work along with his hands. But Stevie's hands were strong.
'Thanks,' said Omar.
The bills in his hand both had bloody fingerprints on them, fingerprints that looked fresh.
Omar waited till Stevie had cleared the cab and shut the door before he sped away. He placed the two bills on top of the paperback novel in the seat next to him.
The smart thing to do, Omar thought, was to clean the bills as best he could and forget the big man. He was sure most drivers would do that, but Omar had seen blood on men's hands in Somalia, and in Somalia there had been almost no one willing to stand up and denounce the slayers of women and children, and there had been, really, no one to denounce them to. To seek justice, he thought as he drove, one risked his own and his family's death.
But this was America. He was here legally. Things were not perfect, not always safe especially for a cab driver.
Omar was a good Muslim. He did what he was sure a good Muslim should do. He reached for his cab radio and called the dispatcher.
'Were your shoes on or off?' asked Stella, sitting with eyes closed behind the desk, a cup of black coffee in front of her. She held the phone to her left ear, her right hand on the coffee cup. She had a chill.
'Off,' Ed Taxx said into the phone in his living room. 'We had just gotten up, pulled on our pants and shirts and socks.'
'You're sure?' asked Stella.
'Are you all right?' asked Taxx.
Everyone was asking her that now.
'I'm fine,' she said. 'Thanks.'
'That's it?' Taxx asked. 'That's all you want to know?'
'For now,' said Stella.
'Fine,' said Taxx. 'Take fifteen aspirin and call me in the morning.'
'I will,' said Stella flatly.
'I was joking,' said Taxx.
'I know,' said Stella, 'but it was almost good advice anyway.'
She hung up the phone.
15
NOAH PEASE, Louisa Cormier's new high-profile lawyer, reminded Mac of one of Edgar Lee Masters's
Pease was about fifty, roughly good-looking with a deep voice that, in addition to his record representing high-profile corporate figures, athletes, and actors in criminal cases, made him perfect for Court TV.
Next to Pease, lean, nattily dressed in a well-pressed suit, on the sofa, her back to the window with the broad panoramic view of the city, sat Louisa Cormier. Across from them sat Mac Taylor and Joelle Fineberg, a green- suited petite woman, who had been with the District Attorney's office for a little over a year. She looked as if she was young enough for a Sweet Sixteen party.
The total practical legal experience in Louisa Cormier's living room was twenty-seven years. One of those years belonged to Joelle Fineberg.
'You realize, Ms. Fineberg,' said Pease slowly, 'Ms. Cormier is cooperating fully. At this point there is nothing that compels her to talk to you unless you are prepared to bring charges.'
'I understand,' said Fineberg, her voice and smile indicating that she appreciated the cooperation.
'No one knows about your investigation or that of the police and…' Pease said, looking at Mac. 'Your Crime Scene unit. Detective Taylor's accusation that my client didn't write her own books cannot be made public. If it is, in any way, we shall bring suit against the City of New York and Detective Taylor for eighteen million dollars. And I'm confident we can get that figure. You understand what I'm saying?'
'Perfectly,' said Fineberg, hands folded atop the briefcase in her lap. 'Your client is more interested in her reputation than in the fact that we are building a murder charge against her.'
'My client murdered no one,' said Pease.
Louisa, obviously under orders from her attorney, said nothing, didn't react to Fineberg's accusation.
'We believe she did,' said Fineberg.
'Fine,' said Pease. 'Let's go over your evidence. A tenant of this building is shot and killed by a.22 caliber weapon. No weapon found. No witnesses. No fingerprints. No DNA evidence.'
'The dead man ghost-wrote your client's novels,' said Fineberg. 'He has two bullet holes in him that left holes in the manuscript he was carrying and that Detective Taylor and his people found in this apartment.'
Pease nodded.
'Let's suppose,' said Pease, 'and it's just supposition mind you, the first explanation that pops into my head. The gun belongs to Mr. Lutnikov or someone who is on the elevator with him. The two people have a fight. The other person shoots Mr. Lutnikov and gets away. Mr. Lutnikov, now dead, goes up to this floor. He or his murderer had hit the button. My client has been waiting for him to deliver the manuscript. The elevator door opens and she sees Lutnikov dead, manuscript clutched to his chest. Horrified but desperate she takes the manuscript after being certain the poor man is dead and sends the elevator back down to the lobby where she knows it will be discovered. Bad judgment, perhaps, but a jury would sympathize and, let me remind you, you have no murder weapon.'
'I'm innocent,' Louisa Cormier said suddenly.
There was no sign of indignation nor an appeal for sympathy in her words. They were simply stated.
Pease touched his client's shoulder and looked at Joelle Fineberg. 'And remember, that is only the first possible scenario I could think of,' said Pease.
Both Fineberg and Mac didn't doubt that.
'We have enough to take to a grand jury,' Fineberg said.
Pease shrugged.
'Publicity, trial, loss for the District Attorney's office, and a lawsuit on behalf of my client,' he said. 'My client did not kill Charles Lutnikov nor did he ghost-write her books. The manuscript Charles Lutnikov copied from my client's original and most recent novel was a one-time favor to a fan who had been quietly harassing Ms. Cormier for years.'
'So,' said Fineberg. 'She gave him a printout of a completed book so he could copy it?'
'No,' said Pease. 'So he could read it before anyone else. She had no idea he was copying it until he called her and told her. She insisted that he bring his copied manuscript to her, which he did. He was clutching it close to his chest when he was shot by whoever shot him.'
'That's what happened,' said Louisa.
'You told us yesterday that you were still writing the book,' Mac said.
'Re-writing,' Louisa said. 'You misunderstood. I was working on the second draft.'
'May I ask you a question?' asked Mac.
Louisa looked at Pease who said, 'You may ask, but I may tell my client to decline to answer. We want to cooperate with the police, to help find Mr. Lutnikov's murderer.'
Fineberg was not surprised by Mac's question. He had proposed it to her on the way to the apartment.
'Can you define any of the following words?'
Mac had removed the small notebook from his pocket.
'Mufti, obsequious, tendentious.'
Louisa Cormier blinked.
'I don't…' she began.
