by Anne Emery
“Was the body still out there?”
“It must have been, but they took it away after doing their investigation of the scene. You can still see the blood on the face of our saint.”
“Where’s Brennan?”
“Up in his room preparing for his day at the schola. Go on up and see him.”
Monty headed inside and took the stairs up to Brennan Burke’s room, knocked on the door, and was invited in. Burke was at his desk with a musical score spread out before him, a pencil in his hand, a pair of half-glasses perched on his aquiline nose.
“Did you nab him?” Monty said to Burke.
“Didn’t have to.”
“Police question you?”
“Yeah.”
“What did they want to know?”
“Where I went after walking off the set last night.”
“Where’d you go?”
“Where do you think?”
“Midtown?”
“Yes, I stopped in for a couple of draft, then came home.”
“Why did they want to know where you went? Are you a suspect?”
“I think I’m in the clear.”
“So, what were they after?”
“Wanted to know whether I’d seen Podgis again after the show.”
“Why would they think that?”
“Because I did.”
“You did what?”
“See him after the show.”
“What?”
“The gobshite tracked me down at the Midtown and — ”
“How did he know to find you there?”
“He’s an investigative reporter. Remember?”
“All right. So, what’s this about him tracking you down?”
Burke waved a dismissive hand. “Wanted to continue the debate, I guess. Seemed a little perturbed that I left the program.”
“I suspect that ‘a little perturbed’ is not in the typical range of emotions displayed by Podgis. More like frothing at the mouth, right?”
“Yeah, well . . .”
“Well, what?”
“Never mind that.”
There was something Burke wasn’t telling him, but Monty would get it out of him later. “So did you hear anything last night? Screams or anything like that from the churchyard?”
“No.”
“What time did all this ruckus begin?”
“Around half-two in the morning, or just before. Police and ambulance came roaring in. Then O’Flaherty was at my door, giving me the news.”
“Well, there will be plenty of news before this is over. I’m off to court.”
“Later.”
Two uniformed police officers were standing at the entrance to Byrne Street, where it formed a T intersection with Morris. One officer Monty knew, Truman Beals. If you could picture Otis Redding in a regulation police academy haircut and uniform, that was Truman. And he had the voice too. Before joining the police force, he had done the occasional gig with Monty’s blues band, Functus. Beals always prefaced these encounters with “Don’t ask me to sing ‘Dock of the Bay’ again.” And the band always agreed, then badgered him to do it anyway, and he always brought the house down with it, sounding uncannily like Redding himself. Of all the compliments Monty had received over his career as a bluesman, it was the one from Beals he treasured most: “Some of your tunes, not all, but some, if I close my eyes, you can almost pass for somebody who’s not a blue-eyed little white boy.”
They were still quite informal with each other. “Tru, what are you doing? This is an awful way to treat a visitor from Toronto, accusing him of murder. Until now nobody ever had an unkind word to say about Mr. Podgis.”
“You talking about the same Podgis? All the unkind words said about him are words that would have my mama scrubbing my mouth out with oven cleaner if I said them. She’d spray the stuff in my mouth, keep it in overnight, and scour it out the next morning with a wire brush, if I said the kind of names that have been used to describe Pike Podgis in this town. And that’s before we nailed him for murder.”
“So, what’s the connection between him and this poor little girl?” Beals shook his head. Either he didn’t know yet, or the information was not for public release. “Sex crime?”
“The look of him, if there was sex involved, she would have killed him.”
“Maybe she tried to.”
“If she tried to, too bad she didn’t succeed. She might have been awarded a medal, because he pissed so many people off. Looking back at recent shows he did, he would have made enemies out of hookers, Holocaust survivors, priests, old folks in nursing homes, psychiatrists, cheerleaders, beauty contest losers, college boys, and people with worms in their guts.”
“I’m sure you mean persons who host members of the parasite community.”
“Yeah. I gotta watch my language or I’ll never get to be community liaison person.”
“Well, I’ll let you go, Truman. You’ve got work to do.”
Chapter 3
Monty
Monty’s senior partner, Rowan Stratton, was waiting for him when he arrived at the law office. “Monty, you’re on for Podgis.”
Monty stood there, trying to absorb the news. The nationally known talk show host was now his client. It should not have come as a surprise, really. His firm, Stratton Sommers, was corporate counsel for the local affiliate of the television network, and Monty was the firm’s one and only criminal lawyer. He knew all too well what Podgis was like as a public personality. What in God’s name would he be like as a client?
“I don’t know whether he’s in cells at the courthouse yet,” Stratton said, “or still with the police. I just got the call from Brett Bekkers.” General manager of the TV station.
“I’ll take care of it, Rowan, and fill you in later.”
Monty hurried into his office, phoned the police station on Gottingen Street, and was given the information he needed. Podgis had been taken to the cells at the courthouse. Yes, he had spoken to a lawyer earlier that morning. Yes, he had exercised his right to remain silent. Well, not silent, but he had not given a confession to the murder.
Goal number one was to get to Podgis immediately, to make sure he did not exercise that infamous mouth and blow his case apart before he even made it to court for his first appearance. Monty left on foot for the old Victorian courthouse on Spring Garden Road, a one-minute sprint from his office at the corner of Barrington and Salter streets.
Defendants and hangers-on were gathered on the steps of the courthouse, smoking and grousing beneath the carved stone faces in the building’s facade. Monty returned the greetings of people he knew outside and inside the courthouse but did not stop to chat. He went straight down the stairs to the cell area in the basement, rang the buzzer, and waited until the massive steel door was opened by one of the sheriffs, Donny MacEachern.
“Don, how’s it going?”
“Not too bad, Monty. Never lonely down here.”
“No, I’m sure.”
“See the Jays last night?”
“Last few innings. Just in time to see the big catch by Devon White. But I had to watch Podgis first.”
“Seeing him again today?”
“Yep. Just as soon as you can produce him for me.”
MacEachern mouthed the words “lucky you,” then, “Okay, go on in, and I’ll deliver him to you.”
Monty seated himself in one of the tiny meeting rooms for lawyers and clients, and it wasn’t long before his client was brought in.
“I’m being railroaded!” Podgis bellowed in greeting.
He plunked himself down on the other side of the table. Podgis was a man who never looked elegant at the best of times. Today he looked like hell, in a garish green track suit, his hair sticking up and his jaw sticking out.
“Good morning, Mr.
Podgis. I’m Montague Collins.” He opened his briefcase and took out a pen and notepad.
“Did you hear me? I didn’t do this. I’m being railroaded.”
“You’re just a patsy.”
“You think this is funny? I don’t know you from a hole in the wall, Collins. Brett Bekkers at ATV says your law firm is going to handle it, and that you’re the best. You better be, or I want somebody else before this fucking day is out!”
“Settle down, Mr. Podgis. I’m on your side. First things first. Did you say anything to the police — I mean anything at all — about this incident?”
“Do you think I’m stupid? How could I confess to it if I didn’t do it?”
“It wouldn’t have to be a confession. It could be something you told them that you think would clear you, but in fact — ”
“I didn’t tell them squat. All I said was I didn’t do it, they got the wrong guy, and I demanded to talk to my lawyer. They hooked me up with some guy who told me to keep my mouth shut, and I got to call Bekkers, and he said he’d be getting the station’s lawyers to handle it, and that the station would put up bail for me. So get me out of here. This place is a nuthouse, crawling with lowlifes, and it smells like shit. When do I get bail?”
“We’ll talk about that in a minute. Your time in here, as aggravating as it may be, is nothing compared to life in prison. So back to first things. Do not talk to anybody. The police obviously. And other inmates. Any one of them could be a jailhouse rat. An informer. The cops will tell you it will go easier for you if you come clean. Come on, clear your conscience; you know you want to. You’re not like these other guys, these habitual criminals. You’re a prominent man; you know you want to do the right thing. Spare the girl’s family a long, drawn-out ordeal. This is the kind of thing the police will put to you to try to get a confession. Don’t fall for it.”
“I told you. I’m not stupid.”
“And don’t try to offer them another explanation of what happened, trying to extricate yourself from the murder charge. You never know what other information they have, which, combined with whatever you tell them, could be lethal for you.”
“I know, I get it. There’s nothing I could tell them about it because I didn’t do it.”
“They must think they have evidence if they’re laying charges against a well-known individual like yourself. They know it will be a very public humiliation for them if they’ve screwed up. So they must think they have something.”
“They have shit all. So set them straight and get me out of here. I mean out of here now.”
Podgis was agitated, and Monty could smell the sweat oozing out of him. Monty assured his client he would schedule the bail hearing at the earliest opportunity after arraignment, but he stopped short of giving any kind of assurance about the result.
“Why do you think you were picked up for this killing?”
“I was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“What do you mean? Where did they arrest you?”
“My hotel room. How come you don’t know any of this?”
“Because I just got the word that I’m representing you, and I wanted to come down and reassure you that you have counsel, and reassure myself that you hadn’t made any incriminating statements.”
“Great. We’re both reassured. Speaking for myself, I’m on top of the world.”
“If the police didn’t nab you at or near the scene of the killing, what do you think led them to your hotel room?”
“I have no idea!”
“They took your clothes. What were you wearing when they arrived at the hotel?”
“Duh — the clothes they took!”
“What clothing?”
“The stuff I had on that day.”
“What time was this?”
“Three in the morning.”
“And you were in street clothes?”
His eyes slid away. Then he said, “I fell asleep with my clothes and shoes on.”
“Late night?”
No response.
“You changed into the track suit at the hotel while the police were there.”
“Yeah.”
“So. You say you didn’t do it.”
“I’m not just saying it. I didn’t do it. This is nuts. Something is going on here; somebody is behind this, and I expect you to find out who it is.”
“Tell me where you were last night.”
“On national TV!”
“You weren’t on TV all night. The show ends at ten. Where were you after that?”
“Not out icing young chicks, capisce?”
“Well, where? If you have an alibi, the sooner we give notice, the more credible the alibi will be.”
“I was with a girl.”
“A girl.”
“You heard me.”
“How old are you, Mr. Podgis?”
“Forty-six.”
“How old was this girl?”
“Of age.”
“So, would it be more accurate to say you were with a woman?”
“Whatever.”
“You’re being a bit nonchalant about this, aren’t you? Considering she is your alibi for murder?”
“I don’t like your attitude, Collins.”
“My attitude wins cases, Podgis. Let’s get back to you. Are you married?”
“Don’t you read the entertainment news in the paper, Collins?”
“No.”
“Well, since you don’t know anything about me, maybe you should start.”
“I’m starting here, today. Are you married?”
“Divorced. Long time ago.”
“Are you in a relationship now?”
“I’m between dates.”
“I see. What’s the name of the person you say you were with last night?” Monty held his pen over his page, ready for the answer.
It took a while. “April.”
Monty looked up at his client. “April?”
“Yeah, that’s what she said. But I got the impression she was making it up.”
“Why would she do that, do you suppose?”
“Stepping out on her boyfriend, maybe. I don’t know.”
“Okay. April what?”
“No idea.”
“Well, where does she work? What does she do?”
“I haven’t a clue.”
“Come on, Podgis.”
“I don’t know, I’m telling you.”
“She knows your name.”
“Well, yeah!”
“So why didn’t she introduce herself?”
“She was being coy. Just said, ‘Call me April.’ I mean, it didn’t really matter. I wasn’t going to go downtown and apply for a marriage licence.”
Monty flipped his pen up in the air and didn’t bother to catch it when it came down.
“What’s your problem, Collins?”
“It’s not my problem. It’s your problem, Podgis. You’ve just given me the worst alibi in the world. Worse than no alibi at all. When someone says, ‘I was alone in my room; nobody can vouch for me,’ the jury thinks it’s at least possible the guy’s telling the truth. But saying you were with a woman and being unwilling, or unable, to identify her beyond a first name that is probably made up just comes off sounding like bullshit, doesn’t it?”
“Fuck you, Collins! Get me somebody else!”
“Get yourself somebody else.”
“I fucking intend to.”
“Fine. I’ll give you a bit of free advice before I go. Anybody who’s any good will give your story just as rough a ride. And if he doesn’t, if he or she goes along with the mystery woman as alibi story without nailing it down, and leaves it to the Crown to tear apart, you’ve lost your case before you even get to the courtroom door.”
“All right, all right. If it takes a prick like you to get me out of this, I’ll have to hold my nose and go along with it.”
“That’s better. Now, are you going to persist with this woman story or are we going to drop it and start all over again?”
The cogs were turning inside the reptilian skull. What to do? Did he think he could brazen this out, spin a credible tale about reclining in a lover’s boudoir? Or was he going to find a way to back off? You won’t believe me anyway, so forget about it.
“It’s true.”
Jesus Christ. He was going to bet the farm on it. Monty almost had to admire the chutzpah.
Almost but not quite. “Were you listening to me? This is not any better than no alibi at all.”
“It’ll have to do.”
“This is a murder charge, Podgis. It carries a sentence of life in prison, with no chance of parole for twenty-five years. Would you care to rethink ‘it’ll have to do’?”
“What do you want me to do, make up a last name? And a social insurance number?”
“Why didn’t you find out anything about her?”
“Because we didn’t spend our time sharing our personal histories.”
Swept away by a passion stronger than both of them. Monty sat there and tried to think of England, of hockey stats, of the hair-grease stains on the meeting room wall. Anything but Podgis and his choice of female companion cavorting in the buff.
“Well, we’re going to have to find her.”
“I’ll try as soon as you get me out on bail.”
“Where did you meet this person?”
“This person was in the audience for my show. She hung around after.”
“Hung around for what reason?”
“What do you think?”
Monty restrained himself from replying.
“She wanted to get on TV, and . . .” Podgis said, then paused.
“And?”
“And the way to get on TV is to put out for Pike Podgis.”
“An honourable calling, being a television personality.”
“That’s rich, coming from a lawyer!”
Monty did not deign to reply.
“Anyway, that’s what happened. Take it or leave it.”
