Grant McCrea - Dead Money

In the other building, the guy said.

What other building?

The one next to the alley.

The scene was guarded by yellow tape and blue uniforms. A skinny cop with a bad facial condition pointed me and Butch to a dark staircase at the end of a narrow hallway.

Down there, he said. But be careful. They’re dusting for prints.

Okay, we said.

The staircase was dimly lit by small orange bulbs. We went down slowly. At the bottom they’d set up high-powered floodlights. Every dust ball and dead cockroach was starkly lit, outlined by a harsh shadow.

Careful, shouted one of the CID guys.

I looked down. I’d almost stepped on an evidence kit.

Sorry, I said.

Butch grabbed my elbow.

Just follow me, he said.

Butch conferred a moment with the guy who looked to be in charge. Nodded his head a few times. Beckoned to me. Led me to the farthest reaches of the basement space. Past lines of storage spaces. Each was about four feet wide. Made of ancient spruce laths floor to ceiling, lashed together with chicken wire. The cubicles were endlessly deep in broken tricycles, rusting roller skates, old high chairs. The doors were held shut by a potpourri of dime-store locks. They looked just about secure enough to keep out a paraplegic rabbit.

Perpendicular to the end of the row was a high tin-covered door. I recognized it right away. The inside image of the door in the alley.

I felt sick. I’d never gotten around to checking where it led. Had I only followed through with my intuition, then…what? I might have found a corpse? Well, maybe I shouldn’t feel so bad. Maybe if I had, FitzGibbon would have been spared the ignominy of throwing himself out of a thirty-third-story window – or being pushed – the thought reminded me that we didn’t have all the answers yet.

Would that have been a contribution to the collective welfare?

I thought not.

So maybe it was okay that I was such a solipsistic fool.

Or maybe not. Time would tell.

In the meantime, Butch led me forward. Took a left at the metal door. We ducked down. Peered into the crawl space. The one in which, until a moment earlier, the rotting remains of the good Veronica FitzGibbon had reposed.

It was dark.

It was ordinary.

In the way that extraordinary places often are.

After our tour of the grotto we picked up Dorita. She had stayed behind. Not having a strong desire to look at dead bodies.

We retired to the closest eatery. I had a double Glenmorangie, straight up.

There are still things we don’t know, said Dorita.

I can’t argue with that, I said.

Me neither, said Butch.

There’s stuff that Lisa didn’t know, I said.

Couldn’t know, said Dorita.

Stuff that only Ramon or Raul can tell us.

You want to talk to them, good luck, said Butch.

I knew what he meant. I knew what Butch’s little trip outside the loft had been for. They’d probably picked up the twins before we’d even finished talking to Lisa.

If you’re with us, I said, you’ll try to get me in.

You’re going to have to go through the ADA, he said.

Russell Graham? No sweat. I’m tight with him.

Sure, Butch laughed. I knew that.

Hey, I said. Let’s give it a shot. We’ve got some leverage, you know. I’ve got something to trade.

Yeah?

Information. If nothing else.

True, Butch said. It’s worth a shot. Come down with me. I’ll try to get him to talk to you.

We grabbed a cab.

It smelled of success.

Butch called the ADA from his cell phone. Gave him the goods. It took some doing, but he got the up-and-coming Russell Graham to agree to see me. He’d give me ten minutes to talk him into it.

At the station house Butch led me into the back. He told Dorita to wait outside. She didn’t like it. But there were only so many civilians we could throw at the ADA all at once.

He was waiting in a small room. It smelled of mold.

I didn’t have a dog in the fight, I told him. I didn’t have a client anymore. I just wanted to get to the bottom of the whole thing. Finish the job we started. See justice done. Which put me on their side now. And I could do it faster than they could. I knew these guys. I knew what buttons to push. And anyway, I had a lot of information. Some maybe they had already. But I was willing to wager they didn’t have it all.

The ADA wasn’t exactly enthusiastic about it. But he knew that I knew stuff he wasn’t going to get anywhere else. So he cut me a deal. They were still working on Raul. He wasn’t talking. They hadn’t gotten to Ramon yet. They’d give me twenty minutes with him. But the cameras would be on. I needed to know that. No funny shit. They were letting me in solely for their purposes. To see what I might get. After the twenty minutes were up, I had to be debriefed by the ADA. Give up every squib of information I had. Not just whatever I got from Ramon. Everything.

It felt like a deal with the devil.

I took it.

Ramon was sitting in a stark and empty room. Four metal chairs. A flimsy table. Him. Me.

I sat down right next to him.

Hey, Ramon, I said. I hear you’re in deep shit.

He gave me the patented Ramon blank look.

I leaned in.

Listen, I said. We got a good situation here. You know what it is?

The brick wall stayed brick.

We got a dead guy, Ramon, I confided. You hear me?

He looked at me with a flicker of interest.

I feigned shock and dismay. I leaned back. My mouth fell open.

You mean they didn’t tell you?

He gave me a wary look.

Shit, man. You really don’t know. Those pricks. Jules. Jules killed himself. Stuck a knife into his gut. Hara-kiri. You know, that Japanese shit? You know that shit?

He nodded warily.

Yeah, I said, shaking my head. He was some fucked-up sick kid.

Ramon showed a glimmer of assent.

So anyway, I said. That means two things. I know you figured this out already. Because you’re a sharp guy. But let me lay it out for you. Can I lay it out for you?

He nodded slowly, twice.

Two things, I said. One, I don’t have a client anymore.

Ramon allowed himself a half-smile.

So I’m in the market for a new client, I said, slapping him playfully on the arm. If you get my meaning. But more important, I said quietly, leaning in to whisper into his ear, like I said, we got a dead guy. We stick the dead guy with it all.

I leaned back. I gave him a triumphant grin.

Whadya think? Is that rich, or what?

He looked at me. I looked at him. I kept grinning. My face hurt.

Yeah, he said. That’s good.

I knew you’d see it that way, Ramon, I said, with another conspiratorial lean in his direction. You’re a smart guy. But then we gotta get our story straight. If we’re going to pin it on Jules, we gotta make sure everything fits.

Sure, he whispered, looking at the one-way glass. I know that.

Don’t worry, I said. We just keep our voices low, it’s okay. Listen, I whispered, that’s where I come in. I’m a lawyer. I know how their minds work. You give me the stones, I build the wall.

I got the blank stare again.

I gotta have the facts, I said. What really happened. So I know where the weak points are. Then I make up the story. A story that fits whatever evidence they might find. There’s a million stories in the big city. We got to pick the right one. Can’t have any holes in it.

Ramon said nothing. I could see the brick in his head struggling mightily to turn itself into a brain. To figure out what was going on.

Hey, I said. I know what you’re thinking. What’s in it for Rick Redman? That’s an easy one. You’re going to get the money, right? You’re inheriting the dough. And I need a client. I need a client can pay the bills.