Back to Lazarus (Sydney Brennan) Page 7

  Richard’s own office not only had walls, but was actually two offices in one. The outer room housed a desk, metal filing cabinets, and a woman filing papers who was presumably his secretary. I’d guess she was about Richard’s age, though she seemed older. She was dressed in a simple white blouse and teal blue skirt, and while her eyeshadow was a bit too dark and too blue, her make-up was otherwise unremarkable. It was the slightly frizzy perm in her short, dark blonde hair that set her age. Her hair made me think of grandmothers wearing polyester scarves over their rollers.

  “Millicent, dear heart,” Richard said. “How goes the fort-holding? Any major catastrophes this morning?”

  She wiped her hands on her skirt and shut the drawer she was working in. “Nothing I couldn’t handle.”

  She held her hand out to me. “It’s Melinda, not Millicent,” she said.

  “That may be what your birth certificate says, but trust me on this. You’re a Millicent, through and through. This is Sydney Brennan. So she says. I haven’t decided what her real name is yet.”

  I tried not to cringe. I changed my name legally over a decade ago, but it still felt like a deep, dark secret I could be arrested for. Oh, the irony if he managed to guess my real name. I stammered a “nice to meet you.”

  “Ah, Sydney of the Thomas case. Well, I’ve got good news for you. Since he was out of the office all morning, I was finally able to get some work done. The Thomas trial attorney file, the original and one copy, is on Richard’s desk. No, I take that back. There’s no room for anything on his desk. But it is somewhere in his office.”

  Richard was surprised to find that it was only one box—full to the gills, but one box nonetheless. “I’d like to think there would have been more materials if we had gone to trial, but I doubt it. My files on capital cases generally run from 2-5 boxes, so that should tell you something.”

  He offered to find me a place to review the file, but having seen the office’s layout I declined. Any space Richard could find me was sure to infringe on the cramped people who worked there on a daily basis, and I didn’t want to spend all my office capital at once. I did allow him to introduce me around. When Richard was paged for an important call (the high-tech page consisted of relayed yells across cubicles), I took the opportunity to chat up a few of the older attorneys and support staff, people who’d been there long enough to know Screaming Sammy. No one I spoke with had been very close to him, and they all confirmed what I had heard already. I was surprised that no one offered to tell me war stories. Melinda’s response was typical.

  “I’d heard that Mr. Norton was called that, but I can’t say that he was screaming much when he worked here. Mr. Norton was in private practice in the Panhandle for years, and by the time he came to work at the PD’s office he wasn’t in good health. I think that’s why he came here, so he could have a steady check and health insurance. I didn’t see him often, but the poor man always had bad color. He took a lot of sick days, and from what I heard he didn’t make it to court very often except on plea days.”

  “Were you his secretary?”

  “No, not usually. His secretary, Rita, was an older woman. She died a few years ago herself. At that time, I was assigned to a couple of other attorneys who’ve since retired.” Melinda seemed to lose herself for a moment, then blinked at me.

  “It’s enough to make you feel old. Sometimes if there was a big trial, something high-profile or a death penalty case, I’d pitch in to help out the regular secretary, but that was never an issue with Rita. She was incredibly efficient, and I don’t think Mr. Norton ever gave her that much to do.”

  “Did you ever see him hang out with anyone in the office, commiserate about cases?”

  “No, I didn’t. I got the impression he didn’t spend much time with people here, in or out of the office. I’d say he spoke to Richard as much as anyone else, but even then I wouldn’t say they were close. Richard could tell you better than I could.”

  Eventually I gave up on Sammy and went to hang out with a young investigator named Mike Montgomery. When introduced, I’d been told if I had any need of technological assistance, computer searches, etc., Mike was the man. By the looks of him, pallid under chin-length hair and small-framed glasses, he was able to find out most things without ever leaving his cubicle. (Like I had room to talk about the pigment-challenged, with my fluorescent white skin.)

  “So, how long you been working here?” I asked.

  His eyes rolled back a bit as he thought about it. “Must be going on six years. God, time flies.”

  “You come here straight out of school?”

  “No.” Some personal thought that went unexpressed seemed to amuse him. “No, I started out going to grad school for computers. I didn’t finish. Decided I needed a little fresh air and sunshine.”

  Now it was my turn to be amused, but apparently my thoughts weren’t so obscure.

  Mike laughed. “Yeah, I know you can’t tell it to look at me, but I do set foot outside from time to time. I’ve just had a dry spell lately. But I might go out on the water with a buddy this week. I don’t know. Anyway, I quit grad school, messed around for a while, did some traveling. Eventually I ended up here.”

  “Do you like it?”

  “Yeah, for the most part I’d have to say I do like it. If I won the lottery tomorrow, I’d give my notice, but if I have to work I can’t think of anything I’d rather be doing. I don’t get bored here, or if I do I just move on to something else for a while. When I can’t stand to look at the computer screen any more, I go track down some records, or interview witnesses. You know yourself that being an investigator isn’t nearly as glamorous as it sounds to everyone else. Sometimes it’s downright tedious. But then you move on to something else. I just don’t think I’m cut out for a ‘normal’ job, doing the same thing day in and day out. You know?”

  “Yeah, I know exactly what you mean.” I was sitting on the edge of Mike’s desk while he sat in his chair, and I lowered my voice and leaned toward him conspiratorially when I spoke again. “What’s the office vibe like?”

  “Not bad. We’ve had a few rough spots, but nothing you wouldn’t find anywhere else. I think the key is to be sociable, maybe have a beer once in a while, but not try to be everybody’s best friend, to maintain our own independent lives so we can get away from this shit. Richard and I do stuff together once in a while, but that’s about it.”

  “What’s he like?”

  “Okay, for an attorney.” He couldn’t hold the deadpan and broke into a smile. “He’s a good guy. I guess you could say he took me under his wing when I got here, and we work together a lot. When I—“

  Mike broke off suddenly, and I wasn’t sure he’d go on. He kept his eyes on his hands, tracing a bump on the side of his index finger. “He’s always been there when I needed him. His wife’s a good cook too.”

  We sat in silence for a few moments until he recovered enough to turn the tables on me. “So what about you? What brought you to the business? The search for truth?” His voice lent an ironic air to the last phrase.

  “Something like that.” He raised an eyebrow, and I reluctantly went on. “If you hear enough lies, they start to leave a bad taste in your mouth. I wanted something simpler, something cleaner.”

  “And you decided to become an investigator? First day of work must have been a real shocker.”

  I laughed. “Yeah. Yeah, it was. But it still fits the bill somehow. I wouldn’t do anything else.”

  As I perched on Mike’s desk, I felt content, warm and fuzzy. Camaraderie, that’s what it was. Now that I’d gone private, I missed sharing my work, the excitement and the frustration, with colleagues. Wasn’t I a little young for nostalgia? Maybe, but—the sudden realization of an actual physical warmth next to me would have made me jump if my feet could touch the floor. Richard had finished his phone call.

  “Find everything you need?” he asked.

  I looked at my watch. Much of the afternoon had slipped away, even by
central time, and it was time to load up the file and drive around for a while, get a sense of the area. My slide from Mike’s desk was relatively graceful, which for me meant I hadn’t fallen.

  “Like you said, time flies. I really ought to be going.” I reached for the box I’d left on the other corner of Mike’s desk.

  “Let me take that,” he said, and scooted his chair back to rise.

  “That’s okay, Mike.” Richard grabbed the box before Mike could stand. “I’ll walk Sydney out.”

  I nodded my thanks, but said nothing. It wasn’t like me to do feminine demurral. I told myself I let Richard take the box because it was too heavy for me, but who was I kidding? My office was full of such boxes, with no burly men around to move them for me.

  A sudden impulse made me turn back before Mike’s cubicle was out of sight. He was still watching us.

  “You should go. On the water. Wherever. Get a little Vitamin D for both of us.”

  Mike’s face looked conflicted.

  “Just do it. Call your buddy right now.”

  His face cleared. “You’re right. I will.” He reached for the phone. “Thanks, Sydney.”

  Richard led the way out of the PD’s office to my car. He walked ahead of me, and I tried, mostly unsuccessfully, not to look at his ass in his slacks. When he set the box on my back seat and turned suddenly to face me, I felt myself blush, sure that could see where my eyes had been pointing. If he did he gave no indication of it, and I hoped he’d think the flush was from the sudden heat of the asphalt.

  “Listen, I’ll review my file tonight and give you a call about meeting tomorrow. That should give you time to come up with some tough questions I can’t dodge. Sound like a plan?”

  “Yeah, that sounds good.”

  Richard held out his hand. I offered my own awkwardly, and he took it in both of his. My hands were chilled from air conditioning, and his warm hands felt good around mine. My eyes nearly closed with the pleasure of it.

  “Tomorrow then,” he said, giving my hands a final squeeze before releasing them and heading back inside. I didn’t watch him go. I swear.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The public defender’s office was located on the edge of downtown Hainey. The heart of the town was a square about four blocks by four blocks. Like a lot of old downtowns, it was undergoing restoration. The main street was lined with new planters and park benches and freshly planted trees, while one of the side streets was being repaved. Not all of the buildings were occupied, but none of them were derelict. Most were two stories, with none above three. I know nothing about architecture, but the mix of styles and building materials was pleasing to the eye.

  The mix of occupants, or rather the lack thereof, was less pleasing. I saw a couple of upscale restaurants and a few sandwich-type eateries that were only open for lunch. They were obviously catering to the courthouse crowd. As someone who spends a fair amount of time around courthouses, there are few crowds I like less than the courthouse crowd. Their spoor was everywhere here. There were several law offices and an expensive-looking one-hour dry cleaner. The bail bonds place right across from the courthouse must have been grandfathered in to the newly fashionable area. (In their defense, they had painted the building an eggshell with kelly green trim and toned down the neon signs.)

  As I left downtown, it became apparent that the rejuvenation effort hadn’t spread far. Most of the places on the main street into town looked respectable, meaning they mowed their grass and didn’t have burglar bars, but they looked faded. Beyond main street, things got downright depressing. Like so many towns, the only vitality (i.e. money) was at the seat of power, with none left for the people who were subject to it.

  Mike had given me a map, so I headed in the direction of the Thomases’ old neighborhood. The scene of the crime. In the last 25 years, the mom-and-pop stores Noel mentioned had been swallowed up, and the only evidence of vacant fields was an occasional empty weedy lot. As near as I could tell, the spot their house had stood on was now a Dollar store. There were a few loiterers, and even a few residences left in the area, so I did a quick canvas, expecting to find nothing. I wasn’t disappointed. No one remembered them; no one remembered the crime.

  It was time to find a place to roost. Prison visits were on the schedule again tomorrow, so I drove about half an hour up 231 to be closer to the interstate in the morning. Just finding a clean place that didn’t reek of cigarettes or have dead roaches on the AC unit gave me a little thrill. (Being an investigator lowers your standards pretty quickly.) Having gotten my bag and the trial attorney file settled on the extra bed, I was eyeing the unsullied mattress with longing when an alarm went off.

  The noise filled my ears with the insistence reserved for electronic devices and small children. Like most people, my instinct and great desire was to blame the disturbance on a neighbor, but it seemed to originate in my own room. When I followed the shrill repeating noise to one of my bags, it occurred to me that the sound must be a cell phone. Next thought—wait for it—my cell phone. Oh yeah, I do have a cell phone. I hate it and only use the beast on road trips. Even then I have a convenient habit of leaving it in the car. I must have forgotten to forget it.

  “Hello?”

  “Sydney?”

  “Yes?”

  “You’re new to the world of telephones, aren’t you? This is Richard.”

  “Oh, hi Richard. Just cell phones. What’s up?” I’d forgotten I’d given him my cell phone number.

  “What are you doing for dinner?”

  I walked to the window and looked out at the strip of fast food hell. “Well, I hear there’s this great French restaurant right across the street, but I don’t have reservations and this is the high season.”

  He laughed. “Forget it. You’ll never get in. I got René off on a stalking charge a few months ago and even I need a reservation. I’ve got a better idea. Where are you staying?”

  I told him. “My wife has plans tonight, and the kids are off being teenagers, so what do you say to some heavy-duty carb loading? There’s a decent Italian restaurant a few miles from your motel. I’ll pick you up.”

  I agreed. After he hung up, I automatically pulled the waist of my pants forward, tugging at the top of my underwear to see what I was wearing. Good—nothing grandma or ratty. I blushed, whether because the ritual was automatic or because it was triggered by dinner with a married man I wasn’t sure. Men aren’t the only ones sometimes governed by organs other than the brain. At least I hadn’t sniffed my pits, I thought, right before heading to the bathroom to apply more deodorant.

  Richard drove a silver late model Toyota sedan, like so many others on the road until you peeked in a window. Then its ownership became unmistakable. Richard’s car was definitely his domain, not his wife’s or his children’s. Empty dry cleaner bags puddled on the floorboard of the back seat, and a slightly wrinkled dark suit hung on the passenger side. Bulging accordion files, yellow legal pads, and other attorney-type detritus fought for space with an illegibly labeled banker’s box. I had to toss a garish Tabasco tie in the back before I could sit down.

  “Sorry. Got that in a conference in New Orleans,” he explained. “You ever been there?”

  “New Orleans?”

  “No, Avery Island. The home of Tabasco. Here it is in the heart of Acadiana, and they’ve got this enormous Buddha statue that looks out over a pond full of alligators. Amazing. No, maybe its back is to the pond. I’m not sure.”

  “And maybe the pond isn’t full of alligators?”

  Richard laughed. “Yeah, maybe. But I did see a few little ones when I was there. Got this on that trip too.”

  He reached into the console between us, which was filled with two neat rows of CDs. His hand inadvertently brushed against my bare forearm where I’d rolled my sleeves up, prickling the hairs. It took every ounce of self-control to keep from moving my arm, to pretend I didn’t notice his touch. Or was I just hoping for another jolt? Without looking, he ran his fingers along
the spines, withdrew a CD, and placed its jewel case back in the space it had vacated. The lazy voice and nimble fingers of Dr. John filled the car.

  “You’ve got an eclectic mix here,” I said, thumbing through them. “Warren Zevon, Greg Brown, Jill Sobule, Talking Heads….”

  “I like storytellers,” he said. “Please don’t move them around. It’s one of the few things I’m obsessive about. I know where each one is, so when a mood strikes me I don’t have to pull over or wipe out to indulge.”

  Rosalia’s Italian Restaurant was next door to the Good Times bar, and they shared a large parking lot. When we got out of the car, I could only hope that Rosalia’s had good sound-proofing. For a Thursday night, Good Times was really hopping.

  “Unique name,” I said, nodding toward the whooping and honky-tonk. I could feel Richard’s amusement in the dark. “I’ve been hanging around the Panhandle too long. Some of these guys are starting to look familiar.”

  “Have you been to WFC?”

  “Yeah, a few days ago, and I’m heading back tomorrow.”

  “That explains it. I’ve heard a lot of the guards head over here when they get off work.”

  Rosalia’s was a pleasant surprise. The lighting was warm, aided by red-glassed table votives, and it was cozy without being crowded. Our waitress, a cute pony-tailed brunette barely old enough to drive, led us to a table almost immediately. The menus had handwritten addendums, cards with daily specials and notes about availability of regular items.

  “What are you having?” Richard asked.

  “I’m leaning toward the angel hair marinara,” I said virtuously.

  “Her alfredo sauce is to die for.”

  “I think you’re the first man I’ve ever heard use that phrase—‘to die for.’”

  “But it is.”

  I suspect fettuccine alfredo heads most women’s lists of date food don’ts. Fettuccine can be hard to handle if you’re nervous, or just a klutz, slapping against your chin or flinging sauce on the clothes you’ve calculated are most likely to impress. And the alfredo… why not just get reverse liposuction while you’re at it? You’ll spend the whole dinner wondering if you’ve eaten so little of your entrée he’ll think you’re anorexic or eaten so much he’ll know you’re destined for a life of loose-fitting garments. What neurotic creatures we women are, or at least this woman. Good thing I wasn’t on a date. I ordered the fettuccine alfredo.