Witch House (8 page)

“I see. What can you tell me about your
relationship with René Landau?”

He splayed his palms up empty. “What is there
to tell? He robbed an armored truck. I represented him in court. He
went to jail. End of story.”

“Is it?”

“What does that mean?”

“I am sure you know about the six million
dollars.”

“Yes, I know that it was destroyed in the
cabin fire on the day of his arrest.”

“Is that what Mister Landau told you.”

“Yes.”

“Do you believe him?”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

I cleared my throat and decided to work him
from another angle. “Why didn’t you appeal the sentencing rule that
Landau serve his time at M.C.I. Cedar Junction? You knew that was a
level six facility.”

“Yes, it was.”

“Excuse me?”

“Just so you know, Walpole was recently
downgraded to a minimum security facility. It’s an overcrowding
issue. That is one reason they released René early. At his last
parole hearing he was not even close to getting out.”

“Oh, so you have kept in touch with him over
the years.”

“I wouldn’t say that.”

“Wouldn’t you? When was the last time you saw
him?”

His eyes began the dragonfly dance again. He
made a great effort at appearing to think hard about the question
before answering, and making his answer sound damn convincing when
he replied, “October, 2005.”

I regarded him with some skepticism. “October
05? Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“That’s a long time ago. How can you be
certain?”

“Because that was the year his son got
arrested for armed robbery. René wanted me to defend him.”

“And did you?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because he couldn’t pay me; that and the
fact he stilled owed me for defending him at his trial. I have a
business to run. I don’t do pro-bono.”

“So, why did you represent René Landau? Did
you think he could pay you then?”

“He said he could.”

“Where did you expect he would get the
money?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t ask.”

“Did you believe the money from the robbery
was still at his disposal?”

Kemper’s face grew flush. What else could he
tell me, except the truth, that he did think the money was still
within Landau’s reach? I saw his gaze drift out the window as if
tethered to spider silk. He blinked through the glare of sunlight
reflecting off the wet sill. It did not matter what he thought now
of the money. If the cabin fire had not destroyed it, then Landau’s
death most certainly made it as worthless as the dirt he buried it
under. I waited until his eyes came back to mine. They seemed empty
somehow, as if bleached in the tide on which they returned. I
raised my brows in anticipation. He smiled thinly and said, “Yeah,
I guess I thought he could still get his hands on it.”

“But you lost the case,” I said. “The D.A.
produced a surprise witness that sealed Landau’s fate, so he would
not, or could not pay you.”

Kemper shook his head. “That’s all attorney
client privilege. I cannot talk about it.”

“I see. All right then, let me ask you again.
Why didn’t you object to Landau’s sentencing at Walpole when there
were at least two more desirable locations for him to serve out his
time? He had no priors; the court considered him non-violent.”

To that, Kemper answered, “It’s what he
wanted.”

“Who, the Judge?”

“No, René. He said Walpole was a closer drive
for his wife and son to come visit him.”

I looked to Carlos and made sure he was
writing that one down. “So, you have not seen Landau since 05?”

“That is correct.”

“Talk to him since then?”

He shook his head. “Not since 05.”

“Tell me how he came across one of your
business cards?”

“What do you mean?”

“Landau, he had one of your cards on him when
he died. Any idea how he got it?”

Kemper shook his head. “He must have had one
of my old cards. I probably gave it to him at that parole hearing I
mentioned.”

“It had this address on it. Have you been
here that long?”

“Sure. If you don’t believe me, look it
up.”

“I just might do that.”

“Great. Then I guess we’re done here.”

“Not quite.”

“What now?”

“Stephanie Stiles?”

I could see him sinking into his chair. “What
about her?”

“We know you know her, and you don’t have to
blame Shannon for that. We talked to Ms. Stiles already this
morning.”

“So what?”

“She told us that you introduced her to René
while he was in prison.”

“Yeah? Is that a crime?”

“No, I’m simply curious why you hooked the
two of them up?”

He laughed. “Call it a humanitarian
gesture.”

“I’m sorry?”

He leaned forward and propped his elbows up
on the desk. “Look, René’s wife passed away shortly after he went
to prison. I just thought it would be nice to introduce him to a
member of the female persuasion to help him in his grief.”

“Did you ever tell Stephanie about the
money?”

“From the robbery?”

“Of course.”

“No! Why would I? There
was
no money;
there
is
no money.”

“What is your relationship with Ms. Stiles
now?”

“There is no relationship.”

“Then why do you suppose she is calling
you?”

“I don’t know. I’ve not spoken with her yet.
Maybe she found out about René and wants to know what I know about
it.”

“What do you know about it?”

“Nothing. Like I said, I just heard about it
on the news. It is a shame, really, but not my problem.”

I looked at his wrist, and his five thousand
dollar Rolex. “Is that new,” I asked, pointing, “your watch?”

He framed the crystal between his finger and
thumb and angled it to the light to read it. “This old thing? Nah,
I’ve had this forever. I never take it off, even when I sleep.”

“What about when you shower?” Carlos asked. I
knew where he was going with it, but I suspected Kemper would have
an answer for that, too. He turned his wrist toward us to display
the watch.

“It’s waterproof.”

I smiled at that. “Okay, Mister Kemper, I
guess we have used up enough of your time.”

He smiled back. “Yes, you have.”

“Oh, just one more thing, though.” We had
already stood and were reaching across the desk for handshakes.

“Yes?”

“Do you own a gun?”

He hesitated just long enough to figure out
why I asked. “I do,” he said, adding, “it is registered with the
state, in case you are wondering.”

“What is it, if you don’t mind?”

“Not at all. It’s a Glock 9 semi-auto.”

We finished shaking hands. “Thank you.”

Outside in the parking lot, Carlos had plenty
to say about Paul Kemper. He made no bones about his disdain for
lawyers, singling out Kemper as the reason you cannot trust any of
them. “It’s so obvious he is lying,” said Carlos, working himself
up about it. “Only, he lies with a straight face. How does he do
that?”

“What is he lying about?”

“His relationship with Stiles, for one. And
don’t tell me he hasn’t talked or met with Landau since he got out
of prison. You heard him say that Landau still owed him big time
for defending him in court.”

“Some defense,” I said. “Landau got
twenty-five to thirty for the robbery. I don’t suppose he felt he
owed Kemper any money for that.”

“Well, they remained friends, you can bet. If
they weren’t, Kemper wouldn’t refer to him as René; instead he
would call him Landau or Mister Landau?”

“Hmm, you noticed that, too.”

“Yes and I noticed that expensive watch you
mentioned? I bet if we get a warrant to check it out, we’ll find
traces of Landau’s DNA on it from where it scratched his face.”

“You think that is the watch Landau found on
Stile’s nightstand?”

“Of course it is. Tony, come on, you heard
him say it’s waterproof. You could almost smell the toilet water
dripping off it.”

I laughed at that. “You ought not jump to
conclusions, Carlos. It might cloud your objectivity. We still have
some digging to do you know.”

“Digging? Yeah, for the money, because if you
ask me, that’s the only mystery left unsolved in this case.”

“Oh?”

He shook his finger at me. “Mark my
words.”

“Sure,” I said, and after checking my watch,
I gestured toward the car. “In the meantime, let’s take a ride out
to Pete’s Place. I want to know what the last person to see Landau
alive has to say about things.”

“You want me to drive?”

“No, I’ll drive. I want you to call Spinelli
and see if he can dig up anything else on Kemper and Stiles. I
don’t know if they are guilty of murder, but both are hiding
something from us, and I want to know what.”

“Do you want him to plant a little birdie
outside her condo to see who comes and goes from there?”

I shook my head. “A spotter? No, I don’t
think our level of suspicion is high enough to warrant putting a
man full time outside her apartment.”

“Not a man,” he said, “a birdie.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Dominic has this tiny remote camera thing
that can send wireless signals to his laptop. He just sets it up in
a tree or on a telephone pole and it transmits a live video stream
twenty-four-seven.”

“Are you kidding?”

“No, he calls it a birdie. We use it all
time.”

“Why am I just finding out about this?”

He winced a bit. “We don’t usually mention
stuff like that to you, `cause you don’t get it—electronics, I
mean.”

I planted a playful slap on the side of his
head, but hard enough that I suspected it hurt. “Get this,” I said,
“and stop keeping stuff from me.”

I have been to Pete’s Place a number of
times, though mostly in my younger days. I used to think that loose
women and cheap whiskey were legitimate distractions for a cop with
better sense than to settle down with a wife and kids. I know
that’s cliché, and I totally disagree with that philosophy now, but
it is easier on the nervous system when emotional attachments
outside the work place are disposable. It is a high price to pay
for longevity in the field, one Carlos and I have both realized, if
only too late. But for the love of the job, I suspect we would do
it again, a thought I fear most. Dealt now with a new beginning and
the benefit of hindsight, I pray I will see that Lilith is the only
distraction I need for consoling wounds previously un-reconciled. I
may love detective work almost more than life itself, but this time
around, I hope to love another more.

Pete recognized Carlos as soon as we walked
in the door. Of course, he did not recognize me, as I had not been
there since my return to prime. He looked up at us and smiled
before going back to swabbing the bar with a still steaming
dishrag. We crossed before him and took the last two stools at the
bar closest to the back door. Except for an old man sipping suds at
the opposite end, we had the place to ourselves. Carlos snagged a
bowl of shelled peanuts from the drip ledge and reeled it in,
tipping it toward me for first offer. I declined.

“So, Pete,” he said, “I see you’re still
tappin` them kegs, eh?”

Pete wadded up the dishrag and tossed it into
the sink. “Yeah, Rodriquez, and I see you’re still flat-footin` it
in the rain. A little early for a beer, ain’t it?”

He shoveled up a fistful of peanuts and
popped them in his mouth. “No beer,” he said, still chewing, “we’re
working—”

I reached up and touched him on the arm to
stop him. “We’ll have a couple of Cokes, Pete,” I said,
“thanks.”

Carlos finished chewing and swallowed hard.
“Oh, hey Pete, this here is Tony’s kid, Tony Jr. I don’t think you
two met.”

Almost immediately, Pete gave me that same
look that Jack Cruz gave me earlier, the one where I thought he
recognized me, but I knew he could not have. He smiled a curious
grin, wiped his hand on his apron and offered to shake. “Tony’s
kid?” His smile grew much wider now. “Sure, I see it. I didn’t know
Tony had a kid. How are ya?”

We shook. “I’m good. You?”

“All right, I guess. How’s your dad? He still
down in Florida?”

“Yes, he is. He’s doing well. I’ll tell him
you were asking.”

“So, you’re a cop, too?”

“He’s a detective, grade one,” said Carlos,
“just like his old man.”

“Is that right?” Pete grabbed a couple of
tall glasses off a rubber mat by the sink and plunged them into the
ice pit. “Well, I guess the apple don’t fall far from the tree,
huh?”

“Guess not,” I said, guarding a veiled smile.
“Folks have always said I was my father’s son.”

“Yeah, you sure look it.” He gave me a wink
that once more made me think he was on to me somehow. “You know,
I’ve known your old man since he was about your age.” He lifted one
of the glasses to me and pointed. “You are his spitting image.”

I smiled again, this time not so veiled. “I
get that a lot,” I told him, and I could not resist adding, “in
many ways, he and I are like one and the same.”

He filled the glasses from a jet spray nozzle
and walked them to us. By then, Carlos had scoffed down several
fistfuls of salted peanuts and was eyeing the drinks like a desert
oasis. He snatched the first Coke before it had a chance to leave a
water ring on the napkin, and began guzzling it down. I watched the
ice cubes dam against his nose, as he emptied the glass, tipping it
back until every drop had drained. He set the glass back on the bar
and then trained his sights on mine. I gave him the nod, and just
as quickly, my Coke was gone.

I said to Pete, “I suppose you know why we
are here.”

He grabbed the glasses and topped them off
with the jet spray. “You’re here about the guy that got whacked
last night.”