Rage

“I’m a bleeding heart subversive.” His mustache lifting was the sole indication he’d smiled. “But as long as the law says I can own bang-bangs, I will.”

“Self-defense?”

“My dad was military and the one thing we did together was blast away defenseless animals.” He massaged his left eyebrow. “I was actually good enough to qualify for my college team.”

“Have you been threatened because of your work?” I said.

“Nothing explicit, but it’s an edgy job so I stay on the edge.” He removed another packet, smoothed its edges, passed it from hand to hand.

“Law begets order,” he said. “And a shitload of disorder. I stopped fooling myself a long time ago. I’m part of the system so I triple-lock my doors at night.”

“Did Malley ever do more than glare at you?”

“No, but it was a heavy-duty glare. Serious rage. I didn’t blame the guy. His kid was dead, the system’s set up to be us-them and I was them. He didn’t scare me and I’m not scared now. Why should I be? All this time’s passed and he never made a move on me. Do the cops seriously think he killed Rand?”

“It’s just a- ”

“I know, hypothesis.” He wiped salt grains from the top of the shaker. “I suppose you know Troy Turner was murdered, too.”

I nodded.

“Think there’s a connection?” he said.

“Troy was killed a month into his sentence,” I said.

“And this is eight years later. Yeah, if I was Malley and wanted to do the revenge bit, I’d have finished the job quickly. It’s something I thought about when I heard about Turner’s death. I got concerned for Rand, called his warden and asked for a special watch. The jerk said he’d look into it. Definitely bullshitting me.”

“When you called were you thinking about Barnett Malley?”

“Maybe,” he said. “But even in general terms, I was thinking Rand would make a good trophy for some testosterone-laced sociopath out to make his rep.” He looked down at his food but didn’t touch it. “Anyway, I appreciate the warning, but if I got freaked out about every victim’s family member going after me I’d be a basket case.”

He held his hands out, palms up, steady. “See, no anxiety.”

Just compulsively organized table items.

I said, “You’re in Beverly Hills now. Must be a different level of offenders.”

“B.H. is more than just celebrity shoplifters. We handle a lot of West Hollywood’s felony cases, so, no, I’m not sleeping at the wheel.”

“Didn’t mean to imply you were.”

He took a long time assembling a salmon and cream cheese sandwich. Picked out capers one by one and imbedded them around the outer edge of the bagel’s whitened, bottom half. Inspecting his handiwork, he closed the sandwich but didn’t eat.

I said, “How much contact did you have with Rand after he went away?”

“I called him a couple of times,” said Montez. “Then I moved on. Why?”

“He phoned me the day he died, said he wanted to talk about Kristal but wouldn’t give details over the phone. We made an appointment and I showed up but he didn’t. A few hours later, he was found- dead. Any idea what could’ve been on his mind?”

He played with the sandwich on his plate, nudging it with his thumb until it sat dead center. When he looked up, his jaw was taut. “This isn’t really about warning me, is it? It’s about pumping me for information.”

“It’s both,” I said.

“Right.”

“We’re not in an adversarial position, Mr. Montez.”

“I’m a lawyer,” he said. “In my world everything’s adversarial.”

“Fine, but now we’re on the same side.”

“Which is?”

“Getting some justice for Rand.”

“By locking his killer up?”

“Wouldn’t that be a good start?” I said.

“In your world,” he said.

“Not in yours?”

“You want to know something?” he said. “If the cops do find whoever shot Rand and the P.D.’s office gets the case, I’d be happy to take it.”

“Even if the shooter turns out to be Barnett Malley?”

“If Malley accepted me, I’d do my best to keep his ass out of prison.”

“Pretty detached,” I said.

“Survival skills go beyond guns,” said Montez.

“When you represented Rand, did you sense he was holding back about anything?”

“He was holding back about everything. Wouldn’t communicate with me, basically he played mute. No matter how many times I told him I was on his side. It could’ve been frustrating but the script had already been written. I never got a chance to bring in my own shrink because of the plea deal. Sure, I would’ve liked to know what was going on in that kid’s head. Which I didn’t get from your report. That was a masterpiece of omission. All you said was that he was stupid.”

“He wasn’t bright,” I said, “but there was plenty going on in his head. I thought he felt remorse and I said so. I doubt your expert would’ve come up with any profound abstractions.”

“Just a dumb kid? Bad seed?”

I said nothing.

“Yeah, I sensed remorse, too,” he said. “Unlike his compadre. Now that one was a piece of work. Evil little bugger, if Rand hadn’t gotten involved with him, his life could’ve turned out a whole lot different.”

“Troy was the main killer,” I said. “But Rand admitted hitting Kristal.”

“Rand was a dumb, passive follower who hooked up with a cold little sociopath. In a trial, I would’ve emphasized the follower angle. But like I said, nothing would’ve mattered.”

“The script.”

“Exactly.”

“Who wrote it?”

“The system,” he said. “You don’t murder a cute little white kid and walk away.” His hand brushed over his butter knife. Adjusted the angle of the handle. “Weider claimed she wanted to mount a team defense. I was so green I bought it. That tells you something about the system, doesn’t it? One year out of law school and Rand got me as his one-man army.” He waved a finger. “Justice for all.”

“Why’d she change her mind?”

“Because all she wanted to do was pump me for information. Once we got to court, she was going to pull a switcheroo and dump all over my client. Her prelim motions emphasized Rand’s size and strength, she had all this expert research data showing low I.Q. sociopaths were more likely to turn violent. If it had gone to trial, Turner would’ve been morphed into some frail little dupe who’d been physically intimidated by Rand. Anyway, we were spared all that. The case went down easy.”

“Not for the Malleys,” I said.

He showed me his palm. “I can’t think in those terms. And if Barnett Malley doesn’t understand that, I’m ready for him. Nice seeing you again, Doctor.”

I stood and asked if he knew where I could find Sydney Weider.

“Going to warn her, too?”

“And pump her for info.”

Montez pulled out a pair of sunglasses, held the lenses up and used them as mirrors. One end of his bow tie had drooped lower than its counterpart. He frowned and righted it.

“You can probably find her,” he said, “on the tennis court or the golf course or sipping a Cosmopolitan on the