'Fuck you, Gregaros,' Dupre answered with a low growl as every muscle in his body tensed.
'You're under arrest, Johnny boy,' Gregaros informed Dupre, suddenly all business.
'For what?' Dupre asked belligerently.
'The murder of United States Senator Harold Travis, scumbag.'
McCarthy thought that Dupre's shock was genuine, but he'd seen savvy crooks fake every emotion known to man.
'I didn't kill Travis,' Dupre protested.
'I suppose you didn't argue with him at the Westmont, either.'
Dupre started to answer, then clamped his jaws shut. Gregaros grabbed him roughly by the shoulder and turned him around so a uniformed officer could slap on a pair of cuffs. Dupre was wearing a low-cut swimsuit and nothing else.
'I'm not going downtown like this. Let me dress.'
'Afraid someone will buttfuck you in the lockup? Funny, it doesn't bother you when someone does it to one of your girls. It'll do you good to learn how the other half lives.'
Gregaros was trying to goad Dupre into attacking him, but McCarthy stepped in when Dupre tensed.
'I think we can let Mr. Dupre dress, Stan,' he said, calmly moving between the detective and Dupre. Gregaros turned red with rage but held his tongue.
'Take Mr. Dupre inside and let him get dressed,' McCarthy instructed a patrolman. 'Watch him carefully, then cuff him.'
As soon as Dupre had been hustled inside, Gregaros whirled toward Sean. 'Don't ever do that again,' he said.
'I know you'd like to kick the shit out of Dupre,' McCarthy answered calmly, 'but I don't want to hand Oscar Baron any more ammunition than you did by dropping that phone in the hot tub.'
'Listen . . .'
'No, you listen to me, Stan,' McCarthy cut in, his voice suddenly and uncharacteristically hard. 'This is my case. You're along for the ride because you know a lot about our suspect. But I won't tolerate you letting this get personal. If Dupre killed Senator Travis I want him on death row, not back in his hot tub because you need to blow off steam.'
When the guard let Jon Dupre into the noncontact visiting room at the jail, he looked as vicious as a raccoon that had once been trapped in Oscar Baron's garage. The lawyer was grateful that a wall of concrete and bulletproof glass separated them.
'Hey, Jon, how are they treating you?' Baron said, speaking into the receiver of the phone that hung from the wall on his right.
'Get me the fuck out of here.'
'It's not that simple, Jon. You're charged with murdering a United States . . .'
'I didn't kill anyone. The charge is total bullshit. That asshole Gregaros is behind this. I want you to sue him for false arrest and assault.'
'Slow down. We're not suing anyone until we clear this up.'
'Well, do it then. Find out what the bail is and get me out of here.'
'I told you, it's not that easy. They don't have to set bail in a murder case like they do with other charges. We have to ask for a hearing. It will take time.'
'I want out of here, Oscar. I don't want to be caged up with a bunch of degenerate morons.'
'Hey, I don't want you locked up either, but there are procedures that have to be followed. I can't just break you out. And there's something else, too--my fee. We need to get that settled.'
A vein started throbbing in Dupre's temple. 'What kind of shit is this, Oscar? Haven't I always taken care of you?'
'Definitely, Jon,' Baron said, keeping his tone businesslike, 'but defending a murder case is different from handling that thing with the escort service. It's complicated and expensive. And they're probably going to go for the death penalty, which means twice the work you put in for a noncapital case. So we have to talk about money before I agree to hop in here.'
'How much money are we going to talk about?'
Baron fought to keep his voice level. He was going to ask for more money than he'd ever received before and he was hoping that Dupre could come up with it.
'We're going to need an investigator--maybe more than one--and expert witnesses . . . .'
'Cut to the chase, Oscar.'
'Okay.' Baron's head bobbed up and down. 'Let's say two hundred and a half for starters.'
'Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars?'
'That's the retainer. It could go higher depending on the length of the trial and . . .'
Dupre laughed. 'I can't come up with two hundred and fifty thousand dollars.'
'Hey, Jon, don't go cheap on me. We're talking about your life.'
