The Big Law (1998)

by Chuck Logan

  "Well, thanks for the try." A pause on her end stretched to awkwardness. "What is it?" asked Broker.

  "Probably nothing. I'll let you know. Just wanted to touch base."

  They said good-bye and hung up. He popped a piece of toast out of the toaster, buttered it, added jam, trimmed the crusts, sectioned it into wedges and placed it before Kit.

  The phone rang again. The store in Duluth, saying the delivery truck was en route. Broker thanked them and hung up. Kit's spoon clattered on the floor. He took it to the sink, scrubbed it under hot water. Came back, removed the jelly from her face and had just managed to get one spoon of oatmeal into her when the phone ran again.

  "You got coffee?" asked Jeff, rumbling cell phone connection.

  "Sure."

  "I'm coming over."

  You could never tell when Jeff was really upset. Bro

  ker had seen him jam a Muskie lure through the loose skin between his thumb and forefinger without as much as an ouch. Just asked calmly, "Ah, you got a little tin snips in that tackle box?"

  Just as calmly now, Jeff sat at Broker's kitchen table and took three sips on his cup of coffee before he said, "You know how the U.S. attorney and the state attorney general don't necessarily get along?"

  "Uh-huh."

  "Well, they found something they can agree on. Namely, that you are a grain of sand under their blankets." The sheriff took a pull on his coffee. "I know this because the AG's office just called Pete over at the county offices and read him the riot act. Said how this loose cannon part-time deputy in Cook County has gone off half-cocked and stepped in a cow pie. Said you were interfering in an ongoing federal investigation for personal reasons."

  "They found out where the tongue story came from."

  Jeff took another pull on his coffee. "Be my guess. They also suggested that, if this is the kind of police work we condone up here, it might be a waste of taxpayers' money to add another patrol deputy next year."

  "Your Clinton cop?"

  "Yeah."

  "What'd Hustad say?"

  "Well, Hustad's a Democrat, and the AG's a big-cheese Democrat who's running for governor. So Hustad, being a new guy, is going to toe the party line."

  "And you came over here to take the badge back?"

  "Humph. Citizens of Cook County elected me, not the AG in St. Paul. They can keep their Clinton cop."

  "So I can still try to find James?"

  Jeff screwed up his lips. "The feds are not exactly forthcoming. And now…"

  "I've been thinking of making the leap from analog to digital," said Broker. He told Jeff his latest idea.

  Jeff scratched his hair, mulled it. "I don't know if anybody's ever done that before? Is it even practical?"

  "Doesn't have to be. It's news," said Broker. "That's why they won't be able to resist putting it in the paper. They get enough bad press, they just might cough up James."

  Broker and Kit drove to Grand Marais and went into the print shop and picked up his order. The picture of Tom James had been made into an old-fashioned wanted poster. Type at the bottom announced: WANTED FOR QUESTIONING IN THE DEATH OF CAREN ANGLAND. If you see this man, immediately call Deputy Phil Broker at the Cook County sheriff's department. The relevant phone numbers were on the bottom. There were a hundred of the posters. He left most of them at the sheriff's office. Tonight, after school, Jeff's oldest daughter, Allison, and her friends would plaster them all over town.

  The truck arrived from the Circuit City store in Duluth at noon. As arranged, it contained one tall, ponytailed, young computer nerd named Steve, who agreed to set up Broker's computer for a fee of fifty dollars an hour and unlimited quantities of pizza and beer.

  Steve and Broker unloaded the cardboard packing crates that contained the computer package Steve had sold him. Computer, monitor, modem, printer, assorted software manuals and a program to connect with America Online.

  Broker cut doorways and windows into the cardboard boxes so Kit could crawl in and out. Jeff arrived with a case of beer and two deep-dish pizzas.

  Steve's eyes, obviously cured in cannabis smoke, worked nervously over Jeff's uniform. "Ah, what is this?"

  "Relax," said Jeff. "I'm the pizza man. But if I was you, I wouldn't pull any fast moves." He pointed at the all purpose leather Mantool Steve wore in a small holster on his hip. "You have a license for that?"

  It turned out like Tom Sawyer painting the fence. Steve spent most of the time eating pizza and swigging on a beer and giving directions to Broker and Jeff, who sifted through piles of manuals, cellophane bags full of screws, and tangles of cables.

  Drinking beer and getting wired.

  By the time the pizza was gone they were hooked up. Steve sat at the keyboard and created a website. "Easy, comes right with the software." He turned to Broker. "You get that picture J-pegged onto a disk at Kinko's?"

  Broker handed him the disk he'd had made at a Kinko's in Duluth. In a minute Tom James's face appeared on the screen.

  Broker handed him one of the posters. "Let's put in this type."

  "What size?"

  "Big."

  "What color?"

  "Loud."

  Steve bumped the type way up across the top of the page:

  WANTED for questioning in the death of Caren Angland

  Then Broker sat down at the keyboard and typed, below the picture. Local law officers could use some citizen help in locating this man. The government has hidden him in the Witness Protection Program and we would like to question him about a murder he witnessed. Since the government won't cooperate with us, we are turning to the people. If you see Tom James please contact Deputy Phil Broker, Cook County sheriff's department, etc., etc.

  Jeff maintained a hearty front throughout, but Broker could tell—the sheriff thought he was grabbing at straws. Jeff said good night and went home first. Steve departed with a wedge of cold pizza in his hand. The Pentium glowed in the twilight in Broker's study, exuding the factory-fresh tang of upholstery in a brand-new spaceship.

  Broker called Ida Rain and left a message on her machine.

  "Check me out at broker@aol.com. Tell me if you think this is a story?"

  Then he gingerly removed his sleeping daughter from her nest of blankets and pillows among the cardboard boxes. With all the activity, she hadn't had a nap, and now she'd be off her schedule for the next few days. With Bedtime Bunny and Cucaracha Dog clutched in her arms, Broker moved her to her crib and tucked her in.

  He went outside to stretch his legs and chew a cigar. Staying within earshot of the house, he picked his way through the ledge rock down to the shore. A thin knife-edged drizzle shot down. Thick mist mushroomed over the lake. The air had ice in it.

  Something moved a few yards away. Broker instinctively dropped to one knee, his hand moving to the grip of the .45 in his belt.

  The blond kid. David. From the cabin down the beach. A skier robbed of his snow, he clambered through the rocks.

  Broker stood up. David stopped, startled. He wore a running suit and carried a hiking pack over one shoulder. The pack cover was open and had been hastily stuffed with a blanket, a thermos and a smaller cylindrical shammy bag from which protruded collapsible tripod legs. A Leupold logo was stitched in the material of the bag.

  "Hi," he said. "Lousy weather, huh."

  "Not much skiing," said Broker.

  David grinned. "And we took the place for the whole month; dumb."

  "It could change," said Broker.

  "We can only hope," said David. "Well, have a good one." He continued on and Broker watched his outline disappear in the mist. It was difficult to see this pretty boy brat as a threat. But the small drawstring bag sticking from his bag was familiar. Broker had one just like it in his closet, with his hunting rifles. It contained a high-power spotter scope.

  56

  Days took on a routine. Danny rose early and went for a two-mile run down Valentino and out Amesti. Then he did sets of push-ups and sit-ups. After a shower and a shave he
brewed coffee and had a light breakfast of yogurt mixed with oats, raisins, and bananas. Then he started in to work. It took a day to remove the moldy carpet and carry it, like hunks of whale blubber, out to the trash cans by the gate.

  He found a serviceable hardwood floor under the carpet, but it was impregnated with rubbery glue and staples that he had to lever and pry out one by one with a pliers and screwdriver.

  On the third day he heard a knock on his back screen door. Through the mesh he saw a tall, willowy beach blonde. She was around thirty. The taut flesh of her thighs and the tight denim of her shorts looked to be the same surface painted different colors. Her eyes were aqua colored, dreamy. Fluffs of blue soapsuds.

  She held a platter in both hands, which supported a bottle of wine, a loaf of bread and a saltshaker.

  "Hi," she said as he came to the door.

  "Ah," he said, moving his hands awkwardly to apologize for his sweat-drenched T-shirt, his dirty arms.

  "I live next door. Ruby."

  "Oh," said Danny. "Daniel Storey. Danny. Hi." He opened

  the screen. Tentatively, they shook hands. She balanced the tray in one hand expertly. Self-consciously, he yanked off his cowhide work gloves.

  "Danny," she said.

  It should have been a defining moment. A good-looking woman was calling him Danny. He'd had to roll Ida Rain's orgasms uphill like Sisyphian boulders to get her to call him Danny, and that was in the dark. But the tribute coming from Ruby's lips was curiously unmoving.

  "I, ah, brought you a housewarming gift," she said.

  Remembering his lines, he smiled, "I'm afraid I don't drink. Anymore."

  "Oh, no, it's…a custom. See, you're supposed to carry the tray through all the rooms of your house before you spend the night, to appease the former residents. A kind of offering."

  "You mean ghosts." Danny's voice went flat as a shadow sat up in his mind.

  "Welll," she drawled playfully. "It's not that serious."

  "I'll give it a try," said Danny. He opened the screen door and started to take the tray, then he looked around. No place to sit it down. He motioned outside, to the deck chairs and the small round table between them.

  He placed the tray on the table and offered her one of the chairs. "I appreciate the gesture. But I already spent a couple nights here."

  "We know," said Ruby. "At first we thought you were a cop." She lowered her eyes. Shy. "Are you. A cop? I mean."

  "Why do you ask?" He drew it out in a slightly neutral voice, playing the drama, enjoying it.

  "Well, there's been a lot of cops here since the fire."

  "No. I bought the house from the cops, they auctioned it off. The guy who used to live here was cooking speed, they said. Turns out he wasn't such a good cook." Danny shrugged. "It was pretty cheap." He hunched his shoulders. "Needs a little work."

  "I'll say. Well, just wanted to drop by and say hello. My partner is Terra. We have a lot of cats."

  "I noticed."

  "We try to keep them home, but they stray. You don't mind cats?" She raised a slim eyebrow.

  "Nah," he said, almost visibly excited. Not by her. But by stage fright. His first real conversation from inside his new identity.

  She waved, walked down the deck and disappeared around the side of the house. Danny marveled at how Ruby was, well, perfectly manufactured. And how utterly without sex appeal.

  In the long shadow of Ida Rain.

  That night, for the first time, he woke up with his ears plugged by the roar of rushing water. His eyes tracked across the dark porch to the tray of offering presents, and he had a piercing memory of Caren Angland falling away, shrinking, tiny—gone in the thrashing pit.

  The next night, after a microwaved supper, Danny opened a can of Coors and strolled his fence line. Ruby and Terra had their CD player turned up. Gurgles of whale music belched, groaned and farted on the evening air. Obscene. Cows fucking. Them fucking. Disturbed by the sounds, he went home and shut his doors.

  He sat on the bare floor, sipped his beer and studied Ruby's tray with its burden of offerings. The wine, the bread and the salt.

  He did not believe in presences that needed appeasing in old houses. He did not believe in ghosts. What he did believe in, powerfully, was the potency of secrets. There was an old cop adage: getting out isn't as hard as staying out. It was easier to escape than to avoid detection on the run.

  There were so many opportunities to talk, to reveal oneself. To explain yourself.

  To confess.

  After an interval, he went back outside and determined that the awful racket had stopped next door. In the dark, faintly, he heard Ruby calling. "Here kitty, kitty."

  The dream was just that. A dream. Not a nightmare. In it he clearly saw Broker and his baby girl. She of the big eyes and thick eyebrows. She was watching him grab the money off the floor of the workshop. Her eyes getting bigger and bigger.

  That's all. Then he woke up, slick with sweat. And for a while, he felt around the mattress he'd laid out on the back porch, to establish its reality. His own.

  He got up, shaking. Fumbled for his contacts. Too much bother. Put on his glasses. The air clung like wet sheets. Mist fumed in the porch screens. Monet painting with a steam hose. The yard light looked like a smear of Vaseline.

  The rumpled covers plucked at his sweaty skin, turbulent waves he might sink in.

  Barefoot, he picked up the tray containing the wine, bread and salt. As he carried them through the rooms of his new house he pretended that his life also had rooms that he was making clean, and he was moving through them as well.

  57

  A sultry orange rain came down for days. And every day, Travis called to inquire how things were going. Then he came in person, driving through the gate in a late-model, black Ford Expedition.

  "Nice wheels," Danny said, going out to meet the inspector.

  "Came from a bust in Menlo Park." Travis walked into the house. The floors were clean, barren of carpet, glue, and staples. All the floor and window molding had been removed.

  "You've been working. Looks great," said Travis.

  "I'm going to rent a floor sander, called in an order," said Danny. He glanced at the dripping sky. "But I was hoping for a letup in the humidity."

  "You, ah, wanted a computer, right?"

  "It was part of the deal," said Danny.

  "Just so happens we stumbled onto one." He marched out to the shiny Ford and opened the rear hatch. In the cargo bay, piled haphazardly in mismatched boxes, in a tangle of cables, was a computer, monitor, keyboard, modem, fax and copier, a printer.

  "Where'd you get this?" asked Danny.

  Travis grinned. "Same place we got the Expedition. Reparations from the war on drugs. This is nothing. The guy had a stable of racehorses." He tugged one of the boxes toward the hatch and raised his eyebrows. "Pentium 233, you like?"

  "Definitely."

  "There's an America Online kit in there, too, thought you might need it. And this." Travis reached for his wallet, selected a piece of plastic and handed it to Danny.

  A VISA card. "How'd you do this?"

  Travis shrugged, like what the hell. "Consider it a little bonus. It's drawn on the incidental fund at my office. We put you on as an authorized user until you get your credit rating up. I'd prefer you keep it under two hundred dollars a month. Any big-ticket items for the house, you clear it with me first. But, you know, there's a lot of little shit"—he pointed to the computer—"like hooking up on-line, you can do over the phone with plastic. Otherwise it's a hassle."

  "Thanks," said Danny.

  Travis adjusted, but did not remove, his sunglasses. "No. I'm thanking you. Usually when I launch a witness, even if they don't have a family, I have to hold their hand every day. Sometimes I have to stay with them, sleep on the couch, around the clock until they adjust to being inserted."

  They carried the boxes inside, and Danny decided to set up in the cleanest room in the place, on the screened porch. The humidity was
n't good for the machine, but the only way to escape humidity in the shadow of El Niño was to leave the state. The dust in the house would be worse.

  "So, is there anything else you need offhand?" asked Travis.

  An impulse leaped. Unplanned. "There is one thing, kind of a tangent," said Danny. He thought of it as pulling the tiger's whiskers. "I've been reading the books they gave me on Santa Cruz. One of them referred to the town being the murder capital of the world in the early 1970s."