“But he’s so hot?”
Someday I would give up on her. “I’m sure,” I said, and threw a legal pad and a copy of the Pennsylvania Crimes Code into my briefcase.
“I’m sorry?”
“Do something secretarial for me. Call Mack and tell him to assign some young genius to my cases. And tell him I said ‘pay up.’”
“Okay?” She made a note in pen on the palm of her hand. Another thing I’d asked her not to do.
“Then cancel everybody today. And tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow, too?”
I snapped my briefcase closed and grabbed my bag. “And tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow. You ever hear that before? You know what that’s from?”
“Macbeth?”
I did a double-take. “Right.”
She grinned crookedly and held up her hand. On her palm it said, YOUNG GENIUS.
11
The route to Radnor Township Police Station winds through the most expensive wilderness west of Philadelphia and is dotted with stone mansions set so far from their mailboxes it could be another zip code. Residents call this costly forest “hunt country” and I believe they hunt foxes here, not Italians or other critters.
If I didn’t have a client arrested for murder, I might have enjoyed the drive, with the hand-stitched steering wheel sliding through my fingers and my car taking the curves like it was glued to the asphalt. Instead I was trying to remember the elements of the crime of murder as I whipped past the mailboxes, their tasteful white lettering echoing names on the SIGN HERE line of the Declaration of Independence.
Hancock, Morris, Lynch.
I tried to reach Kate on my car phone to tell her what was going on, but there was no answer, and no answering machine. Kate loathed them, lumping them with such abominations as VCRs, personal computers, and ballpoint pens.
Wolcott, Clark, Stone.
Kate would be tough enough to weather this, I’d seen her attack ivy like the Terminator. I guessed she wouldn’t be at the police station. Fiske protected her, by tradition and instinct, and she seemed content in this arrangement. I’d always thought their marriage had a comfy, natural-order feel to it, like a faithful pairing of loons. Shows you how much I know.
Adams, Ross, Smith.
I tried to reach Paul, too, but he wasn’t at his office or at home. I called on the car phone, but no luck. I tried not to think about where he was, what he was doing, or who he was doing it with. I had to bail his father out of jail. I punched the end button on the car phone again for no reason at all.
Wilson, Taylor, Chase.
I caught sight of the police station at the fringe of the woods behind a huge, well-maintained baseball field. I came to a full stop when I saw the commotion.
ABC, NBC, CBS.
The baseball field was empty of Little Leaguers, whose families had fled the steamy tarmac of their circular driveways for beach houses. Reporters had taken their place, alleged adults with cameras and microphones. White TV news vans with flashy logos were parked in the station lot, their silvery satellite dishes reflecting the midday sunshine. Even the playground was overrun by the media and their shiny toys.
I took a deep breath, gunned all six of my Teutonic cylinders, and drove down the road and into the parking lot. I ignored the camera flashes and videocameras that recorded my car’s excellent handling. I pulled into the first illegal space and the reporters were on me almost before I cut the ignition.
From a woman reporter with a dictaphone: “Miss Morrone, do you have any comment on the judge’s arrest?”
How about shit, piss, and fuck? “No comment.”
From a slick TV reporter: “People are saying the judge should step down from the bench. Will he?”
Are you kidding? “Why should he? Judge Hamilton is one of the best judges on the district court. We need him.”
From a Connie Chung knock-off: “How will this affect the lawsuit for sexual harassment?”
She’s dead, so it goes away. “I have no comment. Excuse me, I’d like to get through here without serious bodily injury. To you.”
From a black reporter: “Will Judge Hamilton plead guilty?”
Does the Pope shit in the woods? “Of course not.”
And a follow-up, shouted from the back of the crowd: “Is the judge guilty, Ms. Morrone?”
Your guess is as good as mine, bucko. “Absolutely not. My client is innocent of any and all charges against him.”
I wedged my way through the throng, ducked a thousand more questions, and stepped inside the station house. I’d never been in a police station, but I didn’t expect it to look like the home office of an insurance company. The walls glowed eggshell white and the matching tile floor was buffed to perfection. The baseboards were done in teal, as were the doorjambs and other molding. The hall was quiet, no one was anywhere in sight. I figured all the insurance agents were out harassing people like you and me.
“May I help you?” said a gray-haired receptionist, who looked up from the mystery novel she was reading. Her back was to a large window, and reporters pressed against it like chimps at the zoo.
“Yes. Can you make those reporters disappear?”
“Certainly.” She got up and dropped the Levolors in their faces. Mystery readers take no prisoners.
“I’m Rita-”
“I know, I saw you on TV. Have a seat in the waiting room. Lieutenant Dunstan is expecting you.”
The color scheme of off-white and teal prevailed in the waiting room, and group photos of the Radnor police in the 1900s hung on the walls, displayed like family portraits. In each one, tall white men stood in front of a woodsy backdrop, sporting handlebar mustaches and greatcoats.
“You must be Ms. Morrone,” said a deep voice. I stood up and shook the hand of Lieutenant Dunstan, a tall white man with a handlebar mustache. I avoided the double-take.
“Uh, yes.”
“Would you like some coffee? We can have Hankie here get you some.” He waved at the receptionist, who looked up expectantly.
“No, thank you. I’d just like to see my client, Judge Hamilton.”
“So you’re the one. I read about you,” he said, his tone convivial. His face was open and earnest, with large blue eyes and a smile that said, The policeman is your friend.
“How is the judge?”
“He’s fine. Fine. He’s back in his cell.”
“You have him in a cell?”
“Where else would we put him?”
My inexperience, showing like a bra strap. “Is he in handcuffs?”
“No, we usually use the cell or the handcuffs, but not both. Belt and suspenders, don’t you think?”
I thought I heard Hankie sniggering, but it could have been my imagination. “Judge Hamilton is a federal district judge. He doesn’t need to be in a cell.”
“He’s also under arrest for first-degree murder, Ms. Morrone. We can’t give him special treatment here.”
Not with the press watching, anyway. “Is he in a cell with other… detainees?”
“Nope. He’s by himself. Don’t have a lot of violent crime here, you know. Lower Merion Township acts as a buffer between us and the city.”
Thanks a lot, I lived in Lower Merion Township. “How many murders do you have here in, say, a year?”
“Not a one, usually. Only a couple murders in the last five years, if you don’t count that reporter I killed this morning.” He laughed and Hankie did, too.
“Justifiable homicide,” I said, and they both laughed again. “By the way, how did the press find out about the arrest?”
“They have scanners on all the departments. They know as soon as we do, there’s nothing we can do about it. We’re putting out a press release now. It says Judge Hamilton’s been charged with homicide in the stabbing death of Wayne resident Patricia Sullivan.”
“Have you recovered the murder weapon?” I felt silly saying it, like in Clue. Was it Professor Plum with the pipe in the conservatory?