“Even lowlifes need defense. It’s part of being American,” his father had once told him. Ambulance Chaser Al was what they called his dad. He died when one of his own defendants shot him to death outside the courtroom.
Sammy did indeed defend lowlifes. Rich and famous lowlifes, though, who paid him a lot of money to try to reverse the mistakes they made when they thought nobody was watching.
Sammy stood by the window of his office and studied the McDonald’s Monopoly game he’d been playing. It was laid out neatly on a small table in front of him, all the game pieces he’d won in their proper places. He was not a gambling man. But there were no risks here—other than a fact that eating at the fast-food chain could indeed be an intestinal risk in and of itself—and occasionally it came with certain perks like free fries or a sundae.
“You’re late!” JoAnne called again from her desk around the corner. “Judge Greer hates your guts. Why do you egg him on by being late all the time?”
Sammy smiled. Because Judge Greer hates my guts, that’s why.
He walked out of his office without regard to JoAnne, who was apparently wanting some sort of thank-you for her persistence. Kellan Johannsen was his defendant today. Famous sports star, womanizer, rich kid who didn’t know what to do with all he had. For the right price, Sammy was supposed to wash the blood from his hands.
He was the antibacterial soap of the stars. Today he would march into the courtroom with a particular, practiced posture—the one that said, “You’re targeting him because he’s rich and famous.” Then he’d make the woman out to be some sort of high-priced prostitute. And then he’d lift Kellan high up the moral ladder and make everyone doubt their first instincts about the man.
In the elevator, he cleaned the grime underneath his fingernails. The tangible grime anyway.
By 8:30 a.m. Aaron had finished the last of the paperwork from yesterday. Normally Jarrod would do most of it, but Aaron wanted to make sure it was done right. Across from him, Jarrod was on the phone and taking notes.
His stomach grumbled. Jenny had come over early and brought him bagels on her way to work. He’d taken a couple of bites to satisfy her but thrown the rest away when she left.
The hot coffee seemed to be eating away at his stomach lining. Acid burned at his esophagus. He was about to get up for a glass of water when Jarrod hung up the phone.
“That was the airport police,” Jarrod said, handing him the paper. “This is the name of the passenger that went nuts Tuesday.”
Aaron took the paper. Timothy R. Marcus. From Grapevine.
“Said they released him a couple of hours after the incident. Guess the guy was drunk.”
“Any charges?”
“They’re not sure yet. He didn’t do too much except yell. Bad mannered and impatient.”
“Do we know what his business was in LA?”
“Job interview. Dinner with some bigwig that was going to make him a millionaire. Left on a flight the next afternoon.”
Aaron said, “Okay, let me fill his address out here, and then you can take this information over to Lieutenant Crawford.”
Jarrod groaned. “Do I have to?”
“Just set it on his desk. It doesn’t have to be a big deal.”
“The guy creeps me out. Always humming that stupid song.”
“Keep your voice down,” Aaron said, shooting him a look. “Just roll with him. Stay out of his way.”
“If everyone hates him so much, why is he still here?” Jarrod asked.
“He’s good at what he does.”
“Is it true he marks stuff with his blood?”
“It’s probably a crazy rumor.”
“You don’t seem to have a problem with him like everyone else does.”
Aaron looked up at Jarrod’s expectant eyes. The kid probably wouldn’t understand why. “Look, the problem with this place is ego. Everyone wants to be in charge; everyone wants to one-up the next guy. That sort of thing doesn’t bother me. I figure when it’s my time to shine, God will let me know.”
Jarrod was grinning with half his mouth. “What does that mean?”
Aaron shook his head. “It means that I don’t always have to be number one.” By the perplexed look on Jarrod’s face, he knew there was no comprehension.
“Aaron.”
Aaron turned around to his name being called. Standing in the doorway of his office was Captain Bellows. Aaron stood. “Yes, sir?”
“Need to see you for a second.” The captain disappeared into his own office. Inside, he asked Aaron to shut the door. “Thanks for coming in, Aaron.”
“Sure.” Aaron sat down. “Let me guess. You want me to stay out of the way.”
Fred Bellows’s deep-set eyes reflected an equal measure of compassion and staunchness. Tall and husky, Bellows was as good a boss as anybody could ask for, but he was always driven by ambitions that on occasion contradicted each other. He said he’d retire next year, but he’d been saying that for eight years.
After a mild heart attack last year, Bellows had finally taken Aaron up on his many invitations to visit his church. He and his wife, Gladys, had come three times.
“It’s my Catholic upbringing,” he’d told Aaron as an excuse for why he couldn’t return to the “protestant” church.
Aaron pointed out a great Catholic church three miles from the captain’s house. And that was the end of it.
Fred folded his fingers and rested his hands on his small potbelly. “Chief thought it best.”
Chief Sandy Howard, formally from Detroit, was a Navy Seal back in the ’70s and ran the department like a drill sergeant from one of his academy days. But Aaron respected him.
“I understand. It’ll be cleared up soon. Mick, I mean.”
Fred’s thick lips pursed in thought. “Doesn’t have an alibi.”
“I know.” Aaron fiddled with the metal on his belt. “They’re certain it is a kidnapping?”
“Evidence looks that way.”
“Mick didn’t do this,” Aaron said. “I want you to know that. I don’t know what Crawford and his team are going to do here, but I’m telling you Mick is not the person responsible if this woman was indeed kidnapped.”
“I know this is tough,” Fred said, staring at his desk. He looked up at Aaron. “It’s a criminal investigation now. So I just want you to be aware of that.”
“Are they going to arrest Mick?”
“Can’t say.”
“Or won’t say?”
Fred sighed and leaned forward on his desk. “Aaron, just make sure that Mick doesn’t do anything stupid. That’s the only control you have in this situation. He could make things a whole lot worse for himself. You and I both know that. Tell that kid to sit and do nothing.”
Aaron bit his lip. He knew one thing for sure. He had no control over Mick and never had. If Mick did something foolish, things would get risky for him very quickly. As if they weren’t risky enough already.
“Since Homicide will be handling this, your duties will resume as normal. How’s Jarrod working out for you, by the way?” Fred smiled, trying to shift the conversation to small talk.
Aaron obliged. “He’s okay. Has a lot of impressions of the world that will quickly be skewed.”
“Well, he’s got a good man to teach him. This is a tough life, ain’t it?”
Aaron nodded and stood. “Anything else, Captain?”
“No. I’ll keep you updated as I can.”
But Aaron saw in his eyes that any information he was going to get would be after decisions had already been made. Aaron felt his stomach churn but managed a courteous smile.
Down the hall, he noticed a group of officers gathered in front of the television.
Jarrod looked around as Aaron approached. “It’s breaking news this morning,” Jarrod said.
The officers, eyes averting, parted so Aaron could see the TV, just as a boxed picture of Mick coaching football came up next to the news anchor’s face.
“They’
re calling him a person of interest,” the coifed woman said into the camera.
Mick’s sleep had been fitful at best. He woke unusually early, tangled in his covers, and knocked over a glass on his bedside table. When he finally managed to get out of bed, he went to the bathroom and splashed cold water on his face three times before one eye would pry open. He ran a toothbrush over his teeth and gargled with mouthwash before going to the kitchen, hoping to find at least a couple of eggs. The clock read 10:12 a.m.
A knock at the front door chased the grogginess away.
Mick made his way to the door. “Who is it?”
“Aaron. Let me in.”
“Go away!”
“Mick, let me in. Now.”
Mick cracked open the door. Aaron was in uniform. Mick had always thought he looked good in it. As if he needed anything else stoic about him. “Is this official police business?”
Aaron shoved past him and into the house, looking around before turning back to him. “No. I’m officially off the case. And it’s officially a homicide investigation, if you didn’t know that already.”
“So what’s going on? Are they coming to arrest me this morning? Should I change into something else?” Mick pointed to his pajama bottoms.
Aaron followed Mick into the kitchen, where Mick poured a glass of milk without sniffing the container first. One sip and he spit it into the sink, dumping the rest down the drain.
“I hope you know this isn’t a joke.”
“Do I look like I’m joking?”
“I just want to talk, Mick. I want to get as much information from you as I can.”
“You’re not on the case. What does it matter?”
“Because I’m on the police force still, and the more I know, the more I can help you.”
Mick leaned against the cabinets and studied his brother, aware that his own defensiveness tended to blind him to his brother’s intentions. Aaron’s normally intense eyes did seem less so. The disapproving look that often crossed Aaron’s expression was replaced by concern.
“You need to get a lawyer,” Aaron said.
Mick tried not to flinch.
“I don’t know if they’re going to make an arrest, but you need to be prepared if they do.”
“I’m not getting a lawyer. It’ll only make me look guilty. You already think I’m guilty.”
Aaron wiped his face with his hand, and his countenance changed nearly immediately. He stepped closer to Mick. “Guilt has nothing to do with it. You need someone on your side who knows the system and how it works. I’ve told everybody I know that you didn’t do this.”
Mick looked away. “What’s this? Is she dead? Have they found anything indicating she’s been murdered?”
“No. But she apparently tried to dial 911.”
Mick left the kitchen to pace the living-room floor. “That’s insane. I was there. Passed out. But there. I mean, wouldn’t I know if something bad had happened? This doesn’t make sense.”
“You don’t remember anything?”
“Bits and pieces of conversation. I think she tried to wake me up at one point.” Mick fell into the cushions of his run-down couch. Aaron joined him. “This’ll teach me, eh?”
“What?”
“Not to go home with women. Not to drink. Not to go to bars. See what can happen? You can be charged with murder.”
Aaron stared at him and then looked away. “I’m not going to lecture you.”
“At least I had enough sense to not drive home drunk. That’s what got me in trouble in the first place.”
“So you had her drive you.”
“We’d been having a pretty good conversation as I recall.”
“About?”
Mick’s head throbbed. He needed food. “Things that don’t go right in your life.”
“What kind of woman was she? By all accounts, she’s a responsible citizen.”
“Responsible citizens do frequent bars, you know.”
“Mick, drop the defensiveness. You’re twisting my words.”
Mick sighed. “Fine. She was great. I mean, we just sat and talked. There was this . . . I don’t know . . . this sadness to her.”
“Sadness?”
“Yeah, I noticed it right away. But she didn’t talk about anything specific. Just generalizations, really. Who knows? Maybe her sister ran off with the man of her dreams.”
Aaron hung his head like that was the last thing he wanted to talk about, and Mick wished he hadn’t said it. It was the last thing he wanted to talk about too. Even the mention of it caused walls to rise.
“Jenny told me you came to see her yesterday at the school.”
Mick stood, wanting so badly to leave the room, to leave this mess completely. Was he the biggest fool around? Did he really think he could go over and talk Jenny out of marrying Aaron? Was he losing his mind? or at least his self-control? But maybe it was because he’d never felt like he had with anybody but Jenny. It caused him to swallow his pride and beg. The thought of it made him squeeze his eyes shut, trying to black out the image.
He needed to shift the topic—and fast. “Were you here yesterday?”
“What do you mean?”
“Rummaging around my house?”
“What in the world are you talking about?”
“Were you?”
“No!” Aaron said.
“Where were you?” Mick asked. Aaron wasn’t getting out of it that easily. Besides, if it was Aaron it would make that strange, creepy feeling he’d had all night go away. Surely it was just Aaron butting into his business, which wasn’t anything new.
“You want to know where I was last night?”
“Yeah, I do.”
“I was at church.”
“They have church on Thursday nights? Don’t you religious people ever take a break?”
“I was there praying for you, Mick. Praying for this situation. Jenny was there too.”
An inexplicable anger seized Mick and he turned from Aaron, clenching his fists. Great, Saint Aaron at it again. That sort of thing was the reason Jenny fell for him in the first place. He clutched his chest, sure his heart was about to beat straight out of his chest cavity. How many times he’d heard Aaron say, I’m praying for you. It made him want to puke.
After a moment Aaron said, “I prayed that God would reveal the truth. God knows what happened last night. He’s our best chance at finding the truth. Doesn’t that comfort you in the least?”
“What? That you’re praying for me?” Mick asked, turning to him.
“No. That God knows the truth.”
Mick stared at Aaron. For most of his life, that was not a comforting thought. It meant God knew everything about him, all his dirty deeds, all his wicked motivations. But now, oddly, it did bring a little surge of hope. Even if he couldn’t remember what happened last night, God knew.
“Why did you think I was here last night?” Aaron asked him.
Mick blinked, trying to decide what he should tell Aaron. “No reason.”
“I don’t believe that.” Aaron glanced around the room. “Were you being tailed?”
“Tailed?”
“Yeah. I thought the detectives might want to keep an eye on you.”
“Not that I’m aware of,” Mick said, resisting the urge to look out the front window. “Just seemed like someone had been here last night.”
“Really?”
“I don’t know.” Mick returned to the kitchen for some water. “Some things were out of place. The front door was unlocked.”
“Possibility you could’ve left it unlocked?”
“Sure. Whatever. I’m probably just imagining it.” Mick stared at the picture album he knew had been looked through.
Aaron didn’t seem to have anything else to say. Mick couldn’t read whether he was sympathetic or skeptical.
Aaron then pulled out a card from his pocket and handed to him. “Here.”
“What’s this?”
“Guy’s name is Bill Ca
ssavo. He’s an attorney who goes to our church. I know him and can personally vouch for him.”
“I’m not getting an attorney.” Mick threw the card on the coffee table.
“Fine,” Aaron growled. “Do what you want. You always have.” He headed to the door just as Mick’s phone rang. Aaron said, “By the way, the news broke the story this morning. Had a picture of you, said you were a person of interest. You might want to call Mom and Dad before they get wind of it.”
After the fourth ring, Mick’s answering machine picked up. He wished Aaron would go, but he stood there while Mick’s greeting rolled through. After the beep, he heard, “Mick. Owen Gruber. You’re officially on leave while this . . . thing . . . gets sorted out. Coach wants to talk to you as soon as you can get in, and so do I. I don’t know what’s going on, but you have a lot of explaining to do. I’m assuming you’ll get this message, and they haven’t taken you to jail yet.”
Aaron walked out, shutting the door firmly.
Five seconds later the answering machine flew across the room.
Mick really didn’t care if Owen Gruber thought he was the equivalent of pig slop, but to see the look in Coach Rynde’s eyes made him ill. Gary Rynde was the golden scepter of high school football. He motivated players, made everyone feel important, and took kids who would normally end up in trouble and turned them into people everyone wanted to be around.
Mick supposed Gary also saw him as a project who could use some motivation now and then. On more than one occasion, Gary had talked with Mick about his drinking and the problem it could turn into someday. He’d also lectured him on his immense coaching talent, but said that his lack of focus and his undisciplined nature lent themselves toward unsuccessfulness.
Mick knew all this. But something kept him from changing. It seemed even a motivational speech from the great Gary Rynde couldn’t muster up self-conviction that would stay any longer than a week.
Mick slumped in the chair in Rynde’s office, staring at the carpet, wondering how many minutes or hours it would be before his life would officially be over. Of course, according to Aaron, it was over every day he walked without God. He was not about to concur that Aaron Kline had all the answers in the world. Surely Mick could find some answers himself.