Falls the Shadow

by William Lashner

  “Oh, yes, that is the work of your law. Shut me down, the scourge of the neighborhood. Forget the whores, forget the drugs, the gangsters. Good day, Victor Carl.”

  She was about to blow out the last candle when Horace said, “We care about her, too.”

  Madam Anna held her breath, raised the gaze from her one good eye to Horace. I turned my head, too, because there was a note of tender softness in his voice.

  “The way her eyes squint when she laughs,” said Horace. “The way she skips instead of walks. The cool feel of her hand when she’s holding yours. The way she looks up at you with a face full of trust. You care about her, I see it in you. And we do, too. A girl like that, with a mother like that, she needs all the help she can get in this world.”

  “What do you want?” said Madam Anna.

  “We just want to know where she is,” I said. “And that she’s okay.”

  “Leave your card,” said Madam Anna.

  I took a card from my jacket, tossed it on the table. While it was still spinning on the wood, she blew out the last candle.

  The room plunged into darkness, nothing to be seen but the faintly glowing tip of the incense stick. I stood up quickly, went to grab hold of her, grabbed only air, and howled out in pain.

  “What happened?” barked Horace from the darkness.

  “I stubbed my toe.”

  “What kind of fool takes off his shoes whenever any old lady says so?”

  I took out my phone, flipped it open, turned it on, used the faint light from the display to check out the room. Madam Anna was gone, and so was my card.

  With the cell-phone light, I found my shoes, slipped them on, moved around the table, and opened the door that the fortune-teller had come through. There was a hallway and a bedroom and a kitchen and a bathroom, but no sign of the old woman and no sign of the presence of Tanya Rose either. I took the liberty of searching the rest of the apartment. Nothing. Madam Anna was gone, and Tanya, if she had ever lived there, lived there no longer.

  “What’s next?” said Horace T. Grant on our way out of the apartment.

  “I don’t know.”

  “You better figure out something, boy.”

  “Yes, I better. That was quite the speech in there, Horace.”

  “A bunch of horse crap tied in a pretty knot.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Think whatever the hell you want.”

  As we stepped out the door, two men stood on the porch. One was older, bent, wearing a black mourning suit. The other was far younger, a teenager almost, holding on to the old man’s arm.

  Horace stared at the two men for a long moment and then held the door open. “Go right on in, gentlemen,” he said. “She’s expecting you.”

  45

  With my search for Tanya Rose stymied by Madam Anna’s milky-white eye, I turned my attention back to the François Dubé case. Which explains why I was sitting next to Beth in my car in the salubrious environs of the Peaceful Valley Memorial Park.

  “There’s something almost cheerful about a cemetery on a shining day, isn’t there?” I said. “The bright grass, the gleaming stones.”

  “I find it morbid,” said Beth.

  “Or maybe I just enjoy the peace and serenity, as if a manifestation of the promised sweet kiss of death.”

  She leaned back, looked at me. “The sweet kiss of death?”

  “Wouldn’t it be nice to just be finished with all the striving, the hopes, the jarring needs, the raging disappointments? Wouldn’t it be nice to just be done with it all and to fall into the arms of that final, gentle sleep?”

  “You don’t have to die for that, Victor, just retire to Boca.”

  “I can’t eat dinner at four.”

  “I think you like cemeteries because it’s the one place in the world where you’re surrounded by people with less promising futures than your own.”

  “That must be it. You’ve been cheery lately.”

  “Have I?”

  “Oh, yes. Smiling at your desk, dancing in alleyways.”

  “Maybe anyone who doesn’t look forward to the sweet kiss of death seems cheery to you.”

  “No. It’s something else. You’re glowing.”

  “As promised by that infomercial for this year’s revolutionary new skin-care treatment.”

  “Is that it? Did you make that call to change your life?”

  “No. I still haven’t used up last year’s revolutionary new skin-care treatment. Where is she?”

  “She should be here soon.”

  “You couldn’t have just called her?”

  “Where’s the impact in that? Our intrepid investigator, Phil Skink, left us a schedule of her regular visits around the town. Today it’s the Peaceful Valley Memorial Park before she heads to her upscale nail salon.”

  “And you don’t think it’s rude to intercept her here?”

  “Perfectly appropriate, if you ask me.”

  “How’s Carol?”

  “Fine.”

  “I agree, mighty fine. But how are things with her?”

  “Progressing.”

  “You don’t sound so excited.”

  “She’s rather assertive.”

  “And that’s a problem how?”

  “I don’t know, Beth. I sort of like to dress myself in the morning. Wait, over there. Is that a hearse or a limo?”

  “A limo.”

  “Bingo,” I said.

  The long black car eased to a stop at Row U. The driver hopped out, opened the back door, and out slid Velma Takahashi. She was dressed for the part of the grieving friend with a terrible secret: white scarf around the hair, dark glasses over the eyes, deep red lipstick on her puffy lips, a single white rose in her hand. She walked slowly down the row and then stopped at a granite marker and stared for a moment before kneeling in front of it. We gave her some minutes to perform her ministrations, smoothing the grass, tossing off the seedpods from the maple overhead, we gave her some minutes to wallow in her guilt before we stepped out of the car.

  Her head rose at the sound of our doors closing. She aimed her dark, round glasses our way, stared for a few seconds, and then turned back to the gravestone as if she had been waiting for us all along.

  We walked slowly toward Velma until we were standing behind her. In front of us was a marker that spread across three sites. CULLEN. And carved over the site to the right, where Velma kneeled, was the name LEESA SARA, and beneath that the words BELOVED DAUGHTER AND MOTHER. Her parents had scrubbed her married name and wifely status from Leesa’s gravestone, and you couldn’t really blame them.

  “We need to talk,” I said.

  “Uh-oh,” she said without turning around or rising at the sound of my voice. “Does that mean we’re breaking up?”

  “Something like that. We need to talk about Clem.”

  “What is there to talk about?” she said. “He is nothing, a figment of a bad dream from a different life.”

  “But you think he might have killed Leesa.”

  “Since when does what I think matter? I think people mourning their friends at a cemetery should be left in peace, and yet here you are.”

  “What is Clem’s full name?”

  “Clem.”

  “Where is he now, do you know?”

  “He’s nowhere. He’s a phantom. He appeared as if by magic, did his damage, and now he’s gone.”

  “We’re going to need you to testify about him. About how you met him, how you gave him to Leesa, how they fought, how after she was brutally murdered, he disappeared. We’re going to need you to tell the jury everything.”

  “You know I can’t do that.”

  “Why the hell not?” said Beth with a snap of anger in her voice. “What kind of witch will pay for François’s defense but not tell the truth to save him?”

  Velma Takahashi turned toward Beth and stared at her through the dark glasses. “He’s quite charming, isn’t he?” she said, a spider’s bite in her voice. “So much
the gallant. But maybe, dear one, he’s not as gallant as he seems.”

  “He needs your help,” said Beth.

  “Why does he need mine when he already has yours?”

  I didn’t like the tone of Velma’s voice, the way the two women had squared off. I didn’t like any of this. She was playing with us, was Velma Takahashi, tossing us about like balls of catnip placed here for her amusement. But I knew how to shut off the game. I reached into my jacket pocket, pulled out a legal document stapled on a blue backing, dropped it onto Leesa Dubé’s grave, right in front of the still-kneeling Velma Takahashi.

  “You’ve been served,” I said.

  “What is this?” she said, scooping up the subpoena and rising angrily to her feet. “What the hell are you doing?”

  “The trial starts next week,” I said.

  “You know that my situation is delicate.”

  “Funny thing, Velma, I don’t care about your prenup. If you don’t show up when I tell you, I’ll have a bench warrant issued. And then I’ll have you arrested. A picture of you in the paper with your hands cuffed behind your back will be just what your husband wants to see.”

  “You must leave me out of it.”

  “Can’t,” I said.

  “Don’t do this, Victor.” She took a step forward, reached a hand to my chest, let her expression turn dewy and moist. “Please.”

  “It’s done,” I said.

  “Victor?”

  “This Grace Kelly, Kim Novak thing you have going on is very becoming, really. That scarf, nice touch. But I have to say I like you better in your tennis outfit.”

  Her moist expression turned bitter in the blink of an eye. “Don’t forget your place, you dickless wonder,” she said.

  I laughed, which only made her angrier. She threw the subpoena at my chest. As the paper slid to the ground, I laughed harder.

  “You thought by controlling the money you controlled the story,” I said, “but I don’t work like that.”

  “Make me testify and you won’t get another cent.”

  “I’ll find a way to get paid,” I said. “Maybe your husband will cover the bill in gratitude for proving your infidelity. And if he won’t—screw it. I’ll finish the case pro bono just to make you squirm.”

  “You’re an insignificant worm.”

  “Yes I am,” I said cheerfully, “on a useless piece of rock hurtling through a universe devoid of rhyme or reason. And yet you’re still going to testify.”

  She stood before me for another moment, swaying as if she had taken a shot, and then stormed off toward the limo.

  I kneeled down, picked up the subpoena. “You forgot something, Velma.”

  She didn’t slow her pace. “Screw yourself.”

  “Show up, or I’ll put you in jail.”

  She stopped, turned around. “You have no idea what you are getting into.”

  “You’re exactly right. I move through life in a blissful state of ignorance. It’s the only way people like you and me can live with ourselves. See you in court.”

  She turned away again, headed in a trot toward the limo.

  “Oh, and Velma, when you come,” I called out after her, “the scarf thing would work wonderfully on the stand.”

  We watched as she dived into the open limo door, watched as the driver pulled immediately away, watched the dust kick up as the limo made its exit from the Peaceful Valley Memorial Park. I had enjoyed the whole scene immensely, and yet something troubled me.

  “Do you feel,” I said, “like we’ve just been in the middle of something staged for the adoring crowd?”

  “She seemed angry enough,” said Beth.

  “That’s exactly it. Angry enough. She comes to the cemetery to drop a flower at her best friend’s grave, we show up asking about Clem, a man who might have killed said friend, and suddenly the scene erupts. But it’s exactly everything you would expect from such a scene. First she acts all imperious, then she tries to seduce me, then she challenges my manhood, then she cuts off our fees, and then she’s rushing off as if she’s late for a manicure.”

  “As usual you’re looking too hard,” said Beth. “She doesn’t want to testify. We’re a threat to everything she’s worked for.”

  “Of course we are,” I said. “But still, even with all she said, it seemed the only time there was real venom in her voice was when she went after you.”

  I looked at Beth, her gaze nervously danced away. “She was out of line,” said Beth.

  “Was she?”

  “Well, maybe not on the dickless wonder thing, but on everything else.”

  I laughed and then stopped laughing. Beth and I were staring one at the other. There was something in her face just then, was it fear, maybe? Fear of what? Of what she was feeling, of what she was risking, of everything going all to hell? After a moment she turned away, looked down at Leesa Dubé’s grave.

  “We need to find him,” she said, a note of desperation in her voice. “There’s no telling what Velma will say in court, and we can’t trust Sunshine. We need to find Clem.”

  “We’re doing what we can.”

  “I know, but it’s not enough.”

  “You’re in deep, aren’t you?”

  “It’s not like you think.”

  “Then what is it like?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “I don’t trust him,” I said.

  “You don’t have to.”

  “You want the lecture?”

  “No.”

  “Okay,” I said. “But it can’t come to anything.”

  “I don’t want anything except to help him every way I can.”

  “We’re lawyers, Beth. We have rules.”

  “Is this the lecture?”

  “Maybe. I don’t know. But, Beth, something isn’t right here, and that son of a bitch, I’m telling you, is in the middle of it.”

  46

  I was in the tar pit, reviewing once again the transcript of Seamus Dent’s testimony at the first François Dubé trial, when Whitney Robinson III strolled into the room. I startled when I saw him. It was as if I had conjured him with my thoughts, because the whole time I was examining the transcript, I had actually been thinking about Whit, and this is what I had been thinking: Why the hell hadn’t he ripped poor Seamus Dent a second asshole on the stand? Whitney had been gentle, almost kind to the kid. But as I examined the testimony, I could see the flaws in Seamus’s statement, the avenues wide open for attack. I didn’t yet know if Seamus had been telling the truth or not, but I sure could have placed doubt in the jury’s mind, and so could the Whitney Robinson I had seen in court over the years. So why, in this trial, had Whit given Seamus Dent a pass? And it was not the first fairly grievous error I had caught in Whit’s performance at the trial.

  “Whit,” I said, standing quickly and dropping the transcript as if I had been caught at something. “How nice of you to visit.”

  “I was in the neighborhood, old boy,” he said. “Thought I’d see how you’re getting along. Your secretary remembered me and sent me on back. I hope you don’t mind.”

  “No, not at all. It’s great to see you.”

  “You look busy.” He glanced around at the piles of paper scattered across the table and the floor, stacked on the chairs. “Think you have enough material to work with?”

  “Just about.”

  “I remember trying murder cases with a file thinner than a comic book. I guess the times have passed me by.”

  “Never,” I said.

  I cleared off a chair, bade him to sit. His whole body shook with effort as he lowered himself onto the seat. He took out a handkerchief and wiped his forehead. He was wearing his normal costume, argyle socks, tan pants, blue blazer, red bow tie, but his expression showed more age and worry than I remembered in him. It made me think of the strange comment that ended our meeting at his house at the start of the case: You can’t imagine the price. What price? I wondered. And how had he paid it?

  “I thought
I’d come by to see if I could help your preparations,” he said. “To see if you had any questions about the first trial that I could answer for you. Anything I can do to help, I’d be delighted.”

  I glanced down at the transcript and then up at the old man and his aged, worried eyes. It seemed just then that the way he sat, the way he hunched over with the weariness of age, answered all my questions about the prior trial. “No, Whit. Everything seems pretty clear.”

  “I’m more than willing to talk about the case, Victor. To see if I can add anything to your efforts.”

  “I appreciate that, but we seem to have it under control.”

  “Good. Grand. How are your teeth getting along? Last time I saw you, at the hearing, your whole face was swollen.”

  I rubbed my tongue over the temporary crowns and the healing gap where my cracked tooth had been. “Actually, my teeth are doing quite well. I took your advice about Dr. Pfeffer.”

  “Yes, I know. He called to thank me for the referral.”

  “He hasn’t been the most gentle of doctors, and there has been some pain involved, great spasms of pain, actually, but it almost seems like he knows what he’s doing.”

  “Oh, he does, I assure you.”

  “What do you know about him?”

  “Dr. Pfeffer? Interesting character. He talks a bit much while he’s in your mouth, but he’s quite good. I met him quite by chance at the time of François’s first trial. My teeth were in sorry shape when he took control, but they are much improved, I am glad to say. Nothing like a good ear of corn on a summer’s eve, yes, Victor? And I’ve found he can be rather helpful in many other ways, too.”

  “How so?”

  “Well, he seems to know everybody and enjoys making connections. He likes to feel at the center of things, I suppose, but the connections can be quite valuable all the same. He helped my wife and me with our daughter’s care. In fact, the nurse we have now, who has been a lifesaver, was referred to us by Dr. Pfeffer.”

  The nurse with the pale face and black eyes who had been staring out the window of his house as we spoke in the back, that nurse. How strange was that?