Robert B. Parker's Blackjack (18 page)

I
walked with Daphne as she spun the white silk parasol above her head, keeping the hot afternoon sun off her face. We strolled on for a long time without talking. Then she laced her arm around mine and we walked a while longer without talking.

“She’s something else,” Daphne said.

“Allie?”

“Yes.”

“That’s one way to put it.”

“She likes you, you know?” Daphne said.

“What’s not to like?”

“No, I mean she likes you.”

“She likes you, too,” I said.

“No,” Daphne said. “I’m a woman, I know.”

I laughed.

“No,” I said.

I looked to her as we walked. She looked to me from under her parasol.

“You like her, too?” she said.

“Of course I like her.”

“Yes,” she said. “That is evident.”

“She’s my friend.”

We walked for a moment.

“Allie and I have a special friendship,” I said.

“I know . . .”

“No . . . not like that,” I said.

“How is it?”

“We have a certain kinship because we are both partners with Virgil.”

“You have known her a long time.”

“Long enough.”

“I can tell.”

“But she belongs to Virgil.”

“You say that like she is his possession.”

“She belongs to Virgil and Virgil belongs to her.”

Daphne shook her head a little.

“What?” I said.

“You don’t have to get defensive, Everett.”

“I’m not.”

“I like her, too,” she said.

“Good.”

“And she likes me.”

“She does,” I said.

“What’s not to like?” she said, then looked at me and offered a delayed smile.

“I have to agree,” I said.

“You don’t have to,” she said. “But I’m glad you do.”

“Pleasure is all mine,” I said.

“Not entirely,” she said. “But thank you for walking with me.”

“It’s quite difficult.”

She looked down as she walked. She kept looking down, then . . .

“Can I tell you something, Everett?”

“Sure.”

“It’s a confession of sorts.”

“I’m right here.”

“I’m very . . . concerned with what is happening with this trial . . .”

“I can understand.”

“Yes,” she said. “Well, not fully. I’m not sure you do understand, not completely, anyway.”

We walked a bit, and she waited until she spoke again.

“Before, when we talked,” she said, “I was not fully honest with you.”

“About?”

“Well, let me rephrase that, I was not dishonest, but I was not forthcoming.”

“Go ahead.”

“You know when you asked me previously if I were ever married?”

“So you have been?” I said.

“No,” she said, shaking her head. “That’s not it, and no, I have never been married.”

“Okay.”

“When I told you before that I was engaged, I left out that it was . . . Bill Black that I was engaged to.”

I stopped walking, and then she stopped and turned back to me, staring at me from under the silk of her parasol.

“Not that you owe me any details of your diary,” I said. “Or need any kind of explanation or accounting of your past, but under the circumstances, that’s, well . . . I’m not sure what that is.”

“I know,” she said. “That’s precisely why I felt I should confess this to you.”

“Glad you did.”

“It was a long time ago,” she said.

“And you changed your mind,” I said.

“Yes,” she said.

“Why?” I said.

“Because . . . he frightened me,” she said.

“How so?”

“Not by one particular action,” she said. “But there was something about him that was ultimately frightening.”

“Why did you warn him?”

“What?”

“You let him know,” I said. “He said it was you that told him he was being accused of the murder.”

“How did you know that?”

“Just part of his baring up . . .”

She nodded.

“I care for him,” she said.

“Obviously.”

“No,” she said, “not like that, not anymore.”

I didn’t say anything.

“How could I not?” she said.

“I don’t know,” I said. “And I’m not judging you for doing so.”

“In many ways he is like a little boy.”

“Far from little.”

“No, he is,” she said. “He’s a child, really.”

“Do you think he killed her?”

She thought for a brief moment, then shook her head.

“No,” she said.

T
he following day in the courtroom was a hot one. By ten in the morning it was sweltering. After Judge Callison got settled and the trial got under way, the prosecutor, Dickie Simmons, wasted no time. He called a man by the name of Lawrence LaCroix to the stand.

LaCroix was a medium-build fellow in his forties. He was fairly nice-looking, with a strong face and wide bright blue eyes. He was lean and muscular, and his skin was tanned from the sun. His clothes were British military, made of khaki, and he carried a straw hat in one hand and a flat object covered with a cloth in the other. After he took the stand and was sworn in, Dickie Simmons went after him like a thirsty dog.

“Mr. LaCroix, do you know that man over there?”

Dickie pointed to Boston Bill.

“I do not,” LaCroix said.

LaCroix was, in fact, a Brit, but his manner did not in any way give him the air of affluence. There was nothing smug or superior about him. In fact, he seemed completely pleasant and unassuming.

“Have you seen him before?”

“I have.”

“Where did you see him?”

“At the Bloom’s Inn near the South Platte River in Denver, Colorado.”

“Bullshit,” Black said as he rose from his chair until Juniper pulled him back into his seat.

Judge Callison banged his gavel and Juniper stood quickly before Callison said anything.

“Won’t happen again, Your Honor,” Juniper said, and then sat back and looked at Black, shaking his head.

“See that it doesn’t,” Callison said.

Black was red-faced and his eyes were steaming mad as he leaned in close to Juniper and mouthed
Bullshit
as he shook his head.
Bullshit.

Callison turned in his chair and looked behind him, then looked to the bailiff.

“What is that noise?” he said.

“Your Honor?”

“What?” Judge Callison said.

“I . . . I don’t hear anything, Your Honor.”

Callison turned back and looked out at the courtroom, staring blankly. He was very calm looking out as everyone remained looking at him, waiting for him to say something. Then Callison turned in his chair and looked out the window to his right. Everyone in the room followed his look, as if he were focused on something that we should see, but there was only the side of the adjoining building across the way. Callison remained looking, as if he were lost in thought. Whispering conversations could be heard, but Callison did not respond to them, he just kept looking toward the window.

“What in the hell is the ol’ boy up to?” Valentine said quietly to Virgil and me.

Virgil didn’t answer Valentine as he watched the judge.

“Your Honor?” Simmons said.

Callison tuned and looked to Simmons.

“Yes,” Callison said.

“May I proceed?” Simmons said.

Callison looked at him for a moment, then, as if he were back in the room after a brief journey beyond, he nodded.

“You may proceed, Mr. Simmons.”

There were murmurs in the room.

Callison rapped his gavel a bit.

“Quiet,” he said, then nodded to Simmons.

“Thank you, Your Honor,” Simmons said, then turned his attention to the stand.

“When did you see him?” Simmons said to LaCroix.

“I saw him there, at Bloom’s Inn a few times.”

Black shook his head dramatically from side to side and wanted desperately to get to his feet again, but Juniper kept him seated.

“Were you staying at the inn?” Simmons said.

“No,” he said.

“Why did you see him? Let me phrase that differently. How was it that you had seen him there at Bloom’s Inn on numerous occasions?”

“I’m a painter,” LaCroix said.

“You were there painting the Bloom’s Inn building?”

“No,” he said with a smile. “Well . . . yes, I was, in part, painting the building.”

“Objection, Your Honor,” Juniper said. “Let’s get to it . . . either he was painting the inn or he was not painting the inn. Obviously Mr. LaCroix has no clue.”

“Sit down, Mr. Jones,” Judge Callison said to Juniper with a stern expression on his face. Then he looked back to Dickie. “You may continue, Mr. Simmons.”

Dickie smiled, and for dramatic purposes he looked to the ground
and paced a bit before he spoke. Then he said, “Go on, Mr. LaCroix. Please explain for the court what you were doing there at Bloom’s Inn, where Mr. Black was residing.”

“As I said, I was painting . . . I paint landscapes.”

“You paint landscapes?”

“Objection,” Juniper said.

“Overruled,” the judge said. “Continue, Mr. Simmons, and Mr. Jones, let’s let him get on with this business here.”

The judge nodded to Dickie.

“Please,” Dickie said. “You were saying?”

LaCroix nodded.

“Bloom’s Inn,” LaCroix said, “was the subject of one of my paintings.”

“Your Honor,” Dickie said. “I would like to place into evidence the painting of which Mr. LaCroix is referencing here.”

“Objection,” Juniper said.

“Overruled,” Callison said.

Dickie turned back to LaCroix. “May I?”

“Oh, sure,” LaCroix said, and unwrapped the covering from a painting.

“Is this the painting?” Dickie said. “The painting of Bloom’s Inn, the residence of Bill Black?”

“Yes,” LaCroix said.

Dickie showed the painting to the jurors. He walked slowly by each one of the jurors, letting them have a good look at the painting. Then he presented it out to us in the courtroom. It was a side-angle-view painting of Bloom’s Inn with the South Platt River in the background. The sign in front of the Inn clearly spelled out
Bloom’s Inn.

“I call this painting
Bloom Where You Are Planted
,” LaCroix said proudly.

The courtroom reacted with laughter.

“Objection,” Juniper said. “The name of this painting has no significance, no credibility to—”

“Oh, on the contrary,” Dickie said, interrupting Juniper. “The very fact this painting says
Bloom’s Inn
, right here.” Dickie pointed to the sign in the painting. “Gives this painting credibility as to Mr. LaCroix’s whereabouts the evening Ruth Ann Messenger was brutally murdered by Bill Black.”

“Objection,” Juniper said. “Mr. Simmons is trying to lead the jury and the people of this court to believe this painting has bearing on the fate on my client’s future. Well, it has no credence in this case whatsoever. This painting could be any number of inns. And though I am not at all suggesting that, I will give Mr. LaCroix his due, but there is nothing substantial—”

“Overruled, Mr. Jones,” the judge said. “Continue, Mr. Simmons, but get to the point.”

Dickie smiled, then took his time as he homed in on Lawrence LaCroix.

“Tell the jurors and this court the last time you saw this man, Bill Black,” Dickie said, pointing over to Black without looking at him.

“Well, as you can see, the painting is an evening rendition and I painted this painting,
Bloom Where You Are Planted
,” he said, “over a number of evenings and . . . well, I set up my easel at the same spot every evening, and on this particular evening I saw Mr. Black . . .”

LaCroix stopped and looked to the judge.

“Go on,” Judge Callison said.

“I saw Bill Black dragging Ruth Ann Messenger down the path directly in front of me toward the South Platte River.”

T
hat’s a goddamn lie!”
Black shouted as he towered up out of his chair, knocking over the table in front of him.

Callison banged his gavel.

“A goddamn lie!”
Black said.

A boisterous eruption of gasps and shouts echoed loudly in the courtroom as Callison continued to bang his gavel over and over.

“Quiet,”
he said. “
Silence . . . Sit down, Mr. Black . . . Quiet. Sit down, Mr. Black!”

“It’s a goddamn lie,”
Black said as he pointed a rigid finger at Lawrence LaCroix and moved toward him.
“A goddamn lie!”

Chastain and Book were quick to get in front of Black. They got ahold of Black and moved him back away from the stand.

“A goddamn lie!”

“Mr. Jones,” Callison said. “Sit him down and shut him up. Right now!”

Juniper practically climbed aboard Black, trying to get him down in his chair with the help of Chastain and Book.

The noise in the courtroom was still at a loud level, and Callison banged and banged his gavel until everyone stopped clamoring.

“Enough,” Callison said.

Chastain and Book helped Juniper get Black back in his chair. Juniper nodded to Chastain and Book.

“Thank you,” he said. “We’ll be okay.”

Chastain and Book backed away and Juniper stood between Black and LaCroix, blocking Black’s view of LaCroix.

Valentine leaned in to Virgil and me.

“How about that?” he said in a whisper. “Damn sure didn’t see that one coming.”

“Nope,” I said. “Me, neither.”

“Don’t think ol’ Juniper saw that in his orbit, either,” Valentine said.

Juniper was in Black’s face, talking a blue streak to Black, trying to calm him. Black continued to try to get a look at LaCroix, but Juniper kept moving, stepping from side to side, blocking Black’s view. Finally Black looked down, like a little boy taking his medicine, but he was fuming.

By the time Callison got the room quieted, Juniper had Black settled, but Black was now beyond seething rage.

“He’s fit to be tied,” Valentine said with a hush.

Black had turned inward and it was obvious that his fury continued to mount. His neck was bulging, brimming above the collar of his shirt. The veins in his dark red face looked as if they would explode and he was close to foaming at the mouth. His eyes were bored in, locked solid, staring downward as if he were trying to burn a hole in the floor with his bloodshot, angry eyes.

“You may continue, Mr. Simmons.”

“And what did you do then, Mr. LaCroix?” Dickie said.

“Well, I was confused,” LaCroix said.

“How so?”

“I did not know what to do,” LaCroix said as he looked out to the courtroom, seeking some kind of kinship with everyone that was looking at him.

“Go on,” Dickie said.

“I just watched, I’m afraid,” LaCroix said. “At first I thought I should do something, but then I thought I should not. I should mind my own business. He, of course, is an intimidating man. I made some sort of judgment, some assumption that what I was witnessing was most likely a lovers’ quarrel, you see, and I should simply stay out of it.”

The crowd half agreed and half disagreed.

“So you did nothing?” Dickie said.

LaCroix shook his head.

“I . . . I did not, I’m mortified to admit. And now, now that we know the heinous outcome of this . . . I am frankly ashamed of myself.”

“No further questions at this time, Your Honor,” Dickie said.

“He’s going to leave it at that?” Valentine said under his breath. “Not ask what, if anything else, he witnessed?”

Callison nodded and looked to Juniper.

“Mr. Jones?”

“Dickie is smart,” I said. “He’s setting Juniper up, he’s making it where Juniper will be the one dropping the blade.”

Juniper looked to Black, who was still about to explode. Juniper whispered something to Black as he stared at the floor. Juniper whispered to him again, and Black’s eyes looked up at Juniper, then shifted to LaCroix. Juniper said something to Black and Black nodded slightly.

“Mr. Jones,” Callison said. “You may cross-examine, and if you do not wish to do so, say so.”

“I do, Your Honor,” Juniper said, and he got to his feet and moved away from Black.

“Juniper is smart, and he knows the trap Dickie has left for him,” I said. “How he gets around it is another story.”