Ill-Gotten Games
Ill-Gotten Games
By BV Lawson
Copyright 2012 by BV Lawson
Cover Copyright 2012 by Ginny Glass
and Untreed Reads Publishing
The author is hereby established as the sole holder of the copyright. Either the publisher (Untreed Reads) or author may enforce copyrights to the fullest extent.
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This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to the living or dead is entirely coincidental.
ILL-GOTTEN GAMES
By BV Lawson
Courthouses are nothing more than human ant colonies. From his vantage point across from the information desk, Drayco watched workers scurrying through tunnels into various chambers, going about the business of life and death as if what they did mattered in a world where justice was fleeting. Drayco couldn’t help but wonder if he were more of a soldier ant or scavenger ant, or just subject to gloomy metaphors. This case he’d taken on for Benny Baskin wasn’t helping matters, since working with Benny was like partnering with a tornado.
A couple of legal eaglets, twenty-something women walking nearby, stopped dead in the hallway and stared in a direction away from Drayco. One of the two said, “That’s him. That’s Baskin.”
The comma-shaped eyebrows on the other woman were raised so high, Drayco wouldn’t have been surprised if they’d jumped off her face. She replied in a thick accent more Bostonian than mid-Atlantic, “That’s the hardball defense attorney, the one who never loses a case?”
Her companion nodded. “What did you expect?”
“Not someone who looks like an elf. Or Yoda. Hardly the type to make that junior Sheinberg associate cry.”
With a strangled gasp, the two women averted their eyes to the file boxes in their arms, as the attorney in question headed their way. “You don’t think he heard us, do you?” the first one whispered, eyes darting back to the approaching elf.
The elf stopped in front of them, then waved to an area behind the girls where Scott Drayco had one foot propped against the wall and was trying not to laugh at the red-faced duo gaping at him like stunned mullets. Oh yeah, Drayco had heard everything.
Benny Baskin watched the girls run in the opposite direction. “What’s gotten into them? I’m pretty sure I put on deodorant this morning.”
Drayco moved away from the wall, his six-four frame towering over Baskin, who stood four-nine without his platform shoes. Drayco admitted Baskin’s shock of white hair and eye patch might fit the elf description. Or the Hobbit Bilbo Baggins, considering the two shared the initials BB.
“I think they’re new,” Drayco replied. “Probably getting their bearings.”
Baskin’s voice was deep for his diminutive stature, growling like a bull terrier. “Listen, Drayco. You got any new leads on Jalen Truitt yet? I’m dying in there.” Baskin jerked his head toward the courtroom. “The prosecutor thinks he’s got this murder case sewn up tighter than Joe Montana’s favorite football. I’ve got an innocent client sweating bricks while that mealy-mouthed Odom kid, who I’d bet my retirement is guilty as hell, is sitting there wondering how his stocks are doing or whether he should buy a red or a black BMW.”
Drayco frowned. “I thought the evidence against Manuel Parrack was circumstantial.”
“True, but even I have to admit the prosecutor’s made a good case. Goddamn the man.”
On cue, a silver-haired man in a brown pinstriped suit made a beeline toward them, the ever-present briefcase glued to his hand as if containing nuclear launch codes. The briefcase was a Budd Italian leather number, which must have set its owner back a grand. Prosecuting attorney Milton Taynter had never gotten over the fact his younger brother joined a private D.C. firm making three times what Taynter made. Drayco suspected it was a status briefcase, a symbolic
sine qua non.
Taynter’s famous Cheshire Cat grin never wavered except for bouts of a wheezy cough from years of smoking Tiparillos. “Greetings, dear Baskin. And I see you have your young attack pup Drayco with you today. Lovely morning, isn’t it?”
Baskin muttered under his breath, but loud enough for Drayco to hear, “It
was
.”
Taynter plowed right ahead. “I think we’re going to be able to end this case with closing arguments very soon, perhaps this very day. I noticed you delving into the bottom of your witness barrel.”
Baskin grimaced. “Innocent until proven guilty, Miltie.”
“Ah, but your client’s guilt is obvious. Knowledge from his job with Artserve Enterprises about the shipment of Egyptian figurines. In debt to his eyeballs. No alibi for time of the heist. And he had a gun matching the type used, which he conveniently lost. I’ve gotten convictions with less.”
“Don’t forget our friend, Mr. Reasonable Doubt, Taynter. I haven’t.”
Taynter hesitated a fraction of a second, then patted Baskin on the shoulder like a senile relative and headed into the courtroom. He added over his shoulder, “Yes, I think today’s the day, Baskin. I’ve even got plane tickets to San Diego this weekend. I’m looking forward to the sun, the sand and a relaxing massage by the pool.”
When he was out of sight, Baskin flipped his middle finger in Taynter’s direction, making Drayco laugh. “Cheer up, Benny. Parrack wasn’t the only person with shipment details. I doubt he’d risk leaving seven kids fatherless while he’s in jail. And the surviving guard didn’t get a description of the attacker. It’s all hearsay.”
Baskin crumpled up the coffee cup he’d been holding and tossed it into the trash against the wall, where it left a weeping brown stain. “That’s why I need Jalen Truitt, Drayco. He’s got to be the brawn behind Odom’s brains. We find him and the missing figurines along with him, and my client is cleared. Without him, we’re doomed. Haven’t you seen the vultures on the courthouse roof? They’re smelling carrion.”
“You think it’s that bad?”
“Hell, yes. I’ll never take a case as a favor for Cousin Kenny ever again. So what’ve you got? Tell me you’re earning your retainer.”
“Truitt’s in town. A friend of his was happy to tell me and a few Ben Franklins some of Truitt’s hangouts.” Well, it wasn’t an out and out lie. The friend happened to be one of Drayco’s informants, but he trusted Drayco not to interfere with his questionable businesses, and so far he’d never double-crossed Drayco in return.
Baskin looked at his watch. “Can you check those hangouts without tipping off the State Department? Between those annoying suits and the Egyptian government, my dance card is full of people stepping on my toes.”
“I’ve spied a suit or two following me but I can shake them. The good news is, my contact told me Truitt’s still in D.C. and may have stashed the figurines nearby.”
“Oh well that narrows things down. I hope Truitt isn’t thumbing his nose at police again. When he stole that Chagall painting, he hid it in plain sight in his poor unsuspecting cousin’s insurance company.”
When Baskin raised his wrist in front of his face for a third time to stare at it, Drayco rolled his eyes. “Taynter’s taunting aside, are you really running out of time?”
Baskin’s glare could slice a man in half at ten paces. “Damn straight I am. So why are you hanging around here? Go fetch. I will not let that smug bastard Odom walk out of here scot-free.”
“I’ll do what I can. I wish you’d called me in sooner.”
That alone should have been a warning sign since Baskin had an annoying habit of calling in Drayco at the last minute when his back was against a wall. It had only taken a day for Drayco to share Baskin’s frustration. Thaddeus Odom the Fourth was the quintessential spoiled rich kid, everything handed to him on a diamond platter. He had a hobby of collecting citations for being drunk and disorderly, which the D.C. government overlooked after his Daddy Morebucks threatened to pull funding from the new waterfront development. Then there was Odom’s unhealthy attitude toward women, several rapes rumored in his past. But Daddy Morebucks was a pro at cleaning up junior’s messes.
Drayco guessed Odom’s misogyny explained his obsession with collecting Egyptian Hathor figurines, the more naked the better. It wasn’t long after Odom cozied up to a Smithsonian curator and learned of a shipment of such figurines for an exhibit that the shipment was hijacked and a guard killed during the heist. Drayco was sure of Odom Junior’s involvement, but their efforts at linking him to the crime were thwarted at every corner.
It was Drayco’s turn to make note of the time as he glanced at the bland black-and-white clock on the wall. Time for the trial to resume. “I have no doubt, Benny, you’ll do your best without the usual big guns. And I find it hard to believe you’ve used up your ammunition.”
“What ammunition? Listen, Drayco, if you can’t dig up something fast, the fat lady might be warbling soon. I don’t suppose Brock could lend a hand?”
Drayco hesitated. “Dad’s wrapped up in his own international Gordian Knot right now. When he’s in that mode, he doesn’t tolerate interruptions. Even from me.”
Baskin thumped Drayco on the back, or more like the left kidney, due to the height difference. “S’all right. I have faith in you, boy-o.”
Drayco headed outside under another of D.C.’s leaden winter skies and folded his long frame onto the seat of his generic silver Camry, deciding which of Truitt’s hangouts to attack first. He was so deep in thought, the ringing of his cell phone almost made him shift into forward instead of reverse.
“Drayco,” he answered, with a sigh. Too early for Benny. And hopefully not Drayco’s accountant.
It wasn’t. “Ah, the good detective himself. I hear you’ve been looking for me, but I manage to stay one step ahead, don’t I? Must be discouraging.” The voice had a cat-that-ate-the-canary purr. “Tell you what, Drayco. Why don’t I give you a few hints? Fair is fair after all. I love a good hunt, don’t you? Oh, and you might want to take something to dig with.”
The man hung up without identifying himself or the promised hint, but Drayco knew the caller was surely Jalen Truitt, the voice matching a taped prison interview of his. Truitt was also fond of hunting, so that reference made sense. And then there was Truitt’s history of using puzzles to bait law enforcement.
So. Truitt knew Drayco was looking for him and the stolen figurines, which meant someone had tipped him off. Drayco hoped it wasn’t the same informant who’d given him the list of Truitt’s hideouts, or he’d be walking right into a trap. Truitt must be as cocky as Odom to pull a stunt like this. But why dangle the promise of a hint, then renege?
Or had he? Drayco checked the mailbox on the phone and noticed a brand-new message from a proxy server. The subject line read “Hint, Hint.” To Drayco’s annoyance, the message consisted of a single quatrain.
Niels is boring,
Time for exploring.
Is it an item you seek?
Think like a College Park geek.
Hardly Pulitzer-worthy. But it fit Truitt’s background, accepted to MIT as a physics grad student, before being drafted in Nam in 1970 and becoming a POW. Truitt must be referring to the Niels Bohr Library in College Park. Such a public place fit with Truitt’s MO of hiding the goods in plain sight.
Drayco wasn’t crazy about the idea of playing head games with a murderer, but since it was an invitation of sorts, he didn’t have a choice. He pointed the Camry toward Maryland and hoped I-295 wasn’t backed up.
Apparently the Supreme Universal Court was on Drayco’s side; he made it in twenty-two minutes. Now if he knew where to look on the huge elliptical campus for nine-inch-tall Egyptian figurines, he’d be in business. At least he assumed that’s what he was looking for—Truitt’s message was cryptic.
He studied his surroundings for observers. No security guards. He hadn’t expected to see Truitt himself, and even if he did, he might not recognize him—having avoided arrest for two decades, Truitt’s mug shots were old. He was also fond of disguises.
The leafless trees didn’t provide much of a break against the wind chill, and Drayco pulled up the collar of his jacket. He’d kill for a cup of Murky’s java right now. Minutes of tromping through the woods outside the Bohr Library made Drayco wonder if he’d been had. This could take hours and was a great way to waste his time.
He decided to head back when he spied a sheared tree trunk, which in a weird primitivist-meets-abstract way resembled one of the Hathor figurines. That would be far too obvious, wouldn’t it? At the base of the trunk lay a neat symmetrical hole, a foot deep and eight inches in diameter, the kind of hole made by a clamshell post hole digger. It was fresh—it had rained hard around six this morning, but there was no standing water.
