James Sheehan - The Law of Second Chances

He lay there for a few minutes not moving. Then he inched his head around slightly so he could see the front of the house. Everything was still, including the dog, who had not moved from his spot on the porch. Slowly Henry stood up and walked around toward the back of the house.

There was an old man in the backyard feeding the chickens. Henry slipped up behind him and put him in a headlock with his left arm, grabbing him around the middle with his right. The old geezer started kicking and flailing his arms.

“Hold on there, Mr. Woods. I don’t know what you’re thinking, but I don’t want to hurt you even though you just tried to kill me. I’m just looking for some information.”

The old man kept up the barrage of kicks and punches. “I’m not Mr. Woods,” he cackled. “And if I wanted to kill you, you’d already be dead. I just fired a warning. Figured you’d go away after that.”

Henry realized he needed to do something to calm the situation. He spun the old man around and hit him with a right cross to the chin. The poor fellow went down like a sack of potatoes. The chickens squawked, but the dog, who was now lying on the back porch, didn’t move.

Henry found some rope in the barn, tied the old man’s hands and feet, and carried him into the house, propping him up on a ratty old couch near the window. Henry sat down across from him and waited for him to come round.

Finally the old man’s eyelids flickered as he started to regain consciousness. He looked around as if lost, then focused on Henry, a flash of anger crossing his face. He struggled briefly against the ropes and then went limp, staring all the time at Henry.

“We can do this the easy way or the hard way,” Henry said calmly. “First, I’m going to tell you who I am and why I’m here. Then you can decide if you want to answer my questions.”

“I’ve got no choice, I guess,” the old man grumbled.

Henry then told him about Carl Robertson’s murder, Benny’s murder charge, and Jack’s representation of Benny. “I work for Jack Tobin. The reason I’m here is because Mr. Robertson called you thirty-eight times in the month before he died. We want to know why and if there’s any connection to Mr. Robertson’s death.”

“He didn’t call me,” the old man answered. “He called Lenny.”

“You’re not Leonard Woods?”

“I already told you that before you slugged me. My name’s Valentine Busby. I farmed the land here for Lenny. He left me the house. Lenny Woods is dead.”

Henry’s heart sank momentarily. “When did he die?”

“Over a year ago back in the summer.”

“What happened?”

“He was murdered. A hit-and-run at seven o’clock in the morning right out there on Robin Lane.”

“Why do you think it was murder and not an accident?”

“Lenny went for a walk at seven every morning after the animals were taken care of and all the morning chores were done. It was broad daylight. Anybody coulda seen him. Do you know how fast you have to go on a road like that to kill a man? No, it was murder.”

“Did the police think it was murder?”

“The police around here don’t think, period.”

Henry frowned. These two murders didn’t appear to be a coincidence.

“Do you know what Lenny and Carl talked about on the phone?” he asked.

“No. I know they were working on something together but Lenny didn’t tell me about that kind of stuff. He had a colleague in Wisconsin who I’m sure knew all about it.”

“A colleague? What kind of business was Lenny in?”

“He wasn’t in any business. He was a professor of microbiology at the University of Florida.”

“In Gainesville?”

“Yeah. Right up the road.”

“Do you know the name of this colleague in Wisconsin?”

“I sure do. I’ve got his name and address written down somewhere. If you untie me, I can get it.”

Henry figured things were safe enough so he started to untie him. “Now don’t try anything funny.”

“Tangle with a man the size of you again? I’m not that stupid,” Valentine Busby said, rubbing his bruised chin now that his hands were free. “By the way, when was Carl Robertson murdered?”

“September first of last year,” Henry said, crouching down to undo the knots on the rope around Valentine’s feet.

“That’s funny.”

“Why is it funny?”

“Lenny was murdered on September second.”

Henry almost had a heart attack. He was still trying to process this new information when Valentine dropped another bombshell.

“You know, you’re not the first person I talked to about this.”

“Really?” Henry replied as he straightened up and helped Valentine to his feet.

“Yeah. I talked to an attorney maybe six months ago. Not the guy you work for. Somebody else. I told him pretty much what I told you, although it was a much shorter conversation. I never heard from him again but after that things got a little creepy. Cars started coming by at strange hours, that kind of stuff. I know it could be my imagination. I’m an old man and all, but that’s when I cut off the phone and wouldn’t let anybody past that clearing where you parked your car. I’m sorry I fired that warning shot, but now you know why.”

Henry wasn’t quite ready to accept Valentine’s apology so he ignored it. “Was the guy you talked to named Sal Paglia?”

“Can’t be certain. I don’t have the greatest memory in the world. But yeah, I think that’s the guy.”

For a moment at the outset of the trial Jack thought Langford Middleton was in cahoots with Spencer Taylor, because he was moving the case along so fast.

“Call your first witness,” the judge told Spencer before Jack had arrived back at his seat after finishing his opening statement.

“The state calls Angela Vincent.”

The bailiff left the room and came back less than a minute later with a beautiful blond woman dressed appropriately in a modest black dress. The clerk swore her in and she stepped up to the witness chair.

“Please state your name for the record,” Spencer Taylor began.

“Angela Vincent,” she replied.

“Ms. Vincent, did you know the deceased, Carl Robertson?”

“Yes.”

“And could you tell the jury the nature of your relationship?”

“I was Carl’s mistress for five years. He set me up in an apartment on Seventy-eighth Street and East End Avenue and he gave me ten thousand dollars a month. He came to visit every Tuesday and Thursday and sometimes on the weekend.”

Jack could tell from the detail in Angie’s answer and the directness with which she delivered it that she and Spencer had rehearsed her testimony thoroughly.

“Do you know where Carl lived?”

“In Washington, DC.”

“And he came to your place every Tuesday and Thursday without fail?”

“Yes.”

“How did he get there?”

“Carl had his own jet, so he flew here and then drove to the apartment in a car he kept at the airport.”

“And what kind of car was it?”

“A black Mercedes.”

“And where did Carl park when he came to see you on Tuesdays and Thursdays?”

“He had a private spot reserved right in front of the building.”

“In what way was it reserved?”

“There was a sign that said ‘No Parking.’”

“And that sign was visible to the general public?”

“Yes.”

“And was the deceased dressed in any particular way when he came to see you?”

“Carl always arrived in a suit. He was very particular about how he looked.”

“What did you know about Carl before you began this relationship with him?”

“Well, I knew he was a very nice man. I went out with him on several occasions before I moved into the apartment.”