A Case of Betrayal Page 2

  Garcia leans toward the camera. “Marsha Williams was yet another survivor who escaped her abusive husband’s clutches by becoming a successful entrepreneur in her own right.” She settles back, crosses her legs, and throws her hands up in a gesture of exasperation. “Reg Williams couldn’t handle that—his precious masculinity was threatened by a wife who struck out on her own! Marsha Williams was murdered on February fourth—six days ago! When will the police finally take this animal off the streets? After another woman dies?”

  “What a crock of shit,” Mike seethes.

  Garcia’s eyes narrow. “Who is Reg Williams? A heavy drinker who can’t hold a job. A man prone to violence—the classic dangerous ex-spouse. In short, just another loser. A thug!”

  “Could she blow that dog whistle any harder?” Mike asks bitterly.

  My eyes snap to Mike. “I missed that.”

  “Thug,” he explains. “A word that nowadays denotes lawless, dangerous brown folks, my friend.”

  While the program goes to commercial, I process what I’ve just heard. “Any history of abuse?”

  “Hell, no,” Mike replies before he takes a bite of Danish.

  “So, what was that about?” I ask. Gabby Garcia isn’t exactly known for letting facts get in the way of her rants, but her depiction of Reg was incendiary, even for her—especially at this early stage of a murder investigation. As far as I know, Reg hasn’t even been publicly identified as a “a person of interest,” that delightful euphemism law enforcement uses to paint a target on potential suspects. Aside from tarnishing the reputation of whomever they tag, it suggests that a thorough investigation is underway. People such as Gabby Garcia are a great way to spread the manure far and wide.

  Mike dips his head and massages his temples. “They’re zeroing in on Reg. Dollars to doughnuts, some cop is feeding Garcia all the bullshit she needs to publicly tar and feather him.”

  I stop just short of offering to represent Reg. I need to discuss things with my partner, Penelope Brooks, before doing so. The law firm of Brooks and Valenti may be lawyers to the poor and defenders of lost causes, but taking on a murder case is an expensive proposition. I also tend to get us into some tough spots. As my friend, retired Cedar Heights homicide detective Jake Plummer, warned my partner not two months ago, trouble seems to follow me around.

  Chapter Three

  The murder of Mike’s sister-in-law intrudes on my thoughts five days later, during a Presidents’ Day dinner of Hungarian goulash prepared by my fifteen-year-old daughter, Brittany. I can’t shake the sense that the haunted look in Mike’s eyes as he contemplated the cops zeroing in on his brother portends trouble dead ahead—trouble that will involve me. I push those thoughts aside to give Brittany my full attention. She and I are still recovering from several terrible weeks last fall that had seen her kidnapped and her boyfriend murdered. It all ended when I shot and killed the Mafia gangster who had been behind the kidnapping and murder—and that barely scratches the surface of the craziest two months of our lives. We’re both still laboring to overcome the physical and emotional wounds we suffered, and are becoming pretty good at setting it all aside behind a façade of normalcy for minutes at a time.

  “That was pretty good,” I say as I push aside the dinnerplate I’ve just scoured clean.

  “Pretty good?” she shoots back while giving me the stink eye. “I go to all the trouble of making you a nice meal on my day off school and that’s all the thanks I get?”

  “I’ll bet the pie is great!” I exclaim in a bid to redeem myself. The pièce de résistance is to be an apple pie baked from scratch.

  Brittany shoots an exaggerated stare at the kitchen wall clock and grumbles, “We may never find out.”

  We’re holding dessert until Pat O’Toole arrives. Pat, a local newspaper reporter at the Chicago Tribune, was a classmate of mine growing up. Brittany has had a rough first year in Cedar Heights after our arrival from Atlanta in the wake of a bitter divorce. Despite the age difference between them, Brittany considers Pat one of her few friends here. Pat begged off Brittany’s dinner invitation but promised to come afterward. I plan to ask Pat what, if anything, she knows about Marsha’s murder. I’m a little worried about doing so. Our relationship is somewhat tenuous these days; I don’t want her to feel as if I’m trying to exploit it. I can’t imagine that she will—she’s a generous soul—but the relationship means a lot to me, and I don’t want to jeopardize it. That said, I feel the inexorable pull of Reg’s potential case drawing me in and want to learn everything I possibly can about what happened and how the murder investigation is progressing.

  Brittany waves away my offer to clear the table, then pushes her chair back and collects our plates on her way to the sink. She’s a good foot shorter than I am, a willowy girl with her mother’s exotic good looks: high cheekbones, sky-blue eyes, a finely chiseled nose, full lips, and shoulder length auburn hair. A knockout in my books. Not that I’m entirely happy about it now that boys have discovered Brittany and she’s discovered them.

  “Oops!” she exclaims after accidentally on purpose brushing a chunk of stewing beef out of the serving bowl. The splat when it hits one of our kitchen’s sixteen-inch ceramic floor tiles flips the activation switch on our aging black Labrador retriever, Deano. After hoovering up the treat, he settles on his haunches to lick up every molecule he missed on the first pass. Moments like this have alarmingly expanded his girth, yet I can’t bring myself to forbid Brittany from spoiling the pooch. Truth be told, I indulge the old bugger as much or more.

  I smile at my daughter and shake my head to demonstrate that Dear Old Dad wasn’t fooled by her staged “Oops.”

  “Busted, huh?” she says with a grin before she turns away to rinse the dishes.

  “Yup. You’re grounded until the dishes are done.”

  She glances over her shoulder and mock pouts before she gets back to work loading the dishwasher.

  My thoughts turn to my father as my eyes roam around the kitchen he remodeled over the years. Papa’s exemplary craftsmanship is evident in every inch of the meticulously finished alder cabinets and trim, in the crown molding that caps the walls, and in the tile work of the counters and backsplash. Papa’s been visiting his sister in Italy for the past few months after an absence of almost fifty years. I doubt he’s coming back. He gave me the okay to take over the master bedroom so we could turn my childhood bedroom into an exercise room/home office—quite an improvement over being wedged into an unfinished corner of the basement.

  We sit in companionable silence after Brittany cleans up. Deano finishes scrubbing the floor and wanders over to await another morsel. The doorbell rings while I eyeball the pie calling out to me from the counter.

  Brittany is off like a shot with Deano waddling along in her wake.

  “I hear there’s homemade pie somewhere around here,” Pat says as she walks into the kitchen and busses my cheek before she pulls out a chair and plunks her lanky five-foot-ten frame into it. She pushes a strand of shoulder-length red hair behind an ear and fixes her sea-green eyes on me. “Unless you ate it already?”

  “Nope,” I reply, thinking that her permanent false eye is a pretty good replacement for the one she lost in a shooting here just over a year ago.

  Pat sniffs the air and turns her attention to Brittany. “Do I smell paprika?”

  Brittany beams. “Goulash.”

  “And I missed it! Sorry I couldn’t make dinner, kiddo. Monday is my day to spend with Mom. I had to stay until my sister got there from work.”

  Brittany’s expression sobers at the reminder of Pat’s family problems. Her father passed away suddenly on January second. Her mother was diagnosed with early-stage Alzheimer’s two weeks later.

  “How’s your mother?” Brittany asks.

  Pat’s shoulders sag. “Some days are better than others, but all in all, things are pretty good. I guess the upside is that I’m discovering stuff about Mom’s childhood I never knew.”

  Britt
any looks confused. “I thought people started forgetting everything with Alzheimer’s?”

  “It’s strange. What happened yesterday often escapes Mom, but she remembers so much from growing up in Toronto. She talks about that a lot.”

  “She grew up in Toronto?” I ask in surprise. “Is she Canadian?”

  “She’s always been a dual citizen,” Pat replies. “Funny how none of us have ever really thought of her as Canadian, but it seems that she’s always thought of herself as one.”

  “Does that make you Canadian?” Brittany asks.

  Pat smiles. “All her talk made me curious, so I poked around a bit. I qualify for Canadian citizenship.”

  “Well, I hope you don’t run off to Toronto and leave me here with this guy,” Brittany says while shooting a look my way.

  I conjure up a look of consternation. She pokes the tip of her tongue out in response.

  As I watch them talk, I’m saddened by how Pat and I have grown apart over the past several months. We’d connected immediately when she re-entered my life and had settled into an easy comradery that was a lot of fun. We still get along, but there’s a growing distance between us. Without Brittany acting as the glue to keep the relationship from fraying further, we might well have drifted completely apart. There was a time not so long ago when I thought something might develop between us. Pat had other ideas. I eventually decided to move on and am now in a relationship. In fact, the glow of a fabulous Valentine’s Day and night with Trish Pangborne at her Lake Point Tower condo has had me walking on air all day. My relationship with Trish is everything I’d once hoped to have with Pat. Trish is the polar opposite of my ex-wife: kind, warmhearted, generous, strong and confident without feeling the need to turn every day into an ongoing power struggle. She’s comfortable in her own skin. I’m beyond comfortable in her company. Am I in love with Trish? If not, I’m well on my way there.

  “Where did an Italian/Irish girl like you acquire a taste for goulash?” I ask Brittany when there’s a lull in their chatter.

  “Mrs. Harland gave me the recipe and talked me through it this afternoon.”

  An uncomfortable silence follows the mention of Bobby Harland’s mother. Bobby, who died last November, was Brittany’s first serious boyfriend. I didn’t know she was still in touch with his family.

  Pat touches my daughter’s hand. “So, where’s this pie I’ve been looking forward to?”

  Brittany brightens at the change of topic, pops to her feet, and collects the pie.

  “Wow!” Pat exclaims after Brittany slides it onto the table and departs to collect plates and forks. “This is really your first pie?”

  Brittany nods happily.

  “Pretty darned fancy,” Pat marvels. “You made the whole thing from scratch?”

  The pie is impressive with its lattice top and apple filling bubbling through. “I suggested that she start with a prepackaged crust and a can of filling for her first try,” I tell Pat. “It would have been easier.”

  “No store-bought crap served here!” Brittany scoffs as she cuts into her masterpiece.

  Pat is served the first slice of pie, forks up a bite and chews for a moment with her eyes closed, then cuts a sideways glance at me. “It might have been easier, Valenti, but it wouldn’t have tasted half as heavenly as this.”

  Brittany slides a slice in front of me and tosses a dessert fork my way. “Try it, old man.”

  I obey and realize that Pat hadn’t exaggerated to make Brittany feel better. Have I finally found a replacement baker for my mother, who passed away before we moved back to Cedar Heights? That would be, to steal Pat’s term, heavenly.

  Brittany cuts herself a slice of pie, then sits down and fixes her gaze on me. “Well?”

  “Terrific,” I mutter around a second bite.

  The kitchen falls silent while we attack our dessert. I carry the plates to the dishwasher when we finish, then put up the kettle to boil water for hot chocolate.

  Pat asks me how last week’s basketball bout with Mike Williams went.

  “Same as always” I reply. “Got my ass kicked. Not as thoroughly as usual, though. Mike wasn’t quite into it. Do you remember his brother, Reg, from Papa’s trial?”

  “The cell phone guy?” Pat asks.

  I nod and tell them about the death of his ex-wife.

  She looks away for a long moment, then refocuses on me. “The insurance agent who was killed at her office?”

  I nod.

  “I helped edit the story. I didn’t connect the dots to Mike’s family.”

  “Do you know what’s going on with the investigation?” I ask.

  “Not really,” she replies. “There’s chatter around the newsroom that the police are looking at the ex-husband.”

  “Will Mike defend him?” Brittany asks.

  “Reg hasn’t been charged,” I reply.

  Pat gives me a knowing look. “You know he’s the prime suspect, Tony. His ex-wife is dead and he’s Black.”

  Brittany’s eyes grow wide as she stares at Pat. “So? They can’t charge him just because he’s African American!”

  Pat offers her an indulgent smile. “Welcome to post-racial America, kiddo.”

  “Even if Reg qualifies for a public defender, Mike probably won’t get the case,” I say.

  “Why not?” Brittany asks.

  “The powers that be will probably think he’s too close to the case.”

  “That’s stupid,” Brittany says with a frown. “Who’s gonna care more about getting his brother off?”

  Out of the mouths of babes.

  “So, if not Mike, who?” Pat asks. “You?”

  “I kicked it around with Penelope,” I reply. “She’s not crazy about the idea of taking on the time and expense of a murder case, but she’s open to the possibility.”

  Penelope Brooks, my partner in Brooks and Valenti, is probably right, but I still feel like we should make the gesture. We’re interrupted by the chirp of an incoming call on my cell phone. I check the caller ID. Mike Williams.

  “We need to talk,” he says when I answer.

  “What’s up?”

  “The State’s Attorney has convened a grand jury to consider charges against Reg,” he replies. “Will you represent him if the cops take him in?”

  Good question.

  Chapter Four

  “Mike Williams is calling for you,” Joan Brooks says the next morning as I step into my office at Brooks and Valenti. Joan is our receptionist/legal assistant/paralegal/office mother. She’s also the widowed mother of my partner. Joan worked for her father, who was a judge back in Kansas, and she now employs those skills for our firm. She’s a wonder of decorum and efficiency. I’ve made it my personal mission to crack the air of professionalism whenever possible. We have fun with it.

  I pull a blank yellow legal pad onto my blotter and click open a silver Cross ballpoint pen before I pick up. “What’s up?” I ask after we exchange greetings.

  “I need to see you about Reg.”

  “They charged him?”

  “Just a matter of time. How’s your schedule look this week?”

  “What are you doing right now?” I ask.

  “You’ve got time?”

  I’ve got plenty of time today. Our little law firm isn’t exactly overwhelmed with business this week. “Sure.”

  “Thanks, man. On my way.”

  “What does a guy have to do to get a cup of coffee around this joint?” I shout through the open door of my office after I hang up.

  “God gave you two feet, Mr. Valenti,” Joan retorts. I can almost see the self-satisfied smirk on her face as she zings me.

  “And I give thanks to Him for those feet every day,” I shoot back as I unfold myself from my office chair, walk to the door, and stare down at Joan while holding out my empty coffee cup. “I believe he gave you a couple of feet, as well?”

  “Two more days,” she grumbles with affected resignation.

  Surely, she’s not going to
make me wait two days for a cup of coffee? “Two days until what?”

  “Until Penelope is back to inject a little professionalism into this operation.” Penelope is back home in Kansas introducing her partner, Becky Seguin, to the extended Brooks clan on the occasion of Penelope’s grandmother’s seventy-fifth birthday. Joan had gone, as well, but had come back to work yesterday while Penelope stayed on. Seems they were worried about leaving me on my own for even a day or two.

  I slap a hand over my heart. “That hurt!”

  “Do try to remember that this is a legal office, Mr. Valenti. Some measure of decorum is appropriate.”

  We smile at each other. Joan and Penelope are cut from the same cloth, somewhat big-boned wholesome daughters of Kansas who stand maybe five foot tall. Both have shoulder-length brown hair. Joan sports a few more gray hairs (and claims I’m the source of many of them!) and carries a few more facial wrinkles. Mother and daughter also share hearts the size of their home state—not that you’d know that from the grief they give poor little me.

  “My arm is getting tired,” I whine while continuing to hold my mug out. It’s a great mug that’s the size of a small pail, large enough to accommodate the tongue-in-cheek tag line of our legal practice: “Lawyers to Little People and Lost Causes.”

  “If the cup’s too heavy for you now, you’d better not put anything in it,” Joan warns.

  I’m beginning to suspect that I’ll have to get my own coffee.

  She confirms it when she glances over to where I’m still hovering with my cup. “Get your own coffee.”