“I assume,” Judge Perry said, “the man in question is the client we spoke of earlier.”
The pilot pointed to a tiny island attached to the mainland by a wooden bridge. The cream-colored stone and steeply pitched slate roof gleamed with the myth of moneyed perfection. Marcus nodded affirmative and said, “Dale Steadman. Yes sir. I am still acting as his counsel.”
“I do not like this. Not one bit.” He chewed over his options as the pilot started a swooping descent. “But I like the alternative even less. You know where the courthouse is located?”
“I’ll find it.”
“Ninety minutes.”
The detective was a bulldog with a mustache. His leather jacket was emblazoned with the NYPD seal, the zipper open to reveal the gun on his belt beside his badge. Dale was stretched out on his own front lawn, his face in the dirt by the rotunda’s central fountain. The detective was in the process of fitting cuffs onto Dale’s wrists as Marcus leapt from the still descending helicopter. He shouted over the rotor’s din, “Let go of my client!”
The detective played at not hearing him, taking his time with the manacles, then hauling Dale to his feet at the very last moment. “Something on your mind?”
“I am Marcus Glenwood.”
The detective played at unconcern, though his face was pinched from the sudden reversal to his plans. “This is supposed to mean something?”
“Dale Steadman is my client.”
Dale shook his head to clear the grass from his forehead. “I didn’t kill her, Marcus. I was in New York but I didn’t do this thing.”
“Let’s hold that thought for a minute.” Marcus nudged Steadman to one side so as to focus tightly upon the detective. “Aureolietti, do I have that right? Swell job you did, informing us of your intentions.”
The detective gave Marcus the sort of flat-panned inspection he would offer a stain on the road. He glanced at where Deacon stood, the silent sentinel. He shrugged his acceptance of the new situation, attorney and witness and no way to continue with headlong intent. “Your man here consented to being transported north.”
Dale waited until the chopper rose and departed to protest, “How was I supposed to say a word with my face pressed in the dirt?”
Marcus asked, “What exactly are we talking about here?”
“What the warrant says. Murder in the first.” He handed over the folded sheaf of papers, then unwrapped two pieces of gum and stuffed them in his mouth. “Mind if we get a move on here? I got a plane to catch.”
“I’m not bound to anybody’s schedule but my client’s. How did you get my client’s name?”
“What is this, twenty questions? We got his name from the two hundred witnesses who place him at the scene of the crime.” He substituted his finger for a gun. “Which is why I’m down here to pick your boy up and carry him back.”
“I tell you I didn’t do it.”
Marcus stepped between them without lifting his gaze from the warrant. “What puts him at the scene, a gun, a knife? I don’t see anything like that stated here.”
“Then you’re not reading what’s written. Your client and the victim got into it before an audience of hundreds. She left. He followed. He did her.”
“So the murder itself did not actually take place in front of these eyewitnesses of yours?”
“The dispute did. The threatening did.”
“You’re saying my client actually threatened the victim with bodily harm?”
“Absolutely. Your boy here stalked her and threatened her. Left her so scared she ran screaming from the scene, yelling about how he’s not going to abuse her ever again.” The detective gave Dale his mobile grin. “Sound familiar?”
“My client has no criminal record of any kind.”
“You look like a smart guy. You know crimes of passion are almost always a one-off.”
“Are you aware my client is involved in a custody dispute with the victim? A dispute caused by the victim abducting their baby daughter and carrying her off to Germany?” Marcus weaved slightly, intent upon keeping himself at the center of the detective’s roving gaze. “Why would my client kill the one person who could bring his daughter back?”
“Don’t know, don’t care.” He glanced at his watch. “We done here?”
Marcus flipped through the pages, searching for the required ammo to keep Dale Steadman firmly planted on Carolina soil. “I still don’t find anything about the murder weapon.” He flipped through the pages once more. “Do you have the gun?”
“The victim was stabbed eleven times, the kind of frenzy you’d expect from a guy who’d lost his little girl. Ain’t that right, sport?”
When Dale Steadman shifted to one side, Marcus halted him with “He’s looking for a reason to charge you with resisting arrest.”
But the detective found pleasure in what Marcus could not see. “Some of the stab wounds were so deep they went right through the body and punched the limo’s seat.”
“I didn’t-”
“Don’t say another word,” Marcus snapped.
The detective lifted his chin, a tight little come-on. He said to Steadman, “My mother’s seen this lady sing maybe a dozen times, sport. Called her the empress of the stage. She’s gonna weep real tears when she hears what you’ve done. Gonna be a pleasure telling her I watched you shake and bake.”
“Let’s get back to business here.” Marcus swung back to the affidavit’s first page. Controlling the tempo with all his might. “So there’s no knife. What about the limo driver. Is he listed here?”
“We’re on that.”
“And the limo number, you managed to note that, didn’t you?”
“You’re the one holding the affidavit. Have a look at page three.”
“I’m just trying to get the information about this case straight in my own mind. What you’re telling me is, you don’t have the murder weapon. You have no eyewitnesses to the incident itself. And for all you know the limo driver has immigrated to Kazakhstan.”
“You’re playing attorney for the defense with the wrong party. I got enough probable cause for a judge to issue the warrant. Far as I’m concerned, we got our man. There was a fight, there was a killing. They happened in close proximity. We believe he’s responsible and the judge agrees. We straight on this? I’m asking on account of you being in my way.”
“Fine.” It was Marcus’ turn to check his watch. “The local judge should be about ready to begin our extradition hearing.”
Dark eyes burned him where he stood. “All this time, you been setting me up?”
Marcus let a little of his own rage show. “Absolutely.”
Marcus drove them to the courthouse in Dale’s Esplanade. The detective sat in the backseat with Dale beside him. Aureolietti slipped on mirror shades and practiced his sullen routine. Dale sat with cuffed hands in his lap, giving directions in a voice as bleak as his gaze.
The Wilmington courthouse fronted Water Street. Big blocks of granite formed a four-story bracket with a fountain in its middle. Half-cut pillars and tall sash windows were embedded into the building’s face. Deacon remained with the car as they made their way inside.
The judge’s third-floor offices were large and furnished with a woman’s taste for Southern plaids and warm colors. The office smelled vaguely of weekend cleansers and tobacco. Judge Perry was in the process of packing his pipe as they entered. “I’d ask if anybody minded my smoking, but I don’t care one way or the other.” He pointed at Dale. “Why is this man cuffed?”
“He’s under arrest, judge.”
“And you are?”
“Lieutenant John Aureolietti, NYPD.”
“Since when do New York detectives have license to operate in my jurisdiction?”
The detective looked ready to argue, then thought better of the issue and unlocked the manacles. Dale continued to bear the tragic expression of a man ready to gnaw off his own limb. His clothes were grass-stained, his knees caked, his forehead smudged. Marcus guided him into a seat by the side wall, then waited for the judge to point them into chairs opposite him. Judge Perry asked, “I assume you have a warrant?”