“Oh.” The air around them seemed to go flat. “I’m not dropping this, Mike.”
“Then watch your backside, chum. At all times.”
Ben rose. If this talk was intended to scare him, it was working. “Well, I have about a million things to do.…”
“Ben?”
“Yes?”
“Are you interested in this case because Christina is your friend, or…?”
“She’s asked me to represent her.”
“I was afraid of that. You may want to reconsider.”
“Look, Morelli, I may not be the best attorney in the world, but I hardly think—”
“Do you know who this case has been assigned to?”
“The district court judge won’t be assigned until after the indictment.”
“Technically, that’s true. But consider—Judge Collins is practically retired, and Judge Schmidt is up to his eyeballs in that huge Sand Springs RICO class action. Who do you think is going to get this case?”
A cold chill spread through Ben’s body. “No.”
“I’m afraid so.”
Ben slapped his forehead. “I can’t believe it. What else could go wrong?”
“I don’t think it gets much worse than this. Not for you, anyway.”
“He’ll have to recuse himself. He knows her—he used to work with her.”
“Says he doesn’t remember her from Adam.”
“Well, he sure as hell remembers me.”
“True enough,” Mike said. “Unfortunately, contacts with counsel generally are not grounds for recusal, as well you know. I don’t see him stepping down from a high-profile case like this one promises to be.”
Ben tried to reply, but found he was only able to produce a hoarse, choking sound. He stumbled toward the door, contemplating this hideous prospect.
The United States versus Christina McCall—with the Honorable Judge Richard O. Derek presiding.
Judge Derek, the newest member of the federal judiciary in the Northern District of Oklahoma, formerly in private practice at the firm of Raven, Tucker & Tubb.
Ben’s old boss. The one who hated him.
7
AS BEN DROVE TO the Creek Estates Lodge, he tried to imagine what could possibly be worse than Richard Derek getting Christina’s case. All things considered, Jack the Ripper would’ve been a more agreeable judicial assignment. It had been almost eight months since Derek had been appointed to the federal judiciary, and Ben had scrupulously managed to avoid being before His Honor. This time, unfortunately, it appeared there was no way out. Not without abandoning Christina.
Derek had been Ben’s supervising attorney back at Raven, Tucker & Tubb. Just recalling the experience gave Ben shivers. Every single day he had been required to put up with Derek’s egomaniacal, hypochondriacal ravings. Ben had suffered through as best he could. But when Ben started personally investigating the strange mutilation-murder of a client, Derek went through the roof. As a result of Ben’s investigation, the firm ended up losing a major corporate client—a client that, as Ben discovered, was suppressing evidence and embezzling large sums of money from its shareholders to create a private slush fund. But Derek didn’t care about any of that. Derek lost one of his drawing cards, and he blamed Ben. In a particularly nasty fit of pique, Derek trumped up some false charges and got Ben fired.
About four months later, Ben heard that Derek had been appointed to the federal bench. It seemed an odd move for someone who considered himself the Prince of Litigators, but it wouldn’t be the first time the prestige and godlike power associated with a lifetime appointment to the federal judiciary had lured someone away from a lucrative practice.
Ben pulled his Honda Accord into the parking lot. It had taken him ten minutes to get the car started, and once he had, it shuddered, sputtered, coughed, and emitted several other noises Ben knew weren’t described in the owner’s manual. He needed to take the car in for a checkup, but luxuries like that didn’t fit into his current budget. Maybe next month.
He opened his car door and pushed himself out. Might as well stop stalling.
Ben hated crime scenes. Maybe not worse than the prospect of being in court before Judge Derek, but certainly worse than anything else, including fingernails on chalkboard, teeth on aluminum foil, street mimes, and tax auditors. At least the corpse was gone—that provided some measure of relief—although a dark black stain on the carpet provided a grisly reminder of what had occurred earlier that morning.
Ben had an aching, hollow feeling, as if someone had carved out his internal organs and left him an empty shell, a transparent voyeur at this place of horrible violence. He had hoped the crime scene would give him some insight as to what had happened. So far, no insight. Just revulsion.
Ben didn’t have any illusions that he could disturb anything; he knew Mike’s men had already been over every inch of the place—the photographers with their cameras, the print boys with their dusters, the fiber boys with their tweezers. They would have tested and probed and sampled every stain, smudge, or tissue they could find. Mike undoubtedly had the room photographed and videotaped from every angle. Mike was always thorough. Ben had considered that an asset. Until now, anyway.
Except for the ghastly bloodstain, the room seemed to be an ordinary living room in a spacious, but otherwise ordinary, apartment suite. Ben had expected something grander from a room billed as the penthouse—a sunken Jacuzzi perhaps, beside a well-stocked wet bar. Everything was in place; there was no sign of a struggle, no scrapes or scratches, nothing overturned. Ben saw the TV and, next to it, the overstuffed chair Christina must have fallen asleep in. On the table beside the chair, he saw the wine carafe from which she must have poured her drink. And on the floor, not four feet away, the telltale stain. How could he possibly have been killed so near without waking Christina? It seemed incredible, and yet, he saw no evidence that the body had been moved. There was very little splattering—just a sickening mound of congealed blood where Lombardi’s head would have been.
There was an unpleasant odor in the room; Ben couldn’t quite identify it. Death, he supposed. He used to read about the smell of death and think, how banal, how melodramatic. But now he realized there was some indefinable odor that lingered at the site of a murder, even after all the technicians and forensic experts had scrubbed and tested and Lysoled the room from top to bottom.
Ben suddenly realized he had to leave. He wasn’t accomplishing anything for Christina, and he certainly wasn’t doing himself any good. And Mike would probably be pretty grumpy if he vomited on the crime scene.
Ben took a last look, then ducked back under the yellow tape. He signed out and searched for the men’s room. He needed to splash some cold water on his face, wash his hands. Try to get rid of the smell of death.
Unlike most murder witnesses, the security guard actually seemed to enjoy being interrogated. Ben had expected another dazed testimonial from an unsuspecting innocent who suddenly found himself on the sidelines of murder, or perhaps a frightened paranoid who didn’t want to get involved. Instead, he found an amiable man in his early sixties named Holden Hatfield, eager to be of service.
“Just call me Spud,” Spud said. “Everybody does.”
“All right,” Ben said, “…Spud.” He refused to let himself get sidetracked into asking how everybody got Spud out of Holden Hatfield. “Did Mr. Lombardi have any visitors last night?”
“Yup. Four. You want their names?”
Ben marveled at his exuberance. He must’ve told this story at least twice already to the police—probably some reporters as well. Then again, why shouldn’t he be enthusiastic? Spud wasn’t a suspect; no one was even suggesting he had done something wrong. This was probably a rare opportunity for him to shine in a job that normally seemed about as dull as counting cars on the turnpike.