The Barkeep (13 page)

“We were talking about Preacher,” said Justin, still holding the bottle.

Birdie smacked his lips. “A bit more maybe, just for flavor.”

“I’ll fill it to the rim, Birdie, if you start talking.”

“All right, boy. You keep pouring, because this is what I got. But it ain’t just talk now. A deal’s a deal. We start on something here, we’re going to finish it, you understand.”

Feeling himself close to getting an answer, Justin heedlessly pressed his advantage and put his hand atop the glass. “Go ahead.”

“It ain’t much, but it ain’t nothing neither. Preacher, like I said, didn’t never say nothing about who was doing the paying
on our jobs. But this time he slipped up a bit, slipped up even though he didn’t know he was slipping. Like I said, I was supposed to rifle the place, steal what I could. I was supposed to make it look like I slipped in for some easy cash. Preacher told me the client, she wanted it to look like a deranged druggie killed your mother dead.”

“She?” said Justin.

“Picked it right up, didn’t you?”

“You’re saying the person who set you after my mother was a woman?”

“I’m just saying what Preacher was saying, is all. What you do with it is up to you. But it seems to include your father out, don’t it? So figure what you need and then scrape up my money and we’ll get to it. Now, give me my damn drink afore you get the urge this time to flush it down the toilet.”

Justin stood there for a moment, let it sink in for a bit, and then pushed the glass forward.

Birdie looked down at it and then up at Justin, with a crocked smile on his crooked face. Justin filled the glass until the surface of the liquor domed between the edges of the rim. Birdie Grackle’s eyes closed dreamily in anticipation. He reached for the glass with a shaking hand and was even able to get most of the Scotch in his mouth.

Justin was serving beers to two dudes in ripped T-shirts, their hair so wildly unkempt their dos could only have been carefully and obsessively kempt, when he noticed Birdie Grackle staggering out of the bar. As soon as Birdie left, Justin looked over at Cody, who nodded. A minute later Cody was gone, too.

Then Justin went back to serving the beers, thinking about his father, and trying to figure out who the hell was the woman who had so urgently wanted his mother dead. And though he didn’t have a clue, he certainly had a clue who would.

18.

PINK SQUIRREL

M
ia Dalton knew how to express incredulity on her hard features. Wide, shocked eyes, a wrinkled brow, an open gape leaning toward a smile, as if some dirty limerick had been recited in open court.
You have
got
to be kidding me
, the expression as good as shouted.
That is the most ridiculous thing I have ever heard.
It was quite the useful expression to flash in front of a jury during a damaging argument from the other side. One wide-eyed look at the jury and every sensible thing being said sounded like so much twaddle. She practiced the expression regularly in the mirror.

And now, in her office, she flashed her patented expression of incredulity at Detective Scott, but it wasn’t aimed at him. Instead it was aimed at Sarah Preston, who had just said the very words Mia had been hoping she wouldn’t hear.

“We’re sort of still intending to go forward,” said Sarah Preston, Mackenzie Chase’s lawyer. “With that motion, you know, the motion for the new trial.”

Cue the incredulity.

“Go forward?” said Mia, the expression still on her face. “We are all sorry that Mr. Flynn passed away, but passed away he has, along with the basis of your motion. We only kept this
meeting because it was previously scheduled, but both Detective Scott and I fully expected you to withdraw your motion.”

“I’m sorry, really, I didn’t mean to disappoint you,” said Sarah Preston with a nervous twitch in her lips. “If you want to reschedule or something, that would be okay, I guess.”

Preston wasn’t one of the usual members of the defense bar, or one of those public-interest lawyers always looking for a fight. She was, instead, a middle-aged, midlevel partner at a middling patent-law firm, without much litigation experience, who was representing Chase pro bono. How it pro’d the bono to help someone like Mackenzie Chase was another matter, but Preston seemed a bit of a squirrel, and in a matter like this, she was far out of her league.

“I understand you haven’t spent much time in a courtroom, Sarah, but how the hell do you intend to go forward without a witness?”

“Well,” said Preston, “you know, we do have Mr. Flynn’s affidavit.”

Mia laughed, raising her hands into the air for effect. “An affidavit. Sarah, you know as well as I do that without an opportunity for us to cross-examine Flynn, your affidavit is hearsay, which makes it useless.”

“Yes, that is a problem,” she said, pushing the glasses back up on her nose. Mia had met Sarah Preston before at bar association functions and political events, and Sarah had always come across as a bit dowdy, but her hair was glossier now and her lipstick brighter, and she was proving a bit harder to shove around than Mia had originally thought.

“A fatal problem,” said Mia.

“You’re probably right. But I’ve been looking at the Rules of Evidence, and I think there might be an exception for a statement like this.” Sarah Preston reached into her bag,
fumbled around, kept speaking as she fumbled. “Mr. Flynn in his affidavit claimed he lied on the stand. Which means he could have been prosecuted for perjury. Which means—wait a minute, here it is.” She pulled from her bag a small blue book and leafed through it. “His statement would have been against his penal interest, and Rule 804(b)(3) of the Federal Rules of Evidence states—”

“I know the rules, Sarah,” snapped Mia. “But the statute of limitations has already passed from the time of his testimony at the trial. So there was no penal danger.”

“True, yes,” said Sarah Preston, again pushing the glasses up her nose. “By just a few months, actually, which makes it harder.”

“So you see—”

“But we do have some arguments.”

“Arguments?”

“Well, you know, we could kind of argue that because Flynn’s testimony was used by the state in the appeal, the statute could have been tolled until the appeal was ruled upon.”

“Do you have any cases to support a position that ridiculous?”

“Not yet, but I have an associate looking it up for me in her spare time.”

“She won’t find anything, because it’s not there.”

“Then we’ll have to make new law, I suppose,” said Preston. “And Mr. Flynn was still on probation. Which meant the judge could have revoked his probation if the perjury was admitted.”

“No judge will buy this, Sarah. Trust me, it’s bullshit.”

“Probably, yes,” said Sarah, nodding. “And if so, I guess that’s what the judge will tell me during the hearing.”

Mia looked at her and then at Scott, who was smiling slightly, the son of a bitch. Mia had predicted to Scott before the
meeting that she wouldn’t have any trouble with the likes of Sarah Preston. Patent lawyers, she had told the detective, were the gym teachers of the bar, lawyers sure, but still.

Scott was now obviously enjoying seeing Mia being pushed around by a patent lawyer.

“Even if the statement is allowed in,” said Mia, “it’s not enough. Changed testimony by itself is insufficient basis for a new trial. The case law is crystal clear.”

“But we won’t only have the affidavit,” said Sarah. “We’ll have something else.”

Mia looked again at Scott, who shrugged. “What something else?”

“We’re going to present evidence about the real perpetrator of the crime.”

“What are you talking about?”

“We’re going to tell the judge who really did it.”

“Who did what?”

“Who killed Mrs. Chase. And we’ll tell the judge how we’ll prove it to the jury. Newly discovered evidence. I think that might be enough for a new trial, don’t you?”

Mia looked at Scott, who had suddenly leaned forward. “What kind of evidence?” said Scott.

“I guess we’ll talk about that at the hearing.”

“No, we’ll talk about that right now,” said Detective Scott. “If you have evidence about a homicide and a murderer on the loose, you need to turn that over.”

“I’m sorry, Detective, really, but I can’t do that.”

Mia looked at Scott, then at Sarah Preston, then back at Scott, the incredulity not manufactured now, but real. “What the hell are you doing, Sarah?”

“I’m trying to represent an innocent man and save lives, Mia. How did Mr. Flynn die?”

“You know how,” said Mia slowly. “An overdose.”

“Then why is there a murder investigation going on?”

“It’s routine with a death like that.”

“Really? Because to me it seems if you were sure the death wasn’t a murder, and wasn’t related to the Chase case, you would not have hauled Mr. Chase’s son into your office. Do you have any suspects in the Flynn murder investigation other than Justin Chase? Do you have any leads?”

Mia looked at Scott.

“If we do,” said Scott, “we can’t disclose them to you.”

“And I can’t disclose my evidence either. We gave you one name, Ms. Dalton, we gave you Mr. Flynn, our crucial witness. And next thing we know, he’s dead.”

Mia looked more closely at Sarah Preston. She was actually pretty sharp, for a patent lawyer. But there was something about her manner that was worrying. Maybe it was the shinier hair or glossier lipstick, but more likely it was the tone that underlay her words. She wasn’t just taking a case or representing a client, she was more invested than that, no matter how hard she was trying to hide it.

“How did you get involved in Mr. Chase’s case in the first place?” said Mia.

“I happened to meet Mr. Chase while he was in prison. He asked me to look into his case and I agreed. What I found raised questions, and then Mr. Flynn had some answers.”

“You met Mackenzie Chase in prison?”

“That’s right.”

“What were you doing in prison?”

“I was doing volunteer work. Teaching a class.”

“On patent law?”

“On Shakespeare. I was an English teacher before I became a lawyer. I was helping the prisoners put on a play.”

“What play exactly?”

“Does it matter?” she said, dropping the little blue book back in her bag before standing. “I expect to be kept appraised of the Flynn investigation, if that’s not too much trouble.”

“We’ll let you know what we can,” said Mia.

“Good. I guess I’ll see you in court.”

After she left, Mia rubbed her jaw as if she had been clubbed. “What do you make of all that?”

“She’s got nothing,” said Scott. “She’s playing for time.”

“Which means she might expect to have something in the future. The Chase boy obviously told his father about our meeting during his visit in the prison. But I’m wondering what the father told the Chase boy during the visit. And this whole other suspect thing. Who do you think they have in mind?”

“No idea.”

“Well then, Detective, I think you better get off your ass and grab one, before we’re coldcocked in court.”

19.

GIN GIN

T
he squat woman who answered the door squinted her squinty face at the figure standing in her doorway. The sun was shining directly in her eyes. The man before her was apparently more shadow than substance, and seemingly unfamiliar.

“What the hell do you want?”

“Hello, Aunt Vi,” said Justin.

The woman put a hand up to shield her eyes and took a closer look. “Is that you, Justin?”

“It’s me.”

“Why, you been missing so long, sweetie, I thought you were dead.”

“No such luck. Can I come in?”

“What for?”

“Just to visit.”

“I don’t got no money.”

“I don’t want money.”

“If that’s true, it’d be a first for your clan. Come on in if you want,” she said, turning from Justin and shambling into the darkened interior. “And close the door behind you.”

Violet was Justin’s mother’s sister. She needed a cane to support her weight as she made her way to a dark, plainly
furnished parlor with the curtains drawn and the television on. Short gray hair, an untucked shirt over sweatpants, white sneakers. She had been a beauty once, with three kids and a doting husband, but alcohol had taken a toll on her looks. Now Violet had let herself go until she could barely make it out of the house to buy her Oreos and booze. But if you looked closely, beneath the folds of flesh ravaged by bitterness and drink, you could see the lovely creature she had been, and what she had been then was just as bitter and vindictive as what she was now. If anyone knew who might have wanted Justin’s mother dead, it would be sweet Aunt Violet.

“Pour me a drink,” she said after dropping into the lounger in front of the TV.

Justin found the small bar in the corner of the room and read the labels of the bottles all standing in a row. “Gin, gin, gin, and gin,” he said. “What’ll you have?”

“Gin.”

“Anything in it?”

“Gin.”

“I get the picture.”

“And pour one for yourself,” she said as she lit her cigarette.

“No, thanks.”

“Too early?”

“By a couple decades.”

“You always were the careful one.” As she took the filled tumbler from Justin she gave him an appraising look. “But you don’t look so careful any more. What did you do to your hair?”

“Nothing.”

“There’s the problem right there.”

“You want to turn off the TV so we can talk?” said Justin.

“Why would we do something like that?”

He reached over, took the remote control off the small table next to the lounger, pressed the red button. Some soporific talk show died on the screen.

“They were going to give a recipe for jambalaya,” she said.

“How are you doing, Aunt Violet?”

“How do you think?”

“That’s what I figured.”

It didn’t take long to catch up on old times. There was no deep connection to revive, no store of fond memories to share. Aunt Violet was one of those estranged relatives who only showed up at the occasional Thanksgiving or Christmas celebration, or the occasional family funeral, to spew her bile. The other relatives shook in their boots when she approached with something to get off her chest. Even the dead ones.