T. Bunn - Winner Take All

“A happening thing.” Marcus returned the grin. “How did I ever miss working with you up to now?”

“Shoot, you’re too busy chasing dragons from what I hear. Got your guns loaded with high-velocity heat-seekers.”

“I’m just another Carolina country lawyer.”

“You can go sell that one down the street.” She settled into her chair. “I hear Charlie Hayes was a friend of yours.”

“That’s right.”

“Says a lot for you. He was a good man.”

“Yes.”

“I’m sorry. Don’t know what else I can say except we aim on tracking down the killers and putting them away. You can take that to the bank.” She gave him a full-on inspection. “Straight up, now. Did Dale Steadman murder his wife?”

“No. Absolutely not.”

“Dale Steadman held two fund-raisers for me at that Disney castle he built. Went out of his way to help me when most of the wealthy citizens of this good town would just as soon have shown me the back of their hand.”

“If I was his judge and not his lawyer, I’d be telling you the same thing. Dale Steadman is innocent of everything except loving his child.”

“I believe you.” She tightened her gaze. “Ain’t that a shocker? A DA admitting such a thing to a defense attorney.”

“It’s the nicest compliment I’ve had in a long while.”

“Okay. Enough of the talk-talk. Here’s what we got.” She opened the files. “Local boy, James Walker, aka all sorts of silly old names, most recently going by the highly original guise of Studley.”

“Studley Walker. I can see him already.”

“Boy’s so smart he thinks Cheerios are doughnut seeds. Been arrested a grand total of nineteen times, not bad for somebody still making a grab for twenty-five.” She stabbed the second file. “Skyler Cummins. Altogether different ballgame. You run across him before?”

“No.”

“You must not do much criminal work. He’s from Durham originally, then Raleigh by way of Chicago. Extortion, assault, battery, armed robbery. Two stints of hard time.”

“A bad one.”

“You’ll see.” She closed the files. “So let’s hear your impression.”

“Two-bit was approached by the heavy.”

“Looks that way to me as well.”

“Heavy is the only one who knows who’s behind this. Which means we have to turn him.”

“I want to work on Studley first. One thing we might use. When I spoke to our chief jailer about the visitor’s log, he mentioned James Walker had words with him a few days back. The begging kind. Like he’d be willing to do something if it meant getting him away from his present digs. At the time, the jailer didn’t give it much thought, seeing as how we were dealing with a simple B amp;E.” She motioned to the coffeepot. When Marcus shook his head, she asked, “So how do you want to play this one out?”

“This is your turf.”

Wilma Blain shook her head. “I like your style, counselor. Help me out here.”

“I like the fact he’s already approached the jailer. A lot.”

“Our man James may not be the brightest penny in the roll. But he’s managed to smell out something’s not right with this picture.”

“Or he’s been threatened.”

“That thought crossed my mind as well.”

“So have the jailer bring him over, and on the way let it slip about these visits Hamper made to the other man.”

“I’m with you.”

“The jailer might even mention how talking to you without his lawyer present isn’t possible unless he first dismisses Hamper.” Defense counsel was required by law to be present whenever a representative of the opposition wished to speak with the accused, unless of course the accused fired his counsel. “Bring the guy out here. Hold your meeting in a courthouse chamber. No manacles. Leave the guard outside the door.”

“You mean, when he talks to us.”

“Do you have a room with one-way glass?”

She showed surprise for the very first time. “You want to hide yourself away?”

“Only,” Marcus replied, “until we spring our trap.”

“Reiner Klatz.”

“Reiner, this is Kirsten Stansted.”

There was an astonished silence. “You are finding me even at ten thousand meters?”

“What?”

“Never mind. I had hoped for the pleasure of never hearing from you again.”

“The feeling is mutual, Reiner. Now tell me about the other offer.”

A pause. “Please?”

“The other offer, Reiner. The one not coming from Dale Steadman.”

A muffled curse sent Kirsten bounding off the bed and shooting for the corner of the hotel room where she had stowed her empty suitcase. “Ten million, do I have that right?”

“Goscha,” he muttered. “It could only be.”

“Focus, Reiner. It’s either answers or the police. Take your pick.”

“No police!” The man moved to high falsetto and stayed there. “I am told the baby will die!”

“Who’s talking with you, Reiner?”

“I know nothing! Nothing! First I am slave to Erin Brandt, now to mystery men who have her child! I am an opera manager! ”

“Slow down, Reiner. Tell me what you know.”

“Did you not hear me? I know nothing at all! I receive a call from people, bad people. They say they have the child. They tell me you will be coming with money.”

“Then what about-”

“You just wait! Then I receive another call.”

“Same people?”

“Who am I to know? They are not giving me answers to anything! They say forget you and forget Dale’s money. Now there will be other money.”

“From where?”

“They tell me asking questions will only cause pain and death, you understand? All I am told is, I am to travel to Wilmington to receive the money. They have sent for me a private plane. I will be the go-between for the child.”

“But if Dale isn’t to pay then why-”

“Please, you are to ask no more questions. You are to call me never again. You are to go away and never reveal yourself to me. Are we clear on these matters? Good. For the first time since this horror began, I have a gladness.”

James Studley Walker wore a pompadour two inches tall. From behind the one-way glass, Marcus watched him saunter into the room rubbing his wrists where the manacles had just been removed. The blond pompadour looked waxed. He carried cigarettes rolled into his right sleeve and a foot-long comb in the back pocket of his prison coveralls. No tattoos, no earrings, no jailyard jewelry. James was a redneck hood, pure and simple. Marcus checked his sheet. James’ last attempt at the straight life had lasted sixteen months and seen him pass through eleven different jobs, all construction. He had been arrested while still on parole. Bar fight. James Studley Walker had used a bar stool and steel-toed boots to dance all over five other men.

The first words out of his mouth were “I’m not stupid.”

“I’m glad to hear that, James. Because I don’t have a second to waste on stupid men.” Wilma Blain gestured across the scarred table. “Take a seat, why don’t you.”

“Is it true what the guard said?”

“What’s that?”

“How the lawyer’s been down to see the other guy and not me.”

“Six times, James.”

“That can’t be right.”

She lifted the broad register, set it on the table between them, opened to the relevant pages, and swiveled it around. “This is the official prison logbook. You know the routine. Everybody signs in and out. Have a look where I’ve marked. See that name? Hamper Caisse. And see the next column here? Who he’s here to visit. Skyler Cummins. No mention of you, now, is there?”

“I don’t believe this.”