The Fourth followed daddy’s footsteps to the University of Florida and eventually to law school. He wasn’t a good student, spending most of his time golfing and partying, and would never have made it into the law school on his own merits, but there were qualifications and there were qualifications: Great granddaddy, the governor, had been a three-sport man at Florida and had attended the law school. So had daddy and he was personal friends with the president of the university and the present governor.
Clay attacked law school with the same laissez-faire attitude he had displayed as an undergraduate. When he had occupied his seat for three years he was given a law degree and finally, after three failed attempts, he managed to pass the bar.
Despite his loathsome resume, Clay still had assets that attracted many of the big firms in Florida. He had his father’s height and thick brown hair and an easy manner about him and, most important, he had a pedigree that granted him access to the halls of power in Tallahassee. When the offers came in, Clay weighed them carefully, reassured that life was going to continue to be good.
He chose the Miami firm of Eppley, Marsch amp; Maloney simply because he knew that Miami was a fun place to live and play. Unfortunately, reality was about to set in for the Fourth. Everyone at Eppley, Marsch was required to put in seventy- to eighty-hour work weeks and the competition among the associates was fierce. It didn’t take the Fourth long to realize that life in the big firm was not for him. So he called Dad.
“Can’t you get me an appointment to something?” he whined to the Third. “I can’t do this anymore.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” the Third replied. Two weeks later, he called back.
“The Cobb County state attorney is retiring. I think I can secure the appointment for you.”
“What do they have, five attorneys over there? I’d be lost in oblivion. Can’t you get me something a little bit better than that?” At that moment, the Third wished that he had taken the time and the effort years before to throttle his son. He thought to remind the boy that he was being offered a state attorney’s position having never tried a case, but he knew that logic would never work with the Fourth. So he stuck with manipulation.
“It’s a stepping-stone, son. You probably don’t remember, but I was once the Cobb County state attorney. Stay in the job a couple of years-fill in your resume, so to speak-and I’ll find something for you after that. The governor’s a good friend of mine and if he’s reelected, which is likely, he’ll be in office for six more years.”
It was a winning argument. Clay took the appointment and was soon running an office that specialized in speeding tickets, petty theft and every so often a grand larceny or two. Something happened, however, that neither the Third nor the Fourth had planned on. Governor Hal Bishop was caught cheating on his wife and was voted out of office after his first term. He was replaced by a Republican who couldn’t stand the Third.
The Fourth was stuck and he’d been stuck for almost ten years when Wesley Brume walked into his office to discuss the investigation of Lucy Ochoa’s murder. This case might be the opportunity he’d been looking for to jettison himself out of Cobb County once and for all. He had to control it, publicize it, and most important, make sure he won it.
Neither man liked the other. Wes saw Clay as a pompous ass and Clay saw Wes as a dumb cop, but a dumb cop who could be manipulated under the right circumstances.
“What have you got so far?” Clay asked after the formalities of shaking hands and making very small talk were over. He’d already read the investigative file but he wanted the latest and he wanted it firsthand.
“Well, we’ve had the blood analyzed and we’ve canvassed the neighborhood. We’ve got a suspect, a kid who works at the convenience store around the block from the murder. One of the neighbors identified him and two others described him pretty close.”
It was an overly optimistic description of the evidence, but Wes could always be overly optimistic if the circumstances called for it.
“We’ve done a profile on him-no priors. Everybody we talked to seems to like him. He lives with his mother. He’s a little slow. I went over and talked to his high school principal and looked at his school records. The principal confirmed the kid had a low IQ but he worked hard and his mother was very involved both in his education and with the school. The last two years he couldn’t do the work so they put him on a vocational track and gave him an attendance certificate after four years.”
The Fourth was anxious for the bottom line. He didn’t want a biography.
“Did you pick him up?”
“No. I was waiting to talk to you. We don’t want any screwups.”
“You’ve certainly got grounds to pick him up for questioning. Take his blood, see if it matches. Put him in a lineup and let the neighbors pick him out.”
Clay started to walk out of his office. It was his signal to Wes that the meeting was over, but the portly detective didn’t move.
“There is one problem,” he added before the Fourth could sweep out of the room to go God knew where. Clay stopped in his tracks and wheeled around.
“A problem? What problem?” He was in his superior role now, glaring down at the pudgy little detective. Wes wanted to drop the bastard right there but this was important business.
“You know about the semen?” Wes asked.
“Of course.” Harry Tuthill had filled him in that very morning.
“We were able to get a blood type from it. The blood type in the living room and on the glass is O positive but the blood type in the semen is AB.”
Clay turned this new information around in his brain. Two people did this murder? Not likely. A robbery or a burglary maybe, but not this. This could be a problem. A thought rolled around in the Fourth’s devious skull but he needed more information to pursue it.
“Bring the kid in right away for questioning. If he’s as dumb as you say he is, maybe he’ll confess. Do your first interview without a video or a tape recorder. If he gives you something, you can always redo it on tape. If he’s wishy-washy, it’s your word against his.”
Wes knew exactly what Clay was talking about. He’d used the same tactic many times in the past. It was strange, he had never seen this side of Clay before. Usually Clay didn’t give a shit one way or the other. He headed for the door but the Fourth called him back.
“Who else knows about the blood samples?” he asked.
“Just me and Harry.”
“Don’t tell a soul about it. I’ll talk to Harry.”
“Will do,” Wes replied. He knew the Fourth was up to something, but he couldn’t tell what.
Five
Rudy had a morning ritual before going to work. After breakfast he would take his boat and go fishing down the Okalatchee. “Boat” was stretching it-it was actuary an old dinghy he’d bought from one of the sailboat owners who docked on the river at night. The owner had hung a “Dinghy For Sale” sign on his mast and was asking a hundred and twenty-five dollars for it.
“I’ve got thirty-five cash in my pocket,” Rudy told him. He had his mother’s directness and some of her bargaining skills, which he’d picked up by watching her over the years.
The boat owner, a retired IBM executive, was amused by Rudy’s attempt to tantalize him with the cash. He had no need for the money or the sale but he saw an opportunity to let this kid win for once in his life. He crossed his arms and rubbed his chin with his right hand. They were standing on the dock and Rudy kept stealing glances at the dinghy, his boat. Finally, when the older man figured he’d built up enough anticipation, he relented.