William Lashner - Falls The Shadow

“And maybe this was all done by someone familiar with the victim’s personal situation, as well as familiar with the properties and consistencies of blood. Maybe by someone like a dentist?”

“What is it with you and dentists?” said Torricelli.

“It’s called dentophobia. Fear of men with hairy forearms wielding drills and picks in your mouth. I cheerfully admit to my own case of it. And based on your smile, you might have a touch of it yourself. Tell us, Detective, do you ever talk to the dentist while he’s cleaning your teeth?”

“Maybe.”

“Ever tell him how goes the family as he’s digging away into your gums?”

“Mostly I just scream.”

“So, Detective, let me ask you again. Do you have any idea of the name of Leesa Dubé’s dentist?”

“No.”

“Don’t you think you ought to find out?”

“Our investigation is complete.”

“Obviously not.”

Just then I heard a rustle from behind me, something I’d been expecting for a while.

Whitney Robinson III was standing up, trying to slide past the other spectators on his bench as he made his way to the exit. The expression on his face when he saw me catch him in his egress was horrifying, as if my few questions about blood and dentists had somehow rent the entire fabric of his life. Then, finally, he was out into the aisle, turning to the door, stalking out of the courtroom. At his first opportunity, he would make a call.

And I knew damn well whom he would be calling.

Torricelli waylaid us before Beth and I could leave the courtroom. The jury had been dismissed, the judge was off the bench, François had been taken away by the bailiff, and I wanted nothing more than to get the hell out of there, too, but Torricelli had other ideas. He was not a man easily gotten around, especially when he stood in the aisle between you and the door.

“Detective,” I said. “I hope I wasn’t out of line with that crack about the sport coat.”

“My wife says worse.”

“And yet you persist.”

“Old habits. Nice bit of vaudeville today.”

“I do my best.”

“You want to give me the handle of the dentist?”

“Not yet.”

He snorted. “Figures. I thought I’d seen it all from you, Carl, but then you go and blame the murder of that woman on a noble professional.”

“I tried to pick a suspect the jury would despise even more than a lawyer.”

“Pretty low, even for you.”

“You think that was low,” I said, “hold on to your hat.”

“I was expecting you to mug me about planting the evidence I found. I was geared for a grilling.”

“Sorry to disappoint you.”

“I know what my reputation is. I’m too fat to be smart, I’m too surly to be truthful, I’m a lifelong cop so I must be on the wrong side of the line.”

“You don’t have to convince me.”

“That’s right, I don’t. But no matter how slipshod you run your business, I give a damn about mine. I don’t like to get things wrong. It alters the balance of things, you understand?”

“You talking karma, Detective?”

“Call it what you want. But I go out of my way not to slap the right beef on the wrong tuna.”

“Why am I suddenly hungry for surf and turf?”

“You have the wrong man this time, Detective,” said Beth.

“I don’t believe we do,” said Torricelli. “But if you think so, tell me the skinny I need to get it straight. Give me a name.”

“That would spoil the surprise.”

Another snort. “Dalton told me to go out and earn my paycheck. I’ll have the name by morning.”

“You want to know something?” I said after Torricelli had headed out the door and we were left alone in the courtroom. “I might have underestimated that man.”

“Is that possible?” said Beth.

“It’s scary to think so, isn’t it?”

“Do you think it was too soon to bring up the whole dentist thing?”

“The jury liked it.”

“But, Victor, Torricelli will probably discover your dentist’s name. And if he wasn’t in town that day, or he has an alibi, or we can’t figure out a motive, all of which is quite possible, then it’s game over.”

“I know.”

“So?”

“We don’t have much choice, do we? After the Sonenshein debacle, we have to take a risk. And this is it.”

“But-”

“Beth, look at me.”

She turned to face me, her pretty, worried eyes focused on my own.

“Do you trust me?” I said.

Her gaze rose to the ceiling. “Why does that question always scare me?”

“Look at me.”

She did.

“I don’t like him,” I said, “and I don’t like how you feel about him, and I wish we never took the damn case. But a woman is dead, a little girl has lost her mother, her father is my client and he’s fighting for his life. All of that I take as seriously as anything in this world. So whatever happens in this courtroom the next few days, you have to trust me that I’m trying to do the right thing.”

“Is it going to be wild?”

“Yes.”

“But you really do believe François, don’t you?”

“I don’t believe a word out of his pouty little French mouth, but he didn’t kill his wife.”

“Okay. Good. Then let’s do it. Let’s you and I nail that dentist to the wall.”

“If he doesn’t nail us first.”

It started with a phone call in the middle of the night.

No one calls in the middle of the night to invite you to a party or set up a dinner date, not unless her wireless plan is seriously deficient. No, a phone call in the middle of the night is the heart-stopping herald of tragedy, of calamity, of nightmare become real. So when my phone rang in the middle of the night, yanking me out of a fitful sleep, between the time I realized what was going on and the time I was able to pick up the handset, the horrifying possibilities tortured me. My apartment building was on fire. My father had died. My mother was calling from Arizona to say hello.

“What is it?” I said, on the verge of panic.

No response.

“Hello. Who is there?”

No response.

“Mom?”

Nothing.

After a few more moments of silence, I hung up. Wrong number, I figured, but even so, it wasn’t easy to get back to sleep. The call had jacked my heart rate, the scenarios of calamity were still flitting through my brain. Where my sleep had been fitful before, it became impossible now. I tossed and turned and stared at the shaft of streetlight that painted my ceiling.

It felt as if I had just fallen back into slumber when the phone rang once more. I jerked awake, noticed that it was light out, grabbed at the handset.

“What?” I said.

“Dude, about the car.”

“What car?”

“The red Caddie ragtop. Is that price firm?”

“What price?”

“It says here twelve hundred. I was wondering if there’s any wiggle room.”

“No,” I said. “No wiggle room, and no car. You must have the wrong number.”

“You sure?”

“Quite.” I hung up and looked at my clock. It was seven in the morning, I had barely slept, and I was due in court at ten that day. I tried to shake my brain awake when the phone rang again.

“What?”

“Dude, about the car.”

“Didn’t we have this conversation already? What number are you trying to reach?”

He told me.

“That’s my number, but there’s no car,” I said. “Really there isn’t. It must be a misprint. Please, don’t call again.”

I was getting out of the shower, toweling off, when the damn thing rang again. Still dripping, I bolted into the bedroom and picked it up.

“Yo,” came a slow, deep voice. “I’m calling about the convertible.”