A Devil's Bargain

by Jonathan Watkins

  She sat in silence for several minutes, turning the question over in her mind.

  Eventually, she picked up her phone and dialed the non-emergency number for the Detroit Police Department. After a few menu selections, she listened to Detective North’s line ring three times before it picked up.

  “North. Homicide.”

  “Detective, it’s Issabella Bright again. How are you?”

  “The lawyer again? Jesus. Okay. What?”

  Issabella leaned back in her swivel chair and said, “Remember that advice you gave me about peaches and cream?”

  Detective North grunted. “Sure,” she said. “I maybe told you things could go smoother between us if you tossed out the attitude. So what?”

  “So, this is me doing that.”

  “I’m listening. For, like, half a minute. Then I’m hanging up and finishing my sandwich.”

  “We’ve got court in a week. If I have to go to court I’ll demand a preliminary examination to make you show probable cause.”

  North’s voice dipped to a lower, unfriendly register.

  “So what?” she said.

  “So, here’s my offer. If I don’t blow up your case and embarrass you in open court, will you meet me in half an hour and let me hand you everything you need to put the actual killer away?”

  “This is serious?”

  Issabella smiled and stood up. She reached over and grabbed her purse.

  “No, Detective. This is peaches and cream.”

  * * *

  Two and a half hours later, Issabella was sitting in a closet-sized room inside the Detroit Police Department’s Court Liaison Offices at the Frank J. Murphy Hall of Justice. The room contained her, the chair she sat on, and an old boxy TV that Detective North had wheeled in on top of a metal cart.

  North, her jaundiced eyes alive and full of an anticipation that Issabella found at odds with her surly nature, plugged the TV into an outlet. Then she unwound a length of coaxial cord and screwed one end into the back of the TV and the other into a wall jack. She puzzled over the remote for a few seconds before finding the right buttons.

  The television came to life. Issabella was staring at an unoccupied room. There were no windows in that room. It had a table and two chairs inside it.

  “You look like you never been in here,” North said.

  “Because I haven’t.”

  “The jack is a direct line to the interview room’s recording camera. That’s why you’ve got this bird’s eye view going on. Sorry about the old black-and-white set, but Detroit, you know? I share a computer with seven other detectives, believe it or not. You want a coffee or anything before we get started?”

  “I’m fine. Thank you.”

  North nodded and walked out of the room, closing the door behind her.

  Issabella fidgeted and tried to tamp down her nerves. Her afternoon with the detective had been a success. And now that success was leading to a confrontation—the idea of which was creating a nauseous pain in her stomach.

  Minutes ticked slowly by and she felt worse as each one passed.

  When the door of the room on the TV screen opened and Detective North appeared, Issabella grew instantly still. She held her breath and the room in the TV screen filled her vision.

  Chelsea Hodgens walked past the detective and sat in the chair facing the door. North shut the door and sat down across the table from the judge. She laid her palms flat on the table and leaned slightly forward as she started talking.

  “Judge, thanks for coming down.”

  Chelsea Hodgens was still and silent. In grainy black and white, her features were indistinct on the screen. Still, Issabella could make out her long brown hair and her familiar profile.

  “What I wanted to talk about is the Winkle case,” North said.

  Chelsea was silent for a long while and North seemed perfectly content to let her be. Neither woman moved. Issabella could hear her own breathing, it was so quiet.

  Finally, when it seemed she would never speak, Chelsea straightened in her chair and calmly stated, “I assume that since we’re here, I am no longer assigned to the Winkle case.”

  North nodded once.

  “That’s right. Judge Sherman had you removed from it twenty minutes ago, after I paid him a visit. I showed him something and now I want to show it to you.”

  North lifted her right palm off the table. Though she couldn’t really see what the detective had revealed to Chelsea, she knew what the little black smudge on the table was. It was a USB drive. She’d been with North when it was handed over to them.

  “Now, I’m not going to play the movie that’s on this for you,” North continued. “But I did play it for Judge Sherman. Spoiler alert: it’s footage of you at the front desk of the Greektown Hotel. The timestamp puts it at seven thirty-five in the morning yesterday. You ask about three different ways for the room card to room 422. Said you were the guest’s girlfriend. When that didn’t work, you said you had an emergency personal message to deliver. Finally, you threatened the kid at the desk and showed him your court ID. That did the trick and up you went. The fourth floor cameras got you going in the room and coming back out a minute later.”

  Through North’s entire speech, Chelsea was as still as a statue.

  “So,” North said, “That leads me around to the rather unpleasant job of asking you what you were doing in Gil Sharps’s hotel room the same morning he was killed and the same morning you called in a personal favor with Judge Sherman to get him to assign you to the Sharps case? I mean, you can see how this all might seem a bit hinky, right?”

  Issabella waited.

  When Chelsea Hodgens shifted in her chair and began to speak, Issabella held her breath. She couldn’t blink or look away.

  “That’s enough,” Chelsea said and waved a hand in the air. “Plenty enough to get your warrants. Where’s Daniel Finch?”

  “At home watering his petunias. How would I know?”

  Chelsea fell silent again. Slowly, she tilted her chin and turned to look directly at the camera mounted above her. On the TV, she was a nearly translucent blur and Issabella felt like she was watching a ghost.

  They stared at one another until Chelsea turned back to the detective.

  “Gil Sharps worked on behalf of a Chicago-based criminal enterprise,” she said, and Issabella seized the arms of her chair to keep herself steady. It was happening.

  “Would that be the Fletcher Group?” North prodded.

  “That’s right. Five years ago, I took money from Gil Sharps. In return for the money, I ruled on a motion the way the Fletcher Group wanted me to. Two days ago, Gil Sharps appeared again and told me to come to his hotel room. I complied. He showed me documents and materials that, if shown to the authorities, would reveal the bribe I took. He demanded that I do another service for the Fletcher Group.”

  North drummed her fingers on the tabletop and said, “What service?”

  “He wanted me to find a way to ensure that Darren Fletcher ceased all attempts at harming his brother, who is the Chief Executive Officer of the Fletcher Group. Specifically, he wanted me to use my friendship and personal knowledge of Darren to arrange for him to be disbarred. Disgraced.”

  “How would you do that?”

  Chelsea crossed her arms in front of her and stared down at the floor.

  “Judge? How would you do that?”

  “By manipulating him in court. By bringing all of his past indiscretions to the attention of the State Bar’s Committee on Professional Conduct. Sharps was vague on the specifics. He only wanted it done and done immediately.”

  “And you refused?”

  “I refused.”

  Alone in the closet of a room, Issabella’s sense of impending victory turned to sour, bleak sadness. She knew the re
st of the story already, could see it play out before Chelsea said it.

  “Gil made threats. He made a show of locking the incriminating evidence away in a suitcase and he dismissed me. I waited in the hotel parking garage for three hours until he appeared. When he drove away, I followed him. He parked in the neighborhood near Winkle’s Tavern. I followed him on foot to the back door of the bar. I watched him produce a metal pry bar and begin to attempt to break and enter the back door.”

  Issabella sagged in her chair.

  “What happened then?” North said.

  “He confronted me. He made more threats. He was in a rage at my earlier rebuttal of his demand and at discovering I had followed him. I demanded he turn over the damning documents to me and never bother me again.”

  Here, the Judge paused. When she continued, she spoke slowly and precisely.

  “Gil Sharps raised the pry bar over his head. I was in fear of an imminent threat of serious injury, possibly death. I was convinced he was going to strike me in the head with the metal pry bar. So I defended myself. I stabbed at him once with a penknife. I wasn’t aiming. I just lashed out in fear for my life. He stumbled until he sat down in the abandoned car behind the bar. I was...in a state. I was panicking. I saw a key on the ground. He must have dropped it. I wasn’t thinking at that point. I don’t remember picking it up. But then the security light above the door came on and I heard someone calling out from inside. It jolted me and I fell down. I lost the key. I was too frightened to stay and look for it. I ran. I ran and it took me several hours to calm down enough to go back to the hotel and talk my way into Gil’s room. I think you know the rest. I didn’t find the documents. The suitcase was gone. I managed to get myself assigned to the Winkle case when I learned you had charged her with Gil’s murder.”

  North held her hands out to the side and said, “Why? Why would you do that?”

  “To ensure the charge was dismissed. I couldn’t allow her to pay for my actions. I assumed her lawyer, Issabella, would hold a preliminary exam. At the end of the exam I would have found that you had failed to provide probable cause for her arrest. Then I would have dismissed the case with prejudice so you would be barred from re-arresting her at a later date.”

  North grunted and even on the blurry screen, Issabella could see the disdain on her face.

  “Judge, that’s a hell of a confession. I especially liked how you made sure to set up your self-defense claim. Nice touch. I guess we’ll see if a jury likes it or not.”

  Chelsea nodded in agreement.

  “I guess we will, Detective. I’m sure you have many more questions.”

  “Oh, you can believe that.”

  “In that case, if you fetch me a glass of water I won’t invoke my right to silence or an attorney just yet. Does that sound fair?”

  “That’s damn accommodating. Why in all hell have you admitted any of this? I bet an even hundred dollars you’d call for a lawyer the second you sat down.”

  “Bet whom?” Chelsea asked.

  “A little birdie,” North drawled and stood up. “Sit tight. I’ll get you your water.”

  When Chelsea Hodgens was alone, she turned to the camera again. She stood up and her face came into focus. A line of tears ran down her pale cheeks. Her eyes were dark hollows, the eyes of someone no longer truly alive.

  “Tell him to forgive himself now, Issabella,” she said. “Tell him he’s free. You’ll do that for me, won’t you?”

  Issabella strangled a sob and looked away. It had all been because of Chelsea’s refusal to betray Darren a second time. Everything, all of it, had begun there.

  “You’ll tell him how sorry I am?”

  Issabella reached out and turned off the TV.

  The door to her room opened. Detective North was beaming with self-satisfaction. She held out two fifty-dollar bills but Issabella didn’t take them. Instead she wiped her eyes and got to her feet.

  “You can tell me now, what evidence did you have on Theresa Winkle?”

  North smirked and stuffed the money back in her pocket.

  “Just a hair. A long brown strand of hair we found on the body. Probably it belongs to the Judge, but we won’t pay to have it compared now. No need with that confession.”

  “A single brown hair.”

  “Yep.”

  “That isn’t enough for a murder arrest,” Issabella said flatly.

  “Shit,” North drawled. “In Detroit it’s plenty.”

  * * *

  Darren was sitting out on his apartment’s terrace, watching across the river as Windsor’s lights came to life in the dusk. He idly sipped a lemonade and picked at a plate of sliced cheeses and meats.

  “That’s the craziest story I ever heard,” Theresa admitted. She reached across the little table between them and grabbed a piece of ham in her fingers. “Your brother sounds like the pits.”

  “I guess he is, yeah.”

  They fell silent again for a while. She smoked a cigarette. When she was done, she stubbed it out in an ashtray and said, “Darren?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Are you okay?”

  He glanced at her and hoped the smile he put on looked natural.

  “Sure. Don’t worry about me.”

  “Yeah, but you killed a dude.”

  “I killed a monster.”

  “Okay. How’s Izzy?”

  “Surprisingly energetic. She should be back soon. On the phone she said she had news.”

  Theresa nibbled another piece of ham.

  “About my case?”

  “I think so, yeah.”

  Darren went into the kitchen, poured more lemonade, and came back out. When he settled into his chair, Theresa grudgingly said, “You do seem pretty relaxed, I’ll admit it.”

  He was relaxed. He had woken that afternoon from a deep and untroubled sleep. He’d read Issabella’s note telling him that she had gone into the office and she was fine. He’d felt relief that she was charging straight into work. If she was working, it meant she was okay. Work, for her, was therapy.

  So he drank his coffee and showered and lounged about a bit before he realized what had changed. It was very subtle, but he could feel it in his core.

  Wherever she was, Shoshanna Green was no longer lashed to him, helpless against his need to drag her around behind him. In killing her killer, Darren had allowed himself to release her. She was free of him, and that idea alone was enough to make him smile to himself again as Theresa took the last piece of cheese from the plate.

  A few minutes later the sound of the front door opening and closing reached the terrace.

  “Out here,” he called while Theresa stood up.

  His friend paced in a little circle and said, “Darren, this better be good news.”

  “I’m with you all the way, no matter what,” he said.

  “Yeah, but this better be good news.”

  Issabella strode onto the patio and held a sheet of paper triumphantly out in front of her.

  “Dismissed!” she yelled. “You’re a free bird, Theresa!”

  What followed was a series of tearful exclamations, which wound down into hugging, then to thank yous and fond expressions. Darren ordered pizza. When it arrived the three of them ate on the terrace and he only rarely spoke up. He was content to listen to Theresa’s proclamations regarding all the new experiences she was going to seek out for herself. The threat of prison, she insisted, had opened her eyes to all the things she was missing out on. She would travel. She would learn to cook real food for her customers instead of microwaving frozen appetizers. She would quit smoking. No, not today. Soon, though. She’d work her way up to it.

  His stomach was full and his heart felt light. Darren sat back in his chair and watched the blinking city lights until Theresa called i
t a night. She leaned over him and kissed his cheek.

  “Don’t be a stranger,” she said.

  “I won’t.”

  She hugged Issabella, teared up one more time, and ambled out with a wave of her hand.

  When she was gone, Darren reached across the table and took Issabella’s hand in his.

  “I think you have a story to tell, don’t you?”

  “I do. But do you want to hear it all now? It gets a little sad at the end.”

  “Maybe just the abridged version, then.”

  “She confessed to the murder,” Issabella said and squeezed his hand. “Gil wanted her to stop you from going after your brother. She said no. She said no and it all ended the worst possible way. From what you told me Luther said, I think Winkle’s Tavern was the last place they had record of Joe Link being the night he disappeared. Gil was going there to look for answers. And the rest is all out there now.”

  Darren considered it all and was surprised it hadn’t soured his mood.

  “What about Dan Finch?” he said. “For that matter, what about us? Are we still lawyers, kid?”

  “I never mentioned that we took the suitcase. And Chelsea never mentioned that Dan took the key from you. So, yeah. We’re still lawyers. And he’s still a deputy, I guess.”

  Darren picked a piece of pepperoni off one of the remaining pizza slices. He chewed it and weighed things out.

  “Not everybody who deserves it gets punished, do they?” he said.

  “No, but some do.”

  “Yes. Some do.”

  They cleaned up and changed into nightclothes before returning to the terrace. Issabella curled down onto his lap and hooked her arms around his neck.

  “I adore you, Izzy,” he whispered.

  “I know that very well, Darren.”

  * * * * *

  To purchase and read more books by Jonathan Watkins, please visit his website here or at http://brightandfletcher.blogspot.com/

  Turn the page for an excerpt of MOTOR CITY SHAKEDOWN, the BRIGHT & FLETCHER MYSTERY that started it all, available now from Jonathan Watkins and Carina Press

  Available now from Carina Press and Jonathan Watkins