knife’s motions. “Just tell me who set you off against me.”
“That’s the trouble with you lawyers. You see conspiracy behind the simplest deal. I did a favor for a friend. That’s all there is to it.”
“Who is the friend?”
“Always did have a terrible head for names.” He closed the knife, stowed it away, slammed his boots to the floor. “We done here?”
“You’re really so concerned about protecting somebody that you’d risk further indictments?”
“Ain’t concerned about it at all.”
Marcus rose to his feet, eager now for a breath of untainted air. “I’ll give you a day to think about this.”
“Five seconds’ll do, bub.” He rose to his feet, offered a final grin. “But you feel welcome to come visiting anytime you like.”
Marcus left the office and stomped down the stairs. Back in the parking lot, he propped one foot on his front tire and used his handkerchief to smear around the dust. “All he’s given me is a load of questions I don’t need.”
“Y-you want me t-to arrest him?”
“No. He’s right. We won’t be able to make an assault charge stick.” Marcus started on his other shoe. “The man’s too confident to be sitting in there on his own.”
Darren waited until Marcus slid behind the wheel to say, “T-that’s what they pay you for, to p-put together the p-puzzles.”
CHAPTER
———
10
D ALE S TEADMAN ’ S LIBRARY BAR was built into a corner opposite the rear French windows. Sunlight played a reflector’s game off the dual mirrors and the crystal glasses and the bottles. Dale studied his own fissured reflection. None of the guilt or anguish showed, only a stone-flat gaze and features that had gained fifteen years’ worth of creases in the past eleven months.
He dropped ice cubes into his highball glass and poured in two inches of bourbon. He knew he should wait until after he had met with the attorney. But the worry and the strain and the huge empty house were bearing down hard. And the silence. Before, there had always been music. He had told the architect that every room had to be wired to a central system. Every single room, even the seven bathrooms, even the kitchen pantry. The house had thirty-four rooms and over three hundred Bose speakers. The amplifier was the size of a double oven and hulked beneath the cellar stairs. He had dreamed of the moment when Erin would step across the threshold and hear her favorite aria soaring from every room. A welcome fit for a queen, one guaranteed to woo her and bind her firmly to her new home.
He had been wrong before, but seldom so completely.
Dale poured another two inches, then added more ice. He carried the glass and bottle and ice bucket over to the sofa. Despite the plastic sheet blanketing the entire northern wall and the air conditioner on full blast, the room still stank of oily ashes and sawdust. The contractors were gone for the day. He missed their chatter and hammering and the tinny radio and the saws. He knew he should move out, find aplace where he was not plagued by the ghosts of past errors. But he could not think beyond the one next step.
He glanced down and was surprised to find his glass empty. He poured another couple of inches, decided he didn’t need to bother with ice. The bourbon had a different heat when taken straight, a liquid smoke to match the flames he saw every time he shut his eyes. Dale glanced at his watch. The minute hand was cemented to the same place it had been since his arrival home, or so it seemed. This one final glass, he decided, then he wouldn’t have any more until after the meeting.
He stared out the rear windows past the slate patio to where the sun was turning the Intracoastal the color of a blast furnace. Despite the constant rush of cold air, Dale was sweating heavily. He looked down at his glass, and watched how the tremors in his hand cut fierce little ripples across the bourbon’s surface. The glory days, was how he had always thought of his move
“That’s the trouble with you lawyers. You see conspiracy behind the simplest deal. I did a favor for a friend. That’s all there is to it.”
“Who is the friend?”
“Always did have a terrible head for names.” He closed the knife, stowed it away, slammed his boots to the floor. “We done here?”
“You’re really so concerned about protecting somebody that you’d risk further indictments?”
“Ain’t concerned about it at all.”
Marcus rose to his feet, eager now for a breath of untainted air. “I’ll give you a day to think about this.”
“Five seconds’ll do, bub.” He rose to his feet, offered a final grin. “But you feel welcome to come visiting anytime you like.”
Marcus left the office and stomped down the stairs. Back in the parking lot, he propped one foot on his front tire and used his handkerchief to smear around the dust. “All he’s given me is a load of questions I don’t need.”
“Y-you want me t-to arrest him?”
“No. He’s right. We won’t be able to make an assault charge stick.” Marcus started on his other shoe. “The man’s too confident to be sitting in there on his own.”
Darren waited until Marcus slid behind the wheel to say, “T-that’s what they pay you for, to p-put together the p-puzzles.”
CHAPTER
———
10
D ALE S TEADMAN ’ S LIBRARY BAR was built into a corner opposite the rear French windows. Sunlight played a reflector’s game off the dual mirrors and the crystal glasses and the bottles. Dale studied his own fissured reflection. None of the guilt or anguish showed, only a stone-flat gaze and features that had gained fifteen years’ worth of creases in the past eleven months.
He dropped ice cubes into his highball glass and poured in two inches of bourbon. He knew he should wait until after he had met with the attorney. But the worry and the strain and the huge empty house were bearing down hard. And the silence. Before, there had always been music. He had told the architect that every room had to be wired to a central system. Every single room, even the seven bathrooms, even the kitchen pantry. The house had thirty-four rooms and over three hundred Bose speakers. The amplifier was the size of a double oven and hulked beneath the cellar stairs. He had dreamed of the moment when Erin would step across the threshold and hear her favorite aria soaring from every room. A welcome fit for a queen, one guaranteed to woo her and bind her firmly to her new home.
He had been wrong before, but seldom so completely.
Dale poured another two inches, then added more ice. He carried the glass and bottle and ice bucket over to the sofa. Despite the plastic sheet blanketing the entire northern wall and the air conditioner on full blast, the room still stank of oily ashes and sawdust. The contractors were gone for the day. He missed their chatter and hammering and the tinny radio and the saws. He knew he should move out, find aplace where he was not plagued by the ghosts of past errors. But he could not think beyond the one next step.
He glanced down and was surprised to find his glass empty. He poured another couple of inches, decided he didn’t need to bother with ice. The bourbon had a different heat when taken straight, a liquid smoke to match the flames he saw every time he shut his eyes. Dale glanced at his watch. The minute hand was cemented to the same place it had been since his arrival home, or so it seemed. This one final glass, he decided, then he wouldn’t have any more until after the meeting.
He stared out the rear windows past the slate patio to where the sun was turning the Intracoastal the color of a blast furnace. Despite the constant rush of cold air, Dale was sweating heavily. He looked down at his glass, and watched how the tremors in his hand cut fierce little ripples across the bourbon’s surface. The glory days, was how he had always thought of his move
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