The Wrong Man by David Ellis Read Free Book Online

asked.
    “Are you an officer of a publicly held corporation?”
    He cocked his head. “What? No.”
    “Are you going to tell me about a crime you plan to commit in the future?”
    “No. Nothing like that.”
    “Then everything you tell me is confidential.”
    He nodded.
    “I’ve got some, uh, legal problems,” he said. That distinguished him from absolutely nobody who entered my office.
    “Tell me about it,” I said.
    “It’s not important.”
    Interesting response. “You wanted to hire me, what, to cater your kid’s birthday party?”
    His eyes narrowed as he considered me. I don’t think he thought I was funny.
    “They’re looking at me for something. Something maybe I did, maybe I didn’t do.”
    I nodded along. “You need a lawyer.”
    He shook his head. “No, I got a lawyer for that other thing.”
    I was done trying to coax him. He’d get there eventually.
    “Anyway.” He took a nervous breath and looked around the office. “If it ever gets hot, I’m thinking—see, I’ve got something I could trade. I know something about another case.”
    I put my hands on the desk. Thus far, this conversation hadn’t called for copious note-taking. “Mr. Fowler, if you’re represented by counsel, talk to him. Or her. Not me.”
    His head bobbed for a minute. He wet his lips and looked around the walls of my office, the cheap artwork and diplomas. Nerves flaring up again.
    “This would be something I wouldn’t talk to him about.”
    Something wasn’t connecting. Unless. There was only one way this made sense.
    “Who do you work for?” I asked. “The Morettis? The Capparellis?”
    He cocked his head, then smiled. I wish he hadn’t. He hadn’t received stellar dental care over the years.
    “Capparellis,” he said.
    Right. Fowler worked for the Mob, the Outfit, whatever remained of the old crime syndicate since the feds have taken a massive bite out of their organization. Not what they once were in this city, but still formidable. Guns and girls and gambling, plus drugs and protection. Rico Capparelli was the top guy of the family and went down on a federal racketeering charge—RICO, ironically. His brother, Paul, is presumed to be running things these days, though I know that only from press accounts. When I was a prosecutor, I focused on street gangs, not the Mob.
    Whatever that other thing was that Lorenzo Fowler maybe did, maybe didn’t do, he was represented by the Mob’s lawyer. A Mob lawyer’s first loyalty is to the Mob, not the person he’s defending. Fowler had somethingto trade, but he couldn’t do it through his current attorney. Which meant he was going to sell out somebody higher up on the food chain.
    “You want legal advice,” I said. “You want an idea of what kind of deal you could cut.”
    “That’s it.”
    Okay, that’s it. “What’s the thing you maybe did, maybe didn’t do?”
    He hitched one shoulder. “Guy who owns Knockers. The strip club over on Green? He mighta taken a beating last week. He might not survive it.”
    “Sorry for his troubles.”
    “Not if you knew the asshole, you wouldn’t be.”
    I thought it was possible that I could learn to like Lorenzo Fowler.
    “Okay, so it’s an aggravated battery, maybe an attempted murder,” I said. “And one day soon it could be a murder.”
    Fowler shuddered at the thought.
    “What do you have to trade?” I asked.
    That made him shudder all the more. His shoulders closed in. “Maybe there was another murder. A whole different kinda thing. And maybe I know about it.”
    “Maybe you know who did it?”
    “Say I do.” His expression didn’t betray his thoughts. It was probably a trait he’d developed over years of slinging bullshit.
    “Okay, say you do. You can solve a murder for the police? That would be worth something. Probably not immunity, but something.”
    He was listening very closely. “I wouldn’t walk?”
    “From beating the strip club owner? I doubt it. An aggravated battery, if this