‘I think we should be getting home.’ George is looking at his wife like maybe all of this has been too much for her. He looks at Colby, then whispers something in her ear. She nods, but no smile. I suspect he’s making amends to get his wife out of here.
‘Come on, let’s go,’ he says. He tugs Kathy Merlow toward the street. ‘Nice to meet you,’ he tells me. ‘Wish it coulda been under better circumstances,’ he says. They wander off toward the street.
‘Nice couple,’ says Colby.
‘Yeah.’ I watch them as they go, across the cul-de-sac and up the driveway to their house.
‘But they must be recluses,’ I say.
‘Why’s that?’
‘They don’t know the Vegas but they live next door.’
She looks at me, a puzzled expression. ‘You’re right,’ she says.
Suddenly my attention is drawn to the ‘south lawn,’ to the portico that is Jack’s fantasy of helicopters and grand trips of state. There’s action on the front porch. I see Vega and another man come out. Jack’s scanning the crowd in front of the house. Even from this distance his image is one of death warmed. His face haggard, there are bags the size of blimps under his eyes. But my focus is riveted on the guy behind him. My blood runs cold at the sight of Jimmy Lama, the cop from hell.
Lama and I go back a ways, to a time years ago when I had him drawn and quartered on charges of excessive force in the arrest of one of my clients. More recently we tangled in the trial of Talia Potter, when Lama, in violation of a court-issued gag order, leaked damaging information to the press, seeming to link me to the murder of Talia’s husband, Ben Potter, the senior partner of my old law firm. Talia and I had been an item. To my discredit we’d had a brief affair during a period when I was separated from Nikki. But Lama’s efforts to draw me into Ben’s murder came to naught when Talia was acquitted of her husband’s murder, and the riddle of who did it and why was solved. On Lama’s score card I am still ahead. Jimmy was disciplined for violating the court’s order, a suspension without pay, and a demotion.
Vega’s searching the crowd, looking, shading his eyes against the glare of the lights, police vehicles in his driveway, some with their light bars gyrating with synchronous color. Then suddenly Vega points with an outstretched arm, finger like a cocked pistol, Jimmy Lama at his shoulder taking a bead — dead center on me.
‘Counselor. Fancy seeing you,’ he says. ‘And I thought life was too short.’
The smile on Jimmy Lama’s face is nothing less than sinister. Lama’s most dominant feature is his blockhouse build. Lama is square, from the angle of his jaw to what is left of the hair on his head, leveled by shears to a flattop. The haircut is a holdover from his days in the military. I am told he once did M.P. duty in an embassy behind the iron curtain. I have often wondered for which side.
Lama and I have a long and untoward history, a level of enmity that rivals things between Arabs and Israelis. Our respective bunkers have been the courthouse and the cop shops of this town. Lama stands about five-nine, though his moral stature is somewhat more dwarfed. He is ambitious to a fault, and corrupted in the way many aspiring people are, not by money so much as by the pursuit of upward mobility. His career has been stunted to a degree by our last outing. He has spent the last three years getting back to level ground following the disciplinary action for which he blames me. Tonight I wear this like a badge of honor.
The young cop, the uniform who hauled me off the street, introduces me like I don’t know Lama.
‘So it’s lieutenant again,’ I say. ‘That explains the noise,’ I tell him, ‘that old familiar sound.’
‘What’s that?’ says Lama.
‘The scraping of the barrel downtown,’ I say.
Mean little slits for eyes. He utters some profanity, something that ends with his ass, and commands me to pucker. He says this low under his breath so that Hemple and the other cops can’t hear it. Maybe it is true that one mellows with age. Jimmy Lama has learned a little restraint. Ten years ago my words would have earned a change in the contour of my head, conforming to the ripples in the handle of his flashlight.
Lama’s sitting, sprawled in a leather club chair by the fireplace. He’s nibbling on a toothpick, a pacifier since he gave up smoking a few years ago.
Gail Hemple has come with me inside Jack’s house, though she wasn’t summoned. I think Hemple is planning on playing lawyer-client games with Lama, privileges and immunities, trying to draw fire away from me. I could do the same thing, but it would take Lama only an hour and a couple of phone calls to find out that I never made an appearance in court as counsel on behalf of Laurel. Then he would be all over my ass like hot tar under feathers.
‘Where’s the lady?’ he says. This is directed to me.
‘Lose somebody?’ I say.
‘Your sister-in-law, jackass.’ He shakes his head, grins around the toothpick. ‘Make it easy and tell us where she is?’
‘You might try her apartment. That’s where she lives.’
‘Nobody home,’ he says.
‘Really?’
Lama’s chewing the toothpick to a dull point.
Jack’s now joined us in the living room. On my way in, the coroner and an assistant were wheeling the body down the curved staircase, Jack following along behind. He gave me only a sideways glance, a look of vengeance.
When he sees me now his eyes flame. Vega’s appearance tells me this is more than grief. He’s been seeking solace in a bottle. He’s looking for more. He heads for the liquor cart in the corner. Halfway there he stops, a thought he can’t suppress.
‘You son of a bitch,’ he says. ‘I told you. I warned you.’ His finger’s shaking in my face. ‘Laurel was over the line and you knew it,’ he says. He talks like all the facts are in, the deed done, case closed. All he needs now is to catch Laurel.
It’s an awkward moment, wrestling with the spouse. I look at Lama.
He smiles. No relief here.
Finally I offer Jack my sympathies, tell him I’m sorry for whatever has happened, but that he’s making a lot of assumptions, jumping to conclusions.
‘Bullshit.’ Vega jumps me verbally. I have given him what he wanted — a target of defense for Laurel.
‘The bitch killed Melanie,’ he says. ‘She’s got a loose screw. You saw her in court,’ he tells me. ‘Threats and violence. Went after Melanie in the hallway like an animal.’ He’s trying to persuade now.
‘She was emotional,’ I say. ‘An argument, that’s all.’
‘An argument!’ says Jack. His eyes are glazed over with anger. ‘What do you want, Kodachrome?’ he says. ‘You want it in living color? Laurel pulling the trigger on videotape?
‘Oh, you’d love that,’ he says. ‘Like all the rest of the lawyers, you’d chop it up into suey. A lotta freeze-frames and lies,’ he says. ‘So you could charge Melanie with impeding the flight of a bullet. Well, it ain’t gonna happen here,’ he says. ‘Laurel’s going down,’ he tells me. ‘If I have to pull every fucking lever in the state.’ He stands there for several seconds, waiting to see if I want to offer another line of reasoning.
I want to ask him where he was tonight, whether he saw anything, whether in fact there is a videotape or if all of this is merely the wrath — filled ravings of Jack’s imagination. But discretion overtakes advocacy. I stand silent.
There’s some mumbling under Vega’s breath, finally a victory in a bad day. He passes behind me. The next thing I hear is the tinkling of ice cubes in a tumbler, bourbon splashing on rocks. I would ask him for a drink, but I’m afraid he’d throw the bottle.
Lama’s waiting to see if Jack can spray any more bile on me. One of Jimmy’s joys in life, spreading pain. He senses that it’s over.
‘You got pictures?’ I turn this on Lama.
‘You’re here to answer the questions,’ he says. ‘I’ll ask them.’
‘We’ve got nothing to say.’ Hemple chimes in.