by Christa Wick
"Cops, insurance agents, my attorney..."
That was all the prompting the kid needed. He hopped back in his car and sped away. Already in danger of being late, I didn't waste a second trying to compose myself, but eased my way out of the car and inspected the rear bumper. The damage looked to be just a few dollars shy of my deductible.
Wincing from the pain in my shoulder, I crawled back into the front seat, found my phone and shut it off before pulling the car back onto the street.
I made it to Alex's arraignment a few minutes before the bailiff brought him in. He had a black eye and a split lip. Dante caught sight of Alex. I put a hand on his shoulder to keep him in his seat.
"Stay calm," I pleaded quietly. "He doesn't need you throwing a fit in front of Judge Enders."
His hands had curled into fists. I placed my hand over them hoping it would calm him. "This isn't optional."
Dante shook his head but said nothing. His hands clenched madly beneath mine and I gave a little squeeze at the same time I smoothed my palm along his shoulder. He caught my gaze for a second, a question flaring in his eyes.
My heart stopped. Had he found out about my conversation with Gabriella? I forced a relaxed smile, doubtful that she had said anything to him. It wasn't the kind of information Gabriella was likely to divulge. I'd never gotten the impression she liked me. She wanted her grandson saved from jail and her son saved from some (not so) little "uptown princess."
Hearing a small shuffle behind us, I glanced to the side. My heart restarted, kicking into overdrive as one of the columnists from the Masonville Times slid into the row a few feet behind us. It was the same guy who had interviewed me for my "homecoming" and had written up Dante's trip last night. I had the sinking feeling that my status as the "unidentified woman" who had dropped Dante off at the Jackson House was about to come to an end. If anyone at the Times went looking for a connection between me and Dante from before the murder, it wouldn't take long for them to find it. Then the tabloid hounds would descend, the lure of murder, money and sex too much for them to resist.
I let go of Dante's hand and focused on the attorneys. Arnold Crane, Alex's defense counsel, was losing points with Judge Enders by the second. The judge slammed his gavel down for the third time in as many minutes.
"Save it for the preliminary hearing, counselor."
Crane gestured in my direction. "But, your honor, Ms. Miller has found--"
This time the gavel came down so hard, I was certain I heard the wood splinter.
"The law does not care what Ms. Miller has found at this stage."
I suppressed an eye roll. Truth was, the law seldom cared at any stage after the arrest -- only the jury did, unless I could convince the prosecutor to drop the case before then.
I turned to get a better view of the prosecutor, grimacing as a fresh burst of pain flowered along my neck and shoulders. Corbin was relatively young, somewhere in his early 30s, and was clearly ambitious. With Dante's late night trip to the cemetery and the presence of a bona fide columnist from the Masonville Times in the courtroom instead of one of their beat reporters, he likely thought this was turning into the kind of case that could earn him his boss's job in the next election.
In front of me, Crane switched tactics, hoping for a combination of high bail and trading on Dante's position in the business community. "Your honor, the defendant and his family--"
"I know all about the defendant's family," Enders responded, finishing with a small chuckle. "I do read the Times."
Enders emphasized the newspaper's name with the exact tone momma had used that morning. I dropped my gaze to the ground, unable to stop an eye roll that sent my eyes so far back into my head, I could see the Times columnist behind me.
Enders cracked the gavel one last time in the arraignment of Alexander Serrano. "No bail. Next!"
********************
Dante watched stunned as they led Alex away. "What does this mean?"
Dante was looking at me but Crane answered. "He'll go to county jail while he waits for trial. You'll finally be able to visit him." He said the last bit like he was delivering good news, when the kid should have been out on bail.
"County?"
I knew that Dante was thinking about the black eye and cut Alex had picked up. "He'll be segregated," I told him. He didn't need to know that meant nothing more than Alex would now be with both convicted addicts and domestic abusers and, even worse, defendants of crimes as serious as the one for which he stood accused -- some of them actually guilty.
I caught Crane by his sleeve before he could leave. "You need to find out what happened," I said, referencing whatever attack had produced the black eye. I dropped my voice so Dante wouldn't hear. "And see if you can get him put in isolation."
"This is Masonville, not Miami, Ms. Miller."
Crane blinked once, slowly, and I knew then that he was far more a politician than a legal strategist. The next time he talked to Alex, the word "deal" would start popping up. I'd seen it before. Without a civil rights violation or my finding a smoking gun (or, in this case, an axe) with the killer's hand still attached, there was nothing Crane, however highly lauded, would do.
I let him go with a hard stare and turned to Dante just as my phone started to vibrate. It was Craig. Stepping out into the corridor with Dante hot on my heels, I answered the call.
"Got a lead on the nest rat," Craig said before I could offer him a perfunctory hello.
I grabbed a pen from my bag and told him to give me the address.
"Already texted it to you. Hearing over?"
"Yes." I felt Dante hovering over my left shoulder and turned to shoo him back a few paces.
"How'd it go?"
"Didn't." I took a few steps away from Dante when he wouldn't budge.
"So, I'll see you in about 30, then?"
"Yeah." I ended the call and checked the text. The address was for a men's homeless shelter. The location looked familiar, but I plugged it into my GPS.
Dante fished his keys from his pocket. "I know where that's at--"
I reined him in with a raised hand. "You're not going." Seeing a familiar spark of obstinacy in his gaze, I poked him in the chest and whispered fiercely. "No! Alex doesn't need any more fuck ups, Dante."
I was thinking about my own mistake with Claire Epps, but I wouldn't hesitate to throw his little midnight trip into the mix if he dared to argue.
"Liv, I've got to do something..."
I caught the soft shine of tears in his eyes and had to look away. I'd only seen Dante Serrano close to crying twice before. The first time was when he had asked me to marry him and I'd been a little too shocked and elated to answer him quickly enough. He had thought I was going to refuse him. The second time was at the first and only rehearsal for the wedding -- when I had finished saying the lines that promised I would be his through this life and the next.
I turned my back to him and wiped away my own tears before I looked at him again. "Listen, I need a list of everyone -- employees, vendors, delivery guys -- everyone who was on the site over the last week. Contact numbers, too, if you can get them."
Nodding, Dante pulled his cell phone out and started texting. "I'll have them all today."
It was busy work for the most part, something to keep him sane while I did my job. If I actually had to resort to contacting people on the list, Alex was in a hell of a lot more trouble than I thought. Shouldering my bag, I lingered one last second. "Find Alex another attorney. Immediately."
Dante offered a solemn nod, shocking me with his lack of protest. Crane was big game in at least half the state, but I'd just gotten him kicked off Alex's case inside of two seconds. Even if Dante seemed determined to drive the investigation half the time, it showed me that he really did value my opinion.
That made me happy in ways it shouldn't have.
Chapter Eight
The shelter was on the corner of Harlow and Grimsby. Like Dante, I had recognized the address. Standing alongsi
de my parents, I had served three shifts of Thanksgiving dinners for more than a decade at the adjacent soup kitchen. Run by the Lutherans, the shelter had fifty beds, all of them in a single open bay that had once been a high school gym.
The witness, Owen Briggs, had signed in that morning when one of the beds had finally opened up after the previous occupant had smuggled a pint of whiskey into the shelter. We found Briggs in bunk number eighteen.
Craig gave the bunk's metal frame a hard kick. "Wake up, Briggs."
The pair of eyes that opened were shot through with red.
"Long night smoking, hey?" Craig asked as he flashed his PI card at Briggs.
Briggs wiped at his eyes, blinking rapidly while he mouthed something like "I'm clean."
"Sure ya are," Craig grinned, looking at me. I nodded and he reached into the folder he was carrying and pulled out a picture of Justin Bieber.
"Know him?"
Briggs smacked his lips and squinted as he leaned closer to Diamond. Getting a good sniff of the wit's street perfume, Craig took a step back and flipped the picture over to show the Serrano construction logo.
"Yeah." Showing half a mouth full of teeth, Briggs smiled. "That's the guy killed the other guy."
"You fucking liar, Owen."
I turned to bunk seventeen. It was occupied by a black man, somewhere between his middle sixties and the century mark. Pins from at least three wars decorated his frayed BDU jacket. Recognizing World War II, Korea, and Vietnam pins, I smiled at the old man. "What do you mean, sir?"
The man's head bobbed with sarcasm as he answered. "I mean Owen J. Briggs is a liar, lady. Ole Max aint killed nobody."
"Max?" Craig jumped in. "Max who?"
"Max Twenty-Two," the old man answered, head still bobbing side to side like a world-class boxer.
Figuring the guy wasn't talking about what kind of weapon Max carried, I left Craig playing a game of "Who's on First" with our new informant and casually wandered over to bunk twenty-two. There, snoring loudly, was an even older (as best as I could tell) man asleep on his side. A denim jacket warmed him, the fabric sporting the Serrano logo on it and faintly speckled with what I'd bet was blood.
Giving a soft whistle, I crooked a finger at Craig and he came over.
"I'll be damned!" he smiled.
I studied the sleeper for a few seconds. He was rail thin and too short to be Ray's killer. From the lung-clearing hacks that occasionally punctuated his snoring, I was pretty sure he was too frail to be anyone's killer.
I rounded the bed and knelt down in front of his head.
"Max." I started softly then a little louder when it didn't rouse him. He opened clear blue eyes. Trying to keep things friendly, I smiled. "Nice jacket."
The blue eyes narrowed instantly. "It's mine. I found it."
I nodded and stood up to whisper in Craig's ear as I passed him a fifty dollar bill. "Goodwill's across the street. Find him another jacket."
I turned back to Max. "I was just wondering where you found it?"
Max started buttoning the jacket up and then wrapped his arms around himself. "I said it's mine. Don't matter where I found it. Them's the rules!"
"Yeah, but I was hoping I could go back and see if there was another I could have."
Max seemed to weigh my answer carefully. He poked one finger in my general direction. "You got a jacket."
Nodding, I unbuttoned it and gave him a view of how thin the material was. "No good at night."
Ceding the point, Max frowned and then relented. "Found it back of Arby's in the dumpster."
"The one on Packard?" I couldn't imagine that the old man traveled much further than a few blocks from the shelter.
"That's the one." The vigor of his nod triggered a spell of coughing.
I waited until he settled back down. "You remember when?"
"Friday, round midnight." He gave a little whoop at the memory. "Boy was I glad! Didn't make it to the shelter before curfew."
I smiled, sharing the story of his lucky find. "What day is it today, Max?"
The old man's eyes narrowed again. "Tuesday. You aren't on the pipe or anything, are you girl?"
I shook my head, still smiling.
I knew Briggs had been in the drunk tank after the murder, sobering up some so the detectives could get a legible signature on the witness statement. That meant sometime between eight P.M. and midnight, Ray's killer had likely visited the Arby's on Packard long enough to at least dump the jacket. If Alex was lucky, the killer dumped the phone there, too, and left his prints behind this time.
Craig came back in with a heavier denim jacket and I quickly filled him in. Taking the jacket, I showed it to Max. "I need to trade jackets with you, my friend."
When he shook his head violently and wrapped his arms around himself again, I wrinkled my nose. "Max, your jacket stinks and I'm afraid Pastor might make you leave if you keep wearing it."
While the jacket did smell like someone had thrown up on it, I felt like a bitch for scaring the old man. The tactic, however, worked like magic. Max immediately started to remove it.
"Hold on, Max." I needed him to stay in the jacket for a bit. "I think the cops will want to take it over to Arby's and see if the owner needs it back."
As soon as the word "cops" left my mouth, the old man spit at the floor. I raised my hands to calm him. "Now, you don't need to worry about the cops--"
Max spit again and I smiled. Clearly the old man had more than a little history with law enforcement. "Just don't peel it off yet, okay? Pastor is cool for now and Craig here is going to stay with you until we can swap jackets."
When I stood, Craig pulled me aside. "Just how do you plan on getting the lead dicks out here? I thought Corbin wouldn't okay it?"
I threw Diamond a wink and started walking across the bay, keying in the number to the Masonville crime tip line. Diamond was right -- if Corbin thought the jacket would help Alex, he'd never send the detectives out. But if the homicide unit got an anonymous tip that they thought would help convict Alex, they'd make it to the shelter in far less than the 30 minutes it had taken me to reach the place.
********************
Twenty minutes later, I stood outside the building, pleading on my cell phone with the Arby's manager for the woman to put a lock on the dumpster until I got there. Finishing the call, I turned to see an unmarked police car roll to a stop behind my sedan. There were two cops inside, the driver probably in his late thirties and clearly the junior of the two.
The window on the car was down. I could hear the older detective arguing with his younger partner.
"You know the Serrano kid did it! Just look at his old man..."
I spun until I faced the shelter's front window, pulled my cell phone out and turned the recorder on before cranking the microphone up to full volume. I was less than three feet from them and the older guy had a loud mouth -- I just hoped it was loud enough to pierce the street noise.
"Just because your mother-in-law has to live with you now doesn't mean the kid's a killer, Hicks."
I watched their reflection in the shelter's front window. They had gotten out of the car and were casually inspecting my damaged bumper.
"Davies, Serrano kicked all those old people out--" Hicks argued.
"C'mon, your old lady's mom has been living with you since the building's owner went bankrupt couple years ago. Serrano's owned it, what, six months?"
"He could have let them move back in..."
"It's a shithole! Nobody's been in it except for scavengers and meth heads for almost two years."
Hicks shook his head. "Look, Davies, all I'm saying is that rich people like Serrano and his kid don't give a shit about people like me and you, the vic, or that hot little piece of dark meat the kid was banging."
My hand curled tight around my phone but I managed not to turn and junk punch Hicks. Just like Alex's washed-up, politicking attorney, every police force has at least one asshole on it, and sometimes that asshole manages to
ruin someone's life for a very long time. It was Alex's dumb bad luck that Hicks was that asshole and had caught his case. The detective had a hard on against Dante and was taking it out on the boy.
"He isn't even American, the father," Hicks said as Davies opened the shelter door for him. "His mother got off the boat from Cuba already fat with him in her stomach and now he's the one driving around with a car worth more than my entire pension!"
Maintaining my composure, I waited until the cops went inside before quickly replaying the recording. Aside from the occasional whoosh of a passing car obscuring a word or two, the phone had recorded the conversation perfectly. Smiling, I pocketed my new ace in the hole and stepped over to my car.
Craig would keep Hicks and Davies waiting, but I didn't want them to realize I'd been standing out on the curb during their ill-advised conversation. I quickly removed a dark red jacket from my dry cleaning bag and swapped it out for the plain black one I had on. Then I pulled my hair into a high, tight bun and fished through the center console for a pair of momma's reading glasses. Last, I grabbed my heavy forensics bag from the trunk and shuffled back inside to bunk twenty-two.
"Hey, Max." I threw the old man a wink.
He gave me an easy, familiar grin, tilted his head and winked back.
"You ready for that trade now?"
Hicks took a step towards me, his voice too loud when he spoke. "Bum's gonna need to give us a sample."
Smiling, I reached into my bag and removed a swab and evidence bag. "Max, did these gentlemen mention that they are cops?"
Max immediately turned his head to the side and spit on the floor.
"Your sample, detective. Now, about the dumpster at Arby's..." I handed the swab to the cop, my smile three times wider and brighter than the second before. I might not be able to bitch slap Hicks like I wanted to, but he was going to have to get down on his knees to collect Max's spit from the floor.
Grimacing, Hicks wiped the swab across the floor while Davies bagged the jacket.
"We'll send a patrol car," Davies said.
I nodded -- it was more than I had hoped for.