Fatal Flaw Part 7

"Can we keep this conversation absolutely confidential?"

"Yes, of course," I said.

"Good." He looked up and down down the empty staircase. "Victor, we haven't finished our investigation by a long shot, and a lot of people want us to wait before we do anything. But this appears to me to be a crime of pa.s.sion. Your client and Miss Prouix were fighting, there was a scuffle, your client couldn't control himself, and he shot his fiancee. It's a common enough story, and it's sad, truly, but it's not worth death. Right now, to me, it appears like nothing worse than man one. Something in the ten-to fifteen-year range. I've talked this over with the DA, and we'd be willing to accept a man one plea right now. Your client could be out, with good behavior, in eight to ten years."

"That's generous of you," I said. And it was, shockingly.

"But you should know, Victor, that as our investigation continues, there is no telling what we might find. Stone and Breger are not happy with the offer and they are going to scour the landscape looking for more of a motive. You don't want them to find it. If they dig up even the hint of a motive beyond the heat of the moment, I'm going to have no choice but to yank the offer and go for murder one with death as a possibility. I know it's a lot to think about, and you don't need to decide today, but you don't want to wait too long either."

"I understand."

"So talk it over with your client and let me know."

"I will," I said. "Thanks."

"It was nice meeting you, Victor. Breger said favorable things about you, which is rarer than you can imagine. Let's see if we can work something out." He smiled his charismatic Troy Jefferson smile, patted me on my shoulder, and headed back into court. I watched him go, trying to hide my shock.

What the h.e.l.l was he doing? A woman was murdered in cold blood by a smarmy a.s.shole and he offers up man one, ten to fifteen years, out in eight to ten? Where was the justice in that? I had half a mind to read Troy the riot act. I wouldn't, of course, it was not the place of a defense attorney to complain of an offer as being too lenient-but still. But still. I had no choice now but to present this abomination to Guy, with the chance that he might just accept. And any normal murderer would accept, would jump as if for a lifeline, which, in fact, this offer was. But this was not a normal murderer, this was the killer of Hailey Prouix. It was a good thing I was not a normal defense attorney either. I would present the offer, yes I would, but I would also use all my powers to present it in such a way that Guy would turn it down. It wouldn't be so hard, it was all in the presentation. They don't have the evidence, Guy, they're running scared, Guy, we can beat the charge, Guy, we can give you back your life, Guy. If I couldn't turn an offer of man one into a first-degree murder conviction, then I might as well hand in my ticket to practice law and become a dentist.

OUTSIDE THE courthouse, after I had done my bit for the television cameras, Beth and I climbed down the wide front steps. I couldn't help but notice that bulbs in the flower beds were blooming, birds were atwitter, buds were sprouting in the trees lining the street. It was as if the rain of the night before had washed away the remnants of winter and spring had suddenly swooped down with its special light to spread its finery. And yet it felt to me, for some reason, on those gray, sunlit steps, that I was still standing in the murky gloom, within a landscape of shadows and secrets. I wanted to get away just then, to find a place where the sun might burst through my own personal fog and warm my face, when Detectives Breger and Stone stepped in our way. courthouse, after I had done my bit for the television cameras, Beth and I climbed down the wide front steps. I couldn't help but notice that bulbs in the flower beds were blooming, birds were atwitter, buds were sprouting in the trees lining the street. It was as if the rain of the night before had washed away the remnants of winter and spring had suddenly swooped down with its special light to spread its finery. And yet it felt to me, for some reason, on those gray, sunlit steps, that I was still standing in the murky gloom, within a landscape of shadows and secrets. I wanted to get away just then, to find a place where the sun might burst through my own personal fog and warm my face, when Detectives Breger and Stone stepped in our way.

"Got a minute, Mr. Carl?" said Stone.

I gestured for Beth to wait and walked off with the two of them. Stone wasn't smiling now, a bad sign I figured, but Breger wasn't staring at me either, which seemed to be his way of showing respect. I suppose you spend enough years staring down suspects in the interrogation room, you end up staring away from those you consider respectful and law-abiding. A habit that must make for lovely family dinners.

"You mind if we look at your hands?" asked Breger.

"My hands?"

"If you don't mind."

I put down my briefcase and held out my hands. Breger took one each in his big mitts and carefully examined the knuckles before letting them drop.

"Thanks," he said as he turned his gaze to survey the street. "Troy Jefferson gave you a pretty generous offer."

"Yes he did. He also told me you said some nice things about me. Thank you."

"You should know we both opposed the offer. We think it is far too lenient, man one for a homicide like this. Is your client going to accept it?"

"He pled not guilty in court."

"I know, but is he going to accept the offer?"

"He says he didn't do it. I relayed the offer and he rejected it outright. Says he didn't do it."

"That means the investigation is still moving forward," said Breger, his eyebrows raised.

"I suppose so," I said.

"Then we have to ask you a question, Mr. Carl," said Stone, "about the night of the killing, because something confuses us."

"That must happen often, Detective."

"You said that Mr. Forrest called you at your home and then you came right over."

"That's correct."

"Except we got a look at the phone logs from Mr. Forrest's line just before court and we found something peculiar. Your call to 911 showed up, as expected, and there were other calls to you from earlier dates, as expected since you were a friend, but there was no call to you registered from the night of the killing."

"Is that a fact?"

"Any idea why that is?"

"Phone company made a mistake?"

"Is that what you think?" said Breger sharply, and as he said it he turned to stare at me. "The computers of the phone company made a mistake?" It was the first time he'd ever looked at me straight on, and I noticed now that one of his eyes wandered slightly. The effect was strangely disorienting and I didn't like it, the variance in his gazes seemed to suggest a variance between the truth and my words. His gaze itself acted as an accusation.

"Does your client have a cell phone?" he said.

"I don't know. I suppose if he does there are records."

"I suppose there are. You didn't happen to see his cell phone when you were up in that bedroom?"

"No, sir."

He looked at me for a moment longer and then turned again to survey the street. "You said you were watching a game when he called. What game was that?"

"The Phils were in Atlanta. I slept through most of it, but they were down when I left."

"They scored two in the bottom of the ninth to beat the b.a.s.t.a.r.ds."

"Good," I said. "Is that all?"

"That's all. Thank you for the help, Mr. Carl."

"Call me Victor, Detective Breger."

"No, I don't think so."

"You know, Vic," said Stone, "when we asked you about Miss Prouix, you described her as sweet and nice. We've been running the usual inquiries and I have to tell you, we've been talking to a lot of people who knew Miss Prouix and they all seemed to have a lot to say, but not a one of them used the words 'sweet' or 'nice' when talking about her."

"Maybe I didn't know her all that well. What was the thing with the hands all about?"

"Last night one of our Forensic Unit technicians was heading into the house to redo a few tests," said Stone. "A man rushed out and ran her over, a man dressed in black with a watch cap pulled over his face. When she grabbed his leg, he turned and beat her in the face pretty badly."

"So you checked my hands?"

"Just routine, Vic."

"Call me Mr. Carl, Detective Stone."

"She is still in the hospital," said Breger.

"Good thing then that I didn't sc.r.a.pe my knuckles on a cement step this morning."

"Yes it is."

"Probably just a burglar who knew that the house was empty."

"Probably," he said. "Just like the phone company computer probably made a mistake."

"Bye-bye, Vic," said Stone with a little wave of her fingers. "We'll talk again."

As I walked away from them and down the steps, they huddled together, discussing something or other, apparently not pleased, apparently not pleased at all.

Beth slid over and walked down with me. "What was that all about?"

"Nothing," I said. "It was nothing. Detectives Stone and Breger were just asking about a phone."

8.

IT WAS my phone the detectives were looking for, the same phone that I had picked off the crate beside the corpse of Hailey Prouix and placed in my pocket the night of her murder. My phone. That was why I had taken it that night, why I didn't want it found anywhere near that house. My phone. Sitting now in my kitchen drawer. Registered in my name, with the bills and records going to my apartment. But I wasn't willing to wait for the end of the month to see what calls had been made. As soon as we returned from the arraignment, I phoned my service provider and requested that it print up a record of calls for the past month and fax it to my office. The lady on the line was most agreeable and said she'd get right on it. I couldn't complain about the service, they'd do anything they could to help you out, so long as you let them slip a fifty from your wallet every month. my phone the detectives were looking for, the same phone that I had picked off the crate beside the corpse of Hailey Prouix and placed in my pocket the night of her murder. My phone. That was why I had taken it that night, why I didn't want it found anywhere near that house. My phone. Sitting now in my kitchen drawer. Registered in my name, with the bills and records going to my apartment. But I wasn't willing to wait for the end of the month to see what calls had been made. As soon as we returned from the arraignment, I phoned my service provider and requested that it print up a record of calls for the past month and fax it to my office. The lady on the line was most agreeable and said she'd get right on it. I couldn't complain about the service, they'd do anything they could to help you out, so long as you let them slip a fifty from your wallet every month.

I told Ellie, my secretary, that I was waiting for a fax.

"I HAVE something for you," I say to Hailey. This is a month before her murder. I had tried to stay away when I learned about Guy's proposal and her acceptance, tried to forget the smell of her, the feel of her, the tang of her tongue on my own. I tried, really, but the Sylvester matter kept showing up in my in-box and my dreams grew torrid and haunting. I had tried to stay away, but she pursued me like she needed me and I couldn't help believing that maybe she did. She understood intuitively my weakness, I am most easily seduced by need. I had tried to stay away, and I had failed and I was glad. something for you," I say to Hailey. This is a month before her murder. I had tried to stay away when I learned about Guy's proposal and her acceptance, tried to forget the smell of her, the feel of her, the tang of her tongue on my own. I tried, really, but the Sylvester matter kept showing up in my in-box and my dreams grew torrid and haunting. I had tried to stay away, but she pursued me like she needed me and I couldn't help believing that maybe she did. She understood intuitively my weakness, I am most easily seduced by need. I had tried to stay away, and I had failed and I was glad.

"I have something for you," I say to Hailey. We are in bed, after, the same huge presence having roared through us the way it always roared through us, leaving us exhausted and dazed.

"Diamonds?" she asks, that tw.a.n.g again in her voice.

"Better."

"What could be better than diamonds? So flashy, so bright, so readily turned into ready cash."

"What about me?"

"You?" She laughs as she lifts her legs and twists them locked behind my back, twists them tight so I can't move in or out, here or there, trapped. "But I already have you, Victor, and you won't look half so pretty hanging from my ears."

Hailey in her normal life is a hard piece of work, flinty, sardonic, infected with a nervous bundle of habits that act as sword and shield to protect her inner sadness. She is both desirable and detached, which of course only makes her more desirable. It is impossible to get a straight answer from Hailey Prouix. Ask her a question and she deftly directs the line to something less threatening or, instead, asks a question of her own that puts you smack on the defensive. She is, remember, a lawyer. But after s.e.x, oh after s.e.x, after the two of us are run over by that charging train of hunger and need with its own strange pulse and rhythms, a train that seems to come from neither her nor me but from elsewhere, after all that, it is as if her defenses fall like the walls of Jericho under Joshua's horn. The easy, drawly vowels replace the clipped, big-city cadence she has adopted in her adopted city and her flinty defensive manner turns richer, her emotions show through almost unguarded.

"I bought you a phone," I tell Hailey that afternoon.

"I have a phone. I have too many d.a.m.n phones."

"But I've been having a hard time reaching you at night. How many times can I hang up when Guy answers?"

"So that was you."

"Who did you think it was?"

"I was hoping it was you."

"How come you don't answer your cell phone after hours?"

"Because my clients call. They call to complain about their pains. They call to say they can't sleep. They want to tell me they're taking their medicine, they want to tell me they're not taking their medicine. They call to have me verify their paranoia. They call because, like everyone else, they're lonely and scared and know I'm not charging by the hour. I leave my phone in the office with the rest of my workday because if I don't, my clients will drown me."

"But I'm not a client."

"So why do you need to reach me?"

"To say h.e.l.lo. To let you know I'm thinking about you. To ask what you are wearing."

"In other words, so you, too, can tell me you can't sleep."

"Exactly."

"I'd rather have diamonds."

"But it's really cute, and I got it in red to match your lipstick."

"Red?"

"Shocking red."

"And who else has the number?"

"Just me."

"So it's our own private hot line."

"That's right."

"I feel like the president."