Your Son Is Alive

by James Scott Bell

  Dylan sat down.

  “Of course, Dylan, I have people who will dig into every inch of this man’s prior history. We’ll look at his past record, we will find anything we can, any disciplinary action, anything to cast doubt on his credibility. We will absolutely find something. Okay?”

  Dylan shrugged.

  Wyant said, “We need to talk about options.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “Going to trial is like going to war,” Wyant said. “And the general who anticipates the most contingencies is going to be the one to gain the victory.”

  “What contingencies?”

  “Let’s suppose for a moment that we can’t find anything to impeach the testimony of this witness. Let’s suppose, in fact, that he is lying.”

  “No supposing about it. I told you he is.”

  “Of course. It’s just lawyer talk.”

  “I hate lawyer talk,” Dylan said.

  Sam Wyant smiled. “Most people do. Now, if his testimony comes in without an issue, it’s going to be his word against yours. They have some supporting testimony. They have the waitress at the restaurant who observed you in a state of being upset.”

  “Yeah, because she just told me she had my son!”

  “Nobody heard that,” Sam Wyant said. “Nobody but you.”

  “Meaning?”

  “We may have to put you on the stand.”

  “Do it then!”

  “But I’ve got to tell you, that is virtually always a bad idea.”

  “Sure, if the person is guilty. But I’m not.”

  “This prosecutor is good. I’ve seen him on cross. He could get Gandhi to admit he’s packing a gun.”

  “I don’t think that’s funny.”

  “No, you’re right. There’s nothing funny about this. Which is why we should consider another option.”

  When Wyant didn’t immediately say anything, Dylan felt cold all over.

  “As in?” Dylan said.

  “We have to consider the possibility of a plea.”

  “No way!”

  “Now hear me out,” Sam Wyant said. “I have to discuss every option with you.”

  “Not this one. I didn’t do it! What kind of deal is that?”

  “It’s a deal that could be the difference between twenty-five years to life, or three years for manslaughter.”

  “That’s my choice?”

  “For purposes of discussion.”

  “I don’t want to discuss it.”

  “And I don’t want to see you get prison for life. This is a high profile case now. We also have to consider that we have a sympathetic victim and a grieving mother.”

  “This is getting better and better.”

  “I’m sorry, Dylan. I tend to be direct. No bedside manner.”

  “Forget it,” Dylan said. “I guess I have to hear it. So you’re saying that if we go to trial on this, and lose, I could be put away for the rest of my life?”

  “I’ve not lost a criminal case in ten years.”

  “But it could happen.”

  Wyant nodded. “In all fairness, I’ve not gone to trial without a strong hand.”

  “I’ll take the stand,” Dylan said. “I won’t fold. And my ex-wife will testify. She’ll talk about the threats she’s been getting, how it ties in to what I’m saying.”

  Wyant said, “Of course we’ll go there. I just could not in good conscience keep you from seeing the whole picture.”

  “I’ve seen it,” Dylan said. “And it stinks.” He looked at the shelf of law books that covered one wall. Leather-bound antiquities. He could imagine a California earthquake happening right now, and getting buried under those heavy, lifeless tomes.

  “Meanwhile, sit tight,” Wyant said. “Keep a low profile. Get in touch with your ex-wife and let’s set up a meeting.”

  “What about my phone?”

  “Obviously they’re keeping it.”

  “Can they do that?”

  “Short answer, yes. For the moment. But they can’t use the evidence, so I’ll subpoena it and get it back.” He picked up the handset on his land line and pressed two keys. “Pete? Bring us in a disposable phone, will you? Thanks.”

  Wyant hung up. “On the house. Pre-paid.”

  “You can afford it.”

  Sam Wyant nodded.

  A moment later Pete Parris entered with a phone. At Wyant’s nod, he handed it to Dylan.

  “That’s enough for today,” Wyant said. “Pete, will you show our client out?”

  “I know the way,” Dylan said. He stood and shook Wyant’s hand, then Pete’s.

  He left the conference room and made his way down the hall, past a couple of work stations with young associates tapping away. As he passed through the door that brought him back into the reception area, all thought of lying witnesses left him with a jolt.

  He was face-to-face with the guy who had been taking pictures of his house.

  75

  “Who are you?” Dylan said, stepping right up to the guy’s face.

  The guy had the same camera case around his shoulder. He was dressed in a faded red T-shirt and jeans. He didn’t look shocked or threatened by Dylan’s confrontational question.

  “I’m a reporter, Mr. Reeve.”

  “What paper?”

  “Blog.”

  The receptionist was watching the whole thing. She was young and dressed for serious business. She said, “Shall I call Mr. Wyant?”

  “Yes,” the reporter said.

  “No,” Dylan said. “You’re leaving.”

  “You don’t tell me where to go,” the guy said.

  “Oh, I’ll tell you where you can go all right,” Dylan said.

  “Ha, ha. I’ll quote you.”

  “That a threat?” Dylan said.

  “Mr. Reeve, I’m just doing my job.”

  “Shall I call security?” the receptionist said.

  “Good idea,” Dylan said.

  “You don’t want to do that,” the reporter said. “You need friends in the press.”

  “I have no idea who you are.”

  “Let’s talk.”

  “I don’t want to talk. Especially to somebody who came sneaking pictures at my house.”

  He shook his head. “I wasn’t sneaking. I was right out there for all to see. I knocked on your door.”

  “You knew I was in jail.”

  “All I knew is you weren’t home. I just wanted some pics for the profile.”

  “What profile?”

  “It depends.”

  “On what?”

  “Whether I’m writing about the heart of a grieving ex-boyfriend, or the twisted mind of a killer.”

  “Now I know you’re a reporter,” Dylan said.

  “Tell me your story.”

  “Did you follow me here?”

  The reporter shook his head. “It’s serendipity. I think that’s the word.”

  “A real reporter would know what word to use,” Dylan said.

  “Ha, ha. Another good one. I came here to talk to your lawyer and, serendipity, here you are.”

  The receptionist said, “You need to make an appointment to talk to Mr. Wyant, and there’s no guarantee he will talk to you.”

  “He’ll talk to me,” the reporter said. “I know he likes publicity.” He took a card from his back pocket and handed it to Dylan. “I also have a deal with the Times.”

  “I’m supposed to believe that?”

  “There’s an editor you can call. Want to?”

  “Not interested,” Dylan said.

  “I’d love a comment from you,” the guy said. His name, according to the card, was Stephen Brett.

  “I don’t know you or your blog,” Dylan said.

  “You will,” Brett said. “I’m all over this, like nobody else. I can be on your side.”

  “The truth is on my side.”

  “Mr. Reeve?” the receptionist said.

  He looked at her. She was shaking her head.

  D
ylan said, “I’m really not supposed to talk. If you can get through to my lawyer, have at it.” Dylan started for the door, stopped. “And don’t come snooping around my house again.”

  “Now who is threatening who?” Brett said.

  “Whom,” Dylan said.

  “Ha, ha,” Brett said.

  76

  It was just after six-thirty when the two detectives—a man and a woman—arrived at Erin’s condo. She met them at the front door of the complex. The man, in his fifties, introduced himself as Detective Steve Hogan, and his partner as Sharon Peralta. Peralta looked around forty.

  They were dressed in business casual, and wore their detective shields on their belts. Hogan might have played football at one time, but his face was friendly. Peralta seemed more businesslike and wore no wedding ring.

  Erin showed them up to her condo and felt obligated to ask if they’d like anything to drink. Both declined, which was a relief. The sooner this was over the better.

  They sat in the living room, with Peralta taking notes in a small notebook as Hogan took the lead.

  Hogan said, “We’re waiting for a call from Detective Murray, who’s handling that homicide you witnessed at the market. How you doing about that?”

  “I’ll tell you something strange,” Erin said. “That’s not the worst thing that’s happened to me lately.”

  “I understand, Ms. Reeve. We just need to ask a few questions about the victim, Mr. Bolt. How close were you with him?”

  “Not that close,” Erin said. “As I told you, I wasn’t dating Andy. But he was a nice guy. He had a lot …”

  The detective waited.

  “He had a lot going for him,” Erin said.

  “I wanted to ask, do you think these two murders are related? The man at the store, and Mr. Bolt?”

  “Definitely. A man has been stalking me, on the phone, and by computer. He claims to have my son, who was kidnapped fifteen years ago. He uses a strange name. Phroso.”

  Detective Peralta said, “Can you spell that for me, please?”

  “P-H-R-O-S-O,” Erin said. “It’s from an obscure old movie, we think.”

  “We?” Hogan said.

  “My ex-husband and his neighbor, who is a retired circus clown. Do we have to go into that?”

  Hogan said, “Let’s back this up a little bit. To the homeless man who was shot while you were at a pay phone. Why were you at that phone?”

  “Because this guy I’m telling you about told me to go there to receive a message.”

  “What was the message?”

  “I never got it, because of the killing. He contacted me later though.”

  “How?”

  “He called my phone.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He wanted to know what I thought of his work, which meant the shot that killed that man. Who went by the name of Hacksaw, by the way.”

  Hogan said, “You know this how?”

  “My husband and I did some digging.”

  “Does Detective Murray know this?”

  “At this point I’m not keeping track, okay?” Erin rubbed her temples. “This morning I was working at my station when Phroso messaged me on my computer.”

  “What did the message say?”

  “It said he was jealous.”

  “Of who?”

  “I figure it was Andy. I called him by his name. He didn’t know that I knew it. He said I was going to pay for that.”

  “Did he say how?”

  Erin shook her head. “That was the last message he sent.”

  Hogan paused. Peralta scribbled some notes.

  Then, with a slight change of tone, Hogan said, “What did you know about Anderson Bolt, I mean his personal life?”

  “Not very much,” Erin said. “We only had one lunch date. He did come over to my condo with champagne and was working hard at being very charming. Oh yes, and the other night I was out running and he came up behind me in his car.”

  “He was following you?”

  “Sort of. He saw me, I guess, and wanted to surprise me.”

  “And you didn’t like that.”

  “No, of course not. I …” Erin stopped herself. Both Hogan and Peralta said nothing. They just watched her.

  Erin said, “You’re not suggesting I’m a suspect, are you?”

  “Not suggesting anything, Ms. Reeve. Just asking questions.”

  Erin stood. “I have to think about this.”

  “Certainly,” Hogan said, also standing. “If you have nothing more to add about Mr. Bolt, we can leave it at that for now.” He removed the card from his shirt pocket and handed it to Erin. It was an LAPD card with Steve Hogan on it and a contact number.

  “If you think of anything later, please call me,” he said.

  “I will,” Erin said.

  Peralta closed her notebook. Erin showed them to the door.

  “I’m sorry I couldn’t be more helpful,” Erin said. She reached for the doorknob but never found it.

  Detective Sharon Peralta put her body between Erin and the door.

  Detective Steve Hogan put his hand over Erin’s mouth and slammed her into the wall.

  77

  Dylan looked at the clock on the wall and was surprised to see it was close to seven. He was sitting in the downtown L.A. library. He’d walked from Wyant’s office, only a five-minute hoof down Grand. It was almost as if his feet had taken him there by their own volition and for his own good.

  He often visited the library when dark clouds rolled into his mind. He’d pick a subject at random and find the shelf of books and take a few to a chair and read. He found that a couple of hours of immersion helped stave off the rain of despair. And besides that, he could learn something.

  So after Wyant’s, he came to the library and saw a flyer on the front desk extolling a photo exhibit of Riverside, a contiguous county to L.A. It emphasized something called the Perris Indian School which was opened there in 1903. That was enough to get Dylan down to the history floor and several volumes relating to Riverside. He pulled a couple of volumes and checked the indexes and found one that mentioned the school.

  He took it to a chair and read about a man named Frank Miller who campaigned to have the school moved to Riverside. His argument was that Perris did not have an adequate water supply for the school, but what he really wanted was tourist business for his hotel. He thought people might drop by the school to have a look at “real, live Indians.”

  And what do you know, they did.

  Dylan took a few more spins around Riverside, and now that it was seven he decided to walk back to his office to fetch his car.

  He walked down to Olive Street and turned right, past the Biltmore Hotel and Pershing Square, barely noting the asphalt river of cars and busses and pedestrians.

  He cut over on 9th, to the Ralphs Market. He was hungry and for some reason his stomach was calling for their in-house fried chicken. Warm, crispy, greasy, friendly. And he could wash it all down with a cold beer.

  At the deli counter he asked for a couple of thighs. This wasn’t anything to write home about, but he felt immensely grateful. He was, for the moment, free. He could eat what he wanted to eat, drink what he wanted to drink. He’d been a jailbird for only a few days, but that was enough to give him a greater appreciation of free air.

  He wondered what Rodriguez was getting tonight. Would he get a brownie?

  Dylan picked up a six pack of Corona and a bag of peanut M&Ms on impulse at the checkout line. He was ready to par-tay.

  He didn’t expect Paige to still be at the office, but she was.

  “Hi, boss,” she said.

  Dylan loved hearing that from her. The way she said it, with an uplift. At twenty-five, Paige Sargent was different from so many of her contemporaries. She kept her hair its natural color—ash blonde—and liked hard work. She wasn’t wedded to her phone, spoke in complete sentences, and treated every client with cheerful respect.

  “You should be home alread
y,” Dylan said.

  “Just juggling some things,” Paige said. “How’d it go with your lawyer?”

  “Oh, an adventure in fine living. Want a beer?”

  He put the grocery bag on the reception-window sill and took out the six-pack of Corona.

  “Planning a big night?” Paige said.

  “How many cancellations have I had?”

  Paige paused. “Four today.”

  “Then let’s have four beers,” Dylan said.

  “You’re not really?”

  Dylan shook his head. “I’m not going down that lane. But money is going to be tight around here for a while.”

  Paige nodded.

  Dylan said, “I don’t know how long—”

  “It’s okay,” Paige said.

  “I can’t ask you.”

  “I’ll let you know,” Paige said. “What’s that smell?”

  “Oh. Chicken. From that palace of fine cuisine, Ralphs.”

  “You spared no expense?”

  “Care to join me?” Dylan said.

  “I wouldn’t miss it,” Paige said.

  78

  They ate chicken off paper plates, and drank their Coronas from the bottle. When it was only bones left, Paige said, “Boss, I wish I could do more.”

  “You’re doing more than enough,” Dylan said. “Has Mrs. Nussbaum given you an earful?”

  With a smile, Paige said, “She did, but it was all on your side. It was all, Those lying Cossacks! Trying to railroad him!”

  “Cossacks?”

  “I didn’t press her on it. But she said she’d go down to the police station and give them a piece of her mind if they didn’t let you go.”

  “I hope you were able to dissuade her.”

  “Mrs. Nussbaum?”

  “I see your point.” He lifted his nearly drained Corona bottle and Paige did the same. They clinked.

  “Do I have any appointments the rest of the week?” Dylan said.

  “Two on Friday morning,” Paige said. “I was going to call and cancel for you. You want to see them?”

  Dylan nodded. “Let’s just hope they don’t keep up on the news. Why don’t you take the day off tomorrow?”

  “I don’t need to,” Paige said.

  “Maybe go to the beach with that boyfriend of yours.”