Robert Liston - The Tower of Evil

“You employed Harry Gould to entice Amanda Sykes out here to Santa Barbara. She saw you and Gould together. Witnesses heard you phone Gould at the gym and saw him leave for his office to meet you.”

He sighed. “One more time, I did not kill Harry Gould.”

“Oh yes, Joy Fielding did. Very clever, you blame her, she blames you. But it doesn’t matter. You are both accomplices, both guilty.”

“Only if you prove it, detective. You can’t without evidence from me.”

“Oh yes I can. Even as we speak, experts are digging into Harry Gould’s PC and resurrecting his files you erased.” It wasn’t true, but it could happen. “Those files will prove how you used him, your motive for killing him.”

He blinked, hesitated, then recovered. “They will prove I tried to help out a young lawyer by throwing a little business his way.”

“God, you’re despicable, worse than some gang-banger or doper. You know right from wrong. You just don’t give a damn. You know the law, but use it to escape punishment.”

He laughed. “You’re just jealous, detective.”

She left the interrogation room and returned to her desk. “Nothing’s changed, Sgt. Brogan. He wants immunity. How is it with Fielding?” They had switched interrogations.

“She doesn’t know nothin’ about nothin’.” He shook his head. “Why do these rich bitches figure they can get away with anything?”

“Have we found Dirk, the muscle man?”

“Not yet.”

“I should’ve kept my eye on him. He could tell us a lot about the murder.”

“He won’t get far.”

A strange voice interrupted them. “Don’t tell me you’re Detective Lupe Hernandez, of whom I’ve heard so much?”

She looked up and saw lots of teeth, bright brown eyes, two arms outstretched toward her. She recoiled. “Yes, but-”

“?Si hubiera sabido que eras tan hermosisima, me hubiera acercado mucho mas antes a ti!”

His spate of Spanish only made his leering grin worse. She shook herself loose from his hands on her shoulders. “I’m afraid I don’t speak Spanish.”

“You certainly look like you do. I said if I’d known you were so gorgeous, I’d have rushed over to meet you sooner.” He laughed now. “I’m Carlos Light.”

She stared at him. A Latino named Light? Then she knew. “Carlos as in C. K. Light, the deputy DA? We’ve talked on the phone?”

“The very same. And you really are beautiful. Bellisima. Eres tan preciosa.”

He was a bit on the short side and stocky, even burly, with dark curly hair. He was not really handsome, no Jimmy Smits or Benjamin Bratt, but he sure thought he was the original Latin lover, grinning and strutting and coming on to her. Who needed him? The type disgusted her.

“Tell me, guapa, how you can look Latina and not know Spanish?’

She shoved the question aside. She didn’t want to hear it.

“I’ll bet I know. Your father was Hispanic, but your mother was Anglo and spoke only English. It is the exact opposite with me. My father is Anglo, my mother Latina. I have the best of both worlds.” He laughed. “And now I have met you, guapa.”

Buster Brogan had taken all he could. “Look, you two can engage in courtship rituals on your own time. We’re in the middle of a police investigation. We need charges, Light.”

She was glad of the interruption. Carlos Light’s ego was a threat to law enforcement. “We’re at an impasse, Mr. Light. Joy Fielding isn’t saying a word, and Victor Dragon won’t talk without immunity.”

His grin faded. His whole demeanor changed. “Tell me what you have.”

She and Buster both reported their evidence. She had to admit Carlos Light listened attentively and asked good questions. He was apparently something more than a foolish fop and sexual predator.

“Let’s go talk to him,” he said.

Inside the interrogation room, Carlos Light turned inquisitor. His voice took on an edge. “The good sergeant and the adorable Miss Hernandez have you cold-cocked, Dragon. There’ll be no immunity, my friend. Nothing I like better than bringing down a hotshot lawyer. If you don’t believe it, try me. Even if I lose the case, you’re ruined.”

Despite his tan, Victor Dragon’s face blanched.

“I lied, Dragon. There is one thing I like more-bringing down a holier-than-thou advice columnist. You help me do that and maybe I’ll consider a plea.”

She watched Light. There was a slight smile on his face, an expectant look in his eyes. When no answer came, he closed his briefcase, stood up and headed for the door. “See you in court, counselor.”

Dragon’s voice was barely audible. “I was supposed to shoot Gould. I had the gun in my hand, aimed. I thought I was ready, but… Joy swore at me, took the gun. She pulled the trigger. I couldn’t do it…”

“Will you say that in court?”

Dragon hesitated. “What do I get if I do?”

“First degree manslaughter.”

“Second degree.”

“No way, Dragon, first degree, eight years minimum. And only if you blab everything about everything. I’m being kind to you.”

Later, after both Fielding and Dragon were booked, she said to Carlos Light, “Why do I feel like we’ve made a pact with the Devil?”

“Because we did. We couldn’t’ allow both to go free. This way he gets some time, Dr. Joy lots of it.”

“I suppose.”

“How about coffee and a churro, guapa, I’m buying.”

“I do wish you’d quit calling me guapa.”

“How about bellisima?”

He was grinning at her, but the leering, insouciance was gone. He merely teased her now. She thought a little better of him. “I’ve been up all night, I need to go home.”

“You need to relax, then sleep. Trust Dr. Light, he is never wrong.”

He was a good lawyer. He had handled Dragon and Fielding like a pro. She liked that. And he certainly was good-looking. “I–I have to…”

She felt his hand on her elbow, turning her toward the door. Why not? What was wrong with a cup of coffee with a colleague? She pulled her arm away. “I’m sorry, I can’t, I have to go.” She ran from him.

Both set out to spend the day normally. Doreen went to her shop, while he drove the homeless around in the Care Wheels van. He’d even been distracted-some.

In mid-afternoon he picked her up at the shop and drove across town to Van Zant’s office. Neither had anything to say. That was okay, except the silence wasn’t particularly comfortable.

Strange. He could usually read Doreen’s thoughts. Not today-probably because he couldn’t fathom his own. Is this what it’s like to contemplate one’s doom? A morass of disorganized thoughts and silence? Try as he would, he could not think of dying. He didn’t even know how to start, and he’d always been a rather resourceful person. Do you tote up your accomplishments and regrets? List things to do? Plan a fling? Contemplate one’s Maker-and how do you do that?

He glanced at Doreen. What was she thinking? Pondering the joys of widowhood? No, that’s nasty. She was capable and self-reliant with a life of her own. But they sure would miss each other.

Stop it, Byerly. You haven’t even picked out the undertaker yet.

The wait in Van Zant’s office really wasn’t very long, but it seemed eternal. Doreen had brought her knitting-it always did calm her, she said-but her knuckles were white against the needles. A blood vessel throbbed in her temple. He’d never noticed that before.

“The doctor will see you now, Walter.”

The nurse held a door open. Doreen charged through it. Van Zant sat at his desk, looking down at some papers.

“I know you don’t want me here, doctor, but he’s my husband, this is my life and-”

“Of course I want you here, DeeDee.” He smiled at both, motioned to chairs across from his desk.