He closed the hidden inner lid and smoothed the carpet over it.
He reached up to close the trunk and the high beams hit him.
*
He glanced casually toward the security car, squinting against the headlights as it rolled up. Two silhouettes inside. One held the shape of a walkie-talkie to his mouth.
He waited. Kept his hands out at his sides, where they could see them.
Both guys got out at the same time and approached, staying apart. They were young, as most security guards tend to be, still in their twenties. Also armed. Looked like Glocks on their hips. The kid to his right had a hand resting on the butt of his.
He smiled at them. “You fellas are a little late. Sure coulda used your help a few minutes ago.” He motioned his thumb toward the car. “Had a flat.”
The two shot glances at each other. The one on the left, a fit-looking blond kid, said, “We saw you putting something in your trunk.”
He nodded. “Yep. Just finished up.”
They looked uncertain. “You mind if we asked for some identification?”
He forced himself to grin. “Hell no, ’course not. Left my wallet in the glove compartment. Mind if I fetch it for you?”
They were edgy. The kid on the right, dark hair, played it well. “I’d actually prefer if you let me get it, sir. If you don’t mind, that is.”
Keep the grin. “Hey, sure. Be my guest. It’s unlocked.”
He watched the dark-haired guard circle the long way, behind the car, so that he could take a glance inside the open trunk as he passed. He hoped that the kid wouldn’t look the other way, at the ground behind the car, and spot all that blood.
After a moment, the guard emerged from the passenger side with the wallet in hand. Hustled back to them, this time around the front of the car.
“I’m really sorry to have troubled you, sir,” the kid said, looking anxious. He handed over the wallet, opened to reveal the gold badge so that his partner could see it, too. “You should have said something, Detective Talionis.”
He laughed. “Nah, no trouble at all, fellas. Just wanted to play along and see how you performed. And you know what? You guys are really on your game. We don’t see enough of this kind of professionalism with private security. I’ll have to write a letter to your boss, tell him how impressed I am.”
“Well, thank you, sir. We try to keep an eye on things, but it’s tough covering all these lots. We get more than our share of trouble around here. As you know.”
Right then, they heard the first siren.
He laughed. “As I know too well. Well, I better find out what the hell that is all about.”
“Yes sir,” said the blond guard. “Stay safe.”
“You too,” he replied. He walked back and slammed the trunk lid. “As for me, I’ve had all the action I need tonight, right here.”
They laughed with him again as he got into the car and drove away.
College Park, Maryland
Thursday, October 23, 8:25 a.m.
Maurice Juliette pulled off Route 1 and into the parking lot of the run-down office building. Normally he didn’t arrive at work until nine, but he needed to get a jump on the day. The grant proposal would take hours, and he had a lot of other stuff to do, besides.
Juliette grabbed his worn leather briefcase and brown tweed jacket from the back seat of his old Volvo. The door squeaked loudly when he closed it. He had to bang it twice before it stayed shut. Piece of junk. He wished he could afford better. But you don’t get rich working in a nonprofit. Not even if you’re an attorney. Not even if you’re the executive director.
Staring at the faded beige finish of the heap, he felt familiar pangs of resentment. He thought about how well so many of his classmates from Georgetown U Law Center were doing these days. Most had taken “Curriculum A” and gone into commercial and corporate law. Where the big bucks were. They’d all sold out. They lined their pockets helping the rich get richer by exploiting the underprivileged.
Not him, though. He was an idealist. He’d gone the “B” route, busted his ass learning from some of the foremost scholars in Critical Legal Studies. And he wound up here, running Class Justice Legal Services.
The breeze was chilly. He put down the briefcase to slip into the jacket.
Yeah, they had lots of money and material things and trophy wives, sure. But legal services had other compensations. Emotional rewards. Moral rewards they would never know. You get to help so many of this rotten society’s victims. People who never have a chance in life. Poor, disadvantaged people and minorities who get screwed by the system-by the same corporations his old fraternity pals now protect.
He thought of all the prisoners that Class Justice Legal Services represented pro bono. Victims of racism and injustice at the hands of the power structure. Treated like society’s refuse and warehoused out of sight. And what were their real crimes, anyway? Being poor or the wrong color or nationality in white, patriarchal, capitalist Amerika.
Okay, so maybe he wasn’t rich. But being the champion of social victims earned you prestige. Street cred out in the community and in the media, but lots of respect on the Hill, too, where the progressives got it. Like the call he’d gotten returned yesterday from Congressman Horowitz’s office. The chief of staff said Horowitz would be delighted to lend his name as a reference for his grant proposal to the MacLean Family Foundation.
And ultimately, connections like that brought in whatever money CJLS really needed. Sometimes federal money, but mostly foundation cash. Now, planning next year’s budget, they really needed the MacLean money. The administrator there promised to fast-track his grant proposal if he submitted it by Friday. That was tomorrow. Where the hell did the week go?
He picked up his briefcase and headed for the entrance. Saw his approaching reflection as he reached the glass entrance. To himself, he looked skinny and kinky-haired and nerdy. Sheila told him he looked like a young Alan Dershowitz. Yeah, wish I had his bank balance.
He pulled out his key and was surprised to find the door already unlocked. He knew nobody else would have arrived this early. Goddamned cleaning crew. They always forgot something. Anybody could walk right in.
When he opened the door, he caught a faint, unpleasant smell. Great. Not only do they leave the place wide open, they don’t even clean it right. First thing, he’d call their super and chew him out. What are we paying them for?
He thought of stopping first at the kitchen and putting on some coffee, but he needed to get to that proposal. He crossed the small, shabby reception area to the hallway and headed back toward his office. The smell got worse with every step. Jesus, did the toilet overflow or something?
He pushed open his office door and stopped, startled.
He immediately recognized the client’s face. Tomas Cardenas. Sitting in his chair, behind his desk, nice as you please. Staring back at him arrogantly, holding an open newspaper spread across his chest.
“What the hell?”
But Cardenas was staring slightly to his left. And not reacting.
Then his skin crawled as he realized from the frozen, sleepy expression that the guy was dead.
And he knew what the smell was.
The briefcase fell from his nerveless fingers. His knees went wobbly and his face got warm and he turned and stumbled out into the hallway, hand against his mouth, staggering toward the bathroom and knowing that he wouldn’t make it in time…
TWENTY-TWO
Silver Spring, Maryland
Saturday, November 15, 1:17 p.m.