Night Shadows

by Greg Herren

  I tugged my knife through the steak. Not a hint of red. I despise when waiters refuse to believe I want a bloody piece of meat. I tossed the knife onto the tabletop.

  “Is something wrong?”

  My beautiful date didn’t have a clue how long I could rail about the things that had gone wrong the past week. The list was extensive and the overdone steak was the smallest of my worries, but at that very moment it was the only problem I could fix. And I would fix it. “Not to worry. I’ll have this taken care of in a jiffy.” I called out to the tuxedoed waiter as he attempted to ostrich his way past our table.

  “Uh, yes, ma’am. What can I do for you?”

  Ma’am. Hate the word. “When you asked me if I was sure I wanted my porterhouse rare, I said ‘absolutely’, isn’t that true?”

  He shuffled in place, but answered, “Yes, ma’am.”

  “And do you recall how you went on to describe that a rare steak would have a cool, red, bloody center?”

  “Yes, ma’am, but—”

  I held up a hand. “Please just answer the question, yes or no. And you recall that when you described the red and bloody center, I responded ‘yes, that would be perfect.’ Isn’t that true?”

  He hung his head. “Yes, ma’am.”

  I seized the knife and ripped through the wasted filet. “This isn’t bloody and red, is it?”

  “No, ma’am. It’s well done.”

  I let his extra words go unchecked and shoved the plate to the edge of the table. “Please remove this offensive meal and bring me what I ordered. And, stop calling me ma’am.”

  He grabbed the plate and his head bobbed up and down. “Yes, ma—, I mean yes, right away.”

  Shelia leaned across the table, her large bosom heaving against her own plate. “You think you might have been a little hard on him?”

  “I like what I like. Something wrong with that?” I licked my lips to signal she was on my list of likes. She shook her head, her blond waves lilting. “No, baby, nothing wrong with that. Is that how you are in the courtroom? All badass and in control?”

  If she only knew. “Pretty much, but I have to say I do my best work outside of the courtroom.” I risked a subtle glance at my wristwatch. I had some work to do later tonight, in fact.

  “Maybe you could show me after dinner. I can play disruptive juror and you can put some order in my court.”

  From your lips, sweetheart. There was a time when I sought the company of women who weren’t such, well, bimbos, but after a while I discovered the complete lack of curiosity and reflection was actually a bonus. I had too many places to be and people to see in my chosen work, and I couldn’t afford to spend my time with ladies who had the wherewithal to notice my odd comings and goings.

  Our waiter didn’t waste any time serving my new meal, a feat made easy since the steak wasn’t actually cooked. I sliced, effortlessly, through the raw meat and salivated at the trail of blood my knife left smeared across the plate.

  I used to hate the smell of blood. Its heavy metallic odor clung to my skin, filled my nostrils, and colored all of my senses for hours after a particularly messy encounter. But not long after the first time, I began to appreciate how the odor reeked of victory. Reliving the sensation at mealtime was a symbol of how necessary it had become in my life. I ate every bite.

  I waited until Shelia ordered dessert before I feigned an emergency call and made well-practiced excuses. I made idle promises about meeting her later for real dessert, but I couldn’t guarantee it. I knew exactly what I had to do and how long it should take, but every case was different and I’d learned long ago not to assume the work would go as planned.

  The alley was dark. No surprise there. I’d scouted this place and knew every crevice of the wretched strip of crumbling buildings. This part of town wasn’t on anyone’s radar. At least not now. In a week the place would be crawling with spectators, looking for clues, looking for news. My client didn’t want to wait, but I’d warned him I couldn’t guarantee results unless he followed my instructions to the letter. A few weeks in a cell was a fair trade for a lifetime of freedom.

  I pushed open the large steel door and crept into the storeroom. As sure as I was no one was around, I didn’t risk a flashlight until I stumbled into the bundle I’d left and made certain it was where I’d left it.

  She was still unconscious. Close to death, but just far enough away to allow me the final maneuvers.

  This one would be the last. I’d had to stalk this one for a week before I found the perfect moment. In court all day and in the streets all night, the work had taken its toll. When I first started taking these cases, I was young and I had the stamina to handle the work. Now the heavy lifting, the gruesome mess, the keen attention to detail—all left me aching, sore, and mentally drained for weeks after the act.

  And the cleanup. I despised the cleanup. Removing all traces of my presence while ensuring every discoverable detail was perfect. Four years of college, three years of law school, and twenty years in practice and I still couldn’t get away from cleaning up other people’s messes.

  The toil was worth it. My father, damn his soul, was likely tossing in his grave as I took my best revenge—being better at the law than his chosen heir, my older brother. Michael had chosen to give his talents away rather than take the reins of Daddy’s thriving practice. While he defended the rights of humanity in some godforsaken land, I did real work. Grueling, but profitable. Very profitable.

  Reminiscing wasn’t part of my plan. I set aside reflection and drew the plastic bag, the string, and the MAC professional boning knife from my bag, while mentally chanting the details I’d memorized. Seven cuts now, seven after. I’d brought a book to read for the in-between time. She wouldn’t wake up—I’d perfected that part of the process for the cases that demanded no signs of a struggle in the final moments. I liked those best. Less chance of leaving something of myself behind.

  The ribbons of blood were almost pretty. I watched as the trickles flowed down her side, but when the trail ended, I wasted no time placing the bag over her head and tying the string tightly around her neck. Eerie how the plastic drew in and out around her features; the shallow breaths were the only sign of life left. I imagined I could get a few chapters in before it was time to cut again. I shined the light on the latest Grisham novel and drank in the sameness of his storytelling. Ritual is comforting.

  *

  “I wondered if you were going to bother coming to work today.”

  I ignored Jeffrey’s comments and walked directly to the coffee machine where I mixed a strong pot. I’d been super tired the last week. The kill, the waiting, both had taken their toll. I needed coffee and I didn’t need to explain myself to anyone, especially not Jeffrey.

  I’d inherited Jeffrey Talbot from my father. They’d graduated from law school together, gone into practice together immediately. Talbot & Lassiter, Attorneys at Law. “Uncle” Jeffrey had always been a part of my life, and not always a burden.

  I’d just graduated from law school when Jeffrey lost it. His wife was kidnapped, raped, and murdered. The police focused on the usual suspect, the spouse, until another woman met the same fate, mere weeks later when Jeffrey had an alibi. Didn’t matter. Even cleared of all suspicion, Jeffrey never recovered. He missed his wife, he missed his life. He continued to practice, but he was a shell, barely able to focus on his cases. Dear old Dad kept him on. They were like brothers, he said. Jeffrey would always have a place in his practice.

  Dad was long gone, but Jeffrey lingered on. Michael and I had inherited Dad’s half of the practice, but Michael took off to save the world, leaving me to run a business with a doddering old man who couldn’t handle anything more challenging than a simple will or a speeding ticket. The inheritance came with a condition—Jeffrey would stay on. Even after I relocated, time and time again, he stuck with me. Easier for him to ride my coattails than to find a life of his own. I didn’t need him, wished him gone, but not enough to do anything about it
. When the moves didn’t shake him, I gave in to having him around until he died or retired. Daily, I wished for one or the other.

  “Have you seen my book, The Associate? I think I left it in the conference room, but it’s not there now.”

  “No,” I lied. In fact, I knew where his Grisham novel was. In my briefcase. I was certain I’d placed it there after I’d finished my work the night before. I’d sneak it back into the conference room when he wasn’t around. His nasal voice interrupted my thoughts.

  “A woman called for you. Dora”—he referred to the seventy-year-old spinster assistant who’d been with us since my dad had been alive—“said the woman was quite insistent that she speak with you today. I tried to find out what she wanted, but she wouldn’t tell me anything.” Jeffrey thrust a scrap of paper my way. “Here is her number.”

  Kylie Ward. Didn’t know her. Could be anyone. I started to crush the bit of paper in my fist, but stopped. Women desperate for my attention have always been a weakness. I glanced across the room. Jeffrey watched my every move. He always had. Worthless in his own right, it was as if he longed to find weakness in me as well. Good luck with that, old man. I made a show of smoothing the crumpled paper and staring at the name and number. Then I flashed him a smile and went into my office and shut the door. Bastard probably only waited a few seconds before leaning in to listen.

  I picked up the phone, punched the numbers, and waited through three rings.

  “Detective Ward.”

  Detective. Interesting. Even with the extra information, the name didn’t register as familiar. Guess she wasn’t after my body. Probably assigned to a case I was working on.

  “Michelle Lassiter. You called my office?”

  “Thanks for calling me back. I’d like to meet with you. Are you in right now?”

  Her voice was husky. Nice, but my guard was up, especially since I was in the middle of working a case. I’d be calling the police myself, but not yet. “May I ask what it’s regarding?”

  “Actually, I’d rather discuss it in person. It’s an old case. You may not even remember. I’m just down the street, at Leon’s. Maybe we could talk now?” She projected ease and urgency in the same breath, and alarm bells sounded in my head.

  Leon’s coffee shop was buzzing at all times of day. Now that I was in waiting mode, I didn’t really have anything else to do. Better to deal with whatever this was in a crowd of strangers instead of sitting in my office with Jeffrey listening at the door. “I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

  As I walked toward my office door, I remembered the book. Jeffrey could be such a nag when he wanted something. Best to put it back as soon as possible. I clicked through the combination lock on my briefcase and the lid sprang open. A few files, some pens, a stray paper clip or two. The book wasn’t there and suddenly I knew exactly where it was. Damn. I didn’t have time to deal with this detail before I met the detective. I considered calling her back, but curiosity trumped caution. I wanted to know what she had to say. I could retrieve the book after the meeting.

  Jeffrey leaned back as I strode through the door, not even trying to hide his eavesdropping. I knew he was only jealous. He didn’t understand why I took the gruesome cases I did, and then to win them? Well, that really set him on edge. When my father was alive, he never would have let me accept murder cases. Not appropriate for young women to become involved in matters of blood and gore. Better I work on sterile matters involving taxes, property, and setting up businesses. Like all young people, I became obsessed with the forbidden. He’d only been dead a month when I gave into temptation.

  George Cartwright. Young, handsome, and incarcerated. His father, George Sr., had money to burn. The money wasn’t the temptation. The challenge was what drew me in. George Jr. was a hard case. Police thought him a stone-cold killer, psychotic even. They were right, which meant I had to hone skills I hadn’t known I had. I’d litigated plenty of cases, about who owned what and who should pay for what. Georgie’s case called for special talents.

  Jeffrey urged me to refer the case out. We knew plenty of prominent criminal defense attorneys who could handle the case. We did, but I wanted to be one of them. I could do this. As sure as I was that I could, I struggled for days with the law and the facts, neither of which was on my side.

  Until one night I woke with an epiphany. I had to get George Jr. to tell me his story. Every little detail. If I could gain my client’s trust, I could win.

  It took quite a bit of cajoling. George Jr. was proud of his work, but averse to sharing. I primed his pride and goaded him into disclosure. Once he started talking, the details came pouring out. I memorized every one. He was guilty. In mind and deed. The law wasn’t going to help either one of us, but once I had the facts, I was determined to make them work.

  “Ms. Lassiter?”

  I turned toward the voice. I’d let my thoughts distract me from my surroundings. Dangerous for someone in my profession. She stuck out a hand. “Detective Ward. Would you like to go inside or would you rather take a walk with me?”

  She was tall, thin, but wiry. Handsome in a worn and weathered kind of way. Not my usual fare, but I was intrigued. “Let’s take a walk.”

  We walked side by side for two blocks, making idle conversation. She was from Dallas. I’d started practice in Dallas. She worked homicide. I represented murderers. She declared it hot outside. I thought the weather only mild. As we strolled through the streets lined with shops and restaurants, I wondered if she felt as I did, that this was a bit like a first date. Both of us asking vague questions designed to size the other up, both on guard. I had the most to risk. Dallas was a remote time in my past, but the details would always be with me. I knew why she was here, and I quickly grew tired of pretending we were two acquaintances on a walk. I stopped and pivoted to face her. “I’m quite certain you didn’t drive down from Dallas just to chat me up about the weather. What can I do for you, detective?”

  “Sam Dalton.”

  The name caught me off guard. Sam had been number three, the last one. Before Sam, I’d gone ten years without using my special skill. By then I’d achieved an unparalleled level of success. I hadn’t needed to resort to the methods I’d used with George Jr. and the second one, Tim or Tom, I didn’t quite remember. But I’d sensed the economy was on a downturn and I didn’t want to leave anything to chance. Sam’s case had been the easiest. He hadn’t been very inventive and the details of his handiwork were easy to imitate once I had the necessary information. The signature move, a custom-made purple scarf, didn’t turn my stomach like some of my other clients’ creepy maneuvers.

  “I recall Mr. Dalton. That case wasn’t in Dallas.”

  She ignored my last remark. “I’m sure you do remember him. Big win for you, wasn’t it?”

  “Not my biggest.”

  “Fair enough.” A few beats passed before she spoke again. “You seem to have handled many similar cases. George Cartwright, Timothy Richards, Sam Dalton.”

  “It’s been a while, but I don’t recall anything similar about those cases. All of the allegations were very different—stabbing, gunshots, older women, teenage boys. Each was unique, complex.”

  She smiled and held up a hand to stop my discourse. “Yet you won each of those cases. Either won or got the charges dropped. That was the similarity I was talking about.”

  “Oh. I see.” I knew this day would come. I’d planned for it as best I could. The only contingency I hadn’t anticipated was that it would happen when I was in the middle of a case. I needed to wrest control of this situation. Quickly.

  “Do you have a specific question you’d like to ask?”

  “I suppose I’m curious about the secret to your success. All of these men were charged with murder following thorough investigations that seemed to clearly implicate them. Yet you managed to walk them all under the theory the real murderer was still at large. Care to explain how you achieved such extraordinary victories in the face of insurmountable odds?”


  I fought the desire to puff up a bit. It was true, the odds had been insurmountable. But I was willing to take risks other lawyers weren’t. I’d known my luck would run out someday. Could this really be the day? “I’m a zealous advocate. I took an oath and I take it seriously.”

  She waved a hand as if my declaration was a fly in need of swatting. “Zealous. That’s a good word for it. I hear you have a new case. Aren’t you representing Donald Gosling?”

  I feigned a look of surprise at the abrupt change of subject. The only thing about this visit that surprised me was how long it had taken. “I have a lot of cases. Dallas news must be slow for you to want to follow the goings on down here. Have you solved all the crimes in Big D?”

  She shook her head. “Nope. Still have a couple hanging on. No one’s ever made another arrest in those three cases you worked, Cartwright, Richards, and Dalton. But I’m still looking.”

  She punctuated her comment with an intense stare, which I easily returned. Likely, she thought she’d caught me off guard, that after all these years I would have become careless. She didn’t know me at all. I was ready for whatever justice she planned to mete out.

  Almost. I had one more detail to attend to. I glanced at my watch. “As much as I’ve enjoyed this visit, I have things to do.”

  “I’m sure you have plenty to do.” Her smile was sly. “Go ahead, attend to your business. I’ll be around until I get what I came for.”

  She’d get what she came for. I had no doubt about that. Thankfully, the difficult tasks were behind me. I wouldn’t be able to retrieve the book, but a plan began to form in my ever-active brain. First stop, the bank. A certain safe deposit box needed emptying.

  *

  The next morning I shuddered at the sight of the greasy pizza box on my beautiful granite countertop. Not my idea of a decent meal at any time of day. I rang down to the front desk. “Gerald, Michelle Lassiter here. I have some trash in my apartment that can’t wait until tomorrow. Do you think you could send someone up to take it out?” He promised I’d have relief in the next half hour. Plenty of time.