One Dead Lawyer (David Price Mysteries)

by Tony Lindsay

  Yin and Yang moved first. They bolted from the kitchen to my side. I told everyone to remain still, because if they moved the dogs would strike. Gunshots fired as close as those puts them in attack mode. I opened the front door and directed them to “secure.”

  Their constant barking and growling let me know the area was occupied. My intention was to go upstairs and get my pistols, but when I turned, Ricky was there and handed me his.

  I wasn’t ready for outside.

  Seeing their bodies sprawled across my steps broke me down to my knees. I crawled to them. There was nothing to be done. I did no service checking for a pulse or trying to stop the flow of blood from their heads and chests. Mouth-to-mouth resuscitation did nothing. The mother and son were dead.

  Wednesday morning found me alone sitting at my grandmother’s kitchen table cleaning pistols. I hadn’t slept. I called Ricky and asked him to go to Peal’s office with me. He reminded me of the early-morning plan he, Regina and I came up with.

  Daphne’s information was to be given to Eleanor. The plan didn’t seem enough to me. More was needed. Ricky disagreed and told me to get some sleep. He was wrong. Cleaning the pistols had me on the right track. What was needed had to do with the pistols. It must have, because holding my pistols made me feel better.

  Ricky called me back and tried to make me swear I wouldn’t go over to the lawyer’s office. I hung up the phone. Attorney Peal needed to see me.

  I am not really a violent man. Putting my pistol to Attorney Peal’s head, or any other man’s head, is not how I operate. It was his condescending, arrogant, superior attitude that drew my pistol from the holster to his head. It was the way he pointed to the chair in front of his desk and said, “Sit down right there and be brief, my time concerning this matter is limited.” I didn’t take the seat he ordered me to.

  Instead I slammed his office door closed, and got with his ass. He tried to run past me, but I clotheslined him. His head was between my forearm and bicep; I tried to stop his screaming by choking him, but he started biting my arm. That’s when I put the pistol to his head and pulled him to the floor. Thank God Ricky came in when he did. His dragging me from that office saved my life and Peal’s life. Hopefully I will do better with Eleanor.

  Book Two

  Chapter Twelve

  “Once you go black, you never go back.” I heard the saying decades ago when I was in college; some white girls who came to one of our frat parties were giggling it in a corner. With Attorney Randolph Peal it appeared to be the truth.

  His first wife, Eleanor, is an African American woman. They had no children together, but judging by the size of her Olympia Fields estate, she did quite well in the divorce. Waiting at the black cast-iron gates, the only opening to the solid red-brick wall that surrounds her estate, I sit fumbling with the words I am to say to her.

  This is not an easy task for me, causing someone else pain for my own gain, but it must be done; Peal has left me no other choice. I hear her houseman announcing my arrival over the intercom buzz. The gates roll open, and I drive up the long maple- and oak-tree-lined path to the estate.

  Wealth, as it is meant to do, intimidates me. Seeing and feeling the ostentatiousness of the property lessens my own personal worth. Even though I am riding in a 2003 DTS, I feel minor, like a peon. Yes, I am okay with money, but being okay ain’t being wealthy. Peal can afford to lose this property in a divorce and continue to live downtown and build out in the high-brow suburb of Lake Forest.

  I park my Caddy at the end of the U in front of the estate. I grab the folder with the information Daphne gathered. Walking through the bright, near-blinding sunlight toward the home, I pat my shirt pocket for my sunglasses, but they are missing. My mind goes back to the struggle with Peal. They probably came undone from my pocket then. I give myself a quick once-over, Rocawear blue jeans, a white short-sleeved shirt and new all-white Reeboks. I look all right.

  At the foot of the Colonial-style mansion, I take four steps up and walk between two thirty-foot white pillars to the fifteen-foot wooden door. I don’t have to ring or knock. The houseman opens the colossal door and greets me with a smile. I see big lumps under both his eyes. If he can smile at me after the whipping Stanley and I gave him, I certainly can smile at him.

  He doesn’t look at all like the butler type. He’s about six foot five inches tall and an easy 300-pounds of solid muscle. He answers the door in a sleeveless T-shirt and baggy blue-jean shorts. On his left shoulder is the tattooed number three and the capital letter M; on his right shoulder are three capitol M’s in a row. My guess is that the houseman is in his late twenties, and the young tank of a brother could probably bench-press 400-pounds, but he’s kind of slow with his dukes—after all an “old hat” like me was able to sting him with jabs and a bone-crusher.

  “She’ll meet you in the library, Mr. Price.”

  “You can call me David, bro.”

  With a standard greeting smile still on his face he answers, “Naw, Mr. Price. I cain’t do that. Ms. Peal told all of us to address everybody as Mr. and Ms. No disrespect meant. It’s about keeping my cheddar job,” he pauses to look me square in the eye. I’m thinking he’s about to get froggy, but with a smile still on his face he winks and leans a little toward my ear and says in a real low tone, “And believe what I tell you, boss, this is a cheddar job. You might want to think about a career change, since your clients be gettin’ gunned down and all.” He is grinning now, and he stands straight.

  “This way, sir,” he says and walks away from me.

  I yank the pistol on my left free with my right hand. I run up on him and jab the pistol into the back of his head. “You don’t want to say nothing like that to me ever again.” He stops walking.

  “You ain’t gonna shoot me in here old man, so why you even pull ya gat? Put it away, pops, befo’, you hurt ya’self. We’ll get a chance to dance later. I promise.” And he walks on like I didn’t even put a pistol to his head.

  One, two, three . . .

  Fuck it.

  I run up behind and knock him upside the head with the butt of my 9 mm. I hit him so hard pain shoots through the small of my back. He falls to his knees. I tell him “I’m not the one to play with, motherfucker,” while I shove the barrel of the pistol into his ear. “You see what I think about putting a slug in you ain’t shit. And if I find out you drive a white Bentley, one of these slugs in this pistol here got your on name it. Now get your stank-ass up.” I let him up, but keep my pistol drawn.

  I follow him to a room large enough to be a small town’s library.

  “Wait in here. Lady will be with you shortly.”

  He’s rubbing the knot I just put upside his head, but the bastard is still grinning. Why, I don’t know. Maybe he’s just stupid as a mule. Once he left the room I holster my pistol, but I don’t snap the strap. People are making me into a violent man. I am not violent. Taking long, deep, cleansing breaths is working. My heart is no longer pounding in my head.

  Looking around, I notice none of the book cases in the library are over seven feet high, but they cover the width of all four walls. Three rows of the book cases run down the middle of the floor area. The ceiling and what can be seen of the walls are all stark white. The floor is tiled in a black-and-white checkerboard pattern.

  When I look closer at the book cases, I notice they are made of either plastic or vinyl; not wood. There is one black leather captain’s chair on wheels and one long white marble table in front of the three rows. There is nothing inviting about the room, no warmth. I’m standing here wondering why a person would make a home library so cold.

  Eleanor has entered the library behind me, I turn to greet her and see the sadness. “Who would do such thing, kill her and her son . . . it’s so wrong, Mr. Price, so, very, very wrong. When I heard her name on the news I collapsed, I couldn’t believe it. Only an evil person would kill a mother and her child.”

  “I agree, and I will do my best to track the murderer down. Rest assu
red in knowing that.”

  “Good, and be swift with your judgment.”

  The icy tone of her statement surprises me. She grabs me by the hand and is leading me out of the library.

  What I have heard about Eleanor I like. The talk about her is all good. People say that her friends and close family live and work on the estate with her. When she made it, she took her circle with her. Her aunt, who cooked for a hotel, now gets paid well to cook for their family. Her uncle, a cab driver, now drives only her. And after two years, the estate continues to be one of the better-looking properties in the area. She knew she needed help to run the estate, and she went to her family and friends and got it.

  “Let’s walk through the garden, David. We can chat outside.” The houseman is standing by the door. “Michael, if it’s not too much trouble, could you fix us a little lemonade and bring it out to the gazebo?”

  “No problem, it will be ready in a minute. Would you like it made with sparkling water?”

  “Oh yes, that would be marvelous. Thank you, Michael.”

  Out the fifteen-foot door and down the four steps and back into the harsh bullying sun, we take a rocky walkway around the back of the home.

  “You know, David, I haven’t seen you since my parents’ wedding. Oh, you were quite the stepper then: I along with every other woman there couldn’t help but watch you dance. Do you still step?”

  I did dance quite a bit that day; it was a steppers crowd. Her parents are of my generation, and they and their friends step. Everyone who could, did. And everyone considered themselves a “boss stepper” but only a few really are. Since it was a neighborhood function and would be talked about for months, people were really trying to show off, myself included.

  “Not too much at clubs anymore, but I still cut up a bit at weddings and parties.”

  “Well you were certainly something to watch that day. Be mindful of the path, the rocks can trip you.”

  The rocks have been laid very well, the path of cobblestones are as even as a sidewalk.

  “Randolph’s mother started the garden, but I maintained and enlarged it after she left. On hot days like this it smells heavenly. I’m showing off, in case you didn’t know. Since the garden club out here ignored my request for membership, I don’t really get a chance to show it off much. It took a lot of work to get it right. It’s what’s called a four-season garden; I have blooms year around. Do you garden?”

  “Not flowers. I grow a few collards, peppers and tomatoes, nothing really pretty.”

  “I would imagine a vegetable garden is just as relaxing.”

  I never thought about my garden that way, but she is right. Since I hadn’t been working on cars lately, it is my garden that has been relaxing me. Four days ago I’d pulled every weed in sight, shifted the soil and built up around the tomatoes and peppers. My tomatoes were doing darn good, and they were doing well without chemical boosters. I’m looking forward to working in it with Chester. Kids like playing in the dirt; at least I did when I was his age.

  “Yeah you’re right, gardening does relax me.”

  Eleanor is not a magazine beauty. Her face isn’t narrow, nor are her features chiseled. She doesn’t possess the strong African look that is so popular as of late. There is nothing exotic about her. Her skin is paper-bag brown. Her forehead is large, her lips are thick, her nose is wide and her eyes are as round as quarters. Her left earlobe is split. Faint old scars can be seen on her neck and left cheek. Pockmarks are on her face, and through her straight weave I can see that her kitchen needs a little work.

  She is wearing a pair of khaki cut-offs, yellow leather sandals and a tan Danskin top. Her legs are thick, bowed and hairless. Her toes and fingernails have been done with small daisies painted on each. She is what men back in the day called “stacked”: large breasts, thin waist, full hips and a round butt, all this on about a five-foot, eight-inch frame. I imagine Randolph wasn’t happy about leaving all this woman—at least I wouldn’t have been.

  I look around the estate and notice all of the landscaping is wonderful, grass cut and edged to perfection, shrubs and trees trimmed and pruned to a Better Homes and Gardens exactness. Nothing is out of place or in disorder, but the flower garden is exceptional.

  The garden is filled with lilies, magnolias, roses, huge daisies, ferns, morning glories, wild flowers, colorful cabbages, forget-me-nots, cacti, wood chips, pretty rocks, white sand and red clay. It is breathtaking. “Wow,” is all I can say. The aroma is glorious. It tickles my nose and forces me to smile. A much-needed calm falls over me standing amid such pungent sweetness. I want to drop down to my knees and bury my nose in the bundles of flowers. I don’t. Instead I look to the “’round-the-way-girl” who created this slice of Eden.

  “You did this?”

  “Yes, 95 percent of it is mine. Surprised?”

  “Honestly, yeah I am.”

  “Well you aren’t the first person we’ve surprised, and I’m certain you won’t be the last. Do you like it?”

  “Oh yeah, it’s calming in an almost spiritual way.”

  “Mm, I never looked at it as spiritual, simply relaxing. Come sit with me.”

  I follow along the path. The gazebo is in the middle of the garden. Standing on the steps, I can see the circular pattern of the rows she laid. The roses are the closest to the gazebo.

  “I like the circle pattern. Your design or the gardener’s?”

  “David, I am the gardener,” she states, smiling like a proud kid with an A on her report card. “I planted the plants in the pattern you see. I don’t mind getting my hands dirty.”

  Looking at her square on, my guess is that she is fifteen to seventeen years younger than me. Her youth causes me to think of Daphne and why I’m here. The near-perfect garden doesn’t go along with the shameful information in the folder I hold. I wish we had stayed in the library. I sit next to her on the circular bench inside the gazebo.

  “David, from your call I was expecting you earlier. What happened?”

  “I went to see your ex-husband. He was involved in something that warranted an immediate response.”

  “Oh, and did you deal with the matter?”

  “Not completely.” She hasn’t mentioned my thug-like behaviors last night, so I won’t bring it up either. And I certainly don’t see the importance of telling her that my delay in meeting her was due to me making her ex piss his pants.

  “Well, as I’m sure you are aware by now, he is not a man to deal with in a hesitant manner. You must deal with him quickly. He is never idle, be warned.”

  The need to tell her how criminal her ex-husband’s involvement is, is not urgent. I don’t want her to view my attack on him as personal. He has affected our community as a whole, and has hurt her personally.

  “If you don’t mind me asking, Eleanor, how did you meet your ex-husband?” Most of the story I have been told by Daphne, but I need to get her talking about him and hopefully stirring up some hate for the man.

  “Daphne, bless her soul . . .” She stops. She doesn’t cry, but she does have to catch her breath. She’s looking at me, but also through me. Eleanor is in thought.

  “Daphne sent Randolph’s business to me. I did his data entry for about six months. You see, I ran my own legal data-entry service. Later, I moved into doing a few referrals for the firm.

  “I received my paralegal certificate eighteen months after high school. The program I completed directed its students toward entrepreneurship. At no time did I think of working for a firm. I went after contracts from law firms, not employment.”

  Daphne said Eleanor was one of Peal’s best bird-dogs before they were married. Why would Eleanor say “a few” referrals?

  “You said you did referrals as well?”

  “Yes, that turned out to be the largest percentage of my billing. I didn’t expect it. It started out as a sideline. Randolph asked me to keep an eye out for people injured or sick or involved in any type of accident.”

  “And your
company did the data entry on your referrals?”

  “Yes, we did most of them, why?”

  “I was curious as to how much you knew about the auto accident cases.”

  “I was well-informed, David.”

  “Oh.” I give her my serious, narrow-eyed, no-smile, firm look.

  She smiles, not intimidated in the slightest, “If you are asking if I knew about Randolph’s involvement prior to the courtroom, my answer to you in this garden is yes, outside of this garden my answer is no.” The smile changes to the confident, assured look of a polished professional.

  It’s apparent to me that it is time to play hardball. As she says, Peal was never idle and I need to make things happen fast. I don’t have time for niceties.

  “And you lost your mother in an auto accident didn’t you?”

  “Yes, I did.” Curiosity as to where the question is going fills her eyes. I don’t want to hurt her, but she has to have this information.

  “A car rear-ended by a truck struck her church bus. All the bus and car passengers were killed instantly. Randolph Peal and Associates represented the church and the family in the car. The suit put the trucking company out of business. It was one of the largest settlements of an auto accident in this city. It pretty much put Randolph and his firm on the map.”

  “Yes, they broke through with that case.” She is beginning to fidget with the wicker of the gazebo bench and her eyes are watering. I have to push because Peal has to go down.

  “And you and Randolph were married soon after.”

  “Yes, he became very important to me after my mother’s death. My mother motivated me. Are your parents still alive, David?”

  I note her attempt to change the subject and smile. Truly gardening is not this ’round-the-way girl’s only talent. “Yes, both my parents are still alive.”

  “Consider yourself blessed. I miss my mother every day. My going into the paralegal program was all her idea. She secured the loans that bought the computers and data-entry software I needed to start the business. She was an office clerk most of her life. She would tell me ‘it was honest work,’ but work for someone else is just that; for someone else.”