Double Reverse

by Tim Green

  Clark rose, then stopped at the door to ask, "Don't you think Trane killed her?"

  Brinson worked a chubby finger into his ear before saying, "He probably did. I just like to find all the facts. That's my job . . . Good luck Sunday."

  "Thanks," Clark said, and then he was gone.

  Brinson stared at the empty chair where Clark had been. He meant what he'd said about Jones, but something bothered him about Clark Cromwell. That self-righteous Bible-thumping soured him to no end. Maybe it was no more than that. He knew Le Fleur, the DA, didn't want him doing anything but sniffing out clues that implicated Jones, but he also meant what he said to Cromwell about being thorough. It wouldn't be the first time jealous rage had prompted a murder. In fact, to Brinson it seemed Clark Cromwell had a better reason to kill the girl than Trane did. After all, what was a drink in the face to Trane Jones? But then there was the fact that Jones was just a dangerous animal and dangerous animals didn't necessarily have to have a good reason to kill. No, he wasn't going to make a fool out of himself by heralding Cromwell as a possible suspect. He'd keep that angle to himself. It was enough to watch him squirm a little under the light. Chalk up one for the anti-Bible- thumpers.

  Meantime, he'd gather the facts. Then he'd let the politicians figure out how justice was going to be meted out. That's the way it almost always worked. It was enough to make Brinson think fleetingly about retirement.

  A detective by the name of Ball burst into the room and interrupted his reverie.

  "Lieutenant, I got Jennifer Riordon. You want her?"

  Brinson gave his man a puzzled look.

  "The friend . . ."

  It had taken them this long to track down someone who knew Annie Cassidy. It wasn't poor detective work. It was that the girl was a virtual phantom. Her apartment was bereft of letters, e-mail, or even an address book. It was strange, like she hadn't wanted anyone to know who she was. Her only relation was her mother. Brinson had spoken with her on the phone from France--a real bitch. The woman was uninterested enough that Brinson found himself feeling pity for Annie Cassidy, whoever she was.

  It seemed Annie had only two friends, both women her age who had been on a trip to Hawaii at the time of the murder. One of them was this Jennifer Riordon. Ball opened the door and held it like the gentleman he wasn't. The girl Riordon walked through the door legs first. She had it all. She was so striking that he stood up and shook her hand with a clammy mitt and a deference that elicited a little snicker from Ball, who didn't appear to be in any hurry to leave.

  "Thank you for coming," Brinson said with more authority than was necessary.

  The girl, all six feet of her, gave Brinson a sullen vampire look and asked if she could smoke.

  "Of course. Please sit down. Thank you for coming."

  She hung her head to light a Kool and two sheets of shiny chestnut hair blocked her eyes from view, giving Brinson free rein to scour the rest of her. Her bell-bottom pants hid only the shape of her ankles. The rest was on display, separated from the cop's eyes by nothing more than a thin layer of black stretch material. Her sleeveless V-neck top was skintight and also black, but judging by her demeanor Brinson didn't get the idea that the color of her clothes was because she was mourning. Her bare arms looked strong even though her creamy white skin suggested a sedentary life. She looked up much too soon and backed Brinson down with a malignant knowing grin that reduced him to a fat middle-aged cop in a cheap suit with breath that was less than minty fresh.

  As he sat down, Brinson gave Ball an angry look and unceremoniously thumbed him out of the room. He reached for a nut, then checked himself and instead flipped through the pages of his legal pad and scratched the girl's name down on a blank sheet. He let his blood settle before he looked up and did his thing.

  "So how well did you know. Annie Cassidy?"

  "You're talking about Angel?" she said, exhaling the words with a stream of menthol smoke that stung Brinson's eyes.

  "That what you called her?"

  "What everyone called her," she said. "Oh! Except Moose."

  "Moose?"

  "You know, from Archie. Archie, Veronica, Moose--the big dumb blond guy built like a brick shithouse?"

  "That's Clark Cromwell."

  "Whatever. I'm not a big sports fan."

  "Was she?"

  "Angel? Ha!" She said it with a short hard laugh that hit Brinson like a jab. "She didn't know a football from a basketball."

  Brinson frowned and said, "That's a little hard to believe. She went from one NFL player to another pretty quick. Isn't that what they call a groupie?"

  The girl's cobalt eyes sparkled back at him disdainfully. "Yeah, right. Angel was a groupie. You're a regular detective. It was the other way around, Ace. Men were Angel groupies. She ate men up like snacks. She'd go out at night and grab a bag of whatever flavor she wanted, eat 'em up, then have another. Two or three in one night if she wanted. She was like a man that way . . . only when you're like her and you see something you want to fuck, you just get it. There's no chase with a man.

  ""Vbu just snap 'em off the rack," she continued after another drag, snapping her fingers with a crack that wasn't unlike the sound of a dry tree branch breaking, "like a bag of chips at the deli counter."

  Brinson felt an uncontrollable rush of blood. The concept was as beautiful as it was entirely true.

  "I think that's why she got hung up with Moose."

  Brinson's raised eyebrow asked the next question.

  "She couldn't get him off the rack. He was a God-squadder. She had to practically rape him. We laughed about it. But even after she got him, she kind of hung on to him. We'd laugh about that, too. She'd say, 'Hey, he's a big bag of chips.'"

  Jennifer puckered her purple-painted lips and sucked hard on her Kool, her laughing eyes narrow. Brinson reached into his jacket and shucked a pistachio before he caught himself and dropped the whole mess, contaminating his pocketful of nuts.

  "Then he got stale," Brinson suggested.

  "Now you're getting it, Ace."

  Despite her sarcasm Brinson puffed up. "And Trane?"

  "A stud."

  "What was the nature of their relationship?"

  She smiled at him some more and said, "You tell me, Ace."

  "Did he hit her?"

  Jennifer thought about that for a minute, then glanced up at the two-way mirror on the wall before biting her lower lip and silently nodding yes. "That was the flavor of the month," she said. "Like hot chips. . . real hot."

  "She talked about that?"

  "Yeah, she talked about it. Showed me the bruises."

  "Ever go to the hospital? The doctors?"

  "No. He got her once pretty good, though. She was in bed for about four days on nothing but painkillers. That was just once."

  "And she went back to him after that?"

  "You gotta understand Angel. That was what she did. She was in the movies when she was a kid. She was gonna be a big star. Then her dad died and she went through that awkward stage and her mom left. No one gave a shit about her then. She went to Juilliard in New York and worked on Broadway for a while. She got some bit parts and then came back here. She thought her father's friends and her looks and her experience would help her. But it turned out her father didn't have any real friends, and as good-looking as she was . . . well, it's a rough town. I think she just stopped after the first few months and said fuck it. She didn't need the money."

  "So she just prowled around looking for men?"

  "You could say that."

  "Was there anyone else who might have wanted to kill her?"

  "I can think of a few wives . . ."

  "Anyone ever make any threats?"

  "No, nothing like that. There were never any scenes or anything. Angel didn't stick around long enough for that. Not usually."

  "Do you think Trane Jones killed her?"

  "Of course he killed her," she said, stubbing out her Kool in the blackened tin ashtray that she'd been feeding.

/>   "That doesn't seem to upset you all that much," Brinson said boldly.

  She looked up at him, deadpan. "You don't know me, Ace. "Vbu got no idea what's goin' on in here," she said, making a gun with her fingers and touching it to her temple as if she was going to blow out her brains. "Angel was my friend. You'd call her that. But you don't build your world on someone like Angel.

  She was like the kind of girl that could've been gone the next day for good, or showed up in bed with your husband ten years from now. You don't build your world on that. She was my friend, though. We had fun. I just look at it like she took off. But if I can help you fry that son of a bitch Trane Jones I will."

  Chapter 29

  Madison was no stranger to celebrities. She knew what they did to people. Even she, who didn't pay much attention to movies or television or the music on the radio and the stars they all produced, could feel a certain excitement when she was in the presence of a true celebrity. Madison didn't know for certain why that was. She suspected that in a world whose complexity was growing exponentially, the few people who had a universal identity also carried with them an inherent power. She'd met Sean Connery, for instance, in a hotel lobby one night in L. A. She wasn't a big fan, but just his presence seemed to charge the entire room with an electric current. The same thing was certainly true for Trane Jones. When Madison asked for him at the team's office she could see that odd excited tilt of the receptionist's head. Trane brought that same kind of current with him wherever he went.

  He was waiting for her in a small conference room. His big Zeus shoes were unlaced and sat plunked down on the polished cherry table like two bags of groceries. His red nylon sweatsuit was open to the waist, his hat backward, and of course his eyes were hidden behind sunglasses. He was cursing into a cell phone when Madison and Chris walked in, and he made no motion to get up or even acknowledge their presence. Madison and Chris sat down, and Chris could see that his partner was about to boil over. In his mind he could hear what she was going to say to him when this was over, if it got that far. It wouldn't have surprised Chris if she had gotten up and walked out. Trane talked on for three more minutes before giving one final "fuck you" and flipping the phone shut.

  "What's up?" he said casually, his head lolling ever so slightly to the side.

  "How'd you like to spend the rest of your life in a cell a quarter of the size of this room with a four-hundred-pound white child molester?" Madison said with a pleasant smile.

  "Huh?" Trane said.

  At least she had his attention.

  You heard me," Madison replied, staring at him without emotion. "Listen, you're the best runner in football? Well, I'm the best trial lawyer in football and anywhere else. Yeah, I'm a woman. Yeah, I'm white. But let's get over that right now. You want me to represent you and give you the best chance you've got to stay out of jail? Fine, I'll do it, but don't fuck with me, because from what I've heard you're going to need everything I've got to get you out of this mess."

  "I didn't kill no motherfuckin bitch," he said sullenly.

  "Fine," Madison said with a curt nod. "You've established your innocence with me, now we've got to convince a twelve-person jury."

  Trane stuck his finger up his nose and smirked knowingly at her. "Okay," he said, "you're my lawyer. Now what?"

  "Now you tell me what the hell happened so I know what I'm dealing with."

  "Bitch threw a drink in my face an I should of hit her, but I didn't 'cause of all them society motherfuckers everywhere an' I wanna get that part in this other white boy's movie. Now she's dead, an I didn't get to smack the bitch for wettin' me down an' the motherfuckin law sayin' I'm the one that capped her ass."

  Madison looked briefly at Chris as if to say "How could you do this to me?" He smiled wanly.

  "Who is this girl? How did you know her?" she asked.

  "Angel? She was my bitch. Fine piece! Uh-huh," Trane said, shaking his head. "She was fine. Touchy an bitchy, but a freak? Goddamn she was a freak!"

  "Did you know her well?" Madison wanted to know.

  Trane smiled at her big, his teeth like a picket fence. "Now you know I did . . . She was my bitch."

  "That means your girlfriend," Madison said.

  "You'd say that."

  "Did you know her long?"

  " 'Bout two months. Didn't know much about her before that. Just after. Just about her an' me. Wasn't much to know neither. She was my freak. We'd go to clubs, dinner, wherever. She was with me most of the time. When she wasn't, I didn't know where she was. Didn't care. That ain't my way."

  "What about that night?" Madison said. "Conrad Dobbins says you were with him. Was there anyone else there?"

  "Naw, not then. We was talkin' with Dommer Graves about his next picture. Wants me in it. We talked. He left. Then me an' Conrad walked out on the balcony to watch the fireworks. Had a few drinks, bullshit about me bein' in pictures an' shit. That's it. We left about twelve-thirty, went to Phatt Momma's, party till I don't know when an' when I get back home the cops is waitin' for me and talkin' stink about me killin her ass."

  "And what did you tell the police?" Madison asked.

  "Same shit I just told you. I didn't do shit."

  "That's it?"

  "Then I asked for a lawyer," Trane said with a big knowing smile. "I been through this shit before."

  "What about the golf club everyone's talking about? Is it yours? Did you really throw it in the harbor?"

  Trane's face grew sullen. His lower lip poked out red like a warning. "When they talked to me the first time, they asked me about my golf club an' said she was killed with a club. Shit, they say that an' I know they thinkin I killed the bitch. So I walk outta there an of course I look in my trunk to see what the fuck's goin on. Then I see the motherfuckin' club layin' right there outside the bag an' blood all over that bitch an' I get my ass to that fuckin' pier as fast as I can move. I know it's a fuckin' setup if I ever seen one an I don't wanna be no setup chump."

  "Could someone else have gotten that club?"

  "Shit, yeah," Trane spouted. "After the fuckin' golfin' everyone just leaves their fuckin clubs in the fuckin' cart and take a bunch of motherfuckin' pictures an' any motherfucker coulda taken my fuckin' three-iron."

  Madison digested his words, then said slowly, "But how could anyone else get the club in the trunk of your car?"

  Trane scowled and said, "I don't motherfuckin' know. You the fuckin lawyer. All I know is I ain't the one that killed the bitch . . . Maybe I left the motherfucker unlocked or some shit like that. All I know is, I didn't fuckin' kill her."

  Madison chewed on the inside of her cheek for a moment and said, "Okay, I'm going to set up a meeting with the DA. I'll find out what they've got. Now, who handled your bail? Mr. Ulrich wants to make sure you can play Sunday, and I'll need to make sure your bail allows you to travel out of state."

  "Tall white dude took care of bail," Trane said. "G-somethin, I don't know. Ask Conrad."

  "The other thing: I don't want you talking to the media about any of this," Madison said. "And I mean anything at all. If a question conies up, you just say 'no comment.' If you feel the need to explain, just tell them your lawyer is advising you not to talk about the case until the trial is over."

  Trane said nothing, and Madison wondered if he'd heard her at all. There was something frightening about him. He gave Madison the same feeling she had whenever she was around someone else's big dog. They weren't supposed to suddenly snap and tear out your throat, but if they did, there wasn't much you'd be able to do about it. The other thing was, like, a big dog, Madison was certain that it wouldn't be wise to let him smell your fear.

  "Are we okay on that?" she asked, sounding tougher than she felt.

  "That's fine with me. All a buncha motherfuckers anyway."

  "Good," Madison said, rising. "By the way, you can call me Madison, and this is Chris Pelo. He's my partner and he'll be handling our end of this investigation. We'll be looking into the facts of this case jus
t as hard as the L. A. police, if not harder. Chris is the one who'll be handling that and he'll need your cooperation, so if you've got a problem with him for some reason or another you need to get over that, too. He's as good at what he does as you are at what you do and the things he finds are the things that are going to help me help you. Now, presuming I can clear you to leave the state, and I know you'll be going to Minnesota, but I'm going to need you for the day next Tuesday to go over this case in detail. Are we all together?"

  Trane stood as well and towered imposingly over the two of them, "feah," he said, without paying much attention to Chris. "We cool."

  "Good," Madison said. "Now, I know there's a press conference scheduled so I'll go get introduced as your lawyer and we'll leave. There's a lot of work to do before we meet with the DA."

  Madison led the way out. A woman from the team's PR staff led them downstairs and into an anteroom behind the media room. Madison peered through an opening in the door behind the podium. The room was stuffed with cameras, microphones, and people. Men and women in suits were crouched on the floor in front of the podium scrabbling for space like nursery school brats fighting for the last cookie. Cameramen jostled and even pushed each other for a better angle. In front of them all was Conrad Dobbins, in the midst of a tirade and eating it up.

  "--This is what the white establishment of this city tried to do to O. J. Simpson! Now Trane Jones, another black man, stands accused of a crime he did not commit!"

  Here Dobbins took a large Zeus shoe from a bag at his feet and slammed it down on the podium. "They want Zeus Shoes to renounce his contract because they can't stand to see a black man succeed as a entrepreneur, an' that's what Trane Jones is! A black man who used his own equity to make a business prosper. Well, he is prosperin'. Zeus Shoes can't make enough. These shoes is selling faster than they can make 'em because while the great white establishment is condemning Trane Jones, the people of this country are sayin' NO! We don't believe the establishment this time! We know that all men are created equal! We know that all men are innocent until proven guilty!--"

  Madison sensed her name coming up and was ashamed. That she would lend herself to this circus was disgraceful. But she was comforted with the thought that this was America, the same place that made Geraldo famous. This is what people wanted. And besides, there was no sense in her fighting it. She could no more have extracted herself than she could change her profession. She was a lawyer, a high-profile lawyer. Things like this happened. There was no sense fighting against the current. She'd need her strength for the battle ahead.