Abe Socolow motioned for me to sit down, or maybe recline, in an uncomfortable black plastic chair shaped like a tilde. On a glass coffee table were three stylish candles of different lengths, propped in rough-hewn holders that looked like black granite. Next to the candles was a heavy art book that I was sure had never been opened by Blinky, unless he had started selling fake van Goghs. I eased into the chair without slipping a disk, and Socolow said, “So where the hell is he?”
“ Blinky?”
“ No, Judge Crater.”
“ He’s not here? He’s not dead?”
“ I’m going to ask you again. Where is he?”
“ Abe, I think we’ve had this conversation before.”
“ Yeah, except you left something out.” He tossed a leather-bound pocket calendar on the coffee table, then flipped it open. “Go ahead, look at it.”
There it was, in Blinky’s scrawl, on Sunday, June 26. Yesterday. 10-ish. Meet Jake.
“ Ten-ish,” I said aloud. “Sounds like Andre Agassi with a lisp.”
“ C’mon, Jake. You can do better than that.”
Actually, I couldn’t. “What’re you driving at?”
“ You told us you hadn’t seen Baroso since Thursday.”
“ It’s the truth.”
Socolow cleared his throat. He sounded like a hungry pit bull. “You also told us you weren’t expecting anyone last night.”
“ I wasn’t. Not at home, anyway.”
The detective stirred on the sofa. “We could bust you right now for obstruction.”
“ What good would that do?” I asked.
Neither one answered me. They both wanted my help, and jerking me around wasn’t going to get it. The detective said, “We sent a squad car over here last night after you called in. No one was home. The security guard says Baroso pulled out of the garage sometime around eight or eight-thirty in his green Range Rover and comes back maybe three hours later. A little while after that, Baroso leaves again, burning rubber pulling out of the garage, nearly sideswiping a car pulling in. We got a search warrant this morning, and here we are.”
“ What’s the charge,” I asked, “reckless driving?”
Socolow ignored the crack and said, “Here’s how I see it. Baroso and Hornback come to your house, hoping you’ll mediate a dispute. Baroso knows Hornback’s set to give a statement and he’s prepared to pay to keep him quiet. But without you around to referee, the negotiations don’t go so well, and Baroso ends up slipping Hornback a Mickey, then strangling him. After stringing him up, Baroso comes back here, gathers whatever he needs and flees.”
“ Flees,” I repeated, because the word always sounded silly to me.
“ Take a look around,” Socolow said, seeming to wonder if I was mocking him. “Dirty dishes still in the sink. Bedroom’s a mess, clothes tossed from the closet, one suitcase opened but not packed. Toiletries are gone from the bathroom, drawers with underwear and shirts mostly empty. And the pocket calendar left behind. Nobody does that unless they’re in a hell of a hurry.”
“ You’re too much,” I said. “A guy’s a messy packer, and that’s your proof of murder. Unless you’ve got a witness who eyeballed Blinky at my house, you’ve got nothing, and you know you’ve got nothing. I’m surprised a judge even gave you a search warrant on all that speculation.”
I watched the undertaker’s smile form at the corner of Socolow’s mouth. He was thumbing through his notes. “You have a neighbor named Phoebe Gethers at the intersection of Kumquat and Solana. That’s right across the street from you, isn’t it, Jake.”
He knew very well it was.
“ At about a quarter to ten,” the detective said, “she’s sitting on her front porch, and a taxi drops off a man at your house. She didn’t get a look at him, but we check the cab companies, and a Haitian driver with no work permit positively ID’s Hornback from a mug shot. A few minutes later, your neighbor gets some houseguests and goes inside. More guests arrive, and she’s back at the front door, letting them in. She puts the time between ten and ten-fifteen, and now there’s what she calls a Jeep sitting in front of your house. We show her some pictures, and she ID’s it as a dark green or black Range Rover. By the time you show up around eleven-thirty, the Range Rover’s gone, and Hornback’s strung up with your tie. Basing it on body temperature of the stiff, rigor mortis and livor mortis, the M.E. puts time of death between nine and eleven p.m. Hornback was rendered unconscious with barbiturates, then strangled.”
“ So where was Blinky between eight and ten?” I asked.
Socolow grunted. “Who knows and who cares! He was at your house when it counted.”
“ I care because Blinky’s not a murderer.”
“ Jake’s right, for once.” It was Jo Jo Baroso, coming through the balcony door. Behind her, one of the cruise ships was headed out Government Cut toward the Caribbean. My brother is not emotionally or physically capable.”
The sister to the rescue, I didn’t expect it.
“ As I see it,” she continued, “Luis brought some muscle with him. When Kyle wouldn’t agree to whatever deal Luis wanted to cut, the muscle did the dirty work.”
Oh boy, with a sister like this, who needs a prosecutor? But then, the sister is a prosecutor. I looked back at Socolow and said, “Okay, I get the picture. After ten minutes of detective work, it’s the collective wisdom of the police and the state attorney’s office that this case is solved.”
“ Hey, Jake,” Socolow said, with a smile I now recognized as a sneer in sheep’s clothing, “it wasn’t that hard. You know the three elements of every prosecution, don’t you?”
“ Sure. Perjury, coercion, and pure dumb luck.”
“ Motive, opportunity, and means,” Socolow corrected me. “Baroso knew Hornback was going to flip. There’s the motive. We can tie the two of them together in your house, at least circumstantially. That’s the opportunity. As Josefina suggests, the means were undoubtedly provided by hired muscle.”
“ Undoubtedly,” I said, with as much sarcasm as possible. “Of course, your security guard didn’t see a third party with Blinky, and Phoebe didn’t report another car at my house, and even if it was Blinky’s Range Rover, you have no one eyeballing him, and the three of you are so far off base about the kind of person Blinky Baroso is that I don’t even know why I’m arguing with you.”
I was getting aggravated, so I stood up and paced. Sometimes, the hardest thing to do is sit still. In court, I have a tendency to prowl when the opposition is doing the questioning. To fight the urge, I imagine myself chained to my chair. Here the chains were broken, but Blinky’s living room felt like a cage. Something wasn’t making sense, but I didn’t know what. After a moment, I stopped pacing and turned back to Socolow. “Why are you telling me all this? What do you want from me?”
“ We figure Baroso will contact you,” he said.
“ Yeah, clients occasionally call their lawyers, so what?”
“ When he does, call me.”
I started to say something, but Socolow raised his hand as a teacher might to an unruly student. “Now, before you shout attorney-client privilege, hear me out. He killed Hornback, or he knows who did, and either way, I want to talk to him. So, get his story and see if you can bring him in.”
I gave Socolow a look that asked what’s in it for my client.
“ A voluntary surrender and things will go easier for him,” Socolow said. “Maybe the muscle was just supposed to muss up Hornback, and he went too far. If your client surrenders, I wouldn’t fight a reasonable bail request. If he makes us bring him in, he can sit in county jail until his case is called. He’ll have the jailhouse pallor and bum haircut that’ll tell the jury he’s right out of the can.”