The 7th Canon (17 page)

Ramsey dropped his glass, shattering it.

Donley mingled among the crowd in his living room wearing a red-wool sweater and a Santa Claus hat trimmed with white fur. The ball at the tip of the hat flopped to the side, weighted with Christmas bells. Kim was in the kitchen, dressed similarly, the kind of “couple’s outfit” Donley had sworn he’d never wear. At least the bells thrilled Benny, who continued going strong an hour past his bedtime. At the moment, he was wearing out his grandfather’s knee getting horsey rides on the living-room couch. Donley suspected the sugar pulsing through his son’s system from the chocolate fudge, cream puffs, and candy canes could have powered an entire grade school.

Most of the guests were Kim’s relatives, close friends without local family, and a few clients. Four years earlier, Kim had had the idea of a party for a few friends whose families lived out of state. The party had evolved from there. In years past, Lou and Sarah had come. Donley missed having them.

He did his best to deliver refills on drinks and collect empty bottles and glasses as he worked his way toward the kitchen, where the aroma of Kim’s crab hors d’oeuvres enticed. Making his way through the crowd was proving difficult; everyone wanted to talk to him, and most conversations started with the person having seen Donley on the evening news. The stations were particularly fond of playing the part outside the courtroom where Donley had confronted Ramsey and St. Claire about the problems with the evidence.

Judge Trimble would not be happy.

Still, Donley was doing his best to not think of Milton Trimble, Linda St. Claire, or Gil Ramsey. Several beers had helped, though they had not quieted his thoughts about Father Thomas Martin.

God comes in our darkest moments.

Donley wondered how a man who dealt with so much despair, who witnessed children abandoned on the streets like discarded furniture and abused by sick and twisted adults, could have such faith.

Where was their God?

Where had God been those nights Donley hid beneath his bed, praying? God had not answered his prayers. God had not helped him or his mother in their darkest hours.

The smell of crab intensified, and Donley bumped and grinded through the crowd to the sound of Christmas carols sung by Elvis Presley—the tape a gift from Mr. Anitolli’s three sons. The judge had ruled in their favor.

Kim held the tray of crab hors d’oeuvres in gloved hands and was issuing a warning to the group of bodies between her and the wooden cutting board.

“Coming through. Coming through.”

Donley walked past her, did a spin move to avoid the tray, and pinched her butt. She ignored him until she’d put the tray down, then turned and smiled. He picked out two of the wedges and popped one into his mouth.

“Hot,” she said. Too late.

He fanned his tongue, the crab burning, grabbed a bottle of beer from an outstretched hand, and took a long drink.

“Damn,” he said, running his tongue along the roof of his mouth and feeling it already starting to peel.

Kim laughed. “I tried to warn you.”

He spotted a tray of custard-filled, chocolate-topped cream puffs, popped a whole one in his mouth, and planted a messy cream-and-chocolate kiss over Kim’s lips. The crowd in the kitchen hooted.

“Doorbell,” Kim said, wiping the chocolate from the corner of her mouth.

“What?”

She pointed at the buzzer located over the entrance to the kitchen. “Get the door.”

Donley kissed her again and made his way through the dining room, dropping off two beers and a glass of white wine on his way. He pulled open the front door. Mike and Rochelle Harris and their two children stood on his porch dressed in the same matching red sweaters and hats, bells dangling to the side. Harris’s son and daughter raced past Donley in search of Benny. Rochelle stepped in holding a tray of stuffed mushrooms. Donley tried to steal one.

She swatted his hand. “They’re not cooked yet. Where’s Kim?”

“Kitchen duty. I’m on drink patrol.”

Rochelle turned to her husband, who held a bottle of wine and wrapped presents. “I’ll be in the kitchen giving Kim a hand. Be good. You still have a bike to put together tonight.” She left the two men standing under the mistletoe.

“You can stand there, but I’m not going to kiss you,” Donley said.

Harris looked past him. “You have any other brothers at this party, or am I the Christmas token, again?”

“If I wanted a token, I’d have found someone a hell of a lot cooler than you.”

“You’re in a good mood.” Harris stepped in and Donley closed the door. “How many have you had?”

“Enough to forget.”

Harris handed Donley the bottle of wine. “You were front and center on the six o’clock news, pal.”

Donley put a hand to his face. “I’m sorry, Mike.”

“I should have known you’d take on Ramsey and The Chair. You just can’t help yourself.” He handed Donley the presents. “Merry Christmas. It’s another sweater.”

“Thanks for the surprise.” Donley laughed. “Come on in. I’ll get you a beer.”

Donley found a beer in the fridge, twisted off the top, and handed it to Harris. “I assume you don’t want a glass?”

“Bottle is fine.”

Donley watched Kim answer the phone in the small nook off the kitchen. She put a finger in her ear as she walked out the back door onto the deck. After a moment, she returned, made eye contact with Donley, and mimed that the phone was for him.

Thinking it could be his aunt Sarah, he walked out onto the deck. The temperature was brisk. “Who is it?”

“The county jail,” she said.

Donley took the phone, expecting to hear Father Martin’s voice. “Hello?”

“Peter Donley?”

Donley stuck a finger in his ear. “Yes. Who’s this?”

With one sentence, Donley’s Christmas Eve came to an end.

Dixon Connor removed his black wingtips from the corner of Gil Ramsey’s desk and stood. Behind him, French doors to the English garden framed the Golden Gate Bridge, a silhouette outlined by sparkling white lights that reflected off the darkened waters of the San Francisco Bay and stretched to the Marin Headlands.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Ramsey asked.

“Long time no see, Gil.”

“I’m calling the police.” Ramsey walked to the edge of the desk and picked up the phone.

“Wouldn’t,” Connor said.

“Breaking and entering is a crime, Connor.”

Connor picked up the remote control from the desk and pointed it at a television on a built-in shelf across the room. The television blinked. Ramsey turned his head. The image was grainy and dark, but he could make out two people.

“Not the best quality,” Connor said. “But good enough, don’t you think?”

Ramsey lowered the phone back to its cradle and walked closer to the television screen. Whoever had been filming zoomed in, and Ramsey froze. Stunned. Unable to speak.

“The eyes don’t lie, do they, Gil?” Connor waited a moment before clicking off the remote, leaving Ramsey staring at his reflection in the darkened glass.

“Shocking, isn’t it? Who would have thunk it? I mean, a video camera, of all things. Never would have thought the little shits were that enterprising, would you?” Connor walked around the room, picking up and putting down things from the desk and shelving. “Almost as surprising as you and me ending up at the same shindig. What are the chances of that, huh?” He sniffed the air. “Something smells good. What’s in the oven?”

Ramsey pulled his gaze from the television. “What do you want?” he asked, voice barely a whisper.

“I’m sorry. Did you say something, Gil?”

Ramsey swallowed with difficulty. His voice croaked. “What do you want? Why are you here?”

Connor shrugged. “I can’t say I’ve honestly made up my mind. You see, Gil, in the vernacular, now I got
you
by the balls, just like you once had a grip on my old man’s nut sack. What do they call this . . . poetic justice?”

“I—”

“I only wish he were still alive to see it. God, he would have loved this. Opportunities like this don’t come around but once in a lifetime. So, a man has to be judicious with how he uses something like this. He can’t rush his decision. He has to be patient and prudent.” Connor pointed the cigar. “You look a little pale, Gil.” He motioned to the chair behind the desk. “You want to take a seat?”

Ramsey did not respond.

“Cat got your tongue? Why don’t I try for you? Holy shit!” Connor yelled.

Ramsey flinched and turned quickly to the door.

“What’s the matter? You afraid one of your other guests might hear me? Hell, I don’t have to yell.” Connor started for the door. “I’ll just go mingle through the crowd and whisper in their ears. Or maybe I’ll pop the video in the family television.”

“No,” Ramsey said.

Connor turned. “I must be losing my hearing. Did you say something?”

“What do you want?” Ramsey asked again.

“I told you, I’m really not sure, but I’m thinking half a million. Cash. Can’t accept a check or credit card, I’m afraid.”

Ramsey’s jaw dropped. “I don’t have that kind of money.”

“Of course you do. You and your father could probably scrounge that up tonight if you stood at the door and held out a hat. Hell, you should consider it cheap, because it is. And we both know it. The alternative is murder one—”

“Murder? What the hell are you talking about?”

“Let me fill you in on this bit of police procedure I picked up humping my ass for the past twenty-five years. It’s something my dad taught me before . . . well, we don’t really have to get into old history tonight, do we? After all, it’s Christmas Eve. Anyway, as I was saying, police procedure, detective stuff. If you want to solve a crime, you always look for the guy with the motive. Who has the motive, Gil?”

Ramsey shut his eyes.

“You need a drink or something, Gil? You really do look like you’re going to be sick.” Connor pulled a slip of paper from his pocket. “I figured it out. If you take my old man’s salary, what he would have earned until he
voluntarily
resigned, which I think was the way you put it, plus the full pension he lost, along with the equity in the house and the stocks he had to cash in to pay his attorneys’ fees, it comes to just about $223,000. Hell, he was just a civil servant. Wiped him out.” Connor again pointed the cigar. “Now that’s just the hard costs. I’m adding a fee for pain and suffering. What do they call that, punitive damages? You understand. But, hey, I’m not totally unreasonable. I didn’t add even a penny of interest.” Connor winked. “That’s just the kind of guy I am.”

Ramsey pulled loose his bow tie and undid the top button of his shirt. “I’ll need some time to think this over,” he said.

Connor blew smoke in the air. “Sure.” He held up his watch. “You have sixty seconds to accept my proposal. Otherwise . . . it’s showtime!”

“You’re joking?” Ramsey said.

Connor stepped forward. “Do I look like I’m joking, Gil?”

“I can’t get the money in sixty seconds.”

Connor held the cigar close to the tip of Ramsey’s nose. “I know that, you dumb shit. I just want your word, Gil. I am a man of utmost honor, and when I say I’m going to do something, you can trust that I will do it. I ask nothing more of you.” He smiled. “Otherwise, this time it will be your old man who goes down. And you? You can kiss Sacramento bye-bye, along with this beautiful house and all the beautiful people out there you call friends, though we both know that really isn’t true. They’re just sucking up to you because they think you’re going places. People like that are parasites, Gil. They’re just along for the ride. You’d be better off without them. You have one week to get the money.”

“I could go to the police,” Ramsey said.

Connor picked up the telephone from the desk and handed it to Ramsey. “There you go, Gil. All you have to do is press nine-one-one. While we’re both waiting for the police to arrive, let’s talk about how a dedicated homicide detective dotted his
i
’s and crossed his
t
’s to get enough evidence—”

Ramsey hung up the phone.

“What’s the matter, Gil, not the Christmas story you want to hear?”

“Why should I trust you? What assurances do I have that you will keep your end of the bargain?”