He scowled and wiped his damp forehead with a gray handkerchief that matched his tie. “We need to talk.”
The metal hood burned the back of my thighs, but I didn’t move. The temperature camped in the high eighties and the humidity was as stubborn. I removed my jacket and tossed it through the open window onto the seat. “Why, Detective?”
“Your brother was arraigned this morning. To my surprise, Lewis Clive stated that bond would not be posted on Mark’s behalf.”
I ignored the implied questions. “How much?”
“A hundred thousand.”
“A hundred thousand dollars,” I whispered. “Why?”
“The judge believes Mark is a flight risk.”
I had a sinking feeling. “Who was the judge?”
“The Honorable Martha Luckas.”
As I feared. Back when the Honorable Martha Luckas was only a public defender, she was my family’s next door neighbor on Kilbourne Street. Many times, my daydreamy brother would ride his mountain bike through her impeccable front lawn and flower beds in his haste to return home to his beloved calculus problems.
“Of course, it would be her.” I laughed mirthlessly. “A flight risk? Mark doesn’t know a soul outside of Stripling.” I pressed the heels of my hands into my eyes and willed myself to breathe normally.
“By the way the judge was staring down your brother, Mark’s lucky she set bond at all.”
I removed my hands. “Is Stripling really this corrupt?”
“Not corrupt.” Mains said, nonplused. “Small.” He folded his arms across his chest. “Why isn’t your family posting bail?”
Before I could answer or avoid an answer, heavy footsteps approached from behind. Unwilling to be caught unaware again, I spun around. Kirk jogged across the parking lot. He waved a hand over his head. “Detective!”
Mains stepped away from me and approached Kirk.
Despite the humidity, Kirk wasn’t winded from his jaunt across the square, a fringe benefit of his peak physical condition. Another benefit would be the ability to crack Brazil nuts with his biceps.
Mains greeted Kirk in muted tones, but Kirk spoke normally. “How’s the case going? Are you going to get him? I would’ve been at the courthouse today, if it hadn’t been . . .”
Mains made uninformative and generic statements about the case against my brother, obviously aware of my proximity.
“I can testify,” Kirk declared. “Anything to put that bastard away.”
My best recourse was to slip into my car and drive away. The ancient door hinges wailed under the simple movement. With the speed of a greyhound, Kirk was beside me. He smacked the hood of the car. I wondered if the automobile would require body work after all its post-funeral love taps. Not that the pounding could make it look much worse.
“What the hell are you doing here?” he demanded. “You shouldn’t have been at her funeral. You weren’t invited.” His face was the color of an overripe raspberry.
“Last time I checked, Kirk, funerals didn’t require RSVPs. Furthermore, I’ve known Olivia my entire life and have every right to attend her funeral.”
Kirk stood inches from me, pressing me back into the car. I straightened to my full height and looked down at him. “You and that brother of yours orchestrated Olivia’s death,” he growled.
“What kind of crock conspiracy theory is that? And is
“India,” Mains warned, edging closer.
“Mark had nothing to do with Olivia’s death, and neither did I.”
Kirk pressed against my body and lifted his hand as if to strike. Mains was there in an instant.
He grabbed Kirk’s wrist in a viselike grip. “If you hit her, Mr. Row, you will spend the rest of the day in jail, no matter who Regina Blocken calls.” He released Kirk’s wrist.
Kirk lowered his hand. “Tell that brother of yours it’s prison or the funeral home.”
Mains yanked Kirk away from me. Kirk stalked off across the parking lot.
Mains watched him cross the street, then turned to me. “Are you all right?” His expression was one of true concern.
“Fine,” I whispered.
Maybe Mark was better off in jail. Even with that in mind, I would do my best to get him out.
Chapter Thirty-Five
I had resituated myself behind the reference counter at Ryan when Erin approached the desk with a handful of yellow while-you-were-out slips. She fanned them on the counter. “I didn’t go to college to be a secretary, you know.”
I thanked her, and she looked at me strangely, probably because she expected a smart retort; I disappointed her.
“Four messages from your mother, each more hysterical than the last, and another two from some dude named Lewis Clive.”
The first message from my mother read, “India, call me immediately.” Followed by “India, call the second you get in.” Then, “India, turn on your cell phone and call me.” Finally, “India, this is your mother. I’m expecting a call.”
Erin leaned on the counter. “She had me read them back to her to make sure that I got the emphasis just right.”
“Fantastic.”
“India, what’s going on? Rumors on campus say that your brother’s in jail for murdering that woman in the fountain. Everybody already knows that he’s been fired.”
I took a deep breath. “Suspended,” I corrected.
“Whatever,” she said, as if the distinction meant nothing.
“Erin, I really can’t talk about this with—”
“Anyway, I told them they were full of it. Professor Hayes would never hurt anyone.” Before I could respond, she turned and retreated to her post at the checkout desk.
During my break, I went to the student union to return Lew’s phone call. A lone graduate student slept in a dimly lit booth. Piles of books, notebooks, and printouts hid the table’s dark surface and his face.
I slipped into an empty booth and turned on my cell phone. The tiny digital screen announced that my mailbox was full. I bet I knew who most of those messages were from. I dialed Lew’s number.
“It’s about time you called,” Lew rasped.
I made no apology. “Isn’t a hundred thousand dollars a little steep for bail?”
“Oh, you heard. Your mother called, I suspect.”
I didn’t correct him.
Oh, only manslaughter. Well that makes things so much better, I thought.
“The judge and Mark have a history,” I said and told him about the trampled flower gardens.
“Oh. God, I hate this small-town crap.”
I agreed and longed for the anonymity of Chicago. Maybe I should have stayed there after art school.
“That explains that. The judge took one look at your brother and set her jaw. It didn’t help that your parents were kicked out of the courtroom for disturbing the proceedings. Do you know they had T-shirts made up? But I don’t have to tell you about your folks, do I?”
“No, you don’t. Were the Blockens there?”
“Just the doc as far as I could see, and pretty unemotional. Olivia’s funeral was today.”
“I know; I was there.”
