Lisa Scottoline - Running From The Law

“But, Rita, it’s like forensic architecture. I look at the evidence, the clues, and try to find out what caused the problem. The leak, the crack, whatever. It’s all deductive reasoning. Remember the underground garage? I can help you.”

Fuck you. “I appreciate that, but-”

“I think Rita knows what she’s doing, son,” Fiske interrupted. I gathered he was trying to be supportive, but it left me wondering why he wanted me working alone.

“I’m not suggesting she doesn’t,” Paul said. “But I’ve cleared my calendar to help her find out who’s behind this. Aren’t two heads better than one?”

Not when I want to knock yours off. “I don’t think so. If I need help, we have investigators at the firm.”

“Then maybe I can start my own investigation and we can compare notes.”

Did he want to help me so he could control what I found out? Lead me away from the clues? “Paul, I don’t think we need some sort of parallel investigation.”

“I think Paul is on to something, Rita,” Kate said. “It sounds sensible to me. Paul may be able to help you. At the very least, you know he can be trusted.”

Say what? “I have to go now.”

“Then it’s settled,” he said. “We’ll talk tonight.”

Tonight? I fingered the note in my blazer pocket, from Tobin. He had pressed it into my hand after the hearing, as I fought the gauntlet of the press:

You were awesome! Dinner at Sonoma at 7? Yours in saturated fat,

Jake

I flashed on the scene outside the courthouse after the hearing. The media had bar-raged me with questions, many about the mystery motorcycle rider. I’d practiced my “no comment” to the right and to the left, and had almost made it to my car when Stan Julicher had popped out of the crowd, his face tinged with righteous anger, like some avenging angel. “You know and I know the judge did it,” he’d said.

“You’re wrong, Julicher,” I’d answered.

“Shame on you,” he’d shot back, and I’d slipped into my car, feeling uneasy.

“I’ll be home at six, okay?” Paul was saying.

“Actually, make it seven.” By then I should be having dinner with another man and you can sit on the front porch and hold your goddamn breath. I’d already had the locks changed. “And by the way, Paul, maybe you could bring home that sketchbook we were looking at yesterday.”

“Sketchbook?” Fiske said. “Are you sketching again, son?”

Paul shook his head quickly. “I threw it away, Rita. I didn’t know you’d want it. Seven o’clock then?” He smiled.

They all did, except me.

My father was snoozing peacefully in his new hospital room. They’d moved him from intensive care and into a private room at my insistence. I’d thought he’d need the privacy to rest, but I could see now he didn’t, since Sal, Cam, and Herman were playing cards on the table spanning his rounded belly. No money was visible to the naked eye, so I knew Herman would have the tote running in his head.

For a split second I wanted in on the game, but then I remembered I was working. I had to build the case for the defense and I needed the help of the only people in the world I could really trust. I let them finish the hand and explained the steps I wanted to take in my investigation. Then I opened the floor for questions. I should’ve known better.

“Why do I gotta wear this?” Sal whined. He held up a pair of gray wool pants and a navy Burberry blazer. “Why can’t I just wear normal clothes?”

“Uncle Sal, I spent a fortune on those clothes. I’m dressing you better than you ever dressed in your life. You can even keep the outfit when we’re done.”

“I don’t have no place to wear stuff this fancy.”

“Then throw it away. Burn it. Use it to wrap pork chops.”

“I don’t like the shoes. They look funny.”

“Cole-Haans with a tassel? What’s not to like?”

“I like Herman’s outfit better. He got the boots.”

Herman, sitting next to him, shook his head. “You think I wanna wear cowboy boots? Look like those goyim in the Texas hats? I’m doin’ it for Rita. Because she asked me.”

“They’re not cowboy boots, Herman,” I said. “They’re just black boots.”

“So can I trade Herman for the boots?” Sal pleaded. “I got nothin’ against black boots.”

“I’m even wearing the leather jacket, all for Rita,” Herman continued, rivaling any Catholic for martyrdom. “Why can’t you just go along like me, Sal?”

Cam laughed. “Herman, how long you known Sal Morrone? Forty, fifty years?”

“Only thirty.”

“Okay, thirty. So you know Sal has to find something to complain about.”

Uncle Sal ignored them. “Maybe I can switch with Cam?”

“No,” I said firmly.

“But I’ll be hot in the jacket.”

“It’ll be air-conditioned.”

Sal pointed to the brown work boots I bought for Cam. “Maybe I could just wear Cam’s shoes? I like them things.”

No kidding. He was already wearing the same shoes.

“Sal,” Cam said, “what is it with you? It’s like we’re gonna be in a play or somethin’. I need my shoes, I gotta dress my part. I gotta act my part.”

“A star is born,” Herman said.

Sal put the blazer down. “I got an idea. Can’t Herman do Cam’s job and Cam do Herman’s job and we switch all the jobs around?”

Cam shook his head. “He’s confusing me.”

“He’s confusing himself,” Herman corrected. “He’s a confusing person. A confusing person to be around.”

I rubbed my forehead. Halloween wasn’t turning out the way I’d hoped. Remind me never to have a kid. Or an old man. “Look, Uncle Sal. Everybody has to go along with the plan. No trades, no switching!”

“Okay, okay. You don’t have to holler.”

“She wasn’t hollering,” Cam said.

Yes, I was. “Now go get dressed. We have to get going.”

“Get dressed? Where?”

“In the bathroom.”

“In the bathroom? Here?” Sal looked nervously at the door, he always looked nervous. I must have been crazy to think I could count on him. No one had ever relied on Sal for anything. I had no idea what he did all day, except play cards and watch old movies on television. My father had always taken care of everything.

“You can do this, Sal. You and me,” I said, not believing a word of it.

“I don’t know.”

“I do. I know.”

Sal picked up the blazer and disappeared into the bathroom with the clothes. I decided to wait to tell him about the accent he’d have to fake. Growing up is hard enough to do, and best done in stages.

The only sound in the empty showroom was the discreet hum of the air-conditioning, and the occasional squirt of a spray bottle from a man in a coarse blue jumpsuit, cleaning the windshields. Late-afternoon sun poured through mullioned windows that bordered the room. Reproductions of Chippendale end tables flanked the entrance, which opened on to five spanking-new, factory-delivered Jaguars of various colors. Each car gleamed under its own set of track lights, like babies in a multiracial nursery.

“But nobody told me about this,” said the confused salesman. His navy blazer roughly matched Sal’s and his loafers were almost identically tasseled. Am I good or am I good? “I should have been told.”

“We sent the fax yesterday,” I said authoritatively. “It would have mentioned me, Miss Jamesway.” I had my hair knotted back and my glasses on, in case he recognized me from the newspapers. “And your name is Mr.-”

“Henry.”

“Well, Henry-”

“No, Mr. Henry,” he corrected. “I don’t recall any fax.”

“That’s odd. The home office said they’d take care of it.”