.

  The obligatory beefy boy in blue blocked the entrance to the station.

  I’m Jules FitzGibbon’s lawyer, I said.

  Says who? he asked.

  His cynicism was concealed under a thick layer of cynicism.

  Says me, I said.

  That ain’t gonna do it, he said, standing his ground.

  Butch Hardiman in there? I asked.

  Butch? Maybe, he said.

  Ask him, I said. He’ll vouch for me.

  He looked at me impassively for a moment. He took my name. Turned to a diminutiv
e female cop.

  Charlie, he said, come here.

  She came over.

  Hold these guys right here, he said. I’ve got to check something out.

  Okay, she said. She stepped between us and the door. She put her legs apart. She put her arms on her hips. Right next to the gun.

  We amused ourselves watching the police-cruiser flashers’ red, white and blue turn the mob scene outside into a patriotic disco party.

  Mr. Beefcake came back. He whispered something to Charlie. Charlie stepped aside. Mr. Beefcake gave us a nod. We stepped in.

  Butch was waiting for us just inside the door. He didn’t look happy.

  Butch, I said. Why didn’t somebody call me?

  It’s a zoo in here. I’m not sure you were the first thing on anyone’s mind.

  You’ve got a point. Where’s Jules?

  Last I heard he was in with Donegan. Give me a sec.

  He went through the swinging doors to the back of the precinct house.

  Donegan? Dorita asked.

  I know him a bit, I said. He’s a lifer. The kind of guy was born with a police-issue .38 strapped to his waist.

  Ouch. Poor Mom.

  I think you used that one already.

  It’s still funny.

  Right. He’s a big guy, with a bigger head. Not too bright, but dogged as hell. After twenty years they finally made him detective. He outlasted them.

  Sounds charming.

  Actually, he’s an okay guy. I think.

  I guess we’ll find out.

  Butch came back through the swinging doors.

  Donegan says you can come back, he said. But the kid says he doesn’t want to see you.

  What?

  That’s what he says.

  Did he give any reason?

  No. Just said he doesn’t want to see you.

  A tiny tattooed thing flung itself around my neck, cried out, Mr. Redman! I’m so glad you’re here!

  I pried its arms off me. Asked it to calm down a bit.

  Dorita raised her eyebrows.

  Dorita, I said, this is Lisa. Lisa, my friend Dorita.

  Friend? said Dorita.

  Pleased to meet you, Lisa said, more demurely than the circumstances called for.

  She held out a hand. Dorita took it.

  The same, I’m sure, said Dorita, with a jaundiced glance my way.

  They tell me Jules doesn’t want to see me, I told Lisa.

  Oh God, she said. He’s been so weirded out by all this. He doesn’t even know what he’s saying. I’ll go talk to him.

  Okay, I said. I’d appreciate that.

  She pushed through the swinging doors, back to the inner sanctum.

  So, said Dorita, that’s your little temptress.

  Yes, indeed. Captivating, isn’t she?

  Other words come to mind.

  Tiny and tattooed?

  Sure. That, and way too young for you.

  Oh, I don’t know. She’s legal. That’s my bottom line.

  I was afraid of that.

  Lisa came out and beckoned to us.

  We followed her back.

  She seemed to know her way around the place.

  She led us to an interrogation room. In the room were Donegan and Jules. Jules didn’t look up. The front of his white T-shirt appeared to be streaked with blood.

  Jules, I said, what happened to you?

  Nothing, he said, without looking up.

  He’s been cutting himself again, Lisa whispered.

  It’s none of their goddamn business, Jules barked at her.

  I looked at Donegan. He shook his head. It was clear that he was overmatched.

  Can I have a few minutes alone with my client? I asked him.

  Sure, he said, they’re all yours.

  On his way out he gave me a subtle shift of the head. Come out here for a second, it said. I followed him out.

  Just thought you should know, he said. The kid’s been …

  I know. I saw the shirt. He does that.

  You didn’t see what’s under the shirt. This kid isn’t playing around. We got somebody watching. Just in case.

  Okay. I got you. Listen, they haven’t charged him or anything, have they?

  Nothing new, anyway.

  Donegan left. Gave me a wink on the way.

  I had no idea what it meant.

  When I got back into the room Lisa was sitting next to Jules, her arms around his neck.

  Jules didn’t react.

  Jules, I said, I’m so sorry.

  What about? he asked, with hooded eyes and a disturbingly calm air.

  Your father. Look, I know you didn’t always get along.

  He snorted in derision.

  But it’s always tough, no matter what.

  It’s not tough. Nothing tough about it.

  I looked at his blood-streaked shirt.

  He didn’t follow my lead. He looked steadily at me.

  Jules, I said. I think I understand. I just want you to know that we’re here to help you. If we can. Anything we can do.

  Who’s the we?

  Oh. I’m sorry. This is Dorita. She’s my partner. She’s helping me out on your case.

  My case? he asked with a sneer.

  The Larry Silver case, I said gently.

  I’m not worried about that.

  That’s good. That’s good. Listen, Jules, what have they been doing with you here? Do they think you’re a suspect in your father’s death or something?

  I don’t fucking know what they’re doing. They picked me up. They brought me here. That fathead cop’s been asking me all kind of shit. Where I was last night. Where I was this morning. Where I was when I was born. All kinds of shit.

  Did they arrest you? Read you your rights?

  Nah. They asked me to come down. But they did it like if I said no they’d make me.

  Then you can leave anytime you want, you know.

  Sure, I know that.

  Okay. And you don’t have to talk to them.

  I got nothing to hide.

  That may be true, Jules, but they can twist things around. You shouldn’t be talking to them. Especially without a lawyer. What did you tell them?

  I didn’t tell them shit.

  About where you were last night. What did you tell them about that?

  I told them the truth.

  And what was that?

  I was with Lisa.

  She smiled and nodded at me.

  Where?

  Around.

  Where around?

  All over around. Here, there. Everywhere.

  Jules. I’m trying to help you here. You don’t have to play these games with me. I thought we got over that.

  That was before.

  Before what?

  Before you started fucking with Lisa.

  Jules! Lisa cried out.

  I don’t know what you’re talking about, Jules, I said, with as much outrage as I could muster.

  What are you talking about? echoed Lisa.

  Never mind what I’m talking about, he said, looking straight at me. Just get the fuck out of here.

  His look was not one that allowed for negotiation. I nodded at Dorita. We got up. I glanced back as we went out the door. He was still giving me the hairy eyeball. She was still clinging to his neck.

  We went out front. We asked for Butch. It took a while.

  Butch, I said when he finally appeared. Can you find out for me what’s going on with Jules? Is he being treated as a suspect or something?

  Everybody’s a suspect, he said. Until the case is closed.

  Yeah, yeah. I know that. But seriously?

  I can’t really say.

  He gave me an apologetic shrug.

  I looked around. The room was packed with cops. Reporters. Guys in raincoats. Folks whose function there I couldn’t place. I gave Butch the benefit. Even if he wanted to tell me something, he couldn’t do it there.

  99.

  WE WENT TO THE BAR across the str
eet. The joint was crawling with reporters, technicians, hangers-on, scandalmongers. We found a relatively quiet spot in the back.

  That’s one fucked-up kid, I said.

  Sure, said Dorita. And you’d be Mother Teresa on Valium in his situation.

  Hey, I’m not judging. He’s got a lot to deal with. But all the same. What’s with this self-mutilation thing?

  We all have our means of coping.

  I guess.

  Just because his is visible.

  I suppose you’re right.

  Lung and liver lesions.

  Not visible.

  More deadly.

  Can’t argue.

  Don’t try.

  Won’t.

  Okay, what now?

  I don’t have a clue.

  Give up?

  Right. Like you have that bone in your body.

  I need two, she said. One for me and one for you.

  Don’t worry about me. I got a bone.

  I’m not touching that one. Let’s get back to the question.

  Let’s get hold of Butch. There was stuff he wasn’t telling us.

  Can you get him out of there?

  I’ll try.

  I paged Butch. I didn’t expect an immediate response. I didn’t get one.

  We felt helpless. We ordered another round.

  Dorita asked about Steiglitz.

  Later, I said.

  She insisted.

  I gave her the short version.

  She wanted more.

  Later, I said.

  I changed the subject. I talked about basketball. Could the Knicks pick it up? Not just make the playoffs, but go far? Go all the way? That was a bit much to ask. But please, could we have a team that was fun to watch?

  My cell phone rang.

  Butch? I said.

  Yo.

  Can you get away?

  Give me half an hour.

  White Stallion?

  I’ll be there.

  We’re buying.

  You’re all heart.

  Dorita put her hand on my knee. I felt electric pulses up my thigh. In spite of all the ruckus, my libido still was operational. Thank the Lord for small mercies.

  We made our way to the White Stallion. Butch had beaten us there. He was drinking a beer at the bar. He looked exhausted.

  Man, I said, you look exhausted.

  What you see is what you get, he said.

  Sorry, man. I don’t want to add to your troubles.

  Nothing next to yours, he said with his big smile.

  Hey. Don’t worry about that. I’m coping.

  He looked at Dorita.

  I see, he said.

  Nice to see you too, Dorita said.