William Deverell - Kill All the Judges

“Thought you stopped pretending to be a writer after the last round of rejections.”

“You’ll be in it too. It’s about dead judges. It’s creative true fiction.”

“I read Caroline’s short stories. Heart-rending.” She knew how to hurt. “You’re in trouble, Bry. You’re teetering on the edge.”

He needed a smoke to help wash down the martini, that was his only trouble. But he was trapped in a smoke-free zone. Suck it up, focus, concentrate on business, he’s not going to let Cud down, that’s not his style.

Abigail handed him a printed sheet. “Let’s do our admissions of fact before you totally wing out. The date, deceased’s address, his identity, the list of dinner guests, catering staff, photos, prints…”

“What prints?”

“The defendant’s. Plastered all over a cigar humidor, several on a cognac bottle outside the steam room. Okay? Next, the 911 calls-”

“What calls?”

“Astrid Leich at 3:11 a.m., possible homicide. A neighbour at 5 Lighthouse Lane at 3:15, Aston Martin in his front yard. It’s in the material I sent. You’re not on top of this, are you?”

“I’m idling. I’ll get up to speed when I need to.”

“Okay, I take it there’s no contest over the gear Cud left behind in the suite over the garage. Backpack, toiletries, spare clothes. I’d appreciate admissions on the DNA-”

“What DNA?”

“Your guy’s sweat. Learn to read. Take a remedial course. It was on a towel by the swimming pool’s outdoor shower. We presume he went for a swim and a steam.”

“With Florenza?”

“Maybe. No proof.” She continued with her list: “Autopsy report, cause of death-blunt trauma consistent with a fall…”

“No, I want to hear about how he died.” Every detail.

He finally turned around, saw no one staring, nothing untoward, nothing that would have caused that little jolt. He focused on a neatly bearded man in an expensive suit with an expensive bottle of red and an expensive redhead, her back to Brian, the guy’s trophy wife or concubine. The way she bent to him, in intense conversation…He felt another shiver, another jolt, recognized her. Dr. Alison Epstein.

“Brian, you may want to back out of this trial, because the judge…Who are you staring at?”

“The redhead is my shrink.”

“Well, she might come in handy.”

Clearly, Dr. Epstein had known Brian would be at this very restaurant tonight, but how had she managed to secure a table ten feet away? Who was the man with her? Too well-dressed to be a cop. Maybe someone higher up. He’d been looking at Brian’s feet. Why would he be interested…The attache case, of course.

Concentrate, he hadn’t caught what Abigail was saying. Something about the judge assigned to the Brown trial. “Sorry? The chief assigned whom?”

“Himself.”

“Kroop?”

“Who loves you not.”

The death camp commander, the Badger, who loves Brian as one loves a pit viper creeping into one’s underwear. “A bullying, sadistic mountebank”-that was one of the lesser slurs against him that Brian had tossed off in defence of Gilbert Gilbert. Either the stars were out of alignment or the conspiracy ran deeper than he’d imagined.

“He pencilled himself in for one reason, Bry-he wants to eat you alive.”

She only sees the surface. Kroop is at the centre of the whole thing, the mastermind. This had been a set-up from the beginning.

“Ready for him?”

“God’s will be done.”

“Hey, are you trying to send your guy down for the count? I have a better idea. Want to hear it?”

“ I have a better idea. I’m moving for a stay of proceedings.”

“You’re not getting rid of Kroop that way.”

“Fuck Kroop, it’s because I haven’t got notice of Florenza LeGrand’s evidence.”

“Get your head around this, Bry. She isn’t talking to me, to the cops, to anyone but her mouthpiece, Silent Shawn Hamilton. And he ain’t talking to me, the schemer. Call him. Good luck.”

Silent Shawn will give him zip. A weird one, the mouthpiece who won’t talk, you can’t do a deal with him.

“I’ve subpoenaed Florenza, but we’re flying blind.”

“What’s she hiding?” Her debauch with Cud, for sure. Maybe worse.

Abigail leaned toward him. “I know it’s hard in your unbalanced state, but try to focus on what I’m saying. If Florenza LeGrand is complicit in her husband’s death, she becomes a rich target. Of far more interest than some country Joe in red braces.” She let it hang there, smiling.

“What would you want for that?”

“If he rolls all the way, manslaughter.”

“No fank you. I’ll cop him to drunk driving though.”

Abigail looked pissed, but he wasn’t going to explain how Cud stormed off when he mentioned manslaughter. He fumbled for his A’s, he was having a nic fit. He looked back, Dr. Epstein was gone, presumably to the ladies. Her associate was waving a credit card at the waiter.

“I need some fresh air.”

“Enjoy. I don’t partake of the filthy habit any more.”

“Anyway, I’ve got to run.”

“Not interested in extending the evening? Dessert? One for the road? A hump for old times’ sake? A visit to a mental health clinic?”

“I have a…an emergency.” He wanted to get out of here before his shrink came back.

“I’ll drive you.”

He shook his head, rose. “Thanks for dinner. I’ll call you.”

He retrieved his case, clutched it to his chest, made his way out the back entrance, where the smokers gather, where one of the kitchen staff, chef-hatted, was taking a last drag before butting out. And here was Alison Epstein, staring at nothing, darkness. He was about to turn on his heels when she turned on hers, toward him, with a smiled “Hello.”

“I didn’t know you smoked,” he said.

“I don’t. I was hoping we could catch up. Briefly.”

He lit up. Now she would want explanations, she’d want to know why he was hiding out, and where, why he’d quit Xanax. “Who’s the man you’re with?”

“My husband.”

She could be lying, but he thought not. Maybe she hadn’t lured him here after all. One of life’s coincidences. They happen. Maybe he could trust her, maybe he could take that chance.

“Seems like a…nice fellow.” His voice stilted. “I was with a friend. A prosecutor. A business date.”

“I see. And how have you been coping?”

“No complaints.” He struggled to invent a plausible lie. But Dr. Epstein had X-ray vision, she saw through him like glass. That was the problem, that’s why he strived so hard to avoid her; she saw past his mask.

“Are you still hearing voices?” The voices of dead judges, he’d told her that. And Lance Valentine, his cut-glass accent. And Widgeon, telling him what to do, like God. Like God telling Gilbert F. Gilbert to kill the chief justice. Brian had gone back through that file, the psychiatric reports, seeking symptoms, clues, answers to his own problems.

He lied. “The voices don’t bother me.”

“Have you decided to terminate therapy?”

“I wasn’t handling it very well. I needed a break.”

A long pause, one of those significant pauses where she waits for elaboration, confession, expects to reel the truth out of him like a fish from the sea. He felt sudden, overwhelming defeat. He was imploding under the pressure, all the followers, the conspirators, the plots and subplots; he could no longer tell who was real, who fictitious, who was with him, who against him. He opened his case and thrust his manuscript at her.

“I want you to have this.”

“Brian, I can help you.”

“They’re after me. I know too much. I know who killed the judges. All the clues are in here.”