tomato, but that still left two that were probably salvageable if he cut them carefully. Unawares, by now he was humming the tune to 'Baby, It's Cold Outside'-driving home, he'd been listening to Steve Tyrell's standards on his CD player. The freezer held a four-pack of chicken-and-basil sausages that he loved.
In five minutes, he'd chopped all the ingredients, put them in the pan, added some random herbs and spices and several shakes of Tabasco sauce and a half a cup or so of the Zinfandel he'd opened. He'd just turned the heat down and covered it when the phone rang. Certain that it was Frannie, he picked up on the second ring. 'Bob's Beanery.'
A male voice replied. 'I must have the wrong number.'
'No, wait! I'm sorry. I thought it was my wife.'
'Mr. Hardy?'
'Speaking.'
'Mr. Hardy, this is Oscar Thomasino.'
'Your Honor, how are you?'
'Fine, thanks. Am I bothering you at an inopportune time?'
'No, but whatever, it's no bother. What can I do for you?'
'Well, admittedly this is a little unusual, but you and I have known each other for a long time, and I wondered if I could presume slightly upon our professional relationship.'
This was unusual, if not to say unprecedented, but Hardy nevertheless kept his tone neutral. 'Certainly, Your Honor. Anything I can do, if it's within my power.' A superior court judge asking an attorney for a favor was a rare enough opportunity, and Hardy wasn't going to let it pass him by.
'Well, I'm sure it is,' Thomasino said. 'Did you know Charles Bowen? Charlie.'
'I don't think so.'
'You'd remember him. Flashy dresser, bright red hair, big beard.'
'Doesn't ring a bell. He a lawyer?'
'Yes, he was, anyway. He disappeared six months ago.'
'Where'd he go?'
'If I knew that, he wouldn't be disappeared, would he? He'd be someplace.'
'Everybody's someplace, Your Honor. It's one of the two main rules. Everybody loves somebody sometime, and you've got to be someplace.'
During the short pause that ensued, Hardy came to realize that he'd overstepped. His tendency to crack wise was going to be the end of him yet. But Thomasino eventually recovered to some extent, even reverting to his own stab at not-quite-cozy informality. 'Thanks, Diz,' he said. 'I'll try to keep those in mind. Meanwhile, Charlie Bowen.'
'Okay.'
'Yes, well…the point is that he was a sole practitioner. No firm, no partners, but a reasonably robust caseload.'
'Good for him.'
'True, but his disappearance hasn't been good for the court. Or for his wife and daughter, either, to tell you the truth. His wife's hired her own lawyer to file a presumption-of-death claim, which, between you and me, has very little chance of getting recognized, in spite of the fact that it would be convenient for the court.'
'Why's that?'
'Because when sole practitioners die and go to heaven, the bar inherits the caseload and has to dispose of it.'
'What if they don't go to heaven?'
'Most lawyers argue themselves in, don't you think? I know you would.'
'Thanks, I think. Your Honor.'
'Anyway, I know it's just housecleaning, but Bowen had a ton of work outstanding, and that work needs to get done. And while we're not going to issue any presumption of death until he's been gone a lot longer, last month Marian Braun'-another of the city's superior court judges-'ruled that his disappearance rendered him legally incompetent, and just yesterday the state bar suspended his ticket at the court's request.'
'So now they've got to farm out his cases. If he hadn't returned my calls for six months and I was his client, I would have fired him by now.'
'I'm sure some of his clients may have done just that, but not all by a long shot.' Thomasino sighed. 'Charlie was a friend of mine. His wife's going to need whatever he still has coming from his cases. I'd like to be sure that the bar puts those cases in the hands of somebody who I know will do the right thing by her. Anyway, bottom line is that I ran into Wes Farrell today at lunch.' This was one of Hardy's partners. 'He said things at your place were a little slow. The good news is that you can probably count on some percentage of Mr. Bowen's clients hooking up with your firm. Not that any of 'em will make you rich.'
Reading between the lines, Hardy knew what the judge was saying-that this was grunt administrative work. The court probably had appointed the majority of Charlie's clients, indigents up for petty crimes and misdemeanors. Nevertheless, the court would pay for every hour Hardy's associates spent on the criminal cases anyway, and if the civil cases made any money, the firm could expect reasonable compensation. And it was, again, an opportunity to do a small good deed for a judge, and that was never a bad idea.
'You could probably get them all assigned out or closed in the next couple of months.'
'I'm sold, Your Honor. I'd be happy to help you out.'
'Thanks, Diz. I appreciate it. I know it's not very sexy. I'll have it all delivered to your office within the week.'
'How much stuff is it?'
Thomasino paused. 'About sixty boxes.' In other words, a lot. 'But here's the silver lining. It's only half as much as it appears, since half the boxes are one client.'
'Tell me it's Microsoft.'
A soft chuckle. 'No such luck. It's Evan Scholler.'
'Why is that name familiar?'
'Because you've read all about it. The two guys who'd been over in Iraq together?'
'Ah, it comes flooding back,' Hardy said. 'They had the same girlfriend or something, too, didn't they?'
'I believe so. There's a bunch of juicy stuff, but you'll find that out soon enough, I guess. But in any event, Diz, I really appreciate you doing this.'
'I live to serve the court, Your Honor.'
'You're already up on points, Counselor. Don't lay it on too thick. Have a nice night.'
Hardy hung up and stood for a moment, musing. The judge's line played back in his mind: 'There's a bunch of juicy stuff' in the Scholler case. Hardy thought he could use some juicy stuff in his life about now. If his memory served, and it always did, Scholler's situation was even more compelling than the bare bones of the murder case, because of its genesis in chaos and violence.
In Iraq.
PART ONE. 2003
1
A burnt-orange sun kissed the horizon to the west as twenty-six-year-old Second Lieutenant Evan Scholler led his three-pack of converted gun-truck support Humvees through the gates of the Allstrong Compound in the middle of an area surrounded by palm trees, canals, and green farmland. The landscape here was nothing like the sandy, flat, brown terrain that Evan had grown used to since he'd arrived in Kuwait. The enclosure was about the size of three football fields, protected, like every other 'safe' area, by Bremer walls-twelve-foot-tall concrete barriers topped with concertina wiring. Ahead of him squatted three double-wide motor home trailers that Allstrong
