In the Night of the Heat

by Blair Underwood

  Lieutenant Nelson wanted to see me in the morning, so I had no choice.

  I had to see Judge Jackson that night.

  TWENTY

  IT WAS MIDNIGHT. I hadn’t slept well in days, so I might as well have sleepwalked my way to Judge Jackson’s door. Even with my feet on the concrete porch, I could feel the earth moving beneath me. Images of the road in Ojai strobed across my mind.

  I would be all right in the morning, but I was still rattled that night.

  Melanie answered the door, and the ray of concern across her face soothed my nerves. She grabbed my arm, cupping it at the elbow, and electricity jittered through me. “Ten, I’m so glad you’re all right,” she said. “And your dad?”

  “He’s fine.” Short and sweet. I rarely talk about my personal life on a job, if I can help it.

  “Thank God. I’m too stunned to think right now. It’s like we stepped into Hell.”

  I was about to offer her a merciful shoulder to lean on when I noticed a white man standing just inside the foyer, waiting with his hands thrust into his pockets. He was taller than he’d looked in his photo. Simon. He looked tired and hollow-eyed. I was so off my game that I drew away from Melanie a little too hastily when I saw him. Simon was too polite to be obvious, but he must have seen something in my face. Either Melanie hadn’t noticed my gaffe, or she was too upset to care. They both looked miserable, but I hoped it would pass.

  Melanie closed the door behind me, explaining that we had to keep our voices down because the children were sleeping upstairs. “We haven’t told them yet,” she said. “I don’t know how I can. He was Uncle C.”

  “It’s all right,” Simon said, enfolding her in his arms. “An hour at a time. Let’s get you home.” Simon had a take-charge demeanor without sounding bossy. Melanie forgot to introduce us, so Simon held out his hand to me. “Simon Gadbury. I’m Melanie’s fiancé.”

  And don’t forget it, he managed to say with his eyes, without losing his polite smile.

  I envied him, but I liked him. He seemed to want to take care of her.

  “Melanie felt she had to wait for you,” he said, almost accusing.

  “I want my briefing first,” Melanie told me, ignoring Simon’s chide. “Then I’ll take you upstairs so you can talk to Uncle Em.”

  Great. Now I had to go through it twice.

  “Upstairs?”

  “His room,” Melanie said. “He’s had the flu. I’m sure it’s stress. Sunday was…” She didn’t finish, avoiding her memories of the horrors T.D.’s funeral had held. “It takes a toll.”

  “I hate to disturb Mrs. Jackson this late, Mel,” I said. “Can’t he come down?”

  “Her room’s clear across the house,” Melanie said. “She’s been in bed since nine thirty.”

  If separate bedrooms were Melanie’s family tradition, Simon was in trouble. Maybe it was the secret to a long, happy union, but I didn’t think so. I wondered how long the Jacksons had been sleeping apart, and why.

  “Tell me what happened,” Melanie said. “The news said it was road rage….?”

  We sat on the kitchen barstools while I described my encounters with Carlyle Simms, beginning at my house on Saturday and ending on the 150. Stripped of needless details, it took only five minutes, but it felt more like years.

  Melanie nodded with whispers of “okay, okay” every once in a while, but was mostly silent. She winced when I described how the Cherokee had flipped over the barrier, her eyes rapt with the horrific vision. By the time I finished, her face seemed to have aged. It suddenly occurred to me that Melanie probably had a fling with Carlyle once, or maybe more than a fling. I saw something dimming in her face.

  “Mel, that’s enough,” Simon said, cutting me off when I got to the airbag. He looked at me, hoping for an ally. “She never sleeps. Soon she’ll be sick like her uncle. What she needs most right now is a bed.”

  Melanie looked irritated, but she stood. “All right, we’ll go. I’ll just take him upstairs.” Her voice was hoarse.

  I followed Melanie’s ghostly walk across the house to the staircase, careful not to make a sound. Neither of us spoke on the stairs. Melanie pointed out two rooms closest to the landing, both with closed doors, and raised her finger to her mouth: shhhh. Colorful crafts taped to the doors told me that the children slept there; one of three houses they had called home. Children that wounded would have a hard time, and mothering them wouldn’t be easy. Melanie’s life would be as chaotic as mine, I realized. Maybe more.

  Upstairs, the Jacksons preened a bit more—this wing had marble tile and an impressive four-foot replica of Rodin’s Thinker beneath recessed lighting at the end of the hall. The nude sculpture sat in perpetual thought, elbow resting between his chin and his knee. Melanie led me toward the statue.

  A bedroom door beside it was cracked open, and I heard the very faint sound of television news. Judge Jackson’s room. With a wing separating us from the other rooms, Melanie felt free to pick up my hand and hold it between her palms. Her skin seemed fevered, or maybe it only felt that way to me.

  “I’m glad you weren’t hurt,” she said. Her voice was so soft that I had to aim my good ear. “That’s the only good news.”

  “I really wanted to find him alive, Mel. I swear.”

  She nodded. “Thank you. That helps.”

  I knew the judge was waiting, but Melanie held on. I wanted to tell her that Simon seemed like a nice guy, but it didn’t feel like the right thing to say while she was holding my hand.

  “I heard from your agent,” she said. “I’ll call you about your lawsuit.”

  Lynda Jewell and FilmQuest Studios resided on a faraway planet that night. “Don’t worry about that. You’re busy with life right now.”

  “No, I want to, Ten,” she said. “Working helps. So I’ll be in touch. I still owe you.”

  Sometimes two people meet in the wrong place, at the wrong time. It happened with me and Serena, and with me and Alice long before. I was beginning to realize it might have happened with me and April. It’s a feeling you notice, an instinctive yearning for something that seems close enough to touch, but is still out of reach. It’s best not to take it too seriously, even if the feeling is as real as your own skin. If it can’t work, it won’t.

  I gently slipped my hand away. “Simon seems like a really decent guy.” It blurted out by itself. I don’t like to sleep with married women; I’ve slept with too many. And I didn’t like the memory of how easily Melanie made me throw away better judgment.

  “He’s more than decent,” Melanie said. She smiled, reflecting on the man downstairs. “He’s a natural with the kids. And he’s crazy about me.”

  “Of course he is.”

  She mustered a full smile, a treat of white teeth. I hadn’t known Melanie long, but I was glad we were friends again. By then, Simon had come up to find her. Simon’s no fool. He stuck his head around the corner from the hall near the stairs, waving to be sure we saw him. My last gaze with Melanie was cut short. I was glad he hadn’t seen her holding my hand.

  Melanie finally knocked lightly on the door. “Uncle Em?”

  “Send him in,” the judge called.

  Judge Jackson was sitting at the edge of his bed in faded slippers and crimson satin pajamas suitable for company. The furniture was Louis XIV, masculine and mannered. His walls were covered in framed prints and oil paintings, many of museum quality. One was a dark, richly hued painting of two spotted dogs staring each other down beside the carcass of a dead hare; the image brought T.D. and Carlyle to mind. GUSTAVE CORBET, a placard beneath the painting read, with a notation that the original was on display at New York’s Metropolitan Museum of Art. Detailed. Judge Jackson was a true art lover.

  And a book lover. There were more bookshelves in his bedroom than in his office. No legal books: only encyclopedias, classics, and history volumes. In a glance, I noticed books by Colin Powell, Thur-good Marshall, and Cornel West. From what I’d seen at T.D.’s house, Judge Jackson hadn’t p
assed on his love of art and reading—unless I counted the magazines in T.D.’s sex drawer. Father and son had been very different.

  Judge Jackson had kept a separate bedroom for years; that was obvious. There was no trace of his wife, or any family. I couldn’t even spot any photos of T.D. This bedroom belonged to Judge Jackson alone.

  His eyes were bloodshot. He looked like a man who was up later than he wanted to be; I’m sure I looked the same way. “I’m sorry,” I said. “The message said no matter how late.”

  He nodded. “Can’t be helped. Don’t come too close—damn flu.” He coughed into a woven handkerchief and slipped it into his robe’s pocket. “Close my door, please.”

  On his television set, eight miniature screens from news channels played at once. Most of the channels were flashing pictures of T.D. Jackson, Carlyle Simms, and the accident scene outside of Ojai. A glimpse of the ravine made my stomach curdle. I stood with my back to the television screen.

  “Drink?” Judge Jackson asked. He pointed out the minibar beside his fireplace.

  “Better not.” A drink would knock me unconscious.

  His sigh sounded like it hurt him to breathe. “It was rough out there, looks like.”

  “Yessir. Pretty rough.”

  “Mel says Captain Hardwick was with you.”

  “Our first real drive together since his stroke.” I don’t know why I told him that; maybe because he knew Dad. “But he’s all right.”

  “Thank the Lord Jesus. That would have been too heavy on my conscience.”

  His conscience would be heavy anyway. Judge Jackson looked like a man who was up later than he wanted to be, and I’m sure I looked the same way. I took a seat in the armoire across from where he sat at the edge of his bed, his feet side by side on his rug, tense but prepared.

  “Where did they meet?” I asked him.

  “Pop Warner ball. Best friends from a long time back.” His voice fractured, and he sighed that terrible sigh again. His lungs mewled. “Their friends dictate all. Remember that, if you have children. Carlyle had a quality—I see it on the bench every day—where he didn’t understand the need to play fair. To do right.” He sounded so offended, I imagined he might also be talking about Hankins, an old friend who had surely disappointed him.

  Judge Jackson went on: “It is dangerous to forget how important it is in life to be fair. It sounds like such a simple thing, but without the appearance, if not the presence of fair play, society crumbles. Yes, I came to view Carlyle as family over time, but I used to tell T.D. to remember Carlyle was part wolf. It was the way he was raised—an abusive mother, that sort of thing. I just never thought…” He stopped, coughing. He sipped from a mug he held in his lap.

  An abusive mother. That would have explained Carlyle’s rage toward women. T.D. had been pissed at Chantelle when she deserted him for another man, but he’d saved his greater rage for her lover. T.D. had made Chantelle watch while he beat Arturo to death, then Carlyle had shot her in the head while she screamed. Teamwork.

  “I can come back in the morning, sir.”

  He shook his head, firm. “No. I want to go to bed knowing. Tell me.”

  I wasn’t sure what I planned to tell him. I remembered Mrs. Jackson asking me in the garden not to tell her husband anything he didn’t need to know. But there was no such thing. Judge Jackson was paying me to tell him what no one else could.

  “Sir, I think Carlyle and T.D. were responsible for Chantelle’s death. Together. I spoke to a witness who heard Carlyle confess his involvement—”

  “Then it was he,” Judge Jackson said, his face clouding. “Carlyle killed her, not T.D.!” He came to his feet, almost forgetting not to raise his voice. He picked up a remote and switched on soft music to mask our voices. Miles Davis’s Kind of Blue played, sultry and lovely, a staple in any jazz aficionado’s collection. I hoped Judge Jackson wouldn’t deplore the sound of Miles after our meeting that night. I hoped Miles wouldn’t always remind him.

  “I have to agree with T.D.’s criminal defense on this,” I said. “The job was too big for one man. They had to restrain two adults, and Salvador was a former probation officer, so he might not have gone down easy. I don’t know who goaded who, or who wanted it more, but T.D. and Carlyle did it together. T.D.’s blood was found at the murder scene. The defense poked holes in the blood evidence, but we both know it bolsters my theory. If you press T.D.’s friend Lee, you might get something. I bet Alma suspects, too. Now that T.D. and Carlyle are both dead, they might be more willing to tell the truth.”

  Judge Jackson closed his eyes. I doubted that I’d said anything his Evil Voice hadn’t told him all along. He had known what he might learn from the time he hired me.

  Melanie hadn’t asked me if I thought Carlyle killed T.D., I realized. That was odd, given how much we had focused on him before the funeral. Maybe she was planning to hear the story from her uncle—or maybe she didn’t want to hear it at all.

  I paused a moment and went on: “Murder forms a lifetime bond, Judge Jackson.”

  The judge’s eyes flew open, as if I were a prophet. “What do you mean?”

  “There’s no statute of limitations. It can come back to haunt you at any time. Let’s assume neither of them had ever killed anyone before. T.D. had a stressful trial, and it was about to start all over again. It might have brought them closer together, or it might have driven them apart. Maybe one of them had more remorse. Maybe T.D. wanted to confess.”

  I didn’t believe that for a minute. More likely, T.D. hadn’t wanted to take the fall by himself—but it was a prettier picture to paint for his father. Whatever the reason, whatever had happened and whatever was going to happen, it was easy to imagine Carlyle and T.D. with plenty to argue about.

  Judge Jackson nodded, mulling the scenario over. His son had fallen, but he had died seeking redemption. The judge’s loose cheeks trembled with the thought of T.D.’s courage.

  “We told you there’s a bullet hole in the wall in the room where T.D. died. Maybe Carlyle came inside that night. They went to his study—T.D. sitting at his desk, and Carlyle in the easy chair. Carlyle got to T.D.’s gun. He kept one in his desk. They struggled. A bullet went wild. The next one didn’t. Carlyle’s secret is safe.” The longer I thought about it, the better it sounded. Maybe Randolph Dwyer hadn’t led me anywhere except back to Carlyle.

  “Then you came along,” Judge Jackson said. He was following the scenario just fine. “He heard you were asking questions…”

  “I spooked him. He panicked. I’m not a cop, so he came straight at me.”

  Judge Jackson stared toward the fireplace’s gray ashes. The room was slightly chilly, but he hadn’t started a fire. I saw artificial logs neatly stacked in the bin, so I squatted beside the fireplace door and chose a meaty one to burn. The whole house was too cold.

  At least I could grant one of his wife’s requests, I thought. I could give him a way out.

  “You could get all the way down to the sticky bottom of it, Judge Jackson. Maybe you could learn all the ugly details,” I said, easing him down as gently as I could. I laid the last words down like a baby at his feet: “Or, you could leave it alone. They’re all gone.”

  “So what’s the point?” he agreed, nearly whispering. “There’s no point.”

  The log was smoking, and a bed of sparks billowed into flame. I love to watch fires born. I hoped we were both through the worst of the night.

  “There’s one other possibility,” I said. “It’s remote. And it doesn’t change my belief about what happened to Chantelle. But it may mean something else happened to T.D.”

  “Maybe Carlyle didn’t kill him?”

  “It’s possible. Maybe today only had to do with Chantelle, and he was afraid I knew.”

  Judge Jackson nodded. “We’d all rather think it wasn’t Carlyle. That cuts from a different direction. I’d never have believed it could feel worse…but there’s a line from Shakespeare, in Titus Andronicus, when Aaron the Moor bo
asts of his evil deeds: ‘Oft I have digg’d up dead men from their graves, / And set them upright at their dear friends’ doors, / Even when their sorrows were almost forgot…’” His voice trailed off, and he drained his mug. With everything else failing him, he was trying to find solace in his mind.

  “Judge Jackson, what do you know about Wallace Rubens? Isn’t he down in Florida now?”

  His lips fell apart. He stared at me without blinking so long, I wondered if he was having what is euphemistically referred to as “a senior moment.” “What about Rubens?” he said finally.

  “He’s your old teammate. Heat.” Judge Jackson nodded vaguely, but offered nothing. His silence was stark and impenetrable, so I went on. “He may have done some work for Donald Hankins. Intimidation. Maybe more. You probably heard rumors.”

  “Where is this going?” he said.

  “If that’s true…it’s not impossible to believe Rubens might have done another favor for Hankins.”

  The judge broke eye contact. That hit home.

  “They had a lot of history,” I continued. “What was their relationship like back in 1967?”

  Judge Jackson sat up so abruptly that his mug fell and cracked on the Moroccan rug. Judge Jackson’s fingers trembled while I helped him pick up the larger pieces. Several others were too small to collect; he would have to walk carefully until it was cleaned up.

  Judge Jackson had barely flinched when I told him I thought his son was a murderer—but when I asked him about the Sunshine Bowl, I’d shaken him up. The name Wallace Rubens carried weight and power; everyone I met who’d known him was afraid to talk about him.

  “It was long ago,” he said curtly. “Another time.”

  “I’ve noticed that no one likes to talk about that time—especially the Sunshine Bowl. I was in Ojai to see Randolph Dwyer today, but he’s not the type to live in the past either.”

  Judge Jackson’s gaze looked eager to ask me what I’d discussed with Randolph Dwyer. Instead, he propped himself up on one knee and groaned to stand. He threw the pieces of the broken mug he held in his trash. He paused as if he was tired, then he wiped away shards of glass from his palms.