Winner Take All (36 page)

“Let’s get back to business here.” Marcus swung back to the affidavit’s first page. Controlling the tempo with all his might. “So there’s no knife. What about the limo driver. Is he listed here?”

“We’re on that.”

“And the limo number, you managed to note that, didn’t you?”

“You’re the one holding the affidavit. Have a look at page three.”

“I’m just trying to get the information about this case straight in my own mind. What you’re telling me is, you don’t have the murder weapon. You have no eyewitnesses to the incident itself. And for all you know the limo driver has immigrated to Kazakhstan.”

“You’re playing attorney for the defense with the wrong party. I got enough probable cause for a judge to issue the warrant. Far as I’m
concerned, we got our man. There was a fight, there was a killing. They happened in close proximity. We believe he’s responsible and the judge agrees. We straight on this? I’m asking on account of you being in my way.”

“Fine.” It was Marcus’ turn to check his watch. “The
local
judge should be about ready to begin our extradition hearing.”

Dark eyes burned him where he stood. “All this time, you been setting me up?”

Marcus let a little of his own rage show. “Absolutely.”

Marcus drove them to the courthouse in Dale’s Esplanade. The detective sat in the backseat with Dale beside him. Aureolietti slipped on mirror shades and practiced his sullen routine. Dale sat with cuffed hands in his lap, giving directions in a voice as bleak as his gaze.

The Wilmington courthouse fronted Water Street. Big blocks of granite formed a four-story bracket with a fountain in its middle. Half-cut pillars and tall sash windows were embedded into the building’s face. Deacon remained with the car as they made their way inside.

The judge’s third-floor offices were large and furnished with a woman’s taste for Southern plaids and warm colors. The office smelled vaguely of weekend cleansers and tobacco. Judge Perry was in the process of packing his pipe as they entered. “I’d ask if anybody minded my smoking, but I don’t care one way or the other.” He pointed at Dale. “Why is this man cuffed?”

“He’s under arrest, judge.”

“And you are?”

“Lieutenant John Aureolietti, NYPD.”

“Since when do New York detectives have license to operate in my jurisdiction?”

The detective looked ready to argue, then thought better of the issue and unlocked the manacles. Dale continued to bear the tragic expression of a man ready to gnaw off his own limb. His clothes were grass-stained, his knees caked, his forehead smudged. Marcus guided him into a seat by the side wall, then waited for the judge to point them into chairs opposite him. Judge Perry asked, “I assume you have a warrant?”

“Right here.”

The judge reached across his desk, unfolded the document, and took time lighting his pipe as he read. He asked Marcus, “You have seen this?”

“Only briefly, your honor. Standing on Mr. Steadman’s front lawn.”

He slid the papers across his desk. “All right, Lieutenant. Now perhaps you can explain why you intended to waltz in and out of here without so much as a by-your-leave to the local courts.”

Aureolietti shifted in his seat. “Look, the guy did her in.”

“Did he now.”

“Open and shut. Broad daylight, the perp assaults her verbally in front of two hundred wits, then kills her on the way out.” He shrugged. “What’s to figure?”

Marcus skimmed the papers a final time. Arrest warrants followed a standard two-part pattern. The first portion was a fill-in-the-box form—what type of warrant, what charge, who, address, and so forth. The second portion was the affidavit, which spelled out the probable cause. On most occasions, state-to-state extradition hearings were mere formalities, which was why some police officers failed to jump through the hoops. They were in a hurry, they had other cases piled on their desk, and the last thing they needed was to hang around just so another judge could sign on the dotted line. Generally a local judge required something serious to overturn what another judge had ruled as compelling evidence.

And this Marcus could not find.

Until it struck him.

He looked up to find Judge Perry watching him. “Mr. Glenwood, you have something to say?”

Marcus turned to the detective. “You’ve supplied us with a copy of the original document.”

“So?”

“So this photocopy doesn’t bear the clerk’s seal.”

The judge sat up straighter. “Let me see that.”

The detective looked pained. “What’s the problem here? We got a serious criminal who’s a flight risk. He’s already skipped the state where the crime took place.”

“Your honor, a document from another jurisdiction that is not under seal is not authenticated.”

“It was the weekend, the clerk of courts was off, and I was in a hurry,” the detective protested. “Whose side are we on here?”

“On the side of the law, sir.” Judge Perry eyed the detective over the brow of his horn-rimmed spectacles. “Let me see if I can give you a different take on this situation. You knew full well you didn’t have all your ducks in a row. So you figured on slipping down here before anybody had the first idea what was going on, grabbing your man, and handing us a fait accompli.”

“Come on, judge, give me a break here.”

“I am fully aware of the full faith and credit clause of our Constitution and the extradition laws between our states.” He used the wet end of his pipe to still the detective’s protest. “But this is a serious charge. Due process requires at the minimum that you have your paperwork in order. I am not going to allow you to drag this man’s reputation through the dirt by publicly hauling him up I-95. Not on this. When you and your friends in New York comply with the law, I will reconsider this matter.”

“So where does that leave me?”

The pipe swiveled over to aim at the door. “Unless you have some other matter to bring before this court, you are free to go.”

“What, this is your basic introduction to Southern-style justice?” The detective stalked to the door. “Or maybe I missed the family resemblance, a little backwoods connection. All you guys drawn from the same stink.”

Marcus realized Dale was not going to stand on his own, so went over to help the man. “Thank you very much, your honor.”

“Make no mistake, sir. I dislike this whole affair almost as much as I dislike you dragging me into it. But I despise being maltreated by a no ’count trash-talking big-city policeman.” He fished in his vest pocket and drew out a flat gold-plated lighter. “Who’s been handling this dispute so far?”

“Judge Rachel Sears.”

“I know her well. There’s the matter of a missing child, do I recall that correctly?”

Marcus could feel Dale flinch the entire length of his frame. “A baby girl. Abducted by the mother.”

“All right. Come Monday I’m going to remand this entire matter over to Judge Sears’ court.” He flicked the gas flame and puffed until the pipe was drawing clean. “If you truly want to show your appreciation for demolishing my weekend, sir, you will never darken my door again.”

D
ALE OFFERED TO DRIVE
them back to Rocky Mount, claiming it was the least he could do. Deacon and Marcus exchanged glances over the man’s bowed head, both of them hearing the hollow tone of one lost to all but his own wretchedness. Marcus excused himself and walked over to the bank of phones on the courthouse’s brick wall. He obtained the number for the
Raleigh News and Observer
and asked for Omar Dell’s voice mail.

To his surprise, the young man himself answered the phone. Marcus asked, “What’s a court reporter doing in the office on a Saturday afternoon?”

“The editor lets me come in weekends and work on side issues. Man on the move’s gotta go the extra mile.” Omar’s voice gradually heightened in pitch. “You’re phoning me with something, right? This ain’t no weekend social call, see how your favorite hack is spending his time.”

“I’ve just gotten out of an arraignment hearing. Dale Steadman has been charged with murder one.”

“Wait!” There was the sound of a drawer being violently torn open. “All right. I’m ready!”

Marcus sketched out what had taken place. “That’s all I know so far.”

The court reporter responded to the news with his own cry of delight. “Didn’t I say this was gonna happen? The man makes it his job to light up the sky!”

“I just felt like I owed you.”

“This is the kind of payback I like!”

“I assume I don’t have to state the obvious.”

“Course not. Sorry, I didn’t catch your name. Who is this I’m talking to?”

Marcus hung up the phone and walked outside to where the pair waited in the Esplanade. “Let’s go.”

It was dark by the time they dropped off Deacon and drove to Marcus’ home. The silent ride had seemed endless. Dale’s morose state had defied all attempts at conversation and planning. Marcus climbed out of the car, stretched, and offered, “Why don’t you come in and stay the night?”

Dale did not turn from his grim inspection of the night ahead.

“It’s too late for you to drive back to Wilmington, Dale.”

“Shut the door.”

Marcus knew the tone and the intention all too well. “Friend, that voice you’re hearing is only speaking lies.”

In reply, Dale slapped the Esplanade into gear and gunned the engine. Marcus stepped back as the SUV shot forward. His door slammed shut with the sound of a gavel pounding nails into the grim and uncaring dark.

Marcus ate a weary dinner standing by the kitchen sink. The wall phone was there at eye level, waiting for him to end his futile debate. He called Kirsten’s hotel and left a message for her to get in touch. Then he stood cradling the phone and knowing he had to make the call.

Thankfully it was Darren who answered at the sheriff’s office. The young man understood enough not to bother him with senseless questions.

Marcus washed his dinner dishes, then cut off the air conditioner and moved about the house, opening the windows. The night filtered through the screens, humid and earthy with the flavors of late summer. Marcus stepped onto his front porch and settled into one of the rockers. Heat lightning flickered against the horizon, a visual accompaniment to the crickets’ serenade. A nightbird shrilled a soprano’s high call, answered by a dog barking several doors down. He rocked in time
to the night rhythms, exhausted from the day, yet knowing if he went to bed he would not sleep. There was nothing to do but wait.

About two hours later, Marcus was drawn to his feet by a patrol car pulling into his drive. Darren Wilbur slid his bulk from behind the wheel and waved Marcus over.

“F-Found the man leaning on the w-wall outside the Deadline Bar and G-Grill.” Darren reached down and hefted Dale by an utterly limp arm. “Staring at his c-car like he c-couldn’t make up his m-mind.”

Marcus moved to Dale’s other side. Up close the man smelled of sour mash and other people’s smoke. “If you’re going to be sick, I’d rather you do it out here.”

Dale struggled to raise his head and draw Marcus into focus. “Don’t be angry with me.”