He lifted his bare arms and held them up, showing me both sides of them. “No sleeves here.” Then he leaned back in his chair. “The best sleight-of-hand tricks are always the ones that appear out of thin air.”
So he was up to something. Malcolm had brawn and possibly brains, which meant he had a shot at taking Crocker down. But would he be any better? “I’m still not sure how I can help you.”
“Like I said, I want to keep you on retainer. I’ll ask you questions from time to time about the legalities of a situation. You’ll represent me and a few key men in my organization should the need for legal counsel arise. In return, I’ll offer you money and protection.”
“Protection?” I asked, incredulous. “From whom?”
“You have to know you’re on Crocker’s list.”
Well, shit. “I take it it’s not his Christmas list.”
He cracked a grin, more genuine this time. “Definitely not.”
“What earned me that honor?”
“Questioning him in regards to the Thibodaux situation.”
“So basically for doin’ my job.”
He shifted in his seat. “Here’s what I’m looking for—a man who will shoot it to me straight, even if it’s not necessarily what I want to hear.”
“Then let me offer you some free advice. Criminal activity equals bad. Non-criminal activity equals good.”
Malcolm lifted his chin and looked me in the eye. I resisted the urge to squirm. “I like you, Hale. But don’t push it.”
“Got it.” He relaxed and I sucked in a deep breath and said, “I won’t do anything illegal.”
“Which is why I’m here. I want someone on the mostly straight and narrow.”
“Mostly?”
“I know you’re good at finding loopholes and technicalities to get charges dropped. That’s all I’m asking for. A top-notch attorney who thinks outside the box.”
“That’s it?”
“One other condition: If I ask you to take a case, you don’t refuse it.”
I weighed my options. Crocker might be gunning for me. Malcolm was clearly smarter than I’d thought, and he was offering me protection. But the two men could end up in a turf war. Did I really want to be caught in the middle?
“Did I mention the monthly retainer fee?” he asked. “I was thinking two grand a month.”
I cocked my head. “About how many cases do you expect me to take?”
He shrugged and smirked again. “Run-of-the-mill crimes. Nothing you can’t handle.”
So we shook hands and I agreed to be his bitch. What can I say? I needed the money and I actually wanted to be on a team opposing Crocker. Lucky for me, Malcolm’s men were good at laying low—far better than Crocker’s malcontents. Still, I found out everything I could about the top men in his organization, preparing myself in case I got called in as legal counsel. We met weekly to discuss his business. The more I learned, the more impressed I became. Skeeter Malcolm not only controlled his men, but had a level head for business.
Then, a year into my agreement with Malcolm, the Fenton County ADA left abruptly and Mason Deveraux took his place. I could see from the start that Deveraux wasn’t like his predecessor—in more ways than one. He wasn’t about to be bought, but he also looked down his genteel nose at everyone in the Fenton County legal system. By now, I had a solid practice and a lot more confidence. I wasn’t about to let some pseudo-Ivy League undergrad from Little Rock treat me like a piece of shit on his shoe.
We came to heads one hot summer afternoon, about a week before the case he was trying got turned on its head when a juror proved Deveraux had the wrong guy. I was representing a colleague of Malcolm’s, which ironically enough, had nothing to do with Malcolm’s criminal business. He’d been picked up on a DUI inside Henryetta city limits by Henryetta’s finest of the fine—Officer Ernie Hagan—which was my ace in the hole. Too bad Deveraux hadn’t been around long enough to figure that out yet.
Within ten minutes the DUI case had been thrown out due to Hagan’s incompetence, and I was standing in the hallway outside the courtroom, admiring the ass of the pretty blonde who worked in the personal property department. Rumor had it she had a fiancé, but I was considering asking her out anyway when Deveraux strode from the courtroom like he had a burr up his ass.
I was pretty damn sure I was the one who’d put it there.
“So Malcolm’s got you in his back pocket?” he demanded, a fire in his eyes.
I lifted my eyebrows in mock offense. “I realize you’re incapable of recognizing inadmissible evidence, counselor, but I should hope you’d get my client’s name correct. I was representing Mr. Homer.” I grinned. “But then maybe you’re not a fan of reading up there in the big city.” It was a low blow. Deveraux had treated it as a simple DUI, but I’d spent a few sleepless nights figuring out how to weasel Homer out of it. I’d blindsided Deveraux, and his high society ego didn’t like it.
“Homer’s a known associate of Skeeter Malcolm’s.”
“So? The last time I checked, the U.S. Constitution allows me to pick whichever clients I would like.” With the exception of the handful of state cases I was still fulfilling to work off my scholarship. No need to tell him that part. “What proof do you have?”
“So it’s pure coincidence you never represent Crocker’s men?”
Even if I hadn’t been offering Malcolm legal advice, I would never represent another one of Crocker’s men. I steered as clear from the psycho as possible. But it did surprise me that Deveraux had noticed.
I took a step forward. We were nearly the same height and I stared him in the eye. “I’m a defense attorney, Deveraux. It’s my job to provide legal counsel. In case you’ve forgotten, the crux of our legal system is that defendants are considered innocent until proven guilty.” I stepped back and smirked. “You need to ask for a refund on that fancy education.”
He closed the distance between us, anger radiating from his eyes. “You’re just some backward lawyer in a backward town.”
“If it’s so backward, what are you doing in it?”
He spun around on his heels, seething, and left me standing there.
Deveraux softened after that. I would have liked to think it was a result of me telling him off, but it was far more likely that several people had told him off. Whatever the reason, we were already pitted to be adversaries and I saw no reason to change the situation.
But I grudgingly had to admit Deveraux was trying to clean up the county. The changing of the ADA guard had already begun to shake things up in the criminal underworld, but Crocker’s murder in early November knocked it clear off its axis. Crocker may have been batshit crazy at the end, but he’d run the underworld with an iron fist that his second-in-command just didn’t possess. It didn’t take a fool to figure out Malcolm was biding his time, waiting to make his move.
A power-hungry man would have swooped in to take what he wanted from Crocker’s second in command, Bull, but just as I’d figured out during our first meeting, Skeeter Malcolm was a smart man. The abrupt change of guard would have been a hard pill for Crocker’s men to swallow. And while Malcolm could have taken over without paying a dime, such a show of force would have kept things unsettled for years. Skeeter was trying to make the transition as violence-free as possible. Unfortunately, the hand-off didn’t go smoothly. The sheriff busted the auction, and the chaos stirred up even more shit.
But the Lady in Black was the real topic of conversation after the auction.
Who was she and what was her connection to Malcolm? I had to confess, I was curious myself. So much so, I decided to ask.
A month after Malcolm won the auction, he showed up for our weekly meeting. He’d already told me he wanted me to set up his will, reasoning he was at a greater risk of meeting his maker than ever before. I’d tried to tell him that wasn’t my area of expertise, but he’d insisted he didn’t trust anyone else with his business. He showed up at my office late on a Thursday evening, coming in throug
h the back door like he always did.
“No one’s gonna accuse you of making the walk of shame if you leave through the front door,” I said, handing him a beer from the fridge in my office’s mini-kitchen.
He grinned and held up the bottle. “I’m doing it for your reputation, not mine.” He settled in one of the leather chairs across from my desk and propped his feet on it.
I sat in the chair next to him and took a drink from my bottle. “People know we’re a thing,” I teased, leaning back.
“They guess we’re a thing,” he said, then took a sip. “Rumors.”
“Like you and the Lady in Black.”
He froze, lowering the bottle.
My heart thudded in my chest. In the year and a half I’d been in his employ, we’d reached a comfortable level of trust and friendship. But even though I knew Skeeter would never hurt me, the deadly gaze he was giving me chilled me to the bone.
“She’s off limits.”
“I don’t want to date her. I just want to know more about her.”
He stared at me for several moments before lifting his bottle and taking a drink. “It’s not like you to ask questions.”
I shrugged. “I’m intrigued.”
“You and half the damn county,” he grumbled.
“Everyone loves a good mystery. Where’d she come from?”
“None of your damn business.”
“You’re really not gonna tell me?”
“No,” he barked, letting me know the topic truly was off limits.
I studied him as he took another gulp, a storm brewing in his eyes. While he typically had a level head, lately he was also prone to extreme irritable moods. I could attribute it to his uneasy reign as the current king of the Fenton County underworld, but given his reaction to the mere mention of the Lady in Black, I couldn’t help wondering if she was part of it too.
“Are you sleeping with her?”
“What part of it’s none of your damn business do you not understand?”
Well, I’ll be damned. Skeeter Malcolm had no qualms about discussing his conquests. His response only proved this woman meant something to him.
But he moved on to talk of his estate and refused to discuss her any further.
If any of us thought the excitement in the underworld was about to settle down, we were dead wrong. Word on the street had it that Mick Gentry, Fenton County’s former big-animal vet and current thug, was after Skeeter and Mason Deveraux.
Still, nothing could have prepared me for the cold Friday night in January when I heard banging on my office door. It was late, and normally I would already have gone home, but I was planning to head up to Little Rock to visit some college friends that weekend. I needed to finish some final notes on a case set to go to trial the next week so I’d have the weekend free. When I heard the banging again, I reached for the handgun in my bottom desk drawer. Nothing good could come from someone showing up at my door this late—and this worked up—on a Friday night. Given the current climate, it wouldn’t hurt to be too careful.
To my surprise, Mason Deveraux stood on the other side of the glass, looking like he’d just seen the ghost of Christmas future. I unlocked the door and pushed it open, blocking the doorway.
“Mason Deveraux, Assistant District Attorney,” I said dryly. “It’s after office hours. Perhaps you should have called.”
He swallowed, looking like he was about to be sick. “It’s just Mason Deveraux now. I no longer have that title.”
I couldn’t stop my jaw from dropping. “What?” I didn’t exactly like the man, but there was no denying he was damn good at his job. “When?”
“Tonight.” He shook his head, looking slightly dazed. “But that doesn’t matter. I’m here for another reason. I need to hire you.”
I released a harsh laugh, but I contained my shock. Mason Deveraux was the last person on the face of the earth I’d expect to need my help. “I’m not interested. Go find someone else.”
“It’s not for me.”
I was intrigued; there was no denying it. “I’m listening.”
“About an hour ago, my girlfriend Rose was arrested for her mother’s murder.”
This man was throwing me off right and left. “That doesn’t make any sense. Daniel Crocker was charged with Agnes Gardner’s murder.” His eyes widened and I release a short laugh. “Yeah, I know your girlfriend. We’ve had a few encounters.”
He shook his head in surprise. “I know about the Ebola encounter in the ER, but when else?”
“Just yesterday. She and her friend Neely Kate hid out here while Skeeter Malcolm’s guy hung out in front of her office.”
“What?” He looked blindsided. “Why was Malcolm’s guy looking for her?”
“I honestly have no idea.”
He was silent for several seconds. “Malcolm threatened Rose back in December.”
That didn’t sound like Malcolm at all, but I wasn’t about to contradict him.
He jerked his gaze back to mine. “What does Malcolm have to do with Joe Simmons? Is Malcolm in on it too?”
I shook my head again. This was one convoluted mess, and I wasn’t sure I wanted any part of it. “Joe Simmons? Her ex? What does he have to do with anything?” I knew for a fact Malcolm would never team up with Simmons. But I didn’t see any reason to offer up that information.
Deveraux ran his hand over the top of his head as he continued trying to put things together. “He arrested her. On his father’s behalf. He’s the one who got me fired.”
J.R. Simmons? What in the hell was going on in this county? “I don’t get it. Why are you asking for my help? You hate my guts.”
“Because until you told me Malcolm had his goons looking for her, I thought you were the only one who could help her. Turns out I was wrong.” Disgust covered his face.
Dammit, this man pissed me off every which way to Sunday. “I’m obviously not your guy, Deveraux. Go find some like-minded sanctimonious bastard you can smoke cigars with and drink to your own smug self-righteousness. You’ll have plenty of time since your girlfriend will be serving a life sentence at McPherson.”
I slammed the door in his face and locked it, not feeling as satisfied as I would have liked.
Goddamn, Mason Deveraux. I might hate his guts, but I liked his girlfriend and her friend Neely Kate even more.
I was about to consider changing my mind and calling him back, but one thing stopped me: J.R. Simmons. If the elder Simmons was involved, I didn’t want to be the one poking that hornet’s nest with a stick.
I was close to finishing my notes and heading home when my phone rang. I considered letting it go, but one quick glance revealed it was someone I didn’t dare ignore.
A call from Skeeter Malcolm on a Friday night could only mean trouble.
6
Skeeter
Something ugly was brewing in Fenton County.
It had been brewing for some time. Long before I took over as the king of the Fenton County underworld. But there was no denying it had started a slow boil after the auction that had bought me my crown.
Truth be told, my trouble with J.R. Simmons had been brewing for five years.
When you play with fire, you’re gonna get burned.
I’d been a fool to think I could get away with what I’d done. Years had passed without incident, lulling me into the false belief I was safe. Reality had struck a few weeks ago, when Deveraux called to tell me that I was on the Simmons hit list. The time had come to accept an ugly truth:
J.R. Simmons was gonna take me apart piece by piece.
And it had only just begun.
Most enemies would go at you with a gun or a knife, or they’d pay someone else to do it. J.R. Simmons had arranged for two of my adversaries to be murdered in cold blood. And Rose suspected there was enough evidence on the scene to pin me as the prime suspect.
I’d been a fool. I’d let myself hope I was off the hook. But J.R. had simply bided his time until I had something worth
taking. Something it would pain me to lose. He assumed it was just my empire.
He could never find out Rose had been helping me as the Lady in Black.
But she’d already landed in his sights for an entirely different reason.
Rose was the last person I had ever expected to be involved with Simmons, but then she had dated his son, so it stood to reason she’d catch his attention, particularly since she was so different from Joe Simmons’ usual women. Joe had always liked ’em fast and loose—the faster and looser, the better. Probably to wipe off the stench of the red-headed bitch his father had always intended him to marry. But Joe Simmons was a fool too. You can’t wipe the stench of dog shit from your shoe by stepping in a cow pie.
Oh, I knew far more about Joe Simmons than anyone in this county suspected.
I’d been born and raised in Henryetta, on the literal wrong side of the tracks, and I grew up chomping at the bit to get out of this town. When I was fourteen, I met J.R. at the gas station where I worked. He pulled up in his shiny black sedan, stepped out of his car in his fancy gray suit, and in that moment, I decided he had what I wanted. Then, as I pumped his gas, I told him so.
A slow grin spread across his face and he handed me a business card. “When you’re older, look me up. Give the receptionist my card and I’ll put you to work.”
I looked the card over as he drove off. On the front was his name and the address for his law office in El Dorado, and on the back was the number 12.
I graduated high school by the skin of my teeth and took off the next day, driving my beat-up piece of shit car to El Dorado. I walked into the fancy office of the Simmons Law Firm in my ratty jeans and a button-down shirt I’d bought that morning at the Henryetta thrift store, acting like I owned the place, even if I was quaking inside. I’d never given him my name. What if he didn’t remember me?
I handed the creased and stained card to his receptionist, who took it with reservation. She picked up her phone and eyed me with disdain as she said, “There’s . . . a boy here to see you. He doesn’t have an appointment, but he has a card that has the number twelve on the back.”
Thirty-Four and a Half Predicaments Bonus Chapters: Rose Gardner Mystery Page 4