Casey Daniels - Dead Man Talking

It was as impassioned as I’d ever seen Quinn (well, as impassioned as I’d ever seen him about his job), and in spite of my anger, I felt a stab of admiration. Did I regret bringing up Raphael’s name? Not a chance! In fact, I saw this as the perfect opportunity to ease back into the subject.

One leg tucked under me, I sat back down on the bed. “I didn’t know that,” I admitted. “He sounds pretty bad. Like the kind of guy who might murder somebody.”

Quinn sat up, swung his legs over the side of the bed, reached for his boxers, and tugged them on. “It’s obvious you’ve got other things on your mind. Other than me, I mean. Maybe we’ll just chalk this one up to a night that wasn’t meant to be.”

What was more important to me, the sex or the information?

At that point, I wasn’t sure, I only knew I saw the chance for both slipping away. I rounded the bed so I could stand closer to Quinn. “You’re jumping to conclusions,” I said, then scrambled to make that sound a little less argumentative because, of course, he was jumping to conclusions, and he didn’t look happy when I pointed it out. “I’m just expressing ordinary curiosity, that’s all. I just wondered if a guy who’s as scummy as Bad Dog might be the kind of guy who would kill somebody, and then, you know, then maybe he’d pin the murder on someone else.”

Quinn’s gaze snapped to my dresser where I’d left the thick file that contained the original notes regarding the Jefferson Lamar case. He’d given it to me at dinner that night, and I hadn’t had time to look through it yet. Apparently, though, Quinn had.

“Raphael had nothing to do with what happened to Jefferson Lamar,” he said. “I don’t know why you’d even think that. Raphael’s name isn’t even mentioned in the file.”

“Which doesn’t mean-”

“It means plenty.” When he’d taken his pants off, he’d draped them over a chair, and he put them back on and zipped them, then did up his belt. “Jefferson Lamar was convicted back in 1985. Raphael was no more than a punk kid then.”

“Punk kids have been known to kill people.”

“All too true.” Quinn slipped into his shirt. “But I just happened to be talking to one of my buddies from the Narcotic’s Unit today. He mentioned Raphael. We talked about the guy and what’s going on at that used-car lot of his. I’m familiar with his background, Pepper. If Raphael killed Vera Blaine, he would have had to be a Houdini. He was locked up at Central State at the time. Satisfied now?”

I wasn’t sure if he was talking about the Lamar case or the fact that now that he was dressed, it was obvious our night was going to end early, and not on the note either of us had expected. When Quinn walked out of my bedroom, I followed him. As long as I’d already killed the mood, I might as well go for broke.

“Raphael could have arranged for someone else to kill Vera Blaine for him,” I told Quinn once we were out in the living room. “You know, a hit. Or a contract killing. Or whatever it is they call it on TV. And you did say Central State, right? That’s the prison where Jefferson Lamar was the warden.”

He was just about to grab his shoulder holster and sling it on when he stopped cold. “Are you even listening to yourself?” he asked, and the look he gave me was so steely, I nearly backed down. Nearly. “You can’t get mixed up with a guy like Mack Raphael just because you’re trying to get information for some silly TV contest. If you think you can, you’re crazy.”

“I’m not getting mixed up with him. I’m not getting mixed up with anybody. I’m just looking for information, and if Raphael can give it to me-”

“Even if Mack Raphael could give you every bit of information you’ve ever wanted and if he served it up on a silver platter, I’d still say the same thing. Don’t talk to him. In fact, while I’m trying to talk some sense into you, let me add that you shouldn’t even go near him. Or think about him for that matter.”

“Why, because he’s a good-looking guy?”

Quinn’s jaw tensed. “How about because he’s a hardened criminal?”

“But if he knows something about how Vera Blaine died-”

“If he does or if he doesn’t, it doesn’t matter. Number one, because it’s none of your business. And number two, because you’re never going to find out, anyway.”

“Because you think I’m not smart enough.”

“Because I know people who cross Mack Raphael tend to end up dead.”

“Oh.” Reality check. I chewed on my bottom lip, wondering how I could find out more and not set Quinn off again. He didn’t give me a chance. Instead, he walked to the door and pulled it open.

Before he stepped out into the hallway, he turned to me. “Mind your own business,” he said.

“This is my business. Sort of.”

His hand still on the doorknob, he gave me one last chance to come clean. “Level with me.”

Only I couldn’t, could I?

I was still trying to find the words to explain when Quinn walked away.

My love life was a mess, but when it came to my professional life-and by this, I don’t mean my work in the cemetery-I was in luck. The detective who headed the original murder investigation was a stickler for detail and incredibly organized. The file Quinn gave me before he stomped out of my apartment (OK, he didn’t exactly stomp, but it wasn’t exactly pretty, either) contained not only his original notes about the case, but interviews with witnesses and suspects, crime scene photos, the autopsy report, and what must have been every newspaper article ever written about Jefferson Lamar and Vera Blaine.

I took the file marked BLAINE, VERA-CLOSED to the cemetery with me the next day. Surprise, surprise… I don’t know how he managed, but Absalom had somehow a) intimidated, b) coerced, c) outright threatened, or d) all of the above, everyone on the team to actually work. By the time I got there, they were busy trimming overgrown hedges and pulling a ton of weeds. With that out of the way, and no other pressing responsibilities for the moment, I pretended I had TV show business to take care of and ducked into the mausoleum. Careful to keep far back from the hole in the floor, I sat down on the lawn chair one of my teammates had left there, pulled out the file, and got to work.

“Body of Woman Found in Local Motel”

“Prison Warden Questioned in Slaying of Young Secretary”

“Surprising Arrest in Vera Blaine Case”

“A Business Relationship Turned Tragic?”

“Warden’s Testimony Shaky, Evidence Solid”

The headlines screamed at me from article after article, bolder and more sensational as the trial went on.

“Guilty!” the headline on one of the last articles in the pile shouted. “Love Nest Turned Murder Scene” said another, right above a photo of the Lake View Motel, a not-so-charming-looking place with a half-burned-out neon sign and a blacktop parking lot.

“I didn’t stand a chance.”

For the record, I did not squeal when I realized Jefferson Lamar was standing right in back of me, reading over my shoulder. I did, however, flinch. Like anyone could blame me?

I turned and gave him a glare. “Maybe they wouldn’t have been so quick to convict you if you weren’t so sneaky.”

He didn’t get it.

It wasn’t worth trying to explain.

Instead, I fanned out the newspaper articles. “There’s an awful lot here that sounds damning,” I said.

“Obviously. They convicted me.”

“Maybe they had good reason?” It wasn’t the first time I’d given him the opportunity to tell the whole truth and nothing but. This time, like the last, he stood firm.

“I didn’t do it,” he said, each of his words precise and clipped so I couldn’t help but understand.