thoughts on the case. I don't give a shit about that. But the last
time you left me in the dark about the poking around you were doing,
you almost got killed. I'm worried about you. Please just tell me
enough so I know you're not playing cowboy again."
"If you're going to worry about me every time I'm dealing with bad
people, this is never going to work."
"Sam, this isn't about you going after bad guys. Don't you get it? I
love it that you do what you do. You could be making half a million
bucks a year by now as some corporate drone, but that's not who you
are, and that's great. But you have a tendency to want to go it alone,
no matter how wacky the plan. I don't want you to get hurt again."
"Look, it's fine. What happened before was different. I went in blind
knowing someone was out of custody and angry at me, to say the least.
Right now, the worst that's going to happen to me is that I ruffle a
few political feathers." I left out the part about the mystery man at
the library, since I wasn't actually sure that it was Billy Minkins or
that he had been watching me. "I'm taking enough crap from my father
about this. I don't need it from you too."
For the next few minutes, the only sounds were our forks against the
plates and Vinnie breathing under the table.
"Ever since I got this case, he's been on a trip about so-called
powerful people and the way they can take away everything from me if I
get in their way. He's always been suspicious of authority "
Chuck was laughing, and I looked at him to see if he was going to
continue listening to me. "Sorry," he explained, "but that sounded
funny, coming from you."
"Well, I guess we know where I get it. Anyway, I assumed he was
worried that someone as influential as Townsend would be calling for my
head if I screwed things up. But then this morning I asked him about
some work he did when I was a kid, and he got all quiet and weird. I've
never seen him like this before."
"What did you ask him?"
"Nothing, really. When I was doing that research at the library, I
came across an old newspaper clipping of him when he was with OSP. I
asked him about this legislator he used to drive, and he clammed up."
"Who was the legislator?"
"A guy named Clifford Brigg."
"Never heard of him." Chuck was familiar with political circles
through his father, but Brigg's time was long ago. He didn't offer to
ask about him, and I didn't ask. Chuck and his father weren't exactly
close; the former governor, Charles London Forbes, Sr." made little
effort to conceal his disappointment with Chuck's career choice. "Did
you try to talk to him about it?"
"Of course."
He looked at me skeptically. "For more than a couple of minutes?"
"A few." Having been on the other side of my impatience before, Chuck
knew I had a tendency to give up when I was frustrated. "The more I
pushed him to talk to me, the more he pushed me to lay off him and get
off this case. Then we both realized we weren't getting anywhere."
"You Kincaids are a stubborn people. What did someone put in the water
supply at that house?"
"Whatever the hospital put in your baby formula."
"You should try to talk to him about it again. But in the end, Sam, if
he wants to keep something private, you need to respect that."
"I know. Honestly? I think the reason I haven't talked to him since
then is that I don't want to see that look on his face again. It's
like he was ashamed of something. Seeing that was absolutely horrible.
I thought I was going to lose it."
The phone rang, saving me from having to talk anymore about my father.
I kissed Chuck on the cheek on my way to the kitchen to answer it.
It was Slip.
"Sorry it took me awhile to get back to you. I spent my entire day
down at Inverness trying to see Melvin. And people wonder why defense
attorneys hardly speak to their clients."
"So, what'd you find out?"
"Well, I showed him the two pictures you gave me. He's never seen the
old guy, but the younger one might be the worker who saw him take the
paint."
"How good was the ID? And no puffing. You know I'm out on a limb."
"The truth? It could've been stronger. But it was probably just as
good as any cross-racial ID your cops get before they firm it up for
the courtroom."
Jackson hadn't ruled Minkins out. If he was high up enough with
Gunderson to have hired Jackson, he could also be in on the setup. If,
of course, there was a setup.
"Anything else?"
"My investigator's got some computer whiz working on the floppy disc.
I'm going to feel like a total idiot if I wind up paying this guy out
of my own pocket, and the disc turns out to be the family grocery list.
And speaking of total idiots, that's what I felt like when Jackson
asked me why I was showing him those pictures and I couldn't say
anything. Now that I spent my Sunday with the other jailhouse
groupies, why don't you let me in on the secret."
"Hold on a second." I made it look like I needed something from my
desk and went upstairs so Chuck wouldn't overhear. "Got anything up
your sleeve for court tomorrow?"
He laughed. "Yeah, my piece of shit watch. Prescott's obviously
inclined to find PC, and I don't have squat. The best I can hope for
is to buy more time."
More time was what we both needed. Getting anyone to take a second
look at the case against Jackson was hard enough as things stood. If
Prescott found probable cause without at least a bend in the road, it
would be impossible.
"I'll tell you who the men in the pictures are if you'll do something
for me. I've got an idea that might help both of us."
Twelve.
I was finishing some last minute prep in my office Monday morning when
Jessica Walters walked in.
"Hey, there. Thought I'd stop in and see how you're holding up after a
week in here with the boys."
"Crazier by the day, but I'm sticking it out."
"Good for you. You want to grab some coffee?"
I held up my Starbucks commuter cup. "Already went, but definitely
some other time. I'm getting ready to go back in on the Jackson
prelim."
The legal pad I'd been using on Sunday was at the edge of my desk, the
top page barely legible from all the black ink. Walters saw it and
laughed. "A woman after my own heart. Do those notes actually mean
anything to you?"
I laughed too. "No. But maybe if you scribble enough, it's like a
giant Rorschach." I held the pad up to her. "Tell me, Ms. Walters,