This catches a whimsical look in Leo’s eye.
“Holy shit,” he says. “She knew Wiley?”
This was the cop shot dead in the drug raid from hell.
“And three of the others who were with him the day he died,” I tell him.
He whistles a high soft note.
What I do not tell him is that the fourth who was present that day, Tony Arguillo, I could not find in the book. The reason for this I suspect is only because the page for the letter A had been ripped out.
“Then it’s true,” he says, “the lady was a player.”
It is the thing with Leo. For his brain to work, his mouth is usually going.
“What do you mean?”
“Oh, nothing,” he says.
“Tell me, Leo.”
“What are you gonna give me in return?” He laughs.
“Your balls in one piece,” I tell him.
“Okay, okay. Just kidding,” he says.
“What did you hear, Leo?”
“Just that she was getting boinked regularly.”
He knows I’m wondering where this came from.
“Dirt in the office.” For this Leo has a nose like a pig searching out truffles. The stuff of his life.
“When I heard it,” he says, “I figured maybe some traffic cops scuttling by for nooners. The hike-and-bike crowd, guys who can do it on the back of their cycles without taking their foot off the starter pedal,” he says.
Unless I knew better, I might think that Leo was talking from experience.
“But you found out something else?” I say.
“Yes,” he says. “I checked with my sources. Knowledgeable people. All very reliable,” he tells me. He makes them sound like college dons.
“These are people who would not shit me,” says Leo. “What I heard was that it was either true love,” he says, “or higher ambition. She was romancing one guy, somebody important,” says Leo. “A main squeeze.”
“Who?”
“Whatta you think, I’m the fucking oracle?” he says. “If I knew that I wouldn’t be standing in some oily alley with you. I’d be converting it into a promotion. Making myself indispensable,” he says.
“Are the prosecutors checking this out? Her amorous adventures?”
“Sorry. They have their man.” Leo’s talking about the judge.
“But somebody else may have had a motive.”
“You don’t have to sell me. The problem is, all the physical evidence points to your client.”
Leo has a point.
“There was another name and a private number in that book,” I tell Leo. “Gus Lano.”
This gets a look from Leo as he fits the pieces.
“If she was bedding Lano,” says Leo, “my guess would be higher ambition,” he says. He means rather than true love.
“My thoughts exactly.”
The prosecutors have clearly looked at Hall’s telephone directory. They had to have seen Lano’s number. It is not a quantum leap for them to add the information that Leo has gathered to this number and begin to wonder. Still, most prosecutions usually take the course of least resistance, which at this moment is over my client.
“Lano’s name in her book,” says Leo, “would answer one other question.”
“What’s that?”
“His personal interest in her the night Acosta was arrested. I suppose he was just protecting his carnal claims.”
I give him a dumb look. I don’t know what he’s talking about.
“He was there. You didn’t know that?” says Leo. “The night they busted Acosta on the prostitution thing, Lano was there.”
The mystery man. The so-called lieutenant that Frost could not name on the stand. It is no wonder he had a faulty memory on this. It would have raised more than a few eyebrows. Why would the head of the union be present at Acosta’s arrest, unless perhaps he had his own agenda?
“There he is,” says Leo. He snaps his head back around the other side of the pillar, back braced against the concrete, as a man strides down the steps of McGowen Center, a block away, across the park.
“The tall one. Tan slacks, white shirt?” I ask.
“Yeah.” Leo refuses to take another look.
“Relax. He’s a block away,” I tell him. “You’re in the shadow of the garage. He can’t see you.”
“That’s what you say,” he says. “He probably has fucking night goggles on underneath his shades,” says Leo. “I’m outta here.”
I think Leo’s going to wet his pants.
“Where is he?” he says.
“Heading this way. Into the park,” I tell him. “Oh, God. He’s running this way, Leo. I think he saw you.”
“Oh shit,” he says. “Where do I go?” He’s doing tight little turns in front of the pillar, like a guy in need of a frantic pee. “Fucking A. Why do I let you talk me into these things?”
“Because you’re a stand-up guy, Leo. Interested in truth and justice.”
“I gotta get outta here,” he says:
“Relax.” I’m laughing out loud by now. Pain in the midsection.
“Your pal’s on a bench on the other side of the park,” I tell him.
“You asshole,” he says. “Robbed me of five years of life,” he tells me. “Fuck you.” He’s stamping with his feet now, then stops and looks for fear that the noise might alert the guy.
Then Leo does a quick sashay, straight away from the pillar, keeping the concrete between himself and the park across the street, looking over his shoulder for alignment, little baby steps.
“See you later,” I tell him.
“Not if I see you first,” says Leo. He’s into the shadows of the parking garage, and three seconds later I can hear only the click of his heels on concrete as he disappears around a corner.
I head out into the sunlight and make my way across the intersection with the traffic light, all the while keeping a bead on the tall man in tan pants and white shirt. He is slender, well over six feet, with dark brown hair. He’s seated on a bench under a large elm a hundred feet from the fountain in the center of the park. The sun picks up the glint of metal in his hand as I draw near. He has a small container of yogurt, an apple, and a metal spoon in one hand. That Leo would recognize such as lunch is amazing.
“Jim Cousins.” I use a normal voice, and I am ten feet from the bench when I say this.
He looks up, squinting into the sunlight, his dark glasses now dangling from his shirt pocket.
“Do I know you?”
“My name is Madriani,” I tell him. I come closer. “I was given your name by a mutual acquaintance.”
“Who’s that?”
“A friend,” I tell him.
The initial smile drops from his face.
“What do you want?”
“To talk,” I tell him.
I can sense him stiffening. What I myself would do if I worked for the police department and some stranger came up knowing my name.
“I’m on my lunch hour. If it’s business it will have to wait.”
He gives me another once-over, this time with his dark glasses on.
“You look familiar,” he says. “Have we met before?”
“I don’t think so. I’m an attorney,” I tell him. I hand him a business card.
“You’re one of the lawyers representing that judge,” he says.
“That’s right.”
“I saw you on TV.” The ticket of fame. Apprehension seems to melt. I’m giving out business cards, not bullets.
“You mind if I take a seat?”
“Suit yourself,” he says.
“I was told that you might know something about a case that occurred a couple of years ago.”
“I think maybe you have me confused with somebody else,” he says. “I’m not a cop.”
“Right. Your name is James Cousins. You work the police property room.”
“You know a lot about me. Like I say, if you want to talk business, chain of custody on drugs or something, catch me in the office.”
He pulls a paperback book from inside his shirt, opens it, and starts to read.
“I want to talk to you about Zack Wiley’s murder,” I tell him.
With this he looks up and shakes his head. “What is this? All of a sudden everybody and his brother wants to talk about Zack Wiley. Do I look like an information booth?”
“Is somebody else trying to talk to you?”