Phillip Margolin - Fugitive

“It’s me, Charlie,” the man said. “Mickey Keys, your agent.”

CHARLIE TOOK A good look at his onetime agent and crime partner as he escorted Keys to the end of the hall, where they would have some privacy. Keys was thin; not in a physically fit way but in the way someone looks when they’re not eating well because they can’t afford food. The collar of his shirt was frayed and the elbows of his jacket were shiny. There were lines on his face that hadn’t been there twelve years ago. His skin had a waxy pallor and there were dark circles under his eyes.

“What are you doing here?” Charlie asked.

“What do you mean, Charlie?” Keys said, flashing a tense smile that made him look desperate. “I’m your agent, your business manager. As soon as I heard you were back in the States, I got on the first plane West. I figured you’d need someone to set up appearances, handle your contracts. You know, like the old days.”

“I’ve already got a contract for a new book. If I’m not on death row, my publisher will handle the bookings.”

“You can’t cut me out, Charlie. We have a contract, too,” Mickey said, pulling a wrinkled and stained sheaf of papers out of his jacket pocket. “This is a copy, in case you lost yours. It makes me your agent.”

“Our agreement ended when you cut a deal with the feds.”

Keys pushed the papers at Charlie. “There’s nothing in our contract that lets you out of our arrangement. I’m entitled to fifteen percent of everything.”

Charlie held his hand in the air, refusing to touch the contract. “You’re not getting a penny. You sold me out.”

“I had to. They were going to make me do hard time if I didn’t come clean about the Inner Light scam and the second set of books. You were in Batanga, protected. I was out on a limb, all by myself.”

“A business relationship requires trust, Mickey. How can I trust you after what you did?”

“What I did was three years in a federal lockup while you were getting blow jobs on a tropical beach.”

“Hey, man, I’m sorry you went to jail, but Batanga was no cakewalk. I’d have traded places with you in a nanosecond if I’d known what I was getting myself into. Why do you think I’m here facing a death sentence?”

Keys dropped the tough posture and his shoulders sagged.

“Look, Charlie, I’ll level with you. I’m desperate. The feds took everything. I’ve been working as a telemarketer, because no one will hire an ex-con to do anything else. I live in a hotel room with roaches. You’ve still got the money in your Swiss account and all this new dough. I had to give my money back as part of the plea bargain. I’ve got nothing.”

“I can give you a few bucks, if that’s why you’re here.”

Keys reddened. “I don’t want a handout. I want back in the game. I want to be a player, again.”

“Then I can’t help you.”

“I’ll hire a lawyer. I’ll sue and I’ll win.”

“Do what you gotta do,” Charlie said before walking back to the chaos in his room.

Keys leaned back against the wall. When he had pulled himself together, he started walking to the elevator, his head down, looking utterly defeated.

“Mr. Keys.”

Mickey looked up and found Charlie’s lawyer blocking the way.

“Can I talk to you?” Amanda asked.

“We’ll do our talking in court when I sue your client for breach of contract,” Keys answered, trying to sound like the tough negotiator he’d been before his fall.

“I don’t know anything about your business problems with Mr. Marsh. I’m his criminal attorney.”

“Then what do you want?”

“You were at the Westmont when Congressman Pope was shot, weren’t you?”

“Yeah.”

“Would you be willing to talk to my investigator?”

“About what?”

“Anything you saw that will help us get a handle on what happened.”

Keys looked incredulous. “You want me to help that ungrateful prick after what he just did to me?”

“We just want to hear your version of what happened.”

“My version, huh.” Keys stopped talking and Amanda could almost see the wheels turning inside his skull. “Well, let’s talk about that. My memory is a bit hazy right now. But I might be able to remember more clearly if my financial situation cleared up. So, why don’t you have a word with Charlie. When you get back to me-depending on the news-I’ll either be talking to your investigator or the DA.”

The morning after the sniper attack, Amanda slept late and didn’t get to the offices of Jaffe, Katz, Lehane and Brindisi until nine. When she opened the door to the reception area, Dennis Levy was talking excitedly on his cell phone. He broke off his call as soon as he saw Amanda and sprang out of his chair, almost knocking the latte she was holding out of her hand when he thrust a copy of World News at her.

“What do you think?” he asked proudly.

“Not much until I’ve had my coffee,” Amanda answered, taking a step back from the keyed-up journalist.

“Look,” Levy said, pointing just below the picture of Charlie Marsh that graced the magazine cover, where bright red block letters proclaimed, THE GURU RETURNS. Following the title was the byline, DENNIS LEVY.

“That’s my story,” Levy declared.

“Congratulations,” Amanda told him, impressed despite her dislike for the reporter.

Levy flipped the magazine open to his story and directed Amanda to a column on the second page. “I told you you’d get a lot of publicity out of this,” he said.

Amanda read the column. Sure enough, she was prominently featured as the lawyer Charlie had chosen to defend him.

“Mrs. Brice overnighted this copy to me. It is literally hot off the press.”

Amanda forced a smile. “It looks like you’re on your way, Dennis.”

“So, what are we doing this morning?”

“I’m not sure,” Amanda lied. “I do have other cases. Why don’t you wait out here while I get some caffeine in me and try to figure out my schedule? All that excitement at the courthouse threw it off.”

“Sure thing,” Dennis said.

As Amanda walked toward Kate’s office, she chanced a quick glance over her shoulder. Levy was smiling like the Cheshire Cat as he reread his magazine article. She couldn’t blame him for being proud.

Amanda knocked on Kate’s doorjamb. “I have a problem,” she told her investigator. “I’m interviewing Sally Pope and I do not want Jimmy Olsen’s evil twin tagging along.”

“Levy wants to look at the Pope file. I can set him up in the conference room and you can sneak out while he’s going through it.”

“You’re brilliant.”

“That’s why I get the big bucks.”

“Just make sure he understands that he has to leave the file the way he found it. I haven’t had a chance to go through it yet.”

“Will do. I’ll also take him with me when I interview Ralph Day.”

“Who?”

“He was Junior’s challenger in his last election.”

“Right. That should keep him out of my hair.”

WHILE HE WAITED for the receptionist to bring him coffee, Dennis studied the mountain of information spread across the conference table. The task of going through it was daunting but Levy loved research. He believed that it was his attention to detail that made him superior to the other reporters at World News.

Kate’s trial book made it easier for Dennis to work through the material. She had explained how she had organized everything from the file into piles relating to different topics. The first items Levy looked at were the autopsy report and photos, because he’d never covered any crime stories and he was curious. He flipped through them with only the tiniest emotional reaction and was pleased with himself. When he was through with the material concerning the cause of death, he pulled over another stack.