me out there all day?'
The old man gave him a funny look and said, 'Yup.' After an uncomfortable pause he continued, 'Fact is, me 'n' Kent seen you out there and were talking on it. Not like you to stay in one spot so long…'
Sales gave the old man an uncharacteristic smile and, before pushing off, said, 'Fell asleep. You believe that? Must be getting old.'
Sales wasn't home more than an hour before he heard a car pull in. From his place in the kitchen he looked across the tiny bar and out through the front window to see Bob Bolinger mounting the steps. Bolinger stopped at the top. There were two bathing suits hanging on the rail, one wet and one dry. Tentatively, he picked the damp one off the rail. When he glanced up, he saw Sales staring at him through the window. He replaced the suit with an awkward smile before knocking on the door.
'It's open,' Sales bellowed, returning to his fish on the stove as if he'd been expecting a friend.
The pungent scent of onions in a hot skillet flooded Bolinger's mouth with saliva. It was nearly dinnertime. He'd been in the squad room bullshitting with one of his men about an arson when word came in about Lipton's being shot. Since it was just downstairs, everyone and his brother had responded. Because he was so familiar with Lipton's case, Bolinger had been given the lead. And although the witnesses' descriptions of the shooter didn't match Sales, his gut told him that was the place to start. If Sales didn't pull the trigger, he probably knew who did.
Bolinger assessed the great room, its bare timbers, its stuffed animal heads, the weapons in the case and on the wall. Despite all that, it was a comfortable place, with aging leather furniture and Indian rugs that were worn without being shabby. Knowing how much money people were putting into their lake houses these days, it didn't surprise Bolinger that Sales was making a decent living.
'Keep coming, Sergeant,' Sales's voice echoed from the kitchen.
Bolinger paused in front of the gun case against the wall before rounding the bar and taking a seat at the small circular table wedged into the corner of the kitchen. Without speaking, Sales left his fish long enough to take two Coronas from the icebox. He set one in front of the detective, took a swig of his own with a knowing look, and returned to the stove. Bolinger just watched. Sales didn't appear rattled in any way. Was it possible that someone could attempt such a daring assault without being shaken up? Possible, but rare.
'How're you doing?' Bolinger asked. He was quite aware of the pain Sales had endured over the last year since his daughter's death. Working on the case against Lipton had brought the two men together on several occasions.
'You know, I'm getting along,' Sales said without looking up from the stove. 'I keep busy with work. I'm in a little lull right now, but it's been busy enough not to have too much time to think.'
'Sometimes I wish I'd done something with my hands,' Bolinger said. 'Seems like it would be a hell of a deal to fall asleep at night because you're tired out from working with your hands… When I fall asleep, if I fall asleep, it's usually because my mind is burnt right down to the filter.'
Without asking if Bolinger was staying for dinner, Sales took out two mismatched plates and split the fish. He slid a loaf of Italian bread out of a paper bag and cut off two thick slices before setting the plates down on the table. Without bothering to protest, Bolinger muttered a quiet thanks. After returning to the stove for his beer and some forks, Sales sat down across from the detective and asked, 'What's up, Bob?'
After a pause in which he assessed Sales's eyes, Bolinger said, 'Lipton was shot today.'
Fierce hatred and delight burned brightly in Sales's pale eyes.
'Good,' he said.
'He's not dead,' Bolinger told him.
A look of consternation slowly bent the father's mouth into a sneer. After awhile he said, 'That's too bad… Who did it?'
'I thought you might tell me,' Bolinger shot right back.
Sales took a long pull on his beer before shaking his head and saying, 'No, I didn't do it and I don't know who did.
'I wish I'd done it,' he added, staring intently at Bolinger. 'I wish I'd thought of it. It should have been me. And I wish whoever did it killed him.'
Sales took up his fork and began to eat.
'It was pretty bloody,' Bolinger said, following his host's lead. 'He looked dead, took three slugs from a big gun at close range, blood all over the place. One in the shoulder, one through the chest just above the lungs, and one grazed off his rib cage without even breaking the bone. He'll be out in three or four days…'
Sales chewed carefully, but Bolinger could tell that he'd lost whatever appetite he'd possessed.
'This is great,' the detective said.
'Caught it this afternoon,' Sales said with a mischievous grin.
'That's where you were?'
Sales nodded and carefully recited his alibi.
'You got a lot of guns,' Bolinger said. 'Any pistols?'
'A Colt forty-five from the service and a Glock I picked up at a bargain,' Sales said. 'Oh, and a little thirty-eight. The rest are just rifles and bird guns…'
Bolinger accepted this and finished his fish along with one last slug of Corona.
'Not supposed to have one on the job, but sometimes you've got to let it slide,' he said, standing up. 'Thanks for the fish. You going to be around for the next week or so?'
'Sure. You want coffee?'
'No. Thanks,' Bolinger said. 'I may want to ask you some questions in a few days or so. So if you decide to take a trip or something, let me know, okay?'
'I'll be right here. The trial's two weeks away. Is this going to move that off?'
'No,' Bolinger said, pausing at the door. 'That'll still happen.'
Instead of driving directly back to the city, Bolinger pulled his car off to the shoulder, right next to where Sales's drive entered the main road. He sat there smoking for a while, then got out of his car and took the long, winding dirt road back through the brush to the cabin. Like a peeping Tom, he peered through a window. Sales wasn't doing anything unusual. He sat in front of the TV in a cloud of smoke, rising only to replenish his beer and another time for a fresh pack of cigarettes.
Now Bolinger's gut was uncertain on this one. His experience told him Sales had done it. Who else would have? But if Sales was guilty, he was putting on a pretty good show. If his story checked out and no physical evidence was discovered in the tunnel, Bolinger doubted this case would be solved, and that would bring down some heat. It wasn't that anyone cared about Lipton's taking three slugs. After what he did to Marcia Sales, there wasn't a cop alive who would mind much if he'd bought it. Bolinger had to admit that he'd felt a vague pang of disappointment when he learned that Lipton's life had been spared. But the chief and everyone else would be on the hot seat for the lapse in security, a man shot right underneath their noses. Personally, Bolinger was surprised something like it hadn't happened before. The tunnel was an incident waiting to happen.
Bolinger walked back down the dirt drive to his car. He would follow through with the investigation of Sales the way he would on any other case. He'd go by the numbers, and if there was any evidence linking Sales to the attack, then he'd have to act on it. And if there wasn't? Well, Bolinger certainly wasn't going to harass the man. God knew Donald Sales had been through enough already.
CHAPTER 6
Casey's appointment with Judge Rawlins was for ten. It was nearly twelve. If she were working for a paying client, it would have been nearly a thousand dollars wasted. But because it was for Catalina Enos, Casey was eating it.
Finally, she was admitted through the towering dark doors into Rawlins's chambers. As she entered the room, she averted her eyes, momentarily blinded by a beam of sunlight emanating from the high, arched window. Her nose was filled with the smell of warm, musty books.
The judge, his back lit by the sun, cut a ghoulish figure. The harsh combination of too much sun and too much coloring had left his stringy hair an odd burnt orange, and the greasy shock that lay across his forehead gave his dark eyes a strange cast. His wizened face, mottled with liver spots, sat like a shrunken head amid the splendor of his flowing robes. The nails on his bony fingers were stained from years of smoke and bourbon.
Rawlins was smiling absurdly at Casey's frazzled state. His eyes, like the extensive gold dental work that filled the back of his mouth, sparkled with malicious delight.
'How can I help you, Ms. Jordan?' he drawled. His accent, like his political connections, was old Texas.
'You can commute Catalina Enos's sentence,' she said flatly, taking a seat in the shadow of the wall even though none had been offered.
'Please, sit down,' Rawlins said sarcastically. 'Now why would I want to do that, Ms. Jordan?'
'Because if you do, you won't have to go through the embarrassment of having a mistrial declared at the appellate level,' Casey said without bothering to hide her disdain. Rawlins was an age-old enemy and each of them knew where the other stood.
'I don't believe that's a concern of mine,' he said complacently. 'Oliver Wendell Holmes himself was turned over on appeal several times, and I don't believe it damaged his credibility very much.'
Casey snorted at the mention of the great justice's name in the chambers of someone as tawdry as Van Rawlins.
'I believe Chief Justice Holmes was overturned in his younger days only on points of law,' Casey said. 'I believe it would have done him a great deal of discredit to be overturned for a procedural error.'
'And what procedural error would we be talking about?' Rawlins asked, raising his eyebrows in mock surprise, goading her.
'I had a legitimate reason for not being at the conclusion of that trial and you know it. The precedent is clear. A defendant cannot be put at a disadvantage if her lawyer missed part of the trial because of an ice storm.'
'Oh, I think the substance of the trial was quite over by that time,' Rawlins replied. 'The closing argument wasn't much more than a wart on a toad's ass. Justice was served in my mind, Ms. Jordan. And if you were so damned concerned with your client, I think you would have made it a priority to be there.
'But then,' Rawlins added with a nasty grin, 'we all know how important your life is. You're a celebrity after all…'
The barb hit its mark. Inwardly Casey fumed, but still she maintained control.
'What I do is irrelevant here, Van-'
