Service Dress Blues (7 page)

“You have provoked my interest, Professor Pennyworth.” Kuchinski paused artfully for three carefully timed beats before he continued. “By the way, has your brother Frank called back yet?”

“No, he hasn't. Are you actually going to try to juggle two Lindstrom cases at the same time?”

“I don't have any choice, because they just became the same case.” Kuchinski briefly explained Harald Lindstrom's connection to the criminal charge Lena was facing.

“I'll email Frank and tell him that we'll call him together when you stop by this afternoon.”

“Much appreciated.” Kuchinski smiled broadly as he ended the call, and not because he saw a sign promising a Culvers Restaurant at an exit two miles ahead, with the prospect of a double bacon cheeseburger and a chocolate malt. Well, not only because of that.

***

“Thanks for the early lunch,” Ole told Rep forty-five minutes later as they strolled back into the office suite that Rep now shared with Kuchinski. “But Lena said Walt was going to buy my noon meal.”

“You're a witness in her case. This way, if the prosecutor asks you whether Walt gave you anything in exchange for your testimony you can say, ‘No, he didn't even buy me lunch.'”

“Fair enough.”

“I'm guessing Walt will be back within twenty minutes.” Rep glanced at his watch.

“Ten,” Kuchinski's receptionist/secretary/office manager said. “He just called in that he's on I-forty-three and cruising downtown on a full stomach.”

“I'll wait out here and read the
ABA Journal
, then,” Ole told Rep, “so that you can get back to work registering copyrights and trademarks.

“Okay. Good luck with Walt.”

As Rep passed the large, circular receptionist's desk, he spotted a pink phone-message slip on the spindle over his name. This was a bit unusual. Almost all callers just went into voice-mail these days if they didn't get through. Rep grabbed the slip and glanced at it. Someone named Randy Halftoe wanted him to call about “a new matter.”

Shrugging, Rep folded the slip into his palm so that he wouldn't forget it. He wasn't as compulsive about work as most corporate lawyers, but even he knew that attorneys should always return business calls the same day they came in.

Chapter 8

“Midshipman Lindstrom's story is that he got a text message from Ole Lindstrom telling him to meet someone named Chris Deer at that motel,” Lieutenant-Commander Francis Xavier Seton said over Melissa's speaker phone at four-thirteen that afternoon. (To ascribe these words to ‘Frank Seton' would be accurate, but wouldn't capture the ‘now-hear-this-I'm-not-going-to-say-it-twice' timbre in his voice.)

“You mean Ole was pimping for his nephew?” Kuchinski asked. “That rascal.”

“He says no.” Seton's voice cold enough to chill Gordon's Gin. “He says he assumed that Chris Deer was a man working for Ole as a go-fer. He claims he was completely surprised when Deer turned out to be a thirty-six-twenty-one-thirty-two doe with waist-length black hair. According to the text message, Deer was supposed to bring a Thinkpad laptop computer that the midshipman had left with Ole. The ‘password' required to boot the computer up is a fingerprint swipe with the mid's right index finger.”

“Rep gave me one of those for our last anniversary,” Melissa said. “The finger-swipe feature is neat, but there's supposed to be an alternative typed password that you can default into if the finger-swipe doesn't work.”

“There was, but Ole claimed he couldn't make that one work.”

“Someone should call the Guiness Book of World Records,” Kuchinski said. “This sounds like the longest text message in history.”

“That's a good point,” Melissa said. “Why wouldn't Ole just call him?”

“Kid says he doesn't know,” Seton said.

Maybe because Lena might have overheard
, Kuchinski thought.

“And no one can check the midshipman's phone to verify the text message because it was stolen along with everything else he had, I suppose,” Melissa said.

“Correct. Bottom line, though, he did go to the motel.”

“Which is breaking the rules to start with, right?” Melissa asked.

“Actually, no. A plebe wouldn't ordinarily be allowed to be that far off-grounds on a Friday night, especially during the weekend of the Army-Navy game, but his company was leading in competitions and efficiency ratings, so he had special town liberty privileges.”

“Okay,” Kuchinski said. “He gets to the motel, meets the femme fatale—what happens next, according to him?”

“She takes him up to room two-oh-eight, he boots up the computer, and then she does a Carl Sandberg on him.”

“‘A Carl Sandberg?'” Kuchinski asked.

“‘I have seen your painted women beckoning the farm boys underneath the streetlamps,'” Melissa quoted. “Seductive ladies have been taking the rap ever since Eve ate the apple. Why should we expect the script to change now?”

“She fixes him a drink,” Seton said. “Three good swigs and it's lights out for Midshipman Lindstrom. The next thing he knows he's alone, stark naked, and in a very bad way. He stumbles into the lobby in a panic, where he collapses just in time for retired Gunnery Sergeant Mayer to save his life.”

“Any chance we can talk to Mayer?” Kuchinski asked.

“You are talking to him,” Seton said. “He's sitting right beside me. He's the one I got most of this information from. And he's the only one the kid has really opened up to so far.”

“
Semper Fi
, Gunny,” Kuchinski said.

“When did you enlist?” a gravelly, skeptical voice asked.

“I didn't. I got a telegram from President Nixon.”

“'Nam, huh?
Sin loi
.”

“You got that right. Da Nang was
sin loi
and then some.”

It was Melissa's turn to look baffled until Kuchinski mouthed “Vietnamese for ‘tough shit' in her direction.

“So I'd say the kid has a problem,” Frank said.

“I'd say he has a problem-and-a-half,” Kuchinski said. “Do you believe his story, Gunny?”

“If I made up a story it'd be a lot better than that one, and he's at least eight clicks smarter than I am.”

“One of the main reasons the Academy hasn't cashiered him already is that the gunnery sergeant has weighed in on his side with some key people,” Seton said. “Officers who don't respect the opinions of gunnery sergeants don't last long. That and the fact that Lindstrom was indeed dosed with chloral hydrate instead of taking some recreational drug himself, and the motel clerk vaguely remembers the woman who checked into two-oh-eight maybe having a laptop with her.”

“Does Lindstrom have any idea of what was on the computer that could have been worth so much effort?” Melissa asked.

“No,” Seton said.

“What does Ole say about the text message?”

“No one has asked him yet.”

“Well someone is about to,” Kuchinski said, “because it sure didn't come up in the two-hour chat he and I just had.”

“Are you representing the kid?” Seton asked.

“Yeah, at least until I can track down someone who knows more about the Articles of War than I do.”

“It's called the Uniform Code of Military Justice these days,” Seton said, “and for what it's worth my take on this is that rules and procedure won't have much to do with Lindstrom's case. What that kid needs is someone to pin down some facts to back his story up.”

“How about it, Gunny?” Kuchinski asked. “Where should I start?”

“Well, I've done a little digging already,” the gravelly voice said. “And believe me, it is rocky, hardscrabble soil. But I have one person who might have useful information and might be willing to share it if she is properly motivated.”

“'She,'” Kuchinski said. “What's her name?”

“Crystal. I don't know her family name, and I'm not altogether sure she does. She was the one with me when I stumbled over Lindstrom. We have had a word or two with each other since then, and I do believe she could be helpful.”

“Does AirTran have a non-stop to Baltimore?” Kuchinski asked. “I'd like to get out there as soon as I can after I've talked with Ole again.”

“There's a catch,” the gunnery sergeant said. “Crystal is a shy little thing. I know, I know—her line of work, how do you figure shy? But there it is. The person who talks to her is going to have to be a girl—lady, excuse me. Her idea, not mine.”

“Well that's a complication,” Kuchinski grumbled as Melissa looked thoughtfully at the phone, “but if I scramble a bit I might be able to gin up a work-around.”

“Can you get a BA in English at the Naval Academy?” Melissa asked.

“You can't get a bachelor of arts degree in anything at the Naval Academy,” Seton said. “You
can
, however, get a bachelor of
science
degree in English there. The military academies produce the only English majors in the world who've taken compulsory courses in thermodynamics, electrical engineering, four years of math, and all the hard sciences. What are you thinking, baby sister? That I have an officer-chum teaching English at the Academy who might welcome a guest lecturer from, say, UWM?”

“Two of Jane Austen's brothers were admirals in the British Navy. Until the British victory at Trafalgar, the fear that Napoleon would invade England was part of the psychological landscape in her life and the lives of everyone she knew. ‘Austen and the Fleet.' The lecture almost writes itself.”

“You know what, Commander?” the gravelly voice chuckled. “You just got had, brother.”

Five seconds of silence ticked by.

“Not a new experience for me where this particular professor is concerned,” Seton sighed then. “I'll send some emails.”

***

Rep glanced at his watch. Two minutes after six, and no Randall Halftoe. Halftoe had called at four-forty-five, fifteen minutes after the first appointment time they'd set up, to say that he'd be running late. How about five-forty-five? Rep had agreed. New business is new business, and Melissa would be working late anyway. Halftoe still hadn't shown, and calls to his number went right to voice-mail.

This didn't particularly surprise Rep. People often get cold feet before coming to see lawyers, as if attorneys were dentists who gave you toothaches instead of curing them. Still, he wasn't going to wait all night. He started logging off his computer. That figured to take until five after six or so. If Halftoe hadn't shown by then he'd just forget about it.

The screen was just going to black when his phone rang and he answered it.

“Counselor? I am really,
really
sorry, bro. Got hung up on something and couldn't shake free to save my ever-lovin' life.” His voice had a smooth, almost-but-not-quite-southern cadence and a studied, California-wannabe mellowness.

“How soon can you get here?” Rep asked.

“I'm here right now. I'm freezin' my tush off downstairs outside the main door, which is locked tighter than a drum, and I can't seem to get the attention of a security guard.”

“The guard went off duty at six. I'll be right down.”

Rep rode the antique elevator impatiently down to the lobby. Standing under the floodlights that bathed the pavement in front of the Germania Building's main entrance he saw a man in his early forties, hatless despite the sharp cold, sleek, ebony hair combed straight back and running a little long. The tan skin showing over the fur collar of his richly woven brown wool coat looked a lot more like, say, Fort Lauderdale in August than Milwaukee in December. He was holding an oxblood leather attaché case in his right hand and had a large, black and white vinyl/canvas carry-all hanging by a strap from his left shoulder.

Rep pushed the outside door open.

“Thanks, bro. Hold this for a sec, willya?”

Rep took the carry-all that Halftoe pushed toward him while Halftoe used his left hand to brace the door open and step into the lobby. As soon as they were inside, Rep handed the bag back to Halftoe and led him to the elevators. Halftoe spent the creaking trip up to the ninth floor apologizing again for “blowin' off two appointments,” as he put it.

“No problem.”
The customer is always right.

Rep showed the prospective client to one of the guest chairs in his office, sat behind his desk, and squared a legal pad in front of him.

“Okay,” he said. “What's the nature of the problem?”

Halftoe looked puzzled for a split second, then flashed an oh-I-get-it smile.

“Campaign finance regulation,” he said, broadening the smile.

“That's not really my field, but I have some partners who can help you out.”

“No sweat,” Halftoe said. “It
is
my field.”

From the attaché case he took two typewritten pages, stapled in their upper left-hand corners, and handed them to Rep. Rep found himself examining a two-column list. In the first column appeared names, addresses, and telephone numbers: Jimmy Eagle, Thomas Clay, Shadrach Bass and so forth, eight names on the first page and six on page two. The second column showed dollar amounts. All of the amounts were between fifteen-hundred and two-thousand dollars, and they all ended in zero.

“That is a list of friends and employees of Flaming Torch Chenequa Gaming and Entertainment Enterprises who support the objectives of the Paper Valley Political Education and Values Fund,” Halftoe said, as if he were reading verbatim from the Code of Federal Regulations. “They have dipped into their modest personal resources in order to put their money where their mouths are. They are unsophisticated wage-earners. They don't write checks or go to thousand-dollar-a-plate dinners. They just pass the hat. That's why the donations are in cash. They have asked me to make sure their contributions get into the right hands.”

“I see.” Halftoe was “bundling”—turning over campaign contributions ostensibly gathered from numerous employees. In truth, the money had almost certainly come from the company's coffers instead of the employees' pockets, but by attributing the donations to them the company could evade the limits on corporate campaign contributions.

Halftoe hoisted the carry-all to Rep's desk.

“Just over twenty-thousand all told. You can count it if you want to. I wouldn't blame you if you did. No sir. I'd do it. When you're done, I have a receipt here that I'd be obliged if you would sign.”

“That won't be necessary,” Rep said.

“I appreciate that, sir, I surely do.”

“I can't accept this money.”

“You are listed as the attorney of record for Paper Valley in its recent copyright filing,” Halftoe said, his bafflement entirely unfeigned. “That makes you a legally designated agent with full authority to act on its behalf.”

“I'm familiar with the statutory language. If you'd like to negotiate a license to use
Come Now You People
, I'll be happy to talk with you. But I haven't been engaged to”—he almost said ‘launder,' but checked himself at the last second—“run political campaign contributions through my trust account.”

“This money wouldn't actually have to go into your trust account, would it?” Halftoe asked.

“Anytime I take money for a client it goes through the trust account whether the law says it has to or not.”

Halftoe looked thoughtfully at the ceiling for a couple of seconds, then favored Rep with an expression so warmly understanding that Rep felt oddly like a virgin being gentled by an experienced lothario into the beginning of her sentimental education.

“This is all perfectly legal. You understand that, right?”

“I'll take your word for that,” Rep said, “but this just isn't my gig. The copyright application shows Paper Valley's address. I'd suggest that you send the money there.”

***

Melissa pulled her office door closed as she steeped into the hallway and heard the lock click firmly into place. It was almost seven-thirty at night, and she would have to lead tomorrow off with an eight
A.M.
class. She wanted to hustle home, slip out of wool and into denim—“jean therapy,” as she called it—nuke some Lean Cuisine, and relax.