Blood of Angels (13 page)

I watch Hodges awhile, thinking about how fucked Tamra Hartlett must have been to have turned to a guy like him. “It's sure as hell going to come up now,” I say. “You're going to testify to every word of this in court. It's the real motive for murder. It has teeth. It's the first thing you've said that makes any sense.”

Hodges looks up at me. “And then what, man? You gonna prosecute me for solicitation?”

“No,” I say. “I'm going to give you immunity, Jason. It's a promise not to prosecute you in exchange for your testimony.”

“Yeah, man. I know what it is. That's cool.”

I stand very still, so I don't attack him again. “Listen, you little fuck. You pimped your girlfriend to get money from some of the most godforsaken and vulnerable people on the planet. You're banging her friend before her body's cold. You are the lowest slime on the face of the earth. I'm giving you immunity because I need your testimony to get Bol, and you're the kind of asshole who won't give it to me any other way. This ain't no friendship thing.” I take one measured step toward him. “You got that,
Ace
?”

“Yeah. Shit, man.”

I step back off the porch, taking Stillman with me. “You lied to me once, Jason. Don't do it again.”

Hodges stares for a second, then turns back to the house, letting the screen door slam behind him.

Stillman and I stand alone in his yard. “Wow,” Stillman says quietly. “That dude is cold.”

I start walking to the truck. “Yeah. But if he's finally telling the truth, he just sealed Bol's fate.”

 

THE NEXT MORNING
, Thursday, Rayburn, Carl, Stillman, and I meet in the district attorney's office. Rayburn wants assurances about the case's progress, which isn't a surprise. Dan Wolfe's radio lambaste has made immigration and the murder of Tamra Hartlett the major topic of conversation from corporate water coolers to the projects. The DA eyes me levelly. “So,” he says. “You're ready to take this kid Bol down, right?”

“Yeah,” I say. “Hodges finally pulled the pieces together. We've got motive, means, and opportunity. We've got witnesses who place him on the scene, and we've got compelling blood evidence.”

“And you've got Paul Landmeyer on the stand,” the DA says. “He's a great witness.”

Carl nods. “Against which, you've got the sworn testimony of one Fiona Towns.”

Rayburn grins. “By the time Thomas gets done with her, there's gonna be nothing left but a Presbyterian stain. Ain't that right, Thomas?”

“The lady definitely has some credibility issues,” I say.

“She's a preacher,” Carl says, ever practical. “That has weight in a lot of people's minds.”

“Which brings us to jury selection,” Rayburn says. “You got voir dire next Monday at ten, right?”

“Yeah. Well, actually, it'll be at ten-fifteen. That's because Rita will spend fifteen minutes trying to convince Judge Ginder that it isn't possible to assemble a jury of Moses Bol's peers in Nashville, Tennessee, since he's so recently landed here from the moon.”

Rayburn bursts out laughing. “Pretty fucking good point, too.”

Stillman smiles. “That dude's peers are all back in the mother country, herding cattle.”

“Bol's a resident now,” Carl says. “Legally, his peers are the fine people of Davidson County.”

Rayburn nods. “OK, then.” We start to leave, but Rayburn softly coughs. I turn back, and he's inexplicably blushing. “Listen, before everybody goes, I just wanted to say a little something. It's not just Bol we've got Monday. It's Carl's last day, too.”

Carl groans. “David, I'm begging you—”

“Shut up, Carl,” Rayburn says, smiling. “Monday's gonna be crazy.” He reaches into his desk and takes out a small box. “It's just something to remember this place by.”

Carl takes the box. “What is it?”

“Open it.”

Carl pulls plain white wrapping paper off the box. He lifts the lid and smiles. “Son of a bitch. And it's just my size.”

“Seemed appropriate.”

Carl lifts a tie out of the box and holds it up to me and Stillman. “It's Mr. and Mrs. Santa Claus. Naked, on a beach, drinking margaritas.”

“Something to smile about during these dark days,” Rayburn says, grinning. “You know, what with Hale and all that.”

“Cancel the party, David,” Carl says soberly. “It's the wrong time for it.”

“The hell I will. You've been in this office for thirty-one years, Carl, and I'll be damned if some pipsqueak law professor is going to cheat you out of the send-off you deserve. The party is next Friday at seven, and you will not be late.”

“How come you got to wait?” Stillman asks. “It's almost a week later.”

Rayburn grins. “Because the state of Tennessee is forcing Carl to take four vacation days since they don't want to pay him everything they owe him. The beauties of government service.”

“Well, hell, we can still have the party—”

“We will
not
have any retirement party until I am officially no longer an employee of this office,” Carl says. “So it's Friday, or it isn't at all. Which begs the point, because there shouldn't be one in the first place. I should just be allowed to slink off with a little dignity.”

“You realize there's no money in our budget for this kind of thing, right?” Rayburn says.

“Which is why—”

“Which is why we've been taking up collections for the last six months, just so we can have an open bar.” He grins. “Well, for three hours, anyway.”

Carl pushes out a barely perceptible smile. “I'm touched, David. Truly, I am.”

“You're goddamn right, you're touched. You will also be front and center at seven on Friday night, and that's an order. Is that understood?”

Carl nods. “Yeah. I got it.”

Rayburn looks at Stillman. “Remember this moment, Stillman. We take care of each other around here. This is family. Always will be.”

 

STILLMAN IS FEELING
, by all accounts, pleased. He's been invited into the inner sanctum of Rayburn's office, further evidence that he's handpicked for the fast track. Personally, I doubt Jeff Stillman is destined for Rayburn's definition of greatness. Stillman, in my opinion, is more likely destined for a shinier life, something that involves less legal legwork and more TV time. The DA is fifty-two years old, a world away from Jeff Stillman's eager, photogenic sensibilities. Carl is even farther removed; when Carl became a lawyer, there were four channels on TV, and none of them cared about local prosecutors. You came in, kicked ass, and raised a beer with your adversary at the local watering hole. It was an insular, and for him, satisfying, world.

I sit in my own chair after leaving Rayburn's office, and I watch Stillman smiling back at me in a wing chair. “So,” I say. “We're ready to go to court.”

“No doubt,” Stillman answers. “Wired. Incidentally, I see what you mean about doing your own research. No way an investigator would have pried out of Hodges what you got today. That was deep.” I write Matek Deng's name on a sheet of paper and hand it over. “Who's this?” I ask.

“Jason told us he pimped his girlfriend to this guy.”

“Right. And Jason lies a lot, doesn't he?”

Stillman nods slowly. “Yeah.”

“So maybe we ought to check Deng's bank statements.”

Stillman's eyes widen. “Yeah. No shit. 'Cause otherwise—”

“Otherwise, Stillman, when Rita West puts Jason Hodges on the stand, there won't be any corroboration for his statements. And an uncorroborated Jason Hodges on the stand we do not need.”

Stillman stares. “It's not like school, is it?”

“No, Stillman. Not so much.” I lean back in my chair. “Start with Deng. His best friend is a guy named Luol Chol. Together with Bol, they're like the three musketeers. Inseparable. You can work outward from there. Run credit checks, bank statements, employment history.”

“Got it. What are you going to do?”

“The money trail helps, but like too many things in this damn case, it's circumstantial. We need something concrete.”

“Like what?”

“Hodges says a bunch of these guys were in Hartlett's apartment. Get physical evidence to confirm that fact, and we're done.”

“How we gonna do that at this late date?”

“I could subpoena a hundred and fifty Africans, but I don't think Ginder would think that's a very funny joke. Not three days before trial. Anyway, with this Hale thing hanging over our heads, a delay is the last thing we need.”

“So what are you going to do?”

“I'm going to sit in my chair and think, Stillman. See you when you get back.”

 

AFTER A HALF HOUR
, I start throwing wadded-up papers into my wastebasket.
Not good.
Tomorrow we go on Buchanan's wild-goose chase, and Monday we have court. Twenty minutes later, the basket's full. I look at the clock: it's nearly eleven.
I could take a walk. Walking helps people think. I read that, somewhere.
I stand up and sit back down.
It's a million degrees outside. The walk isn't such a good idea.
I stare at the wastebasket another few seconds, and it hits me.
It's a million degrees out there.
I pick up the phone and call Paul Landmeyer. “Listen,” I say, “you took fingerprints all over Tamra Hartlett's apartment, right?”

“Sure.”

“How many different people did you find?”

“Quite a few. Twelve or thirteen, I think.”

“How many were you able to identify?”

“Just four or five. There was the victim, her mother, the boyfriend, Bol, and a female friend. The rest weren't in the database.”

“Suppose I got you another five or six sets of prints to compare with what you found at the apartment. How long would it take you to tell me if there's a match?”

“Anybody else, two days. You, two hours.”

I smile. “Thanks, Paul. Hang loose on this for a while. I'll be in touch.” I hang up and call Josh Ritchie on his cell phone.

He answers in his easy, laid-back voice. “What's up, dude?”

“Where are you?”

“In my van, watching the Sudanese. They're milling around Bol's apartment, coming in and out.”

“Good. How hot is it out there right now?”

“Philippines hot, dude. I'm frying my ass off.”

“You know the grocery store just off Charlotte? Go buy a six-pack of the coldest Cokes you can find there, even if you have to get them out of a machine. Pack them in some ice and wait there for me.”

“You buyin' me drinks now, counselor?”

“Nope. I'm buyin' the people you're watching drinks. I'll be there in twenty minutes.”

I walk outside, and the still, airless heat of the day hits me like a blanket. I'm sweating by the time I get to the parking lot. I hop in for the drive to the Nation. I take the Forty-sixth Avenue exit, turning left for the four blocks to the grocery store. Josh is sitting in his van, the engine idling. We roll down windows. “You got 'em?”

He holds up a Styrofoam cooler. “Six, on ice.”

“Lemme ride with you. I'll leave the truck here, and we can pick it up after.” I hop out and get in Josh's van, the inside of which is trashed like a freshman's dorm room. “You ever clean this thing?”

“Home away from home,” Josh says, smiling. “You wanna tell me what we're doing now?”

“Collecting fingerprints,” I say, grinning. “Hot day, cold drink. Should be no problem.”

“Shit man, that's not bad. You think the prints are gonna stick on the cans?”

“You got any better ideas?”

He shakes his head. “Nope.”

“When we get there, dump the ice and wipe the cans so they're dry. Walk by and say the drinks are left over from a party and they look thirsty.”

Josh nods. “Worth a shot.” We drive back through the Nation, enter Tennessee Village, and park around the corner from Bol's apartment. A handful of Asians are hanging out under a tree, some with gang clothes and tats. Josh dumps the ice, wipes the cans dry, and opens his door.

“Try to keep Deng's and Luol's cans separate,” I say. “You think this will work?”

Josh smiles a Dennis Quaid smile and pushes his hat back on his head. “No problem, pal. I'm just a friendly guy who likes to share.” Josh disappears with the Cokes around the corner. I sit and wait in the idling van; the air-conditioning can barely keep up with the stifling heat and humidity. The life of the Village goes on around me: a group of Somali women walk by with their brilliantly colored clothing and scarves over their heads; more Asians, probably Laotian, by the tattoos.
Nashville, Tennessee, baby. The global village heads South.
After about ten minutes Josh rambles back, the Styrofoam cooler under his arm. He gets in the van and opens the lid. “Got to hand it to you, man. They drained them on the spot. Deng is front left; Luol is front right. I bent the pop-tops in different directions, to keep it clear.”

“Beautiful.”

“So where to now?”

“Just drop me back off at my truck. Stay here for now. If anything goes down tonight, I want you here to know about it.”

Josh nods and drives me back over to Charlotte Avenue. He drops me off with the cooler.

The forensic lab of Davidson County is as glamorous as a rundown elementary school. The building is industrial and forlorn, and once inside, the floor is tiled with big squares of linoleum worn with decades of nightly cleaning and polishing. Enormous fluorescent lights in cheap plastic fixtures run the length of the hallways. I walk into the lobby, greet the receptionist, and ask for Paul.

Paul comes out to the lobby to meet me, and we walk together back to his lab. “Damn, that was fast,” he says. “How'd you get the prints?”