The verdict was unanimous. Cold Cat did not murder his wife.
He was free!
It was at that moment that the old rage, the furnace fire of his youth, still burning strong, began to take hold in him. The system had tried to get him but failed. He’d whipped its ass and he would again with his music. It was a scumbag society out to get him from the git-go and it couldn’t shut him up, couldn’t stop his message. He was better than the fools who’d tried to bring him down. Better in every way. He would tell them so. When the time was right, he’d let them know.
Unanimous. Try to reverse that one on appeal, Mr. Smart-ass prosecutor Farrato. Richard tried to catch the little prosecutor’s eye, but Farrato, busy scooping up papers and stuffing them into his briefcase, wouldn’t look in his direction.
Better not look my humpin’ way!
Put ya way down
Ya don’ see it my way
Make ya way pay
Turn ya way gray
Be yo one last final day!
Yes, there were definitely some lyrics here. Food for the beat. It was all material for Cold Cat, all part of his message.
As he stood up to leave the courtroom with his attorneys, he was full of the rage he’d turned to riches. He didn’t glance at the jurors, wasn’t going to mouth a “thank-you” like Simpson. The Melanie cunt that he’d got all wet between the legs in court and conned into helping him was of no use to him now. He knew how he affected some women, and she’d probably try making a pest of herself, but he wouldn’t let her. Old bitch. Older, anyway. Those were bones he didn’t want to jump, so piss on her. He made a mental note to describe her to his security staff so they could keep her the hell away.
That Merv Clark, though, nervy guy that’d been around, had his own troubles, and lied his ass off to get a lighter sentence from the man, was a different matter. He’d have to see what he could do for that brother, maybe put him on his staff, loyal soldier like that.
Knee High was in the corner of his vision as two burly bailiffs cleared the way, and graceful Murray guided Cold Cat with a light touch to his elbow, nudging him toward the paneled door to freedom.
Murray, too. Man deserves a bonus. Smoother’n goose shit.
“Catch you later, man!” Knee High yelled.
Cold Cat glanced at him and raised a hand with thumb, forefinger, and pinky stiffly extended. Cameras hadn’t been allowed in the courtroom, but the miniature lightning of flashes going off brightened everything, momentarily blinding Cold Cat.
“You’n me all the way now!” Knee High shouted, as the acquitted man and his entourage exited behind the bench. “You’n me all the way!”
“Goddamn believe it!” Richard Simms mumbled.
All the way.
Cold Cat was back.
Two days later New York Appeals Court Judge Roger Parker was found shot to death in his limo by his driver, who’d gone into a service station in Queens to buy a morning paper for the judge.
A slip of paper with a red capital letter J printed on it with felt tip pen was tucked beneath the limo’s wiper blade on the passenger side, like a parking ticket.
The limo driver started to remove it, then thought he’d better leave it for the police.
42
When Beam, Nell, and Looper arrived an hour after the shooting, Beam knew almost immediately the crime scene wasn’t going to give them much. The black Lincoln stretch limo was still parked at the pumps, being swarmed over by the crime scene unit. Judge Parker was slumped in the backseat, the tinted window down. In the harsh morning sunlight, he looked like a plump-faced, elderly man peacefully dozing in the middle of all the turmoil, but for the black round hole in the center of his forehead.
Minskoff, the little ME with the glasses and bushy mustache, was standing alongside the limo, near the dead judge, writing something with a blunt pencil in a small black notebook. He was concentrating on what he wrote, the tip of his tongue protruding slightly from the hairy corner of his mouth.
Beam approached him while Nell and Looper went to find the uniforms who’d taken the call and were first on the scene. Apparently the driver had gone into the station for the paper while the tank was still filling. The gas pump nozzle was still stuck in the limo; it and the hose reminded Beam of a snake that had sunk its fangs into the big car and wouldn’t release it. Beam stood patiently, the sun starting to get hot on the back of his neck, until Minskoff finished writing and closed his notebook.
“What’s the preliminary?” Beam asked.
“Looks like one gunshot wound, center of the forehead, bullet entered the frontal lobe of the brain at a slight leftward, downward angle. No exit wound. Death immediate.”
“Thirty-two caliber?”
“Could be. We’ll know when we remove the slug.”
“Has the body been moved at all?”
“Lividity indicates not in the slightest.”
“I mean since you arrived to make your preliminary examination?”
“The good judge is exactly as he was when I got here. I haven’t even opened the car door. No need to, considering the location of the fatal wound.”
Beam leaned down so he could peer into the car without touching anything. It appeared that the door where the judge sat was unlocked, as was the driver’s door.
He straightened up, then walked alongside the car to the windshield, where the sheet of paper with the red J on it was still wedged beneath the wiper blade. He didn’t have to remove the paper. The letter J was plainly visible, and looked like the others left by the Justice Killer.
Minskoff had walked along to join him. “Appears to be your man again.”
“Hardly a man at all,” Beam said. “Sick slugs like this killer have given up being part of humanity.”
Minskoff shook his head. “Nobody resigns from the human race. But he’s sure a part of us we don’t like.”
“When you arrived, was the rear door where the judge sat unlocked?”
“Yes. I saw that it was, but I didn’t open the door. Didn’t have to, so I tried to help keep the scene frozen.”
“Window already down?”
“Yes, it was open just as it is now.”
“The judge is facing forward,” Beam said. “If someone approached the car from the side and tapped on the window, and he opened it and turned his head to speak to whoever it was, then was shot, would his head turn to face forward again?”
“It very well could. Probably would, as his body slumped back. I don’t rule out the possibility that he was shot by someone inside the car, but how we found him is consistent with what you just hypothesized, being shot by someone standing alongside the car. The apparent angle of the entry wound indicates that also.” Minskoff looked mildly irritated, like a man who’d drawn a bad card at poker. “It’d all be easier to reconstruct if we had an exit wound and could examine blood splatters.”
“Messier, though,” Beam said.
“Oh, I don’t mind that.”
Beam left the M.E. as he saw Nell and Looper walking toward him. They stood out of earshot of the crime scene unit techs and watched the ambulance arrive to transport the body. It’s flashing emergency lights were lost in the bright sunlight, like those of the police cars.
Too nice a day for a murder, Beam thought.
