T. Bunn - Winner Take All

“Yes. But we have to hurry. I’m waiting to hear from the mystery buyer’s bank.”

“All right. I want you to think back to the break-in.”

“You mean, the one here at the house?”

“Tell me everything you remember.”

“Now is not the time.”

“Believe me, it’s never been more the time. Please.”

“It was just your basic burglary. They were here when I got in.”

“Here where?”

“In the house. Where else? You think I’d hammer them because they were walking across my backyard?”

“So you found them in the house. Where exactly?”

“On the landing leading to Celeste’s bedroom.”

“That’s it.” That was the point he had half remembered.

“It’s the same stairs that lead up to the master bedroom. The safe’s bolted to the floor in my closet. Where else would they be?”

There was nothing to be gained by sharing suspicions. “I’m coming down.”

“To Wilmington?”

“Yes. Keep your mobile switched on. I may have something important.” Marcus hung up before Dale could argue.

Marcus did not want to be going to Wilmington. His heart was already covering the distance to New York. Every time he spoke with Kirsten, the draw was stronger. He had not known such a sense of impatience since he was sixteen and just another hyperhormonal high school jock with nothing more than football and Carolina cheerleaders on the mind. The connection was so potent he could feel it radiating like a carnal scent, flavoring the office atmosphere.

He dialed the judge’s office in Wilmington. “Judge Perry, this is Marcus Glenwood.”

“I thought we had us an arrangement. You weren’t to ever bother me again.”

“Things change.”

“I’ve got me five minutes between two felony trials, and that’s the best you can do?”

“I need an introduction to the Wilmington district attorney.”

“I am astonished to hear I am the best reference you can find to our local constabulary.”

“The one and only.”

“Sir, your confidence in me is utterly unfounded.” When Marcus did not rise to the bait, he added, “In case you have missed it, I do not like you. Nor do I think much of your tactics.”

“Which tactic would that be?” Marcus lashed back. “The one that says every individual convicted of a felony in this land has the Constitutional right to legal representation?”

There was a silence from the phone. Netty’s head poked in around the door. Even his secretary realized it was not sensible to be yelling at a sitting judge.

But Marcus was too far gone to care. “Wait, no, it must be my other tactic you’re thinking of. The one where I have a man arrive on my doorstep and beg for help. This after all your local lawyers proved too cowed by Wilmington power brokers to realize the man is innocent of everything except wanting back his baby girl.”

“The DA’s name is Wilma Blain,” the judge replied. “You two should get on like a house on fire.”

Marcus slammed down the phone. He spoke to Netty before she could comment on his actions or state of mind. “Get the Wilmington prosecutor’s office on the line for me.”

She started for the door, then asked, “You doing all right?”

Marcus hefted his mug. His coffee was stone cold. “I’m worried about Kirsten.”

“You’re nothing but a bundle of nerves and frets.” She walked over to the desk and took the mug from his hand. “More caffeine is the last thing in this world you need.”

A few moments later, Netty called from the other room. “DA’s office on line two.”

“Marcus Glenwood for Wilma Blain, please.”

A half minute of seventies retro-rock, then, “This is Blain.”

“Marcus Glenwood. I’m an attorney operating out of Rocky Mount, mostly in the Raleigh-”

“I know who you are.” The woman’s voice was almost as deep as a man’s, and sounded both black and rapid-fire intelligent. “We might be working out of a sleepy backwater town, but we’re wide awake in this office.”

“I have come across something related to a case I’m involved in that might interest you.”

“Who referred you to me?”

“Garland Perry.”

“Judge Perry gave you my name?” She sounded genuinely surprised.

“He did.”

“Are you sure he was on the proper medication at the time? I’ve never gotten a thing from that man but a full-on runaround.”

“This matter is urgent, no matter what Judge Perry might think.”

“Ain’t they all.”

“Do you happen to recall a break-in at Dale Steadman’s residence, I’m not sure exactly when it would have been-”

“Seven weeks, give or take a day.” All business now.

“You’re familiar with the case?”

“You might say so. Tell me something, counselor. This have anything to do with the missing child?”

“Possibly.”

“What about the still pending investigation into the demise of Charlie Hayes?”

Angry sorrow ground down his voice. “I sincerely hope so.”

“Not to mention the murder-one beef that brought the big-city detective barging around?”

“You don’t miss much.”

“This is a small town with mostly small-town problems. Happens I like it that way. And you didn’t answer my question.”

“The answer is,” Marcus replied, “I’m calling to hopefully find out that very same thing.”

“Well, now. That’s an answer I like.”

“Why is that?”

“Happens the two gents are still locked up next door.”

“What?”

“Garland Perry was off fishing the day they came for arraignment. We got us a hotshot district judge, young fellow who was a state prosecutor in an earlier life. This judge was willing to listen when I pointed out the pair had a mess of prior felonies and seven parole violations between them. He invited them to remain our guests until the trial.”

Marcus was already up and moving. “You think I could come down and have a word?”

Kedrick Lloyd’s secretary was not in the cramped outer office when Kirsten departed. She slipped into the hallway and decided to wander.

But around the first corner she was halted by a voice from behind. “Can I help you?”

Kirsten turned to face a young man in tank top and linen drawstring pants and sneakers. A sweater was bundled around his neck. His smile was lustrous, his poise dancer-perfect. “I was hoping to meet the senior conductor.”

“Are you supposed to be back here?”

“I’m meeting with Kedrick Lloyd.”

His flirtatious attitude vanished. “Right. Sorry, with all these security scares we’re supposed to be extra careful.”

“It’s fine.”

“The orchestra has just finished rehearsals, so you’ll probably find the maestro up toward the stage somewhere.”

She followed the hall up a flight of stairs and around a corner. She stepped to one side as a stream of people poured through the stage door. Up ahead she spotted the maestro reading over the shoulders of three women. The ladies held thick scores with both hands. Violin cases stood at their feet. The conductor had on a herringbone flannel shirt and fitted Cerrutti jeans, and displayed the swept-back hair of a dedicated Romeo. He wiped his face with a thick hand towel as he studied the music.

“Do you still have a fermata after the second beat?”

“It was taken out, Maestro.”

“Fine, fine, just so long as I know.” He had an odd mixture of accents, Italian and something heavier, a liquid German or Eastern European. “Let’s hold to the rigid beat throughout, then. I’ll inform her majesty at the dress rehearsal that she is not permitted to breathe through the entire aria.” He smiled them on their way.