Effective immediately, Brian Lord is terminated from Garner and Mackey for associations and behavior deemed detrimental to the firm.
“You’ll receive a severance package with ninety days’ salary. Your medical insurance coverage will continue for the same period. We don’t wish to seem vindictive.”
“That’s good,” I said, “because I have one last favor to ask. In the time I’ve been with the firm, I’ve had a half dozen clients assigned to me.”
“Ten, actually. I checked.”
“I’d like to retain them.”
“I…don’t see any problem with that,” Garner shrugged. “They’re not cases any of the partners would want anyway. Anything else?”
There wasn’t. We said polite good-byes and he left, taking my visions of a brilliant legal career at Cadillac Square with him. We didn’t bother to shake hands.
It didn’t matter. We both got what we wanted. Garner got rid of a public-relations disaster for the price of a severance package.
But I got something too. Clients. A loser’s list, maybe, but I wanted them. After my midnight vision of Corzine, I’d lain awake for hours, mulling it over.
Corzine was the obvious suspect. But I’ve learned a few things about the obvious answer.
Like never to trust it.
For most of my time as an assistant DA, I’d worked as second chair for Leon Stolz, a guy who never won a popularity contest in his life. In court, he was the one making charges, working for convictions, grilling the perps in the holding tanks. If someone we’d convicted back then had a beef, they’d be mad at Leon, not me.
The cases I’d prosecuted as a solo were strictly minor league stuff. DUIs, deadbeat dads, petty theft. Other than a few barroom scuffles, I couldn’t think of a single case that involved overt violence. So the bomber probably wasn’t some loser out of my past.
He was more likely to be a current client or someone connected to them. Corzine qualified, but he might not be the only candidate. Someone tried to kill me, and murdered Serena instead.
I damn sure intended to find out who, and would settle up with them.
Legally or otherwise.
Chapter 11
Dr. Crane was giving me a final exam when Lieutenant Hilliard and Chief Paquette visited.
“For a guy who’s been blown up, I’ve seen worse,” Hilliard said.
“Worse is getting buried today, like my fiancée is?” I countered, then sighed. “What can I do for you, Lieutenant?”
“Actually, it’s what I can do for you,” Hilliard said. “I did some serious digging into the name you gave us. Bruno Corzine?”
“And?”
“Because of who he is, it’s not uncommon for a law enforcement agency to have eyes on him. Ever hear of the Riviera Social Club?”
“It’s a Detroit mob hangout,” I said, nodding.
“At the time of the bombing, a dozen witnesses, including two of ours, can place Bruno Corzine at the Riviera Social Club, playing cards with his cronies. He couldn’t have been directly involved.”
“The key word being ‘directly,’” the chief added. “I’ve noticed a funny thing about alibis over the years. Innocent people almost never have ’em. They’re walking the dog or home watching TV. Can’t remember which program because they don’t expect to be asked. A thug like Corzine? It’d be more surprising if he didn’t have a rock-solid alibi.”
“I don’t care if he was playing pinochle with the pope. It doesn’t get him off the hook. I appreciate your efforts, though. Thank you.”
“It wasn’t an effort, Mr. Lord,” Hilliard said. “Corzine is a suspect in an ongoing investigation now. I don’t know what you might be thinking, but you need to just let us do our jobs. I know you’re angry and scared, but if you go anywhere near him, you’ll wind up in traction or a cell. I want your word that you’ll leave this alone.”
I just looked at them. Both Hilliard and the chief seemed straight to me. It was a rare thing in the criminal justice system. I didn’t want to lie to them.
So I didn’t.
I didn’t say anything at all.
They exchanged a glance, then left me to the tender mercies of Dr. Crane.
On her way out, Chief Paquette paused in the doorway. “You need to be careful now, Brian,” she said. “If you get sideways of this thing, I’ll truly hate locking you up. But I will do it. You understand?”
“Yes, ma’am,” I said.
Chapter 12
That afternoon, I was pacing the hospital sunroom, when I got my first pleasant surprise in a while.
“I’ll be damned,” Carly Delaney said from the doorway, “Brian, the Lord of the Shore. Do your friends still call you that?”
“I don’t have many friends left these days.”
“You’ve got one, at least,” Carly said, sweeping me into her arms in a fierce hug.
“Easy,” I groaned, “I’m a tad fragile.”
“Sorry,” she said, releasing me. “It’s been a long time.”
And it had been. We both took a step back, looking each other up and down.
“The line you’re looking for is ‘gee, Carly, you haven’t changed a bit,’” she said.
“It wouldn’t be true. You’ve definitely changed a lot, all for the better.”
It was true. Her smile lines were a bit deeper, and she still wore her cinnamon hair short enough to comb with her fingertips, but she wasn’t my tomboy beach buddy from my days as a lifeguard. Not anymore.
Carly’d grown up, and the difference was striking. As a girl she’d been cute as a bug. As a grown woman, she was drop-dead gorgeous.
But as impish as ever.
“You’ve changed some,” she said frankly, her smile fading a bit. “Skipping past the bandages, you look—”
“Like I’ve been run through a wood chipper?”
“Sort of,” she nodded, “but the big difference is your eyes. You seem wiped, my friend.”
“I’ve had better weeks.”
“I’ve been following your adventures online. I’m sorry about—hell, Brian. Everything.”
“Thanks. How are you doing?”
“A lot better than I could be, thanks to you.”
“To me? How so?”
“That yellow Labrador you rescued? She belonged to my nephew, Tim, my sister Rhonda’s boy. Do you remember her?”
“I remember a cute little butterball we called Help Me Rhonda. She can’t be old enough to date yet, let alone have a kid?”
“She has two, a boy and a girl. And she’s twenty-six.”
“Jesus, we’re dinosaurs.”
“Speak for yourself, I’m in my prime. I’m Vale County Parks Director now, and on behalf of parks management and staff, I’d like to thank you for your amazing rescue last week. Jerry Koval, the lifeguard on duty, had promised me he’d keep a close eye on Timmy and his dog, but he’s easily distracted. Beach girls, I imagine.”
“He’s a lousy lifeguard, Carly.”
“He’s an ex-lifeguard now,” she sighed. “I had to fire him. Normally, I hate that part of my job, but the dunce tried to lie to me about what happened when the video is all over the web. So, he’s a terrible lifeguard and a liar. They don’t make them like they used to. And unfortunately, I have to get back to the office to find a replacement. I definitely owe you a ‘thank you’ lunch, though. It’ll give us a chance to catch up.”
“I’d love that but…look, if you’re serious about owing me? What are my chances of getting my old job back?”
“You mean as a lifeguard? But aren’t you a lawyer now?”
“What I am is in between jobs, Carly. And to tell you the truth, hauling that dog out of the surf was the first worthwhile thing I’ve done since I got out of the army. I really need to feel useful again and you need a replacement lifeguard. So? Win-win, right?”
“Win-lose, you mean,” she snorted. “Look, I’ll concede that because your video went viral, you’re probably the most famous lifeguard on the planet, bu
t…No offense, Brian, you said it yourself. You look like you’ve been through a wood chipper.”
“I’ve got a few dings, but they’re mostly cosmetic. I’m in better shape than I look.”
“You’d have to be. For openers, you’d have to be recertified and it’s been years since you tested. Do you remember what the qualification tests are like?”
“More or less.”
“They haven’t gotten any easier.”
“I need to work, Carly. I’ll retest, get recertified, whatever you say.”
“Jesus, you’re serious, aren’t you?”
“Serious as a heart attack. I need this, Carly. And you said you owe me.”
“Not this way, I don’t.”
“At least let me try. You owe me that much.”
“Fine, I’ll give you a shot. Be at the park at dawn tomorrow. And don’t be late.”
“At dawn? Is this something like a duel?”
“No. It’s exactly like a duel,” she said.
Chapter 13
A few minutes after Carly left, I was paged down to the front desk. My uncle Josh and my older brother, Tall Paul, were there waiting for me. And they were clearly worried about me.
We embraced fiercely, a miniature Lord family reunion. Uncle Josh is sixty, a construction boss. His brush cut is steel-gray and he’s a bit grizzled, but he’s lean as an axe handle and just as hard. He doesn’t smile a lot. Today, he wasn’t smiling at all.
Tall Paul is two years my senior and is six foot seven inches to my six foot flat. He’s my big brother in every way. We were hometown basketball heroes for the Port Vale Vikes, which is appropriate since Tall Paul, with his blond beard, actually looks like a Viking and played like one, too. He took no prisoners. We were State Class B champions my sophomore year.
Those were the glory days. After school, I followed Paul into the army. There was no glory there. Paul lost a leg below the knee in Iraq. He still looks like a Viking raider, but these days he runs a shoreline bar and grill called the Beachfront Bistro.
I was a lot luckier. I took two tours in Afghanistan with the military police and made it through without a scratch.
I guess my injuries occurred during life as a civilian.
Outside, Uncle Josh’s ’70 Chevy step-side pickup was parked in a tow-away zone. We piled in, and I took the middle seat, as usual. Josh was at the wheel with Paul riding shotgun. Neither of them said a word to me until we were rolling through traffic.
“I found that on top of the dune behind the cottage,” Paul said as he fished the old Nambu semi-automatic out of his jacket and dropped it in my lap. “Was that where you left it?”
I nodded. “I was having a really bad day. I was still pretty rocky from the car bomb.”
“Must have been,” Paul agreed. “You’ve always been wild, Brian, but not that kind of wild. Were you seriously considering—”
“I thought about it, Paul. But that’s all I did.”
“Any man who ain’t considered eatin’ a weapon at least once has led a pretty quiet life,” Uncle Josh said dryly. “Are you past all that now? Or do we have to keep an eye on you?”
“I’m okay now, Unc. Not a hundred percent, maybe, but better than I was. I blamed myself for what happened to Serena. We were fighting that day. That’s why she was in the car and I wasn’t. That’s on me, and always will be.”
“Any idea who might have done it?” Paul asked.
“A Motown hood named Corzine is top of my list. He threatened me just before it happened. But he has a pretty fair alibi. The police were watching him at the time.”
“So he didn’t do it himself,” Uncle Josh said.
“Or he didn’t do it at all,” Paul added. “Who else?”
“The detectives think one of my clients might have done it, and it’s possible they’re right. They want to check through my files, but I can’t allow that.”
“Why not?” Paul asked. “I mean, what if one of them’s guilty?”
“And what if he’s not? If the law’s looking for a bomber, but finds something else, it’s not like they’ll just forget it. My clients trust me to protect their rights and their privacy. I can’t just hand them over. But…?”
They both glanced at me.
“Nothing’s stopping me from looking through my own case files. With a little help from my discreet family and friends.”
“And if one of your clients looks good for it?” Paul asked.
“Then we turn them over to the law.”
“And if that doesn’t work out?” Uncle Josh asked. His tone was neutral, but he’s not the subtle type.
“Then I guess we’ll try something else.”
Chapter 14
The Lord family cottage is a two-story relic on Vale Beach, a few hundred yards up the shore from the park. My great grandfather built it by hand out of rough planks and natural stone.
And that’s why the new cardboard boxes stacked on the porch steps looked totally out of place.
“Wait here,” Paul said, “I know a bit about bombs.” Climbing out, he edged warily up to the boxes. The box on top was open. Paul leaned over and peered in.
“What is it?” Uncle Josh demanded.
“Office stuff,” Paul said. “Brian’s, I’m guessing.”
He was right. The top box held my law license and various papers from my office. Fountain pens, legal pads, and my Rolodex. The others were filled with my client files.
There wasn’t even a note, but the message was clear enough. “Good riddance, from your former employers, Garner and Mackey, Cadillac Square.” That note sealed my fate. It had finally sunk in that I was actually fired.
But at least I was home again. We carried the boxes into the cottage. It was a comfy old barn of a place, with a country kitchen and great room downstairs, and bedrooms above. Every room has a grand view of the big lake.
Home sweet home. My favorite safe haven.
Upstairs, I changed into jeans and a faded Mötley Crüe T-shirt while Paul busied himself in the kitchen, making sandwiches. Uncle Josh made calls to his construction crews.
Then we gathered at the kitchen table with the stack of files in the center.
“How do we do this?” Uncle Josh asked.
“We divide them up, read through them one at a time,” I said, dealing out the files as if they were an oversized poker hand.
“I’m a chef, not a lawyer,” Paul said, shoving a steaming tuna melt into my mouth. It was utterly delicious, especially after a few days of hospital chow. “What should I be looking for?”
“A bomb,” I said flatly. “Any connection to explosives. Military experience, mining, blasting. Or anybody who seems batshit crazy enough to use one. I’m sure we’ll know it when we see it.”
“I’m not sure I’ll know mad bombers when I see them,” Paul said.
“Think back to Iraq,” Uncle Josh said. “You knew a few then.”
We settled into the job at hand, scarfing lunch while we winnowed my client list of losers down to a manageable number.
My personal favorite was still Jimmy Valentine. Because he threatened to rat out Corzine, he made the gangster or one of his goons prime candidates. No lawyer, no deal. I set him aside, saving him for last.
Paul’s first two were easy to pass over. A vagrant hoping to sue a hit-and-run driver and a lush suing Walmart to get his greeter’s job back. Neither case involved violence, or any reason to lash out at me. Most of the cases were similar, bottom of the barrel beefs. Nuisance lawsuits, plain and simple. In twenty minutes of sorting, we culled my client list down to a final three.
Paul came across a file for “Crazy Jack” Bruske, a young outlaw biker who was facing prison time for marijuana possession. His crew, the Iron Disciples, are mad dogs on motorcycles, and notoriously violent, so they might have access to some dangerous material, and have the ability to construct a bomb. And though Jack’s crime seemed pretty low-level to me, and though I couldn’t think of a rational reason they’d want to b
low me up, I couldn’t stop focusing on the biker’s name. A rational guy nicknamed “Crazy”? It’s a contradiction in terms.
Uncle Josh came up with Sherry Molinere, a young woman trying to divorce her domineering husband, Dex, who happens to be a corporal in the state police. Dex had been gaming the system to stalk her. He’d filed a blizzard of bogus charges on her, so I fired back with a restraining order and complaints to his department. He had plenty of cause to want me gone. As a tenure cop, Dex may not know about the munitions himself, but he would have sources who would.
Two new names. I read their case files again, thoroughly.
“Well?” Uncle Josh asked.
“It could be any of them—including Corzine,” I said. “Drugs, money, and jealousy are all in play here. But killing me? It seems a little over the top.”
“Let’s say it’s not about you personally,” Josh said. “What if it’s strictly business? What would taking you out of the picture accomplish?”
“Other than making the world a better place,” Paul joked.
I thought about that one. “Corporal Molinere is trying to control his wife. He’s already bullied a public defender into dropping her case. Without me, she’s alone and he wins. The others? At most, it could delay their cases, kick them back to square one.”
“Would that help any of them?”
“It might. Evidence can be time sensitive. Memories fade, witnesses move on. It might be some small detail, and not all the evidence is in these files.”
“Then where’s the rest of it?” Paul asked.
“In the prosecutor’s office. My clients tell me their side of the story, and then the DA hears the rest from witnesses and the police. They’re supposed to share evidence, but things get held back. Accidentally or on purpose.”
“Like hole cards,” Josh nodded. “How do we get a look at ’em?”
“I can set up a meeting with my old boss to work out plea deals. He’ll try to trump my offer by dumping any dirt he’s been holding back. Maybe something will link up.”