Indefensible (29 page)

“I know.”

“So what do you want?”

“Attention. And I want to keep reminding them. And I want to know if there are any Jane Does of about the right age but too decomposed to ID. Anything.”

He's talked himself through the emotional quicksand, and now he's sitting as straight as his backbone allows. “I'm a realist,” he says. “I don't expect much.”

“The dicks. Who are they?”

He hands me two business cards from his billfold. I don't know the guys. They're city cops with the JCPTF: Joint Child Protection Task Force. I write down the names and promise to make some calls. “But let me be clear,” I say. “I'm just finding out where it stands. I'm not working this. Absolute best you can hope is that my inquiries light a fire under them. More likely, they'll tell me it's over 'cause they could never develop a lead. Agreed?”

“It's something.”

“What's her name?”

“Brittany. Brittany Tesoro.”

Tesoro. I recognize the name from the list of kids who've gone missing from Rivertown. “I'll read case notes, talk to the detectives,” I say, “but that's all.”

He nods. We shake. I give him the necessary information to get him started in the right direction, then I hand over the money he asked for and I leave, pushing my way out through the tangle of sweaty drinkers. I wish Platypus had left first. I might have stayed, ordered a beer, let the earthy smells and sounds carry me along, seeing if I could catch the current for a second or two at a time, shedding the moment-by-moment stocktaking of life, and just, for those dreamlike intervals in the beer and smoke and sweat and roar of voices—accented voices, voices in other languages or jargons—for just those moments maybe I could forget about being a murder suspect. Maybe I could forget to think about living life and just live it.

I
've done something terrible.

I killed someone, though the details of who, why, and where are lost in the vaporous otherworld of dreams. I would like to be rid of this crime, but the knowledge of it and the certainty of my capture haunt me from dream to dream and through a dozen awakenings.

Now morning. I'm at the office early, catching up on busywork, and I read the weekly memo from Pleasant Holly, briefing us on cases and investigations over in the civil division. What catches my attention is her summary of litigation by veterans seeking compensation and services for Gulf War syndrome.

Scud was in the Gulf, and so was Seth Coen. In Seth's bathroom cabinet and on his bedside table were dozens of prescription vials. I thought he must be either a hypochondriac or dying of something, but we never followed up on it.

I call Dorsey and ask him to fax over the inventory from Seth Coen's apartment. I need to get to know Seth better. He was already dead when we met him, his only interest to us being through the connection to Scud. Then Scud was dropped from suspicion and got whacked in quick succession, making Seth a complete nonentity, investigation-wise. But I can't shake the idea that it's all connected. With this Gulf War syndrome stuff, he has become interesting in a noncriminal way.

While I wait for a fax, I look through the files on the Phippin/Randall/Illman murders. We don't have a separate file on Seth because, unlike the other three, he wasn't an actual or potential federal witness, so his murder isn't being investigated as a federal crime. Still, I expect to find some background info: probation records, police records, prison records. But there's nothing. Upton must have it all
from before I took over the case. For two seconds, I think about devious ways to get these records, but I screw on my courage and walk the ten yards of carpet to Upton's office, doing my best to look like the aggressive and confident administrator I am not.

“Hi, Upton.”

“Hi, boss.”

“I'm wondering if you have any more materials from the series of murders.”

“What murders?”

“Phippin, Randall, Illman, Coen.”

“Oh, those murders. Box on the floor there, it says Phippin, but I tossed in a lot of that other stuff.”

I pick up the box and start for the door. I stop. “How 'bout coffee?”

•  •  •

I've always liked Upton's face. I wouldn't call him good-looking by any stretch, but he's got an inviting comfortableness, like a favorite slipper. Knobby chin and broken nose and age-softened ruggedness. “How are the girls?” I ask, avoiding using their names—Cicely and Hilary—because one of them always comes out as Celery.

“The girls,” Upton says wearily, “are worshippers at the altar of consumerism. How's Lizzy?”

“Good. She's good.”

“Good.” He takes a noisy sip of coffee.

I take a noisy sip of coffee. “Whatcha working on?”

“The usual. Responding to a pile of suppression motions in the RICO case. They're all bogus.”

“Yeah. They're
all
bogus.”

“Ain't it the truth.”

“Ain't it.”

It's true. When a court suppresses evidence, it almost always amounts to guilty people getting away with something. We spend a moment with that irritating thought: how guilty people feel entitled to their acquittals. I feel comforted by how well we understand each other.

“What's your interest?” Upton says, indicating the box I came to get. The question might be innocent, because with no suspects at the moment and the case gone cold, it's in the hands of the Bureau and troopers. We're out of it.

“Tying up loose ends,” I say.

He nods. Neither of us hint at the intricacy of the interaction. He and I may both be unofficial suspects in Scud's murder. Upton alone knows whether he's guilty, and only I know whether I am. He doesn't know I suspect him, and while he might know I'm a suspect, he doesn't know that I know it. And since there are several crimes in play, we could both be guilty of something.

Except that I'm not.

And what a waste it will be if Upton is dirty. He always likes to talk about striving to improve our Urban Utopia. Upton's Urban Utopia. I never thought of this before: U
³
. I could have had one of those oval Euro stickers made for the bumper of his car, or written it on a congratulatory cake to celebrate a big courtroom victory: “U
³
”

“So what's the status with Tina?” he asks with a sideways twist of his lips that indicates, in this instance, the delving into of matters romantic. “Have you closed the sale?”

Another time I would welcome this. I might say,
I like her, but I keep backing off. Don't know why,
and Upton would nod compassionately, and whether or not any more got said, I'd feel better. Not now. Now I just laugh, ignoring the question. I should leave. Kendall Vance would tell me to get the hell out of here. Upton takes our coffee cups out for refills.

“So. The circuit bench,” he says when he comes back in.

“Go figure.”

“Sounds like you have a shot. The word I hear, everyone else on the short list brings baggage.”

“Yeah, but. So much baggage, why are they on the list to begin with?”

“Résumés. It's a trade-off.”

“Whatever. I'm trying not to get too invested.”

“If I were the president . . .” he says, and this is followed by
more coffee drinking. It's a nice thing to say, a vote of confidence from a respected colleague, and it makes me want to believe in his innocence.

“What about you?” I ask, flicking my head sideways in the direction of my office. I'm asking if he hopes to replace me as head of the division if I get the judgeship.

“That'd be great.”

“Have you spoken to TMU?”

“Indirectly.”

“And?”

“Won't commit.”

“I'll put in a word,” I say.

He nods gratefully.

I won't ever put in a word. It's all over. This brittle state will shatter. Accusations will be made against Upton or me or both of us—there are plenty of crimes to go around—and the world we've known will end. I look at his face; even when he isn't smiling, you can see the afterimage in pleats of skin around his eyes and mouth. So many times over the years, we've sat here like this, lesser gods, putting people in jail, letting them out, being the government. We were arrogant and charitable and earnest and fierce and strict and lenient. Maybe we should have moved on by now—either of us could have walked into the white-shoe firms in an instant, doubling, tripling, quadrupling our salaries. But we liked it here; we liked the camaraderie, power, public service. Why move?

Now though, I realize I've stayed too long. We've both stayed too long, and all our years in ostensible public service resolve into a simple failure of ambition.

My résumé
is
light. This is all I've done, and it's almost over.

J
anice buzzes. “Nick, Special Agent d'Villafranca has been calling and calling. He says you aren't getting back to him.

“Oh, sorry, Janice. I'll call him now.”

I have no intention of calling Chip. His urgency to reach me, no doubt, is because he wants to confront me about Scud's death. The minute it's out in the open, my wings will be clipped: I'll be ordered to have nothing more to do with the case. I'll probably be put on suspension, and that'll be that. Because the moment enforcement identifies a prime suspect, the system becomes focused on convicting, and all my own investigations will look like nothing more than the actions of a desperate perp trying to blow smoke over the whole thing. It's better if I'm able to divert suspicion
before
the idea of me as a suspect is cemented into Chip's reality.

Janice buzzes again. “Nick, there's a fax for you.”

It's the inventory from Seth's apartment. I scan. The list of meds is daunting. The prescription vials all show the doctors' names. I could probably get an order for the release of medical records, but Gulf War syndrome is outside the official thrust of any investigation. So I take the list of meds to the law library, where Kenny is busy reshelving books.

“Where you been?” he asks, focusing his affectionate, chip-toothed grin at me.

“Just busy. Tons going on.”

“Don't I know about that.”

“Come over for a movie tonight?”

He pretends to yawn.

“I know, I know,” I say, “my movies are boring. I'll let you pick the flick.”

“Serious?”

“Sure,” I say. I hope he'll come. I feel a wave of love for Kenny, my occasional foster son, as this idea of sitting home with him, downing a few cold ones, and watching a stupid movie momentarily calms my anxiety over this business of being suspected in Scud's murder.

“ 'Cept I can't,” he says. “Me and Amber's having dinner at her mom's.”

“Amber, the one from the pet store? Serious stuff, meeting the parents.”

“Just her mom.”

“Well, some night we'll chill with a movie. Your pick.”

“How's Lizzy?”

“Good.”

“Haven't seen her since, like, two weeks. How's Flo? I'm still waiting for my friend with the backhoe to move them rocks.”

“Rocks?”

“The patio. Remember?”

“Oh, sure. Listen, I need you to do this. I got a list of pills. Prescriptions. Go get the
PDR
and look up each one. Write it all down. Ignore the technical stuff. Just what it treats.”

“Is next week okay?”

“Today, Kenny.”

“I don't know, I got all this work from civil, and—”

“Kenny, you're reshelving books, for cripe's sake. Get Penny to help if you need it. Do it now.”

“Do it now,” he says in falsetto. I take a fake swing at him, he takes a fake swing at me. I have the urge to lock him in a bear hug, this surrogate son, so committed to his life of underachievement.

•  •  •

Back in my office. I sit and rearrange things on the desk. I try the pencil holder on the left side instead of the right. It's a clumpy, ugly ceramic mug Lizzy made in second grade.
I LOV YOU DADDY
is etched into the bottom.

I file some stray papers. I sip cold coffee. The inventory is in the
middle of my desk, and though I'm interested only in the meds, I scan the rest of it. What strikes me is how spare a legacy it is for a man of almost forty. I flip through to see if he owned books. He did: “Twelve books of various subject matter,” the list says, no more.

The only thing I know about Seth Coen that makes him interesting is the wild game and fish packed along with his body parts in the freezer. I look at the inventory with this in mind, and I start seeing evidence of his outdoors interest. There is miscellaneous outdoor clothing, a sleeping bag, a camp stove, fishing poles and lures, a tent. He comes a bit more into focus. He was a city rat with country-boy longings. Noticeably absent from the inventory are guns of any kind. How do you hunt deer without a rifle? But since he was a convicted felon, it would be illegal for him to possess a firearm, so was he playing by the rules, or did he keep his guns someplace else?

I wonder if, while he was in prison, the idea of the great outdoors was a comfort or a torment to him. I take a blank file folder and label it
COEN, SETH: INVENTORY
. I put the inventory inside, but I see something just as I close it. First page, halfway down, it says: “Keys found in apartment, application unknown.” On the list of half a dozen keys of unknown usage, this: “Yamaha.” Whoever typed the inventory appropriately capitalized the proper noun, which is why I noticed it. Yamaha. But there is no other mention of anything having to do with a motorcycle. I flip to the list of miscellaneous documents, looking for an owner's manual or registration. Nothing. I go to the clothing heading, looking for a helmet or leathers. Nothing. He might have gotten rid of the bike long ago and never thrown out the extra key, but my interest is piqued, so I call Dorsey and leave a message asking if the troopers are aware of Seth Coen having had a motorcycle. Then I file the Coen inventory in the box of miscellaneous documents and try to think of something else to keep my mind off the problem of being a murder suspect.