Die Laughing: 5 Comic Crime Novels

by Steve Brewer

  Victoria leaned over and kissed him. They watched as Bobby threw heat, a scorching fastball, for a called strike three. Victoria applauded, as did several others in the bleachers.

  “You’re terrific with Bobby,” Steve said.

  “I love him. You know that.”

  “You’re gonna be a terrific mother.”

  “When?”

  “When what?”

  “When will I be a terrific mother?”

  “When you’re married.”

  “When I’m married?”

  “You know what I mean. When we’re . . . ” He stumbled and fumbled. “C’mon, Vic. When it’s time and we’re ready, then obviously, we should, you know . . .”

  “No. Tell me.”

  “Aw, jeez.”

  “Just say it.”

  “Someday we should get . . .”

  He seemed fundamentally unable to say the word that rhymes with “harried.”

  “Get married?” she helped out.

  “What’s this all about? You pushing me for a formal proposal? Something you can file at city hall with the kosher meat violations?”

  “It doesn’t have to be formal. Nothing in writing and you don’t have to ask my mother for permission. A simple, ‘Will you marry me, Vic?’ would do.”

  Kreindler was right. Victoria had ample quantities of chutzpah. Or whatever Episcopalians call it. Moxie, maybe. She could demand a jury give her client a million bucks or her boyfriend take their relationship to the next level. All without blinking or blushing.

  Steve needed to reply quickly. Any delay would be interpreted as indecisive. At the same time, he wanted to yell at the umpire who had just called a ball on a pitch that had clearly caught the outside corner of the plate, knee high.

  At one time, B.V., Before Victoria, Steve had been commitment phobic. But that had changed. Not only did he deeply love Victoria, Steve considered himself the world’s luckiest shyster because she loved him, too. In his mind, he could easily say the words:

  “Sure, Vic, I want to spend my life with you, have children with you, knock off big verdicts with you.”

  What would be the harm saying it aloud?

  No harm.

  Didn’t she yearn for the same things he did? And wouldn’t it be great to hear her say so?

  “Will you marry me, Vic?”

  She gave him a coy little smile. “I’ll think about it.”

  SOLOMON’S LAWS

  1. Try not to piss off a cop unless you have a damn good reason . . . or a damn good lawyer.

  2. The best way to hustle a case is to pretend you don’t want the work.

  3. When arguing with a woman who is strong, intelligent, and forthright, consider using trickery, artifice, and deceit.

  4. A prosecutor’s job is to build a brick wall around her case. A defense lawyer’s job is to tear down the wall, or at least to paint graffiti on the damn thing.

  5. Listen to bus drivers, bailiffs, and twelve-year-old boys. Some days, they all know more than you do.

  6. When the testimony is too damn good, when there are no contradictions and all the potholes are filled with smooth asphalt, chances are the witness is lying.

  7. A shark who can’t bite is nothing but a mermaid.

  8. When the woman you love is angry, it’s best to give her space, time, and copious quantities of wine.

  9. Be confident, but not cocky. Smile, but don’t snicker. And no matter how desperate your case, never let the jurors see your fear.

  10. Never sleep with a medical examiner, unless you’re dead.

  11. If you can’t keep a promise to a loved one, you probably aren’t going to keep the loved one, either.

  12. Life may be a marathon, but sometimes you have to sprint to save a life.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  The author of 18 novels, Paul Levine won the John D. MacDonald fiction award and was nominated for the Edgar, Macavity, International Thriller, and James Thurber prizes. A former trial lawyer, he also wrote more than 20 episodes of the CBS military drama “JAG” and co-created the Supreme Court drama “First Monday” starring James Garner and Joe Mantegna. The critically acclaimed international bestseller “To Speak for the Dead” featuring Jake Lassiter was his first novel. He is also the author of the “Solomon vs. Lord” series and the thrillers “Illegal,” “Ballistic,” “Impact,” and “Paydirt.” His most recent novel is “State vs. Lassiter,” nominated for a Shamus Award. He is a graduate of Penn State University and the University of Miami Law School. He lives in Miami, FL. More at http://www.paul-levine.com

  ALSO AVAILABLE

  JAKE LASSITER SERIES

  “Mystery writing at its very, very best.” – Larry King, USA TODAY

  TO SPEAK FOR THE DEAD: Linebacker-turned-lawyer Jake Lassiter begins to believe that his surgeon client is innocent of malpractice…but guilty of murder.

  NIGHT VISION After several women are killed by an Internet stalker, Jake is appointed a special prosecutor, and follows a trail of evidence from Miami to London and the very streets where Jack the Ripper once roamed.

  FALSE DAWN: After his client confesses to a murder he didn't commit, Jake follows a bloody trail from Miami to Havana to discover the truth.

  MORTAL SIN: Talk about conflicts of interest. Jake is sleeping with Gina Florio and defending her mob-connected husband in court.

  RIPTIDE: Jake Lassiter chases a beautiful woman and stolen bonds from Miami to Maui.

  FOOL ME TWICE: To clear his name in a murder investigation, Jake follows a trail of evidence that leads from Miami to buried treasure in the abandoned silver mines of Aspen, Colorado. (Also available in a new paperback edition).

  FLESH & BONES: Jake falls for his beautiful client even though he doubts her story. She claims to have recovered "repressed memories" of abuse…just before gunning down her father

  LASSITER: Jake retraces the steps of a model who went missing 18 years earlier…after his one-night stand with her. (Also available in a new paperback edition).

  LAST CHANCE LASSITER: In this prequel novella, young Jake Lassiter has an impossible case: he represents Cadillac Johnson, an aging rhythm and blues musician who claims his greatest song was stolen by a top-of-the-charts hip-hop artist.

  STATE vs. LASSITER: This time, Jake is on the wrong side of the bar. He’s charged with murder! The victim? His girlfriend and banker, Pamela Baylins, who was about to report him to the authorities for allegedly stealing from clients.

  SOLOMON vs. LORD SERIES

  (Nominated for the Edgar, Macavity, International Thriller, and James Thurber awards).

  “A cross between ‘Moonlighting’ and ‘Night Court.’ Courtroom drama has never been this much fun.” – FreshFiction.com

  SOLOMON vs. LORD: Trial lawyer Victoria Lord, who follows every rule, and Steve Solomon, who makes up his own, bicker and banter as they defend a beautiful young woman, accused of killing her wealthy, older husband.

  THE DEEP BLUE ALIBI: Solomon and Lord come together – and fly apart – defending Victoria’s “Uncle Grif” on charges he killed a man with a speargun. It’s a case set in the Florida Keys with side trips to coral reefs and a nudist colony where all is more –and less – than it seems.

  KILL ALL THE LAWYERS: Just what did Steve Solomon do to infuriate ex-client and ex-con “Dr. Bill?” Did Solomon try to lose the case in which the TV shrink was charged in the death of a woman patient?

  HABEAS PORPOISE: It starts with the kidnapping of a pair of trained dolphins and turns into a murder trial with Solomon and Lord on opposite sides after Victoria is appointed a special prosecutor, and fireworks follow!

  STAND-ALONE THRILLERS

  IMPACT: A Jetliner crashes in the Everglades. Is it negligence or terrorism? When the legal case gets to the Supreme Court, the defense has a unique strategy: Kill anyone, even a Supreme Court Justice, to win the case.

  BALLISTIC: A nuclear missile, a band of terrorists, and only two people who can prevent Armageddon. A “loose nukes” thr
iller for the 21st Century. (Also available in a new paperback edition).

  ILLEGAL: Down-and-out lawyer Jimmy (Royal) Payne tries to re-unite a Mexican boy with his missing mother and becomes enmeshed in the world of human trafficking and sex slavery.

  PAYDIRT: Bobby Gallagher had it all and lost it. Now, assisted by his 12-year-old brainiac son, he tries to rig the Super Bowl, win a huge bet…and avoid getting killed. (Also available in a new paperback edition).

  Visit the author’s website at http://www.paul-levine.com for more information. While there, sign up for Paul Levine’s newsletter and the chance to win free books and other prizes.

  Buck Fever – Ben Rehder

  For my mother, Helen Fanick, an inspiration

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Many people contributed their time and effort to this book, and deserve thanks.

  Several friends and family members read drafts and offered valuable criticism, including Helen Fanick, James Haught, Martin Grantham, Kate Donaho, and Jacob Winters. Thanks also to Christine Aebi for her sharp copyediting skills. A huge debt of gratitude to Mary Summerall, my friend and mentor, for teaching me how to write. I owe you many lunches. Thanks to Trey Carpenter, David Sinclair, and Jim Lindeman—all with the Texas Parks and Wildlife Department—for their input on everything from wildlife biology to game law, as well as some darn good anecdotes. Health-care and nursing insight was provided by Jill Rodriguez; Spanish-language assistance came courtesy of Joe Brummer; police language and procedural guidance was given by Tommy Blackwell. Thanks, too, to my lifelong buddy Phil Hughes for helping me tweak the plot. A note of appreciation to Jan Reid, a man who inspires writers across Texas, for his assistance. Special thanks to Tim Dorsey for generously aiding a newcomer.

  I’d also like to thank the kind people of Blanco County, including Bob and Mary Anne Daughdril, for making a weekender feel at home. Very special thanks to my agent, Nancy Love, and my editor, Ben Sevier, for their wisdom and guidance, and for giving a new guy a chance. And lastly, I’d like to thank my wife, Becky Rehder, for her unending support and encouragement.

  All errors, omissions, and distortions of reality are my own.

  BUCK FEVER

  Copyright © 2002 by Ben Rehder.

  Excerpt from Bone Dry © 2003 by Ben Rehder.

  Cover art copyright © 2011 by Becky Rehder

  Originally published in hardcover by St. Martin’s Press, September 2002

  All rights reserved.

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination, or, if real, used fictitiously. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the express written permission of the author or publisher, except where permitted by law.

  1

  BY THE TIME Red O’Brien finished his thirteenth beer, he could hardly see through his rifle scope. Worse yet, his partner, Billy Don Craddock, was doing a lousy job with the spotlight.

  “Dammit, Billy Don, we ain’t hunting raccoons,” Red barked. “Get that light out of the trees and shine it out in the pastures where it will do me some good.”

  Billy Don mumbled something unintelligible, kicked some empty beer cans around on the floorboard of Red’s old Ford truck, and then belched loudly from way down deep in his three-hundred-pound frame. That was his standard rebuttal anytime Red got a little short with him. The spotlight, meanwhile, continued to illuminate the canopy of a forty-foot Spanish oak.

  Red cussed him again and pulled the rifle back in the window. Every time they went on one of these poaching excursions, Red had no idea how he managed to get a clean shot. After all, poaching white-tailed deer was serious business. It called for stealth and grace, wits and guile. It had been apparent to Red for years that Billy Don came up short in all of these departments.

  “Turn that friggin’ light off and hand me a beer,” Red said.

  “Don’t know what we’re doing out here on a night like this anyhow,” Billy Don replied as he dug into the ice chest for two fresh Keystones. “Moon ain’t up yet. All the big ones will be bedded down till it rises. Any moron knows that.”

  Red started to say that Billy Don was an excellent reference for gauging what a moron may or may not know. But he thought better of it, being that Billy Don weighed roughly twice what Red did. Not to mention that Billy Don had quite a quick temper after his first twelve-pack.

  “Billy Don, let me ask you something. Someone walked into your bedroom shining a light as bright as the sun in your face, what’s the first thing you’d do?”

  “Guess I’d wag my pecker at ‘em,” Billy Don said, smiling. He considered himself quite glib.

  “Okay,” Red said patiently, “then what’s the second thing you’d do?”

  “I’d get up and see what the hell’s going on.”

  “Damn right!” Red said triumphantly. “Don’t matter if the bucks are bedded down or not. Just roust ‘em with that light and we’ll get a shot. But remember, we won’t find any deer up in the treetops.”

  Billy Don gave a short snort in reply.

  Red popped the top on his new beer, revved the Ford, and started on a slow crawl down the quiet county road. Billy Don grabbed the spotlight and leaned out the window, putting some serious strain on the buttons of his overalls, as he shined the light back over the hood of the Ford to Red’s left. They had gone about half a mile when Billy Don stirred.

  “Over there!”

  Red stomped the brakes, causing his Keystone to spill and run down into his crotch. He didn’t even notice. Billy Don was spotlighting an oat field a hundred yards away, where two dozen deer grazed. Among them, one of the largest white-tailed bucks either of them had ever seen. “Fuck me nekkid,” Red whispered.

  “Jesus, Red! Look at that monster.”

  Red clumsily stuck the .270 Winchester out the window, banging the door frame and the rearview mirror in the process. The deer didn’t even look their way. Red raised the rifle and tried to sight in on the trophy buck, but the deer had other things in mind.

  While all the other deer were grazing in place, the buck was loping around the oat field in fits and starts, running in circles. He bounced, he jumped, he spun. Red and Billy Don had never seen such peculiar behavior.

  “Somethin’s wrong with that deer,” Billy Don said, using his keen knowledge of animal behavioral patterns.

  “Bastard won’t hold still! Keep the light on him!” Red said.

  “I’ve got him. Just shoot. Shoot!”

  Red was about to risk a wild shot when the buck finally seemed to calm down. Rather than skipping around, it was now walking fast, with its nose low to the ground. The buck approached a large doe partially obscured behind a small cedar tree and, with little ceremony, began to mount her.

  Billy Don giggled, the kind of laugh you’d expect from a schoolgirl, not a flannel-clad six-foot-six cedar-chopper. “Why, I do believe it’s true love.”

  Red sensed his chance, took a deep breath, and squeezed the trigger. The rifle bellowed as orange flame leapt out of the muzzle and licked the night, and then all was quiet.

  The buck, and the doe of his affections, crumpled to the ground while the other deer scattered into the brush. Seconds passed. And then, to the chagrin of the drunken poachers, the huge buck climbed to his hooves, snorted twice, and took off. The doe remained on the ground.

  “Dammit, Red! You missed.”

  “No way! It was a lung shot. I bet it went all the way through. Grab your wirecutters.”

  Knowing that a wounded deer can run several hundred yards or more, both men staggered out of the truck, cut their way through the eight-foot deerproof fence, and proceeded over to the oat field.

  Each man had a flashlight and was looking feverishly for traces of blood, when they heard a noise.

  “What the hell was that?” Billy Don asked.


  “Shhh.”

  Then another sound. A moaning, from the wounded doe lying on the ground.

  Billy Don was spooked. “That’s weird, Red. Let’s get outta here.”

  Red shined his light on the wounded animal twenty yards away. “Hold on a second. What the hell’s wrong with its hide? It looks all loose and …” He was about to approach the deer when they both heard something they’d never forget.

  The doe clearly said, “Help me.”

  Without saying a word, both men scrambled back toward the fence. For the first time in his life, Billy Don Craddock actually outran somebody.

  Seconds later, the man in the crudely tailored deer costume could hear the tires squealing as the truck sped away.

  Just as Red and Billy Don were sprinting like boot-clad track stars, a powerful man was in the middle of a phone call. Unfortunately for the man, Roy Swank, it was hard to judge his importance by looking at him. In fact, he looked a lot like your average pond frog. Round, squat body. Large, glassy eyes. Bulbous lips in front of a thick tongue. And, of course, the neck— or rather, the lack of one. It was as if his head sat directly on his sloping shoulders. His voice was his best feature, deep and charismatic.

  Roy Swank had relocated to a large ranch southwest of Johnson City, Texas, five years ago, after a successful (although intentionally anonymous) career lobbying legislators in Austin. The locals who knew or cared what a lobbyist was never really figured out what Swank lobbied for. Few people ever had, because Swank was the type of lobbyist who always conducted business in the shadows of a back room, rarely putting anything down on paper. But he and the entities he represented had the kind of resources and resourcefulness that could sway votes or help introduce new legislation. So when the rumors spread about Swank’s retirement, the entire state political system took notice—although there were as many people relieved as disappointed.