Dying Embers (24 page)

“This time they mean we're going to get to the bottom of this. And the smug bastard that took our license down is coming back to put it where he found it.”

“Actually, he was pretty decent about it,” said Marg.

“Too bad,” I said. I winked—it hurt. “That's going to take all the fun out of it.”

Marg smiled and shook her head. She put the orders back in the envelope.
“Botch the job and they'll claim they never heard of us.”

“Comforting that some things don't change,” I said.

“Pete would make them put it in the frame and hang it up,” she said.

I wrestled myself off the sofa and patted Marg's desktop as I limped past on my way to my office. I'd be glad just to get the license back. Peter A. Ladin definitely would not have let them off that easy.

I found my desk blotter pushed aside to reveal the graffiti carved in my desktop. The frame, the nail, and the wall hanger lay neatly lined up below the inscription. A business card paper-clipped to the envelope for my pocket ID read—Archer A. Flynt, Office of the State Attorney General. Maybe this was going to be more fun than I thought.

The telephone had been rescued from the trash and placed back on my desk, not much worse for the wear. I pulled on the wall cord. It was stuck. I leaned over to look. A new wall plate had been installed and the cord connected. I picked up the handset and got a dial tone.

“Marg? You had the telephone repaired?”

“Was it broken?”

“Really,” I said.

“I didn't expect you to be in,” she said.

I sat, thinking about it, and decided that there was nothing to do but take it for a test run.

Pete Finney was out or had told his secretary not to forward my telephone calls. She wouldn't transfer me to his voice mail. Finally, she agreed to take a note—”Pete, I have been released without charges, A. Hardin.” She said, “Mr. Finney doesn't always pick up his messages.”

“You just put them in the trash?”

“If he doesn't pick them up.”

“This concerns the Lambert case,” I said. “Pete would think this was important information—if he knew. But, of course he won't. If you follow me? I have no real expectation that Peter Finney, Esquire, will ever be apprised of this note or its contents.”

“What did you say your name was?”

I gave her the message again, and made a mental note never to pay Pete's tab late.

Lorna Kemp breezed in wearing yellow shorts, a white shell, and a French braid in her blond hair. From my office door she stared at me, her mouth momentarily open before she said, “Oh, my God.”

“Only hurts when I laugh.”

“You shaved off your moustache,” she said.

“Damn fine investigator,” I said. “Notice anything else?”

She tilted her head to one side and then the other. “Nope.”

“I've been getting some complaints lately.”

“I think those sweats have had it,” said Lorna. “Maybe some cheap sunglasses—the wraparound kind, and a shave. What do you think?”

“How about you give me the bag from the sofa, and about ten minutes. We need to have a powwow.”

“Matty Svenson called me at my flat,” said Lorna. “She wouldn't talk to me on the telephone. I had to meet her at a bench in Calder Plaza. I brought my stuff.” She turned to retrieve the bag from the sofa. In the front office I heard her say, “Sure, I'll tell him.”

I heard the front door fall shut, but not in time to look up into the monitor to see who it was. Lorna stepped in and dropped my paper bag on the wing-back chair. She thumbed over her shoulder and said, “Detective Shephart said for you to wait for him. He went down the hall.” She left and pulled the door shut behind her.

My spare glasses were on top of the pile in the bag. I put them on. Pain. I pulled off my sweats and dropped them in the waste can along with the back brace. Wendy had sent jeans, a belt, and a knit shirt with a collar, but no socks. I guess she was in a hurry.

I dropped the bag on the floor and sat on the wingback chair to navigate my burned foot into the jeans. Marg told someone they would have to wait a moment.

The door exploded open and bounced off the wall. Leonard Jones, casual in a blue blazer and gray slacks, stormed in with a K-bar knife in his hand and cold certainty on his face.

He said, “Tell me one reason why I shouldn't kill you right now.”

“B
ECAUSE
I
DIDN'T KILL YOUR SISTER
,”
I said. “And because you're an operator. You don't do things out of personal malice. And you don't do things without adequate planning.”

I bent down to pull up my trousers. Leonard stepped up and held the tip of the k-bar knife in the divot behind my jaw, under my ear.

“What makes you think I haven't planned this out?”

“If you had, I'd already be dead,” I said. “You wouldn't have a Walther pointed at the back of your head. And you'd know that a police detective was about to walk in the front door.”

“Tell me who killed Annie,” he said. He didn't look back.

Lorna racked the hammer on the Walther. “Wasn't Art,” she said.

Leonard didn't react, if you count not cutting my throat while I pulled up my trousers.

“Right now the case against Scott Lambert looks pretty good,” I said.

“Little anchors?” said Lorna.

“Smiley faces are in the wash.”

The front door swept open.

“Detective Shephart!” Marg said, like he was deaf. “Art has a visitor.”

I picked up my trash can and held it out to Leonard. “Hi Shep,” I said, and locked eyes with Leonard. “Leonard Jones, Anne Frampton's brother, stopped by.”

Leonard dropped the knife in the can and I arranged the trash to cover it. Lorna turned, concealing the Walther, and walked to the investigators' room.

Shephart walked in cinching up his tie under a day-old five o'clock shadow. “You still look like shit,” he said.

“Leonard, this is Detective Shephart,” I said.

“We talked on the telephone,” said Shephart. Shephart offered his hand and Leonard took it.

“Pleasure to meet you,” said Leonard. He took his hand back.

I took the paper bag off the chair, limped back to my side of the desk, and started my belt through the loops of my trousers.

“What brings you to town?” said Shephart.

Leonard deflated into the wingback chair, his shoulders round and his face distraught. “Annie was released. The Frampton woman refused to take custody or make any arrangements. I have been seeing to things. Mom won't …”

Shephart took the chair across the desk from me, blinked, and took a long breath.

“There doesn't appear to be a will or any insurance,” said Leonard. “The Frampton woman doesn't return my calls. I had to hire an attorney.” Leonard's chin sunk to his chest and his hand went to his eyes.

“Can we get some coffee in here,” I yelled, and threaded my holster onto my belt.

“I've got a client,” said Marg.

“I got it,” Lorna announced from the investigators' room.

“My mother …” said Leonard. He paused, squared his shoulders, and sat at attention—both spit-shined black loafers flat on the floor. He rubbed his hands together. “My mother won't allow Annie to be buried next to Dad. The couple that owns the plot next to ours lives here, in Kentwood. I've been talking to them.”

Lorna stepped into the office with a cup of coffee in each hand. She parked them, one apiece, in front of Leonard and Shephart. “Drink it black, right?” she said.

“Just right,” I said.

She looked at me and said, “Brewing another pot.”

“Black's fine,” said Leonard. He palmed the cup to feel the heat and sat back on the chair, leaving the cup on the desk.

“Certainly Anne left enough of her work to cover her expenses,” said Lorna.

Leonard shook his head. “Frampton woman is holding a public art auction and estate sale Saturday. She says that Anne owed her a lot of money. My attorney says we'll have to sue.”

Shephart sipped his coffee gingerly and set it down. “You were discussing the case when I walked in.”

“Seems like the case against Scott Lambert is pretty solid,” I said.

“I need to remind you both—Mr. Lambert may have been charged, but he has
not
been tried. The man is out on bail and presumed to be innocent.”

“Except you thought he was guilty enough to arrest and charge,” said Lorna.

Shephart wagged his head, took a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, and shook out a smoke, unfiltered. He tamped it on the desk and I pushed the ash tray over to him.

“Mr. Jones, may I call you Leonard?” said Shephart.

“Sure.” Leonard folded his hands and stared at Shephart.

Shephart let the cigarette dangle from his lips while he searched his pockets. I showed him my lighter. He nodded his head. I smiled and beckoned with my fingers. He made a snort and slid the pack across the table to me.

“Three days,” I said, and lit up.

“Good time to quit,” said Shephart. “You could be a problem smoker.”

I put the lighter on the pack and slid it back to him.

Shephart picked up the lighter but took the cigarette out of his mouth. “Leonard,” he said, “I'm sorry for your loss. Your sister was a respected artist. She was a great loss to the community.”

I looked at Lorna. She made an astonished face back at me. Three complete sentences bereft of any allusion to carnal gymnastics—a whole new facet to a very rough jewel, this Detective Shephart.

“It would be a terrible disappointment to her memory,” said Shephart, “if you made a terrible mistake—did something to put yourself in the courthouse instead of the man charged with this terrible crime.” He lit his cigarette.

Leonard stood. “Detective, when we spoke on the telephone, you promised to keep me informed.” He offered his hand.

Shephart dropped his cigarette in the ashtray, stood, and took Leonard's hand. “Absolutely, I have your number.”

“Good,” said Leonard, “I have my sister's estate to see to, but when I'm done, I trust you will save me making my own inquiries.” He gave Shephart's hand a last pump and let it go.

Shephart smiled, “Yes sir, I have your number.”

When he got his hand back he plumbed a business card out of his wallet and gave it to Leonard. “If you have any questions, call any time. If I'm not in, I'll get the message.”

Leonard saluted him with the card and walked out. Shephart sat and took a long pull on his cigarette.

“Shep—”

Shephart showed me an index finger and turned his head to listen for the front door to close. The door opened and fell shut. Shephart leaned back in his chair to look around the corner of the door and then turned back. “Bastard's strong as an ox. What is it with you old military types?”

“Has to do with knowing what your job is, and risking your life to do it for people who give you no respect and basically haven't got a clue.”

Shephart shrugged, nodded, and took a drag on his cigarette. The telephone rang. In a stream of smoke Shephart exhaled, “For you I got a clue.”

“Pete Finney on line one,” Marg announced from her desk.

I picked up the phone. “Pete, I thought I was persona non grata.” I stubbed the cigarette out and straightened the burned end—still had half a smoke left.

“You were, until this morning,” said Pete. “I got a revised witness list. You're not on it. They're calling Detective Van Huis to introduce the physical evidence.”

“Play hell laying the ground work,” I said and snagged the cup of coffee that Leonard Jones had left untouched. Lorna gave me a wave and headed back to the investigator's room.

“They'll use Detective Shephart,” Finney said.

“Sitting right here. Want to talk to him?” I took a gulp of coffee and swallowed.

“Not on your life. What I want is for you to take the case as the defense investigator.”

“Can't,” I said.

“Client insists.”

“Some state dick from the Attorney General's office”—I opened my top desk drawer and took the card out—”Archer Flynt, came in here this morning and took my license off the wall.”

“Not from the licensing agency?”

“Nope, that's why I called,” I said.

“I'll look into it,” said Pete. “And along that line, Wendy and I were in Lansing today for a hearing on her license.”

“My son told me.”

“We have a 'show cause' hearing on the search warrant for her files in two weeks. The licensing bureau agreed to postpone their hearing until then, but you need to talk to Wendy.”

“Talked to Carl Norton,” I said.

“Well. Arthur. You understand?”

“Damn good man,” I said. “Has some insights concerning the merits of the search warrant you mentioned.”

“Not that you can mention, just now?”

“Absolutely.”

“I want to talk to you before I telephone him,” said Pete.

Shephart started to rise, a question on his face. I shrugged and shook my head. He settled back into his chair and worked on his coffee and cigarette.

“Carl says the prosecutor will charge me after the Lambert trial.”

“Only if Lambert is found guilty,” Pete said. “In any case, that wouldn't be for some time. I do think that I would be able to represent you by then—barring something unforeseeable.”

“Yeah,” I said, “Carl mentioned mortgaging my soul and selling my children into slavery.”

“All the more reason to work on a win in the Lambert case.”

“Not much I can do without a license. And I'd have to overcome my lack of faith in Lambert's innocence.”

“I have to assume that was for the detective's consumption.”

“You could always hire me as your in-house investigator.”