Jonathon King - A Killing Night

"Freeman, I've been working this for months. I've dealt out the other possibilities. Christ, I even posed as a bartender to run a living, breathing lineup past myself every night. Your friend is the one that sticks out. He fits the profile, and yeah, it's the profile I put together, but he's right there. If he hadn't made me as undercover, I might have gotten him to make a move or give up a piece of evidence. That didn't happen, but I saw him in action."

"OK," I said. "How about someone you never saw in action? Someone who might fit your profile, but who would have bailed at the first sign or recognition of a cop?"

She finally looked me in the eyes.

"What the hell are you talking about, Max?"

"Suppose you've got over-the-counter drug dealing going on in a bar? The supplier is smart, he recruits the girls working as bartenders."

I saw the head tilt start, the draw of exasperated breath.

"Just hear me out. OK?" I said. She relented and chewed on a corner of her lip.

"Suppose the supplier is smart enough to move these girls around, to different cities or states, or just sends them packing when he thinks they might compromise his action?"

I reached into my pocket and took out the photo that O'Shea had taken and offered it to her.

"Ever seen this guy before?"

She looked, brow scrunching, studying longer than necessary.

"I've seen him before," she finally said. "But I've never seen him here. This is Kim's, right?"

She was a good investigator, strong in the details. She probably recognized the jukebox just as I had.

"You have a name?" I said.

"No, I'm not that familiar."

"He snuck out of Kim's the other night as soon as you walked in."

The corner of her mouth turned up.

"Lot of people wouldn't want to be seen sitting at a bar by a detective."

"Yeah, I know," I said and waited.

"Why else did you single him out, Max?"

"He seemed to have some kind of connection to the new bartender, the one who was watching us that day when we were interviewing Laurie."

"Connection?"

"Yeah. When he bolted, she kept looking from us to the spot he left, very nervous."

She was still looking at the photo, her eyes narrowed. There was something else there, I was sure of it. And she was trying to decide whether she was going to share it with me.

"He's a cop. Works patrol. Maybe even in that sector," she said, looking up into my face.

"No shit," I said, mostly to myself.

"Easy, Freeman," she started. "Lots of cops wouldn't want to be caught at a bar by a superior officer, even if they're off hours. Who knows, maybe he doesn't want word getting back to the wife?"

"Can you get a name and run a history, get a look at his record?" I said, my head working the possibilities.

"Jesus, Freeman. You're ballsy," she said. "Trying to blow my case on the main suspect, and asking me to help you line up another officer for the fall guy? A defense attorney would have a field day with that. 'I understand, Detective Richards, you were also investigating another possible suspect? Doesn't that mean you aren't sure who may have done this?'" she said, making her voice deep and smarmy.

Maybe I should have just let it sit. She would think about what she'd said without my holier-than-thou response. But I didn't.

"Come on, Sherry," I said, stepping closer to her. "We're not like them, the lawyers trying to argue through who wins and who loses and to hell with what's right or just. We're cops. We're here to stop it. If there's even an outside chance with this guy, you can't just kick it to the curb."

"I'm a cop, Freeman. You used to be," she said. "Maybe your old cronies up in Philadelphia forgot some of the basics of homicide investigation while they were covering themselves for getting laid on the job." She started to say something else, then held it.

"I've got a suspect who had opportunity, a suspect with a violent past, a suspect who is on the top of another agency's list in the disappearance of another vulnerable woman. I thought you were the one who never believed in coincidences."

Her eyes were still burning when Billy walked up.

"Sh-Sherry."

She put the photograph in the pocket of her slacks and extended her hand to meet his.

"You are l-looking great," Billy said, taking her hand in both of his and meaning, I knew, every word.

"Counselor," she said. "You were quite impressive in there. I'm sure I'll get a call from the prosecutor for not warning him who he'd be up against this morning."

He stepped in and at first I thought he might kiss Richards on the cheek, but instead he whispered: "It's not personal, Sherry." And then louder: "I s-still need a good crew person on my Sunday b-beer can races. Diane is learning, but slowly."

"I'll see if I can get a weekend evening free," she said.

"Wonderful," Billy said and turned to me. "Ready?"

He stepped away and I turned to Richards.

"I'll guarantee it," I said.

"What?"

"I'll guarantee that no one will be in jeopardy while O'Shea is out."

She didn't answer. She just nodded. When I caught up with Billy I looked back and her hand was back in the pocket of her slacks.

We walked over to the county courthouse which was next to the jail. Billy said he needed to visit an acquaintance. As an attorney, he might never show up in court, but the man had more connections than a senator at a lobbyist's convention.

"It w-will take a couple of hours for them to process O'Shea out."

"You paid his bond, cash?"

"A cashier's ch-check," he corrected.

"You just happened to have it in the exact amount?"

"I anticipated."

"Pretty damned sure of yourself, Counselor."

He paused a second.

"It was n-not as unpleasant as I thought it might be, M-Max."

This time I paused, letting Billy consider what he was saying about his lifelong fear that his stutter was an intolerable flaw that society would forever hold against him.

"So if this goes to trial, you'll represent him?"

He stopped at the corner.

"They don't t-take aggravated assault to trial, M-Max. They deal them down and plead them out."

"I meant if they tag him for the disappearances," I said. This time he looked me in the eyes.

"Be careful, M-Max," he said without hesitation. "If they come up with enough evidence to indict O'Shea on homicide charges, w- we both may have made big mistakes."

She knew she'd made a mistake, and now she was paying for it. Scared as hell, and paying for it.

They'd gone to dinner, his choice, the steak house that she was really getting sick of, but whenever she balked he gave her that look, the one that made her turn her face away, waiting, the skin on her cheek almost warming like she'd already been slapped.

But the dinner conversation went well. He was smart, no doubt about that. He kept up on current events and spoke intelligently about issues that she rarely paid attention to. They'd talked, like adults. Then they went to the movies, again, his choice. Again, somehow, they always ended up at the show he first suggested. Not that she hated them. It was just that if she mentioned another film, he'd say "Yeah, OK, that's a possibility. Let's see what else there is," and by the time they went through the listings in the paper, they'd be right back to his choice.

She'd thought about her father then, how they always "discussed" things but whenever it looked like she might get something her way, he'd pull his trump card: "Your holy mother and the Lord himself are looking down on us, Marci. Ask them. What would they do?"

Kyle didn't have to push those cheap buttons. His trump card was now the back of his hand. In the last two weeks he'd stung her a couple of times. She'd told herself that was it. Then he'd show up with apologizing flowers. Then there was that "love light" with the candle in it that he said he wanted her to hang in her window to remind him that even brushing his hand too close to the flame could put it out, and he would never do it again. Christ, she'd thought. How do you dump a guy like that?