Steve Martini - Compelling Evidence

“There were no prints on the gun,” he says. “Whoever dropped it there wiped it clean-not just their own prints but Potter’s too. I can tell ya, a man who’s about to do himself sweats like hell. Unless he’s the coolest thing since Newman, he’s gonna leave little tracks all over the gun. But not Potter.”

I’ve seen massive head shots before. From Coop’s description I can conjure up the image-what remained of the countenance I had known as Ben Potter.

“Then we find traces of blood-B-negative, same type as Potter’s-in a freight elevator down the hall. Not a lot but enough. Whoever moved him used that elevator.”

“Who owns the piece?”

“Potter. Used it for hunting. Gun’s an Italian make, heavy thing with lots of tooling-and expensive.”

“Where did he keep it, the gun?”

“Wife says it was usually in a locked case in Potter’s study at their house.”

He takes a coffee mug from the shelf, the pipe clinched tightly in his teeth, and pours himself a little of the thick brew. The stuff flows like Arabian crude. He replaces the beaker over the burner and takes the pipe from his mouth-brier in one hand and what passes for coffee in the other.

“So they’re operating on the theory it was a homicide?”

Coop makes a face of indifference, tilts his head back, and expels three perfectly formed smoke rings toward the ceiling. He smiles. The Southern warmth breaches the professional veneer, if only for an instant.

“That’s where the smart money is.” He pauses for an instant and takes a sip from the mug. I wait to see if he has to chew the stuff.

“There is another school-another theory,” he says.

I look at him, waiting for this latest.

“That Potter died in some compromising situation, either by his own hand-maybe an accident, somebody else pulled the trigger? Maybe a little passion, another woman involved-who knows? So you got a prominent lawyer, partner in a powerful law firm. There are reputations to protect. There might be a lot of people who would move quickly to cover that kind of embarrassment.”

“What do you think?” I ask.

“I’d be lookin’ for a killer.” He says it like the second theory is just a big red herring.

“Why?”

“Whoever it was went to a lot of trouble to put him in the law office-took some real chances. Would have been a lot easier, and in the end more plausible, if they’d taken him out into a field somewhere, dressed him in hunting togs and left him there alone on the ground.” He winks. “Victim of a hunting accident. Still wouldn’t of worked, you understand. I’d have sniffed it out.” He smiles. “But it’s gotta be a better cover if all you’re worried about is a little embarrassment. No, whoever put him in that office was tryin’ to cover their own tracks. And”-he pauses for an instant-“maybe start the cops thinkin’ about somebody else, a little misdirection.”

“Have the cops narrowed it to any suspects?”

“They haven’t talked to you yet?” he says. Suddenly there’s a broad grin on his face. Then he chastises. “You know better than to ask that. If they had, I couldn’t tell ya.” He chuckles to himself as he turns and pulls a clean pair of surgical gloves from the drawer behind him.

Coop arches an eyebrow and winks. The pipe again clinched tightly in his teeth, the mug on the shelf behind him, he snaps the glove on his left hand. He turns and walks toward the door. He’s made his last statement on the matter, at least for the moment. But his parting expression conveys volumes, for if I place any confidence in the professional acumen of George Cooper, and I most assuredly do, the last scintilla of doubt has now been purged from my mind. I now know that Ben Potter was murdered.

It’s just before nine-thirty on Tuesday morning. I’ve returned from court to find a stack of telephone messages in the center of my desk, a pile of grief. A client wants a continuance; Nikki has called and wants to know if I will be by to see Sarah this weekend; the DA won’t deal on a plea in a small drug case. Tucked in the stack of slips is a note that Tony Skarpellos has called. He wants a meeting-his office, two this afternoon. Curiosity gets the better of me.

This afternoon there’s an alien air about the offices of Potter, Skarpellos, more formal, subdued. I attribute it to a proper demonstration of mourning for the founding partner.

Before I left the firm, the offices of P amp;S were always a familiar place. I would breeze past the receptionist stationed like a concierge at the ornate mahogany counter outside the elevator, past Ben’s office and the inner reception area held by his secretary, to my digs down the hall.

The firm occupies three floors of the Emerald Tower, the most prestigious commercial address in Capitol County. Caught up in financial scandals for more than three years during its construction, the building is a mammoth curved monolith, its translucent green-tinted windows rising toward the clouds on a site beside the broad meandering river at the west end of the Capitol Mall. It’s become the architectural and political counterbalance to the state capitol building situated at the opposite end of the mall. While the capitol houses two branches of the state legislature, the Emerald Tower has become the bastion of the legislature’s “third house,” an army of lobbyists who regularly ply their trade seeking favor with legislative committees and government agencies. Potter, Skarpellos is the first law firm of any consequence to venture into the building. I have, on more than one occasion, weighed the relevance of this location and its significance on the future direction of the firm.

As I approach the receptionist-her name is Barbara-I smile. It’s a grin of familiarity. Today it’s met by cool efficiency.

Her greeting is stiff, her smile plastic. The seeds of insecurity have begun to germinate among the staff. Corporate transitions in modern America, from the multinational down to the corner shoe store, now resemble a changing of the guard after a coup in a banana republic. The firm’s employees have begun to dwell on their own personal fates. The king is dead, but the dust of uncertainty that clouds the fortunes of those affected has not yet settled. Barbara offers me a seat in the reception area and assures me that she will inform Florence that I have arrived.

In the far corner of the reception area are two deep-cushioned sofas that spread like twin dark clouds across the broad expanse of wall. Here the visitor feels the need to check his briefcase in favor of a machete and pith helmet. The furnishings are lost in a jungle of ficus, philodendrons, ferns, and rubber plants, all rooted in hip-high planter boxes. A faint odor of moist earth permeates the area. I decline a seat on the sofa and instead muse about the spacious reception room, examining the rich wall hangings and two modern ceramics set on pedestals near the center of the room. They are new, since I left P amp;S, the usual symbols of commercial affluence used to set the stage for what routinely follows in the private inner chambers of any large firm. They are employed like some artistic emetic to lubricate and ease the disgorging of substantial fees by clients who at times might wonder if they are receiving full value for their money.

As I stand gazing out of the window at the panorama of the city spread before me, there’s a rippled reflection in the glass. Someone has walked up behind me.

I turn.

“Hi,” she says.

Talia has a small box in her arms filled with books and memorabilia. I recognize the marble pen set from Ben’s desk. Given all of my most turgid fantasies of Talia, this is one role I could never have conjured-the widow performing the wifely duty, removing Ben’s personal items from the office.