It’s not the kind of market that puts out a big Christmas catalog.
“How do we know all this?” I ask Daffy, but it is Bracken who answers.
“I had him,” Bracken says, nodding at Daffy, “do some digging on a series of phone calls Art made to San Francisco the month before he died. On the surface it appears legitimate, but if you represent enough crooks, you begin to sniff a distinct odor. The paperwork behind the calls didn’t check out; and, with a little work. Daffy heard enough rumors about the buyer to guess at a connection. I wasn’t certain about the skimming until Leigh admitted it to me this afternoon after I confronted her. She said Art had been threatened, but she was afraid to tell me. Art said they would come after her, too, if she talked. He was still trying to come up with the cash when he died.”
I lean against the table and look at Daffy’s crossed eyes with grudging respect.
“The cops don’t know about this?”
Daffy answers, with a snicker, “Are you kidding?
They might have spent five minutes checking out his phone bill.”
Poor Leigh, I think. No wonder she looked so grim.
If I were in her situation, I’d keep my mouth shut, too, and count on Chet Bracken to do his magic.
“Why didn’t Wallace pay off?” I ask Chet.
“I thought he was loaded.”
Daffy volunteers, “Two hundred thousand takes a while to come back from the laundry. The problem is that some guys get their feelings hurt when they’re taken and aren’t very understanding of international currency laws. Wallace knew how to keep his money working, but that kept it from being as liquid as his creditor in this case would’ve liked. Rub-out guys aren’t paid to have a lot of patience.”
Rub-out guys. Great. I’m out of my league. Is this for real? The closest I’ve gotten to international currency was down in Colombia in the Peace Corps, and it seemed like play money, it bought so little. I look around Bracken’s library a little dazed. I didn’t sign on to spend the rest of my life wondering if I’m going to have an unexpected dinner guest some night. I ask stupidly, “Do we call the cops?”
Across the table. Daffy coughs politely, and Chet tells him he can go home now.
“I’ve got sole custody of my five kids,” Daffy explains.
“I need to get to the house.”
Five kids! I have to wonder what the ex-mrs. Daffy looks like. And the children. Chet accompanies him into the hall and reaches for his wallet. I suspect Daffy is not averse to working off the books occasionally. With that many mouths to feed, he doesn’t have a lot left over to feed Uncle Sam, too. Chet walks back into the library and gives me a wan smile.
“So you want to turn this information over to the police, huh?”
I lean back in the leather chair and try to think, “We can’t protect her.”
Chet sits down across from me and pushes his thick brown hair back from his forehead.
“I’m sure not going to be around,” he says, grinning sourly at his own black humor.
“Look, this doesn’t add up, no matter how you do the math. Wallace was killed with a twenty-two pistol.
What kind of hit man uses a popgun? The cops searched the house and found nothing. There was no sign of a struggle, no forced entry. Wallace was hardly the type to invite his killer inside for a cup of coffee and then draw an x on his forehead for him. He would have fought like hell. If Wallace was really worried about his health, don’t you think the cops would have found a weapon or two around his house?”
I rub my eyes, trying to keep up. By this time of night, my I.Q. is in the single digits.
“So she’s making all this up?”
Chet looks down at the papers in front of him.
“Maybe the death threat, I don’t know. It’s not like I can call up the distributor in San Francisco and get him to go on David Letterman to talk about this deal. Maybe Leigh’s getting a little desperate. Maybe she made up the threat because she’s scared the porn business will come out in court, and pull her father and mother into the slime. This could really be a problem for her family.”
People are weird. She’s on trial for murder, and she’s worried about her daddy’s reputation?
“Maybe Shane knew about the porn stuff and killed Wallace,” I suggest, taking the opportunity to raise the subject of Norman’s alibi.
“I could see that a lot quicker than him killing Wallace because he was keeping Leigh away from the church.”
Chet fidgets in his chair. As his face becomes thinner, his ears seem to get larger.
“That’s garbage,” he says curtly.
“He’s seen a lot worse than what Wallace was involved in.”
Perhaps so, but not where his own daughter is concerned.
God damn it. I feel my face burning. The son of a bitch still hasn’t checked out Norman’s alibi. What has Norman got on him? Chet must have confessed to some crime and has had to cut some deal. So much for confidentiality between priest and penitent. Norman could leak information about Chet in a million different ways, and Chet won’t be around to save his reputation.
But surely Norman wouldn’t risk his daughter’s freedom this way. What in the hell is going on? I realize I’m beginning to think of Norman as a thug instead of one of the most respected men in the state. The odd thing is that I like the man. In some ways he and I don’t seem all that much different. Hell, yes, I could murder someone. And so could Norman.
“So what do we do with this?” I ask, watching Chet take a beer from a cooler he has beside his chair. I wouldn’t mind a beer right now, but, feeling like a junior law clerk, I don’t ask.
Chet makes a face as he untwists the cap from the bottle.
“At this point we’ll follow it until it dries up or we run out of time. Even if it turns out to be worth less than dog crap, we’ve got to throw some sand in the jury’s face. Shit, we don’t have any choice. This is all we’ve got at the moment. I want you to go to San Francisco and see what you can find out about the distributor. If we have to put Leigh on the stand with this story, we need to know a hell of a lot more than we do now.”
Why should I go? I’m a lawyer, not an investigator.
“Can’t Daffy go or someone else? There’re a million guys who’d love a free trip.”
Chet shakes his head and takes a long draft before he speaks.
“What I’m mainly interested in is you finding someone out there whom we can qualify as an expert witness to testify that Leigh and Art had something to worry about. An investigator won’t have that kind of credibility. I’d go myself if I were in better shape.”
With the trial only little more than a week away I feel I’m being gotten out of the way. From a defense standpoint, it’s not a wild-goose chase; Chet is right. We’ve got to give the jury area son to acquit Leigh, but it is as if there’s something here Chet doesn’t want me to find.
The main tent is in Blackwell County, not San Francisco.
“Shouldn’t we be asking for a continuance?” I ask, searching his face for clues.
Chet looks down at the table and winces as if he had just discovered some kind of flaw in the wood.
“We wouldn’t get it. Besides, I may not have that kind of time. Trust me on this one,” he says, glancing up at me with an attempt at a smile.
“My track record is pretty damn good. I may not even put Leigh on to testify, but we’ve got to be prepared to go with this story if we have to.”
My mouth feels dry, but for some reason I decide not to ask for anything to drink. This case feels terrible.
Yet, I can’t argue with him. He has won acquittals for some clients for whom I would have been satisfied to accept a plea bargain of life imprisonment. I warn him, “I’ve got to be back no later than Thursday night. I’ve got a custody case to get ready for Friday I told you about.”
Chet nods absently and slides me a file.
“My Visa is in there, and so are Daffy’s notes. I’d like to see you gone by tomorrow night.” He stands up, dismissing me.