“You know,” Ben said, giving strong emphasis to each word, “the best thing I had going for me on the Barrett case was the fact that you had totally bungled the pretrial investigation. Are you going to make the same mistake again?
His lips pursed, Prescott spat out his reply. “This ain’t over yet, Kincaid. Don’t think it is.”
Ben nodded. “We will anxiously await your return.”
“You know, I heard you’d retired. Quit the lawyer game for something respectable.”
“I guess the reports of my death were premature.” Ben glanced at Earl. “Are you all right?”
Earl was still too flustered to speak coherently. “Well … yeah. I mean, I guess. But—”
Ben held up his hand. “My advice is that you don’t say a word in the presence of these officers. Although Lieutenant Prescott failed to mention it, you have the right to remain silent, and you should exercise it.”
Earl buttoned his lip.
Prescott looked as if he’d just sucked acid. “You haven’t accomplished anything here. We’ll get a warrant, and we’ll be back. All you’ve done is make us jump through some hoops.”
“Those hoops are there for a reason,” Ben muttered.
“Oh yeah? And what’s that?”
“To protect people from assholes like you.”
Prescott ground his teeth together so hard Ben thought he might pop a filling. He pressed himself back under Earl’s nose. “We’ll be back.” He grunted to his two accomplices, then bolted out the door.
Earl turned toward Ben, his eyes wide with amazement. “But—you mean—how—”
Ben waved Earl back into the living room. “Earl, I think it’s time we had a little talk.”
Chapter 16
BEN SPENT THE first fifteen minutes of their meeting just establishing the essentials: that he really was a bona fide barrister, and that it hadn’t all been an elaborate con to keep Earl out of jail.
Earl’s face was the picture of mystification. “But if you’re this hotshot lawyer and all, what’re you doin’ here?”
“I decided to give up my practice.”
“You gave up bein’ a lawyer so’s you could tickle ivory in a jazz club?”
Ben tried not to squirm. “Not exactly. The point is, I am a lawyer. If you want me to help, I will. Or I’ll help you find another lawyer, if you prefer. It’s up to you.”
“Looks like I need help bad, huh?”
Ben was inclined to agree. “Why don’t you tell me what this is all about?”
“But you were here when it happened.”
“I don’t mean last night. I mean twenty-two years ago. That charcoaled corpse with the carved-on smile.”
Earl winced. Ben could see these were extremely unpleasant memories he was dredging up, not that that was any great surprise. “It’s been so long ago. I’d hoped I’d finally put all this behind me.”
“I’m sorry,” Ben said. “But I think it’s necessary.”
“All right then.” Earl let himself collapse into the chair behind his desk. “You remember yesterday when I mentioned Professor Hoodoo?”
Ben nodded. “The greatest sax player in the Southwest. Before he died.”
“That’s the one.” His eyes went down toward the carpet. “That was Professor Hoodoo you saw in that black-and-white glossy the cop was wavin’ ’round.”
“That was—” Ben stopped himself. “What happened to him?”
Earl shrugged. “I still dunno. But I did twenty-two years hard time for it.”
Ben’s lips parted. “For murder?”
“Right the first time.”
“But you said—”
“And I meant it. I didn’t kill the man. But they nailed me to the wall for it, jus’ the same. Put me away for first-degree murder.”
“But that picture—”
“Burned from head to toe. In his own apartment. There wasn’t much left.”
“Except—”
“Yeah. Except.” Ben knew what they were both thinking. Except for that hideous smile. The same smile someone carved on Lily Campbell. Small wonder Prescott came after Earl. Who would ever dream that two different murderers could have the same horrible M.O.?
“How long had you known this … Professor Hoodoo?”
Earl almost smiled. “Oh, forever. Jus’ about, anyway. George and me’d grown up on the chitlin’ circuit together.” He shook his head. “You know, I was good, but George was—well, he was Professor Hoodoo. He was the best.”
“He played sax, just like you, right?”
“Right. ’Cept, when the Professor blew, the whole world held its breath and gaped in stupefaction. People loved him.”
“Then why—?”
“Did he get killed? Don’t ask me.”
“Did he have any enemies?”
“In a way. You have to understand about George. He didn’t have what you’d call a winnin’ personality. And there was a reason. He’d had a major-league-tough childhood. His brother was the only friend he ever had. His mom was a prostitute. His dad—one of her johns, originally—was the meanest son of a bitch who ever lived. You can’t imagine what it’s like, having a father who always disapproves, always criticizes, always has something mean to say, acts like he thinks you’re the worst worm who ever crawled out of the sludge.”
Ben didn’t bother to correct him.
“It makes a man insecure. And it makes him afraid. ’Fraid he’s doin’ somethin’ wrong. ’Fraid he’s doin’ somethin’ he shouldn’t. He ends up livin’ his whole life tryin’ to make the fear go away. But it never does.” He paused, and his eyes turned inward, not seeing but remembering. “George tried to work his way into the right circles, meet the right set. And he had some success with it. Became the world-famous Professor Hoodoo. Things really started happenin’ for him. He met some highbrow high-society types. And he met some lowbrow lowlifes, too. They kept the jazz world hoppin’ in those days—gangsters, fixers, pushers. All the wrong sorts of friends for a man like George.”
“Surely he got some satisfaction out of his music. After he became a success.”
Earl shook his head slowly back and forth. “Didn’t matter who George met, who he hung out with. It was never enough. Never, never enough. No matter who he was with, he always ended up alone.”
“That’s a shame,” Ben said quietly. “Everyone should have someone.”
“All George had was his music. He gave it everythin’, and it gave him everythin’ back. Everythin’ it had, anyway. Which wasn’t enough.”
“Why did they accuse you of—”
“Of offin’ the Professor? Wrong place at the wrong time, son. Story of my life.”
“I’m sorry, but I’m going to need some details.”
Earl took a deep breath. “We were makin’ the rounds, playin’ a gig together. Little club not too far from here. I was havin’ a great run—I was in the zone, as they say, firin’ on all engines. I’d come up with a few new tunes that really worked wonders for me. I was gettin’ applause like I’d never heard before.”
“That sounds great.”
“Great for me, yes. For the Professor, no. He was a genius, son, but like most geniuses, he was selfish and insecure. When I started gettin’ popular, he saw it as a threat. And that led to trouble.”
“What happened?”
“George had been in brawls before, usually for the stupidest reasons. Sometimes I thought he wanted to be hurt, maybe even wanted to die. But he’d never picked one with me before. Not till that night, anyway.”
“He started a fight?”
“You got it. Right onstage. Hell, I didn’t want to squabble with the man. I didn’t like that scenario from the jump. But what could I do?”
“He started a fight—just because you were getting rave reviews?”