Steve Martini - Undue Influence

Dana’s a quizzical look.

‘Someone wanted Marcie Reed dead so she couldn’t tell me something. Something about Kathy Merlow. They also wanted me out of harm’s way. People who send letter bombs are not generally that considerate. If they want me alive it’s for a reason. They know I’m looking for the Merlows. I think they’re doing the same thing, and they’re hoping I’ll do their job for them. A lawyer up to his haunches in a murder trial, with access to judicial process to compel the appearance of witnesses. That’s not a bad bird dog,’ I tell her.

‘So you think they want to kill the Merlows?’ she says. ‘Why?’

‘I think whoever killed Marcie Reed pulled the trigger on Melanie Vega and got caught in the act. Somehow the killer found out that he’d been compromised. Now he’s trying to cover his tracks.’

She looks at me, big round eyes.

‘It’s Jack’s style. Trust me. He’d hire somebody to do Melanie. When we check, I’m sure he’ll have six alibis for the night of the murder. Think about it. His wife is pregnant. She’s got a young lover. Jack’s getting ready to do hard time. She wasn’t going to wait for him. A washed-up politician, no future, his money siphoned off by criminal fines. To Jack, Melanie was more of an asset dead than alive. If he could get the kids, a murdered wife, he’d make a bid for sympathy. He was getting ready to play you folks like a piano.’

‘And the bombing? You think Jack had a hand in that?’

‘No. I think matters are now spinning out of control. I think the killer panicked and tried to engage in some free agency to cover his tracks. He got desperate.’

‘And a little sloppy at the post office,’ she says. ‘If what you say is accurate, a few people saw the courier there.’

‘True. Desperate people do stupid things.’

‘And where’s Jack in all of this?’

‘I don’t know if he knows what’s going on at this point. He probably paid the tab, whatever the going rate is these days for a hired hit. My guess is he doesn’t know they screwed up. That there’s loose ends, a witness to the murder. His tight little ball is about to unravel.

‘One thing is certain,’ I tell her. ‘In a few hours your people will know I was at the post office. It won’t take them long to make me. Fingerprints at the scene, descriptions from some of the employees. My picture has been in the papers almost daily since the start of Laurel’s case. Once they get ahold of me I’ll be a week answering questions, looking at mug shots in hopes I can ID the courier.’

‘And you won’t be able to find Kathy Merlow,’ she says.

‘You got it.’

She smiles. ‘Nice try.’

‘Well, if it happens, clean their clock, the courier included. I left a written description with Harry. Right down to the pimples on his bony ass. At least one other person got a glimpse of him at the post office. A guy named Howard. Somebody ought to be able to ID a mug shot. If he’s of record.’

‘What about your daughter? Where is she?’

‘She’s with friends since earlier this evening. A couple Nikki and I were close to. They live in the country, have a pony, and a little girl Sarah’s age. She’ll be fine.’

I don’t tell her, but Sarah would have gone there whether I left tonight or not. After the surprise in the letter pack, I am taking no chances.

‘You shouldn’t be doing this. We shouldn’t even be talking about this. I should be calling the FBI, and you should be answering questions, looking at pictures.’

‘I don’t have a choice,’ I tell her. ‘If I don’t find Merlow — Kathy — or George — I’m going to trial on a case that is at best shaky. A long time in the joint for a nice lady, or worse,’ I say. ‘So I’m going. Don’t try to stop me.’

She considers this for a long moment, silence over her coffee, flipping Merlow’s envelope in her fingers, one side up and then the other, finally laying it on the table, the canceled stamp facing up. She looks at the postmark. The clear lettering inside the circle:

Hana HI 96713

USPS

‘Is your flight full?’ she says.

‘I don’t know.’

‘If it is, I can use my credentials to bump somebody. Government business,’ she says.

‘Not a chance,’ I tell her.

‘Then you’ll never board the plane,’ she says.

‘Why not?’

‘I will stop you.’ Visions of the cops rolling by in their cruiser. There’s not a hint of mirth in her eyes. She is dead serious. Unless I take her, she will have her people pick me up at the airport or pull me from the plane.

‘We’re talking a federal crime,’ she says. A postal employee has been killed in a federal facility. I can’t take the responsibility of letting you go off alone to hunt for someone who, according to your own theory, is a target — a witness to another murder. According to your own words you’re being tracked.

‘And if something happened to you, how would I live with myself?’ she says. ‘Besides, what would I say to Sarah?’ She smiles, soft feline looks, head canted just a little to one side, auburn hair coiling at her shoulders.

‘Do we have a deal?’

My options are closing.

‘If we catch Merlow I get her as a witness?’ I say. I’m trying to stave off Dana’s good looks, struggling to maintain my lawyer’s wits under the laser intensity of her oval eyes, the wafting fragrance of her scent.

‘Why not? At this point we have a mutual interest. You solve your crime, maybe I solve mine.’

She can see my resolve beginning to wither. Not that I have much choice.

‘Let me call to get a ticket,’ she says. ‘Then we can go to my place while I pack — unless you have an extra toothbrush and a nightie,’ she says.

‘I can meet you at the airport. You go home and pack.’

‘Not a chance.’ Her grin widens. ‘You don’t leave my sight until we’re on the plane.’

I start to say something and she stops me, her finger to my lips.

‘Shhh. You talk too much,’ she says. Her smooth palm, ungloved this time, comes across the table to soothe my battered cheek. Like a balm easing the tension and fire of pain-racked nerve ends, Dana is warm, tender looks through bedroom eyes.

Six hours on a plane, some of it with Dana’s head on my shoulder as she sleeps, is not an entirely unpleasant experience.

Dana stirs on my shoulder, stretches, and arches her back in the chair.

‘I’m gonna use the phone,’ she says. ‘Try to get us accommodations.’ Dana’s been here before, so I leave this to her.

‘Here, catch up on your reading,’ she says. She hands me the evening paper from Capital City, pulled from the side flap of her briefcase under the seat in front of her.

I watch her move down the aisle toward one of the cellular phones up front.

The bombing at the post office is the lead on the front page, a banner headline with a three-column photo, police tape on the loading dock, a human tide of the curious in the alley behind the building, fire trucks and police cars in view.

They are withholding the name of the employee killed until next-of-kin can be notified. I think about Marcie’s children, the seven-year-old son she talked about, and wonder: Does he have a father? What will become of the boy now? And I think about Sarah, who but for a few more feet down that shattered hallway…

So far there are few details on the bombing. What is published is a lot of conjecture, quoted statements from postal officials talking about the constant risk of bombs being sent through the mails, the difficulty of security precautions given the volume of letters and packages. Speculation, most of it wrong. I scan the page, two columns, and turn to the inside. There is not a word about the private courier or the package he delivered. I am wondering what has happened to Howard, Marcie’s friend who ushered the courier back to the office. Have they questioned him? Figured it out?