The Hidden Man

help Kolarich. Keep him close.”

“I can do that.” DePrizio enjoyed the wine. It annoyed Smith, the detective’s calm in the face of this. But then, DePrizio didn’t have to oversee this operation. He didn’t have to answer to Carlo if this whole thing went south.

Smith wiped his forehead with the napkin. “I have no choice,” he said.

44

I WOKE UP MONDAY MORNING with heavy eyes. I’d slept only in fits. Part of me had expected Smith’s boys to come after me. Smith, clearly, was considering his next move, and I’d expected that he might move by coming after me in the middle of the night.

I reached for my cell phone and called Pete at the hotel where he was holed up.

“Bored to tears,” he told me.

“Bored is good,” I told him, again.

I showered, got dressed, and went to the garage. I took care in doing so, to the point of peeking beneath the car and into the backseat before getting in.

I backed the car out of my driveway and checked the rearview mirror as I drove to the office. Strange. Traffic was as plentiful as ever but I didn’t sense that anyone was tracking me. Maybe they were getting better at it. Maybe they were sure I’d be heading straight to the office and felt no need to watch me until I arrived there. Maybe.

I had the same feeling when I pulled into the parking garage-nobody following me. I ran through the same calculus, the possibility that I just couldn’t see them. Weird.

When I got to the office, I found a message from Lester Mapp, the ACA prosecuting Sammy. I hadn’t gotten back to him about a possible plea deal, hoping to show strength in my silence. I figured he could wait a little longer. First, I wanted him to know about Kenny Sanders-that I had a positive ID on the black-guy-fleeing-the-scene from Tommy Butcher. I drafted the disclosure to the prosecution, announcing Sanders as a new witness and the ID from Butcher. I also disclosed the new information regarding Archie Novotny-his absence from his guitar lesson on the night of the murder. I had Marie fax the whole thing to Lester Mapp and imagined the look on his face when he received it.

I made a couple more phone calls to the eyewitnesses from the night of the murder-not Tommy Butcher, but the ones the prosecution would call-once again leaving a voice mail for them. I had been officially stiff-armed by these witnesses and needed to pay them a visit myself or go to the judge for some assistance. It occurred to me that Smith might have something to do with their reluctance.

I worked through lunch, reviewing reports, taking notes, beginning the outline of my closing argument at trial. You always start with the closing argument, your wish list of what you want to be able to say at the end of the trial-and then you work backward to make sure that you’ll be able to do so.

At one o’clock, I received another call from Lester Mapp. This time, I took it.

“You must be joking, Counsel,” he said.

“Good day to you, too, sir. I’m just sitting here trying to decide whether I should call Archie Novotny or Ken Sanders first. Who would you choose, if you were me?”

There was a pause, then an unhappy chuckle from the prosecutor. “The convenient Negro rears his head. I suspect you’ll be shooting for an all-white jury, too? I’m moving to bar. This guy shows up a year after the murder with a story about an African American suspect, and then lo and behold, you find that guy, too?”

It sounded like Lester Mapp wasn’t having a good day.

“This Thursday,” he said. “I got a two o’clock from the judge. I’ll have a motion to bar on file by tomorrow. I’ll send you some fun information on Mr. Butcher, too. Your star witness isn’t such a star.”

That didn’t sound so good, but I didn’t want to let on to being concerned.

“Two o’clock, this Thursday,” he said. “You’ll have my motion to bar by tomorrow.”

“I’ll count the hours.”

I put in a call to Tommy Butcher’s office at Butcher Construction. I left a message with the date and time for this coming Thursday. I’d already warned him of this possibility. The prosecution was right to take a free shot before trial to exclude the testimony-before the jury could hear Tommy Butcher identify Ken Sanders. I was sure that Lester Mapp would put Butcher through the paces. I reached for the phone to call Kenny Sanders, to notify him of the same thing, when the intercom buzzed.

“Detective DePrizio?” Marie said.

I took a breath and punched the button. “This is Jason Kolarich.”

“Denny DePrizio. Got some bad news for you, Counselor.”

In the background noise behind DePrizio, I heard sounds of automobile traffic, a horn honking, an engine revving. DePrizio was calling from a pay phone somewhere. I didn’t think there were any pay phones these days.

“Oh, shit,” I said. “Don’t tell me.”

“Nothing, my friend. The briefcase, the money-all clean.”

“Dammit.”

“Y’know, if what you’re telling me is on the up-and-up, then these guys would be too smart to leave a print, anyway. Right?”

I sighed. “I guess so. It was a shot in the dark, I guess.”

“Yeah, well, listen. I’m beginning to feel like I’m being bullshitted here. And I don’t like being bullshitted.”

DePrizio was pretty good at this. He actually sounded like a good cop trying to look into something for me.

“It’s not-I’m not-” I let out a low moan. “I guess I can’t really expect you to believe me.”

A long pause. “Well, listen-you show me something, I’ll look at it. I’m not too interested in wild-goose chases, right? But you give me something real, I’ll look at it. Fair enough?”

“Fair enough. Shit.”

“In the meantime, I got a briefcase with ten thousand bucks?”

“Give it to charity,” I said. “I don’t want that guy’s money.”

He laughed. “You gotta take this money back, Mr. Kolarich.”

“How about I get back to you on that? I’m tied up for the next couple of days. I need to be careful about meeting with you.”

“Still the black helicopters following you?” He was pretty clear on his opinion of my paranoia. “Call me,” he said, laughing.

“I will,” I said. “And when I do, I’ll have something tangible for you.”

I left the office and went to my car. I needed to talk to those eyewitnesses the prosecution had identified and I was done waiting for them to return my calls.

I was on my way to the highway when my cell phone buzzed, a single bleep, indicating a text message. I picked up the phone and watched the graphic on the screen, the back of an envelope appearing, within which the words, “Message from Pete.”

I hit the “read” button and read the words of the text message:

J: I have to get out of town. I feel like I’m trapped. I’ll never beat the charges and I can’t go to prison. I am not cut out for it. I hope you understand. I can’t tell you where I’m going but I will try to get in touch with you soon. I’m sorry. Pete

I struggled to keep my focus on the road, reading and rereading the message. I clicked it off and dialed Pete’s cell phone. Wherever he was, he had his cell phone close.

“Answer the phone!” I yelled. The call rang into voice mail. I hung up and typed a text message of my own, in reply to him: “Tell me where you are.”