Omega Series Box Set 1

by Blake Banner

  “I need you to win an unwinnable case.”

  “That’s what I do.”

  I gave him a rough outline. “I need you here in Burgundy by tomorrow.”

  He was silent a moment. “The Carmichael case, is it? I’ll be there tonight. You are aware there is a storm coming, aren’t you?” He sighed noisily. “But, Mr. Walker, from what you’ve told me so far, I can’t make any guarantees as to the outcome.”

  “You do your best. I’ll do the rest.”

  He shrugged with his voice. “Fair enough. Tell me where you’re staying. I’ll book a room.”

  I told him and hung up, watching Bat across the table.

  “What do you know about Carmichael?”

  “Not a lot. Filthy rich. Deals in real estate. People say he doted on his wife. They were married for about five years. He was a lot older than her.”

  “Office in town?”

  He hesitated. “I think he works from home.”

  I raised an eyebrow at him. “She tell you that?”

  “She might have mentioned something.”

  “How close did you get to her, Bat?”

  “Look, leave it out, will ya?”

  I stood. “OK, I’m going to talk to Carmichael. Try to stay out of trouble, at least till I get back.”

  “I’ll do me best.”

  In the lobby, Luis was watching a small TV behind his desk. I caught a glimpse of a brightly colored weather map with a giant white spiral in the middle. It looked as though Sarah was making landfall on the Bahamas.

  One Sarah was dead, but the other, it seemed, was very much alive. I drove, under a low and dangerous sky, through empty streets out of town and onto Route 61. Then I headed south, toward Hardwood and St. Francisville, for a quarter of a mile.

  The gate to his property was set back from the road. I slipped through it and moved down the long driveway, through rich green lawns and an abundance of river birches, red oaks, and southern pines. They looked oddly luminous in the gloom, against the watercolor sky.

  His house was a large, colonial mansion in the Georgian style, with stone Grecian columns and a gabled portico. Two broad steps led up from the gravel drive to the door. I parked, climbed the steps and rang the bell. The door was opened after a minute by a pretty maid in a uniform. I told her who I was and said I needed to see Charles Carmichael.

  She went away, came back a minute later, and led me across a vaulted hall with a checkerboard floor to double walnut doors. She knocked, poked her head in and said, “Mr. Walker to see you, sir.” Then she stood back to let me in.

  His library-cum-office was what you’d expect, having seen the façade of his house, and his hall. It was the deep south at its most elegant. The walls were lined with dark wood panels and shelves loaded with heavy tomes. The rugs looked Persian and there was a nest of Chesterfields set around a cold fireplace.

  When I went in, he was standing by a heavy oak desk to the left of the door. He was in his late fifties, with graying, well cut hair and a suit of the same color. He had his arms crossed and he did not look happy. He didn’t waste time.

  “Who are you?”

  “Former Captain Lacklan Walker, I was Bartholomew Hays’ commanding officer in the British Army.”

  “You’re an American.”

  “My mother is English.”

  “What do you want?”

  “I’d like to talk to you about what happened.”

  “Why?”

  I sighed. “Mr. Carmichael, I am not here as an enemy. I have reason to believe that Hays did not kill your wife. If I am right and he is convicted, your wife’s killer will go unpunished.”

  He scowled at me. “What you mean is that you want to protect the honor of your regiment.”

  I studied him a moment, his posture, the set of his jaw. “Are you a military man, Mr. Carmichael?”

  “Yes. Marine Corps.”

  “Then I won’t waste your time and mine by lying to you. Of course I care about the reputation of my regiment. And of course I care about a soldier who served under me with honor and courage. But not to the exclusion of all else. If he did this, then he must be punished. But if he did not…”

  “He did it. His prints are in her bedroom and in my drawing room. His prints are on the gun, God damn it!”

  “I have reason…”

  His face flushed and he took a step toward me. “How dare you! Reason? What possible reason? You come into my house, wanting to enlist my help to protect the man who murdered my wife!”

  I stood my ground.

  “What reason? Putting it bluntly sir, if Hays had done it, his prints wouldn’t be all over your house, or on the weapon. They wouldn’t have the weapon, and they wouldn’t have him in custody.”

  “Get out of my house before I call the sheriff and have you thrown in jail!”

  “On what charge?”

  “Trespass—and complicity in murder!”

  I held his eye for a beat. “I’m going to let that pass because I can see the pain your in, Carmichael. But the man who killed your wife is walking free, and if Hays goes down for it, your wife’s killer will have got away with murder. Think about it.”

  His voice was cold and steady and his eyes were hard. He repeated, “Get out.”

  I nodded and left.

  Outside, back under the heavy cloud, I paused by my car to light up a Camel and think about what I would do next. It had to be Detective Jackson, but judging by Carmichael’s reaction, I didn’t expect him to be very receptive.

  The cop shop was at the other end of town, on Bordeaux Street. It was a small, modern building with a big parking lot and a big radio antenna. There were four patrol vehicles and a couple of unmarked cars. You got the impression they were normally busy, but did most of their work on the streets, where they didn’t have to record it. Right now, it was quiet. I guessed the slow, steady exodus continued, and the people who were here were staying indoors.

  I parked by the entrance and went inside. There was a bored-looking sergeant at the desk, watching the news. Hurricane-force gales were battering the Bahamas and there was footage of palm trees bent almost horizontal as the spray from giant waves drowned them. He glanced at me and made a question with his face, while he kept one eye on the news.

  “I need to talk to Detective Jackson, about the Bartholomew Hays case.”

  He sighed like I was being unnecessarily demanding and made a call on the internal phone, then continued watching the news like I wasn’t there. A minute later, Detective Jackson stepped out in shirt sleeves with a loosened tie. He was a big man, not tall but big, with balding black hair turning to gray at the temples, and thick stubble where he was either growing a beard or he’d forgotten to shave. His eyes were dark and suspicious and examined me a moment before he spoke.

  “You have information about Bartholomew Hays?”

  I nodded. “Yeah. Can we talk somewhere?”

  He held the door for me and led me through to his office. It was small and functional. “Take a seat.”

  He sat behind his desk and I sat across from him. “My name is Lacklan Walker, I was Hayes’ superior officer in his regiment in the U.K. I know him as well as anybody. He served on a number of operations with me. I am pretty sure he did not commit this murder.”

  His only reaction was to blink, once. “You been to see Mr. Carmichael, right?”

  “He called you?”

  “Yeah, he said you might try to come and see me. I was expecting you. I am going to say the same thing to you as he did. Hays’ prints are at the scene and they are on the weapon. You are wasting your time and, more important, you are wasting my time.”

  “You don’t even want to hear what I have to say?”

  He gave a small, humorless laugh. “What can you say, man? Can you explain to me how his prints appeared in the Carmichaels’ bedroom?”

  I shook my head. “No.”

  “Can you tell me how they appeared downstairs in the living room, where he has supposedl
y never been?”

  “No, I can’t.”

  He leaned forward and pointed at me. “Can you explain how his prints got on the murder weapon?”

  “Maybe.”

  He shook his head. “Uh-uh, no you can’t. There is no maybe. Either you can or you can’t. And you—can’t. And if you can’t explain those three things, you are wasting my time.”

  “Bartholomew Hays did not kill Sarah Carmichael.”

  “Can you prove that?”

  “Not yet.”

  He narrowed his eyes at me. “What do you mean, not yet?”

  “I plan to find out who killed her.” I smiled and gave my head a small shake. “Bat Hays is one of the most skilled assassins you are ever likely to meet, Detective. I know because I have seen him work. I know he didn’t kill Sarah Carmichael because his prints are at the scene.”

  “That is bullshit.”

  I shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

  I stood and he pointed up at me. “Stay out of my way, Walker, or I’ll run you in for obstruction of justice.”

  I put my most patronizing smile on the right side of my face. “Save it for somebody who might believe you, Jackson. You just stumbled into a bigger league.”

  I went out and looked up at the sky. It was early afternoon, but it was as dark as evening. A gust of wind whipped my hair and howled through the pines across the road, making them bend and creak. Sarah was going to be trouble. Sarah was going to cause havoc.

  Four

  Hirschfield checked into the Soniat that evening at eight. He had the desk call me down after he’d settled in to his room and we met in the cocktail bar.

  The cocktail bar was all dim blues and greens, and for some reason, they had a large fishing net on the wall behind the bar. Hirschfield was sitting on his own at a table behind a fern and beckoned to me as I came in. He stood as I approached. He was a big, bombastic, well-dressed man anywhere between forty-five and sixty-five. He had very black hair, huge hairy hands and huge feet, and gold rings on most of his fingers. He had big eyes that read you while you talked, with the same attention and concentration other people use to read books.

  I held out my hand. “Mr. Hirschfield, it was good of you to come so soon.”

  “David, please. And I’ll call you Lacklan. Sit down. What will you drink?”

  He was waving with his left hand at the barman and pointing to an armchair with his right. I said, “Irish, no ice.”

  He bellowed, “Santos! A Bushmills here, no ice! You got that? No ice!”

  We sat and he said, “Let me talk. I want you to understand something. If it were not for your big shot friends in D.C., I would not touch this case with a sterilized bargepole. I read the papers on the way down. You don’t stand a chance in hell. I hope you understand that. I wanted to talk to you before Hays came. I don’t know if he did it, and frankly, I don’t care. Most of the clients I represent did what they were accused of doing, whatever it was. That’s my niche. It’s why I am the best and it is why I am a very rich man. I wasn’t joking when I said I had upset the Mob to be here with you. That’s why you’ll pay double. But unless you’ve got something special up your sleeve, my advice to you is, plead guilty. I want you to understand that, right from the start, because I don’t want your powerful friends knocking on my door telling me they are disappointed. I’m telling you straight, from the start, as it stands, this case cannot be won.”

  The waiter brought over my drink and set it down on a turquoise mat with a dish of peanuts. When he’d gone, Hirschfield said, “Shoot.”

  I nodded and took a moment to think. “First, it’s important you understand that Hays is not guilty. He did not kill this woman. He is not going to plead guilty, because he didn’t do it.”

  He held up one of his big hairy hands.

  “That may be the truth, Lacklan, but to me it is a matter of indifference. Truth is a concept for philosophers to play with. What we deal in, is facts. And right now it is a fact that Hayes was at the scene of the murder, and it is a fact that he held the murder weapon.”

  “I understand that. Now I want to move on and I need you to listen to me. You’re going to get the prosecution’s file and we are going to go over it with a fine-toothed comb for inconsistencies. They have to be there because he was not at the scene and, though he did hold the gun, he did not shoot Sarah Carmichael with it. How are we going to find inconsistencies? Because I am going to take everybody in this parish apart, from Detective Jackson and Charles Carmichael to the janitor at the local primary school, and I am going to find who did kill her. I am going to get enough facts for you to create, at the very least, a reasonable doubt. The plea is not guilty. Period.”

  He spread his hands and shrugged. “You pay the piper, you call the tune. Let’s get Hays here and talk to him.”

  I ordered him a Scotch and he arrived ten minutes later. I made the introductions and Bat told his story for the second time while Hirschfield remained absolutely silent, and seemed to read him like he was reading a document. When he’d finished, Hirschfield slumped back in his chair, made a temple out of his fingers and studied it with an expression of deep disappointment, like he’d been hoping for a solid gold Hindu monument and he’d got a Calvinist chapel instead. After a moment, he bellowed at Santos and made a stirring motion with his finger, which meant ‘bring another round.’

  “So, am I to understand that you were both in some special elite unit in the United Kingdom?”

  Bat nodded. “The SAS. It’s a regiment. Best in the world.”

  “Naturally.” He turned to me. “And you were his superior officer. You did operations together.” I nodded. “See, that’s good, brothers in arms, code of honor, the jury are going to like that. The whole British thing on the other hand...” He blew out through large lips, “That could go either way.” Then he shook his head. “The story, my friend, I have to tell you, without more than your say so, the story is a crock of horse shit. If you could at least bring in some Muslim terrorists seeking revenge, well, then we could challenge the jury, make sure they are all Jewish and Christian, and perhaps play on the whole jihadist, fundamentalist thing. But I need more, much more. So far, you have given me next to nothing to work with. A simple story. What you have given me is a simple story. And a simple story is not enough.”

  “I’m going to find the guy who took him to the meeting. If I can, I’ll get the guy with the moustache too.”

  “That would be something. What about the revolver? My office has already requested the prosecution file and we are going to be all over that like VD. But tell me about the revolver, a .38, right? Who found that, and where?”

  Bat shrugged. “I dunno, mate. All I know is, they found the murder weapon, ballistics is a match, and my prints are on it. Only way that could have happened is if it’s the gun that the feller asked me to identify. Like it was a test.”

  He grunted. Then he gestured at me with both hands. “This is your department. Who wants this woman dead? Who benefits from her death?”

  I looked at Bat.

  He sighed. “Look, I barely knew her. I saw her a few times at the club, but all I know is she was popular. People liked her. She was involved in charity, helped people, got very involved in environmental issues, and that’s a big deal ’round here since Katrina.”

  Hirschfield nodded and pouted. “You’re not kidding. But it’s not much to go on.”

  Santos arrived with a tray of drinks and peanuts. He deposited them and left. Hirschfield took a pull, savored it, and heaved a big sigh.

  “All right, gentlemen, it won’t be easy, but we’ll give it our best shot. Here is my reading of the situation, and what needs to be done. I will get the prosecution file tomorrow or I shall want to know why. I will go over it with, as you say, a fine-toothed comb. I shall appraise you, Lacklan, of every weakness I find, and you will do what you can to pick holes in it. I shall not inquire into your methods, but I will say this. This is not the U.K. Illegally obtained evidence is not admi
ssible, however probative it may be. If you obtain evidence illegally, cover your damn tracks!” He took another pull and went on. “Things that spring to mind off the top of my head, find this man who lured Bat to that meeting, find his associates, find the warehouse if you can. Meanwhile, let us look at the timing of the murder, at what time the call was made, where was Bat at that time? What was he doing? Let us also, above all, look into Sarah Carmichael’s life. Who might have wanted her dead? Who might have benefited from her death? If she went to jazz clubs without her husband, with whom did she go? What is this woman’s story? Why did she end up murdered in the prime of her life? I need…” He paused and eyed us both. “I need a compelling story to tell the jury, and it is your job to find me that compelling story!”

  We moved to the dining room. Again we had it to ourselves, with Ella, Billie, and the divine Sarah Vaughn to keep us company. We ate and drank too much, and Bat and I said little, but laughed a lot. It was not hard to see why David Hirschfield was as successful as he was. His vast personality, his booming voice, and his needle-sharp mind were captivating. He had a hundred stories to tell, and you believed every one of them, because he told them with huge authority.

  But for all his power and authority, later, as I let myself into my room, knowing that Bat was walking home through the dark, empty streets, with the black sky lowering over his head, I knew that what we needed for the jury, and for Bat and me, was not a story, however compelling. What we needed was the truth.

  Morning came with a mild hangover that a cold shower, a pot of coffee, and some scrambled eggs on rye in the dining room turned into a mild headache. The news said that Hurricane Sarah had veered south and was battering the coast of Cuba. There was some hope that it might blow itself out in the Gulf. I took my coffee outside and looked up at the sky. The sky didn’t seem to agree with the experts on the TV. The sky looked like it was preparing itself to eat Burgundy alive.