Deputy Defender

by Cindi Myers

  “Frank Rizzo is Eddie’s attorney. He pulled some strings to rush the arraignment.”

  “Frank Rizzo? How did Eddie afford him?” Rizzo had represented a number of high-profile, very wealthy defendants.

  “Eddie was as surprised to see Rizzo as I was,” Travis said. “He said obviously the government had come through to support him. He’s practically giddy, and I don’t think it’s all from the painkillers his doctor prescribed. He’s convinced he’s going to be exonerated as a national hero.”

  “I’m going to shower and change, and I’ll be right over,” Dwight said.

  By the time Dwight arrived at the hospital, the lot was crowded with news vans and broadcast trucks from every major television and radio network. Dwight’s uniform attracted their attention, and he found himself pushing through a crowd of reporters with microphones who demanded to know what his role was in the case. He ignored them and made his way inside.

  Fortunately, the hospital’s corridors were closed to reporters. Travis met Dwight outside Eddie’s room. “Did Rizzo alert the media?” Dwight asked.

  “Probably,” Travis said. “That’s his style.”

  The man himself stepped out of Eddie’s room and closed the door behind him. Clean-shaven and bald, dressed in a gray wool suit and wearing old-school horn-rimmed glasses, Frank Rizzo was well-known to television viewers and readers of the most popular gossip mags. From professional athletes to B-list celebrities to corporate moguls, his client list was a who’s who of misbehaving millionaires. His eyes narrowed when he saw Dwight. “Deputy Prentice?” he asked.

  Dwight nodded.

  “You’re the man who shot my client,” Rizzo said.

  “Your client was shooting at me at the time.”

  “So you say. My client has a different story.”

  Dwight kept quiet. Rizzo liked to goad his opponents into saying things he could use against them in court. Dwight wouldn’t play his game.

  “The judge is here,” Travis said. The three men turned to see an older woman with silver-blond hair, dressed in a red business suit, striding down the hallway, followed by a young man who was carrying a court stenographer’s machine and a second man who was probably the clerk of the court. Several feet behind them came a very tall man in a blue suit—District Attorney Scott Percy.

  The woman stopped in front of them. “Judge Miranda Geisel.” She shook hands with each of them in turn. “Let’s get this proceeding started.”

  Travis entered the room first, followed by the judge and her attendants, the DA and Frank Rizzo, with Dwight bringing up the rear. He stationed himself by the door, while the others crowded around the bed, jostling for position in the small space.

  The man who had harassed Brenda, destroyed her home and her car, and threatened to kill her, managed to look frail and vulnerable in the hospital bed, his shoulder bandaged and his unshaven face white with pain.

  Judge Geisel looked around and, apparently satisfied that all was as it should be, nodded. “Let’s begin, gentlemen.”

  The clerk read off the date, time and nature of the proceedings for the record, then listed the charges against Eddie. Though Dwight was aware of all of them, read together they formed an impressive list—everything from harassment to arson to theft to attempted murder. It would be a very long time before Eddie was a free man again.

  “How does your client plead?” Judge Geisel asked.

  “Not guilty, Your Honor,” said Rizzo.

  No surprise there, despite the fact that Eddie had been caught red-handed in the commission of the most serious charge, and had admitted to most of the others. Rizzo would no doubt be contesting those previous confessions. Dwight was almost looking forward to hearing the defense’s case, especially if Rizzo could produce the mysterious B.

  “I request that my client be released on his own recognizance,” Rizzo said.

  “The nature of these crimes are such that we request Mr. Carstairs be held without bail,” Percy countered.

  Eddie watched this exchange, wide-eyed, his gaze shifting from one side of the bed to the other.

  “These are very serious charges,” the judge said.

  “Your Honor, my client has absolutely no record of previous violence,” Rizzo said. “He isn’t a flight risk. The man is seriously injured and will be recovering for some time.”

  “My understanding is that Mr. Carstairs could be released from the hospital as early as this afternoon,” the judge said.

  “If you will authorize his release, I will be personally transporting him to a rehab facility,” Rizzo said. “You don’t have to worry about him getting into trouble there.”

  “Your Honor, Mr. Carstairs tried to kill a woman and a police officer,” Percy said. “He has been relentless in his pursuit of Mrs. Stenson and remains a threat to her still.”

  “As Mr. Rizzo has pointed out, Mr. Carstairs’s injuries are such that he can’t drive a car or go much of anywhere,” the judge said. “I think that mitigates the threat. And I am cognizant of the burden on the county if he must remain in protective custody while undergoing rehabilitation and continued medical treatment.” She turned to Rizzo. “I’m setting bail at $500,000.”

  “Your Honor, Mr. Carstairs is unemployed,” Rizzo said. “He can’t possibly afford such a sum.”

  “Yet he can somehow afford your fees,” the judge said. “Or are you doing pro bono work these days, Mr. Rizzo?”

  Rizzo compressed his lips into a thin line and said nothing.

  “Bail is set at $500,000,” she repeated. “This arraignment is adjourned.”

  No one said anything while the court reporter packed up his recording equipment. Travis and Dwight left Rizzo to confer with his client and followed the court personnel and the DA into the hall. Percy waited until the judge and her staff had left before he spoke. “No surprise on the bail,” he said. “And she’s right—in his condition, I don’t think he’s a flight risk.”

  “I’m not so sure about that,” Dwight said. “He’s got someone behind the scenes pulling strings.”

  “I figured someone else was paying Rizzo’s fees,” Percy said. “Any idea who?”

  “We’re still digging,” Travis said.

  “All that stuff in the report you sent me about secret government agents—do you believe any of that?” Percy asked.

  “No,” Travis said.

  The door opened and Rizzo stepped out. “I’m going to make arrangements for Eddie’s release,” he said. “I’ll see you gentlemen in court.”

  They watched him walk down the hall and enter the elevator. “Want to bet he stops off downstairs to talk to the media?” Percy asked.

  “No bets,” Travis said.

  “This is going to be an interesting one,” Percy said.

  They said goodbye and he left them. “I’ll take over guarding Eddie,” Dwight said. “I know you have things to do.”

  “I think it’s best if you limit your contact with him,” Travis said. “Just in case Rizzo follows through with any countersuit. Besides, I know you want to be with Brenda.”

  “She’s supposed to be discharged this afternoon,” Dwight said. “I’d like to take her home.”

  “Go.” Travis clamped him on the back. “I’ll take care of things here.”

  Dwight found Brenda in a wheelchair beside her bed, wearing a pink hospital gown and fuzzy pink socks. She could have been wrapped up in old sacking for all Dwight cared. The fact that she was upright and smiling made her the most beautiful person he would ever see.

  “You look much better,” she said, tilting her cheek up for him to kiss. “Did you get some sleep?”

  “A little.” He rubbed his smooth chin. “A shower and a shave helped, too.”

  “I just talked to Lacy. She said the auction made over $20,000. A lot more than I expected, since we no longer had the book
.”

  “That will keep you going another few months at least,” Dwight said. “It will give you more time to find a new benefactor.”

  “Professor Gibson may have come through for us there. He said he was so impressed with the museum, he’s recommended us to the Falmont Foundation.”

  Dwight sat on the end of the bed, so that they were more or less at eye level. “What is the Falmont Foundation?” he asked.

  “You know the Falmont family—Falmont semiconductors?”

  He shook his head. “Never heard of them.”

  “It doesn’t matter. They have a charitable trust that gives money to worthy causes. Apparently, Julius Falmont was a great history buff. And Professor Gibson used to be on the board of the trust. He’s recommended us for underwriting. This could be exactly what we’ve been hoping for.” Her eyes shone, and Dwight couldn’t remember when she had looked so happy.

  “That’s great,” he said. “It’s good to know all the hard work you’ve put into the museum is getting the recognition it deserves.”

  “I don’t know about that—I’m just glad we don’t have to close the doors and I don’t have to start looking for another job.”

  He stood. “Are you ready to go home?”

  “I’m ready, but we’re still waiting on the doctor to sign the paperwork. A nurse is trying to locate him now.”

  Dwight sat back down. “We just had Eddie’s arraignment,” he said.

  “Already?” she asked.

  “The judge came here. It’s not unusual when someone being charged with a crime is hospitalized. He’s being released on bail. Somehow, he has Frank Rizzo as his attorney.”

  “He’s being released?” Much of the elation went out of her face.

  “To a rehab center.” He took her hand. “He’s not in any shape to harm you anymore—and I’ll be keeping an eye out for you.”

  She nodded. “I guess I’m just surprised he would be released.”

  “He doesn’t have a criminal history, and he’s not considered a threat at the moment,” Dwight said. “Plus, I’m sure having Rizzo as an attorney helped. He has a reputation for making life miserable for judges who don’t do what he wants. He has lots of friends in the media.”

  “How did Eddie afford someone like Frank Rizzo?” she asked.

  “I don’t know, but that’s one thing we’ll try to find out.” He squeezed her hand. “I don’t want you to worry. I’m going to keep you safe—even though I know you don’t like relying on others.”

  Her eyes met his, a new softness in her face. “I’ve been doing a lot of thinking, and I’ve come to some decisions,” she said.

  He tensed. Was this when she told him “thanks, but no thanks” to any prospect of a relationship? “I don’t know that now is the best time to be making decisions,” he said.

  “Hush, and let me talk.” She tempered the words with a smile. “I realized as I was lying in that bed, reviewing everything that has happened to me over the last couple of years, that I’ve been going about things the wrong way. I’ve been reacting to whatever happened by becoming defensive. Andy was killed and I kept to myself, upset and ashamed and really, not coping very well. Then I found out he was blackmailing people in town and using the money to renovate our house and I reacted again, this time by deciding not to trust other people—not to trust other men. Not to trust you.”

  He waited, afraid of saying the wrong thing if he interrupted her.

  “But just reacting to what other people did was the wrong approach, I think. Instead, I needed to step back and focus on what I want to happen. Where I want to go in life.” She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “It’s time to follow my feelings instead of my fears. I love you, Dwight, and I think you love me.”

  “I do love you,” he said. “I have for years.”

  She smiled again, and he felt like shouting for joy. But all he did was remain very still, holding her hand and waiting to hear what she had to say next. “Life is too short for us to be apart anymore,” she said.

  “Yes.” Then he did what he had wanted to do for weeks now—maybe even years. He dropped to his knees in front of the wheelchair. “Brenda Stenson, will you marry me?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she whispered, tears glinting in her eyes.

  He leaned forward and kissed her, a long, passionate kiss to seal their pledge. And that was how the doctor found them when he and a nurse walked in.

  “Well, it looks like you’re feeling much better,” he said as Brenda and Dwight moved apart and Dwight stood. The doctor scribbled his signature on the papers on a clipboard the nurse handed him. “Follow the instructions the nurse will give you and I’ll see you in my office next week.”

  The doctor left and the nurse took charge of the wheelchair. Dwight gathered up Brenda’s things and followed her into the hallway. They stopped short at the turn to the elevator when they saw Eddie, also in a wheelchair, with Frank Rizzo at his side. “Stop,” Brenda ordered.

  They stopped and waited for Eddie and his attorney to pass. Neither man looked their way. When the elevator doors closed behind them, Brenda sagged against the chair. “Eddie looked bad,” she said. “I’m still not happy about him getting bail, but he really doesn’t look like a threat.” She looked up at the nurse. “Okay, we can go now.”

  They arrived downstairs to a scene of chaos. People filled the front lobby, many of them members of the press with cameras and microphones. “I should have thought of this,” Dwight said. “We need to go out the back entrance.”

  But they had already been spotted. A trio of reporters and cameramen surged toward them, shouting questions. Brenda covered her face. “No comment,” Dwight shouted. He took control of the wheelchair and pushed toward the doors.

  But their progress was blocked again by Frank Rizzo, who stood in the portico, holding forth to an audience of media and bystanders. More cameras flashed as he proclaimed his client’s innocence. Eddie slumped in his wheelchair beside Rizzo, the picture of the aggrieved victim of injustice.

  Dwight was searching for the best escape route when Rizzo concluded his comments, just as a black sedan pulled into the portico. Rizzo wheeled his client toward the waiting car, then someone screamed. At almost the same moment, the pock! of a silenced weapon sounded, and Eddie sagged further down in his chair.

  “Get her inside!” Dwight shoved the wheelchair toward a man in scrubs, then sprinted toward Eddie. A bloom of red spread across Eddie’s chest. Around them, people screamed, some dropping to the ground, others fleeing either back into the building or across the parking lot.

  Another man, also wearing scrubs, reached Eddie at the same time as Dwight and felt for a pulse. He shook his head. “He’s gone,” he said.

  Dwight looked around. Frank Rizzo and the black sedan were both gone also, though Dwight was sure the shots had come from farther away—possibly the parking garage across from the main hospital building.

  Two uniformed police officers ran up to him. “Did anyone see the shooter?” the older of the two, a muscular black man, asked.

  “No. But I think he might have been firing from the parking garage,” Dwight said.

  The officer studied the parking structure. “Long shot,” he said.

  “Not too long for a professional,” Dwight said. He had no doubt Eddie’s murder had been carefully orchestrated. Someone—B?—didn’t want him to tell whatever he knew.

  * * *

  DWIGHT SPENT THE rest of the day running down leads that went nowhere. He and local police searched the parking garage and the area around the hospital and came up with nothing—no video, no eyewitnesses, no bullet casings, no foot impressions—nothing. One more indication that whoever had killed Eddie was a professional.

  Lacy showed up with Travis and offered to drive Brenda to Dwight’s cabin—an offer she gratefully accepted. “If you need anything,
call Mom,” he told her as he helped her into Lacy’s car. “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

  “Don’t worry about me. Go do your job. I plan to take a nap and be there when you do get in.”

  “If you’re tired, go ahead and go to bed,” he said. “I’ll just have a bunch of paperwork to deal with.” This case had generated more than its fair share of forms and reports.

  “Then I’ll pour coffee and offer moral support,” she said, before waving goodbye and settling back against the seat.

  She had the right attitude to be a law enforcement officer’s wife, he decided, then went to confer with Travis, who was on the phone with Frank Rizzo. He motioned Dwight to lean in, and together they listened to Rizzo’s defense of his sudden departure from the hospital. “Clearly there was nothing I could do for Eddie and there was no sense staying around when there was a shooter on the loose.”

  “Who hired you to represent Eddie?” Travis asked.

  “That information is confidential,” Rizzo said.

  “I can get a subpoena for not just that information, but anything having to do with Eddie Carstairs,” Travis said. “If I have to do that, I promise to take up as much of your and your staff’s time as possible. Or you could just answer my question now.”

  Rizzo’s sigh was audible on the phone. “He said he was a friend of the family who wished to remain anonymous. He contacted me by phone—I never saw him, and the number was blocked.”

  “How did he pay you?”

  “With a bank draft made out to my firm, delivered by a private courier within the hour.”

  “That didn’t strike you as odd?” Travis asked.

  “No. I deal with any number of very rich and sometimes very eccentric people. I don’t question their methods as long as the payment is prompt and in full.”

  “Has he contacted you about a refund, since your client is dead and won’t be needing your services?” Travis asked.

  “My fees are nonrefundable.”

  “Has this man or anyone else contacted you about this?”