"And you are. How many trial notebooks have you filled to the brim? About twenty?"
"Twenty-nine."
"Is that a new Ben record?"
"Not quite. But you know, we had relatively little time before trial…"
"You're ready. Dennis has nothing to complain about."
"Maybe I should just start reviewing my notes."
"No!" She sat up, and even in the darkness, he could tell she was giving him a stern look. "I absolutely forbid it."
"I didn't know you had that power."
"It's time you did. The honeymoon is over, pal." She sniffed. "Well, technically, the honeymoon never happened."
"Christina…"
"I know. Cheap shot."
"What will I do if they ask a question and I don't know the answer?"
"What you always do. Deal."
He ran his hands through his hair and sighed. "I'm a total mess."
She wrapped her arms around him and gently pulled him to her side. "Yes, you are, but I find that endearing. And you know what? I think the juries do, too. We have this post-Perry Mason idea that lawyers have to be perfectly slick bastions of badinage all the time. But sometimes I think that actually turns jurors off. People like human beings. With flaws. Someone they can relate to. And you've got that. Big-time."
"Thank you. I think."
She hugged him tighter. She smelled extremely nice. Christina was one of those special women who seemed immune to morning breath or any other slumber-related unpleasantness. She was always appealing.
"So, Ben. Is there anything I can do to help you sleep?"
"Well…"
"Anything that's likely to happen."
He smiled. "I'll be fine."
"Give me a minute." She jumped out of bed, put on her robe, and walked into the kitchen. She returned a few minutes later carrying a steaming mug. "Drink this."
Ben took it cautiously. "This isn't drugged, is it? Because I have to be up at six, ready to rock and roll."
"Relax. It's just chamomile tea."
He looked into the cup and frowned. "You're giving me hot leafy water? Doesn't it have caffeine?"
"No. It's not really even tea. But it will help you sleep."
Ben took a sip. "That's not bad." He drank a little more. "Nice, actually."
She smiled. "I'm glad you're getting some benefit out of the marriage. Now, finish it off, then cuddle up close to me and go to sleep."
"Oh… I don't want to keep you awake."
"Who are we kidding? You'll fall right back to sleep. Men always do. Me, it will take a while."
He put down the empty mug and snuggled in. "Thanks for being so nice about it."
She kissed him gently on the forehead. "That's what I'm here for."
12
Loving parked his pickup a few blocks down Brady so he wouldn't be observed. It probably wouldn't matter, but he didn't want anyone to see him coming. He liked to drink in the environment on his own time.
Sunday night was a surprisingly good time to be checking out a cop bar. Might be more crowded on a Friday night, but a lot of the boys were still working and didn't have the luxury of getting plastered. Sunday night, however, most were off-duty, more than at any other time. There was usually a game on, it was guaranteed to be more exciting on the big screen, and it was a fair bet that no one living off a cop's salary had a ninety-inch screen like the one inside this joint. And it was no small factor that Oklahoma still operated under the barely post-prohibition liquor laws that barred the sale of anything other than 3.2 beer anywhere but in liquor stores-which were required to be closed on Sunday. For the heavy drinker who failed to plan ahead, a trip to the local bar was mandated.
Loving heard the singing before he saw the people. Three big burly sorts, arms around each other, standing on the street corner, waiting for a taxi. The guys who regularly pulled people over for DUIs had the sense not to drive themselves home.
"Oh, Danny boy, the pipes, the pipes are playin'…"
Loving winced. After a few too many brewskis, the Irish buried deep inside anyone with Irish ancestry within the last forty-seven generations always seemed to emerge. He knew the lead vocalist. His name was Ginsberg. But there must be some Irish in there somewhere.
His two buddies joined in. "The summer's gone, and all the leaves are fallin'…"
Loving doubted they were in any condition to be interrogated. He passed them by, giving them a nod as he did, and entered Scene of the Crime.
This had been the top cop bar for some while. Back in the day, it had been Harry's over on 41st and Peoria, but nowadays this place saw most of the boys-in-blue action. It was low-key enough, and with a reasonably restricted clientele, no one had to worry about what might be reported back the next day. Loving was not much of a drinker, but he could appreciate the need for a swig every now and again, or perhaps even more importantly, the need for a safe, friendly place to hang. It was easy to forget, given how arrogant some could be and how negative most of their encounters with the populace were, that police officers had a tough job, and at the end of the day, as they approached that car they had just pulled over, they had no way of knowing what they were going to face. Loving would not begrudge them the occasional opportunity to unwind.
As he passed through the front door, his senses were assaulted by so many different sensations they were hard to catalog. The strongest was the smell-pungent beer, mixed with stale breath and pretzels. Smoke thicker than oxygen. The clink and rattle of mugs and ashtrays. Loud music from the juke and the blast of the television even more deafening, especially every time the right team scored. A century of police paraphernalia hanging on the wall, some of it dating back to the Victorian era-billy clubs, truncheons, caps, badges, bullets. A huge television screen, bigger than some movie theaters he'd visited. And way too many people crammed into too little space, lubricated with hops and barley.
Actually, Loving loved it here.
He nodded at the owner, Jake Bradley, a retired cop he had known for probably twenty-five years. Bradley acknowledged him but did not smile. A bad indication, Loving thought. He must realize that Loving hadn't dropped by just for a tall cold one.
Loving decided against the usual surreptitious approach-casual conversation, crazy bar tricks, something to get the tongues wagging. These men weren't stupid. All too many of them spent a good portion of their days trying to get suspects or witnesses to talk. They weren't going to be fooled by anything he tried. He might as well find someone promising and dig in. He'd read Dennis's statement and knew everyone who had been involved or on duty when the week-long drama was playing itself out.
"Jimmy Babbitt! How are ya, you old boozehound?"
Babbitt turned and gave Loving a sharp stare. He was closing in on forty but he didn't look it. He'd gained some weight since Loving had last seen him, but he still didn't have the soft paunch that spoiled the line of too many police uniforms. Loving knew he had been the first responder at the scene of the murder of Detective Sentz.
"Loving." Babbitt looked at him levelly. "Haven't seen you here in a while."
"No. I've been busy." He pointed toward the empty chair at his table. "Mind if I take a seat?"
Babbitt did not respond immediately. "Are you here on business or pleasure?"
"Both." Loving sat down even without the invitation. "No, that's crap. You know I'm here on business."
"Figured as much. You're still working for that lawyer, right?"
"Proud to say I am."
"Representing the man who killed Chris."
"He represents the accused, Jimmy. It's his job."
"Wasn't there a time when he was accused-"
"If you remember that, you must also remember it was a put-up job. A frame."
"That's what I heard." Babbitt poured some beer down his throat. "Still, I don't mind saying a guy as resourceful as you ought to be able to find a better way to make a living."