No Show of Remorse (18 page)

But Maura Flanagan Liederbach? She should have known better, and she probably did. And that was probably why—five years after she'd shut down that shooting investigation in record time—she was so worried about my reinstatement case.

Maura and I would have to chat.

CHAPTER

29

S
TEFANIE
R
ANDLE WAS AS CUTE AS EVER
, but there were dark shadows under her eyes and her shoulders sagged as she led me down the hall at the disciplinary commission.

Renata hadn't withdrawn as my lawyer, but she'd filed a notice giving Stefanie permission to talk to me directly, since Renata was engaged in trial and temporarily unavailable. So it wouldn't appear odd for Stefanie to meet with me.

When we got to the conference room she dropped into a chair and I sat across the table from her. “You're not sleeping well,” I said.

“I'm not sleeping at all.”

“Has your boss talked to you about my case? About not filing objections?”

“He hasn't mentioned it. But there's … well, something else. Something personal.”

“It's your husband, right? I mean your ex-husband. He's—”

“I told you. It's personal. It's got nothing to do with your case, or what I told you.”

“Richie's never shown much interest in your daughter. Missed most of his visitation days. Now, though, you want to move out of state, start a new life.” Her eyes widened in surprise, and I kept going. “When he found out he started raising a stink. Suddenly he's a daddy who can't stand the idea of not seeing his little girl every week. It's bullshit, of course. He's just trying to mess up your—”

“How do you know all this? My plans have nothing to do with you.”

“Maybe. But Richie Kilgallon happens to be right in the center of my case. For more than one reason. I talked to him a few days ago.”

“What? About me and my daughter?”

“Actually,” I said, “that didn't come up.”

“But then how…” She poured herself a glass of water from the shorter of two carafes on a tray on the table. “He hates to be called Richie, you know. It infuriates him.”

“I know. I try never to call him anything else.”

“You should be careful. Richard's an angry, disturbed man.” She shrugged. “But I don't think you worry that he'll hurt you, do you?”

“He's mostly a mean drunk,” I said. “And no, I don't worry about it.” I picked up the taller carafe from the tray. “Is this one coffee?” She nodded and I poured myself a cup. “I could make one of your problems go away, you know. I could simply withdraw my petition.”

“I wouldn't ask you to do that,” she said. “Not for me.”

“I'm not withdrawing it, and if I did, it wouldn't be for you.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“At least, not mainly for you. I wouldn't mind helping you.”

“And I wouldn't mind
someone
helping me, for once.” She was absolutely serious. Her voice broke and she seemed about to cry. “A little help once in a while would be a nice change.”

She had to be pretty far down to allow such an open display of self-pity, and I busied myself with tearing open a packet of powdered creamer—which I hate—while I thought of some way to respond. “Someone is,” I finally said, dumping the white crap into my cup and stirring it around.

“What?” She looked up at me. Her eyes were wet, but she'd managed to stop short of crying. Obviously embarrassed, she pulled a little pack of Kleenex tissue from her jacket pocket. “What do you mean?”

“Someone
is
helping you.”

She blew her nose and dropped the tissue into a wastebasket against the wall behind her. “Really. You mean
you?
”

I shook my head.

“It's sure not my divorce lawyer,” she said. “She doesn't even return my calls. Of course I haven't paid her bill yet, either.” She gave a weak smile. “So, whoever this mysterious person is, I hope he knows what he's doing, and has a lot of
clout,
or something.”

“I don't know that I'd call it ‘clout,' but he's got plenty of power, all right. He's close by, knows exactly what you've been going through, and wants to help. He'll get the job done, too, one way or another, and you won't have to pay him. In fact, you'll be getting a lot more from him in the future.”

She stared at me, obviously surprised. “You're not kidding, are you?” Then her eyes widened even further. “Jesus, Foley,” she said, “you're not talking about … about
God,
are you? Because—”

“God?” My turn to be surprised. “Not hardly.” I wasn't even sure I should have brought up Breaker Hanafan, so I shut up and sat there.

She tried to wait me out, but couldn't. “Look,” she said, “you show up here unannounced and I think maybe you have some news. But all you tell me is, first, you could help me by withdrawing your petition—but you won't. Then you say some mysterious kindly being is watching and helping me, and—”

“I didn't say ‘kindly,' not at all.”

“But anyway, it's not you, and it's not God, and … wait a minute. Do you mean my—” She stood up and gave a toss of her head, fanning her hair out like a model in a Clairol commercial. A great move. Impatient and sexy both. “If you're just going to play games,” she said, “I have lots of work I could be doing.”

“Ah,” I said, “the old Stefanie.” I stayed seated, searching for the right word. “Snippy,” I tried. “Is
snippy
a … well … a sexist adjective?”

“You bet it is.” She looked like she might slap me, but then she smiled—a sudden, genuine smile. “I guess you're not going anywhere.” She sat down again. “So, what are you here for?”

“I need to talk to Maura Flanagan, and I'm trying to figure out how to do it without causing more problems. For you, I mean.”

“You can't talk to her. The court will believe you're trying to influence one of its members, and have one more reason to deny your petition.”

“I don't care what the court believes. I thought I established that long ago. I want to confront Flanagan with her special interest in my case, but not let her know you eavesdropped on—”

“I didn't
eavesdrop.
I overheard.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Anyway, she's not going to tell you why she cares.”

“I said I want to confront her, not ask her. I already know what her interest is.”

“You do? What is it?”

“She was part of—” I stopped. “The less you know, the better off you are.”

“But I'm only in trouble if she discovers I heard her warn Clark Woolford that our office better not raise an objection to your reinstatment. I'm sure you're not going to tell her that.”

“Right,” I said. “But you still don't have to know
why
she's interested.”

“Except that I
want
to know.” She leaned forward. “I mean, I'm the one who let you in on what she told Mr. Woolford, so you owe it to me to tell me how she's involved.”

In fact, she'd only told me because she was scared out of her wits and wanted me to tell her what to do, but chivalry kept me quiet about that. “I
owe
you?”

“Well…” She let the word trail off, and there was a new look, a sort of humorous twinkle, in her eyes. “You
sort
of owe me.”

Maybe the look wasn't so much humorous. Maybe seductive, or whatever. Anyway, why not tell her? Maybe she could be of some help. Maybe I just felt like telling her and seeing what she thought. Lots of maybe's. Maybe I just enjoyed talking to her.

“You told me you read the police reports about that shooting,” I said. “You find anything odd?”

“Actually, I focused on what happened afterwards, the parts about you and your client. How he was supposed to turn himself in and you were to take him to the police station, but he didn't show up. And then how, later, you wouldn't say what he told you. And what eventually happened to you.”

“You didn't read about the shooting itself? About what happened when the police got to Lonnie Bright's house?”

“Oh, I read everything. As to the incident itself, I read the reports and I guess … well, my main thought was they weren't very clear. But I decided that was because, out of the four policemen who were actually there when it happened, one was dead and two were taken to the hospital. So the initial description came from whatever the detectives could get from … from my ex, from Richard. And somewhere in there it said he appeared to be in shock, and not entirely coherent.”

“Right.”

“Plus there were descriptions of bullets and shells and whatever else they found on the scene. A tiny bit of cocaine, or crack, or something.” She frowned. “But you asked about anything ‘odd,' so I guess what struck me was why would that man—Lonnie Bright?—why did he just suddenly turn around and start shooting at the policemen? I mean, it seemed so … so dumb.”

“Absolutely,” I said. “Dumb.” Which this woman was not.

“Then I thought, since they'd seen him with a gun, maybe he was afraid a weapons conviction would send him to prison for a long time. Still, though, it—”

“Lots of arrests. No prior felony convictions,” I said. “The weapon was registered. Don't forget, this was a guy who probably knew as much or more about the criminal justice system—from personal experience—than you and I. He'd have known that with a halfway decent lawyer he'd walk on an ‘unlawful possession' charge.”

“Then I was also thinking, since he was a drug dealer, that maybe he and the other guy—the one who got away—maybe they were doing a drug sale and the police burst in and that's why he shot.”

“Cops didn't say that. And they found no drugs, no big sums of money.”

“Maybe the man who got away took all that with him.”

“Pretty lucky guy, huh? All kinds of shots fired. Three people dead, two wounded, and he's right in the middle of it. And still he gathers up the money, and the cocaine—or whatever—and walks away without a trace.”

“So then, what's your theory on why Lonnie Bright started shooting?” She paused, then added, “Or maybe you
know.
Maybe your client told you.”

“All my client knew was where he was and what he was doing when it all went down.” I paused. “By the way, that's the most I've ever told anyone about what he told me.” I poured a new cup of coffee, without the creamer. “My theory is that Lonnie Bright didn't start shooting at all.”

“Really. But would it make any more sense for his girlfriend to start it? And if it was the other guy up there, he'd be the first one the police would shoot back at, and—”

“And he'd be dead. Right.” I paused. “It wasn't the girlfriend who started the shooting. And there
was
no
other
guy.”

“So, you're saying…” She sipped water from her glass. “You're saying the police shot first, then falsely claimed there was someone else there who got away. God, I mean, that's a really serious charge. That means they simply shot Lonnie Bright, then they all lied about everything. I mean, when they finally got statements from the two officers that were wounded, they said pretty much what my … what Richard told them.”

“Right,” I said. “After they'd seen all the reports already. And maybe even had lawyers of their own. Would they lie?” I shrugged. “Would Richie Kilgallon lie to keep himself out of trouble?”

“Richard? He'd lie for no damn reason at all except he felt like it. But why the story about an extra man? I mean we all know sometimes cops shoot too soon. Then they explain they thought the victim was armed and dangerous.”

“Right,” I said. “As in: ‘That soup spoon in the victim's hand, it sure
looked
like a gun.'”

“But in this case the man they shot, Lonnie, actually
did
have a gun, registered to his name. And even if he had no prior felony convictions, everyone seems to agree he was a bad guy. So why the story?”

“Lonnie had several gunshot wounds, but the bullet he died from went through the center of his forehead. There's some indication in the pathologist's report that that was probably the first slug he took. That could have been followed up on. But it never was.”

“I only sort of skimmed through the pathology reports.” She stared at me. “So, just what
is
your theory?”

“My theory is that four cops went to Lonnie Bright's house. One or more of them went upstairs and deliberately put a bullet in Lonnie's brain. The forensics lab couldn't tell for sure whose gun that bullet came from, just that it wasn't Jimmy Coletta's. My theory is that murdering Lonnie was planned, but that then something went wrong. Maybe they didn't know anyone else was up there. The girfriend was, though; and she had a gun, the semiautomatic they later had to pry out of her hand. Fact is, she had a record of violence worse than Lonnie's. Anyway, she opened fire. The cops returned fire. More people got shot. Richie managed to call for help, and when help arrived it was all over but the bleeding.”

“And then all three surviving cops lied about someone there who got away?”

“Not to repeat myself, but would Richie Kilgallon lie?”

“The fact that someone might lie doesn't prove that he did. Besides, the police turned up bullets on the scene that couldn't have come from any of the guns they found there.”

“I know. Two slugs dug out of the hallway wall. I can't explain that for sure. Maybe they were old slugs. Maybe they had nothing to do with that night.”

“So what's your theory about why a police officer murdered Lonnie in the first place?”