by Ron Levitsky
“Any leads yet?”
Saunders grinned wide as a crescent moon. “We’re working on it. We’ll catch him.”
“You realize there’s probably a connection between Top o’ the Evenin’s death and that of the Nguyen woman. The suspect killed by Canary was a member of G.U.N. and a friend of Billy Lee Pelham. Have you found Pelham yet?”
The grin remained plastered on Saunders’s face. “Now, Jimmy, you wouldn’t be trying to tell me my business? If Edgar thought there was anything to your theory, he’d have assigned you to this case instead of me. Ask him yourself. You’re going into his office now, aren’t you? By the way, since we’re on the subject of missing persons, have you located Edison Basehart? Interesting tactic, letting an accused murderer out on bail. I must admit, that strategy would’ve never occurred to me. Of course, if he runs away, that saves the state the time and expense of a trial. Very considerate of you.”
Everything Saunders had said was true. Yet, damn it, there was a connection between the two murders. Wilkes wanted to say so but kept silent. His face growing warm, he could almost feel Saunders’s teeth picking at his bones. Both cases had become big news, giving whoever became the media’s “star” prosecutor an inside track to Edgar Simpson’s job. It was the kind of game his rival loved—turning the law into a blood sport.
With a slow shake of his head, Wilkes continued to the other end of the office.
“He’s expecting you,” Simpson’s secretary said with her usual smile. “Go right in.”
Seated behind his desk, the Commonwealth’s Attorney was bent over a stack of papers. Without looking up he motioned for Wilkes to take a seat opposite him. It took several minutes for Simpson to stop shuffling papers and scratching with his pen. After finishing, he paused to clear his throat.
He tapped his pen on the stack of papers. “Go on a week’s vacation, and spend a month to catch up.” Taking off his glasses, he rubbed his eyes. “Damn it all. Five months to go until retirement, and all hell breaks loose. Can you understood that, Jimmy? Ever since me and your daddy started out together, this county’s been stuck in God’s back pocket, the biggest thing maybe Mel Turner shooting off his friend’s head for messing with his wife. Now this, with me having only five months to go. What the hell’s happening, Jimmy? Just tell me that. What the hell’s going on with the Basehart case?”
Wilkes felt like a little boy in the principal’s office. He shifted in his chair and folded his arms tightly across his chest. “The case is much more complicated than it first appeared.”
“Such as?”
“What happened last night—the murder of the nightclub owner Top o’ the Evenin’. I think it’s connected with the Nguyen woman’s death, the one killer being a member of G.U.N. and . . .”
“Yeah, I hear you.” Simpson pointed a finger. “You better hope you’re dead wrong.”
“Why?”
“Because if there is a connection, that leads right back to Basehart. He’s the chief suspect, and he hasn’t been seen since he got out. No, let me rephrase that—since you let him out. Of all the jackass . . .!” Leaning back Simpson continued, “If it wasn’t for the memory of your daddy . . . How you could’ve let Basehart go when you held him between your fingers like a tick. He only needed just a little bit of squeezing. Why did you let him out on bail, Jimmy? If I could just understand that.”
Wilkes wondered what to say—that Basehart might force Pelham to reveal the truth, or that Rosen simply had asked him for a favor. Simpson wouldn’t understand, because he was right; it didn’t make sense. “I thought at the time it was the right thing to do.”
“And now?”
“Now . . . I don’t know.”
“Well, Jimmy, I know. This afternoon you’re going to ask Judge Spencer . . . beg if you have to . . . that Basehart’s bail be revoked and he immediately be brought into custody.”
“On what grounds?”
“You’re smart enough to think of something.”
“Maybe in light of the second murder . . .”
“Christ, don’t mention that!” Simpson thundered. “The newspapers are already hinting the two murders might’ve been done by the same man. If we ever admit that could be true, that after we released Basehart he went out and killed someone else . . . first a Slant and then a nigger . . . hell, Jimmy, those out-of-state reporters are gonna have a field day. They’ll make my last few months a dark swamp for me. And you—you might just as well pack up Ellie and the kids and move to Alaska, because it won’t only be your political career that’s ruined. You see Saunders strutting like the cock who just chased his last rival out of the henhouse. He knows you’re halfway gone and that gives him a pretty clear shot at my job. You better get yourself together, boy. Find Basehart and get that conviction. Believe me, I know about these things. You’re running out of time.”
As Simpson spoke, sweat broke out on his forehead, and the fingers of both hands appeared knotted together. Wilkes clenched his fists—to have caused so much grief to his father’s friend, a man who had almost been a second father.
“Edgar, it may be that Edison Basehart isn’t the murderer.”
Simpson stared at him in disbelief.
Wilkes persisted, “Basehart’s attorney, Nathan Rosen, has another theory which is very plausible. It’s based on a possible drug connection including the dead woman’s brother, Nguyen Van Van, who’s been missing ever since his sister’s murder. Pelham may also in some way be involved. That’s why this murder of the nightclub owner could be a lead to solving the first killing. We know that the victim, Nguyen Thi Nhi, was a drug addict. According to his police record, Top o’ the Evenin’ had been arrested twice on suspicion of drug dealing. So you see, it could tie together.”
Simpson’s eyes grew wide, while his whole body trembled. He tried to speak, but the words gurgled in his throat. Wilkes moved toward him, when Simpson lifted a hand.
“You’re . . . you’re out of your head.” He took a few deep breaths before continuing. “Look, I expect Basehart’s lawyer to come up with some wild theory to get his client off the hook—hell, that’s his job. You don’t blame a man for doing his job. You’re supposed to be the prosecutor, remember? I’m sure that organization Rosen’s working for pays him a pretty penny to wiggle his clients off the hook. He sure don’t need any help from you, but I do. Hear that, Jimmy, I do. Let’s get this over with. You find Basehart, convict him, fry him, and send this Rosen back North with his tail between his legs. You do that, Jimmy, for me, for your family, for yourself. You don’t really have any choice. Just get some of that killer instinct!” He jabbed with his fist. “Know what I mean!”
Sighing deeply Simpson leaned back in his chair and mopped his face with a large handkerchief. His hand was still trembling when it drew the doth away and rested on the table. Wilkes waited to speak, not wanting to set off the other man again. That and because he wasn’t sure what he could say. Like a quarterback calling his own game suddenly receiving plays from the bench, What choice was there other than to swallow your pride and take the orders? Of course, this wasn’t a game and it wasn’t a case of pride but of justice—at least that’s what Wilkes had been telling himself all along. That’s what it was—justice, wasn’t it—and not merely trying to do things his own way? Regardless, Simpson was now calling the plays, and as the old saying went . . .
“You’re the boss,” Wilkes half whispered. “Is there anything else you want me to do?”
Simpson seemed not to be listening. His eyes were half-closed.
“Edgar?”
“Hmm?”
“Is there anything else you want me to do?”
“Uh . . . no. We’ll let Canary and his men bring in Basehart, then you just go for the conviction. With any luck, this whole mess’ll be forgotten in a couple of months.” He brightened a little. “A conviction, the right kind of publicity, and who knows, you might wind up sitting in this chair after all. Now wouldn’t Saunders shit a few bricks over that.”
Looking down at his hands, Wilkes chose not to reply. He was very tired, like he used to feel after playing football in the heat and mud. The point at which winning or losing didn’t matter. He wanted to be alone swimming in some cool quiet place.
Clearing his throat Simpson nervously thumbed his stack of papers. “You can’t believe how glad I’ll be to get this job off my back. The day I retire I’m going down to the river, just above where the Paddy is. Hope the fishing’s still good. Your daddy and me used to go there as kids. Remember, we took you and Tad there to fish when the two of you together could hardly hold a pole. Them was the days. Everything was simple—you had your whites and blacks and they never mixed. Oh, you might step out to a colored whorehouse now and then, but a white man, he stood for something in those days.” He squinted at Wilkes. “I suppose you don’t know what the hell I’m talking about. How could you? Your daddy, now I could’ve talked to him. He’d have understood.” He shook his head. “Ah, get outta here.”
“All right, Edgar.”
Wilkes walked from the room. Turning once he saw Simpson bent over the papers but distracted, his pen held like a conductor’s wand waiting for the orchestra to come to attention.
He passed quickly through the lobby, stopping at his secretary’s desk for messages. She handed him two, both within the last fifteen minutes, from Nathan Rosen.
“He asked that you call him immediately. Said he had some important news for you.”
Holding the message between two fingers as if contaminated, Wilkes entered his office and sat behind the desk. His hand paused an inch from the telephone, while he thought of all the reasons for not calling. In his mind Wilkes heard Simpson recount them—his duty, his career, and that in some way he was a disappointment to his father’s memory. What good was a law degree without someplace to show it off? No, Simpson knew all the right things to say.
Wilkes slowly pulled his hand away, when the buzzer sounded from Martha’s desk. “It’s Mr. Rosen again,” she said. “Line one.” He stared at the blinking light, his hand still suspended in midair, until Martha again said, “Jimmy, line one.”
“Yes, yes!” he snapped, then shook his head. As his father would’ve said, a leopard can’t change his spots. He lifted the receiver to his ear. “Hello, Nathan.” Why did he use the lawyer’s first name?
“Hello, Jimmy. Glad I caught you. Hope you haven’t eaten lunch yet.”
Instinctively Wilkes checked his watch; it was 11:45. “Uh, no.”
“Good. Can you get right down to Lois’s Cafe?”
“Where?”
“Lois’s Cafe, where the discriminating truck driver eats. Opposite Basehart’s bait and tackle shop.”
“Yes, I know.” He remembered Canary’s two-chili lunch. “Is it really necessary?”
“Yes, it’s necessary. I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t.” The excitement in his voice, barely suppressed, was infectious.
Still, Wilkes remembered Simpson’s warning. “I don’t know. I’ve got a full calendar. And there’s some bad news for you. The Commonwealth’s Attorney wants Basehart’s bail revoked. I’m afraid this afternoon I’m going to have to . . .”
“Forget about that for now, and just get down here. I think I’m onto something. Something that will help us out.”
“I . . . uh . . .”
“And, Jimmy, bring some bicarbonate of soda. This chili’s a killer.” Without waiting for a reply, Rosen hung up.
Cradling the receiver, Wilkes let out a low hiss. “Damn.” He had committed himself once again, and Rosen knew all along it would be that way. He had once again used the word “us” . . . “help us out a lot,” as if they were co-conspirators. Now another rendezvous at lunch, chili instead of pizza, but the same result no doubt. Wilkes would be sucked deeper into the swamp, and this time not even Simpson would bother to throw him a rope. And for what? Wilkes snickered. He had no time to soul-search; his good friend Nathan was waiting for him. Whatever else, he had to keep that appointment.
The drive along the ocean was difficult, with the waves kicking up angrily as if they too had something negative to say. The sun was interrupted by a series of clouds, each one larger than its predecessor, while the wind slapping against his face smelled of rain. Rolling up the window, he stepped on the accelerator and rushed past seagulls picking their way through the rocks to find shelter from the coming storm. He switched on a rock-and-roll station, the one his daughters listened to, and tried to hum along. Anything not to think about where he was going and its implications.
Twenty minutes later Wilkes turned into the diner’s parking lot and pulled between two semis. Rosen was waiting in a window booth, his spoon scraping the bottom of the chili bowl. Wilkes sat across the table and raised his hand to call the waitress.
“No time now,” Rosen said, glancing at the window. “I hope we’re not too late.” Again he looked across the street, this time resting his gaze on the bait and tackle shop.
“What is it?”
“Take a look. How good of a detective are you?”
Wilkes concentrated on Basehart’s store but saw nothing out of the ordinary. The shop’s door and windows were closed, unusual for the middle of a business day but understandable given Basehart’s circumstances. Although the grass was getting long, everything else looked as he had seen it the week before, maybe even prettier, the tulips in the window boxes blooming in brilliant reds and purples.
“I don’t see anything different. Well, the flowers are out.”
“That’s it!”
“Hmm?”
“The tulips in bloom. And last week they were beginning to wilt.”
“Yes?” Wilkes was growing irritated.
“Last week the flowers weren’t blooming—no rain this past week—and now they are. Why?”
“Somebody watered them.” Suddenly Wilkes understood. “Basehart?”
“That’s my guess. I can’t imagine Pelham or his pals puttering around the tulips.”
“So, Basehart’s been back to his home. Wish I could’ve found him before Top o’ the Evenin’s murder.”
“I think he still might be there. I walked by the shop just before calling you. The window boxes were still wet from where the water had splashed.”
“You knew he’d be here?”
Rosen shook his head. “I came out to ask a few questions and hoping to find Pelham. The waitress was helpful. She said this morning a red Jaguar parked in Basehart’s driveway for a short time.”
“Did she see who was driving it?”
“No. She noticed it about ten, and fifteen minutes later it was gone. I’ve got an idea about the driver, but we’d better check on Edison first.”
“How do you know Basehart didn’t go away with the car?”
Rosen stood. “The water hasn’t evaporated off the window boxes yet. They were probably watered during the last hour. I’ve been watching the shop since then, so Edison’s in there. Unless he sneaked out the back.”
Wilkes followed his companion to the cashier then through the doorway. “Why did you bother to call me? Why are you sharing this—after all, if we find Basehart, I’m going to insist he be returned to jail. I told you, his bail’s being revoked.”
Rosen smiled. “Any number of reasons—we lawyers always have a pocketful of arguments, don’t we. First, you’re not after Basehart; you want whoever’s really the murderer. Second, I owe you a few favors. You went to bat for Edison on the bail issue, and I think it’s paying off. And finally . . .” He stopped to run across the highway just ahead of an oncoming truck.
“Yes!” Wilkes shouted as he hurried after, catching up on the edge of Basehart’s driveway.
“In case we have to break in, I can tell the police I had the law backing me.”
While Rosen walked up the driveway to the front door, Wilkes hesitated like a schoolboy watching his friend play hookey to go fishing, torn between what was right and a great adventure. Like most schoolboys he chose the adventure.
“Anyone answering?” he asked after joining Rosen.
“No.” Rosen knocked a second time but again no response.
Wilkes peeked through one of the windows. “I don’t see anyone. Something’s on the floor though.” He peered into the darkened room, his eyes following something long and thin from below the counter into a back room. “Looks like a garden hose. Probably what Basehart watered the plants with. Maybe you should knock again.”
“No, you knock. I’m going to check around back.” Rosen disappeared around the corner.
Wilkes rapped on the front door until his knuckles ached. Then he waited quietly, an ear cocked until he was sure of a noise within one of the back rooms. He started for the window, when the door suddenly opened wide.
Teeth clenched, Rosen stood in the entrance. Silently he led Wilkes into the bait and tackle shop. A thin layer of dust covered the shelves; the floor was dirty and wet with the coils of a tangled green garden hose, neither end visible. Someone’s suitcase lay open near the hose, its contents strewn about the floor. A partial set of footprints led toward the back room, where Rosen leaned against the open doorway, his jaw still set tightly.
“Did . . . did you find Basehart?” Wilkes asked.
Pushing off the doorframe, Rosen beckoned. Wilkes followed him inside to a small room, where light from a hanging bulb filtered through the dust. The room where he and Canary had watched Rosen rough up the now deceased Rupert. Wilkes remembered the scene so clearly, it was a long time before he realized that the body slumped in the corner under a pile of rods and reels was not Rupert’s.
“Is he . . .?” Wilkes began but could not finish.
“Is he dead?” Rosen echoed. “No. Is he Basehart? No. Someone far more deserving.”
As Wilkes stepped forward, his foot caught on the garden hose. Following it like a path, he came at last to the end, a heavy steel nozzle lying in a reddish puddle, the same color as the head of the man beside it. Bending closer he recognized Billy Lee Pelham hunched in a fetal position, the body rising fitfully as air wheezed through his nostrils.
“Do you think he’s hurt badly?”