Roemer addressed Ben. “Is this true?”
“Yes, your honor. We’re claiming privilege as to those documents because they contain proprietary information. Furthermore, they would not be admissible at trial as they contain evidence of subsequent remedial repairs.”
“Any reply, Mr. Abernathy?”
Ben watched as Abernathy struggled for words. Ben expected that he would request the judge to examine the documents in camera, or would offer a confidentiality order restricting the dissemination of the trade secrets, or would argue that ultimate inadmissibility should not preclude production during discovery. But Abernathy did none of that. He just stood there, fumbling and foomferalling, obviously unprepared.
Beads of sweat poured down from Abernathy’s hairline. “Well, gosh, your honor. I haven’t even seen these documents. How can I know what’s in them?”
Roemer’s bored impatience was evident. “You’ve just heard an officer of the court make a representation as to their contents. Do you have any reason to dispute it?”
“Well, no, I’m sure Mr. Kincaid is an honest young man—”
“And you do agree that evidence of subsequent remedial repairs is inadmissible, don’t you?”
Abernathy blinked, then wiped the sweat from his forehead. “Now, I don’t see why that should be. If a company repairs something, that’s a darn clear indication that there was something wrong with it in the first place.”
“Mr. Abernathy has, of course, just pinpointed the entire reason for this evidentiary doctrine,” Ben interjected. “If such evidence was admissible, companies would be disinclined to make repairs, even where lives are at stake.”
“Anything further?” Roemer asked Abernathy, tapping a pencil.
Abernathy was steadying himself against the podium. “Gosh, your honor, I’m not sure what to say. This is a new one to me.”
Ben’s eyes crinkled. This was first year law school stuff. Abernathy apparently was so used to settling cases quickly—taking the money and running—that he never had to do any real legal work.
“Can you cite any cases in support of your position,” Roemer asked, “assuming you have one?”
“Uh…Judge, I’m not really prepared to do that at the moment.”
“Then I have no choice but to deny your motion.” Typical Roemer—he didn’t want to take any longer than necessary. And he didn’t want to order anyone to do anything if he could avoid it. “In the future, Mr. Abernathy, don’t waste this court’s time if you can’t defend your motions any better than this.” He reached for the gavel. “This hearing is concluded.”
Everyone rose as Roemer drifted out of the courtroom.
“All right!” Rob said, punching Ben on the shoulder. “You killed him! Crichton’s going to be pumped.”
“I suppose.” Ben watched Abernathy lumber out of the courtroom. “I didn’t win on the merits, though. I won because the Nelsons hired a walking TV Guide ad instead of a lawyer.”
“What’s the difference? Man, you’ve been on this case less than a week, and you’ve already turned it completely around. Crichton was right—you’re the greatest!”
Ben smiled pleasantly, but said nothing.
“C’mon,” Rob said enthusiastically. “Let me buy you a chocolate milk. You must be feeling great.”
Ben followed Rob out of the courtroom, wishing Rob were right. But he wasn’t. He wasn’t right at all.
21
SERGEANT TOMLINSON SAUNTERED DOWN Eleventh Street, his hands shoved in his tight pants, his tattered jeans jacket hanging open. If there was anything he knew from the days when he walked this beat regularly, it was how to blend in. He was like a chameleon; he could walk the walk and talk the talk. He could come off as sleazy as anyone.
It had taken him far too long to get out here and follow up on the lead Koregai had provided. After the fourth corpse was discovered, all hell broke loose. Everyone on the force was in demand, even more so than before, even people with lowly switchboard duty. All efforts had been intensified; he’d even heard a rumor that Chief Blackwell was riding around in a squad car. Unfortunately, for all their efforts, they appeared to be no closer to figuring out who the victims were, much less the killer.
Now that he finally had a few hours off, Tomlinson planned to do some investigating on his own. He knew he had seen the tattoo on the second victim before—at the Rainbow Boutique, just off Eleventh near Cincinnati. Since he had already linked the body dump site to the Eleventh Street subculture, this connection seemed all the more likely.
The Rainbow Boutique catered to the varied professionals of the district: prostitutes, pimps, drug dealers, and assorted other hoodlums. It was a combination drug store, head shop, and tattoo parlor. Something for everyone.
Tomlinson maneuvered past a group of tattered winos hovering around a shared bottle of stoop booze and entered the boutique. He walked briskly through the shop, heading for a small room in the back. He pushed away the strings of beads hanging in the doorway and stepped inside.
A white-haired man sat behind a table cluttered with tattoo needles. The man was withered and drawn; he couldn’t have weighed more than a hundred pounds. Around him, posted on all four walls, were countless multicolored tattoos. Hearts, anchors, cherubs, flags—a lifetime of illustration and design.
Tomlinson examined a series of tattoos on the wall just inside the door. There it was, just as he remembered it—a lovely blue butterfly with a garland of pink flowers around its wings.
The man’s eyes darted around the room, then peered up at Tomlinson.
“How’s business?” Tomlinson asked.
“Not bad.” The man’s eyes narrowed. “It’d be better if I could keep the police off my tail.”
So much for the chameleon. Tomlinson had to hand it to him—the man was nothing if not quick. “Don’t worry. This isn’t my beat. I’m here…unofficially.”
“I’ll believe it when you leave.”
“Police been giving you a bad time?”
“Constantly.”
“I didn’t realize tattooing was illegal among consenting adults.”
“It isn’t.” He rubbed his tongue against yellow teeth. “Just disfavored.”
“They confiscate your needles?”
“Of course. Want to make sure I’m not spreading diseases, like everyone else on The Stroll.”
“I’m sure everyone else gets hassled, too.”
“Everyone who can’t afford not to.”
Tomlinson decided it was best not to ask what he meant. “I’ve been thinking about getting a tattoo myself. I thought maybe one of these colorful butterfly jobs.”
“You some kind of queer?”
“No. Why?”
“I never had no man ask for a butterfly before. It’s the ladies that like them.”
“Really? Is this a…popular design?”
“Some of the street girls like it.”
“Anyone recently?”
The man looked at Tomlinson, a suspicious expression on his face. After a brief hesitation, he answered. “Did one not more than three weeks ago for a girl named Suzie. Pretty little Suzie.”
“Does Suzie have a last name?”
The man reared back his head and laughed.
Point taken, Tomlinson thought. “Don’t you need parental consent to tattoo a minor?”
“Suzie don’t have no parents. Not around here, anyway.”
Let it drop, Tomlinson told himself. This is not the time. “Is Suzie still working The Stroll?”
The man pondered a moment. “Can’t say for sure. Haven’t seen her for over two weeks.”
“Really.” That would tie in nicely with the murder of the second victim. “Do you normally see most of the street girls on a regular basis?”
“I live here, don’t I? Sometimes they take off suddenly, though, and we never see them again. Never know why they were here, or why they left. Runaways are like that.”
“Yeah.” Tomlinson absently glanced over some of the other tattoo designs. “Do you know where she lived?”
“Lived?”
“Lives. Or lived before she blew town.” What a stupid slip. Damn, damn, damn.
“No. But Trixie would.”
“And who’s Trixie?”
“Her best friend. On The Stroll, anyway. They worked together, if you know what I mean. Did a lot of joint jobs. Whenever the opportunity arose.”
Great. An honest-to-God lead. “What does Trixie look like?”
“Are you going to get her in some kind of trouble?”
“Absolutely not. I give you my word. I’m trying to help her. She may be in great danger.”
The man thought for a long, hard moment. Eventually, the words dripped out of his mouth. “She’s young. Fifteen, sixteen, I’d guess. Blonde.”
“Aren’t they all?”
“She’s different. You’ll understand when you see her. It hasn’t gotten to her yet. She can still smile.”
“Got anything more tangible?”
“Look for a scar.” He drew a line on his face. “Right across the bridge of her nose.”
“Any idea where I could find her?”
The man made a sweeping gesture toward the street.
“On The Stroll. Where else?” His lips turned up slightly. “Look for the trail of pennies.”
Pennies? He wanted to ask, but he was afraid he was already pushing his luck. “Thanks. You’ve been a big help.” He dropped a twenty-dollar bill on the table.
“What?” the man said. “No tattoo?”
“Maybe next time.” Tomlinson started back through the beads.
“If I find out you’ve hurt Trixie, or caused her to come to harm, I’ll personally come after you. With my needles.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
Tomlinson hustled out of the shop. He could barely restrain himself. He was close, closer than he’d ever been before, closer than anyone else working the case. Maybe he could pull this off; maybe he could shove that stupid switchboard down Morelli’s throat.
But first he had to find a teenage girl named Trixie. Before the killer did.