The Army corrected their incident reports. They had never been in Bosnia. Johnson and Talbott had been lost in a training accident in Africa, their bodies never recovered. Bronkowski’s injuries came from barracks roughhousing after a night of drinking.
Bronkowski went to Walter Reed. Fager went AWOL.
Bronkowski traced him to Truth or Consequences, New Mexico, to a 1920s motor hotel with moldy hot-springs pools. Fager was drunk in steaming green water. Bronkowski pulled him out then lost him the next morning.
Two years later he received an invitation to Fager’s wedding with Linda.
There’s your answers, Goff. I will never again bet my life on a spring inside a gun. And I will never forget what I owe Walter Fager.
He heard the distinctive clanking of Fager’s diesel Mercedes. Through the leaves he saw the front quarter panel of the black car. Doors opened and closed and he heard Fager’s voice. He thought this all a little crazy. But Fager knew his business. Ever since Bosnia, he had never doubted him.
Mascarenas was with Fager. They moved in and out of sight as they retraced Geronimo’s steps. They peered into the narrow gap between buildings that had allowed him to escape the searchlight of the police helicopter. They crossed the street to where Bronkowski now hid in that hedge.
“You’ve won weaker motions,” Fager said, apparently continuing a discussion begun earlier. “Why are you gun-shy now?”
Mascarenas was perspiring through his suit jacket despite the cool air. Fager slowed his steps so the heavy man did not fall behind.
“Everybody understands attorney-client privilege, like the need for a search warrant.” Mascarenas pulled up and took a deep breath. “Reporters think it’s a sacred right, so the stories will come out like press releases from Thornton’s office. The Bar Association will weigh in, the Trial Lawyers. Faculty at the law school. Already the Pueblos and tribes are beating the drums. Justice for Geronimo. Wait for the bumper stickers. Damn thing has a ring. Not the campaign theme my boss wants.”
“Geronimo went in there.” Fager pointed to the hedge concealing Bronkowski. “The DA avoids an embarrassing loss by not even prosecuting, is that it?”
“Her version of the Hippocratic oath. First do no harm—to herself. She doesn’t need Marcy Thornton high-fiving Geronimo outside the courthouse a week before early voting starts.”
“I’ve nothing to lose. My wife’s gone. I’m not running for office.”
Mascarenas shot Fager a look saying he was out of patience.
“What did you bring me here for?”
“A proposition.”
Inside the hedge, Bronkowski recognized his cue.
“That damn detective Aragon,” he said, louder than a normal speaking voice. “Listening in on a world-famous artist and pillar of the community consulting his highly respected and greatly feared attorney. Fucking cops. If you can’t trust ’em to follow the rules, who can you trust? I’m asking.”
The corner of Fager’s mouth turned up, then he killed the smile. They had not decided on a script. Bronkowski was improvising.
“The cops are idiots,” Bronkowski continued. Mascarenas’s eyes swung to the hedge. “The DAs are idiots, especially that slob Joe Mascarenas. He couldn’t convict a combo plate of being two tacos, a tamale, and an enchilada. He couldn’t convince a jury that breathing in and out was good for their health. When it comes to Joe Mascarenas, ADA doesn’t mean Assistant District Attorney, it means ‘Another Dumb Ass.’ Shit, Joe Mascarenas couldn’t … ”
The branches of the hedge shook as Bronkowski pushed his way into the open.
“Oh, it’s you,” he said, brushing leaves off his shoulders. “Hi, Joe.”
Mascarenas wheeled to Fager, anger turning his face a deeper shade of red.
“Kinda game you playing, Walt?”
“Joe, how far are we standing from that hedge? Comprende, amigo?”
“No, no comprendo. Comprendo nada, pendejo. What is this?”
“An unnecessarily offensive demonstration of why Geronimo had no expectation of privacy in his conversation with Thornton. Anyone walking by could have heard him. It’s like he was walking down the street yapping on his cell for the world to hear.”
Mascarenas pointed at the dense leaf cover behind Bronkowski.
“He was hiding. Hiding implies seeking privacy.”
“Next flaw in Marcy’s argument. Whose hedge, Joe? That’s a private residence behind there, and the owner … ” Fager looked to Bronkowski.
“Margaret Kimball.”
“Doesn’t like murderers ducking into her landscaping to call their lawyer. He was trespassing. Joe, this is a motion I know I can win.”
Mascarenas flinched at the last sentence. “It’s not yours to win,
or lose.”
“Which brings us to my proposition. Appoint me special prosecutor. That insulates your boss. If I lose, which I won’t, the media lynches me. I could give a shit. In my line of work, popularity has never been a measure of success.”
Mascarenas’s fat shook under his clothes.
“You’re jumping sides now that you’re hurting? You’re going to show the full-time good guys how it’s done? And after your noble moment in the sun, you go back to raking in on one case for a sleazebag client more than I make in a year? You’ll probably bump your rates. And the free advertising from playing hero for a day. Fuck you.”
“Because a cop screwed up, and the DA is a coward, I’m supposed to calmly watch Linda’s murderer get back to being America’s favorite Indian artist?”
“That’s how it works for lesser people than Walter Fager. I didn’t mention your little conflict of interest, the victim being your wife. I’m not going to even think this through with you.”
“Joe.” Fager opened his hands. “I’m sincere about this. I want to lend my skill, my experience … ”
“His ace investigator,” Bronkowski said and got a sharp look from Fager.
“I want to lend all my talents to seeing justice done in this case.”
Mascarenas stuck a finger in Fager’s chest, the first time he had ever touched him through all their years of close combat, standing shoulder to shoulder competing for the last word with a confused judge, or face to face, almost spitting, hurling plea negotiations back and forth like insults.
“‘Lend’ being the key word. Followed by ‘in this case.’” Mascarenas emphasized the last words with three jabs in Fager’s ribs. “Not where a woman you don’t care about gets raped. Not where a drunk wipes out a family coming home from church. In this case, you take injustice personally. All other cases, you’ll take a check, but cash is better.”
Mascarenas brushed past Fager and headed down the street, faster than they had ever seen him move.
Bronkowski said, “That went well.”
Twenty-Two
“Who kicked me in the head?”
Marcy Thornton rested a cheek on a stack of New Mexico Supreme Court Reports piled on her massive mahogany desk, an open bottle of Tylenol near her bent elbow.
“Gran Patron Platinum,” Montclaire said. “Half a bottle makes an impression.” She lifted a foot onto the coffee table and applied gold polish to her nails. “Repeat after me. ‘The defendant waives formal reading of the indictment and enters a plea of not guilty on all counts.’ You can do that in your sleep.”
Thornton groaned. “How can you be so perky? I saw you throwing down Stoli shots like tap water.”
“Old modeling trick. Tell the photographer you’ll bring the booze, gets him excited, maybe it’s more than him holding your contract, maybe you actually like him. Bring two bottles, his eyes pop out, hey, she’s ready to party. But the Stoli bottle is water for you. You’re always jumping up to refill his glass with the real stuff. Push him off you when he passes out. Or a chief judge who’s had too much. You get home for a good nigh
t’s sleep. You’ll be hydrated without those dry scales by the corner of your eyes in the morning.”
Thornton rubbed her temples. “Who was that girl? She was worth this hangover.”
Montclaire thought for a minute and gave up.
“You and Judy were in a hurry. She was all I could find on short notice. I put your gun back under the seat. Judy got a kick out of that, a girl in handcuffs, me flashing a shiny gun. Something different for Her Honor.”
“Three new clients waiting in orange jumpsuits. I’ll be back before noon. What are you up to?”
“Cody returned my drawing of the layout in the bar. I scanned it and sent it to his e-mail. He marked it up and faxed it back. Some people still do use fax machines.”
“Now we know where he was sitting. Here.” Thornton pulled out a desk drawer. She handed over an envelope. “Buy that table. That’s ten grand. Use it all if you have to. Whatever you think. Whatever you decide.”
“What would that idiot do without us?”
“Have a lot more money but live in a six-by-eight room with a little window way up high.” Thornton dropped a legal pad in an attaché case, snapped it shut, and winked at Montclaire. “I like this attitude I’m seeing. You’re getting it, girl.”
Montclaire wondered where the wink thing was coming from. Second time this week. Made her think of a photographer, greasy hair and a smell, winking when he told her how sexy he was going to make her look. Inch up your skirt, darling. Scoot that little bottom closer to the edge of the stool. A bit more. Now hook your heels on the rung, no the one higher. Higher, I said. Oh, yes, this is going to be good. Her, three weeks to her fourteenth birthday, scared when he locked the door, everybody else suddenly gone, the studio so dark behind lights inside silver umbrellas. Why am I alone with this man?
Montclaire dropped the envelope with the money in her purse, a classic Lancaster she had picked out on a shoot in Paris when she was seventeen. She left while Thornton sat at the dressing table in her office and worked on her eyes.
Her BMW 3 Series wouldn’t work for the job. She dropped her car at a U-Haul on St. Francis and drove a rental van to The Howling Coyote. She parked at the curb, in front of a beer truck.
She liked this assignment, liked this day from the minute she saw Marcy hung over, rubbing her temples and asking why she was so perky. Last night, finding the girl for the judge. Today, charged with doing whatever necessary to take care of evidence that could take down a famous man. Her call. No photographer telling her to show something she wasn’t feeling. No modeling scouts wanting more than they said at the start of the interview, and having to give it to get the job.
Marcy said, “Whatever you think. Whatever you decide.”
She was feeling some of what she felt taking two men at a time to a hotel room she paid for, telling them how it was going to be if they wanted what she had to give. Watching what she could do to them by nothing more than popping a button. Being the first one off the bed when it was over, drinking a glass of water, standing over them.
Whatever I think. Whatever I decide.
Inside the bar she unfolded Geronimo’s fax. He had circled the table where he sat after murdering Linda Fager. Where the idiot had wiped blood from his fingers. She approached a young woman mopping the floor.
“I’d like to see the manager.”
“He’ll be out in a minute. If it’s about work, I can get you an application.”
“It’s something else. I’ll wait.”
She located the table Geronimo had marked on her drawing. She sat there until a man stepped through the swinging doors to the kitchen. A belly pushed against his patterned golf shirt. He wore a gold chain around his neck and a cigarette behind his ear. His spiky haircut, thick with product, had taken a lot of time to get right.
“We open at eleven,” he said.
“I want to buy this table.”
“Lady, we sell beer and burgers.”
“One thousand dollars.”
The table was nicked and yellowed, leveled with a matchbook.
“What’s this about?” He came closer.
“My husband proposed to me here.” She patted the table. “I want to surprise him for our anniversary.”
“I can’t sell you the table.”
“Two thousand. Cash.”
“Honest, I don’t have the authority.”
“Ten grand. Tell your boss a drunk busted one of the legs. Buy a replacement for a couple hundred bucks, keep the rest. How long does it take you to make that kind of money?”
“This must be a very special table.”
“You have no idea.”
He checked the room. The young woman who had been mopping was partially blocked by the bar, kneeling down to scrape gum off the floor.
“Twelve grand, it’s yours,” he said.
Montclaire stacked a bundle of cash on the table.
“Ten grand disappears in five seconds. One one-thousand, two one-thousand.”
“Okay.”
He grabbed the money, needing both hands to hold it all.
“You don’t have a husband.” He nodded at her hands. The only ring she wore was on her pinkie.
“Smart boy. I want the table because it has my initials.”
“Don’t see any.”
“Underneath.” She dragged her fingers slowly along table’s edge. “I carved my initials every time I gave a blow job under there. I could add another set right now.”
“Just like that, you’ll go down on me.”
“I’m surprised you didn’t add it to the price. I only said no more money.”
He checked again for the girl cleaning the floor. She was now out of sight, completely behind the bar, only the sound of a scraper against floor tiles. He looked Montclaire over, down her legs to the gold nails in her open-toed shoes, then back to her face.
“My office.”
“One condition.”
“You don’t swallow. What do I care?”
“I bite off your dick when you come.”
He backed away, the money in fists pressed against his chest. “Lady, you are one sick bitch.”
“Why that’s the sweetest thing anyone has said to me today. I don’t know how it can possibly get better.”
The guys working the beer truck were happy to load the table into her rental van. As Montclaire was closing the doors, the young woman who had been cleaning floors came outside to empty a bucket of water in the gutter.
“That was sweet, what you pulled on Randy,” she said to Montclaire.
“His name’s Randy? No.”
“Yeah. Why’d you do that, jerk his chain when you reached a deal?”
“Because I could?”
“You’re asking me?”
“I saw you behind the bar. I hoped you were listening. Randy’s a bit of a prick, isn’t he?”
“Let me say this, you weren’t the first woman he told to come back to his office. You knew that.”
“Something about him just pissed me off. And you on your hands and knees. Long ago I used to model.”
“I can see that.”
“Who do you think did the real work so a man with a belly could have it easy?”
“Well, you read Randy right and you made my day. But you wasted your money.”
“How’s that?” She admired the tattoos on the girl’s shoulders, gnarled vines curling around dozens of small skulls.
“This is about that Indian artist in here the night the bookstore lady was killed.”
“Is it?”
“I waited on him. That was where he was sitting out on the floor, where you sat down. He had his legs crossed, a boot on his knee. Those boots were something, I swear, real silver tips. But that wasn’t the table. You bought a dud.”
She forgot the girl’s tattoos.
“I rearranged tables yesterday to seat a party of four. Your boy with the ponytail and fancy boots was at a two-top.”
“Shit.”
The girl fired a cigarette. “I thought you might say that,” she said in a cloud of smoke.
Montclaire drove to the courthouse and found Thornton waiting with her last client to be called up for arraignment. She caught her at the back of the courtroom.
“Problem?” Thornton asked.
“You could say the table’s been turned on us.”
Thornton raised her eyebrows and followed Montclaire downstairs to the concrete planter in the center of a treeless concrete plaza.
Montclaire said, “Her name’s Laura Pasco. She has no idea what’s so important about that table. But if we’re willing to shell out ten thou for the wrong table, she’s thinking, why not twenty for the right one?”
“How do we know she’s got the right table?”
“She says it’s at her place for repairs. Her boyfriend’s a cabinetmaker and fixes furniture for businesses around town. She saw Cody wipe his hand under the table. He was acting odd so she remembered it. We could shine one of those lights, the kind that shows blood, before we pay.”
“She sees twenty, she might demand more. I would. I’ve got fifty grand for expenses from Cody. Pull it all out.”
“How much should I pay?”
“We have simple instructions from our client. He’s got only one ass to keep out of jail. There’s always more money if we need it. And get some cheapo prepaid cells. You can’t be running me down to talk and I don’t want to do it over our regular phones.”
Montclaire snapped her fingers.
“Andrea,” she said.
“Huh?”
“That girl from last night. Just came to me.”
“The way your mind works.”
Twenty-Three
Aragon woke an hour before dawn. Sitting on the tailgate of Javier’s truck she ate a cold Lotaburger then stowed her sleeping bag and pad in the cab. As she was about to pull on her boots, Cynthia Fremont jumped into her mind. She tied her boots off her feet, then again with the boots on.
The Drum Within Page 13
