Mackenzie August Boxset 2

by Alan Lee

  “Inspector August,” he said. “Got a minute? I have a confidential story to relate.”

  “Come into my office, Osborne. Been a while. Not since you helped me with Calvin Summers’ informant.”

  He followed me in and I started the space heater.

  “Correction. I didn’t help at all. I couldn’t or I’d be disbarred.”

  “That’s what I meant,” I said.

  He sat. Looked at his phone, ran his finger across the screen a few times, and jerked his shoulders.

  “I work in the Commonweath’s office,” he said. “I went in last night for a few hours. I don’t get paid enough for that, but the government doesn’t care. Anyway. Who did I run into? Phil Mason.”

  “Phil Mason,” I said. “He’s the prosecutor working on the Grady Huff case. He and Candice Hamilton locking horns.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Phil enjoying Darren Robbins lurking over his shoulder? I bet he loves that,” I said.

  “In fact he is not enjoying it. Co-counsel, not a smooth ride.” He glanced at his phone a moment, as if temporarily distracted. “So anyway. Phil Mason is raging last night. He got a call from Judge Barker.”

  “Judge Barker, overseeing the Grady Huff trial, set to start in less than two weeks.”

  “Judge Barker is livid, apparently. And a little spooked. Judge Barker expressed indirectly to Phil that he’s getting pressure about the Grady Huff trial,” he said. “I heard you were involved and figured you for the aggravator.”

  “Judge Barker is feeling pressured,” I repeated.

  “To send Grady Huff away for life. Which, of course, makes him want to do the opposite.”

  “Who is in position to pressure a judge?”

  “No one really,” said Bill Osborne and he grinned. “The only person I can figure is the congressmen. He’s the guy who picks judges. But why would he care about Grady Huff?”

  “Why indeed,” I said.

  Because Darren Robbins was exerting some power. His squad had contacted the congressman who had then contacted the judge.

  He’d lost Ronnie.

  He’d lost at poker, a game with totemic aftermath.

  And now he fretted about losing the Grady Huff sentencing, which hitherto had been meaningless. But if he lost, he’d have struck out.

  So he tried pressuring the judge. Little did he know Judge Barker was not a man to be pressured.

  “So Mack,” said Bill Osborne. “What the hell are you doing that’s got Judge Barker and the Commonwealth’s attorney so riled up?”

  “I’m merely essaying my winning personality.”

  “That what you call it?”

  “That and blindly pestering innocent citizens.”

  He said, “Well the locals are suddenly sick of this thing. This trial had a lot of energy and buzz, but I predict today it’ll be nothing but gloom and doom. Phil’s tired of the big shot attorney from Washington, and Judge Barker is gonna be prickly,” he said.

  “Does Phil want a plea?”

  He twitched and glanced at his phone. “Hell yeah he wants a plea. I don’t know the ins and outs, but he said the problem is the defendant won’t plead and Darren Robbins wouldn’t accept it anyway.”

  I said, “That’s it exactly. Neither side wants a plea. Whereas your’s truly wants to make it happen against their will. Coerce them into it.”

  “What role you playing? You’re on the defense payroll?”

  I nodded sagely. “Something like that.”

  “Shouldn’t his attorney be coercing the plea deal? Why do you care?”

  “I hate Darren Robbins. It’s become personal. And something went down on the dock when Grady Huff killed his cleaning lady, and I want to find out what. Grady doesn’t have the guts to pop someone without reason.”

  He nodded and checked his phone. “You’re an interesting guy, Mack.”

  “My ways are inscrutable. Unable to be scruted.”

  “That’s the word at the water cooler. How will you coerce them?”

  I continued to nod, projecting investigatorial fluency. “Got no idea.”

  I paid a few bills. Contacted a former client who still owed me money. Answered emails. Checked voice mail. Stewed. Had a sip of Johnny Walker Blue. Stewed some more. Thought about Veronica Summers. Pondered Candice Hamilton, but returned to Ronnie.

  I wondered what she was doing at this moment. Probably sitting in her office, thinking about me. She’d be crazy not to.

  Without anything better to do until lunch, I decided to pester Juanita Yates’s mother. I’d tried to leave her out of this—her daughter had been murdered, after all. But she knew more than she let on. She knew her daughter was seducing and extorting men, and she hadn’t told me. Heck, she’d tried to seduce me herself.

  Could it be a family business? There was an interesting idea.

  It was a cold day so I pulled on my driving gloves, as any proper gentleman worth a damn would. And I was worth several damns.

  I’d parked on Campbell, halfway to 2nd Street. As I neared my car I saw something familiar. A black sedan, the plates removed. It had once tried to run me over.

  Darren Robbins’s goon squad?

  There was an alley between the Total Action building and a vacant storefront. I passed it, blithely focusing on the sedan. From out of that alley, I was grabbed by strong hands and hauled in.

  The day was cold. No one outside, no one on the sidewalk saw my disappearance.

  Someone weighty and strong hit me in the stomach. It was a good one, a big hand, lots of force. A professional gut punch was no joke. A second someone hit me in the face. Not as good, but it hurt. Made my vision go blurry.

  I fell over backwards and rolled away.

  Got to my feet.

  “Ooww,” I said. More of a manly wheeze.

  I retreated, hands raised defensively.

  Two men stood there. Hispanic. Beefy. Heavy black hair. Frowns. Mean.

  “You’re not Darren Robbins’s goons,” I said and I spit into the alley. Only a little blood. “Wait, wait. Let me guess. Juanita Yates’s two brothers. You’ve been following me.”

  “You done, white man,” said the smaller of the two. He shoved his finger at me with each syllable. “You go away. Finish.”

  I kept backing away, head ringing. Stomach spasming.

  “Tu hablas español?”

  “Sí. Y Mi hermana está muerta,” he said.

  My sister is dead.

  “Lo sé,” I said. “Lo siento."

  I know. I’m sorry.

  “Por qué faltas el respeto a los muertos?”

  “Necesito saber qué pasó,” I said. I stopped at a little cross section in the alley, where the adjacent buildings brought their trash. It was darkish but I had space.

  They asked, Why do you disrespect the dead?

  Because I need to know what happened.

  “Dejala sola. O te mataremos,” said the smaller of the two, still pointing.

  Leave her alone or we’ll kill you.

  “Juanita?”

  “Sí,” he said.

  “O Carlotta?” I asked.

  “Ambos,” he said. “Ella es mi hermana.”

  Both. She was my sister.

  He said, “Te lastimaremos. Como lastimamos al gordo.”

  We’ll hurt you like we hurt the fat guy.

  “Grady?” I asked. “You messed up Grady Huff?”

  “Sí, gordo y feo.”

  Yeah, fat and ugly.

  Well well. How about that.

  The things Grady hid from me were not insignificant.

  I glanced around. This was a good place to make a stand. Besides, I had spontaneously and brilliantly developed a plan. And it was so good I scared myself.

  “No puedes matarme. Mira mis enormes músculos,” I said.

  You can’t kill me. Look at my huge muscles.

  They laughed.

  I laughed.

  Look at us, best pals.

  Or my Span
ish wasn’t working as well as I envisioned.

  “Usted trabajó con su hermana. Para obtener dinero de sus novios. Pero no puedes asustarme, amigos,” I said.

  You and your sister worked together to take money from men, but you don’t scare me.

  “Eres un tipo grande. Pero te mataremos,” he said.

  You’re a big guy but we can kill you.

  “Prove it,” I said.

  “Dejala sola.”

  Leave her alone.

  “No,” I said.

  The big guy had enough. When in doubt, punch people. So he did.

  It was a slow and ludicrous punch. I didn’t even try to block it. I stepped out of the way, as Fred Astaire might.

  “No, no,” I said. “Quick jabs. You strong guys learn bad habits.”

  I bobbed him on the nose. His eyes immediately watered and he stepped back.

  His little brother threw a punch that landed in my ribs.

  It hurt but not like he wanted.

  I twisted, an uppercut with my elbow. Landed it into his teeth and he staggered away.

  These guys weren’t used to people hitting back.

  A door opened—the rear exit to Leonore’s. A cook froze there, his bag of trash forgotten.

  “What’s going on,” he said.

  “I’m being attacked,” I replied. “It’s terrifying.”

  “Should I…should I call the cops?”

  “No,” said the little brother.

  “Quick as you can,” I replied. “And please express my dismay.”

  The guy nodded but seemed undecided. I made a shooing motion and he ran inside.

  “Vamonos,” said the little brother, waving.

  “Wait,” I said. “You guys beat up Grady Huff, right?”

  “Grady mató a mi hermana,” said the big guy. First time he talked.

  Grady killed my sister.

  “I know,” I said. “And now you’re protecting yourselves and your mother. I get it. Era demasiado fuerte para ti?”

  Grady too tough for you?

  “Lloró como una niña pequeña,” said the big guy.

  He cried like a little girl.

  “You hate Grady. You beat him up,” I repeated. I wanted to hear it again. It was music, sweet music—the key to everything.

  “Sí, y te mataremos, gringo.”

  And we’ll kill you, white man.

  “Listen, I have such a good idea,” I said. “It’ll be great. But you need to wait for the police.”

  The little guy made a motion. They turned for their car.

  I grabbed the big guy by the jacket.

  This time he surprised me. Got me good, a hard left I didn’t see coming. I crashed into the brick wall.

  Ouch. Whoops.

  “Jose, tenemos que irnos,” said the little brother impatiently, anxious to flee.

  The big guy Jose turned to go. Doggedly I grabbed his jacket.

  I was ready. He swung and missed.

  “C’mon,” I said, and I dabbed at the blood trickling from my right eyebrow. “You have to respect how tenacious and committed I am. Stick around. It’ll be great. You’ll go to jail and everything.”

  I snatched the little guy’s jacket. He shoved me but I didn’t let go. Jose tackled me from my blindside. Still I didn’t release, dragging the little guy down with me. We all three collapsed.

  Soon we were a writhing biracial heap on the alley bricks. One of those ugly scrums, desperate and discordant and furious, entirely without grace or talent. I kept the little brother in a headlock and dodged Jose as best I could. They were hurting me but couldn’t injure me—big difference.

  “Don’t you want to hear my plan?” I croaked, ducking Jose again. “It’s so good, though.”

  My modus operandi was to frustrate their efforts to retreat by any means necessary. Which I managed for several aggravating and angry minutes.

  Long enough for the police to arrive. Shouts and sirens and blue lights.

  The three of us were hauled apart. Pressed into the grimy alley walls, my arms pinned behind me.

  “Took you long enough,” I wheezed and coughed. “Someone call Sheriff Stackhouse. She’ll get a kick out of this. Oh man, my plan is so good.”

  29

  The next morning, as I entered the smelly jailhouse conference room, Grady Huff was waiting for me instead of vise versa. He was sitting at our usual metal table, heavily, wearing orange and cuffs. The room was empty except for two deputies standing expectantly in the corner.

  “Where the hell have you been, fatty?” he asked. “I been waiting…for…why are you limping?”

  “Sorry I’m late,” I said. “Moving a little slow.”

  “Damn, Matt. Why do you have a brace on your knee? And what happened to your face?”

  “First off, it’s Mackenzie,” I said, and I lowered gingerly onto the metal bench across from him.

  “I don’t care. The hell happened to you?”

  “I got jumped in an alley. Twisted my knee and got my head busted up,” I said.

  I wasn’t lying. A significant portion of my corporeal person ached. It looked worse than it felt. Because I am sturdy and rugged.

  “By who?”

  “We’ll get to that, Grady Huff. First, let me tell you what you’re going to do. And then second, I’ll tell you why,” I said.

  “Where’s Candice?”

  “Shut up. You’re going to strike a plea deal.”

  He frowned, which kinda pressed his whole face together. “No’m not.”

  “You confessed to the murder yet you insist you’re innocent. It won’t work. The jury is going to hate you. We need to plead,” I said.

  “Won’t do it.”

  “You will plead for a crime of passion and/or self-defense, depending on what the Commonwealth attorney says.”

  “There wasn’t any passion, fatty. I’m rich,” he said.

  “You’ll still be in jail a long time, Grady Huff, you big dumb idiot. But less time. Now, secondly, here’s why you’re going to do it—I figured out what happened on that dock.”

  “No you didn’t.”

  “Yes. I did,” I said. I hoped.

  “Nuh uh.”

  “Clever banter. You and Juanita became an item. Shut up. Listen. You were together. It was important to you. Lots of passion. It got hot. You two started skinny dipping at the dock.”

  Grady opened his mouth to protest but didn’t.

  I continued, “At some point, she sprang her trap on you. The same way she’s done to her other lonely clients. Pay me, she demanded, or I’ll expose you. Here’s the part I don’t understand, which you can clue me in on. Or not. I think you refused to pay. At first I assumed you would have happily paid Juanita but now the evidence suggests otherwise.”

  Grady remained stoic. His breathing rattled.

  “But that part,” I said, “is not important. What matters is this: her brothers showed up. They wanted money and they smacked you around. Two or three times? Enough so that you bought a gun. Your pride and frailties wouldn’t let you call the police. You’d be exposed—you’d fallen in love with your cleaning lady. Egad, what would your friends think?”

  Grady’s chest began expanding and deflating to a greater degree.

  “It’s easy to buy a gun, Grady. But it’s hard to use it to kill someone. So here’s what I think happened next. Juanita returns, maybe under the guise of reconciliation. She’s affectionate again. You two are reunited. She seduces you down to the dock. More skinny dipping? Who could say no to that. Except her brothers are waiting.”

  Now Grady’s breathing accelerated and became shallow.

  “My guess is, they were threatening to drown you. It’s a way to scare and torture victims, the threat of drowning. I’ve seen it done. They can drop you in the water and let you scream, because you don’t make a sound under the surface. Then pull you back up and do it again. That’s it, right? They threatened to drown you. So you realize, the brothers mean business this time.
Juanita had betrayed you, getting you to the water, and now you truly might die. Your life is in danger. You panic. This is serious enough to warrant pulling a trigger,” I said. “You pull your gun. You fire. And aiming a pistol with shaking hands is difficult.”

  “The stupid fucking spics were on my property,” he said in a squeak, and a tear leaked from his right eye. His face was turning red and pitiful. “They had no right.”

  “You shot at them,” I said. “And you missed.”

  He placed his hand over his mouth. Smothered a sob.

  “The gunshot was loud,” I continued. “I read the report. Three neighbors called 911. Juanita’s two brothers had no choice but to run, before the police showed. By then Juanita was dead, killed accidentally.”

  “I didn’t…” he whispered, shaking his head. “I didn’t…it was…”

  “It was self-defense gone wrong,” I said. “You missed your target.”

  “No. No. Who would be…” He stopped, eyes closed, took a shuddering breath. “…who would be pathetic enough to fall in love with a…with a cleaning lady? Who would be pathetic enough to let two stupid poor Mexicans scare him? Who’s dumb enough to shoot his girlfriend on accident? Not me, fatty.”

  The outside door opened and a lawyer hurried in. Same guy as before, cheap suit, kinda sweaty. He flattened his hair and laid his briefcase on the table. Adjusted his tie and cleared his throat. Shot us a weak smile while he waited for his new clients to arrive.

  I said, “Why didn’t you keep paying Juanita? She wanted money, right? I’m surprised you didn’t fork it over. You’re rich, after all.”

  “Guys like me,” he sniffed. “Guys like my friends. We got women for days. We don’t pay.”

  I said, “You’ve got a hurricane of emotions about this, Grady. I know. Guilt, anger, pride, hurt, remorse, fear. You can’t let the pride win, though. You need to tell the truth. It’ll save you years in jail,” I said.

  “Not me. I would never…”

  “Juanita fooled other guys. Smarter guys. You shouldn’t let—”

  He slammed both hands on the metal table, the cuffs banging. “She didn’t fool me! Get it through your fat head! She loved me. I know she did. Her stupid brothers ruined everything!”