Try Try Again (16 page)

She sighed and began to get up from the table, when a man
she’d never noticed before came up to her. “Maybe I can help,” he said quietly.
She sat down. He sat down.

He said nothing. After a few seconds, Liv smiled at him and
said, “What’s your name?”

“Eddie,” he said, “Eddie Vernon. Not that that means
anything.” He relaxed slightly, and said no more.

Well, Eddie,” said Liv trying to move the conversation
forward, “what did you want to tell me?”

“Ah – you know that Art guy?”

“Yes. He spent some time here with Charley Dukes.”

“Yeah. But look: I was in in here one night and Charley and
Art were in some heavy shit seemed like and Charley was looking real desperate,
very unhappy. And a man came in – just an ordinary guy but pretty well dressed,
went over to the bar and ordered something. He turned around and looked
surprised. I was sitting right over here, y’know.” (He motioned to another
table with his shoulder.) “That look on his face looked, real, y’know – not
pretend, like he was surprised seeing Art. He carried his drink over to the
table where Art and Charley had their heads together, and laid his hand on
Art’s shoulder, not mean-like, but not like great friends either, like… like…”

Liv put her hand on Eddie’s shoulder and gave it a squeeze.
“Like that?” she said. “Just friendly?”

“Yeah,” said Eddie. Liv returned her hand to her drink.
Eddie’s face turned just barely red.

“Yeah. Well, Art turned his head and looked up at him, and
this new guy said something I couldn’t make out, except he called Art,
‘George.’ And Art, he gave a big frown and shook his head and stood up and said
something in the new guy’s face and the new guy turned and left the club.” Eddie
paused. “And that was it. He called Art, ‘George.’”

“Maybe he thought Art was somebody else,” Liv offered.

“Didn’t look like that. It looked like Art knew him, warned
him off or something like that.”

“So – perhaps Art’s real name was George?”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

Anything more?”

“No, that’s it.”

“Well that’s very helpful, Eddie,” she said, reaching for
her purse and holding it tightly.

Eddie saw what Liv was doing, said “No no, no money. You
bought us all drinks, y’know. Besides it wouldn’t look right. My buddies
wouldn’t understand. Maybe they wouldn’t like me anymore. So no, thanks.” But
his eyes still lingered on her purse.

Sybille Haskin had been thinking about the trial, and
Charley Dukes, and Sebastian George. George could be trusted, she knew; but if
the FBI or the police found him, and connected him to Barnes’ murder, then who
knows what he would say to save his skin?

And Charley Dukes – that was the other weak link. But
Charley didn’t know about her, surely. George wouldn’t have told Charley
anything about her. But – accidents happen. What if Charley Dukes made some
deal with the authorities to connect them with George. And then George …

Well, this whole mess began because George didn’t kill
Charley after Barnes’ death. He was supposed to do that, if those security
types’ bullets had missed. Now, Charley Dukes was still alive and would
probably say anything to make a deal, reduced sentence perhaps. George had told
her that he “had something” on Dukes that would ensure his silence, but that
was too vague to be trusted.

No, Charley would have to go. And perhaps George later, if
necessary. And if Charley were killed, then George would be scared and hide.
Unless, that is, she asked George to have Charley killed. Trust would have been
restored, and she could take care of George at her convenience.

But there’s always that other worry: George would suspect
Haskin was working for Conning, as the person with the most to gain from
Barnes’ death. Not a certainty; but a suspicion, in the right hands, could be
deadly enough.

Sebastian George received a coded message from Sybille
Haskin, giving a date and time and a series of scrambled numbers that, when
unscrambled in an agreed sequence, were the latitude and longitude of the
Silver Diner restaurant in Merrifield, Virginia.

George was uneasy about this meeting. He hadn’t managed to
kill Charley, as he was supposed to. Charley knew nothing about George other
than what he looked like, George believed, and nothing at all about Haskin. But
Haskin didn’t know that. He knew she was as cautious as he was. If he were
Sybille Haskin, he’d arrange for the killing of Charley Dukes – and perhaps
Sebastian George as well. But George was a professional. A kind of immunity.
Perhaps.

Haskin ordered a salad. George had a cup of coffee. Haskin
made a few pointless remarks. George nodded his head. Then Haskin asked if
George had the right connections to get Charley Dukes killed without it looking
like a hit. George nodded his head. Haskin said fine, do it. She left the
remains of her salad.

George began to think of his contacts at Frackville State
Prison. Quite a few people, he realized. Some guards, some convicts, even a prison
official or two. Any of those would do.

On her drive home from the Stirrup, Liv tried to put off
thinking of the implications of what Eddie had told her, at least until she
reached the relative comfort of a now-dry I-83 and could relax a little. When
that happened, she turned her mind to the possibilities, ticked them off. Her
fingers raised and lowered on the steering wheel one by one.

Her count of possibilities was almost to thumb: One, she
muttered, Eddie Vernon had mis-identified Art and she’d learned nothing. Two,
George was a cover-name and the stranger hadn’t known that and now Liv had
learned – well, probably very little. Three, Art was a cover-name for George. Four,
both Art and George were cover names and the mysterious stranger was really
named Algernon or Billyjoe or John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt or something
else, or –

Ah - wait a minute. It occurred to her she hadn’t asked
Eddie the complicated question, the real question: if he thought Charley had
overheard Art’s being called George. She thought to turn around and go back,
but changed her mind. Let’s see how Charley will react to hearing the name
“George,” she thought.

She exited the interstate onto US-322 and was soon home.
Upon entering, she found she’d received a letter from Charley. She was very
tired and she’d be seeing him early tomorrow anyway, so the letter could wait.
She collapsed into bed and slept late again.

Meanwhile, Sebastian George had heard some disturbing news.
One of the Frackville prison guards he had cultivated (that is, both paid and
threatened) reported a woman lawyer had asked to visit Charley Dukes, and the
request had been granted. So Saunders hadn’t given up. What was new that she
might have found out?

And Charley had written a letter to his lawyer. It had been
cleared by the warden’s office, but the guard hadn’t been able to find out what
it said.

Word of Saunders’ visit would, sooner or later, get back to
Sybille Haskin, unless George did something about it very soon.

He made a few calls.

As she drove to Frackville, home of the eponymous prison,
she ran over in her mind exactly what she needed from Charley. They might limit
her visit to fifteen minutes, but probably she’d be allowed as much time as she
needed. It all depended on the warden and his fear of liberal groups who were
inclined to sue him for various constitutional infractions. It also depended on
whether or not the warden had called the Grantwood prosecutor’s office and been
told Liv was no longer on the case – or if Holmes & Epperly had notified
them already. In that case, Liv would just be an ordinary visitor without
attorney privileges.

She was annoyed at having wasted her time on a man who, even
though facing twenty years or more, had told her nothing. Why, she wondered,
with all his options gone, would he bother covering anything up? What hadn’t he
told her? What did those conspirators, if there were conspirators, have to hold
over him?

Anyway, her most important question would be about ‘George’,
the name that had been overheard at the Stirrup.

As Liv approached the prison, she could see something was
wrong. Sirens were sounding, the guard towers were crowded with so many guards
they could hardly move, and the line of cars waiting to get into the prison
complex stretched for a good quarter-mile. Most of the cars were being turned
around.

Liv, after that, didn’t think much of her chances to be
admitted to the prison grounds; but she was not only admitted, but given an
escort directly to the warden’s office. That, she thought, was not a good sign.

The warden’s office was in a controlled uproar, and she had
to wait twenty minutes in a small room until she was summoned to see him. She’d
met Warden Rollins before, and had a good impression of him. But then, she
thought, she wasn’t one of his prisoners.

 “Good morning, Ms. Saunders,” Rollins said, motioning her to
a chair and not getting up. “I don’t have much time for you because there’s a
problem here. Under control now, but we had a pretty grim couple hours.”

“What happened?”

“There was a disturbance at mealtime this morning, and three
prisoners were attacked. Knifed. You know how knives get in here, we do a sweep
every so often but they just come back, but anyway the reason I could see you
now – needed to see you – is that your client, Charley Dukes, was one of the
men attacked. And he was killed.”

Liv was still with shock. All her autonomic body functions
seemed to have stopped cold. For a moment, she could say nothing.

“We’re sorry about this, Ms. Saunders. We do try to keep
prisoners safe and almost all the time we do that, keep them safe I mean, but
every so often you know how it goes and they sneak knives in here, their
visitors do, even though they’re guarded, but what can we do with not enough
budget and not enough authority to run this place the way we should, as I
mentioned to Mr. Nielsen just the other day?”

Liv still couldn’t say anything. Rollins looked at her with
what seemed to be a measure of sympathy.

“Just one more thing, I hate to say but I do, have to say it
I mean, Dukes had no known relatives and so if you’ll consent to sign for his
personals, you should take them just in case of relatives later. Not much.”

He drew a breath, leaving Liv hanging as to what
not much
referred to.

“Not much in the way of personals, that is. I’ve looked them
over myself and there’s nothing that could tie in to any criminal connections
or threats. But I’d appreciate if you’d just sign for them please.” He handed Liv
a bulky envelope with a broken seal. Liv signed.

“Sorry I can’t help you longer, but our investigation, you
know.” He rose.

Liv stayed in her chair. “Who killed him?” she asked. “Why?
Were there any witnesses?”

Rollins waved his hand. “Too soon, still investigating.
We’ll report everything to the proper authorities and then as his legal
counsel, you’ll be entitled to see them. But not now. Please.”

He escorted her to the door of his office, motioned for a
guard to take their guest back to her car and make sure she made it safely out
the gate. The guard said, “Yes, sir,” and did as he was told.

Outside the prison gates, Liv pulled over at the first wide
spot in the road. She examined Charley’s personals. The warden had been right:
there was nothing useful there, a comb and a few coins, an old magazine or two.
Then she pulled Charley’s letter out of her purse. Should have read it last
night, she thought. Maybe he knew he’d be attacked and she could have done
something.

Liv felt wave after wave of guilt rush over her, until it
dawned on her that nothing in the letter would have raised any urgent alarms.
No threats, no danger. Charley seemed almost happy.

She read it again, more slowly this time
;

Ms. Saunders,

I wanted to tell you a lot more since in the trial some
things came up that were news to me and now make a lot of sense.

But first I want to thank you for all you did for me and I
knew you wasn’t going to get me off or anything so I’m not unhappy with you.

I have a daughter. Her name is Darlene Timmons, and she
lives in Roanoke. I don’t know exactly where she lives but sometimes I send
money after a job and she picks it up at the 7-11 on ninth street where a
friend works that’s how it goes. I wasn’t ever married and so Darlene never
made it on my record, and I haven’t seen her mother in twenty years.

But anyway, Art knew about Darlene and said he’d kill her
unless I did this job for him. He said he’d made all those plans so I could get
away and get hidden for a while so piece of cake and all that shit. And Darlene
has a son now too. I didn’t know that before but Art did.

But now since the trial I want you to promise me that you’ll
make sure Darlene is safe in witness protection or something so Art can’t get
to her. And now I want to turn Art in to you so here it is: I heard him called
“George” once, although that might not be any realer a name than “Art.” But
then when we was in a motel the night before the job, he was outside and I
poked around and found an envelope – not important what it was I even forget
now, but there was a full name and a Maryland address on it, and George was the
last name, not the first.

So that name could be another phony but it might help you,
or help the cops I mean, and especially the address.

If you can get Darlene away someplace safe and show me that’s
been done, then I’ll give you George’s first name and the complete Maryland address
on the envelope, and I’ll work with one of those police artists - I saw Arts
face too many times to forget it.

Hope you are having a nice day I am OK here too,

Charley

The next day, Liv dropped in to Brent’s office.

“Good morning,” said Brent. “Too bad Charley Dukes was
killed, but that’s prison life for you. Now maybe you won’t be coming to me
with any new information, I trust.”