‘I can’t tell you that.’
‘Come on, Moxie.’
‘You taking the case?’
‘I wouldn’t be here otherwise.’
Castin unlocked the topmost desk drawer, withdrew the padded envelope that Burnel had dropped off the previous morning, and handed it to Parker, along with a receipt book.
‘Sign there.’
Parker signed.
‘So,’ said Parker, ‘does Burnel have access to funds?’
‘Not much,’ said Castin. ‘I’ve had power of attorney over his accounts since he was inside. Most of his money’s gone. Aside from what’s in that envelope, there’s just a couple of hundred left.’
‘Can you check to see if he made a withdrawal either yesterday or today?’
Castin accessed the account online.
‘It’s still there.’
‘Who runs without money?’ asked Parker.
‘Nobody.’
‘You defended him. Did you think he did it?’
‘The porn thing? I didn’t ask. It was none of my business.’
‘But he denied it.’
‘Yes.’
‘And did you believe him?’
‘He wouldn’t cop a plea. That’s unusual. We had some traction because of what he’d done – you know, the shooting thing. I tried to convince him that it might be in his best interests to take a deal, but he sat tight.’
‘So?’
‘That doesn’t mean he didn’t do it. He’d seen enough movies to know that anything involving kids and sex was going to make him unpopular in Warren. He didn’t want to do any time at all. I don’t blame him. You could take the view that he gambled and lost.’
‘But if he was telling the truth?’
‘In the end, the truth doesn’t matter. What matters is what they can prove, and what I can prove or disprove in turn. If their proof is better than mine, then I lose, and my client loses. I lost, and so Burnel lost too.’
‘Even for a lawyer, you’re kind of cynical.’
‘Bleakly realistic. Privately, just sitting here and talking, Burnel seemed shocked at what had been found in his house, and it wasn’t just surprise at being caught. But if he didn’t acquire those images, then a person or persons conspired to make it look like he did. It’s not impossible, but the “Burnel is guilty” story was an easier sell.’
He took another gulp of soda.
‘Look, I probably did believe he was innocent, okay? The firm had represented him in the past – small stuff, all civil. I liked him. Still do.’
‘And you remained in contact with him while he was in Warren?’
‘That’s right. I don’t believe in abandoning clients. I help where I can. I arranged an apartment for him on release, and I managed to find him a job, too. He told me he was going to take it when last we spoke.’
‘Which was when?’
‘Yesterday morning.’
‘Did he say anything about the meeting with Attwood?’
‘Just that he would be heading to Washington Avenue in an hour or two. He didn’t sound like he had too much of a problem with going. It was early days for him. The frustration hadn’t set in yet.’
Parker heard a door open behind him as Castin’s secretary returned. She was in her late fifties, and looked like she’d have kicked Moxie in the nuts if he’d tried anything on her.
‘What was his wife like?’ asked Parker.
‘Hard. She stood by him at the start, and was present in court, but they weren’t close, and neither of them pretended that the marriage wasn’t heading for the rocks. It wasn’t a big surprise when she filed for divorce.’
‘Any idea where she is now?’
‘She left town. I think she was from somewhere in Virginia, or could be West Virginia, and she went back down there. No, wait: Ohio. She’s somewhere in Ohio. Sounds like a song title, doesn’t it? They’d been married for eight years when Burnel was convicted, and the judge ordered standard general support, which is half the term of the marriage, so she got four years of alimony, along with some traditional support for relocation. All that ended a few months ago. I can access the payment records for you, and find out the location of her bank.’
‘It would be a help.’
Castin tapped the can on his desk.
‘Maybe he’ll show up,’ he said. ‘Some of them panic after release. The transition is just too damn hard. They get drunk, they get high, head to Florida – whatever. I’ll make some calls, see if I can limit the damage.’
He drained the second can and sent it the way of the first, then picked up his spectacles and gestured at the envelope.
‘He told me that he didn’t want a contract drawn up. He said I was just to give you the money.’
‘I’ll keep a record of my hours, and return what I don’t earn.’
‘I have a feeling you’ll earn it all,’ he said, and he wasn’t trying to be smart. ‘I’d recommend signing a general agreement with this firm, though. You’ll get the protection of privilege, not that you’re the kind of man who wouldn’t be open and helpful with law enforcement if asked.’
He produced a document from a folder and made some amendments to it in pen before handing it to Parker, who glanced over it before signing.
‘I’ll put together a file of relevant material, and e-mail it to you,’ said Castin. ‘Hard copies, too, if you want them.’
‘Print everything, if you don’t mind. Call me when it’s ready, and I’ll come by and pick it up. Do you have a spare key to his apartment?’
Castin searched another drawer, found a bunch of keys, and removed one marked with blue tape.
‘Try not to disturb the neighbors.’
‘You own the apartment?’
‘I own the whole building.’
For a moment, Parker thought he should have become a lawyer. He could have learned to live with the shame if it enabled him to own apartment blocks.
‘One last thing,’ he said.
‘Yes?’
‘Did Burnel ever mention a man named Harpur Griffin?’
Castin’s face creased in pain.
‘He did. He said Griffin made life hard for him inside. I tried to help by making some calls, and I think things eased up for a while, but, you know …’
He began flicking through the Rolodex on his desk, already working on putting out the fires that threatened to burn his client’s bridges entirely. His hands paused in their work.
‘He didn’t run,’ he said.
‘No, I don’t think he did.’
Castin nodded.
‘He didn’t believe he was a hero. He said he just got scared and shot some guys.’
‘I can understand that.’
‘Yes,’ said Castin, ‘maybe you can.’
32
Parker drove over to Burnel’s building, and found the superintendent who had admitted Attwood and another probation officer to Burnel’s apartment that morning. Apparently Burnel wasn’t the only probationer living in the block, and the super knew the procedure when the probation officers came calling, which was why he hadn’t even bothered informing the management company that looked after the building on Castin’s behalf.
It didn’t take long for Parker to search the apartment, because it was small and Burnel hadn’t been out of prison long enough to accumulate many possessions. He called Castin from the bedroom to find out if Burnel had a storage unit, and if he’d removed much from it since his release. Castin confirmed that he had rented a unit for Burnel out by the Maine Mall, and had driven him there the day after his release. Burnel had only removed one suitcase filled with clothes, and not much else. Parker asked him to check with the storage company that the unit had not been visited since then, as he didn’t think the company would tell him if he asked, and he wasn’t in the mood for arguing with a functionary. Castin said he’d get his secretary to do it, and a few minutes later she called Parker back to tell him that the unit had not been accessed again. Parker thanked her, and s
tared for a time into Burnel’s small closet. It contained just a single suitcase, and enough shoes and clothing to fill it.
Bad, he thought. Very bad.
He then called Chris Attwood and explained that he was working for Moxie Castin, and had been engaged to establish the whereabouts of Jerome Burnel. If he found him, he said, he’d bring him back to Attwood, and it would be up to Castin to work something out on behalf of his client. In return, Parker asked Attwood if Burnel had seemed troubled during his initial dealings with his department. Attwood told him that he hadn’t been given a chance to get to know Burnel well enough to make a judgment, but his initial impression was of a man who was more sad than angry. He then informed Parker about the results of the polygraph examination, and his decision to order another.
‘Why?’ asked Parker.
‘To make sure I wasn’t wrong about him.’
‘In what way?’
‘I didn’t think he was sociopathic, but the first polygraph was clean enough to make me suspect he might be.’
‘Unless he was just telling the truth.’
‘That possibility had also crossed my mind,’ said Attwood, ‘but we’re still looking for him. Innocent or not, he’s under my supervision. Unless he’s being held under duress, or is lying in a hospital bed with memory loss, he’s in breach of his conditions of probation.’
‘You were at his apartment earlier, right?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Well, I’m there now. Burnel’s clothes are still in his closet, along with his suitcase. If he has any money, it’s only pocket change, and he has nowhere to go anyway.’
‘There’s always someplace to go, even if it’s only someplace else.’
‘You should go into the fortune cookie business.’
‘If you hear of an opening, let me know.’
Attwood hung up, leaving Parker in the silence of Burnel’s apartment. Three rooms, the largest of them smaller than Parker’s bathroom, and all smelling faintly of dust, cleaning products, and lost hope. Parker wouldn’t have blamed Burnel for running. He might have run himself, in the same situation, but he’d have planned far enough ahead to make sure that he packed a change of clothing.
The superintendent was waiting for him in the lobby.
‘Are you going to be coming back?’ he asked.
‘No.’
‘Is Burnel?’
‘Nobody’s coming back,’ said Parker.
‘Does Mr Castin know?’
Parker took in the empty lobby, the battered tables, the mismatched chairs.
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘Mr Castin knows.’
33
Parker called Angel from outside the apartment building.
‘Burnel’s gone,’ he said.
‘What are you going to do?’
‘Look for him.’
‘Any idea where?’
‘No, but I know who I’m going to ask first.’
Angel was silent as he thought about the problem.
‘Harpur Griffin?’
‘You read my mind.’
‘Can we come too?’
‘I’ll let you know when I think I’ve found him. I did get the feeling that you wanted to meet him.’
‘I want to hurt him.’
‘Maybe,’ said Parker. ‘Once you get to know him better.’
34
The Porterhouse stood on a block in South Portland that couldn’t have been further from gentrification if it was permanently on fire. Its exterior was entirely black, with some painted green shamrocks added to one wall in a nod to Irish authenticity, along with an attempt at a single sad leprechaun whose shillelagh had been replaced by a poor, if optimistic, impression of an erect penis. In reality the Porterhouse was Irish in the same way Caesars Palace in Vegas was Roman, although they had this much in common: both had staged a lot of fights.
The Porterhouse’s reputation for violence was so well known that it was referred to locally as the Slaughterhouse. Nobody had actually died there, not yet, possibly because someone took the trouble to drag the wounded to the nearest patch of waste ground and let them expire off the premises. It was the kind of bar where everybody knew your name, as long as your name was ‘Motherfucker’.
Parker summoned Angel and Louis to join him once he’d confirmed, through delicate questioning and a total outlay of fifty dollars in tongue-loosening money, that Harpur Griffin was at the bar. It had taken Parker twenty-four hours to track him down, which was too long for his liking, allowing for the size of the greater Portland area. Sometimes, though, people just didn’t want to be found.
Those who gave their custom to the Porterhouse didn’t care much for having their afternoon drinking disturbed for any reason. It was possible that Griffin might have been changed for the better by his time at Warren, and would welcome them with open arms, but everything Parker had learned about him suggested otherwise, not least the fact that he did his drinking in the Porterhouse.
‘You been in this place much?’ asked Angel, as they pulled up outside.
‘Yeah, I come here all the time. I was thinking of asking them to host Sam’s next birthday party.’
‘Really? First you might have to get them to scrub the cock from that leprechaun’s fist. He looks like he has a hell of a grip for a little man.’
‘I ought to warn you,’ Parker told Louis. ‘They won’t have seen anything like you before.’
‘You mean black, or gay?’
‘No, just clean.’
The interior of the Porterhouse wasn’t terrible. The windows could have been a little bigger, and the wood a little lighter, but it smelled no worse than most of the bars in town, and considerably better than some. The music was generic adult rock, but not so loud as to rattle a hangover, and a couple of the bottles outside the well indicated a familiarity with decent liquor, even if none appeared ever to have been opened. It was the clientele that brought the tone of the place down. If they weren’t the dregs of humanity, they were at least on nodding terms with them on this particular Saturday afternoon.
The woman seated on the stool nearest the door wore a white sweatshirt bearing the Stars and Stripes, and the slogan ‘These Colors Don’t Run’, which might have been more affecting if the colors hadn’t actually run, staining the sweatshirt a faint pink. Her hands were so weighed down with rings and bangles that it should have been a struggle for her to lift her glass to her mouth, but judging by the bleary eyes she turned on the new arrivals, she looked to Parker to be managing just fine. Her hair was streaked red and blond, as though an ice cream had melted on her head, and she bore a tattoo of a black rose on the left side of her neck. She looked past Parker and Angel to take in Louis, who watched a succession of feelings play out on her face – curiosity, mild lust, confusion, and irritation – until ingrained racism won the day and she turned away with an expression that suggested the Porterhouse’s already poor standard of clientele had just plummeted to new lows.
To the right of the door sat a pair of skinny twentysomething guys wearing oversize jeans, wife-beater shirts, and the kind of tribal arm tattoos that seemed to be obligatory for every knucklehead who didn’t belong to a real tribe. They were drinking PBR and keeping track of their progress by stacking the ring pulls. Unlike the woman, they barely glanced at the new arrivals. Parker reckoned that if the cops took them into the parking lot, then turned them upside down and shook them, pills would drop from their pockets like hailstones from a doper’s dream sky.
Farther back, the bar drifted into semi-darkness, although Parker could just about pick out in the murk a hand-lettered sign reading SMOKING AREA taped to a steel door in the far wall. True to form, the bartender had tattoos as well. The first read ‘Know Thyself’ and ran along his left forearm. The second, on the inside of his right arm, announced ‘I Will Fear No Evil’. He was in his forties, and heavy without running too much to fat. His eyes suggested that he had seen just about every kind of misfortune that a place like the Porterhouse could attract, but wou
ldn’t be surprised if he might be about to see some more.
‘Help you?’ he asked.
‘We’re looking for a man named Harpur Griffin. Someone said that he was here.’
One of the tribesmen at the table by the door lifted his head, but didn’t move. Louis, who wasn’t watching him, continued not watching him, except more closely than before.
‘Someone, huh?’
‘Yeah, someone,’ said Parker. ‘It might have been his mother. She’s worried about him. She thinks he’s not eating his greens.’
The bartender nodded.
‘Sounds like a nice lady. You a cop?’
‘Licensed investigator.’
‘These two?’
‘Concerned private citizens.’
‘Identification?’
Parker handed it over. The bartender spent a long time looking at it, long enough to let one of the two tribesmen, the one who had not reacted to Griffin’s name, pick up a pack of cigarettes from the table and start to drift toward the door at the back. He stopped in surprise when Louis, who had so far largely kept his back to him, shifted marginally in his direction and asked, ‘Where are you going?’
The tribesman held up his cigarettes.
‘Smoke, man.’
‘Sit the fuck down,’ said Louis.
The tribesman sat the fuck down. He exchanged a look with his pal, who shook his head. The bartender, who had taken all this in, returned Parker’s ID.
‘We done delaying?’ asked Parker.
‘Just being careful,’ said the bartender.
‘Great. Is Griffin outside?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Alone?’
‘No, he has two guys with him.’
‘You know them?’
The bartender shook his head. ‘From away.’
‘And these two?’ Parker jerked a thumb at the tribesmen.
‘Just trying to do a good deed. They didn’t mean no harm.’ The bartender extended his upper body across the bar, in the manner of a man about to share a great secret. ‘Listen, I don’t want any trouble.’
Parker leaned in as well.
‘Seriously, have you seen where you work?’ he said. ‘Somewhere back there, I bet there’s a mop sitting in a bucket of bloody water. If you didn’t want trouble, you should have found employment someplace safer, like Fallujah, or Kabul. Now we’re going outside to talk with Harpur Griffin. We’ll take three sodas, just so you don’t feel like we’re freeloading.’