Undue Influence by Steve Martini Read Free Book Online Page A

sound.”
    “What’s that?” says Lama.
    “The scraping of the barrel downtown,” I say.
    Mean little slits for eyes. He utters some profanity, something that ends with his ass, and commands me to pucker. He says this low under his breath so that Hemple and the other cops can’t hear it. Maybe it is true that one mellows with age. Jimmy Lama has learned a little restraint.
    Ten years ago my words would have earned a change in the contour of my head, conforming to the ripples in the handle of his flashlight. Lama’s sitting, sprawled in a leather club chair by the fireplace. He’s nibbling on a toothpick, a pacifier since he gave up smoking a few years ago. Gail Hemple has come with me inside Jack’s house, though she wasn’t summoned. I think Hemple is planning on playing lawyer-client games with Lama, privileges and immunities, trying to draw fire away from me. I could do the same thing, but it would take Lama only an hour and a couple of phone calls to find out that I never made an appearance in court as counsel on behalf of Laurel. Then he would be all over my ass like hot tar under feathers. “Where’s the lady?” he says. This is directed to me.
    “Lose somebody?” I say.
    “Your sister-in-law, jackass.” He shakes his head, grins around the toothpick. “Make it easy and tell us where she is?”
    “You might try her apartment. That’s where she lives.”
    “Nobody home,” he says.
    “Really?”
    Lama’s chewing the toothpick to a dull point.
    Jack’s now joined us in the living room. On my way in, the coroner and an assistant were wheeling the body down the curved staircase, Jack following along behind. He gave me only a sideways glance, a look of vengeance. When he sees me now his eyes flame. Vega’s appearance tells me this is more than grief. He’s been seeking solace in a bottle. He’s looking for more. He heads for the liquor cart in the corner. Halfway there he stops, a thought he can’t suppress. “You son of a bitch,” he says. “I told you. I warned you.” His finger’s shaking in my face.
    “Laurel was over the line and you knew it,” he says. He talks like all the facts are in, the deed done, case closed. All he needs now is to catch Laurel. It’s an awkward moment, wrestling with the spouse. I look at Lama.
    He smiles. No relief here.
    Finally I offer Jack my sympathies, tell him I’m sorry for whatever has happened, but that he’s making a lot of assumptions, jumping to conclusions. “Bullshit.” Vega jumps me verbally. I have given him what he wanted a target of defense for Laurel. “The bitch killed Melanie,” he says. “She’s got a loose screw. You saw her in court,” he tells me.
    “Threats and violence. Went after Melanie in the hallway like an animal.” He’s trying to persuade now. “She was emotional,” I say. “An argument, that’s all.”
    “An argument!” says Jack. His eyes are glazed over with anger. “What do you want, Kodachrome?” he says. “You want it in living color? Laurel pulling the trigger on videotape? “Oh, you’d love that,” he says. “Like all the rest of the lawyers, you’d chop it up into suey. A lotta freeze-frames and lies,” he says. “So you could charge Melanie with impeding the flight of a bullet. Well, it ain’t gonna happen here,” he says. “Laurel’s going down,” he tells me. “If I have to pull every fucking lever in the state.” He stands there for several seconds, waiting to see if I want to offer another line of reasoning. I want to ask him where he was tonight, whether he saw anything, whether in fact there is a videotape or if all of this is merely the wrath-filled ravings of Jack’s imagination. But discretion overtakes advocacy. I stand silent. There’s some mumbling under Vega’s breath, finally a victory in a bad day. He passes behind me. The next thing I hear is the tinkling of ice cubes in a tumbler, bourbon splashing on rocks. I would ask him for a drink, but I’m afraid he’d