Paul Levine - Lassiter

“Sonia Majeski,” I said.

“What’s her credibility?”

“I believe her. Isn’t that good enough?”

He riffled through the report. “Exotic dancer. Arrested a couple times doing rub-and-tugs in a massage parlor.”

“What’s the relevance of that?” I asked.

He put down the file. “Ziegler told the cops Krista Larkin never showed up that night.”

“What about the other guests? How many people did the cops talk to?”

“Apparently, no one else.”

“Let me guess why. The party animals were prominent around town. Bankers, lawyers, power brokers. Maybe a police captain or two.”

“No way to tell from the report, but it’s a good guess.”

“So Ziegler offers a drink to a rookie cop, gives him a box of porn videos for the station, and the investigation is closed.”

Castiel ignored my shot at Miami’s semi-finest and turned to Amy. “I have to ask you some difficult questions, Ms. Larkin.”

“I’m a big girl,” she fired back.

“Your sister ran away from home several months earlier.”

“Yes.”

“What makes you so sure she didn’t run away again?”

“All her belongings were still in her apartment. Isn’t that evidence that something happened to her?”

“Not necessarily.” He looked back at the report. “Her car wasn’t at the apartment. Maybe she left town in a hurry. Your sister was living dangerously. Drugs. Porn. She could have ripped off a dealer. Or just decided to try another city and start all over.”

“At some point, Krista would have called me.”

“Maybe once she began a new life, she decided to put everything behind her.”

“She wouldn’t have let all these years go by.” Amy’s lower lip trembled. Maybe she wasn’t made of marble after all. “We loved each other.”

Castiel moved away from his desk and put a hand on her shoulder. “I understand your grief. But there’s no proof your sister is dead, much less that someone killed her.”

“I don’t want your sympathy, Mr. Castiel.” She shook his hand away. “Dammit, I want you to do something.”

Castiel recoiled as if slapped. I’d failed to warn him that Amy wasn’t the touchy-feely type. He turned to me. “Jake, you see the situation here. Just what would you have me do?”

“Ask Ziegler to give a voluntary statement under oath. No subpoena and he waives immunity.”

“Did you actually pass the Bar exam?”

“Fourth try.”

“Why would Ziegler ever do that?”

“If he’s a solid citizen with nothing to hide, why not?”

“Testify about a missing underage girl and remind people of his past. Why would he want to dig up all those buried bones?”

“Interesting choice of words.”

He gave me that straight-on, challenging look. I’d seen it when he had the ball at the top of the key. Was he going to shoot the step-back jumper or drive to the hoop? Instead of waiting to find out, I decided to swat the ball away.

“What if I told you that another woman last seen in Ziegler’s company disappeared and was never seen again?” I said.

Liar, liar. Briefs on fire .

“What woman? When?”

“I’m not at liberty to say.” Like a gorilla shaking a tree, I was curious what might fall from the branches.

“You can’t leave that hanging, Jake. Do you have evidence that Charlie Ziegler committed a crime?”

“Let me put it this way. I have a confidential source who says Ziegler was making snuff films.”

Amy stiffened in her chair. “Jake, is that true?”

I hadn’t told her what Sonia had said. Maybe it was cruel to spring it on her, but I wanted tension in the room, and I got it. I’d combined my total lie about a second missing woman with the dubious hearsay about snuff films. Of such whispers are wicked rumors born. And maybe a state investigation.

“Ms. Larkin, I wonder if you’d like a cup of coffee in our break room,” Castiel said. He was speaking to my client but was looking at me through narrowed eyes. “I need to have a few words with your lawyer.”

Watching Castiel glare at me, I had a pretty good idea what some of those words would be.

“Snuff films are a myth,” Castiel said. “Who fed you this line of crap, anyway?”

“I told you, Alex. My informant is confidential.”

“For a lawyer, you’re a lousy liar.”

“Don’t let that get out, or I’ll lose all my clients.”

Castiel returned to his desk, the power position. I sat humbly in the visitor’s chair, admiring the paneled walls. Castiel didn’t plaster his office with photos of himself shaking hands with every cheap politico in town. No ribbon cuttings. No plaques from the Kiwanis or bouquets from the PTA. For a politician, he was almost a regular guy.

“Face it,” Castiel said. “All you have is suspicion with nothing to back it up.”

“The sleazebag was passing the girl around to his friends and making her do porn. She disappears. I’m suspicious, yeah.”

“Sleazebag? You put labels on people, Jake. You see things in black and white, good and evil.”

“You’re right. I see rapists as evil. I don’t care that Polanski made good movies or that Ziegler made bad ones. I just get pissed when the strong abuse the weak.”

“A word of advice, Jake. Don’t go around town talking trash about Charlie Ziegler. The guy’s got connections.”

“Meaning?”

“He could cut off your court appointments with one phone call, and there’s nothing I could do to help you.”

I had one more card to play, the one I’d carried in my vest for years. “If not for me, Alex, you wouldn’t even be sitting in that fancy chair.”

That seemed to take him aback. “You saying I owe you because you once did a public service?”

“I wore a wire for you because I thought it was the right thing to do. You got elected State Attorney, and I got treated like a leper.”

To this day, I didn’t know if I regretted my actions. I was a newly minted lawyer, learning the ropes in the Public Defender’s Office. One of my first clients had discovered the identity of the confidential informant who had fingered him for robbery and extortion. My guy thought I’d make a good bag man to deliver money to a gangbanger who would kill the informant and the prosecutor, a newbie named Alejandro Castiel.

I had a choice. I could withdraw from the case, but I figured my client would just find somebody else to set up the hit. So I wore a wire and arranged to meet the gangbanger in a Hialeah warehouse.

“Why you asking all these questions?” the guy demanded .

“To make sure we’re on the same page.”

“Just give me the money and get the fuck out.”

“Not a problem.” I handed over a gym bag stuffed with cash. Maybe I was sweating or maybe something in my eyes gave it away .

“You wearing a wire?” the guy said .

“Fuck no.”

“Prove it.” He pulled a 9mm from his waistband .

He was half a foot shorter than me, and standing so close, I could feel his breath. I head-butted him, a quick, vicious shot that broke his nose and spurted blood over me. I stomped on his instep, and he dropped the gun .

A second later, the door burst open. Half a dozen cops flew into the room, followed by Castiel .

Starting with the press conference, Castiel became the hero of the story. I turned out to be the subject of some suspicion. Why, a newspaper reporter wondered, would a career criminal solicit me for a murder scheme, unless I was dirty? I didn’t get the key to the city or even a thank you. Defense lawyers treated me like a pariah, and even penniless jailbirds wouldn’t hire me.