by Sharon Pape
The waiter came back with Travis’s Coke and my water, ready to take our order. I hadn’t read the menu, being otherwise occupied. I looked to Travis for help. “To start we’ll have the mozzarella and tomato?” he said as much to me as to the waiter. I shook my head, saying I’d prefer salad. The waiter noted the adjustment. “And we’ll both have the lobster ravioli?” Travis continued. By then the waiter had the gist of how we worked and waited for my approval before noting it on his pad. He thanked us and promised bread was on its way.
“I have an idea,” I said once he was gone. “It’s a little unorthodox, but it may work.”
Travis grinned. “A little unorthodox, huh? How would I even know the difference?” I loved his smile when he really let go.
I took off one of my pearl earrings while I worked out the spell. The warm Italian bread arrived with a dish of olive oil infused with herbs. I could smell how good it was going to taste, but first things first. Several minutes went by before I had a handle on the words:
Twixt pearl I wear and pearl I set
From ear to ear, pearls help me hear
The words of those you are most near.
“Wish me luck,” I said, getting up to plant the earring.
“You don’t need luck,” Travis said. “If it’s possible to do, I have no doubt that you can do it.” His words were better than any romantic poem or love letter.
Fortunately, the door to the restrooms led past the table where Epps and Royce were eating their salads and speaking in undertones. If I walked behind their table, Epps’s back would be to me. Royce might be able to identify my voice, but I wasn’t planning on speaking. I didn’t want to take a chance of just dropping the earring onto the hardwood floor as I walked by. It might make noise or roll too far away. I locked my eyes on it in the palm of my hand, and using telekinesis, set it down gently as close to Epps’s chair as I could manage without pausing. Neither man appeared to have heard it. I kept on going to the restroom. The first part of my plan was complete.
Now to find out if the spell actually worked. I slipped into a bathroom stall to cast the spell where I wouldn’t be seen. Closing my eyes helped focus my intent and at that moment I needed all the help I could get.
Twixt pearl I wear and pearl I set
From ear to ear, pearls help me hear
The words of those you are most near.
I said it three times and waited. Nothing. My heart sank. Maybe Travis’s faith in me was misplaced. I left the stall and washed my hands, sure that even the door of the stall was germ central. I was drying them with the ubiquitous paper towels, when Epps’s voice came to life in my ear as clear as the music that came through the ear piece of my iPod. I glanced quickly at the woman using the sink beside me, worried she could hear him too. She smiled. “Aren’t these paper towels ridiculous?” she said. “I have to use three or four if I want to get my hands dry.” I agreed with her, wished her a good evening and hurried back to our table, spirits high. Travis was digging into his appetizer; my salad awaited me. He put his fork down, looking a bit sheepish. “Sorry for starting without you. I’m really starving,” he said in his defense.
“You’re forgiven. I don’t stand on formalities. A sorcerer has to be flexible.”
“So, don’t keep me in suspense. By the twinkle in your eyes, I’m guessing we’re in business?”
“Yes, I’m just sorry you can’t hear them too.”
“I trust that you’ll give me a recap,” he said, attacking the mozzarella again. I picked up my fork, thinking I could chew quietly enough not to interfere with hearing their dialogue. I was wrong. The romaine lettuce was so fresh and crunchy it was as effective as a white noise machine. No salad for me. At least the ravioli wouldn’t be crunchy. When I explained why I’d given up on the salad, Travis took a slice of his cheese and tomato and plopped them onto my bread dish. I mouthed a thank you. At the end of the meal, my plate was empty but I couldn’t have told you what I ate or if I liked it. I’d eaten on automatic pilot. Travis pronounced it all excellent and promised to take me back there to celebrate after we closed the case.
On the trip back to New Camel, I gave him a rundown on the conversation between Epps and Royce. “They may have been playing it safe,” I said, “using euphemisms for words that would be damning. They were in a public place after all and Epps is the County Prosecutor.” Travis stole a glance at me from the driver’s seat. “They didn’t slip up at all?”
“Not that I could tell. They talked football and hockey. It seems Royce is a high school football coach and he works as a handyman on the weekends. They talked about his team and Epps’s family. They traded opinions on movies and books. It was all very mundane. Here’s an example. Epps said he was thinking of having his dining room painted. Royce said he’d be glad to give him a hand with it. Epps said his wife wanted it to be a standard dove gray. Could that have been code for murder? Sure, but was it? I don’t know. They could just as easily have been talking about painting the dining room dove gray.”
“Then we keep on going,” he said, trying to sound upbeat, but unable to keep his disappointment from bleeding through.
“Eventually the killer is going to make a mistake,” I agreed, “and we’ll be there to catch them.”
Chapter 35
Sam Crawford’s office was also in Watkins Glen. That’s where the similarities between his office and Epps’s ended. Crawford had bought an old building in disrepair, had it razed to the foundation and rebuilt it to fit in with the surrounding structures that dated back to the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries.
Travis and I walked into the lobby. It reminded me of a whiteout in a blizzard. The walls were white, the marble floor was white and the receptionist’s curved desk was a stunning high-gloss white. The contrast between the historic exterior of the building and the modern interior was disorienting. Judging by Travis’s expression, he’d also been knocked off kilter by it. That may have been Crawford’s intent.
The woman behind the desk was Marsha Goodall, according to her nameplate. She looked up when the outer door closed behind us, but she didn’t speak until we reached her desk.
“May I help you?” she asked in the hushed tones of a classical music DJ. Outdoor voices were clearly not appreciated in there.
“Kailyn Wilde and Travis Anderson to see Mr. Crawford,” I said.
“Welcome. You are a tad early, so please make yourselves comfortable.” She handed us little menus listing the complimentary beverages we could order while we waited. “If there’s anything you’d like, please don’t hesitate to ask. Mr. Crawford will be with you shortly.”
Sleek white armchairs were clustered in groups of three around glass and chrome cocktail tables. We sat down, prepared to wait a while, but on the stroke of our appointed time a door off the lobby opened and Sam Crawford appeared. He strode over, introduced himself, and welcomed us to his office. There was so much good will oozing from him and Ms. Goodall that the white walls were practically dripping treacle. Some people might call it graciousness and lament its demise in modern society, but it made me uncomfortable.
To my great surprise, Crawford was more down to earth than his reputation and trappings had led me to expect. He ushered us into his office, which had been done in earth tones and was decidedly warmer and more masculine than the lobby. If the lobby was intended to put you off balance, his office was designed to make you feel protected, cocooned. The wide-plank oak floors, the wainscoting, the rich Mahogany desk, the floor to ceiling bookcases with every volume as perfectly ordered as a crack army unit all reinforced the same theme—you’ll be cared for and represented by the best of the best. Relax, I’ve-got-your-back, Jack.
His desk was remarkably free of papers and folders. He probably had enough staff to keep after the endless paperwork that computers were supposed to have done away with, but never did.
“I’m so glad
you accepted my invitation to come straight to the horse’s mouth,” he said with a smile that seemed genuine. I was beginning to understand what his clients saw in him, beyond his outstanding record in the courtroom.
“It’s our pleasure,” Travis said. “If you’re ready, we can get started.”
“I’m surprised you don’t have a cameraman with you,” Crawford said.
“This was the only way I could get the network to sign off on the interview. They’ll use stock footage. Everything’s about the bottom line; you know how that goes.”
“Only too well.” Crawford leaned back in his chair and set his feet on the edge of the desk, legs crossed at the ankles. “Question away.” Travis asked for permission to record the interview, which Crawford granted by way of a nod.
“To begin,” he said, “let me tell you something you probably already know. You have far more devotees than detractors.”
“Yeah, but somehow my fans are never as vocal as my critics. I imagine the CP did a hatchet job on me.”
“Not really,” I said. “He gave you credit for all you’ve accomplished and admitted that defense attorneys are a crucial part of the system.”
“I’m shocked to hear that. Outside the courtroom he barely deigns to speak to me.”
“Well, he’s all about trying to protect the public from the same people you keep putting back on the streets,” Travis pointed out. “It’s not a great formula for friendship.”
“Such is the nature of the justice system.”
“Granted,” Travis said. “But I for one, would have trouble sleeping nights if I kept people out of jail who were likely to go back to doing the things that got them arrested in the first place.”
“Whoa, you come charging right out of the gate, don’t you, cowboy? Look, you know how the law works. Not to denigrate Epps, but the formula is simple. If too many cases end up in acquittals or light sentences, maybe the County Prosecutor is not equal to the task.” He spoke calmly and without rancor.
“Then you think Epps has failed to put enough effort into his work?” I asked.
“I can’t speak to his level of effort, I can only speak to the results.”
“It sounds like you might welcome a more challenging relationship with the CP,” Travis said.
Crawford grinned. “Sure, maybe I’d sleep even better than I do now.” I’d been on the fence about trying the honesty spell I’d used on Epps, since he’d had a little trouble shaking it off. But sitting there with Crawford and his expansive personality, I didn’t think he’d have any such issue. If anything, he might slough it right off. For honesty’s sake, it was worth a shot.
Let fear and caution leave your mind.
Fret and worry leave behind.
What is true may now be spoken,
What was hidden be now open.
“How does your family feel about your work?” I asked.
Crawford’s smile faltered. “Interesting you should ask that question. I have three kids, two in high school. When they were little, they didn’t care how I made the money to buy them what they wanted. Now they’re at that rebellious age where they only see things in black and white. My eldest even accused me of being culpable in a distracted driving death, because…” He frowned for a moment and cleared his throat before continuing. “Because in his opinion my client should have been behind bars.” I noticed the reset, but most people wouldn’t have. That one honest anecdote was all the spell had bought. “Raising kids is definitely not for the faint of heart.” He shrugged, not like he didn’t care about what his children thought of him, more like he was prepared to be seen as the bad guy until they grew up and could see things in a more realistic light.
Merlin’s wisdom popped into my head. “Life is lived mainly in the gray areas.”
“Hey, that’s good,” Crawford said. “Mind if I use that line the next time my kids go for the jugular?”
“It’s something a friend told me. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind.”
“I have a question for the two of you,” he said. “I hear you’ve been looking into some deaths that took place over a period of years, true or not?”
“Where did you hear that?” Travis asked, sidestepping the question with his own.
“I have my sources,” Crawford said with a sly smile. “There isn’t much that happens in this county that I don’t know about.”
“Then you don’t need me to confirm it.”
“No, not really. But I would like to know if I’m right about why you’re doing it. I like a mystery, a good brain teaser. You started your investigation right after your foster brother’s death. When you were interviewed by the local paper at the time, you made it clear you didn’t agree with the coroner’s report that his death was caused by choking on a burger. I’m told that before he died, Ryan was snooping around, interviewing folks about the way their loved ones died. Knowing that, it wasn’t much of a leap for you to believe Ryan’s death had been staged to look like an accident, by someone who wanted to put an end to his inquiries. That’s when you decided to take on his investigation. How am I doing so far?”
Travis’s face was impassive. “It’s an interesting tale.”
“So interesting,” Crawford said, “that I started looking into it more deeply myself. And you know what I discovered?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “I discovered that a number of the deaths Ryan was looking into were my clients and that they died under what could be questionable circumstances. In a big city, it would be pretty hard to see the pattern, but up here there aren’t a lot of trees to hide the forest. Statistically my clients have been dying in greater numbers than the general population. Greater numbers than probability can account for. My current theory is that someone is killing these people and making their deaths appear to be the result of accidents, disease, or criminal activity. Are we in the same ballpark?”
“I can’t say.”
“You mean you won’t say,” Crawford pressed him.
“I’m a reporter. I can’t just give away my thunder.”
“Okay, I can respect that. If I were asked to give away the strategy for defending my next case, I’d say the same thing.”
It was time to get the dialogue back on track, our track. “Since you’re not a reporter,” I said to Crawford, “why don’t you tell us who’s on your list of suspects.”
Crawford grinned. “You want me to do your job for you, huh?”
“No, just curious,” I said. “No one can do our job for us.”
“Sure, why not? My list would have to include anyone who suffered a loss at the hands of one of my clients, maybe someone with a superhero complex, or someone like Epps, making up for his shortcomings in the courtroom. Then again, I don’t know if he has sufficient backbone to do it. I could probably come up with others if I gave it more thought.”
“That’s okay,” I said.
“I bet if you gave Epps all the information and asked him for a list of suspects, my name would top the list.”
“Why do you say that?” Travis asked.
“The man doesn’t think further than the end of his nose. That’s why he’s so easy to beat in the courtroom. I would have nothing to gain and everything to lose by killing off my own clients. It would be the end of my very lucrative practice, one I worked hard to build. And I’ve become awfully fond of my lifestyle. So have my wife and three ungrateful kids. You know the saying ‘A luxury once enjoyed becomes a necessity.’”
“Who said that?” I asked.
“A man by the name of C. Northcote Parkinson, a British naval officer in the early twentieth century. And now you know my vice—I’m a total history nerd.”
We spent the next twenty minutes asking Crawford the kind of banal questions you see in most interviews. He was all over them. As Travis predicted, he loved to talk about himself. He regaled us with courtroom anecdotes that illustrat
ed his prowess at defending his clients.
When we thanked him for granting us the interview, he asked when it would be aired, and Travis fed him some double-talk about the news director and needing to wait for a slow news day. He promised the attorney he’d get back to him.
We walked outside to clear skies and a calmer wind, but the cold air was as sharp as broken glass against my skin. I pulled up the collar of my coat and tried to convince Travis to let me drive him back to his apartment. He insisted he was fine, but with his hands stuffed into his pockets and his chin burrowed into his coat, he looked like a frightened tortoise. When I told him that, he caved.
Sitting in my car with the heat cranking, we held our little postmortem. “Crawford came pretty close to accusing Epps,” he said.
“He definitely has a winning motive, but the vibe I got off him was of a bureaucrat putting in his time until retirement. I can’t picture him sneaking around and murdering people.”
“Did you try your spell on Crawford?” he asked. “I didn’t notice anything different.”
“I tried, but it didn’t even last a minute.”
“That’s strange, isn’t it?”
“Not really. Everyone reacts differently to that kind of spell. Or it could be my magick that’s off today. It’s far from an exact science.” I pulled to the curb in front of his apartment building. “I bet I know what you’re going to do now.”
“What’s that?”
“Use your persuasive wiles to talk your director into running the interview.”
“Yeah,” he said dryly, “wish me luck.”
Chapter 36
Paul Curtis arrived for his reading in jeans, Timberlands, and a dark-plaid flannel shirt. He looked like a woodsman, a woodsman on his way to the dentist to have all his wisdom teeth pulled without benefit of Novocain or laughing gas. From my shop, I’d watched him park his Jeep at the curb and head next door to Tea and Empathy. I would have loved to be privy to his reading. I didn’t understand why he found the prospect of it so unpleasant. Perhaps it was not only because he didn’t believe in psychics and magick, but also because he didn’t want to believe in such things.
