by Mike Farris
A low growl resonated in Rufus’s throat. I held his collar tightly.
“You bastard,” Tripp said.
He forced the words out in a rush. The smell of alcohol accompanied them, swirling in a haze in the crisp December air. That shocked me, as I had never known Tripp to be a drinker.
“I told you not to talk to Patterson…not to go near him.”
I held the door halfway open, ready to slam it if need be. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said.
“You got to him, didn’t you? You and Robin Napoli.”
I tried to close the door, but Tripp blocked it with his shoulder, like a cartoon door-to-door salesman. Granted I was trying to hold Rufus with one hand, but alcohol seemed to give Tripp surprising strength.
“Patterson sued me. And Robin Napoli had me served at my house,” he said. “At my house. With my wife and kids there. I just got Swanson Industries resolved, and now this. Was that your idea?”
I looked at Tripp, mustering all my effort to keep a blank face. “What do you mean, you got Swanson Industries resolved?”
“Horace has gone AWOL. His lawyer’s withdrawing and the court is dismissing the lawsuit.”
“What happened to him?”
“That’s not my problem.”
“You sure about that?”
“Right now, you’re my problem, but not for long. I’ll get the seventy-five percent it takes to kick you out of the firm. You can take that to the bank.”
I grabbed Tripp by the shoulder and pushed him. “Do what you’ve gotta do,” I said.
He leaned his weight into my arm, fighting to stay in the doorway. It was not even close.
Suddenly he stepped back, his demeanor changing again. An eerie calm overtook him.
“You don’t know what you’ve gotten yourself into, Muckleroy. Don’t underestimate what I’m capable of.”
His words froze me. A pinprick of fear, mixed with rage, jabbed at my heart.
He backed to the edge of the porch then held up one hand, a bony finger extended.
“Consider yourself warned.”
Chapter Forty
Robin Napoli lived in old east Dallas, in a section of brick homes built in the 1920s and 1930s. Known as the “M” street area, it contained mostly smaller homes with the characteristic vees and angles of Tudor architecture. The houses sat on tidy lots of neatly trimmed yards on streets bearing names beginning with, unsurprisingly, “M”—such as McCommas, Monticello, Merrimac, Mercedes, and Morningside. Robin’s house blended into the neighborhood, with a small but well-manicured yard of Saint Augustine grass bordered by shrubs and flowerbeds. Pansies of purple, red, and blue colored the front of the house, thus far surviving the frost.
Just before ten o’clock Saturday night, Robin backed her Toyota Camry out of the narrow driveway, which was really just two strips of concrete separated by three feet of grass. She reached the street then shifted into drive in the direction of a neighborhood grocery store. Her law practice, ministering to the poor and disenfranchised, made a shambles of any semblance of a regular schedule. Late night grocery runs were not uncommon for her.
She fiddled with the radio, settled on a station, then leaned back. She drove slowly, taking care on the partially iced streets. It was only as she approached the stop sign at the end of her street that she checked her rearview mirror. At first she didn’t see anything. She put her foot on the brake and pushed. Again checking her mirror, she saw the glow of her own brake lights.
And then she saw the Cadillac, no headlights, pulling up quickly behind her. Instinctively, she took her foot off the brake and pushed the accelerator, jumping through the intersection.
The Cadillac’s driver tromped on the gas. By the middle of the next block, he had caught up to her, then lurched ahead, ramming the back of the Camry.
The impact jolted Robin. She looked in the mirror, trying to make out the driver. All she saw was a tiny burst of orange at the end of a cigarette clenched in his teeth. She accelerated, trying to pull away.
A stop sign loomed ahead where her street dead-ended at busy Greenville Avenue. She saw cross-traffic going both ways on Greenville. If she didn’t stop, she would surely plunge into a multi-car accident. If she stopped, she would be rammed again. Her only hope was a sudden break in traffic that would allow her to turn sharply, but she knew breaks in traffic on Greenville were only pipe dreams, no matter how late the hour or icy the streets, especially on weekends.
She had one other option.
As the Cadillac roared to within twenty feet, narrowing the gap quickly, Robin stomped on the brakes. The Cadillac slammed into her trunk. The screech of metal on metal pierced the night air.
Ramon Flores sprang from the back seat of the car, gun in hand. He sprinted to the driver’s door. Robin had already rolled down her window and was looking at him when he got there.
She lifted her gun. Ramon recoiled then swung his gun hand up. They both pulled triggers at the same time.
Ramon’s bullet slammed into the car door just to the rear of the seat back. Robin’s bullet found its mark, striking him in the left side of his chest. He spun around then fell in a heap in the middle of the street.
Hector Cortez, behind the wheel of the red Cadillac with flames on the side, watched in disbelief. He had heard both gunshots then saw Ramon spin and fall. He slammed the gearshift into reverse and stepped on the gas. The wheels spun furiously, squealing into the night. But the Cadillac stayed where it was, its bumper locked with the rear bumper of the Camry.
Porch lights came on, doors opened, and voices called out. Robin got out of her car, still carrying her gun.
The Cadillac shimmied and swayed. Smoke spewed from the tires as asphalt shredded rubber. But the cars stayed locked together.
Robin ran to the other side of her open door, knelt, then aimed her gun through the open window.
“What’s going on out there?” a man called from a nearby front yard.
“Call the police,” Robin yelled. “And an ambulance.”
Hector opened the glove compartment and pulled out a Saturday night special. He opened his door, stuck the gun out, and fired toward the Camry.
Robin moved in front of her car. Hector jumped out. Never looking back, he sprinted up the street then turned and cut across a yard, disappearing between two houses.
Robin stood at the hood of her car and watched him run. Then she turned her attention to the kid lying in the street, writhing in pain.
Chapter Forty-One
When I arrived at the scene, cop cars were everywhere. Onlookers milled in yards on both sides of the street. A police helicopter hovered overhead, shining a floodlight. I could barely see Robin’s car, almost hidden from view by a huge Cadillac. The Cadillac glowed an eerie red in the night lights.
I stood at the barricade, searching for Robin. I finally spotted her standing on the curb, talking to a guy in street clothes, probably a detective. As I threw one leg over the barricade, a uniformed cop came over.
“I’m sorry, sir. No one’s allowed beyond that point.”
I pointed at Robin. “I’m a friend of hers.”
He nodded grimly but made no move to let me by.
“I’m also an attorney,” I said. I was careful not to say I was her attorney. Still, it had the desired effect.
“Just one minute, sir,” the cop said.
He approached Robin and the detective, and said something. They both looked my way. Robin, grim-faced, waved and said something to the detective. He nodded, gave a message to the uniform, and sent him back toward me. Making eye contact, he waved me on. I cleared the barricade and joined them.
I hugged her and she squeezed tight.
“How you doing?” I said.
“Okay, under the circumstances.”
I released Robin, though I kept one arm around her. “What happened?”
“Attempted carjacking,” the detective said. “Two Mexican bangers rammed her car, then one of them came up with a gun. He p
ut a round in her door, but Annie Oakley here put a round in him. He’s on the way to the hospital right now. Looks like a clear-cut case of self-defense.”
I noticed that Robin was uncharacteristically quiet, letting the detective do all the talking. I assumed she was scared.
“What about the other guy?” I asked.
“He high-tailed it outta here on foot. We’re checking the area right now but so far nothing.”
“Any witnesses?”
“A bunch of the neighbors heard the collision. We got one who looked out the window and saw the kid with the gun approach the car. He couldn’t see Ms. Hamilton in the car, but he did see the kid raise his gun, then he heard gunshots and saw the kid fall. He was the first to call nine-one-one. All together, we got seven nine-one-ones. Good neighborhood watch.”
“Do you need anything else from me?” Robin asked.
“That’s it for now. We should have the wrecker here any minute to get your car separated from the Caddy.”
Robin pointed toward my Jeep Cherokee. “We’ll wait in Bay’s car. It’s too cold out here.”
With my arm still around her shoulders, I escorted Robin to my car. I turned on the engine, then cranked up the heater.
“Want to bet the slug in my car matches the one the docs cut out of Meg?” Robin asked.
“I won’t take that bet. I think Tripp Malloy’s real serious about ending Meg’s lawsuit.”
“You don’t really think he’s trying to kill us, do you?”
“He stands to lose over a million dollars a year if the firm goes down and he can’t hook on with some other firm. With the Justice Department investigation, he could even be looking at prison time. People have killed for a lot less.”
Robin thought about that for a moment. “Just for the sake of argument, let’s assume you’re right. If Meg had died, her lawsuit would have gone away and the Justice Department thing wouldn’t have happened. If your hypothesis is correct, that explains the attack on her. But now Justice is already involved. So why come after me?”
“He blames us. He thinks we’re leaking information. And you’re taking his deposition next week. If you’re out of the way, he doesn’t get deposed. Then maybe Justice hits a brick wall.”
“You said he blames us. You including yourself?”
“Yeah, I guess I am. But I don’t know what his connection is to a couple of gangbangers.”
“That’s the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question,” she said. “And I can’t help but think that there’s more going on here than just overbilling. I think it’s about time we found out a little more.”
We sat quietly for a moment, watching the wrecker driver trying to unhook the Cadillac from her car.
“If you’re right, Meg’s still in danger,” she said after a few minutes.
“I told her she could stay with me.”
Robin shook her head. “She’s too proud.”
“What do you mean?”
“She’s been depending on you ever since she got out of law school. Now she thinks it’s time to stand on her own two feet.”
“One of which doesn’t work very well.”
“You hover over her too much. That’s not good for her. Besides, if people found out, it would only fuel the rumors and hurt her lawsuit.”
“I guess that makes sense.”
She looked at me carefully. “And you, of course, took this personally, didn’t you?”
I didn’t say anything.
“You did, didn’t you?”
“I just figured she was getting tired of me,” I said.
“Bay, not everything’s about you.”
But it sure seemed like it was.
Chapter Forty-Two
Robin and I alternated spending the rest of the weekend at the hospital. We opted not to tell Meg of the attempt on Robin’s life, so I also kept mum about sleeping outside her door Saturday and Sunday nights. For all she knew, I simply arrived bright and early each morning.
She made remarkable progress, probably due to her excellent conditioning over the years as a tennis player, and was on track to be released by the next weekend. She even dismissed her parents back to east Texas for a while. They had been incredibly supportive, and the effort exhausted them, both physically and mentally. They needed a break, and we all knew it. I actually considered it a compliment that they were willing to leave their daughter’s emotional care in my hands. I felt as if I had been tested in the crucible and met their approval. I vowed not to let them, or her, down.
“Let me ask you something,” I said to Meg after spending another night at the hospital. “I found copies of Tripp’s expense statements at your apartment. What were you doing with them?”
She wrinkled her brow. “I don’t know. I remember making copies of them before I got fired, but I don’t remember why. I think they’re important, though.”
“Did the doctor say anything about memory loss?”
“He said some’s to be expected, but it should all come back eventually. When it does, I’ll let you know what I was thinking about those statements.” Then she smiled. “I really think you should spend less time here. You’ve got to be way behind on your hours. I haven’t forgotten how important those are.”
“If I’ve got to worry about making up my billable hours for the year in November and December, then it’s too late anyway.”
“I suppose. I’m just worried about you,” she said.
“About the only thing I miss is working out. It’s probably been two or three weeks since I’ve done any exercise.”
She set her jaw. “Then I want you to work out today. Get your life back to normal, and stop worrying so much about me. When I go to physical therapy, you go to the gym and pump iron or something.”
*
I wondered why Meg was so anxious for me to spend less time with her. Had I worn out my welcome? Just one more thing for me to worry about as I stopped off at the office to check my mail and messages. From there, I made the five-minute walk to the YMCA and changed into my workout clothes—gray shorts, gray tee-shirt, white crew socks, and running shoes. Once dressed, I hit the free-weight room in the basement of the downtown club. I found an empty weight bench, loaded up the barbell, and began pumping.
The atmosphere lent itself to hard work—stuffy, poor air circulation, concrete floor, sounds of iron clanging. Easy to sweat, easy to concentrate on the weights. Three sets into my bench press and all I could think about was the next lift. Sweat matted my hair. My light gray shorts and shirt had already turned a dark gray, almost black, clinging wetly to my body. It felt good.
I loaded the barbell for my heavy set, stacking up four hundred pounds. I asked a fellow lifter to spot me then settled onto the bench. I lay there for a moment, eyes closed, hands gripping the bar shoulder-width apart. I had not maxed out in about a month. I could no longer lift the weights I did in my college days but still did pretty well for a middle-aged lawyer.
I opened my eyes, took two quick breaths, squeezed the bar, and lifted it off the rack. Just as I suspended it over my chest, I saw Steve McGinnis. He scanned the crowd of lunchtime lifters before spotting me.
I took two deep breaths then lowered the barbell. I let it bounce lightly on my chest and pushed upward. Tendons and bones groaned under the weight. The barbell started its way slowly up. My spotter positioned his open hands under the bar and waited to help should I falter. I closed my eyes, arched my back—cheating—but kept my butt flat on the bench. After what seemed like hours, I locked my arms out. My spotter grabbed the bar and helped me guide it back onto the rack.
“Good job,” he said, then returned to his own workout.
Steve approached as I sat up.
“How much weight is that?” he asked.
“Four hundred.” I eyed him warily. “Why are you here?”
“I heard your buddy ran into some trouble the other night. She okay?”
“Robin’s fine, but I don’t think that’s the reason you tracked me down.”
He nodded. “Did you have anything to do with the Justice Department’s raid on the firm?”
I looked at Steve then made my way to another set of weights. “What do you think?” I asked.
“Tripp thinks you did.”
“What do you think?”
“I think you have mixed loyalties here.”
“I keep hearing about loyalty from you ex-military guys. Sounds like y’all are on the same page.”
Steve stepped back as I started on a set of curls. I pumped the weights up and down, watching my form in the mirror. Not making eye contact with Steve.
“I hope you know what you’re doing, Bay. And I hope you’re okay on your timesheets, because we may all have to answer for ’em.”
“My timesheets are fine, Steve. You can produce them as is. Unaltered.”
“What does that mean?”
“You’re not stupid.”
I dropped the weights on the concrete floor. Everyone in the room looked our way as the metal-on-concrete crash filled the room. Steve jumped back, his face ashen.
“Do you know what Tripp really does to bill over a million dollars a year? Or do you not care as long as the money comes in?”
“You’re out of line.”
“I keep hearing that, too. Let me ask you something else. What did Tripp do in the army?”
“How should I know?”
“I thought you army guys stuck together.”
“I was in Military Intelligence, he was in the field. Our paths didn’t cross. Hell, we weren’t even in at the same time.”
“Can you get access to his records?”
“Where are you going with this?”
“Wherever it takes me.”
“Then I can’t help you.”
I turned away from him, picked up the weights, and started on my next set. I watched in the mirror as Steve made his way past the other lifters then disappeared through a doorway. As soon as he was out of sight, I dropped the weights, extracted my cell phone from my workout bag, and called Robin.
“Meet me at The Dallas Morning News morgue in an hour,” I said.
*
What were once known as newspaper morgues had changed over the years, thanks to computers and the Internet. Instead of being surrounded by dusty shelves and files filled with yellowed newspapers, I found myself seated at a modernized carrel in a well-lit room, staring at a computer monitor connected to a nearby printer. Stacked neatly by the monitor were the copies of expense statements I had found at Meg’s apartment. While waiting on Robin, I spent my time matching dates on those statements to newspaper articles that I felt might have some relevance—or, if not relevance, at least remarkable coincidence.
