Stephen Cannell - Three shirt deal

I turned to see a man over six feet tall standing at the far end of the room regarding me with puzzled exasperation. In person, Aubrey Wyatt was an even more commanding presence than in the pictures I'd seen. He emanated power-from his silver-white hair and aquiline profile, right down to his aura of mild condescending disdain. His foreboding demeanor told me that this wouldn't be easy.

"Interesting message," he said.

"Do you know who I am?"

"Detective Scully," he said, matter-of-factly. "My son told me about you. He says you're a hothead, and not very smart."

I didn' t respond. It was a close enough description.

"My son has a superior mind. He's been at the top of every scale society uses to measure aptitude and ability. I've raised him for greatness and I do not intend for a bunch of trumped-up allegations made by semiliterate immigrants and angry cops to change that."

"That may be out of your control." I handed Aubrey Wyatt my carefully annotated case folder.

He took it without comment, then sat in the nearest chair and began to read. After he was halfway through the first page, he got up, grabbed a yellow legal pad from a side table and then sat back down and began making notes with a five-hundred-dollar Mont Blanc pen. After almost thirty minutes he closed the file and looked up.

"Where's your son?"

"I haven't the faintest."

"He can't run from this. The D. A. can file murder charges, try him in absentia."

"You can attempt that. But it doesn't mean you'll get an indictment, let alone a conviction." He tapped the file with his gold pen. "Most, if not all of this is weak and circumstantial. You don't have one witness to the Olivia Hickman murder who can put my son anywhere in the vicinity of the crime. This Ron Torgason thing is pure speculation. He could have hit his head and drowned in his pool as the coroner's report states. Same with Juan Iglesia. My guess is this Mexican gangster, Church, and his buddies are probably not going to talk. That means you've got very little here save an interesting theory."

"I have one pretty good witness who will change everything."

"Really?" Aubrey Wyatt sat very still and studied me carefully. "The way I read your summary, Lieutenant Devine is dead. Without Church or this pack of VSL gangsters turning state's evidence, there's nobody else."

"You're wrong. I have one witness who can put Mike Church away."

"And who would that be?"

"Me." I let that sink in for a minute then said, "Church kidnapped and then tried to kill me on Colossus at Magic Mountain last night. I'm the only victim in this whole mess who managed to survive. My testimony will put him away for life. That's probably forty years, or until he dies."

"Fine. Do that then. I don't see how that affects Wade."

"Here's how it affects him. I'm really not all that interested in what happens to Mike Church. Yeah, he's a violent gangster who needs to get stuffed, but I figure once he's gone, another vato with a hard-on will just step up to take his place. I'm only interested in one thing."

"What's that?"

"I want to get Tru Hickman out of prison because he's innocent. In order to do that, I need somebody who can help me catch the real killers of Olivia Hickman. Those killers are your son, Wade, and Mike Church."

"You can't prove that."

"I think I can."

"How, pray tell?"

Pray tell? Man, don't you just love it?

"I've just been authorized by the D. A., Chase Beal, to cut the following deal with Mike Church: If Church turns State's evidence against your son on Hickman and Torgason, the D. A. will let him cop to Man One on both killings. He will recommend to the court that the two manslaughter sentences run concurrently. Instead of life, he gets twelve years. In return for his cooperation, I will refuse to testify against Church on my kidnapping and attempted homicide, which is a slam-dunk life without possibility of parole. Without my testimony, that kidnapping/attempted murder case goes away. It represents a net gain of at least twenty-two years for

Mr. Church. Whatta you bet he takes it and sells us your ratbag kid?"

I knew I'd drawn blood because he shifted a little in his chair. It was the first sign that he acknowledged any jeopardy for his son.

We stood in that magnificent room trading hard stares until he broke the silence.

"Since you're standing in my office, I assume you have something more you want to impart."

"Right now this is a jump ball. The D. A. will also offer the same kick down to your son. You get Wade to come home from wherever you have him stashed. If he steps up and puts this multiple homicide on Church, who I think did the actual work, then we'll let Wade be the one to cop to manslaughter and take the twelve years. Mike Church can do life without."

"My son is safe where he is."

"I don't think he's safe anywhere. He's an arrogant, self-involved little prick who's bound to make an arrogant, self-involved mistake. If I get him convicted for Murder One in absentia, warrants will go out for his arrest. He's not gonna listen to you when you tell him to stay put. He'll get itchy and end up going to some yacht race in Spain. Once he's out of whatever protected nonextradition zone you've got him stashed in, I'll be there with a warrant. But by then, Church will have already made the plea deal and your son will have to do the whole lifelong stretch."

"I need time to evaluate this."

"You've got until six tonight. If you're as smart as your reputation, you'll get your boy to grab it. If he does, he'll be out in time for his fortieth birthday with half a life still to live. But if you take the deal, there can be no holding back. Wade needs to offer up the whole thing. The rigged beer contest, how they scammed Homeland Security. He has to cop to both Juan Iglesia and Olivia

Hickman and, most important, he needs to give me Tito Morales. Only then does he get the reduced charges."

I watched Aubrey Wyatt process all of this, looking for a way out. I could see from his frown that he really appreciated the box I had him in.

I picked up my case folder and left him sitting there.

The blue and white Gulfstream Five with Wade Wyatt aboard touched down from Havana, Cuba, at ten a. M. the following Wednesday. The jet's two Rolls-Royce engines screamed in retro as it came to a stop at the end of Van Nuys Field, turned, and headed back toward us. Alexa, Secada, Jeb Calloway, Yvonne Hope, two uniformed officers, and I stood inside the private Jet Center watching through the window. Aubrey Wyatt, flanked by two stern, briefcase-wielding assistants also waited a short distance from us. Except for initial introductions, nothing was said between our two groups during the twenty-minute wait.

The private business jet taxied up to the terminal and the door descended. Then Wade appeared in the hatch. For the first time since I'd busted him three weeks ago in his father's million-dollar red Ferrari, he looked frightened and small. He walked down the stairs as everyone surged out onto the tarmac to intercept him at the foot of the boarding ladder.

"You take him into custody," I told Secada. "Your case."

She stepped forward and began to read the Miranda in a firm voice. As she continued reading from the card a tight grimace passed over Wade's handsome face. Murderers, I've come to realize, manifest themselves in two basic categories. You have the trigger-pulling, I'll-do-it-myself variety, and then, there are the Wade Wyatts of the world, the too-smart-to-get-blood-on-me guys. Planners. On a basic honesty level, I have to admit I prefer the former, but generally, the legal system cuts its deals with the latter. Hitters like Mike Church are hard to sympathize with and are perceived to be more dangerous.