by Rob Thomas
“According to Ms. Ortiz, Mr. Navarro was sober, lucid, and cheerful when he dropped her off. So are we supposed to believe he spent the evening of his ten-year high school reunion scheming to slip in a quick assault and robbery before picking up diapers and going home to his wife and child? It doesn’t make any sense. Why would a successful small businessman with a family to support risk everything to carjack one of Neptune’s best-known citizens? Why would a man who has worked tirelessly to escape a life of crime and poverty just wake up one day and decide to throw it all away?”
Cliff was, indisputably, killing it. Yet Veronica knew these weren’t the questions he really wanted to ask. While preparing Weevil’s defense he’d had Keith look into the accusations of planted evidence against the Sheriff’s Department that had popped up in the past few years. Keith had found dozens of people who claimed to be victims. They were all predictably easy targets—the poor with priors, most of whom pleaded out in order not to suffer long trials and trumped-up charges. They’d planned to use the claims of falsified evidence to show a pattern of corruption and help clear Weevil’s name, but all that testimony had been thrown out before the trial. Judge Oglesbee had deemed it “irrelevant.”
Veronica had seen Cliff take some hard knocks over the years, but that one was egregiously painful. Cliff paced a few steps away from the jury, then turned again to face them. One of Veronica’s law professors at Columbia used to swear he could call any verdict based solely on the jurors’ expressions during closing arguments. Based on the twelve blank faces she could make out in the jury box, she had to conclude respectfully, Professor, that that was a steaming load.
“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, as you deliberate, we ask you to consider: Has the prosecution answered any of these questions? Have they accounted for the holes in the evidence, the flaws in the timeline, the lack of credible motivation? If they haven’t, Eli Navarro should go free. Thank you very much.”
Murmurs rolled through the courtroom. The judge pounded his gavel in two brisk strokes.
“We’ll now adjourn for deliberations. Bailiff, please show the jury to the chamber.”
Veronica and Keith exchanged glances. All around them, chairs scraped the ground, people clambered to their feet.
All they could do now was wait.
CHAPTER TWO
“How can you do that right now?”
Two hours and change after the jury withdrew, Keith Mars sat with his daughter in a booth at Miki’s, a surf-themed greasy spoon across the street from the courthouse. Keith had frequented the place since his days as sheriff, and the diner had barely changed since then. Sure, there were a few more duct-taped tears in the vinyl seats, a few new dings in the fiberglass surfboards lining the walls, but the bacon was still crisp and pancakes were available twenty-four hours a day, the way the good Lord intended.
He looked up from the crossword puzzle he was filling in to see Veronica, her French toast untouched in a congealed pool of syrup, her fingertips anxiously tapping her coffee mug.
“I don’t know if you realize this, but your old man is pret-ty sharp.” He held up the newspaper to reveal a smear of blue ink, almost illegible in the puzzle’s neat black grid. “How many people do you know have the guts to work in pen?”
“Got it, Steve McQueen; you laugh at danger and break all the rules.”
“Honey, I’m that cold-blooded dude in Tiananmen Square. And this puzzle’s the tank—frantically zigging and zagging to escape humiliation!” Keith smirked, nodded with exaggerated slowness, and filled in another long word.
Veronica rolled her eyes. “Bit more work on that Yeezy chin thrust and you could have a nice gig entertaining his ‘second string bitches.’ ” She sighed, drumming her fingers more urgently against the mug. “How much longer do you think they’ll take?”
She reached for the mug’s handle, but Keith intercepted the saucer, pulling it a few inches away. “Maybe it’s time to lay off the coffee. You’ve had four cups since we got here.”
“Okay, you’re right. Good thing we decided not to wait in the bar. By now I’d be standing on my chair, trying to start a ‘Livin’ on a Prayer’ sing-along.” She rested her chin on her hand and sighed. “I just can’t stop obsessing over Cliff’s case. Trying to figure out which way the jury will go so I’ll be braced for it. I mean, his argument was really solid. Discrediting all the evidence, making the prosecution’s story sound ridiculous…”
“Look at you,” he said. “It’s almost like you went to law school.” Veronica had turned down a job at a top law firm in New York to come back to Neptune, a choice Keith was still struggling to get on board with even nine months later. Following in his footsteps as a PI had never been what he wanted for his daughter.
“Would that I really had ‘almost gone.’ ” Veronica rolled her eyes. “Anyway, I feel like it could go either way. If they’d let us use the planted-evidence testimonies…”
“I know, but they didn’t. We can’t keep dwelling on it.” Keith reached across the table and patted her hand. “Look, Cliff was inspired. He did a fantastic job considering what he had to work with. All we can do is wait and hope the jury agrees. We’ve got to accept that some things are just out of our control.”
Veronica paused, weighing her words. “Permission to speak freely?”
“Of course.”
“Dad, what you just said—it’s one of those serenity prayers that old folks share on Facebook, not a Keith Mars response to getting hosed. You did all that legwork on the planted evidence, and now we can’t even use it. Plus, Lamb’s about to get away with it again, even if Weevil gets off.” She gave him a sidelong look. “Not to mention the car crash. You should be way more bitter about this.”
Keith pretended to mull over his crossword puzzle again. Veronica had been fishing for information about the accident for months now and he wasn’t about to rise to her bait this late in the game. He knew she suspected the truth—that he’d been meeting with Deputy Jerry Sacks about the planted evidence. That Sacks had been about to turn whistle-blower on the department when someone in a delivery truck T-boned their car, then circled back and rammed it again. Sacks had died and Keith had come close.
Keith had been investigating the crash for six months with little to show for the effort. The official story was that Sacks had been on the take and his relationship with one of his underworld contacts had gone south. But Keith hadn’t found any evidence that Jerry Sacks was dirty. And while he couldn’t prove that the truck driver had been operating on Sheriff Dan Lamb’s orders, he believed it with bone-deep certainty.
Which was why Veronica wasn’t going to be involved. Lamb and Company had already proved they were willing to kill to keep their secrets. He wasn’t about to put her at risk too—no matter how badly he wanted to expose the department’s corruption.
“Why do I need to be bitter? You’re bitter enough for both of us.” Keith smiled faintly and jotted down “RAMIS” in twelve across: Bespectacled ghost exterminator. “At this point I’m just hoping Eli doesn’t get prison time. If we can clear him, I’ll consider that a success.”
Veronica sighed and looked down, but she didn’t argue. She had to know he was right. Neptune had always been dirty, and it would be for a long time to come, with or without Lamb. If Eli went free, they’d have at least prevented him from becoming the town’s latest victim.
But Veronica never had been good at picking her battles, a clearly hereditary trait. After all, Keith had been filling his laptop with information on Lamb for months, interviewing dozens of people who claimed the Sheriff’s Department had planted evidence to gain a conviction, or used excessive force, or taken property under some yanked-from-their-asses interpretation of search and seizure law.
Aside from the victims in the planted-evidence cases, Keith had finally pieced together a clear picture of the corruption within the department. Lamb had a racket functionally identical to that of an organized crime ring. Local businesses that paid up got prot
ection; the ones that didn’t ran the risk of theft, arson, even assault on their premises. The money trails were labyrinthine and nearly impossible to follow. But Keith knew Lamb shouldn’t have been able to afford the beach house he’d just purchased, never mind the annual Tahoe ski trip, the brand-new Escalade, or the floor-side seats he got, five or six times a season, to see the Lakers.
Time was, Veronica would’ve followed all these developments in real time after snooping around his desk and figuring out his safe code. She’d done it before. Maybe Keith should have stopped her, that night eleven years ago when he’d realized that she was looking through the Lilly Kane files. But for some reason he still didn’t fully understand, he couldn’t bring himself to shut her out. She’d gone after Lilly’s murderer with a single-minded fury, and Aaron Echolls had almost killed her—and then Keith—for her trouble. The memory of flames licking at his legs, of knowing that Veronica was trapped behind them, still made him flinch involuntarily.
But that had been a long time ago. They were partners now. She was almost twenty-nine; she had her own caseload, her own life. As far as he knew, she’d respected his decision to keep her at arm’s length on the planted-evidence investigation.
The waitress stopped by their table to freshen their coffee. Veronica tugged her mug back across the table, and started her compulsive drink-doctoring ritual. Keith watched in silent amusement as she shook the sugar packet—four times, as always—ripped off the end, and dumped the contents into her coffee, followed by a generous slosh of cream. She dinged the spoon three times against the mug and placed it on a neatly folded napkin.
“What’ll it mean for Lamb if Weevil gets off?”
The question tumbled out of her abruptly. Keith put the crossword puzzle down next to his empty plate.
“Well, there might be an inquiry into the stolen Glock. Knowing Lamb, he’ll find a way to shake it off. You know, pin it on a couple of low-ranking deputies, fire them, and proclaim the whole department squeaky clean.”
She grimaced. “At least it’ll generate some bad press. That could hurt him in the election.”
“Well, he’s running uncontested, so it’s hard to see Weevil’s case driving the outcome. For that you’d need a scandal outrageous enough to totally invalidate him as a candidate.” Keith gestured to the front page of the paper, which showed a grinning Lamb shaking hands with the mayor at some awards ceremony.
“I’m beginning to view democracy as the Siri of political systems. So much better in theory.” Veronica put her elbow on the table and rested her cheek in her hand. “But I keep hoping for Lamb to deliver an eleventh-hour Hail Mary. Public livestock-shagging, instituting Sharia law, Tasering a cappuccino-skinned movie star he didn’t recognize. Something so appalling people just can’t ignore it anymore.”
“There’s my girl, always praying for someone’s downfall!” Keith glanced back at his puzzle. “Now help me out with this. I need a nine-letter word for ‘anatomical name for Achilles.’ Starts with ‘C’—unless ‘CAROL CHANNING’ is wrong for thirteen down, but I don’t think…”
He was interrupted when both their phones chimed at the same time. He glanced down at the screen.
It was from Cliff.
Their eyes met over the table. In spite of all his feigned calm, Keith’s heart gave an uneven lurch in his chest.
“Ready?” he asked.
“Yeah, I’m ready.” She grabbed her bag and slid her jacket back on over her shoulders. “By the way, it’s ‘calcaneal.’ You know…the tendon behind your shin. Achilles’ downfall.”
“Okay, smarty.” Keith punched her lightly in the arm. “Let’s go find out if we’ve got anything to celebrate.”
CHAPTER THREE
“Congratulations!”
Cindy “Mac” Mackenzie met them at the door of Mars Investigations, her elfin face stretched in a smile.
Veronica threw her purse down on an end table. “Free man, coming through. Stand back, everybody!”
Behind her, Keith and Cliff filed in. Weevil brought up the rear, looking dazed.
The Mars Investigations office was dim and cool, a relief from the sweltering heat outside. Dust motes glittered in the bars of light falling through the blinds. The rented space looked and felt industrial, more in terms of its original function—brewing enormous vats of lager—than any conscious design mode. It had twenty-foot ceilings and stained concrete floors. The rooms were so big they were hard to light, and deep shadows pooled in the corners. The one part of the room you might call “sleek and modern” was Mac’s desk, laden with computer equipment. Some clients wondered why a receptionist needed five different monitors. More observant ones realized Mac probably wasn’t just answering phones.
“Cleared of all charges?” Mac asked now, looking at Weevil.
“Every last one.” Weevil grinned. He shed his suit coat and unbuttoned his pressed blue button-down, revealing a white tank top underneath.
From the far side of the room, Cliff’s two-fingered newsie whistle silenced the crowd. “Attention, please!” he shouted. “If I could just have everyone’s attention. The bar is officially open. And for this special occasion I brought the middle-shelf Scotch. None of that rotgut swill we usually drink.” Cliff held the bottle aloft.
“Today, we are victors, and to the victors goes the Johnnie Walker Red Label.” Keith went to the kitchenette in the corner and started pulling down glasses.
“Cliff seems pretty jazzed,” Mac said to Veronica.
“He should be. Mr. McCormack was great,” Veronica said, raising her voice so Cliff could hear. “By the time he finished proving reasonable doubt I wasn’t even sure Weevil actually existed.”
“Thank you, Veronica,” Cliff said. “Coming from an almost-lawyer, that praise means a lot to me.” He accepted a glass from Keith. “Truth be told, we really lucked out. If that informant hadn’t retracted his story, this could have been a whole different show.”
Keith gave Veronica a knowing look. “Yeah. Lucky, that.”
She pretended not to notice. Okay, so she’d been the one to tell Weevil about that snitch. It wasn’t like she’d encouraged him to track the guy down and…do whatever he’d done to invoke his better angels.
She brushed the train of thought aside. It didn’t matter now. The important thing was that Weevil’s name was clear. Cliff was right; if that stoolie had still been willing to talk when they went to trial, the prosecution might have won and Weevil would be doing time for a crime he didn’t commit.
Cliff held up his glass, half full of warm-amber liquid. “What should we drink to? The best defense lawyer taxpayer money can buy?”
“Hey!” Veronica frowned. Cliff, Keith, and Weevil all had cups. Keith hadn’t brought one for her or Mac. “What is this, Sterling Cooper 1963? Where’s mine?”
“What, you drink Scotch now?” Keith raised an eyebrow.
“I drink victory Scotch!” Veronica said over her shoulder as she ducked into the kitchen to fetch some glasses.
“For the record,” Mac said, “I also drink Scotch. But I’m not picky. I’ll take the victory Scotch, or the Scotch of defeat. Or the rotgut swill.”
Veronica returned with two glasses. She thrust one at Mac, grabbed the bottle from Cliff, and poured a couple of Big Gulp–sized drinks, ignoring Keith’s amused look.
“As I was saying,” Cliff continued. “To…me. And to everyone else who helped a little bit too.”
They all lifted their glasses, clinking them gently together.
Veronica took a small sip—the Scotch seared her throat, and she swallowed a mangled cough along with the booze. Mac smirked, taking a long pull from her own glass without flinching.
“Lamb didn’t look happy, did he?” Cliff said, his eyes twinkling over the top of his glass.
“I watched the press conference before you got here,” Mac said, sitting on the edge of her desk, legs crossed. “Lamb said he’s doing ‘a fine-tooth investigation in the department’; he’s ‘redoubling h
is efforts to find the stolen evidence.’ Blah, blah, blah. The same brain-dead derp our local media normally feast on like starving goldfish. Only this time they didn’t. They were, like, grilling the dude. Seriously. I thought he might cry when Martina Vasquez asked him if there was ‘a fundamental problem with leadership in the Sheriff’s Department.’ ”
As drink refills continued, the debriefing maintained a steady if increasingly ragged energy. The group kept up their Lamb-basting exercise a while longer, then moved on to Celeste Kane, the prosecuting attorney, and the population of Neptune at large. Keith and Cliff huddled, reminiscing about cases from their shared past, Cliff listing ever more to starboard as the Scotch supply dwindled. Mac leaned over her computer, futzing with a nineties rap playlist. Veronica watched Weevil for a moment as he stood looking out the window. Outside, people were heading toward their cars from the offices and warehouses up and down the street, clothed in the transitional neighborhood’s mix of paint-spattered coveralls and business casual. She suddenly realized it wasn’t the street life Weevil was watching; it was his own reflection, faint in the glass. She walked over to him and set her empty glass on the windowsill.
“So what’s next for you, now that you’ve got your life back?” Veronica asked, trying to keep her voice cheerful.
Weevil glanced at her, then turned back to the window. “If this is getting my life back, we set the bar way too low.” He studied the liquid in his glass, swirling it. “I mean, don’t get me wrong. I’m thrilled not to be headed off to prison. But I lost my business. I’m only working half-time at the garage—and even if they wanted to offer me more hours I couldn’t take them, because my rotator cuff is perma-fucked. I still got medical bills piling up, and still I gotta pay you guys and Cliff…”