THE UP AND COMER

by Howard Roughan

  You're far from screwed, Philip.

  It continued like that for the rest of the afternoon. I paced the carpet in my office believing one thing one minute and another thing the next. My fervent hope was that I'd never see Detectives Hicks and Benoit again. My greatest fear was that they were just getting warmed up.

  TWENTY-NINE

  Right away, Tracy wanted to know what was wrong. So much for my trying to act normal. The more I told her that it was nothing, the more she didn't believe me. My reticence made her angry, and within ten minutes of my coming home, Tracy told me I was on my own for dinner. She had very little patience when it came to not getting her own way. She stormed off into our bedroom. I decided to get some air.

  It was a comfortable night, warm and mostly calm, save the occasional breeze that filtered its way in from the Hudson. There were your dogs on leashes, your couples walking arm in arm, your delivery guys on bicycles. All the outdoor tables in front of the restaurants I passed were full of people and their conversations. Pockets of noise that would build and fade, build and fade, as I'd go walking by.

  I wanted so badly to call Jessica, if only to hear her voice. But she was most likely "out of bounds," as we called it — at home with Connor. In any event, there was nothing I could tell her, nothing at all that I could share. This was one of those things I was going to have to wait out all on my own.

  I ended up at the Old Town Bar, though no one ever called it that. It was always the Old Town, the "Bar" being a given. There I found a booth, a burger and fries, and more than a few pints of Sierra Nevada. It had been some time since I'd last eaten dinner out alone, or, for that matter, paid for one in cash. I barely had enough on me to cover the tip.

  When I got home Tracy glared at me from her side of the bed. I said nothing and got underneath the sheets. I didn't have the stomach to make peace. Literally. When not tossing and turning the remainder of the night, I was getting up and swigging Mylanta right out of the bottle. I wondered if ulcers could really develop this fast.

  The following day my heart skipped a beat every time Gwen buzzed me in my office. My time sheet for that date may have indicated five billable hours on the Brevin Industries case, but I assure you that they got fifteen minutes of my undivided attention at best.

  Later, back at the loft, I was relieved to see that Tracy wasn't holding a grudge. My not wanting to tell her what was bothering me the night before seemed to have been forgotten. It may have had something to do with the fact that it was a Friday night and we had plans. One of Tracy's former roommates from Brown was in town with her new boyfriend and there was a reservation at Mesa Grill waiting for the four of us. Tracy knew all too well that she couldn't exactly go through the entire dinner without talking to me. So she made nice. In return, I was in better spirits. I was a full day removed from the visit of the detectives, and for the first time the scales were beginning to tip in favor of optimism. Maybe the whole thing would blow over after all. No repercussions. The money I would save on Mylanta alone would be astounding.

  In hindsight, they were probably just fucking with my head.

  * * *

  Gwen didn't need to buzz me this time. My office door was open that Monday morning and I could hear them talking to her. Detectives Hicks and Benoit were back for a return visit. Something told me that it wasn't simply to say hi.

  I got up and walked out to Gwen's desk. There they stood. The cynical expressions remained the same. The tone, however, was far from cordial.

  "We should step inside your office," said Hicks to start things off. There were no hellos or nice to see you agains. Nonetheless, I had no reason to change my tone. I shrugged as I had the previous time and turned back into my office. They followed and closed my door behind them.

  "Mr. Randall, to get right to the point, we'd like for you to come in for some additional questioning," said Hicks.

  "What, are you arresting me?" I said.

  "No," said Benoit, "your coming with us would be strictly voluntary."

  "And if I don't cooperate?"

  "That's your prerogative," said Benoit. "Though some might be inclined to view that as a curious choice on your part at this juncture."

  "You'll forgive me if I appear reluctant. I'm a little familiar with the game, as you can imagine," I said.

  "Then you know that the questions simply won't go away," said Benoit, "which means neither will we until we get some things cleared up. So why don't we make it simple. You grab your jacket and come with us. If you'd like, you could also grab a lawyer."

  I would've been grabbing a lawyer regardless of whether or not Benoit had mentioned it. Still, his words echoed in my head. I was an attorney being told that I needed an attorney. This was not good, not good at all. I thought for a second. There was only one thing left for me to do.

  Paging Jack Devine.

  I told Gwen to go down to see if he was in his office. Hicks and Benoit expected as much. Their attempts at not giving a shit were a little too practiced.

  She returned alone, however. Jack was at a doctor's appointment, of all things, though due back shortly. "Have him meet me there," I told her, deciding that it wasn't feasible to wait. Gwen took down the precinct and the address. Off I went with my two new friends.

  Sitting there in the backseat of their unmarked Ford, I tried to think of what mistake I had made. Something that I'd forgotten to do... that overlooked loose end. Nothing came to mind.

  "You know, I once thought I wanted to be a lawyer," said Hicks, raising his voice from the driver's seat so I'd know he was talking to me.

  I indulged him. "What changed your mind?"

  "The thought of helping somebody get away with a crime, that's what," he said. "How do you deal with it?"

  The fact that it was an obnoxious question aside, it was a little eerie. Tyler had essentially asked me the same thing: whether I was comfortable with helping guilty people go free. Perhaps the spirit of Tyler was now inhabiting Hicks's body, I thought. That I could have such a thought was reason enough to lower the window and let some air blow on my face.

  With his question unanswered, Hicks turned back to me. "Did you hear me?" he asked.

  "I heard you," I said. "You know, it may seem like it because of your job, Detective, but not every lawyer is a defense attorney. You could've practiced environmental law, for instance."

  "What, you mean like defend trees?" he said, amused.

  Benoit, who had remained uninvolved up to that point, if not completely uninterested, let go with a brief chuckle. It was not clear whether he was laughing with, at, or simply near his partner.

  The subject was dropped.

  Once inside the precinct, we took an elevator up to the fifth floor and walked back to a small interviewing room complete with a one-way mirror. Here I would learn the reason behind this unfortunate turn of events for me. My mounting curiosity to know, however, was not about to overtake my good sense to sit tight for Jack. When the detectives started to play down their additional questioning so as to get started without him, I asked for a cup of coffee and a few minutes of their patience. That way, we won't have to repeat anything, I told them.

  The wait was short.

  Two minutes later, the cavalry of one entered the room with guns blazing. Said Jack, slamming his briefcase on the table, "You guys have got to be pretty fucking sure of yourselves to be dragging one of my lawyers down here. That, or pretty fucking stupid."

  "We didn't drag him in here; he came voluntarily," said Hicks, taking offense.

  Jack ignored him. "The next time you want to come to my office and speak to one of my attorneys, and I don't care if it's only about the fucking weather, you clear it with me first!"

  Hicks stood up and was about to go toe to toe with Jack when Benoit motioned with his arm for Hicks to back off. Benoit looked at Jack calmly. "I'm about to get myself some more coffee; would you like some?" he asked.

  Jack immediately calmed down. He was satisfied. His balls-of-fire entrance was a
ll about the unofficial hierarchy — which of the two detectives was the one with whom he really had to deal. While Hicks was standing there wondering why in the hell his partner was offering to get coffee for some pompous asshole of a lawyer, Benoit had managed to make one thing perfectly clear. He was the man as far as Jack was concerned.

  "Thank you, but I'll pass on the coffee," Jack said. "However, a few minutes alone with Mr. Randall here would be most appreciated."

  "Will five be enough?" asked Benoit.

  "It should be," said Jack.

  "By the way," said Benoit, "it might be a good idea to introduce ourselves. I'm Detective Benoit and this is Detective Hicks."

  "Jack Devine," said Jack.

  They knew.

  "We'll see you in five minutes," said Benoit.

  The two were almost out of the room.

  "Oh, Detective Hicks, would you mind putting the light on in the next room, please," said Jack, looking at the one-way mirror.

  Hicks frowned. "It would be my pleasure," he said in all insincerity, slamming the door behind him.

  Before saying a word, Jack did a lap around the room checking for a microphone or camera. The flicker of some lights could suddenly be seen through the one-way mirror. Jack walked over, cupped his hands around his eyes, and leaned against the glass, peering in to make sure we didn't have an audience in the other room. We didn't.

  Jack turned to me. "Let's go," he said.

  "What do you mean?"

  "I mean we're leaving; I don't like it. You should've never agreed to come."

  "Don't you even want to know what's going on?"

  "I don't need to. Whatever it is, it's not something to be settled right here in their backyard."

  I didn't agree. "I'd sooner nip it in the bud," I said.

  "That's what they want you to think."

  "At least let me tell you what the situation is, or at least what I think the situation is."

  "Fair enough," said Jack, sitting down in one of the metal chairs. "Except I don't want to hear your take on what's happening. I want the indisputable for now. Simply tell me everything that's transpired involving you and the two detectives, starting with when they came by your office."

  I nodded and spoke slowly. "The first time was last Thursday. They wanted to talk to me about the death of my friend, Tyler Mills. He was the one whose funeral I went to."

  "The one killed in his apartment?" said Jack.

  "Yeah."

  "What questions did they ask you?"

  "Basic stuff," I said. "How well I knew him, was he in any trouble, when was the last time I saw him. The only wrinkle was at the end, when they informed me that the last call Tyler made before he died was to me at my office. It was news to me."

  "You never spoke to him?"

  "No."

  I looked at Jack, who was taking it all in. It felt weird to lie to him, not to mention scary, given that he was practically a human polygraph machine. I had little choice, though. As much as our conversation was privileged, at that point I wasn't about to tell my boss why the detectives had every reason to be suspicious.

  "What next?" asked Jack.

  "I thought that was the end of it," I said. "Apparently not. The two of them were back this morning."

  "What'd they tell you?"

  "That they had more questions for me and wanted to do it here."

  "They've got something."

  "I can only assume."

  "No clue what it is?"

  I shook my head. "Whatever it is and whatever they think it has to do with me, I have no idea."

  Jack stared into my eyes. Knowing him, he wasn't concerned so much with whether or not he believed me. It was more like he was gauging whether or not the detectives would believe me if need be. That was the law right there in a nutshell, really. The truth was irrelevant. It was only what people believed that ultimately mattered.

  Jack stood up and walked to the far wall. He turned and leaned against it, arms folded across his chest. "Did you kill him?" he asked flatly.

  "What?"

  "Is that a yes or a no?" Jack asked, undaunted.

  "It's a no," I said, pretending I'd never been so insulted.

  Jack looked at his pocket watch. "Okay, then. I've got a three o'clock conference call back at the office. Let's see if we can't wrap this up beforehand."

  "Shouldn't be a problem," I said.

  A minute later, Hicks and Benoit returned. Benoit had his mug of coffee. In addition to a folder, Hicks was holding a bulky tape recorder under his arm. He dropped the machine onto the table with a noisy clang. "Do you have any objection to our recording this conversation?" he asked.

  Without skipping a beat, Jack opened his briefcase and pulled out a microcassette recorder, placing it on the table as well. "I don't if you don't," he said.

  Hicks shook his head as if to say it figured. Benoit grinned. I sat there and prepared to hear what curveball was about to be thrown my way.

  Hicks pressed play and Benoit started in by stating the day and the date, as well as who was in the room. He would be asking all the questions. "Mr. Randall, how long would you say you knew Tyler Mills?" was his first one.

  "About fifteen years," I answered.

  "How would you characterize your relationship with him?"

  "We were friendly, though for the past ten years we rarely saw each other."

  "Was there any specific reason for this?" Benoit asked.

  "You mean why we rarely saw each other?"

  "Yes."

  "Nothing specific. As we grew older, I think we simply had less and less in common," I said.

  "You previously told us that the last time you talked to Tyler Mills was about a month ago out at a restaurant; is that correct?"

  'Yes. that's right."

  "At the same time," said Benoit, "you are aware that the last phone call Tyler Mills made before he died was to you at your office?"

  "Only insofar as you told me so."

  "Are you reconfirming your earlier statement that you didn't speak to Tyler Mills that night?"

  "Correct."

  "Nor did you receive a message from him?"

  "Correct."

  Benoit was done setting the table. He reached into his folder and took them out. Dinner was served.

  "Have you ever seen these photographs before, Mr. Randall?" he said. As he asked the question he spread them out neatly in two rows. They were the same pictures Tyler had taken of Jessica and me walking in and out of the hotel. The same pictures that Tyler had promised he didn't keep a set of. Not that I ever believed him.

  I sat there and looked them over as nonrattled as possible.

  "No, I've never seen these before," I said.

  "That is in fact you, isn't it?" said Benoit, pointing his finger at the shots that were clearly of me.

  Jack interceded. "Gentlemen, before we go on, I think you need to clarify where you got these pictures from. Without that knowledge, I'll advise Mr. Randall to cease answering any more of your questions."

  "Fair enough," said Benoit, taking a sip of coffee from his mug. "One of the items we found in examining Tyler Mills's apartment after his death was a safe-deposit box key. When we identified the bank, we found these photos inside the box."

  "So you don't know that Mr. Mills actually took these photos," said Jack.

  "That's correct. We don't know that the former photo editor of the Deerfield yearbook actually took these," said Benoit.

  Jack backed off. Another attorney, more prone to caviling, might have desperately claimed "fruit of a poison tree" at that point, meaning that the photos were illegally obtained, having not been first placed in the possession of Tyler's estate. Jack knew better. I had no standing in Tyler's reasonable expectation of privacy, and any judge would admit the photos into evidence no matter how they were obtained. To pretend otherwise would be bush-league.

  Benoit resumed. "As I was saying, Mr. Randall, this is you in these pictures, is it not?"

  "It
certainly looks like me."

  "Do you have any recollection of having been to the Doral Court hotel before?"

  "Yes, I've been there."

  "Do you recognize the woman next to you in this photo, and alone here in these others?"

  "Yes, I do."

  "Is she a friend of yours?"

  "She is," I answered.

  "Is she maybe more than a friend of yours, Mr. Randall?"

  "Jesus fucking Christ," said Jack. "Don't tell me you guys roped one of my attorneys to accuse him of having an affair!"

  "We're just trying to figure out why Tyler Mills would possibly have these photos," said Benoit. "That Mr. Randall was, or is, having an affair is not only plausible, but it raises some interesting questions. Perhaps in the area of motive. Throw in the fact that Mr. Randall was the last call Tyler Mills made before being killed, and it makes it that much more interesting."

  "No," countered Jack, "what's interesting is that you guys actually think you're starting to piece something together, when in reality everyone and your mother would tell you that you ain't got shit."

  "My mother's dead," came the voice of Hicks. He must have thought he'd been silent for too long. Perhaps he saw his comment as a clever way to derail Jack. Silly detective.

  Jack looked at Hicks, momentarily befuddled. "What?"

  "I said, my mother's dead."

  Replied Jack, "Oh, and I suppose you want to interrogate Mr. Randall about that death as well?"

  Hicks went back to being silent.

  Benoit: "Listen, Mr. Devine—"

  Jack cut him off. "No, you listen. You've asked your questions; now it's my turn. Let's start with that last phone call, shall we? I presume the call was made from Mr. Mills's apartment?"

  "Actually, it was made from a cell phone. It was routed through the tower that covers his apartment, so we think he called from home, though we can't know for sure."

  Jack scratched his head. "A cell phone, huh?" He placed both his hands on the table and leaned in toward the detectives. "I'll bet you any amount of money that when you checked the records for it you saw that the call lasted a minute, two tops. You know how I know that? Because you never would've asked whether or not Mr. Mills left a message if the call had lasted any longer."