Steve Martini - Prime Witness

“It wasn’t among the papers you reviewed,” she says.

“Why not?”

“Because the code books were being updated. The annual pocket parts,” she says. She’s talking about the little inserts that come out yearly, with the new laws, and are inserted into pockets in the back of each volume.

“We were replacing them. All the books were apart in the library.” She talks like she was on top of this project.

“What happened?” I ask.

“A lawyer from Washington called, I think it was the State Department. He said he needed the code section to complete the extradition package before he could send it on to Canada. He said he needed it by the next day. We Fed-Ex’ed it to him.”

I look at her cross-eyed. “Those kinds of calls are supposed to be referred to a lawyer, Irene.”

“But it was,” she says, “referred to a lawyer. You weren’t in.” She looks at me with big, olive-eyed innocence. “The only one here was Roland, Mr. Overroy. He took care of it.”

I sit there, staring at her in stone-deaf silence, uttering a mantra in my mind’s ear, cursing the cruel fates that lifted this thing from the able hands of Irene Perez.

“ The World Center for Birds of Prey.” It is an unlikely name for an organization, but Nikki passes me a slip of paper with this moniker on it, a phone number, and a man’s name. This is the information she’s gleaned from the “Peregrine Directory,” the files missing from Karen Scofield’s computer.

“I think she was writing to this group,” she says.

We are meeting here in the cafeteria at the Capital County courthouse during a midday break. I am finishing up one of my old cases, a request from Harry, the first time I have been back across the river on business in over a month, and strangely, it feels good.

“The place,” says Nikki, “this center is located in Boise, Idaho. The phone number is from information. It’s a current listing,” she says. “I called it last night and got a message tape.”

“Enough,” I say. “You were only supposed to search the computer.”

“No extra charge,” she says. She gives me a mischievous grin. “Now do your part and finish the case.”

There’s no address written on the slip of paper, just a post office box.

“How much of the correspondence were you able to retrieve?”

“Just bits and pieces,” she says. “The backup files were incomplete.”

“It would have been nice to know what was in those other letters,” I say.

“You’re lucky you got this,” she tells me. She’s spooning yogurt in little delicate tastes, turning the spoon over onto her tongue, this from a small plastic container that reads “Yoplait.” We’re sitting in the cafeteria as the noontime crowd mills around us, people looking for tables, a place to sit and eat.

“How was Fern Gully ?” she says. She’s laughing at me. Nikki took care to ensure that I honored my word to entertain Sarah while she worked on the computer last night. She brought along a dozen kids’ books, the ones with letters the size of skywriting and a videotape that I played on the office equipment. I was camped in my office, Sarah curled up on my lap, reading and watching, until she fell asleep two hours later.

Nikki worked out the final missing pieces from the lost data this morning.

“I got his name, and the name of this center from an envelope she addressed using the computer, probably a label,” says Nikki. “It said ‘William.’ I figure it had to be this guy ‘Bill’ in the letter. It’s all part of the same directory.”

I look at her. “A bit of a reach, isn’t it?”

“Better than nothing.”

I concede the point. “I’ll put Dusalt on it this afternoon.”

Nikki’s looking at the newspaper I have spread in front of me on the table, reading upside down.

“I hope you weren’t planning on running for public office,” she says. A little dig. She’s referring to the headline, halfway down the page.

D.A. BLUNDERS

SUSPECT FREED

It’s a big, bold two columns. It reads like a lead albatross around my neck.

“Farthest thing from my mind,” I say. I am ruing the day I crossed the river to Davenport, took on this thing from Feretti. Nikki and Harry were right. Only pride prevents me from giving them the satisfaction of admitting this.

“If this keeps up, I’m going back to my maiden name,” she tells me. Nikki hasn’t seen the “Davenport Urinal” which boiled me in oil this morning. The larger papers down south and the wires are treating the story straight-up, that Iganovich is under surveillance and is likely to be rearrested as soon as the documents can be prepared, a minor clerical glitch. It is the best spin we can put on the current state of affairs.

It’s a different story here. I am being tarred and feathered in the local papers. The blame for release of Andre Iganovich has fallen squarely on the prosecutor’s office, and more particularly on me. Emil Johnson is quoted in this morning’s paper, stating in definitive terms that the release of Iganovich “is a failure of our legal process,” something that Emil sees as distinct and apart from the agencies of law enforcement, especially his own. Emil excels in the talents of politics. Voters will not see him standing around long near the scene of this car wreck.

Ingel has been all over my ass, an hour screaming at me on the phone. He tells me that this folly will track me back to Capital City, a black mark on my career, and that Acosta is waiting for me there. As for Ingel, he is making noises about calling in the state attorney general’s office for a thorough-going investigation of the errors that led up to Iganovich’s release, pointed questions for me to answer. “It looks to me like gross negligence,” his final farewell before he rings off.

I look over by the cash register, the stainless steel conveyor of trays and customers. I see Lenore Goya. She would not be here, across the river, unless it was something important. She’s scanning like a radar beacon, looking for me. I give her a high-sign with one arm. She sees us, works her way to the table.

“Have a seat,” I say.

She nods at Nikki, a warm smile, the strap of her purse slung on one shoulder; she throws her head to the side, flinging dark tresses from the side of her face.

“No time,” she says. “We’ve got problems.”

“It can’t get much worse,” I say.

“Don’t bet the farm on it,” she says. “Jacoby just called. The Canadian cops have lost Iganovich. He slipped away from them. Last night.”

I’m at full-tilt running for my car in the courthouse garage, heading for Davenport and whatever news I can get of the Russian’s disappearance up in Canada. The court has given me a continuance on my afternoon session here.

I see my car, a figure standing by it in the dim overhead fluorescence of this concrete bunker. I draw up. In the shadows, the face turns. It is Armando Acosta.

“My bailiff told me you were headed here.”

“Word travels fast,” I say.

“I want to talk to you,” he says. “I want to know what the hell is going on up in Canada. You’re a goddamn incompetent,” he says.

I wonder for a moment if he’s already heard, whether he knows that Iganovich has disappeared. Is it possible that his pipeline is better than my own?

“I’m in a hurry,” I say.

“You blew it,” he says. “The extradition. They tell me you have to start the whole process over,” he says. “How many months?”

I look at him. He doesn’t know. Not yet. He is thinking that the worst of it is more delay. Wait till he finds out the suspect is gone. My real troubles will start then.