might have done.”
“Tom Farliegh lives locally, does he?”
“Oh, yes. Teaches something at the university. Being a poet in academia, he’s probably wrongly assigned. You know, to teach English or something, instead of music, or math, or equestrian skills.”
“Is he the son-in-law of Donald Habeck?”
“How interesting. I have no idea. You mean the man who was shot in the parking lot this morning?”
“Yes.”
“That would be fascinating.”
“Why?”
“You’ve never read him?”
“Not that I remember.”
“Not many have. But, if you’d read him, you’d remember. He writes what we call a Poetry of Violence. His best-known poem is something called
In his bright, book-walled office, Morton took a slim volume from a shelf and handed it to Fletch. “Here’s
On the cover, bare skin was deeply slashed by a knife. Blood poured from the skin, down the knife onto a satin sheet.
“This is a book of poetry?” Fletch asked. “Looks more like an old-fashioned mystery novel.”
“It’s unusual poetry. Rather thin on sentiment.”
“Thank you.”
“I do believe in reading about what you’re doing,” Morton said, almost apologetically. “Widens the base of your perception.”
Skimming through the book, Fletch said, “I don’t suppose you know anything personally about Donald Habeck.”
“In fact, I do.” Morton folded his arms across his chest and turned away from Fletch. “My sister’s son, years ago, was accused of stealing a car and then running over someone in it. Intoxication, grand theft, vehicular homicide, at the age of eighteen.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“It was awful. The boy was your average frustrated, sullen teenager who just went wild one night.” With his back still toward Fletch, Morton said, “We hired Donald Habeck. I mean, he’s the sort you hire when things look really awful.”
“At any price.”
“Yes. At any price.”
“What happened to the kid?”
“Intoxication charge was dismissed. Habeck proved the police had used the blood-alcohol testing equipment incorrectly. The charge of car theft was reduced to using a car without permission of owner. I suspect Habeck bribed the owner to say he knew the boy and there had been a misunderstanding regarding use of the car. And the vehicular homicide was found to be the fault of the car manufacturer. Apparently that model car had been proven to have something amiss with its steering mechanism.” Morton sighed. “My nephew was sentenced to three months probation, no time in prison.”
“Wonder they didn’t give him the keys to the city.”
Morton turned slowly on his heel. “We’re still ashamed of the whole thing. My sister and I, well, we ended up feeling like criminals, like we committed a crime.”
“In hiring Habeck.”
“I think, in miscarrying justice.” Morton shrugged. “My nephew, with just enough of a misdemeanor on his record to make him an understanding person, is now a teacher in a San Diego high school, married, three kids of his own. But, you know, I can’t think of him without feeling guilty.”
“Did Habeck leave your sister with any worldly wealth?”
“Not much. She had to sell their new house, their second car, cash in their savings, and accept a little help from me.”
“What did you think this morning when you heard Habeck had been killed?”
“I’ve been thinking about it all day. When you live by the sword…” Behind his thick glasses, Morton’s eyes were focused as if reading from a page close to his face. “Ironic, somehow. I see his ghost hurrying up from his corpse to defend the person who murdered him… for good long-range results, or bad….”
“But always for money.”
“Yes. He used his brilliance to twist the legal system for money. Scoff at him. Hate him for it. But, when it came right down to it, we paid that money, gladly, to save Billy from an utterly ruined life, to give him a second chance, which he, at least, took. I’m not sure how many of Habeck’s clients take that second chance, how many of them are just free to maim, kill, destroy again.”
“Thanks for the book.”
“If you do meet Tom Farliegh, tell me if you think he’s worth a feature story.”
“What time are you going to be done?”
“Never.” Fletch was sitting at another borrowed desk in the city room. Having gone through his notes, he had just picked out items from the voluminous Habeck file he wanted copied.
“What’s it today?” Barbara asked over the telephone. “Wedding announcements? Deaths? Or writing headlines for other people’s stories?”
“Hey, I’m working hard for you, kid. I’m trying to plant an item in Amelia Shurcliffe’s column about jodhpurs. And the place to buy them is Cecilia’s Boutique.”
“Anything would help. I’m so sick of wearing them.”
“You have to wear them in the store?”
“Yeah. A plum pair, would you believe it? Customers are supposed to come in, see me in my jodhpurs, say, ‘Oh, darling, they’re divine,’ and buy themselves, or their daughters, a pair.”
“But do they?”
“No. They look me up and down obviously wondering if I’m sufficiently trendy even to wait on them. I’ll meet you at the beach house, right?”
“It’s an awfully long drive.”
“I only have the house another few days. Until the wedding.”
“When you gave up your place, why didn’t you move into my apartment? It would have been much simpler.”
“What’s wrong with having a beach house for the week before we get married?”
“Why don’t you spend tonight at my apartment? That way I won’t have to drive all the way out and back.”
“Hey. I’m getting paid for house-sitting. I know it’s not much, but we need the money, right?”
“Right. It’s just that I’d sort of like to stay in town and keep checking on a few things.”
“I hear someone got bumped off in your parking lot this morning.”
“True.”
“A lawyer of some kind.”
“Some kind.”
“One of the ones you see in the newspaper all the time. A Perry Mason type. Murder trials, and big drug deals.”
“Habeck. Donald Edwin Habeck.”
“That’s right. Interesting story. I mean, it should be interesting. I look forward to reading Biff Wilson about it.”
Fletch said nothing.
“Fletch, you’re not doing anything on that Habeck story, are you?”
“Well, there was a coincidence. I was just about to meet him when—”
“You’ll get fired.”
“Some confidence you’ve got.”
