by Mike Pace
Keyword: temporary. Now the fairy dust had blown off and he was back to reality. He glanced over to his bedside table. Mr. Glock, no doubt also wide awake, rested next to an empty cocktail glass with traces of his other pal, Dr. Daniel’s. He knew he should hide the weapon, but at night he felt a sense of comfort having the gun nearby. Not that he was concerned about an intruder, or wanted easy access if he decided to blow his brains out. Rather, he viewed Mr. Glock as his partner, his sidekick, buds till the end.
“Hail to the Redskins—” His phone. He retrieved the phone from the bedside table and checked the screen. Jess. The last thing he needed was a clinger going nutso because his view of their relationship didn’t match hers. But he couldn’t shake the image of her face—the fear appeared genuine.
He answered. “Do you know what time it is?”
“Tom, please. I need to see you. Now. Tonight.” Her voice sounded nearly frantic.
“Let me repeat. Do you know what time—?”
She responded as if she hadn’t heard him. “Look, I’m sorry if I embarrassed you in front of your date. This has nothing to do with you and me.”
“Then what? And why can’t it wait till the morning?”
“I know something I’m not supposed to know. They want it. So I hid—”
“You hid what? What do you know? Is Marcie there?”
“She’s spending the night at Zig’s. I don’t want to, I can’t be drawn into it. I don’t know what to do and you’re the only—”
He could tell she was crying. He was awake anyway, and his curiosity had been piqued. “Okay, okay. Put on a pot of coffee.”
“Thanks. And Tom, if for some reason…well, just in case someone’s listening, remember doo-wop. Please hurry.”
She hung up.
Doo-wop? What the hell?
Forty-five minutes later, he found a parking space over a block away from Jess’ townhouse complex. He parked and took another swallow from Dr. Daniel’s bottle—just a sip this time, as he’d been cognizant as he drove down Connecticut Avenue that he’d had a bit of trouble staying in his lane.
He walked toward Jess’ place. The complex consisted of four separate, white-brick buildings, each containing three residences. Jess’ place was the center unit in the farthest building from his car.
Approaching, he thought he saw movement near her building, possibly the shadow of a moving figure. He looked harder, but in the darkness it was difficult to tell. By the time he got closer, the shadow had disappeared.
As Tom passed the block of residences next to Jess’ building, he vaguely sensed he was having trouble walking in a straight line, but found if he really concentrated—
A light came on in the window of the first townhouse. The door opened and an older, heavyset woman wearing curlers and a housecoat let a tiny white dog out the door to pee on the postage stamp lawn. The dog spotted him, yipped, and charged.
“Lester, you get in here this instant before you wake the whole damn neighborhood!” The dog reluctantly returned to its master. The woman scooped up Lester in one hand and closed the door.
When Tom reached Jess’ building, he noticed no lights were on in her unit or the units on either side of hers. Hardly surprising, since it was almost three in the morning. With the help of a railing, he climbed the short flight of stairs to her front door. In consideration for the sleeping neighbors, he elected to ring the doorbell instead of knocking.
He heard the chimes sound inside the unit. He waited, but no one answered. He tried again. Nothing.
Heck with the neighbors. He was tired and pissed at himself for giving in to Jess. He knocked harder. Again, no response. Probably in the bathroom, he thought.
He waited about five minutes, then again rang the bell. No one opened the door. He retrieved his cell phone, scrolled to recent calls, and found her number. He was about to hit the call button when he paused.
Screw her. She’d dragged him out of bed just to play games? He was nuts to listen to the crazy bitch. Never again.
“…Braves on the war path…” He woke from a dreamless sleep with a splitting headache. Afraid his anger at Jess would’ve kept him awake when he returned from Foggy Bottom, just the opposite happened—he’d fallen asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow.
If it was Jess, he wouldn’t answer. No, on second thought, if it was Jess, he’d unload on her, and convey as plainly as he was able that he had no intention of ever seeing her again.
But it was Zig. When he spoke, his voice sounded ragged.
“Jess is dead.”
It took five full seconds for Tom to process what he thought he’d heard. “What are you talking about? I spoke to her, what, four or five hours ago?”
“She’s been murdered.”
CHAPTER 27
Suddenly, Tom was wide awake. “Start over.”
“Marcie spent the night with me, and had to go back to their place early this morning to dress for work. She found Jess in their apartment with a bullet in her head. She called 911, then called me. I’m over here now; Marcie’s kind of in shock. Hell, we’re both in shock.”
Tom struggled to the kitchen and on his third try, was able to insert the K-Cup into his coffee maker. “I can’t believe it. We just saw her last night at the party.”
“What time did she call you?” asked Zig.
“Hang on.” Tom found his pants and, after fumbling through the pockets, retrieved his cell phone. “Uh, 2:49 a.m.”
“What did she want at that hour?”
“Good question. She said she needed legal advice and insisted she talk to me in person. Said she needed to show me something.”
“What?”
“Got me.” He was about to tell Zig he’d attempted to visit Jess, but held off. No reason for anybody to know he’d been there, and it would be unfair to put Zig in a compromising position if questions were later asked.
The familiar fizzzz signaled his coffee was ready, and he gulped down half the cup. Tom now remembered the shadowy figure disappearing into the darkness. “How’d the murderer get in? Anybody see him?”
“They got the forensic guys over here, but no sign of forceful entry.”
“I can’t believe Jess would let a stranger into her house at any time, but particularly at that hour.”
“I overheard a cop telling the homicide detective there may’ve been a witness who saw a guy who appeared intoxicated approaching Jess’ house. Marcie and I are in the living room now. They don’t want us moving around and disturbing anything. Looks like the place has been tossed.”
Tom still had a tough time processing the news. “So they’re assuming this was a burglary gone bad?”
“Marcie says Jess didn’t have anything of real value. Maybe a few pieces of costume jewelry, but they’re still here. She said when she found the body, Jess was fully dressed, not in her nightclothes. No outward sign of sexual assault.”
“Jesus.”
“Sick bastard. Hope they fry his ass and send him to hell. If there is a hell.”
Oh, there’s a hell, thought Tom.
Definitely a hell.
Tom adjusted the desk chair, lowering it to accommodate his height. One of the other PDS attorneys had to go on maternity leave, so he temporarily inherited her tiny desk in her tiny cubicle. He’d already explored the few drawers and found tissues, nail polish, lip gloss, Motrin, eyeliner, and more lip gloss. It wasn’t a desk, it was a bathroom cabinet.
After three cups of coffee, dry Cheerios, and three Motrin borrowed from the new mother, Tom’s brain was back in the functioning mode. He stared at the stack of arraignment files. He had to be in court in thirty minutes, and needed to go through the records to see if he could locate another Reece Mackey, some scumbag whose life he was willing to sacrifice to save his daughter. But all he could think about was Jess. She’d been killed in the forty-five minutes or so it had taken him to get dressed and drive to Foggy Bottom. His first thought had been that the murder was connected to whatever she�
�d wanted to discuss with him. Maybe in sacking her apartment the killer wasn’t looking for valuables, but whatever it was she’d hid. Maybe—okay, he had to force Jess from his brain and concentrate.
He’d made it through four files, the most serious an unarmed B&E, when Eva popped her head over the divider.
“Got a second?” she asked.
He followed her into her office, garnering a dirty look as they passed DTA, and closed the door. Eva’s good-night kiss seemed like it happened weeks ago instead of the previous night. He’d passed her in the hallway earlier, and they both had greeted each other very professionally. But now, in the privacy of her office, he wasn’t sure how she’d react and so he remained standing.
As she walked past him to her desk, she briefly squeezed his hand, then took a seat. He followed suit and sat in the single uncomfortable chair facing her.
“Have a bit of news,” she said.
“Me too. You go first.”
“Reece Mackey’s dead, so looks like you’re not going to get a trial in before your pro bono term’s up. Unless we find one of the other attorneys who’ll agree to give you something from their docket, which is always possible.”
Tom did his best to show shock. “Dead? How?”
“Mackey was a known alcoholic and he apparently drank himself to death.”
“Jeez, when?”
“Over the weekend. Saturday night, Sunday morning.”
Tom knew his next speech had to be Oscar-worthy. “Wow, must’ve been soon after I left him.” He cringed inside, waiting for her to respond.
“You saw Mackey over the weekend?”
“Yeah. Wanted to go over his case and that’s the only time he’d see me. Went to his place—pretty rough, by the way. He was deep into the hooch when I arrived. Gin, I think. Maybe vodka, can’t remember. But he was intelligible.”
In less than a second, he debated whether to mention the Wild Turkey. Hide in plain sight.
“I took him a bottle of bourbon as a gift. When I’d met him in a bar earlier, he was very wary of me, so I figured if I brought him a bottle of booze, maybe he’d trust me a little bit more. In retrospect, not very smart.”
“Don’t beat yourself up. How were you to know?”
“So sad. Such a waste of human life.” Careful. Don’t overdo it.
“What was your news?”
“Even worse, I’m afraid.” In this case, no acting was required. “Jess Hawkins—you remember I introduced her to you at Bat’s party?”
Eva’s smile never got close to her eyes. “How could I forget? Former girlfriend, right?”
“She was the roommate of my best friend’s girlfriend, and we went out a couple of times as a foursome. That’s it.”
“Was?”
“She was killed last night.”
“God, I’m sorry. What happened?”
“Apparently, a burglary gone wrong. Foggy Bottom’s pretty safe, but it’s still in the city.”
“Any leads?”
“Possible witness. Just found out this morning from Zig, so that’s all I really know.”
“Again, I’m sorry.”
“Thanks.” He didn’t know what else to say.
“So, look, I’ll try to get you another trial before your time’s up. In the meantime, you want to try your hand at covering px’s for a few days?”
Good news. He’d have a better chance finding a potential target doing preliminary hearings where the prosecutor would be more forthcoming about the defendant’s background. “You’re the boss.”
“On an interim basis, until they decide on a replacement for Shanny.”
“They’d be crazy not to promote you.” Okay, he was sucking up a little bit, but, in fact, she was the most qualified. Head and shoulders above DTA. “I had a good time last night.”
“Me too.”
Her phone rang. She checked the number. “Got to take this. Tell Danny I said to give you half the px files.”
He left her office and found DTA hovering outside in the corridor.
“Eva said to split up the px files.”
“Ooh, the newbie’s getting promoted. Impressive. So, I heard you two were tearing up the dance floor at the Four Seasons last night.”
“A gentleman never tells.” Tom had witnessed many shit-eating grins, but had never tried one himself, so he wasn’t sure how his attempt was being perceived.
Apparently, it was sufficient for his purposes, as DTA scowled and returned to his desk.
As Tom followed to collect his files, one question nagged him. Should he have told Eva about his nocturnal visit to Jess’ place?
He rationalized that doing so would’ve only raised issues in Eva’s mind about Tom’s feelings toward Jess. And besides, he’d never actually seen Jess, and no one had seen—
A guy who appeared intoxicated approaching Jess’ house.
Damn.
Lester.
CHAPTER 28
Tom pushed the image of the annoying white dog from his mind—it had been dark, and it was highly unlikely the old woman would be able to identify him.
Two hours later, he was sitting at the defense table in Willie Cyrus Clay’s courtroom. Instead of simply dividing his stack of files in half, DTA had cherry-picked the ones involving the most serious crimes for himself. Tom feigned disappointment and enjoyed DTA’s smug look as Tom carried his stack away.
Of course, Tom didn’t really want cases involving perps who would likely remain incarcerated. He needed to follow the Reece Mackey template—a real bad man who was charged with a minor crime and thus out on bail.
With only a few minutes to thumb through the files, he’d been able to identify three possibilities—Victor Ramos, Elgin Boyd, and LaRon Walker. Each had a record of beating a murder or manslaughter charge in the past, and was now up for a minor misdemeanor.
Judge Clay had been around forever. Despite being long past the mandatory retirement age of seventy, like most of his retired colleagues, he continued to take cases on a part-time basis, both to help chip away at the court system’s expanding caseload and to stay out of his wife’s hair. Tom could tell immediately that Clay was bored, which on balance wasn’t a bad thing, since it meant he paid little attention to the AUSA’s efforts to stifle Tom’s attempts at discovery.
As he’d departed for court, Eva told him that Clay, being old school, rarely set separate bail review, and entertained motions to reduce bond at preliminary hearings, which didn’t usually occur. Tom was particularly focused on Boyd and Ramos, who both remained in jail. He needed them out on the street so—so what? So he could kill them.
Unfortunately, Boyd had already jumped bond on two prior occasions, and Ramos was being held on an extradition warrant from Virginia, so neither of them walked out the courtroom’s front door.
That left LaRon Walker. When the side door opened, Tom was shocked to see the marshal escort a black female toward his table. He quickly re-checked his file. No picture.
The bailiff announced, “US v. LaRon Walker, case No. 657452.”
“My name’s LaRyn, not LaRon.”
Tom suspected that name mix-ups were not unheard of, as the clerk made a notation on her file with no indication the mistake was anything other than routine.
LaRyn sat next to Tom and the marshal uncuffed her. She looked like a caricature of a low-class hooker. Overweight, her butt hung out of her skintight shorts, her black hose was torn in three places, and she wore a halter top which, in its battle to restrain her heavy breasts, was hopelessly overmatched. Her eyes had the half-lidded glaze of a druggie, her hair frizzed out in a hundred directions, and her makeup resembled that of a circus clown. She was a mess.
Tom recalled from an earlier perusal of the file that she was charged with assault with a deadly weapon, blinding the victim, one LaToya Robinson, in one eye. He remembered Walker had three children, but believed his client was the father of the children. That LaRyn was the mother might make it easier to get her bail reduced.
She opened her mouth to speak, and Tom instinctively backed away. Her breath blasted an acidic mix of cheap whiskey and cigarettes. She whispered, “Where’s the blond dude?”
DTA must’ve handled her arraignment. “He’s tied up with another case, so I’m covering for him. He’ll represent you at trial.”
Clay nodded to Berman, the prosecutor. “Please proceed.”
Berman called the arresting officer, who succinctly described a fight between LaRyn and LaToya near Logan Circle, one of the four or five spots in the city long known for scoring a quick “roadie.” On the way out of town for eastbound commuters returning home to the Maryland suburbs, men would pause on the Circle; a “hostess” would hop into the passenger side of the family minivan. He’d pull into one of the dark streets spoking off from the Circle, get a quick blow job, pay the hostess twenty bucks, return to the Circle, drop her off, then hurry home to mom and the kids now completely relaxed from the stress of the day.
According to the officer, LaToya jumped in front of LaRyn when a customer stopped on the Circle. LaRyn took issue with this breach of protocol and decided to express her disappointment by removing one of her shoes and swinging its eight-inch heel as hard as she could at LaToya’s face. The heel caught LaToya flush in her eye, actually partially dislodging the eye from the socket. Tom now realized if he’d read the file more carefully, he would’ve deduced that LaRon was of the female variety.
Tom asked a few questions, but apparently his client had admitted, indeed bragged, about her courageous stand against a violator of the sacred code of the Circle. He was much more interested in her bail. Although the thought of killing a woman gave him even deeper pause, he’d worry about that later. He had the rest of the week to find a better candidate, but the more options available on the street, the better his chances. The judge ruled that LaRyn be bound over to the grand jury. Before he could call the next case, Tom rose.
“Your Honor, I would like to address the matter of Ms. Walker’s bail.”