A Matter of Life and Death

by Phillip Margolin

  The man waited while Carasco used the arm of a chair to help him stand. There were tears in his eyes from the pain.

  “Do you want to argue about the money?” the man asked.

  Carasco shook his head while whispering, “No.”

  “Good. Tomorrow night, you’re going to bring my money to a location to be announced. Will you have the money by tomorrow night?”

  Carasco nodded.

  “I didn’t hear anything, Tony. You got to say yes or no, and you need to know that no has consequences.”

  “I’ll get it.”

  “Great! Now run along and wait for my call.”

  Carasco wanted to run, but his leg hurt too much. He limped out slowly in an attempt to salvage some dignity.

  As soon as the door closed, Karl Tepper burst out laughing. “That was easy.”

  “I hope so,” Stacey said.

  “You’re not worried about Carasco, are you? The guy is a pussy.”

  “I’m not worried about Tony. I’m worried about people he might know. I think he set up that young DA so he would have an alibi when his wife was killed. If I’m right, Tony hired the guy who killed her.”

  Tepper’s face darkened. “You think I can’t take care of some meth heads he sent to beat up his wife?”

  “No, Karl, but I had Tony wrapped around my finger, and I could have talked him into giving us the money.”

  “That would have taken time, and I want you back in the Bay, working. Now get naked, and let’s get in bed. I want to celebrate.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  When Amanda was a block away from the Jungle Club, Robin saw a naked neon dancer twitching back and forth on a sign that promised GIRLS, GIRLS, GIRLS. Moments later, Amanda parked two spots down from several Harleys in front of a square, squat building whose garish pink-and-green walls were decorated with palm trees, parrots, and bare-breasted hula dancers.

  “You’re taking me to a strip club?” asked Robin, who had never been in one and considered them to be sexist cesspools.

  Amanda laughed. “The ladies are not strippers. They’re exotic dancers. Freedom of expression is protected by the Constitution. That’s important to remember if you ever represent the owner of a gentlemen’s club that the government wants to close down.”

  Then Amanda’s smile disappeared. “Before we go in, there are a few things you’ve got to remember. We’re going to meet with Martin Breach. He owns the Jungle Club. Martin doesn’t look it, but he is very dangerous. I’m bringing you along because you’re Joe’s lead counsel, but you have to let me run the meeting. Don’t say anything unless I tell you to. If Martin asks you a question, do what you tell your witnesses to do; give the shortest answer possible, then stop.”

  Robin frowned. “Okay.”

  Amanda put a hand on Robin’s shoulder. “Believe me. This is for your protection.”

  The bouncer at the door recognized Amanda and let the women into the dimly lit interior, where the overamped sounds of a ZZ Top song slammed into Robin like a runaway train. Amanda wound between tables packed with males gawking at a blonde with breasts the size of cannonballs who was rotating around a pole. Some of the men stopped staring at the dancer long enough to leer at Amanda and Robin. A man patted Robin on the ass, but she restrained her violent impulses, worried that the club owner would not tell them what they needed to know if she put one of his customers in the hospital.

  Breach’s office was in the back of the building at the end of a short hall. The massive guard at the office door was one of many clients that Breach had referred to Amanda and her father over the years.

  “Here to apply for a job, ladies?” the bouncer joked.

  “In your dreams, Tully,” Amanda answered with a smile. “Is Martin in?”

  “Yeah.”

  “How’s his mood?”

  “It’s always good when you visit.”

  The guard opened the door, and Robin followed Amanda into a tiny office decorated with pictures of naked women and an out-of-date calendar from a motor oil company. The furniture was rickety and secondhand because Breach wanted the club to look run-down so the IRS would not get a true picture of the money that was laundered through it. Breach was also paranoid. He had his office swept for bugs every day, and he ordered his dancers to disrobe to outrageously loud music to foil eavesdropping attempts by the DEA, FBI, or Portland police.

  Breach had started out in the trenches breaking legs for Benny Dee, before staging a coup during which Benny disappeared, never to be seen again. Now Breach ran the most efficient and ruthless criminal organization in the Pacific Northwest.

  Portland’s most violent citizen was a shade under six feet tall, but his chubby legs and chunky upper body made him seem shorter. Thinning sandy hair, drab brown eyes, and a pale, vampire-like complexion made him look like a failed used car salesman. Today, the crime lord was wearing the type of tweed jacket with leather elbow patches a college professor might own, over an Aloha shirt and lime-green polyester slacks. His ghastly taste in clothes added to an impression of ineptitude that was a disguise for a genius IQ and a truly psychotic personality. Many of his rivals only figured this out when they found themselves strapped to a table, listening to Breach tell off-color jokes just before he went to work on them with a chain saw.

  Breach flashed a big smile when he saw Amanda. Amanda couldn’t help returning the smile. She had mixed feelings about Breach and no illusions, but she knew he cared for her in a weird way and had helped her survive more than one life-and-death situation.

  “Long time no see,” the gangster said.

  “That’s a good thing, Martin. It seems like the only time we get together is when you or a friend are facing serious jail time or my life is in danger.”

  Breach spread his hands. “I’m leading a virtuous life, so you must be in trouble.”

  “I’m safe and sound, but I need your help. This is Robin Lockwood, my cocounsel in a death penalty case.”

  Breach looked at Robin. “I’d be glad to help this little lady since she helped me make a few grand when she KO’d Mendez. A roundhouse kick to the head, followed by a wicked left hook. Am I right?”

  Robin grinned. “You are.”

  Breach turned back to Amanda. “What do you need?”

  “Some information that will help us with a death penalty case defense.”

  “The guy who offed the judge’s wife,” Breach said.

  Amanda wasn’t surprised that Martin knew she was involved in Joe’s case. Breach had informants everywhere and knew about anything that involved crime in Oregon, which was why she was visiting him.

  “We think he’s innocent,” Amanda said.

  “Don’t you think all of your clients are innocent?”

  “Not if you refer them.”

  Breach threw his head back and laughed. “That’s why you’re my favorite mouthpiece. No bullshit. So, what can I do for you?”

  “Our client is homeless. He used to box professionally, and he was approached by a person who was recruiting people who are down on their luck to participate in an illegal, no-holds-barred fight on a farm. Joe killed his opponent, and the people who ran the fight blackmailed him into breaking into Judge Carasco’s house. He was told that he was supposed to steal something, but he found Mrs. Carasco beaten to death when he got inside.

  “The body of Carlos Ortega, the man Joe fought, was found in a vacant lot. He’d been beaten to death. Joe wore hand wraps during the illegal fight. The police found them in the garbage at the Carascos’ house. Mrs. Carasco’s blood was on the wraps along with Ortega’s. Joe swears that the man who ran the fight kept his hand wraps. We think this man was behind the murder of Mrs. Carasco and set up Joe to take the fall, but we have no idea who he is or who runs the fights. If you know who they are, it would really help if you clued us in.”

  Breach was quiet for a while, and Amanda let him think.

  “How sure are you that your guy didn’t kill Carasco’s lady?” Breach asked.


  “Knowing what we know, I’d vote not guilty if I were on his jury,” Amanda told Breach.

  “That’s good enough for me, so I’m gonna tell you something, but it can’t get back to me.”

  “Of course,” Amanda said.

  “A guy named Kevin Bash runs the fights, but there’s someone behind him fronting the money and taking a cut. I don’t know who that is, and I’ve never been interested enough to find out.”

  “Do you know where these fights are held?” Amanda asked.

  “Last I heard, there’s a farm out in Washington County.”

  “What can you tell me about Bash?”

  “Not much. He has a Mercedes dealership in Hillsboro. It may be legit, or he may be laundering profits through it from the fights, backroom poker games, bookmaking, and some prostitution.”

  Amanda knew that Breach usually had a finger in any illegal enterprise in Oregon.

  “You let him run this stuff?” she asked.

  “He’s too small to interest me, but I have people who keep an eye on him. I don’t know much more, but I have ways of finding out when the next fight is going to be held and where they’re holding it. The only problem for you is that the guest list is invitation only, so they can keep out undercover cops.”

  “Can you get us an invite?” Amanda asked.

  “I can try, but I can’t promise anything.”

  “Our client told us that he was recruited,” Robin said. “Do you know how they go about finding the fighters?”

  “The fighters are usually street people, homeless. Bash has people in the tent cities and people who look for fresh meat downtown or other places where the homeless hang out.”

  “Do you know any of these recruiters?” Robin asked.

  “Why?”

  “If we can’t get invited to the next fight as a guest, maybe you can get one of the recruiters to get me in as a contestant.”

  Amanda’s features darkened, but Robin didn’t notice how upset her suggestion had made her friend.

  “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” she cautioned Robin. Then she turned to Breach. “Thanks for the info, Martin.”

  “It’s always a pleasure to see you. And say hi to Frank.”

  “Will do.”

  Breach opened a humidor that sat on a corner of his desk and took out two hand-wrapped cigars.

  “Give these to your dad. They’re Cuban. Totally illegal. He’ll love them.”

  * * *

  Amanda turned her back on Robin as soon as they left Breach’s office and stalked out of the club at a brisk pace. Robin could see that her friend was angry, but she had no idea what she could have done to upset her.

  “Wait up,” she said when Amanda walked to her car.

  Amanda didn’t answer her and slammed her door when she was behind the wheel. Then she closed her eyes and took several deep breaths.

  Robin looked puzzled. “What’s got you so upset?”

  “Didn’t I tell you to let me run the meeting?”

  “Yeah. I did.”

  “You have no idea what you did in there,” Amanda said.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Martin Breach has no boundaries. He is the most dangerous man in this city. When you asked Martin to find a recruiter so you could infiltrate the fights, you were asking him for a favor. You never, ever want to owe Martin Breach, because he will call in the debt, and that is never a good thing.”

  “You asked Breach for help.”

  Amanda sighed. “Martin and I have a very complicated relationship. My dad and I have helped him and Art Prochaska, Martin’s only real friend, on a few occasions, and he’s returned the favor by literally saving my life more than once. Sometimes I think he sees me as his daughter. But even with all that, I stay clear of Martin unless it’s absolutely necessary. Saving Joe Lattimore’s life is in that category.

  “And there’s another thing,” Amanda continued. “This idea of being a contestant in these illegal fights is nuts.”

  “The women I fight will be out-of-shape amateurs. I won’t be in any danger.”

  “You’re forgetting something, Robin. You’re famous. Martin knew who you were as soon as you walked into his office, and someone at these fights will recognize you. Once they figure out who you are, they’ll know you represent Joe. If they beat Betsy Carasco to death, what do you think they’ll do to you?”

  “I may be a blonde, Amanda, but I’m not completely ditzy. This was just an idea. And if I decide to fight, I’ll dye my hair and make myself look homeless. But I don’t think it will get that far. Once we know where the fight is, we’ll call the cops and have it raided.”

  “I want you to forget about going undercover. This isn’t a movie. What do you think Jeff would say if he heard what you’re thinking?”

  Suddenly, Robin looked worried. “Please don’t tell him. He’s gotten very upset when I’ve put myself in danger. It’s caused trouble between us.”

  Amanda softened. “Don’t worry. Mum’s the word. What happens in the Jungle Club stays in the Jungle Club.”

  Robin laughed, glad her friend wasn’t angry with her anymore.

  “And,” Amanda reminded her, “we do have another lead—Kevin Bash.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  “Mr. Macklin?” Ian Hennessey asked when a man answered the phone.

  “Yes?”

  “This is the person you met last Thursday night at the bar. I might have something interesting for you, but I don’t want to discuss it over the phone.”

  “Why not?”

  “You never know who’s listening.”

  “Like in wiretapping?” Macklin laughed. “My hope is that someday I’ll be important enough to be under surveillance, but I don’t think I rate that high right now.”

  “This isn’t funny.”

  “Sorry.”

  “You’ll understand why after we meet. Can you come to the same place we met at nine tonight? I’ll be in a booth at the back.”

  “You mean—”

  “No names!”

  Hennessey heard Macklin sigh. Then Macklin said, “Okay, you’ve got me curious. Nine it is.”

  When Hennessey hung up, he was sweating and light-headed. It had taken all of his courage to make the call, and he hoped he wouldn’t regret it.

  * * *

  Hennessey wore a baseball cap, dark glasses, old jeans, and a black-and-orange jacket with an Oregon State University Beavers emblem. He got to the bar early so he could commandeer a booth near the rear door, just in case he had to make a quick escape. When the waitress came for his order, he asked for a pitcher of beer so she wouldn’t bother him for a while.

  Ian was hanging on by a thread. He wasn’t sleeping, he had no appetite, and he was convinced that a powerful judge and a ruthless woman were out to destroy him. While he waited for Brent Macklin, he sipped his beer, wishing it were something stronger, but he knew he needed a clear head for this meeting.

  Macklin walked into the bar at nine on the dot. He waited until his eyes adjusted to the dim light before scanning the booths. Hennessey waved quickly, and Macklin sat down across from him.

  “Bond, James Bond,” Macklin said.

  “This isn’t funny,” Hennessey snapped.

  “Sorry, but it’s all so cloak-and-dagger-ish.”

  “You’ll see why when you hear what I have to say. First, though, you have to guarantee me that you’ll never reveal that I was your source.”

  “You want to be a Deep Throat?”

  “Yes. If I’m right, what I’m telling you can cost me my job. In the worst-case scenario, I could be killed.”

  Macklin studied Hennessey, who was sweating and twitchy.

  “Okay, you’re anonymous.”

  “And you’ll go to jail to protect me?”

  Macklin was going to argue with Hennessey, but he was too curious to walk away.

  “We were never here,” he said. “So, what’s this big secret?”

  “A man named
Joseph Lattimore was arrested for the murder of Elizabeth Carasco, the wife of Judge Anthony Carasco. The judge and I very conveniently drove up to the judge’s house just as Lattimore ran out.

  “It was raining very hard when we turned into Carasco’s street, and we saw Lattimore standing in our headlights. He was too far for me to make him out very well what with the wipers moving and the downpour. Carasco told the police that the man had a scar on his face. I don’t know how he could see a scar under those conditions and from that far away.”

  “Where is this going?”

  “Just listen,” Hennessey said as he leaned across the table and lowered his voice. “Vanessa Cole is going to argue that Lattimore is homeless and killed Mrs. Carasco during a failed burglary. I don’t know if Lattimore beat Mrs. Carasco to death, but I have a very strong suspicion that Judge Carasco hired Lattimore or whoever killed her.”

  Macklin’s brow furrowed. “Do you have evidence to back that up?”

  “It’s all circumstantial.”

  “Why are we meeting?”

  “I’m sure Carasco set me up, and I could lose everything.”

  “Talk to me about that.”

  Without using her name, Hennessey told Macklin about Stacey and the warrants, which had mysteriously disappeared. He explained that Carasco had arranged for him to appear in his court shortly after Stacey had blackmailed him, and he told Macklin how the judge had maneuvered him into being with him at the exact time Betsy was being killed.

  “It’s too many coincidences. I just know I was set up to be his alibi.”

  “I admit it sounds like it, but it really could be a coincidence.”

  “That’s why I’m talking to you. If Carasco’s innocent, I don’t want to get him in trouble. But if he’s guilty and you break the story, your career will be made. And if you can keep me out of the story, my career might be saved. I haven’t done anything wrong, and I can’t stand the idea that I’m being used to help a murderer go free.”

  “You’ve definitely made me curious.”

  “There’s something else. When we talked the first time, you told me that you wanted to do a story about these illegal, no-holds-barred fights.”