Prime Witness by Steve Martini Page A

the recorder to the ear piece. There’s a series of little clicks as the forty-dollar wonder on the wall does the one thing that Andre Iganovich would most assuredly undo if he could—it redials the last number called by the Russian before his hasty departure.
    I am busy recording the little clicks that will give me the phone number if no one answers, or if whoever is on the other end hangs up once I speak. Instead, after three short rings the call is met by a recording of its own:
    “You have reached Air Canada. At the moment all of our agents are busy. Please be patient and your call will be answered in the order it was received. Please stay on the line.”

Chapter Eight
     
    T hree days after the raid on the Russian’s apartment, I am working my way through the in-basket on the desk, sorting the stuff that cannot wait.
    Claude is still busy checking passenger manifests at Air Canada, any lead on where Iganovich may have gone. On reflection Claude says this makes sense. A Russian would not go south, to the warm climes of the Mexican Riviera. Canada makes eminent good sense according to Dusalt, easier to get back to the northern reaches of his homeland.
    Suddenly there’s a shadow, like some dark cloud on a summer’s day. I look up. It’s Lenore Goya, in the doorway.
    She’s tapping her wristwatch with her forefinger. “Our meeting,” she says. “Remember?” I can tell by her tone that she’s a little miffed, a woman who likes to be punctual.
    “Yes,” I say. “I’m running a little late. Some administrative chores,” I tell her.
    In fact I’ve been going over disposition sheets for the office, monthly statistics on caseloads for the various deputies. It is not a happy picture. It is becoming increasingly clear that I cannot afford to lose Goya. Without her the office would be up a creek without the proverbial paddle.
    I trail her down the hall to her office. It is where we had agreed to meet.
    The place has the ambience of a coat closet, ten-by-ten with case files in folders stacked halfway up the walls.
    “I hope this won’t take too long,” she says. “I’ve got a court call in forty minutes.”
    “I thought it would be good if we broke the ice,” I tell her. “General discussion about the office, ideas for improvement. Things you would change if you could.”
    Her eyes open wide, a little mock amazement. She looks like the late Gilda Radner playing Emily Litella. “You want to know what I think about the office?” she says. Like, come on.
    I nod a little encouragement.
    She laughs. “In two words—it sucks.” She is grinning at me across the desk now, pearl white, even teeth, a dentist’s dream.
    I smile back. “That’s constructive,” I say. “But maybe you could give me a little more detail.”
    “Fine,” she says. She starts ticking off points on the fingers of one hand. “We’re understaffed. We’re overworked. This year the felony caseload went up twenty-six percent. We haven’t had a salary increase in three years, they’re talking layoffs and a cut in health benefits.”
    She tells me that every defense lawyer in the northern part of the state knows we can’t try the cases we have.
    “And on a personal note, I’d like a new office with a view, preferably something that looks out on the courthouse.” She thinks for a moment. “I could do with an hour for lunch maybe once a week, that’s optional,” she says. “And of course, I’d like your job.”
    I look at her across the table. She looks back, still smiling, her idea of a cerebral Mexican stand-off.
    “You asked,” she says.
    Mario Feretti was right. The woman is direct.
    “Are you a candidate?” I ask.
    “Get real,” she says. “You’ve seen the people who run this county. Can you see them appointing a Hispanic woman as their DA?” She laughs at the image of this.
    “Oh, and one more thing,” she says. “As long as you’re asking, you will either have to get rid of Roland, or immunize me for