Moonlight Falls (21 page)

“Bits and pieces,” he admitted. I knew he had a flat-screened digital television inside his office. It told me he was holding back.

“Then you already know something about my situation,” I said. “My
predicament
.”

“A little,” he confirmed. “You mind if I call Miner to get his personal take?”

“You don’t trust your own client?”

“Who said you were still my client?”

“Don’t sweat it, Stan,” I insisted. “Miner
will
confirm my story. Every last detail.”

“Then we have no problem.”

“Does this mean you’re going to help me?”

You see, Stanley Rose might be a lawyer, but he was also a businessman. If a black market organ operation existed inside the S.P.D and if I was being set up by one of its principal operators, then he definitely wanted in on the action. A case like that would no doubt make national headlines. National headlines would mean mucho exposure, mucho business. At least, that’s what I was banking on.

“First things first, Divine,” he went on. “This cop, Cain. If he’s able to somehow prove you were involved in the organ donor operation, no matter the level, you go down right along with him. And that’s aside from your involvement in Scarlet’s murder.”

“
Supposed
involvement, Stan,” I corrected.

“Scarlet Montana’s murder is a whole separate issue. The body parts scheme is another. Your best bet would be to cop a plea with the State for immunity.”

“Listen, I had no idea what was going on behind the scenes when I signed off on their cases. Cain would call me in, give me my orders as a part-time investigator, and I did what he told me to do.”

“But you
knew
you were breaking the law.”

“My superior in the department was
ordering
me to break it.”

Stanley cleared his throat.

He said, “Let’s get one thing straight from the get-go, Divine. You cannot plead ignorance in a court of law. You cannot rely on a perceived disability as a crutch. Maybe you have a bullet in your head but I believe your ability to determine right from wrong is pretty damned reliable. So let’s cut through the gray matter right now.”

There occurred one of those deadly pauses, like waiting for the executioner to slide the needle in the vein.

He asked me if I had access to the original records.

I told him that the originals would have to be stored in the S.P.D. warehouse. Microfilm copies would be available at the City Hall Office of Records. Not to mention Cain’s personal file.

“Then it will be impossible to cover over the paper trail,” he surmised. “All you can hope for is that the State will buy your argument of being strong-armed into producing those phony case synopses.” He paused. “I’ll be truthful, Divine. Cain and Montana, I’ve always known them as pretty good guys. Honest, decent, hardworking.”

I thought more about it.

“They didn’t exactly put a gun to my head. But I also knew they could make my life pretty miserable if they didn’t get their way.”

“Let me ask you something,” Stanley went on. “You didn’t take any off-the-books cash from either Cain or Jake, did you?”

Me, once more staring into the whiskey glass.

“Guess how you got paid for as long as you did during my divorce?”

“You really are a fuckup, Divine, you know that?”

I thought about my dad. Stanley never would have referred to dad as a fuckup. Especially to his face. But then, my dad didn’t have a problem with his brain. Nor did he have a damaged thalamus or an overly sensitive cerebral cortex.

“You gonna help me or not, Stan?”

“No more pro bono,” he said. “What do you plan on using for money?”

“What ever happened to client contingency?”

“Borderline clients that already owe me thirty large automatically relinquish contingency status.”

For a moment I was stumped. Until I quickly glanced at the old wooden placard that hung above the old G.E. stove. The one that read, “God Bless This Home!”

I said, “I’ll mortgage the house.”

“There is a bullet in your head could shift position at any time,” he pointed out. “What’s the probability of the bank giving you a thirty year note?”

I paused for a beat.

“You know that’s what I’ve always liked about you, Stan. Your sensitivity.”

“I’m a businessman,” he said.
“Bizz-ness-man!
You want sensitive, call Dr. Phil.”

“Tell you what,” I said, knowing I was treading on micro-thin ice. “I’ll sign over the Deed.”

He cleared his throat again.

“Get the Deed to my office. I’ll be in touch after that.”

He hung up.

I tried to think like my father. If I were him, where would I have kept the Deed to the house? It was impossible to think like my Dad. He was smarter than me, more together. Didn’t matter that he was dead. He was still more on the ball. I had trouble with certain things now. Important things versus unimportant things.

The Deed to 23 Hope Lane.

Even if I had stored it in a safe place for just such an emergency, I would never be able to remember where I put it.

49

“WHAT IF HE COMES around here asking questions?”

Lynn Cain stood inside the narrow kitchen of the suburban home. In one hand she held a butter knife. In the other, a jar of Skippy peanut butter.

“He’s got curbside drop-off, Lynn. He can’t come in. He’s violent. Remember?”

Mitchell sat at a wood booth that had been built into the far wall beneath a double hung window. The window looked out onto the backyard where his scrappy-haired stepson was playing.

“That’s never stopped him before.”

“Something you want to tell me, Lynn?”

She dug her knife into the jar. Stabbed into it to be more accurate, digging the knife in and out of the thick stuff like it was flesh and blood. When she pulled the knife back out it was covered in peanut butter.

“Don’t even think of going there, Mitchell. Dick and I ended long before a divorce made it official.” Spreading the peanut butter onto a slice of white bread. “Besides, I think you’re trying to change the subject.”

“So what is it you want from me, Lynn?”

“I want to know what happens if Dick or anyone else starts asking questions? What am I supposed to tell them?”

“The truth.”

“Which truth? That Scarlet died because she knew too much about yours and her husband’s illegal business? Or that Scarlet died by her own hands because that’s what you want people to believe in order to protect your asses?”

Cain pulled the pack of smokes from inside his leather jacket, went to pull one out. But the pack was empty.

“You can be a real bitch sometimes, Lynn,” he groused, crushing the empty pack in his hand, tossing it onto the table.

“Actually, Mitchell,” she said, “I used to be a nice girl. Until I got mixed up with one too many cops.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means, you’re right. Now I’m a bitch and it is not all my fault.”

Bringing the sandwich to her mouth, she bit down hard.

Sliding himself out of the booth, Cain stood. He grabbed another pack of Marlboro Lights from the carton stored inside the cabinet over the sink. He slapped the top of the pack against the back of his hand compacting the cigs inside, then peeled off the clear plastic wrap.

“Listen,” he said. “If anyone asks you anything at all, just tell them you know not a goddamned thing other than the fact that Scarlet’s death is a tragedy that could have been avoided.”

Chewing thoughtfully on her sandwich, Lynn tossed what remained into the sink.

“In other words, you want me to lie for you.”

“If that’s what you want to call it,” he said, pulling out a fresh smoke from the new pack, popping it into his mouth. “Now, is there anything else you’d like to discuss before I go back to work?”

“I think that pretty much covers it, honey dearest.”

Taking a step forward, Cain planted a smile on his face. He set one hand on his wife’s ass, the other on her hip.

“Maybe I’ll cut out early,” he said. “Take a little time for an afternoon delight.”

Resisting, Lynn pulled away.

“Remember what I just said about Dick Divine?” she posed.

“What about him?”

“That we were over long before the divorce made it official?”

“Yeah, so what are you getting at?”

“Just take a moment to put yourself in my shoes and think real hard.”

50

I GOT OUT THE phone book, looked up the Orange County Tax Assessor in the blue pages. When I got the woman who ran the department, I asked her what I needed to do in order to come up with a copy of the Deed to my property on Hope Lane. She told me I needed to come into the county courthouse where the County Clerk would make a copy of the original which should be on file.

She asked me for my address. She could look it up for me on the computer, verify my information, then send word down to the Clerk to begin processing the paperwork. Save me some time.

I asked her if she would be so kind.

“Is the property registered in your name?”

“It was transferred in my name after my father’s death.”

A moment or two passed. Long enough for me to have a quick swallow of whiskey.

Suddenly I heard a deep sigh—the kind of sigh that comes from deep inside a mournful soul.

“Oh, my,” she said. “Mr. Divine, is it?”

“Yes,” I said. “Richard Divine.”

She said, “I’m not sure if you are aware of this, but a lien has been placed on your property.” My head, the invisible vice was squeezing it

“No one’s notified me of a lien.”

She checked the date of the lien, told me it went into activation only this morning.

“By whom?”

“By the Property Tax Department, claiming a fifteen-thousand dollar back-tax deficit, Mr. Divine.”

I sat back in my chair, tried to breathe even and steady. Had I paid my tax bills? I recalled that I had, even recalled writing the checks at the kitchen table, stuffing the envelopes, licking the stamps. Maybe it was possible I was behind by a payment or two, but not fifteen Gs.

“With whom do I speak to straighten this out?”

“Well, that would be me,” she said. And then she said, “Oh, pardon me, I’ll have to put you on hold.”

She did.

I drank.

The phone disconnected.

I called back.

The same woman answered, “Tax Assessor.” I told her who it was, that I had been disconnected.

She hung up.

I called back again.

She hung up without saying anything.

I called back again.

Nothing but a busy signal.

Then Lola walked in through the back door off the kitchen.

She was still wearing her lab coat, the name Dr. Lola Ross embossed against a laminated credit-card sized photograph I.D. that was clipped to her right breast pocket. Standing in the frame of the still-open door, her dark hair was wet with rainwater. The dull white light that shined down from the small ceiling-mounted light fixture made her damp face glow with a strange but attractive radiance.

“Dr. Ross,” I said lifting my drinking glass high, “how’s about a drink?”

She leaned against the door frame, shot me one of those tight-lipped slanty-eyed looks that spoke far louder than words. Without a word she crossed over the kitchen floor, grabbed a glass out of the cabinet above the sink. She rinsed the glass out with cold water, dried it with the cloth dishtowel that was draped over the faucet. Approaching the kitchen table, she kissed me atop my head, then set the glass down, poured herself a full shot. She beamed at me with a tan face draped by long brown hair and matching brown eyes, and downed the shot in one quick swallow. Placing the glass back down onto the table, she poured another drink and sat herself down.

“You’re about to become a prime suspect in a Murder One case,” she whispered. “And you’re celebrating?”

“Not celebrating,” I said to her. “Commiserating.”

“With yourself,” she said. “How very pathetic of you, Divine.”

I proceeded to tell her everything starting from the top, even retreading the stuff she already knew, and the hot-off-the-press stuff like the sudden lien on my property when in fact, I’d paid my tax bills. Or most of them anyway. So I thought. When I was through, Lola sat back in her chair, stared into her drinking glass.

“On one hand I think you might be overreacting.” Her voice was soft, low, almost inaudible. “Mitchell Cain has always been a good partner to you and a good stepfather to your son. But he also has a talent for manipulation.”

“Like you said, my boy lives with him. In there lies his advantage.”

“Yes, but after your forced leave of absence, when you needed money the most, you were ready and willing to do what he wanted you to do, no questions asked. You were going through a divorce. You had alimony and child support to contend with. You needed the cash. And he gave you the full authority to act in the name of the law so long as you took his or Jake’s lead. And don’t give me any nonsense about the S.P.D. making your life miserable if you didn’t go along. Because they never told you that or else you would have told me. You made that up just to make things sound more dramatic for Stanley.”

“I’m raising the stakes,” I said biting my lip.

“At whose expense?”

“My own.”

“Wrong,” the clinical neurologist said. “Maybe you’ve sufficiently challenged Cain. But in the end, he believes that you will back down. You will do what he tells you to do, because that has always been the specific nature of your relationship. Your symbiosis. Cain is as much a control freak as you’re all over the place. He believes that sooner or later you will cave. Because in a very real and very strange way he believes you need him. Not because he lives with your son, but because he actually sees through all the skull and gray matter, sees that bullet inside your head as clear as day. He believes it makes you vulnerable, naive almost. Certainly, easily manipulated.”