Justice
Page 3
In a roundabout way Henry Whittaker owed his position as Strothwood’s D.A. to Ed Cunningham and his political ambitions. In retrospect Henry had gotten the best of that deal – unlike Ed, Whittaker was very content to be a big fish in a small pond, while Cunningham had always wanted to be an even bigger fish somewhere else. Cunningham’s ambitions may have stalled at the mayor’s office, but Whittaker was exactly where he wanted to be.
He’d made a pretty big splash when he’d first arrived in Strothwood. In spite of his youth at the time—or maybe because of it—juries responded to Whittaker and his flair for courtroom theatrics. After a few years of that his idealism eroded in the face of reality. Criminal law in a place like Strothwood wasn’t a money-maker. You needed a better and more creative class of criminal for that. Every now and then something interesting would come up, something that played to Whittaker’s talent with juries, but for the most part his practice consisted of petty robberies, drugs, assaults and the occasional prominent citizen who had to defend a DUI.
Not that any of this mattered much of a damn anyway. It was, really, all penny ante stuff, and so were his fees. He couldn’t make a living at criminal law in Strothwood, not with his client base, so inevitably he got into even more mundane work like real estate transactions and business agreements. There wasn’t much money there either, and his heart wasn’t in it anyway. The truth was Henry Whittaker and his ego liked the tiny spotlight that came on when he was in a courtroom. He liked to see his name in the paper, liked playing to whatever small audience might be in the courtroom on a given day.
He’d stuck things out longer than he should have, but he’d known it couldn’t go on forever. He’d gotten into an ill-advised marriage with a local girl less than a year after he arrived in town, and a few years after that found himself with a car he couldn’t afford, a divorce he really couldn’t afford, and a drinking issue that was headed far beyond a bad lifestyle choice.
When Ed Cunningham made his move Whittaker had made his. At first he thought the D.A’s slot was a short term solution, something with a real salary so he wouldn’t have to scramble for clients. The side benefit was it forced him to clean up his act, get his bills paid and his drinking under control. When Cunningham ran for Mayor Henry Whittaker had been as surprised as anybody else, and even more surprised when he realized he really wanted the D.A.’s job. His inner romantic liked his persona as a maverick defense attorney, but money and security had become important to him and the status of the D.A.’s office would still satisfy his considerable ego. Besides, he liked winning. It was easier to win in Strothwood if you were already on the side of the angels.
The fact that he was in effect changing sides bothered him not at all. He’d never thought of guilt or innocence as part of his job. In the few years he’d been a defense attorney his job was to provide the best defense possible no matter how much of a sonofabitch his client was. Now his job was to put the sonofabitch—frequently the same sonofabitch he’d once defended—away. The system worked best when both sides played their own corner and let guilt or innocence shake itself out.
That had always been his stock answer, anyway, on the rare occasions when anyone bothered to ask him about it. The truth was he hadn’t always managed to do it, and while his memory could be reasonably and mercifully selective some things came back to him whether he liked it or not.
He supposed the memorial service for Landers and the encounter with Cunningham had put him in a reflective mood, something he didn’t like. Going home to an empty house would just make things worse. He was two years past his second divorce, no kids, and thinking too much wasn’t an option. He was in his mid-forties now, old enough to get chilled by events like the one he’d just left, and he was determined to put it behind him. The only bright spot in the day so far was that the service had given him an opportunity to annoy Cunningham, not that it had any visible effect. Ed Cunningham wasn’t that much older than he was but looked, dressed, and acted a lot older than that. It was an image he’d begun cultivating when he first ran for mayor, probably to reassure the voting public, and he’d either come to believe it himself or just hung it up in the closet when he came home.
Whittaker was still replaying his exchange with Cunningham when he pulled the big Audi into the parking lot behind Ted Saunders’ bar. The Audi stuck out like a sore thumb in Strothwood—the locals favored pickup trucks and big American sedans—and given Whittaker’s status he didn’t like to advertise his presence in a place like Ted’s.
He kept going through the parking lot, turned right onto the narrow strip of pavement that folded around the back corner of the building and out of sight of the street. There were two other vehicles parked in the narrow space near the back entrance, a late model Cadillac that belonged to Ted Saunders and the little blue Nissan that Karen drove.
Henry shut off the Audi, just sat there with the engine ticking over. He looked across at the back entrance, realized that even at this early hour there’d be somebody in there who’d start rumors about the Strothwood D.A. sitting around in a bar getting loaded.
Fuck it, he thought, most of the people in there don’t matter anyway. Besides, he wanted to see her. It would have been easier and less conspicuous if Karen hadn’t changed jobs, but there wasn’t anything he could do about that. He’d first seen her when she was working in the lounge of one of the chain motels near the highway. He’d gone in to escape some kind of half-assed civic function at which his official presence had been required, and he’d taken one look at her and nearly stopped in his tracks. She was beautiful, with a tawny yellow-gold mane of hair and a brilliant, slightly mocking smile that told him she was used to that kind of slack-jawed reaction from men.
He’d gone through his second divorce a few months before, and of course he took a run at Karen. His predilections as a womanizer had gotten him both into and out of two marriages. The truth was that where women were concerned and despite his cavalier treatment of them, Henry Whittaker was an incurable romantic.
To start with he’d convinced himself that the age difference wasn’t that big a deal. Karen looked like she was in her late twenties, a lot younger than he was but hell, stranger things had happened. Henry’s ego usually took care of considerations like that anyway, and he figured his big shot trial lawyer reputation would help, not to mention the sleek German sedan that was as foreign to the local Chevys and Buicks as it could possibly be.
Not for the first time he found that he’d underestimated a woman. He’d invented a lot of spurious excuses to keep showing up in that little motel bar, but he finally realized that she didn’t give a shit how much money he made or what he did for a living, and she definitely didn’t give a shit about what kind of car he drove. When he at last got it into his head that she was never going to sleep with him he was a little surprised to discover he actually liked her, and even more surprised to find that he was fine with things never going any farther than that. At least that’s what he told himself. Like most men in his situation he was pretty good at self-delusion.
When Ted Saunders hired her away from the motel it made staying in contact a little more difficult. Saunders’ place was too downscale and too public for Whittaker to be seen in there too often, but right now he didn’t give a damn. For some reason Karen Dennison had turned out to be one of the very few people he felt he could or wanted to talk to.
When he finally went inside he saw she was talking to someone already, and she was leaning in more closely and paying more attention than she ever had with him. He was a little surprised at the wave of jealousy that swept over him. He was even more surprised when he saw who it was.
Alex Stromberg.
Henry didn’t know what the hell to do. The bar was virtually empty so she’d looked up and seen him right away, and for a split second he thought he could see something like embarrassment or even guilt in her eyes. Stromberg had half-turned on the stool, long enough to recognize Henry, and he just looked pissed off at the interruption.
The trouble, he realized, was that he did care, especially if it was a dirtbag like Stromberg. All Henry could do was keep going and sit down, one stool removed from Stromberg, and act like he didn’t give a shit. Fortunately acting was a very large part of what Henry Whittaker did, even if it was a gift he usually employed for its effect on juries. Most jurors had little prior knowledge of Henry Whittaker, though, and in court he had the advantage of the formal setting and its attendant credibility. Not here and not now.
Stromberg didn’t look too thrilled to see Henry, either, maybe expecting Henry to drop some kind of bombshell to fuck him up with Karen. It was tempting. Stromberg’s problem was simple and prosaic. He was just one of those guys who had lousy judgment and a bad temper, both magnified when he got into the booze and dope. Lately he’d crossed the line into petty drug deals and assaults, and only dumb luck, the less than stellar performance of the Strothwood P.D., and a very bright public defender named Laura Henderson had kept Stromberg out of more serious trouble. So far.
Henry knew that Karen wouldn’t care about that. She was a classic free spirit, not the judgmental type, and if he tried to torpedo Stromberg with some well-placed comment Karen would end up thinking less of Henry, not Stromberg. There was also, of course, the very real possibility that Stromberg would just lose it and beat the crap out of him, D.A. or not.
None of it mattered anyway. From the body language he’d seen when he walked in Karen was either already in a relationship with this mutt or she was about to start one. It hurt, but Henry knew women well enough to understand there wasn’t a fucking thing he could say to her. Henry had already dismissed even the beginning of that idea when Karen put his usual scotch and water in front of him. He realized she’d just said something.
“Sorry,” he grinned sheepishly, “I drifted off somewhere. What did you say?”
“You weren’t paying attention, is what you mean,” she pouted. “That drink’s on the house, and I was just telling you my news. I got a promotion. Ted decided to make me assistant manager.”
Henry pulled a wide, bright smile out of somewhere, even though he found it vaguely disappointing that Karen was so pleased with herself for what he saw as a very minor accomplishment.
“About friggin’ time!” Henry made an effort to put some enthusiasm into his voice. “From what I hear you’ve been running this place anyway, Congratulations!”
The whole thing was a little over the top and Henry could feel Stromberg’s eyes on him. Fuck it, he thought, I’m happy for her. She was obviously proud of herself, even if it was just a dingy little bar in the back end of the universe. He struggled for something else to say that would sound positive, make her feel good.
“Hope there’s a big raise involved.”
It was the best he could come up with, and he thought he heard a derisive murmur from Stromberg, decided to ignore it.
“A couple of bucks more an hour,” she said, a self-deprecating smile aimed more at Stromberg than Henry, “but Ted said we’ll sit down again in three or four months, see how things are going.”
“See if Sherry’s coming back, you mean,” Stromberg told her. “Meantime he’s gonna make you work your ass off.”
It was the first time he’d spoken since Henry walked in. Karen’s smile faded and she looked down at the bar for a moment, came back up looking embarrassed. Henry felt a sudden irrational urge to take a swing at Stromberg. He knew that if he did it would end badly. Alex Stromberg was a man of few talents but he would drop Henry as if he was swatting an insect.
“I don’t think Karen’s afraid of hard work,” Henry said. “Besides, Ted isn’t stupid. Nobody comes in here to see him.”
As rebukes went it wasn’t much but he could still feel Stromberg tense up beside him. Karen smiled gratefully at Henry but she sensed it too, her eyes flicking nervously to Stromberg. Time to go, Henry thought. He finished his drink, stood up.
“You just got here,” Karen said, daring a disappointed little moue.
Usually his visits were more leisurely, two or three drinks worth, but Stromberg wouldn’t know that. Henry liked Karen too much to cause trouble for her, and trouble was exactly where this was headed if he stayed longer.
“I’ve got a meeting, have to go play grownup,” he lied, shot her a surreptitious wink. She was careful not to react. “See you later, Alex.”
Henry thought he could hear a noncommittal grunt in response but wasn’t sure if Stromberg had even extended himself that far. Just before he turned away he thought he could see relief in Karen’s eyes.
• • •
Another midlife fantasy shot to hell, Henry thought as he got back in the car. Pathetic.
He felt more upset for Karen than for himself. He knew her history, knew that she’d started off in life as a Daddy’s little princess, the daughter of a local physician who was a wonderful doctor but a lousy businessman. Everything had come home to roost when she was in her early twenties and her old man pretty much lost it all. Nobody knew for sure what had happened but in the course of two or three years the man had gone bankrupt, his wife had filed for divorce, and Karen had gone from being a spoiled little rich girl to having less than nothing. From what little she’d told him that had been harder to take than never having had anything at all.
Whittaker wasn’t so sure about that but he was inclined to take her word for it. It wasn’t as if she spent any time talking about it and she wasn’t the type of person who was looking for sympathy. She probably knew as much about him as he did about her, and she was definitely aware of his interest. He’d started out with the fairly cynical assumption that his relative affluence and local status would appeal to her, but that had been before he’d learned about her background. She’d already lived that dream and found out the hard way how vapid and fleeting it could be.
Even though Whittaker had finally been smart enough to take his archaic White Knight fantasy back to the drawing board, it still didn’t explain Stromberg. Karen deserved better, whether she knew it or not. Alex Stromberg wasn’t heading anywhere good, even though he probably thought he was on the way up now that Kenny Langdon was gone. Kenny had been another ball game, much smarter, smart enough that he’d never needed Henry Whittaker to bail him out of trouble. Well, an old line came to Henry from somewhere, if he’s so fucking smart how come he’s so fucking dead?
From what he’d heard around town Stromberg had ideas above his station, was moving into the vacuum created by Langdon’s death, and he wasn’t being subtle about it. That was the key difference, Henry thought. Whenever Kenny Langdon had made a move you never heard about it at all.
6
It was a miserable night, sheets of rain gusting across the old road. Vince had been walking two or three hours since the old Pontiac had crapped out on him squarely in the middle of fucking nowhere. He’d hoped the car would last longer than it had, but at least it had gotten him within fifty miles of where he needed to go. It was a miracle it had lasted this long, down the coast from Maine and then inland. He’d paid cash for it in Florida, hadn’t exactly given it a detailed examination, wouldn’t have known what to look for anyway.
He realized now that he should have just stayed with the car. The day had still been warm when he started out, no sign of a storm at all. He was a city boy and had no concept of just how empty a place could be. Actually it wasn’t a place at all, just a narrow two lane ribbon bordered by dark tree lines on either side. The hills rolling ahead were just high enough that he could only see the next peak when he got to the top of the last one, nothing at all in their troughs exc
ept more trees and the hope that when he climbed up again he’d look down and there’d finally be a gas station or a house or some trace of civilization.
There wasn’t, and then the temperature dropped with the sun and he felt the sweat cooling on his back. The intermittent breezes morphed into an unrelenting headwind and the rain started and if he didn’t watch it he was headed into hypothermia. By that time he’d walked so far from the shelter of the car he’d get just as wet by turning around. He didn’t know where the hell he was but figured he’d just keep walking until he found out.
The road was so quiet he’d only seen two or three vehicles go by. None of them slowed down for him, if they even saw him at all. It didn’t help that he was wearing a dark jacket and jeans made even darker with the rain. He topped another rise, looked down and saw nothing ahead but another dark void at the bottom. He started down and was suddenly bathed in a burst of light from behind. He was right in the path of whatever was coming.
The big pickup truck missed him by inches. He could feel the rush of air as it went by, saw the crimson flash of brake lights as it slewed partly sideways and veered toward the trees on the other side of the road. The driver got hold of the slide and somehow got the truck straightened out enough to come to a stop.
Vince expected some massive redneck to come boiling out of the cab at him. A near-miss like that would piss anybody off, so he stayed where he was and waited to see what would happen. The truck was about fifty yards away and that gave him enough time and space to make up his mind about what to do. He started walking again, but slowly. He didn’t want to shoot anybody, not tonight.
The driver’s side door opened and he saw a dark form step down from the cab. Whoever it was wasn’t in a hurry, and at least he wasn’t the size of a moose. The sound of the rain was thunderous now, and although Vince thought he could hear the guy yell something he couldn’t make out what it was, although he suspected it was something along the lines of ‘You stupid asshole!’