Bone by Bone

by Carol O'Connell

  This was news to Oren, who had no idea that an attorney was coming.

  Ad Winston resumed his smile, merely evil this time. He settled into the chair next to Oren’s and stared at the plate of brownies. ‘She buys them at a bakery down the street. And she gets that fresh-from-the-oven smell by running them through the microwave in the lunchroom. Sally’s idea of torturing prisoners . . . It’s scary how often that works.’

  Sally Polk sat back in her chair with a smile for Oren. ‘At my regional office down in Sacramento, when we find out Ad’s in town, we just run out and arrest whoever he’s representing. Then, later on, we come up with the charges. They’re always guilty of something.’

  The lawyer winked at his client. ‘She’s good.’ He turned his attention back to the CBI agent. ‘Oren’s better. When he was an Army cop, he closed out all of his cases. He was one determined soldier, and his evidence always stood up in court. I won’t even bother to dazzle you with the conviction rate, but it was stunning.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Agent Polk, ‘that was military court, and guilt was always a foregone conclusion – even before the judges sat down.’ She turned to Oren and spoke to him in the way that women talked down to small children. ‘Nothing personal, sweetheart. I’m sure you did a very good job. Have another brownie.’

  ‘Nonetheless,’ said Addison, ‘I’d stack up my client against any cop in this state. He didn’t just work domestic disputes on some military base out in the sticks. No, they sent him all around the world. My boy brought in terrorists and killers, smugglers and mad bomber types. He put a goddamn general in Leavenworth.’

  Untrue. The highest-ranking officer Oren had ever bagged was a lieutenant colonel, and he had yet to meet any live mad bombers. Only pieces of them could be found on the streets of Baghdad. If asked for his job description as a military detective, he would have explained his special knack for ripping a human being’s mind inside out – without damaging the flesh. He would have said, ‘I break people.’ But he allowed the lawyer’s lies to slide.

  ‘You should be begging for Oren’s help, not harassing him.’ Ad Winston continued to smile at the CBI agent as he spoke an aside to his client. ‘That startled look in her eyes? Obviously, the lady never bothered to check out your military record, nothing past your serial number and rank. To quote your father – a very sloppy job.’

  Sally Polk leaned toward the lawyer. ‘Well now, Ad, I have to admit that’s an eye-opener. You see, I was gonna let your client off easy – no charge of obstructing an investigation. But with a record like that one . . . I think he should’ve known better.’

  ‘She’s bluffing, Oren. That’s Sally’s trademark. We met in Sacramento when a major case of hers fell apart in court – a case of hot air.’

  ‘The way I remember it, you suborned one of my witnesses.’

  Addison rested an avuncular hand on Oren’s shoulder. ‘They always send the screwup agents to the hinterlands. But she ’s the first one ever to be condemned to the Highway Patrol.’

  ‘Oh, this is just a temporary assignment, Addison. I won’t be here long – just long enough to gut your client. Have another brownie, Oren.’

  EIGHTEEN

  ‘Hannah! Stop that! I can’t hear!’

  The housekeeper switched off the vacuum cleaner.

  After a brief telephone conversation, the judge hung up on his caller. ‘That was the sheriff. He says Oren’s on TV.’ Not a believer in remote-control contraptions, Henry Hobbs leaned down to turn on the television set. ‘Oh, my God.’ He stared at the glowing screen and a scene of reporters mobbing a parking lot. His son stood at the center of this frenzy, and the backdrop was a brick building, headquarters for the Highway Patrol in Saulburg. The shouts of the mob were unintelligible. Addison Winston climbed up on the hood of a trooper’s cruiser, and, with a bit of coaxing, Oren joined him there.

  ‘This is Ad’s idea of handling things quietly?’ The judge raked one clawed hand over his bald scalp. ‘It’s a circus.’

  More than that – this was Hannah’s old premonition come true. She had always pictured the judge’s son taking center stage, surrounded by people and bright lights, a screaming public. ‘The camera loves him.’

  The cameras could not get enough of Oren Hobbs. When the afternoon sky grew dark with overcast, lights on poles bore down on him, and strobe lights popped in smaller cameras as photographers edged closer.

  ‘Oren and his damned cowboy boots,’ said the judge. ‘He ’s going to dent the hood of that car.’

  On screen, Addison Winston stepped in front of his photogenic client, though not to shield him. The grinning lawyer had the look of an elegant sideshow barker with tickets to sell. ‘Sorry you were called out on a false alarm. I’m afraid Sally Polk has a rich fantasy life.’

  Hannah turned to the judge and reached out to nudge his arm. ‘You see? It wasn’t Ad’s fault. That Polk woman must ’ve called the reporters.’

  ‘It was Addison,’ said the judge. ‘He’s addicted to this kind of attention.’

  The picture had changed to a close-up of the building in the background, where Sally Polk stood in the open doorway, clearly unhappy with this event. And then the camera turned back to Oren, the one it loved best.

  ‘Did you see that?’ Hannah edged her chair closer to the screen. ‘That was Evelyn Straub standing not two feet away from that door.’

  ‘Oh, fine.’ Henry Hobbs covered his eyes with one hand. ‘Let’s just drag out all the sordid details.’

  ‘There she is again.’ Hannah pulled down the judge’s hand. ‘Look. You see that bright pink thing in her hand? That’s the color of Evelyn’s checkbook. I bet she planned to bail Oren out of jail.’

  As if in response to this, Ad Winston’s voice boomed from the television set, ‘Bail? No, there was never an issue of bail. My client came in as a courtesy.’

  A reporter shouted, ‘Your guy was wearing handcuffs!’

  Addison raised both hands in a crucifixion pose. ‘Another screwup. It seems there was a breakdown in communications between Sally Polk and the storm troopers.’

  ‘Well, that ’s not right,’ said the judge, indignant. ‘And it wasn’t necessary. That man has no respect for law enforcement.’

  ‘As I recall,’ said Hannah, ‘you told Addison to grind up Sally Polk for dog meat.’

  Still following those instructions, the lawyer yelled, ‘It gets better! Judge Montrose – the man who signed the warrant – he was under the impression that there was probable cause. There wasn’t. Let me tell you, that ’s one pissed-off judge.’

  ‘Now that last part’s true enough.’ Henry Hobbs nodded at the screen. ‘Judge Montrose and I had a little talk. Good man. Seems Miss Polk likes to stretch the truth a bit. But so does Addison. He ’s talking about the search warrant. There never was a warrant for Oren’s arrest. He must ’ve been brought in for questioning. That means there’s no evidence against him.’

  ‘But you always knew that.’

  ‘That I did.’

  They turned back to the television set as a reporter asked, ‘Oren? Will you be offering any assistance on this case?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ said Ad Winston, answering for his client before Oren had a chance to open his mouth and say something true. ‘He’s a decorated CID agent. That’s the Army’s Criminal Investigations Division. He has quite a track record for solving homicides. Incidentally, my client was the one who found the first evidence of his brother’s murder. So you might say he’s been on the case for a while now.’

  Oren seemed about to disagree with this, and the lawyer pushed him, forcing him to jump off the hood of the car before he could fall. Ad Winston also jumped to the ground and propelled his client through the crowd to a waiting limousine. The reporters regrouped and followed them across the parking lot. All that was missing was the music of a marching band.

  In the distance, Evelyn Straub could be seen standing alone as the parade passed her by. To the camera’s undiscerning eye, she was a s
tout, drab figure who blended into the background and faded away.

  Oren rode in the backseat of the stretch limousine hired for this special occasion of a carnival press conference. It was equipped with a stereo, television, a coffeemaker and a full bar. All that seemed to be missing was a hot tub. He turned to his lawyer. ‘Did my father really hire you?’

  ‘Who else? You thought Isabelle might’ve asked me to defend you?’ Ad Winston depressed a button on the console to raise a glass privacy barrier behind the chauffeur’s seat. ‘And now, may I ask, what goes on between you and my daughter?’

  ‘Sir, I’ve never even spoken to her.’

  ‘And yet, reliable witnesses tell me she recently decked you, flattened you out on a town sidewalk. That could pass for rough sex in the third world.’

  ‘I tripped.’

  ‘Of course you did.’

  ‘I’ll pay for this myself,’ said Oren. ‘What do I owe you?’

  ‘Not one dime. I never earned out the retainer your father paid me twenty years ago. And I won’t make much of a dent in what ’s left. It looks like you’re going to walk away from a double homicide.’

  ‘You think I murdered my brother and that woman?’

  The attorney stared at him with keen interest. ‘The other set of bones belonged to a woman? Interesting. Don’t ever tell me how you knew that. It’ll make my job easier if I have to put you on the witness stand.’ He lifted his briefcase from the floor and settled it on his lap. ‘But I’m not anticipating a trial. Sally Polk’s about to get a direct order to stay out of the sheriff ’s way. And Cable Babitt doesn’t have the talent to catch a shoplifter.’

  ‘When Josh disappeared, was it your idea not to bring in the feds and the CBI? Or was that the judge’s call?’

  ‘Your father and I discussed the matter. I thought it was in your best interest if there was only one police agency to deal with – the mediocre one. I call it damage control.’

  ‘You told him to send me away?’

  ‘No, that was the judge’s decision. I was against it. At least he waited a few months before he shipped you out of state, but it was still a bad move. I gather you had some kind of alibi. The sheriff isn’t a complete idiot.’ The lawyer’s fingers did a little dance on the top of his briefcase while he awaited a response.

  Oren had no plans to share the details of two bogus alibis. Evelyn Straub’s old statement was folded in his wallet, and there it would stay. He had set fire to Isabelle’s statement in full view of the sheriff and the patrons at the Water Street Café.

  Ad Winston opened his briefcase and perused the paperwork inside. The top sheet was a list of military commendations and decorations, ribbons from combat zones, medals for Oren’s valor and medals for his wounds.

  ‘Stunning record,’ said the lawyer. ‘I was relieved to discover that you were honorably discharged. And that’s all the information Sally Polk is likely to get from the Army. She probably doesn’t know as many five-star generals as I do. When my general looked into the matter, what he found was very jarring.’ The lawyer consulted a sheet of handwritten notes. ‘I know you left Coventry when you were seventeen years old, but you didn’t join the Army until your eighteenth birthday – legal age. When you quit, you were nine months shy of qualifying for a twenty-year pension. You walked away from that – every dime, every benefit.’

  Winston paused for a moment. ‘No comment?’

  The lawyer turned back to his notes. ‘Well, with no prompting from me, the general investigated.’ He pointed to a paragraph. ‘This lists all the perks you were offered. In the general’s own words, the Army offered you the moon if you would only stay. He tells me you never had to quit. They would have given you a leave of absence – all the time you needed. You could ’ve claimed a family emergency, but you didn’t. And your father insists you knew nothing about Josh’s bones being found – not before you came home.’

  ‘My father never lies.’ ‘Henry’s better at arithmetic than I am. He knows what you lost when you walked away. He never asked why?’

  They rode the rest of the way in silence.

  The sun had come out again, and the light from the immense window was brilliant. Beyond the glass were the muffled sounds of hammers and the sight of workmen building a large wooden platform on the grass behind the Winston lodge. Truckers unloaded tables and chairs for the guests who soon would fill the house to overflowing.

  Oren had not set foot in this place since the age of twelve. Today the front room was an empty cavern of cedar paneling and glass. All the furnishings had been removed to accommodate a night of dancing beneath a ceiling that soared more than thirty feet, and the floor space had the dimensions of a grand ballroom.

  Walking alongside his lawyer, he was told that the lodge had been built with the annual festivities in mind. Oren could only see it as a needy display of wealth, a stage for a man who was always performing, always smiling. He wondered what Ad Winston was like when there was no one around to play the audience. He pictured the lawyer sitting in a darkened room, insanely grinning for no reason at all.

  No difference.

  ‘You must come to the ball this year,’ said Winston, leading the way across the wide expanse.

  ‘Maybe I will.’ Oren delivered this line in a manner close to a threat.

  The lawyer paused and turned, eyes flickering, uncomprehending, and then he walked around a screen of potted fruit trees, motioning for his guest to follow him. On the other side of the foliage was a small mahogany bar, ornately carved. A cabinet full of bottles had been built into the wall, and its shelves were enclosed by glass doors with a sturdy lock. A single key lay beside a glass of melting ice cubes. The keeper of the key, a woman in a maid’s uniform, was capping a whiskey bottle.

  ‘Hello, Hilda,’ said the lawyer as he joined her behind the bar. He looked down at the abandoned glass. ‘No refills, right?’

  ‘She’s only had the one—’

  ‘That ’s enough. You can go, Hilda. I’ll do the honors. Young man, pull up a barstool.’

  Oren was distracted by his view of a small private terrace beyond a pair of French doors. Outside in the sunlight, Isabelle Winston’s red hair was fire bright. A taller woman with long pale hair stood beside her. This champagne blonde could only be Sarah Winston, and she was slowly turning toward him, but he never saw her face. The lady was led away like a passive invalid.

  Ad Winston set out two glasses. ‘What’ll you have?’

  ‘Jack Daniel’s straight up if you’ve got it.’

  ‘I have everything, my boy.’ The lawyer uncapped a whiskey bottle and poured him two generous shots. ‘We should talk strategy.’

  Oren looked down at his glass and idly ran one finger around the rim. ‘You’re fired.’

  The older man leaned across the bar, for surely he could not have heard this right. ‘You’re firing me?’ He laughed at this great joke.

  ‘I know you’re the best,’ said Oren. ‘But I know how you work . . . I know what you did to William Swahn.’

  Perhaps for the first time ever, the lawyer had lost his sense of humor, and he was slow to pour his own drink. ‘I never discuss my clients with anyone. So any aspect of Swahn’s old case is—’

  ‘Nondisclosure agreements. You talk – your client loses money. I got that.’ Oren drained his glass and slammed it down on the bar – but not in anger. He simply wanted to make Ad Winston jump – and he did. ‘It only took me six minutes to figure out the scam. Swahn was just a rookie cop in those days . . . I’m the real deal.’

  Oren poured himself another shot from the bottle and sipped his glass slowly, enjoying the wary look in the lawyer’s eyes. ‘You were at the hospital the night Swahn was ambushed. You were waiting in his room when he got out of surgery.’

  There was an unspoken – unspeakable – question in Ad Winston’s eyes.

  It was Oren’s turn to smile. ‘No, your client didn’t tell me. He never said a word. But I knew his partner took a bribe to call in sick
the night of the ambush. I’m sure the civilian dispatcher got paid off, too. But that woman was smart enough to disappear before detectives came knocking on her door. Jay Murray stayed. That proves he had no idea why he’d been bribed. And that should’ve led the investigation away from a cop conspiracy. They would ’ve been looking at civilians.’

  ‘The LAPD was liable. There’s no disputing that. The dispatcher was employed by—’

  ‘But the lawsuit would’ve dragged on for years.’ Oren picked up the bottle and poured himself another shot. ‘So you blackmailed the LAPD into a fast settlement, a big one. You fabricated evidence of a police conspiracy against a gay man with AIDS. And you had to work fast. When a cop goes down on duty, nobody goes home. Detectives work around the clock. It was probably still dark when you accused Swahn’s precinct of ambushing your poor diseased client. The next morning, during an interrogation – that was the first time Swahn’s partner heard the rumor. Now that’s only odd if you know that cops gossip like little old ladies with guns. So that rumor – your rumor – was started after the ambush and before the sun came up on Jay Murray. And that’s how I know you were in Swahn’s hospital room when he got out of surgery.’

  ‘Interesting theory, Oren. Pure conjecture of course, but—’

  ‘It’s a fact. The only thing I don’t know is whether or not Swahn was lucid when you signed him up as a client. I used to think he was in on this con game. Now I’m not so sure.’

  ‘None of this would hold up in court.’

  ‘That doesn’t matter,’ said Oren. ‘I can still do a world of damage. Every reporter in the state wants to talk to me – thanks to your little performance today.’

  ‘You’ve got no proof.’

  ‘Don’t need it. Rumors make the best headlines.’

  Winston’s smile was back. ‘You can’t revive any interest in Swahn’s case. It’s ancient history.’

  ‘The reporters will want to know why I fired you, the great Addison Winston. Now that ’s news. I can tell them it’s because you smeared a precinct of innocent cops – and scammed them for money.’