A Clean Kill (15 page)

“Criminal Appeals?”

“That’s him. Lives over behind Huntingdon College somewhere there in Montgomery. He had a couple of alleged law clerks try to strong-arm me into a meeting on Sunday. Who knows? With everybody showing up in Montgomery, maybe there’s some connection between the judge and the Cajun.”

“Okay. You got the clerks’ names?”

I said, “Hang on,” and punched up my notes on the laptop. “Here it is. The smarter one’s named Chuck Bryony. The other one’s a pushy little blond bastard named Billy. They both have really cute hairdos. The two of ’em look like Backstreet Boys in golf clothes.”

“You didn’t like ’em.”

“Not much. Give me a buzz at home tonight and let me know if you’re finding anything. I’ll check with Sheri in the meantime.”

“Got it.”

“And, Joey? Buy a phone charger that fits the cigarette lighter on that damn Safari vehicle and send me the bill.”

“Yeah, okay. Listen, there’s something else you need to know. I called a buddy of mine this morning. Ben Stilham. He’s a Mobile cop, and I wanted him to run the plates on the Cajun’s car. The plates turned up stolen, so that was no use. But he told me somethin’ about you.”

“Did you tell him you were working a case for me?”

“Hell, no. But Ben’s been around a while, and he knows I work for you some. Anyway, he tells me that there’s been a statewide O and R out on you since Friday.”

“A statewide what?”

“Oh. O and R. Observe and report. Just means somebody—usually state or federal—wants to know where you are but doesn’t want you stopped or arrested. Goes out on the wires to cops all over the state.”

“Could he tell you where it originated?”

“Nope. That was all he’d say. But hell, Tom, I was surprised he said that much. Doing a Big Brother on the citizenry ain’t something cops usually talk about.”

I asked Joey to keep his ear to the ground and dropped the receiver back in its cradle. Almost immediately, the door opened and Kelly’s head popped through.

I smiled. “Joey’s fine.”

“Good.” She widened her eyes. “Sully Walker’s on line two. He says pick up fast.”

I snatched up the receiver and punched a blinking button. “Sully? What’s wrong?”

A good friend, an even better criminal attorney said, “A warrant was issued this morning for your arrest in the death of Chris Galerina.”

“What? He was at my house last night.”

“I’m not sure I’d share that with anyone else. And, listen Tom, I know you’re gonna want to turn yourself in and clear this up. But, right now, if you think you should find another location—somewhere safe—and call me back, well, I suggest you haul ass. The police are on the way to your office to execute the warrant.”

As I got to my feet, I asked, “How do you know about this?”

“Tom! Go!”

I was walking fast. At five-foot-one, Kelly was trotting to keep up. She looked scared. “What is it, Tom? Is Sully okay?”

Kelly and Sully had dated for a while a year earlier. I said, “He’s fine. The cops are coming here to arrest me.”

“Wha …”

“Listen, please. Go back to your desk. When they get here, you don’t know where I am. That’s all you need to say. I’ll call you as soon as I can.”

As I stepped into the hallway, the elevator ding-donged. I cut straight across the marble floor and opened the door of the CPA across the way. Her receptionist, a frail, henna-haired woman named Lucille, said too loudly, “Well, good morning, Tom. Did y’all run out of coffee again?”

I held my finger in front of my lips. I winked. “I’m trying to avoid someone.”

Lucille bobbed her bony head and gave me a wrinkly wink in return. “Crazy client?”

I nodded. “Something like that.”

“I know whatcha mean. Patricia’s got a few of those. Some people live in their own little purple world. You tell ’em to go away, and they stick to your foot like bubble gum.”

Rubber soles squeaked against marble, and I heard the door to my office open and close. I needed to get to a window. “Mind if I help myself to a cup of coffee while I’m cowering in your office?”

She started to stand. “I’ll get it.”

I walked toward the short hallway to the CPA’s office. “No, no. I know where it is. Patricia in yet? Thought I might say hello.”

Lucille settled back into her chair. “Sorry, she’s out on an audit.” She picked up a bottle of blood-red nail polish. “Holler if you need anything.”

The coffee machine sat in a shallow alcove off the hallway. I stepped up and sloshed brown liquid into a Styrofoam cup—just in case Lucille got curious or helpful and came back to check on me—before heading for Patricia’s office. The window in my office faced the Bay. Hers looked out on Water Street, which fronted our building.

Her door was locked. I clamped the Styrofoam rim of my coffee between my front teeth and fished a credit card out of my wallet. The lock was a standard inside-the-office job built into a round, stainless-steel knob—a keyhole on one side, a push button, on the other. Even better, the door—like most office doors—opened in, which meant the rounded part of the lock faced out.

Seconds later, as the card slipped through and the
door clicked open, Lucille called out, “Find everything?”

“Yep. Sure did.”

I reached around the open door to twist the inside knob, and the lock button popped out. Now, if Lucille came back, all I had to do was look wide eyed and say, “It was open, so I stepped inside to look out the window.”

I left the door open—open is more innocent—and crossed to the window. A dark green Ford with a whip antenna sat in a no-parking zone in front of the building. Close behind that, a City of Mobile patrol car supported the rumps of two uniforms.

Lucille still hadn’t made an appearance. I punched the lock button on the way out and pulled the door closed. When I walked back into Lucille’s outer office, she smiled. “Hiding?”

I smiled and listened. “Heard anything?”

She shook her head without looking up from the long strokes of crimson she was applying to her nails.

I peeked out into the empty marbled hallway, parked my coffee cup on a bookshelf next to the door, and slipped out. I was inside the freight elevator and headed for the first floor and the parking deck when a thought hit.

I punched the 2 on the elevator control panel. By dead reckoning, I decided a door labeled T
EMPURA
W
ONG
, L
ICENSED
C
HIROPRACTOR
led to the best view of the entrance to the parking deck. I stepped inside.

“Well, hello. What can we do for you this morning?”
Weh, hewo. Wha cin we do fo you these moning?

The diminutive, white-coated doctor was her own receptionist. She was smiling. It was a symbiotic
relationship. She needed a patient and I needed to look out her window to see if I could get out of the parking deck.

I said, “Uh, well, I get this pinchy thing in my back when I dance.”

After a period of twisting and popping and embarrassing closeness, Dr. Wong let me use her phone and her window. I called Kelly. The detectives were gone. I looked out the window. The uniformed cops were gone. I put my shirt on, handed the doc three twenties, and headed for the elevators.

Working on the assumption that the parking attendant had orders to call the cops if I showed, I exited through the parking deck stairwell, where a metal security door led straight out onto the sidewalk. Two blocks away, I hailed a cab. Ten minutes later, I called Sully Walker’s office from a bar near the waterfront.

Sully was out, but my call was expected. His paralegal told me to wait. She promised to find Sully. Seventy-six minutes later, Sullivan Walker entered through the front door of Cocktails for Two.

I waved him over. He sat without shaking hands.

I asked, “How bad is it?”

Sully caught the waitress’s eye, then turned to face me. “It
was
bad. I’ve been blasting Buddy Foxglove over at the DA’s office for most of the last hour. Bottom line is we got the warrant lifted, but you’re going to have to answer some questions.”

An aging waitress in a puckered-tight outfit stopped by the table and looked at us. Sully ordered coffee. We sat quietly while she fetched it from a nearby stand. She
filled a cup for Sully, warmed my cup, and took a seat at the bar. A soap opera played on a television bolted to the wall above the bartender’s collection of shimmering bottles.

As Sully stirred cream and sugar into his coffee, I said, “Questions I could understand. I mean, hell, the guy was at my house last night. He had a gun, and I’ve got a bullet in my floor where he damn near shot his toe off. What I don’t understand is … I can’t see how anyone would know Chris Galerina stopped by to see me. And, hell, I’m pretty well known around the courthouse. Why didn’t the DA just ask me to come in if he wanted to talk to me?”

“Tom.” Sully drank some coffee. “First of all, I don’t think anyone
does
know Galerina came to see you. But they don’t have to know that if your fingerprints are all over the weapon.”

“I took his gun away from him last night so he wouldn’t shoot himself.”

“Guess you gave it back.”

“Yeah, after I took the bullets away from him.”

Sully drained his cup and said, “Apparently, he had an extra in his pocket. Some guy out jogging on the beach this morning found him. Looks like Galerina drove his car out on the sand last night after he left your house, took a thirty-eight revolver and popped himself in the temple.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah. Anyway, that explains your first question. The cops didn’t know Galerina was at your house, just that your prints were on the gun. But why the DA’s office issued a warrant instead of just picking you up for questioning, that’s where it gets a little scary. Buddy
gave me a lot of BS reasons, but he finally admitted getting pressure from ‘upstairs,’ as he put it, to go ahead and arrest you.”

“What’s that mean?”

“Beats me. Could mean several things. None good.” Sully stood. “It’s not going to be a lot of fun, Tom, but come on. The sooner we get you to Buddy’s office for questioning, the sooner we can start trying to figure this thing out.”

I followed Sully through a jumble of dimly lit tables and out into the sharp December air.

A long day made for a longer night. Still, I dozed enough for the alarm to jolt me awake at 6:00.

The previous afternoon’s questioning had lasted three hours, and I’d learned not all that much—just that my prints were on the gun Chris Galerina had used to shove a bullet into his brain, and my home address had been scribbled on a pink message slip found on the seat next to his corpse.

When the lab had matched the prints on the gun to the ones I had on file as a member of the bar, ADA Buddy Foxglove’s admitted first impulse had been to pick up the phone and call me. But he’d also admitted getting pressure from an undisclosed superior to issue a warrant instead. He’d admitted all this because he was pissed. He figured somebody was playing politics with one of his cases. He didn’t say it in so many words, but that’s what he thought. And he had not been happy about it.

I lay in bed and thought about that for a while, took a shower, and was standing in front of the bathroom mirror in boxers, socks, and a shirt, knotting my tie, when the phone rang. I jogged out of the bathroom and picked it up on the second ring.

“Mr. McInnes?”

“Yes.”

“Mr. Tom McInnes, the attorney?”

“Who is this?”

The man announced his name like it was a baseball score. He was a television reporter. “We wanted to give you the opportunity to comment on the warrant that was issued yesterday for your arrest in the murder of attorney Chris Galerina.”

He caught me off guard. I said, “That warrant was withdrawn.”

“Yes.” He paused, and I knew he was taking notes. “Was that before or after you met with Assistant District Attorney Foxglove?”

Okay
. Now I was awake. “That’s all I can say right now.”

“No one else can tell your side of the story, Mr. McInnes. If you’ll just …”

“How do you know about this?”

“We have our own sources, but it’s in this morning’s
Journal
. Right there on the front page. So there’s really no reason …”

I hung up and ran to the closet for pants.

The
Mobile Register
was on my front lawn. I grabbed it and quickly scanned the front page. I thumbed through the metro and state sections on the way to the car.

Nothing.

I do not take the
Mobile Journal
. It’s a second-tier newspaper. It covers sports more than politics, gossip more than economics. Basically, it’s a rag. And I found a machine full of them at the Piggly Wiggly on Highway 98.

I dropped a quarter and a dime in the slot, yanked open the fold-down door, and took the top paper. Back in Joey’s Expedition, doors locked and motor running, I read about my life.