"Well, he's been insane before."
Ben returned to Dennis and Christina and reported.
"All right, my friends, that's it, then. No turning back. He won't make that offer a second time."
"Good," Dennis replied. "I don't want to be tempted."
"And you understand what this means?"
"We're going to trial. Monday morning. On temporary insanity."
"Exactly." Ben took each by the arm and steered them toward the door. He knew there would be a throng of reporters waiting for them outside. "God help us all."
11
Ben sat upright with a start, gasping, covered with sweat.
He was in bed. The sheets were a tangled mess around his feet. He had totally pulled the covers off Christina, probably hours ago. Fortunately, she was an extremely sound sleeper. Nothing bothered her. He could vacuum while she was snoozing and it wouldn't disturb her. Him, not so much.
He was having the weirdest dream, and not the usual one where he appeared before the jury and suddenly realized he was in his underwear. This time, he was driving and something appeared in front of him, causing him to swerve off the road and go over an enormous cliff. He plummeted and there was nothing he could do about it because he was trapped and he couldn't get the seat belt loose, not that plummeting outside a car was necessarily better than plummeting inside a car. He could see the craggy surface rapidly approaching and he screamed in terror, but the impact never seemed to come-he just fell and fell and fell, seemingly forever…
Or at least for seven days?
He rolled out of bed, trying to make as little ripple as possible, went to the sink, and splashed water on his face. That felt better. The cool rivulets trickled down the sides, easing the tensions, slowing his breathing.
He hated trials. And the worst part of any trial was the sleepless night before it started.
He checked the clock on the front of the cable box. It was late. He had to get back to sleep. The first day of a trial, a thousand things happened at once and he had to be ready for all of them, including the ones he hadn't anticipated. Although the jurors had seen him during the selection process, it was still important to make a strong impression on the first day of evidence. When the real action began. The prosecution would undoubtedly have a flurry of surprise motions. The reporters would be everywhere. Just his luck that it happened to be a slow news week. They had been covering the pretrial motions as if they were royal weddings. He could just imagine what it would be like once the trial was actually under way. Buzzards circling about looking for any tabloid tidbit to turn into a lead story and boost ratings. Judge McPartland had said he didn't want any comments on the content of the trial made to the press, but Ben knew there was much that could be done in the realm of characterization and innuendo without actually discussing the evidence. Normally Ben ignored the press during a trial, but he knew Dennis wouldn't like that. Dennis thought it was important to court the media, even now, after the jury had been chosen. And, sad to say, he was probably right.
He slid back into bed as quietly as possible, hugging his pillow tightly. He was wide awake. Did it sometimes seem as if the more desperately you needed sleep, the less likely it was to come?
He flipped from side to side for a few minutes, then finally sat up. He thought he felt Christina stir a little.
"Are you awake?" he asked quietly.
"I am now, Insomnia Boy."
"Didn't mean to wake you."
"I know. Got the pretrial jitters?"
"What makes you think that?"
She pounded her pillow, rolled over, and smiled. "Just a crazy whim. Sure, you were nervous before the last fifty trials, but for this capital murder case, you're fine."
"I would hate to see Dennis go to prison. Even if… well, you know."
"Yeah. Someday we're going to come up with another way to deal with criminals who aren't evil and aren't mean and aren't going to hurt anyone. But it won't be happening tonight, so why don't you get some sleep?"
"I don't think I can. I keep running every aspect of the trial through my head, wondering if there's something I've forgotten."
"I don't want to raise your blood pressure, Ben, but the truth is, you probably have forgotten something. You know as well as I do how huge and complex trials are. It's simply not possible to think of everything. You'll deal with it when it comes up."
"If that's supposed to be comforting, it isn't working. An attorney has to be prepared."
"And you are. How many trial notebooks have you filled to the brim? About twenty?"
"Twenty-nine."
"Is that a new Ben record?"
"Not quite. But you know, we had relatively little time before trial…"
"You're ready. Dennis has nothing to complain about."
"Maybe I should just start reviewing my notes."
"No!" She sat up, and even in the darkness, he could tell she was giving him a stern look. "I absolutely forbid it."
"I didn't know you had that power."
"It's time you did. The honeymoon is over, pal." She sniffed. "Well, technically, the honeymoon never happened."
"Christina…"
"I know. Cheap shot."
"What will I do if they ask a question and I don't know the answer?"
"What you always do. Deal."
He ran his hands through his hair and sighed. "I'm a total mess."
She wrapped her arms around him and gently pulled him to her side. "Yes, you are, but I find that endearing. And you know what? I think the juries do, too. We have this post-Perry Mason idea that lawyers have to be perfectly slick bastions of badinage all the time. But sometimes I think that actually turns jurors off. People like human beings. With flaws. Someone they can relate to. And you've got that. Big-time."
"Thank you. I think."
She hugged him tighter. She smelled extremely nice. Christina was one of those special women who seemed immune to morning breath or any other slumber-related unpleasantness. She was always appealing.
"So, Ben. Is there anything I can do to help you sleep?"
"Well…"
"Anything that's likely to happen."
He smiled. "I'll be fine."
"Give me a minute." She jumped out of bed, put on her robe, and walked into the kitchen. She returned a few minutes later carrying a steaming mug. "Drink this."
Ben took it cautiously. "This isn't drugged, is it? Because I have to be up at six, ready to rock and roll."
"Relax. It's just chamomile tea."
He looked into the cup and frowned. "You're giving me hot leafy water? Doesn't it have caffeine?"
"No. It's not really even tea. But it will help you sleep."
Ben took a sip. "That's not bad." He drank a little more. "Nice, actually."
She smiled. "I'm glad you're getting some benefit out of the marriage. Now, finish it off, then cuddle up close to me and go to sleep."
"Oh… I don't want to keep you awake."
"Who are we kidding? You'll fall right back to sleep. Men always do. Me, it will take a while."
He put down the empty mug and snuggled in. "Thanks for being so nice about it."
She kissed him gently on the forehead. "That's what I'm here for."
12
Loving parked his pickup a few blocks down Brady so he wouldn't be observed. It probably wouldn't matter, but he didn't want anyone to see him coming. He liked to drink in the environment on his own time.
Sunday night was a surprisingly good time to be checking out a cop bar. Might be more crowded on a Friday night, but a lot of the boys were still working and didn't have the luxury of getting plastered. Sunday night, however, most were off-duty, more than at any other time. There was usually a game on, it was guaranteed to be more exciting on the big screen, and it was a fair bet that no one living off a cop's salary had a ninety-inch screen like the one inside this joint. And it was no small factor that Oklahoma still operated under the barely post-prohibition liquor laws that barred the sale of
anything other than 3.2 beer anywhere but in liquor stores-which were required to be closed on Sunday. For the heavy drinker who failed to plan ahead, a trip to the local bar was mandated.
Loving heard the singing before he saw the people. Three big burly sorts, arms around each other, standing on the street corner, waiting for a taxi. The guys who regularly pulled people over for DUIs had the sense not to drive themselves home.
"Oh, Danny boy, the pipes, the pipes are playin'…"
Loving winced. After a few too many brewskis, the Irish buried deep inside anyone with Irish ancestry within the last forty-seven generations always seemed to emerge. He knew the lead vocalist. His name was Ginsberg. But there must be some Irish in there somewhere.
His two buddies joined in. "The summer's gone, and all the leaves are fallin'…"
Loving doubted they were in any condition to be interrogated. He passed them by, giving them a nod as he did, and entered Scene of the Crime.
This had been the top cop bar for some while. Back in the day, it had been Harry's over on 41st and Peoria, but nowadays this place saw most of the boys-in-blue action. It was low-key enough, and with a reasonably restricted clientele, no one had to worry about what might be reported back the next day. Loving was not much of a drinker, but he could appreciate the need for a swig every now and again, or perhaps even more importantly, the need for a safe, friendly place to hang. It was easy to forget, given how arrogant some could be and how negative most of their encounters with the populace were, that police officers had a tough job, and at the end of the day, as they approached that car they had just pulled over, they had no way of knowing what they were going to face. Loving would not begrudge them the occasional opportunity to unwind.
As he passed through the front door, his senses were assaulted by so many different sensations they were hard to catalog. The strongest was the smell-pungent beer, mixed with stale breath and pretzels. Smoke thicker than oxygen. The clink and rattle of mugs and ashtrays. Loud music from the juke and the blast of the television even more deafening, especially every time the right team scored. A century of police paraphernalia hanging on the wall, some of it dating back to the Victorian era-billy clubs, truncheons, caps, badges, bullets. A huge television screen, bigger than some movie theaters he'd visited. And way too many people crammed into too little space, lubricated with hops and barley.
Actually, Loving loved it here.
He nodded at the owner, Jake Bradley, a retired cop he had known for probably twenty-five years. Bradley acknowledged him but did not smile. A bad indication, Loving thought. He must realize that Loving hadn't dropped by just for a tall cold one.
Loving decided against the usual surreptitious approach-casual conversation, crazy bar tricks, something to get the tongues wagging. These men weren't stupid. All too many of them spent a good portion of their days trying to get suspects or witnesses to talk. They weren't going to be fooled by anything he tried. He might as well find someone promising and dig in. He'd read Dennis's statement and knew everyone who had been involved or on duty when the week-long drama was playing itself out.
"Jimmy Babbitt! How are ya, you old boozehound?"
Babbitt turned and gave Loving a sharp stare. He was closing in on forty but he didn't look it. He'd gained some weight since Loving had last seen him, but he still didn't have the soft paunch that spoiled the line of too many police uniforms. Loving knew he had been the first responder at the scene of the murder of Detective Sentz.
"Loving." Babbitt looked at him levelly. "Haven't seen you here in a while."
"No. I've been busy." He pointed toward the empty chair at his table. "Mind if I take a seat?"
Babbitt did not respond immediately. "Are you here on business or pleasure?"
"Both." Loving sat down even without the invitation. "No, that's crap. You know I'm here on business."
"Figured as much. You're still working for that lawyer, right?"
"Proud to say I am."
"Representing the man who killed Chris."
"He represents the accused, Jimmy. It's his job."
"Wasn't there a time when he was accused-"
"If you remember that, you must also remember it was a put-up job. A frame."
"That's what I heard." Babbitt poured some beer down his throat. "Still, I don't mind saying a guy as resourceful as you ought to be able to find a better way to make a living."
"I like working for Ben Kincaid. He's a good guy doing good work. And he helped me out when I really needed it. More than once."
"Whatever." Babbitt glanced over at the big screen. "I can't talk about the case."
"I know you can't." Loving fell silent and let several seconds pass. "Heck of a thing, though."
Babbitt's head pivoted slowly. "What are you talking about?"
"Chris gettin' killed. With all those cop buddies swarmin' around the hotel."
"They were working."
"Not hard enough, I guess."
"They were on a stakeout. They didn't expect some nutcase with an axe to grind against Chris."
"Still, you'd think they'd notice somethin'. When that Thomas guy waltzed in the front door."
"For your information, Officer Shaw saw him at the elevator-" He stopped himself, smiled. "Oh, you're good. You're trying to Scooby-Doo me, aren't you?"
"Don't know what you're talkin' about."
"This is how you get me to tell you something you don't already know."
Loving returned the smile. "It was worth a try." He chuckled a little. "Heck of a weird thing, though."
"You're still doing it."
"Sorry, sorry." Loving shifted in his seat. He crossed his legs, then uncrossed them. He folded his arms. "But why didn't they do somethin' about Thomas?"
"They didn't see him coming."
"Didn't see him comin'? Officer Shaw says he talked to him!"
"He was busy with something else."
"Right, right." Loving frowned. "And you didn't see anythin' suspicious when you got there?"
"No, I didn't."
"And there was no sign of a fight, right?"
Babbitt's eyes narrowed. "Are you telling me what you already know, or trying to get me to tell you what I already know?"
"Little of both. No fight, right? No sign of forced entry."
"True enough."
"So Sentz let him in. And they didn't scuffle."
"You have a problem with that?"
"Well, holy moley, Jimmy. Sentz refused to find the man's dying wife. They have a big knockdown grudge match at the scene of her death. Sentz has him arrested. When they meet again, I figure it's not gonna be to play canasta!"
"Yeah, that part is odd, I admit. But I don't think it means anything. You know how Chris was. He probably tried to talk some sense into the guy. Probably felt sorry for him. And paid for it, big-time."
"Why were you the first responder when there were already cops on the premises? You came in from the street."
"Like I told you, they were busy."
"And like you also told me, Shaw stopped the guy on his way to the elevator!"
"Did I hear my name?"
Loving bit down on his lower lip. He didn't have to swivel to know who that was. Served him right for being stupid enough to raise his voice.
"If you've got questions about me, Loving, why don't you ask me?"
Loving turned and saw Peter Shaw standing behind him, bald head, goatee, sour expression. Two of his buddies were standing behind him.
It was never a good sign when they came with muscle.
"I'm just tryin' to find out what happened at that hotel," Loving said, as cool and nonchalant as the circumstances allowed. "Kind of a strange deal."
"What's so strange about it?" Shaw obviously worked out. His arms and pecs were artificially inflated but, Loving reminded himself, size did not necessarily equal strength. He wore a tight T-shirt and, since Loving had seen him last, he had shaved his head. A necessity, Loving wondered, or had he just spent too many n
ights playing his DVD box set of The Shield? "Doesn't seem strange to me."
"What were you stakin' out at the Marriott? No drugs out there. No gangs."
"That's not the only kind of crime in town."
"Then what was it?"
"I'm not at liberty to say."
"How 'bout I run through a long list and you tell me what it wasn't? Gold, silver, rare stamps, old comic books, Krugerrands-"
"Give it up, Loving. I'm not telling you anything." He was inching closer, defensive and irritated and expressing both through his attempts to be intimidating. Which would work fairly well even without his muscle-bound buddies. "Go home."
"And then there's the question of why Sentz was alone in the hotel room. Every stakeout I ever heard about, two men partner up and stay together. It's too dangerous for one to be alone. As I guess this proves."
"Sometimes I was in the room, sometimes one of the other boys. We had a lot of ground to cover. We couldn't afford to stay in one place all the time."
"Sounds like you weren't followin' procedure."
"We weren't expecting a murderer."
"Didn't he threaten Sentz when his wife died?"
"Nobody thought he meant it."
"Or maybe you did."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
Truth to tell, Loving didn't really know. But there was something odd about Shaw's reaction. "I know you were on the premises when it happened, Shaw. Why didn't you stop Thomas before he got upstairs?"
"I was working!"
"In the hotel bar? I can just imagine."
"I was watching the front door."
"With a couple of martinis, I'll bet. Is that why you couldn't stop Thomas? Vision a little blurry?"
Shaw clenched his teeth. "I don't know who you think you are-"
Loving pressed ahead. He wasn't going to make friends with this guy, and he sensed his time was limited, so he might as well play for as much information as possible. "You did stop and talk to him. But then you let him ride on up the elevator. That's weird."
"I couldn't make a big scene! I was undercover!"
"So you let a guy who supposedly threatened your pal a few days before ride up the elevator and plug him."
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